Falcon, Crow and Sparrowhawk (all Falcon Plotters)

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

(all names didn't fit into the box, so here's the Tag list:
Chauv, Victor, Lucien, Sylvie (?), Redshirts
This takes place two or three days after the May Parade)

Mylène had woken up far too early and had spent the morning and forenoon trying to busy her hands, so she would not think too much. Today was the day… and it seemed so peculiar, since the meeting she was going to today had been agreed on before the parade, and so many things had changed since then. But that almost made it even more urgent, since she wanted to get this over with before the revolution distracted her so much she would not be thinking of Alain at all. He had been in the back of her mind so much already these days, she felt ashamed of it. What had become of her vows to not rest until she found him? Shouldn’t she put all her energy in THIS endeavour? But no… as much as she would like to find him – or at least find out what had happened to him – the change the ABC friends wanted to bring about was something bigger. She only wished she would find Alain in time for him to experience this, if he still could. Oh, he would be at her side for sure! He would see to it that his old friends would join in their crusade for sure, he would be able to sway even Boucher!

But that was nothing but dreams of the future for now, the present was far more significant. Mylène would meet that mysterious man, and she would ask him about Alain, and hopefully get an answer. Gus had seemed very sure about a positive outcome, at least. ‘If someone know what happens in Paris, it is him, girl. And he owes me’, he had said. But then this high society drama lady had come, and Mylène had started to feel a little more uneasy about this. What if she really was walking into a trap? Gus himself would not want to harm her anymore, of that she could be all but certain, but maybe he had been had, too? What if this ‘Falcon’ persona really did know about Mylène’s tries to reach Alain and would take his measures? She had taken all precautions she could think of, one of them being a little note she had given a streetboy with a penny to deliver it to Courf. She trusted him completely, even though she hoped the letter would reach him late enough so he would not be so stupid as to try and interfere, following her. If everything went well, there was nothing to worry about, and if not… well, then at least she would not have vanished without a word and a trace.

Now she was walking towards the scheduled meeting place in the Jardin du Luxembourg at the Medici Fountain. It was a public place, which assured some safety at least, but the design of the fountain itself made more than ideal for a hidden ambush, if one so desired. Of course Mylène was nervous, but it didn’t show in her confident stride and the way she stopped once or twice to exchange a few teasing words with acquaintances, grisettes, performers or beggars. If someone followed her, she did not realize. No guards of that peculiar lady, that was for sure, they wouldn’t have been subtle.
She was early as she arrived, and she had planned to be just that, even though she hated nothing so much as waiting. Far too many questions would assault the mind while her body was idle and not busy with finding her way through the hustle and bustle that was Paris, always and everywhere. Who would this man exactly be? What would he know? And would she ever return to the Café Musain?

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i217.photobucket.com/albums/cc172/damijoandamija/sbg.jpg); padding-left: 50px; padding-bottom: 20px; padding-top: 10px;] i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/Chauvelin15_zps646b8813.jpg

[/IMG][/div]

damaged

I am merely the product…..of the life that I've lived
An amalgam of sorrows.....and the wisdom they give
But the weight has grown heavy
[style= text-align: center]and it's dragging me down

It's so hard not to sink now

but I don't want to drown[/size][/font][/style]

chauvelin

tags || Monty?

This, Chauvelin thought as he headed toward his appointment in the Jardin du Luxembourg, was a mistake. Of course, that fact wasn't news to him. He'd known it was a mistake when Gustave asked him, and he'd known it was a mistake when he agreed. But not meeting the girl would be an even bigger mistake, at least according to Alain and the sergeant, who both stated unequivocally that she would never give up any other way. Short of death, that was, and they both made clear that wasn't an option, either. And besides, he owed Desjardins.

So, with reluctance, he'd put aside his normal garb of a moderately prosperous bourgeois but kept his favored color. Chevalier Chauvelin had disappeared, and Brother Paul, visiting the city from the Benedictine Abbaye de Saint-Denis, had taken his place. Hoods weren't the old spymaster's favorite way of concealing his features – they interfered with his peripheral vision and were vulnerable to sudden gusts of wind – but wrapping a scarf around one's face in June wasn't an option if it was necessary to be subtle. Thus it was Brother Paul made his way toward the Medici Fountain, hands piously folded and cowled head bowed in holy thought, while a street-born assassin named Fumier watched his back.

