Falcon, Crow and Sparrowhawk (all Falcon Plotters)

[LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR]

At least everyone in this coach was on the same page. They both had nothing but derision for the dirty peacock they had gotten as their spy, and they all did want to get this over with as soon as possible. For Lucien, this was nothing but a short intermezzo, the Falcon Hunt meant nothing to him other than seeing Sylvie pleased. A pleased Sylvie was as far as you could get with this woman, she was never lenient even in her best times, but she would allow a great deal more than when she was in a bad mood – and Lucien wouldn’t be Lucien if he didn’t calculate some bonus in for himself. He didn’t know exactly when this had turned into a little turf war between Victor and him for Sylvie’s affection, but he would be damned if he passed up any chances that might get him further in her good books. The masquerade had been a VERY good step in the right direction, a large step even, but there was no telling of where this would lead, if anywhere at all.

“Put a dog in a satin cloak and it’ll still be a dog”, he scoffed, flashing a smirk in Sylvie’s direction. He really hoped that this matter was done with soon, they had not only one prize to win out of this after all. There was that Falcon they intended to catch, or someone that could at least lead them to him, then there was this girl which probably would be part of the booty – not that she was in any way to be compared to what Sylvie had to offer. If he had the choice between spending a night with the Marquise and conquering the fights of a street girl, he knew who he would take any day. Forcing yourself on an unwilling soul and winning in the end had its thrill, but there was enough thrill by just being around Sylvie. You never knew what this woman would do next, volatile and cruel, a deadly mixture.

Victor was the first to exit the carriage, apparently eager to show his expertise and his willingness to serve her purpose, and Lucien was of the impression that he could only lose in her eyes if he followed suit immediately. Let the lackeys do the work, and let the professionals rush in when it was time for action, he thought with an inward mean grin. He valued the Captain as a friend, no question of that, but this was a game they were playing and there was no cameraderie in games. All was fair in love and war – or desire and war more like. Under half-closed eyelids he flashed the marquise a wicked look and then settled back comfortably in the cushions of the coach. He kept one ear on the conversation outside though, and the crook’s haughtiness drove him livid. Who was that man to think he could talk as such with Captain D’Anthes and keep a woman like the Marquise St Cyr waiting?! If he only knew her half, there would be punishment for this, he was sure.

Casting her another glance, he thought it was time for him to appear on the scene as well and he pushed himself into the doorway of the carriage and growled: “Then what are we waiting for?! Due to your stupidity, they could have ended their business already… Neophyte…” the last was only muttered under his breath, but the glance he threw at Montparnasse was deadly poisonous.

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

Victor let his right hand rest on his saber in a silent threat to the boy. It was obvious, now that he stood there fiddling with his gloves, that their messenger was in fact little more than a boy—despite the telltale signs of life as a bottom feeder that marked his face and threadbare jacket. It was a mystery to Victor where he had even managed to get a coat that fit him that well and was still in fashion, given its poor condition and the obviously low origins of this... vagrant. Still, Victor had no particular intention of harming him unless some other threat was made. What malice he felt toward him was disgust, not aggression. If he could avoid touching the filthy creature, he would count it a success in the protection of his own health. There was no telling what sort of diseases rodents like that could carry.

The messenger's tone of voice struck Victor as pretentious—a misplaced pretension, considering their relative ranks in society. He listened to the report, pleased that he had apparently at least carried out his responsibilities. Unless, of course, the information proved to be false—always a possibility, just as him not presenting himself at all had been too annoyingly possible. “Cut the tone with me,” Victor warned in a low voice. This Montparnasse would do well to remember his place in the world.

The captain's irritation was not limited to the dirty dandy before him, either. Lucien should have followed him from the carriage, but had dragged himself from its velvet embrace only once Victor had already begun the business of questioning the boy. He valued Lucien's friendship and his skill with the sword, but there were moments—infuriating, dangerous moments—when all he felt toward the younger officer was a certain low form of animosity. Frowning, he kept his eyes on Montparnasse.

It hardly helped that it appeared, at least from where Victor stood, that Sylvie for some reason preferred Lucien. This too was frustrating; Victor considered himself the more mature and experienced man, was certainly closer to Sylvie's age and above the lieutenant in rank. But Sylvie was a creature no man could tame, and it was part of her most deadly appeal—Victor had never had as much taste for marriageable girls. Perhaps in retirement it would be pleasant to have some pretty, obedient thing to carry out his wishes—but until age or injury forced that upon him, he would prefer to have his fun.

He loosened his saber in its scabbard, deliberately letting it rattle. He glanced quickly to Lucien, masking his irritation with him, then back to the crook. “He's right. And should that prove to be the case, you will be the one to suffer for it.”

[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 remained out of sight in the carriage, but could hear every word that was uttered outside. Through one of the window panels slid back an inch, some of the scene was also visible, though the imminence of sunset made for blurred edges and long, dark shadows. No stranger to the night and deeds done in it, the Marquise smiled. She didn't expect interference from witnesses, but preferred to minimize the chance of the Falcon hearing that his man had been taken. A thrill ran through her as she listened to the conversation outside. Sylvie's social station gave her an unusual amount of legal authority in her own right for a woman, but she still gloried in the more physical sort of power she wielded over men. She was well aware of the rivalry she inspired between Victor and Lucien and took their desire for her as her due, gladly willing to play them off against each other to feed her ego. Leaning forward a little to get a better view of the meeting outside, the Marquise resisted the urge to tap her fingers impatiently. Her two associates were correct – this had already taken far too long, and the thought that her quarry might be getting away while they stood and talked was unbearable. A lace-gloved hand extended from the carriage, midway between Lucien and Victor. "Pay him," she said, years of practice feigning sophisticated boredom keeping the excitement from her voice, "and let's be about our business." || tagged: Monty? || notes: none at present || lyrics: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander

[MICHEL MONTPARNASSE]

Montparnasse disliked the tone the two men took with him. He glared at the younger of the two aristocrats when he told him he was wasting their time; well, if they were so impatient about it, they were more than welcome to trail La Coquine themselves. The former gamin would like to see them try to be half as effective as he was at navigating the alleys and underground tunnels of Paris.