The sun was sinking low in the sky and Chauvelin came from the west, further casting his features in shadow and letting him risk the occasional glance ahead. The girl was already there, he saw as he came into the shade of the grotto. She was early, but then she was doubtless eager. Good. Maybe she'd be glad to be quick. Every moment he spent here doubled his risk, and he had no desire to linger.

Adjusting his course slightly, the 'monk' moved in Mylene's general direction. Not heading straight toward her, but enough to pass close by.

notes ||

[/b] none yet[/div][/center][/td][/tr][/td][/tr][/table]

TEMPLATE BY ANYA OF CAUTION 2.0

LYRICS BY ASSEMBLAGE 23[/center]

[MICHEL MONTPARNASSE]

Montparnasse's task was far from difficult, and that was much of why he had accepted it. He moved slowly, staying far enough behind the girl that she was unlikely to notice him; even if she did, it was hardly unprecedented for them to cross paths. The promise of his reward danced before his eyes, contingent on his absolutely assured success. It was not always in his nature to work for others, but the opportunity had been too good to pass up. It would pay well, and following a fairly pretty girl about was certainly one of the less tedious tasks he might be asked to perform.

He lurked around a corner tucked beside the cafe, shadowed by the building itself given the time of day. There were a few people about, but most of them did not notice him. A boy with a shaggy, uncombed head of dark blond hair did, but crossed silently to the other side of the street with a hurried gate. This amused him. He had much more lucrative things to do than even attempt to steal from the likes of him. He waited until she was a few yards ahead before following, keeping his distance to remain unnoticed and blending as much as possible into his surroundings.

Montparnasse had abandoned all marks of his ongoing deal with Patron-Minette for this undertaking; he would not split his profits with Thenardier, and quite sincerely hoped that the man would never discover there even had been any. Montparnasse had stolen along the streets of Paris long before he had made any agreement Patron-Minette, and he would continue to do so even if the little gang shattered apart tomorrow. Instead, he had done an almost half-hearted job of disguising himself. He looked respectable, he thought; he dressed well even on an average day, but his goal had been simply to not be immediately recognizable as himself. This was fairly easily accomplished, though if Mylene got a good look at him she would know.

He slipped into the garden behind her, quickly judging the best path to follow for concealment. He would have preferred more total darkness, but in making any kind of agreement to work for another he gave up a little of his freedom in such things. He disliked that aspect of it. He kept an eye on the girl, watching for whoever might approach.

When he saw him, the man's garb almost surprised him. Black-cowled, Montparnasse doubted very much that he was any more a monk than Michel himself. He watched closely, though he could not see the face of this supposed monk. Slipping around the side of the grotto slightly to get a better view without revealing his position, Montparnasse listened closely. He noticed, then, a second man with the 'monk'--too interested in the goings-on to be some innocent passerby, and not a thief Montparnasse recognized if he were one at all.

What had Mylene gotten herself entangled in, anyway, having left their circle of childhood thieves behind? Montparnasse wondered if she had even an inkling of the dangers ready to hunt her in the dark. If she had noticed him, she gave no sign. Neither did the men. Montparnasse was pleased with himself; he was good at this.

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

It was not an easy task what she had to do now, Mylène realized. Waiting was never her forte, and making it seem like she was not waiting at all at the same time was even harder in these circumstances. Ever movement she saw made her heartbeat falter for a second, until she deemed it not connected with her business and therefore neither a threat nor important. But with every second that passed, she also felt the wariness build, her fear of a possible trap multiply. Well, she had signed up for this, and while she theoretically still could back out, she knew she never would forgive herself this cowardice. Some things are worth it… that had been one of Alain’s catchphrases, whenever she had overheard him arguing with Estelle about his dangerous life. She guessed it was true, some things really were worth all the danger you could put yourself through. And one of those things for Mylène was honouring Alain’s legacy by not leaving him rotting wherever he was. He might have chosen this, had demanded everyone to forget him and move on should this ever happen, but it still was not fair!

Seconds trickled by and still there was no sight of a possible informant, but then she had no idea who exactly to look out for. Would he be old or young? The former was more likely when Gustave Desjardins had connections to him and saw him as a man of knowledge and some repute. As far as Mylène knew, the Hammer hardly saw anyone fit to be in his high esteem that hadn’t achieved some things already in life. But he had been so mysterious about the man that she really did not know what or who to expect.

Then, suddenly, against the light of the slowly setting sun, the figure of a monk was walking in her direction through the garden. At first, Mylène’s gaze flickered over him neglectfully, but then she started, and she took another look. There was something in his stance she did not buy. He had his head lowered and covered by a hood, yes, but his stride was not that scuffling step of a monk she knew. Those robe-wearers cluttered the city after all, with their false piety and their shows of devoutness, but in their own way they were as greedy and unforgiving as the nobles. Clergy and aristocracy had always worked together in subdueing the third estate.
This man however… either he had not worn the cloth for long, or he was using this as a disguise…

Muscles tensing, Mylène looked to the side, pretending to not taking notice of him, while she followed his movements from under lowered eyelids. When he was in earshot, she muttered out of an impulse. “Give me your blessing, father, I desire to know the flight of the Crow.” There had been no code word agreed on, but this was a safe way of deeming whether he was the man she was looking for or not. If he was not, he would not be able to explain her cryptic words, might call her lunatic maybe, but nothing was lost. If he WAS, however, the one, he would know she was, too, by the mentioning of the Crow.

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i217.photobucket.com/albums/cc172/damijoandamija/sbg.jpg); padding-left: 50px; padding-bottom: 20px; padding-top: 10px;] i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/Chauvelin15_zps646b8813.jpg

[/IMG][/div]

damaged

I am merely the product…..of the life that I've lived
An amalgam of sorrows.....and the wisdom they give
But the weight has grown heavy
[style= text-align: center]and it's dragging me down

It's so hard not to sink now

but I don't want to drown[/size][/font][/style]

chauvelin

tags || Monty?

So near now, 'Brother Paul' took the opportunity to study Mylene more closely, taking in her intelligent eyes and worn, but clean and well-mended, clothes. He'd seen her before, of course, but only from a distance, leaving the 'ABC cafe' the evening after Gus had come to cash in his marker on her behalf. The old spymaster had never been inside the cafe himself -- the only people his age there were regulars, and he would've stood out -- but a couple of the young student malcontents there were on his payroll. They kept an eye on the comings and goings there for him, though they weren't members of 'Les Amis,' themselves.

That latter lack was the other -- and secret -- reason he'd agreed to this meeting. The Amis were a small, very tight group, and he hadn't been able to get eyes or ears inside, which he very much wanted to. While they appeared at first glance to be just another useless debating society like any of a dozen others, the old spymaster's extensive experience with revolutionaries told him there was some serious talent there. They were all determined kids, passionate and smart, but the one called Enjolras was a natural leader. Possessed of both charisma and conviction, with a few words he could take a crowd and they would follow him anywhere. If he survived the uprising itself, Chauvelin judged he would go far. Farther, even, perhaps, than Robespierre, who was a brilliant wordsmith and accomplished speaker in his own right, but lacked much of the younger man's physical presence.

In the meantime, however, the revolution had not yet begun, and the old spymaster simply wanted to know what the Amis were up to. Women in rebel groups tended to be either frontline berserkers crazier than the men themselves, such as his own wife had been so long ago, or primarily secondary supporters like his daughter Helene among the Sacred Heart. La Coquine might well not be included in their planning, but she would notice and overhear things. Crow had stated unequivocally that she would never betray anyone she counted as a friend, but he'd also said she was quite clever and talented, and Chauvelin would take as much as he could get. Even if it was just being counted as a friend as well.

"Oh," Brother Paul replied in his most benign voice, "I'm but a humble brother, my child." Taking a seemingly casual glance around, he ran his gaze over Fumier without pausing. Receiving no alert from his man, he brought his eyes back to Mylene. "You know, people say 'as the crow flies' to mean a straight light," he said thoughtfully. "But in my experience, crows rarely do that. They duck and weave, keeping to the shadows."

Palming the note Corbier had agreed to write (delighted at the information Mylene would now be able to read it, thanks to one of her new friends), 'Brother Paul' raised his hand in blessing. "A wise course, when there are predators about," he continued, slipping it into her bodice under the pretext of copping a feel. Tilting his head to let the last rays of the sun catch part of his face, he gave her a wink. "Go in peace, daughter of God."

notes ||

[/b] if she'd do something to prevent the bodice stunt, let me know and I'll edit (it was just too cool to pass up)[/div][/center][/td][/tr][/td][/tr][/table]

TEMPLATE BY ANYA OF CAUTION 2.0

LYRICS BY ASSEMBLAGE 23[/center]

[MICHEL MONTPARNASSE]

So they would be speaking in code. With luck, Montparnasse would get a good reward for this—even if the code speech wasn't entirely clear to him. Despite illiteracy, however, his memory was good. Running errands made him feel like a little child, but the payment it would bring made it worthwhile. Especially as this should have cleared up his curiosity about what the former thief-girl was doing, now that she'd gone into 'honest' life.

He noticed the supposed monk's gesture, and smirked. These men of God were always just men, though usually the monks lacked anything to make them worth robbing. He'd tried, years ago, but it had hardly been worth the effort. The contact between the man and Mylene made him almost jealous; he suspected that if it were he who made that same move, she would have slapped him.

He could come down on her for that, pull a knife, but he knew that such things done at knife-point could end up quite painful. Not that it had always stopped him, but it was a discouragement.

Satisfied that he had all the information required, even if his curiosity was not completely sated, he walked away. His path was concealed by the far side of the grotto; neither Mylene nor the men she had met would be likely to see him. Once out of earshot, his presence would hardly even be suspicious. He had learned to be able to move about without drawing unwanted attention when necessary.

Now, Montparnasse knew, it was simply a matter of relaying this message to the right people. He headed for the nearest entrance to the tunnels below the streets; that would be the faster way to travel, avoiding all the crowds and traffic of above-ground Paris. That he might seem to simply appear held its own appeal; he doubted these aristocratic sorts, born to their money and their power without learning to get it for themselves, knew the underworld's roads.

He had been told a meeting place, and he would go there—though his pride made him desire not to be met with anyone he knew on the way. It seemed somehow almost shameful to be acting like a messenger boy again now, since he'd left the life of a typical gamin behind him.

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

Soon there was no question as to him being the man she was looking for. His answer might have seemed cryptical to an outsider – and it partly was to her, too! – but at least he picked up the Crow metaphor without looking at her blankly. Oh no, even though she saw nothing but his eyes in the dark sbadows of his hood, she saw the cunning and cautious glinting in them all too well. This man was not a monk, he was something far more sinister. Mylène couldn’t help but feel respect rising in her even, whoever this man was, he was not a mere messenger. So maybe Gustave had been right, maybe this man WOULD know something about Alain. Didn’t his words already hint at the Crow’s concealment, at Alain’s work as a spy and his hiding now – if he was in hiding that was. Hadn’t this Elise said the ‘Falcon’ had taken him?
What would this man know about that? Was he in some way affiliated with that mysterious man even, and would it be dangerous for her to voice anything about him?

“They do duck and weave yes, and they are excellent flyers, but then they never expect assaults from above. Falcons do that, impertinent and unforgiving”, she stated, referring as much to a natural phenomenon she had often observed as to Alain’s supposed vanishing. “Falcons even attack buzzards or peregrines that are twice their size, and before the birds know it, they’ve fallen.”
She wondered how he would respond to that, if at all. It was a thin ground she treaded on now, and the insides of her palms started to sweat, even though her face remained deadpan and challenging. He had spoken of predators, and maybe she was just facing one of them. Mylène felt a prickling in the back of her neck, usually an indication that she was being watched, but then all her nerves were on high alert, and she’d rather focus on the man before her.

The quick distraction even in her mind, as she had decided NOT to turn and take another cautious look around had been enough for the presumed monk to act – and he acted in a way MOST improper not only for his assumed state but for any man. Had she not felt the piece of paper slipping into her bodice, she would have slapped him hard, and right away – and Dieu, she still felt tempted to! Instead, she paused for the tiniest second. He thought himself so clever, right?! That had been a clever move, given, but she would not let him have his way! “How dare you!” she hissed, taking a step back. Obviously he thought that his task was done, but she would not let him off the hook now! This could all be trick, who knew what kind of message was on that paper, if any! She had him here NOW, she would probably never get a hold on him again, if she was too trustworthy now and let him go without the answers she craved.

“You won’t get away with this, not so easily”, she exclaimed in a hushed tone, again speaking equivocal for the sheer possibility of them being overheard. Someone having seen his movement might think she spoke about him touching her where he was not invited. “I want to know why! I want to know everything!” Why Alain had gone, where he was, if he was still alive and well… Her hand went up to her bodice as if she wanted to readjust it, still glaring, but her fingers found the piece of paper.

[SYLVIE ST-CYR]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/black-silk-repeating-background_zps22606a56.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] . i am the nightmare of your own desire i am the song that the devil sings Sylvie Marie, Marquise de St-Cyr, lounged in the luxurious comfort of her coach, her relaxed posture at odds with the impatience in her eyes and the way her fingers kept plucking at the embroidery on one of her pillows. Delicate threads frayed and tore beneath her sharp nails. She was close now, closer than she'd ever been to finding the Falcon, the bastardo behind the arrest and execution of her family. It had been so many frustrating years whetting her lust for bloody revenge on the minor players, but soon it would have a real target. The man the street girl was meeting knew the location of the Crow, and might even know the name of the Falcon himself. He would tell her all of it before Sylvie granted him the mercy of death. The coach was large, spacious enough inside for the Marquise, two prisoners, and even Victor or Lucien to help her with the prisoners if it should become necessary. With the shutters drawn, as they were now, the occupants – and their activities – would be completely unseen by those outside. At the moment, the vehicle was stationary, parked on a side street near the Jardin du Luxembourg, but the wheels weren't blocked and the driver could move it at a moment's notice. Where it would need to go was unknown just yet, but the girl was on foot and the omnibuses notoriously unreliable, so the distance was likely to be short. Also ready to move at a moment's notice were Lucien and Victor, both nearby with some of Sylvie's personal guard to provide extra manpower should it be needed. All were waiting on the arrival of the ophidian young man called Montparnasse, who was being well paid to follow the girl and report back on who she met and where. The plan was that the two young aristocrats and her men would move in and take them, bringing them back to the coach. Once they were in hand, they would all return to her palais in the Fauberg and the night's pleasures would well and truly begin. || tagged: Lucien? Victor? Monty? || notes: none yet || lyrics: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander

Table made by Satara of Caution 2.0!

[MICHEL MONTPARNASSE]

Montparnasse moved quickly along side streets, slipping between tall buildings along narrow alleyways. The young man's gamin street-sense remained even if his usual occupation had shifted with time, and he knew the quickest route to the assigned meeting place. Why that place had been chosen, he was less certain.

He came around behind the carriage, straightening the hat on his head. He smirked at the realization that he had managed to come around without the aristocratic woman's guards seeming to notice him. It pleased him to be so effective in his movements, so able to sneak about. He stopped there, crossing his arms and clearing his throat, shifting in that one instant from sneaking about to trying to catch their attention—albeit with subtlety.

Looking at the coach, Montparnasse felt jealous of its occupant's wealth. It was not so much that he could imagine himself riding around in such a vehicle—though the appeal of lazing back on some sort of cushioned seat while horses' legs carried him through the city was undeniable—as that he liked the power and means it symbolized.

It took only a few seconds for one of the guards to approach him, and Montparnasse shot him a threatening glance. “I'm not here to report to you.” If he was going to be working for others, he would deal with the person who had arranged to pay him. Not with some disdainful hireling who, from the way he had cringed at his voice, Montparnasse immediately classified as weak and essentially unimportant. He had no patience for that, especially given that it was doubtful he would be paid if he harmed one of the guards.

Looking back at the carriage, he contemplated approaching and opening the door himself, but decided it was better to wait. He knew just enough about such aristocrats as to assume the woman would not like it if his behavior continued to resemble that of unpolished gamin. No, they might have hired him for urchin's work rather than to kill or even steal, but he had outgrown the behavior that went along with it. He removed his gloves, playing with the material impatiently.

[LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR]

Waiting was not Lucien’s forte, but he guessed he had to do that for now, if they wanted to achieve something here. And he guessed, there were worse places to be in right now than in this very same carriage together with the very alluring Marquise Sylvie. Of course, he was not really alone with her, which made this waiting a little less pleasant than it could have been. Oh, he would have known how to pass their time had they only been alone and unobserved in this quite spacious vehicle! But so he could only amuse himself with thoughts of what if and wait for this unpleasant thing to be finally through. Yes, Lucien would like to help her finally find this Falcon – if only so she could focus on more important things then – but this whole thing smacked like a pawn order to him, as if she viewed him and Victor like no better than the goons she had hired to aid them. He would demand a good reward for his efforts, of that he was certain, and it wouldn’t necessarily have to be money… of that he gladly still had enough.

His gaze slowly wandered between the Marquise and Victor, and he realized that generally he was quite glad to have his friend by his side there. He knew he could trust in this man’s competence, they would work well as a team and surely achieve what they had set out to do. After all, what were they up against? Some man and a GIRL? What kind of fight could she even put on? No no, this would be over soon enough and then they could return to the matter at hand – keeping an eye on their boy king and maybe finally trying to feed that certain war against the German Confederation to him. A war would distract the people of France from their problems inside the state and would forge them again into the nation against an outward enemy. It was a risky, but still a good solution. Yes of course, men would die in a war, but they were necessary sacrifices for the greater good, the order of state and civilization that was at stake here!

Time trickled by, and Lucien was more bored by the second. “You think this crook of the street can be trusted to even honour his agreement?” he asked, contempt for their messenger clearly audible in his voice. “He might just join that little conspiracy there, what’s in there for him anyway?” Just as he had finished that line, a little commotion and voices could be heard from outside. Lucien straightened in his seat, throwing a glance out of the window. “Finally”, he commented curtly. “About time…!”

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

Victor was unconvinced of the reasons for waiting for this street rat at all. Loyalties bought could just as easily be sold, and he disliked dealing with that class of people anyway. That the almost sickly-looking boy was dressed like a dandy did not help his case in the captain's eyes; rather, it made him wonder what secrets he had sold before to buy it.

Even beyond that, the whole affair reeked of politics and he questioned his own sanity for agreeing to it. It should be easy enough, of course—any one of them could overpower the girl without much of a struggle, he was certain of that. The man, depending on who he was, might be a bit more of a challenge—but even that was unlikely to prove a real problem, especially with the skill he knew Lucien had with the blade.

The boredom was worse than waiting for a battle. He felt uncomfortable inside the carriage, would have preferred to be on a horse. Then he could keep an eye on their little spy, and solve any problems as they arose, perhaps even carry out this unofficial arrest on his own. Somewhere far in the back of his mind glimmered the hope that the girl would be pretty, at least. Though he entertained hopes with Sylvie, he knew that the likelihood of her accepting both Lucien and him tonight were low. Someone would have to take the leavings.

“I don't think he can be trusted any more than the rat he is,” Victor matched Lucien's tone of derision. As if summoned, the rodent had appeared, complete with his top hat and surprisingly fashionable waistcoat. Victor did not like it. “It's rare to see a rat dressed quite like that.” Boys like that—convinced they were something they could never hope to be—were amongst the worst to try to train into decent soldiers.

“Well, let's see what it has to say.” He straightened his jacket, opening the carriage door to step out. He belted on his sword as he stepped onto the ground, eyes fixed onto the newcomer to make certain he didn't try anything and standing far enough away that he would be unlikely to pick up his lice.

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background-image: url(http://i217.photobucket.com/albums/cc172/damijoandamija/sbg.jpg); padding-left: 50px; padding-bottom: 20px; padding-top: 10px;] i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/Chauvelin15_zps646b8813.jpg

[/IMG][/div]

damaged

I am merely the product…..of the life that I've lived
An amalgam of sorrows.....and the wisdom they give
But the weight has grown heavy
[style= text-align: center]and it's dragging me down

It's so hard not to sink now

but I don't want to drown[/size][/font][/style]

chauvelin

tags || Monty?

Chauvelin resisted the urge to sigh. Apparently, quickness was to much to hope for, despite its benefits for them both. The longer he lingered with her, the greater the danger to him, and vice versa. Someone only had to have followed one of them to make both of them targets. But she clearly wasn't going to budge and would cause a scene if he tried to leave, so all he could do was try to chivvy the matter on faster. A lot faster.

Maintaining his air of pious contemplation, the old spymaster folded his arms into his sleeves, fingers brushing the reassuring hilt of the very un-monkly knife strapped to his forearm. He was better with a sword, but he'd lived a dangerous life and made sure to be at least competent with a wide variety of weapons. There was another sheathed on his leg, hidden by the long black habit. He sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to use either of them, because if he did it would mean something had gone very, very wrong.

"Only God knows everything, my child," he said with a patience he didn't feel. "You must have faith that while He and His agents may move in mysterious ways, His eye is on the sparrow." It was hypocrisy of the highest order coming from the unregenerate atheist, but Chauvelin was no stranger to bald-faced lies. And if the Devil could quote Scripture, so could he. "Signs will come to you," he continued, letting his gaze linger appreciatively on the region where the note had been concealed. "You need only read them. Trust that your loved ones are safe and well in His hands."

notes ||

[/b] the note itself is in Letters[/div][/center][/td][/tr][/td][/tr][/table]

TEMPLATE BY ANYA OF CAUTION 2.0

LYRICS BY ASSEMBLAGE 23[/center]

[SYLVIE ST-CYR]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; background: url(http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a223/Achillea/black-silk-repeating-background_zps22606a56.jpg); border-radius: 30px 30px 30px 30px; padding: 10px;] . i am the nightmare of your own desire i am the song that the devil sings Sylvie nodded at her colleagues' assessment of the street boy's reliability. She much preferred to deal only with those of her own class, such as Lucien and Victor, so she wasn't especially happy about having to use the lowborn would-be dandy, but she recognized the necessity. It was ironic that the very qualities that enabled him to complete this task were the same ones that caused their doubt that he actually would. "Honor?" the Marquise murmured with a laugh. "He has no honor. He values only money." In her voice was the kind of contempt that could only come from someone who'd never lacked for coin herself. "He thinks he can buy breeding and status like a waistcoat and trousers." Her derisive snort was no more than a quiet huff of breath and a slight flaring of her nostrils, but eloquent in its scorn nonetheless. "No loyalty to his own class. And should he make the mistake of casting his lot with them, well … he'll share their fate." At the sound of a small commotion from outside, Sylvie straightened up and cocked her head to listen. Recognizing Montparnasse's voice, she smiled. Waiting was so tedious and frustrating. Like the men with her, she'd grown impatient, and was glad events were finally underway. Leaving off her slow demolition of the pillow, she picked up her fan, but held it unopened in her hand as she watched Victor reach for the carriage door. She was providing the funds for the operation, but was perfectly content to let the man deal with the boy. || tagged: Monty? || notes: none yet || lyrics: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander

Table made by Satara of Caution 2.0!

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

Since he still had his hood on, Mylène couldn’t tell how tense the man in front of her actually was even though his voice betrayed no such thing. But then, his voice did also not betray anything but piety, and yet she knew by the way he had held himself when approaching and by the way his eyes repeatedly strayed to her cleavage that he was anything but a monk. It started to unnerve her a little, this double-entendre business that enabled him to satisfy his leering pleasures because he had been so cunning as to store something there that was important and to which he wanted to point her. Or maybe he was just a dirty bastard and there was nothing on this piece of paper at all! Yes, she was cautious and also maybe a little over-suspicious, but you had to be that in such a world where eveyone could be out to get you. He seemed harmless apart from his wandering eyes and hands, but you never knew. There was still this Falcon to think about!

His eye is on the sparrow… he said. Was that an indication that he really knew of Alain’s whereabouts? Mylène didn’t even know when it had started, but between Louis Thenardier and Alain Le Corbeau, sometimes along the last four years the nickname Sparrowhawk had made its appearance, and it had stuck. Not as much as La Coquine maybe, but it had been more of a fond titulation every once in a while. Fierce and striking like a hawk, but not the tallest of them all, Alain had once said, rather the smallest. And then the man was talking yet again about ‘signs to read’ while he looked at her cleavage. Her eyes spewing fire, she muttered: “You disgust me, man of God!” And just as the word had left her mouth, she suddenly was struck by inspiration as to how she could take hold of the note and read it without anyone seeing it, but also without having to let go of him first.

Stepping towards one of the nearby bushes, she pressed a hand to her mouth, pressing out between her teeth: “In fact, seeing your TRUE colours makes me sick!” A tad dramatic maybe, but then she always could play on the girl ‘unexpectedly expecting’, they were prone to sudden sickness after all. Disappearing into the bushes she doubled over, feigning a retching sound as she quickly took hold of the scratch, unfolding and reading it. Her eyes skimmed the words, and her heart skipped a beat as she recognized Alain's handwriting immediately. Yes, this had been written by him! And that alone convinced her that he was still alive, since while still being the the jugglers, she had never learned to read, and therefore Alain would not know he could send her a note. He also spoke of her 'new friends', which made her think that he, or at least this man here, had been watching her. Alain was alive and well! It was like a huge load off her heart and soul, but the elation was not long to last. For as she read on her stomach suddenly threatened to flip for real. A very cruel and dangerous aristo woman… I fear she will come after you…
Naturally distrusting as she was, the connection was easily made in her head, and as she stepped out of the bushes again, she did not have to fake the ashen-faced complexion that suddenly took over her. Both her knees and her hands were shaking. She had been had! All along she had been used! This… Elise, she had been the culprit, not the victim… and Mylène had followed her like a lamb to the slaughter!

She needed to get out of here as soon as possible, but there were still questions this letter would not answer, questions she yearned to be rid of! “Where?!” she whispered tonelessly, her eyes darting around like that of a cornered prey. “Quick, I beg you, where is he? We might be in trouble and won’t have much more time. Oh dear Lord, I’ve been so stupid!”

[MICHEL MONTPARNASSE]

Montparnasse took a step back as he heard the door to the carriage open. He stole a glance inside, another shadow of a predatory smirk flashing across his face before he set his expression back to one of more appropriate gravity for dealing with aristocrats. The woman was beautiful, from what he could see of her and what he remembered of their previous meeting, and the carriage was of the sort of opulence he dreamed about.

He found the officer who stepped out of the carriage far less pleasing than the Marquise, however. Montparnasse made it a general habit to avoid such men of the sword unless they were drunk and he had every intention of stealing from them; this one looked vaguely familiar, in a way that made him assume he had seen him in just such a state before. Still, he didn't think he'd stolen from him. Yet. Probably best for both of them, in this situation.

He waited another moment before speaking, but the impatient look on the officer's face prompted him to begin even though the woman remained inside. He decided that it seemed she had no intention of joining them outside to hear his report. Amused with the power he could have over this collection of aristocrats, he waited for another moment, doing his best to look down his nose at them despite everything. He slipped one of the gloves back onto his hand, then pulled it off again.

“They met at the gardens,” he finally said in a deliberately lazy tone. “When I left they were still there.” He glanced back over his shoulder again toward the main contingent of guards. “The girl, La Coquine,” he paused for a moment after her name for effect, “and a man dressed as a monk.” He knew better than to assume he really was a monk. Perhaps monks were given to such vulgar gestures as he had seen from the man—for thieves certainly could be—but no monk would hold such secretive meetings with a young girl and it be of interest to such a collection of old and inherited money.

He waited, expectantly, for either more questions or for his payment. He wondered if it might have been better to demand half his pay before speaking, but it was too late for that now. He felt like an amateur in this kind of work, unlike the tasks he was more accustomed to.