Maintaining his sullen expression, he took a step toward the slightly older man. Both figures clearly disdained him, but Montparnasse felt less direct threat from him than from his younger colleague despite the literal saber-rattling. It was not without some effort that Montparnasse held his tongue to their snide comments, but his thoughts were visible primarily in the glower on his face. He did not want to jeopardize his pay by engaging these apparent swordsmen in a verbal duel.

It was a relief, then, to hear the woman's voice emerge from the carriage. He was perceptive enough to know that neither of the noblemen would dare disobey the woman's orders. It was obvious enough that each expected some payment of his own, and that payment would perhaps be well beyond the monetary. It brought a knowing smirk to his face, this evidence that such familiar games could be and were played regardless of birth and class.

Finally, the older of the two men produced the money, holding it out to Montparnasse at arm's length. He snatched it from his hand rather abruptly, making no attempt to hide that he was counting it. He would not let them trick him with his own price, convinced he wouldn't know better. He might be illiterate, but he certainly was not so stupid as to forget what different kinds of money looked like. He glanced up again at the younger one. The money in his hand was the promised amount, but such a conceited sort of aristocrat couldn't be too difficult to steal from. He moved closer to him again, but read their impatience as a threat to his safety should he grow too bold. He thrust his money into the pocket of his overcoat, then began to turn away from them.

“Enjoy your night, then.” He offered them an almost cheeky smirk, alluding to what he had picked up of the dynamics among the trio. His steps were slow, measured as he left, his head held high and posture as proud as he could manage. He would match their vanity and strange behavior toward him. I'm even better dressed. Still, he felt almost debased by having taken the money so readily without even making the effort to steal it, without knowing what they wanted from the gamine. He buried the feeling and, disappearing into another narrow alleyway, turned his feet toward the Rue Saint-Denis. Eponine... yes, more than just marquises and highborn officers could play at games of lust and power.

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

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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?

At Mylie's choice of words, the old spymaster hid a smile beneath the shadows of his hood. She hadn't seen his literal 'true colors.' They were azure; on a chevron inverted sable, between a falcon displayed wings elevated chief argent and two swords crossed base also argent, three keys or. That was the blazon of Paul-Francois, Marquis de Chauvelin, and no one had associated it with the man called Paul Chauvelin for almost forty years. And his figurative true colors, those she hadn't seen yet, either. If she was lucky, she never would.

As she ducked into the bushes to examine her prize, he took another look around. Other than a portly matron giving him the same righteously disapproving look she seemed to favor the world in general with, nobody appeared to be paying either of them undue attention. Still, despite that and his his lieutenant's lack of alarm, Chauvelin had the prickling sensation at the nape of his neck that told him something was wrong. It was a hard-won instinct that had kept him alive for decades in a dangerous business, and he trusted it implicitly.

It was time to go. He'd already spent far too long here and couldn't linger any more. He'd given her Corbier's note, and his own verbal assurances, she would have to be content with that. When she ducked into the bushes to extract and read her prize, he drifted casually backward, keeping his movements smooth and natural. Motion itself drew the eye, but people really noticed jerkiness and speed. As soon as he was a few steps away, far enough that there no longer appeared any connection between them to the casual observer, he would turn and stroll toward one of the Jardin's gates.

Then the girl emerged from the bushes again, and the expression on her face told the old spymaster that his instincts had been right, even before her words confirmed it. Despite the soft warmth of the fading summer day, what she said sent a chill down his spine. "I don't know," he lied automatically and with ease, "and it doesn't matter now." Catching at her arm, he lengthened his stride as much as he dared. "What have you done?"

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]

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

What she had suspected and feared to happen actually came to pass, Mylène noticed as she emerged from the bushes. The mysterious non-monk messenger had tried to sneak away while she had been reading the note! Without really giving her any answer, without shedding light on some very dark spots here, it was unbelievable! Yes, she now knew that Alain was still alive, and that he was apparently well enough to write her this – furthermore, he knew something about her imminent present, which meant he couldn’t be as far away as might be possible, or someone was telling him things about her. That was encouraging, but it still left too many things to be known. WHERE he was, and WHY he had to vanish for example. He claimed the Falcon had put him away for his own good, so that this Elise – or whatever her real name was – would not be getting her hands on him, but Alain was a free spirit and highly independent. Being locked away somewhere for two years, that must seem like torture to him!

She quickened her steps, her eyes burning into his as she willed him to stay put, at the same time daring to pull that stunt of leaving on her for real and then suffer the consequences. Anger was not her most prominent feeling however right now, she was still too dazed and shocked by realizing her own stupidity and the danger she might be in. If The Crow had to be locked away for two whole years to be safe of this woman, what measures would have to be taken for Mylène – if it wasn’t too late already?! Suddenly, she felt incredibly glad for the note she hoped had reached Courf’s hand by now. He would have a goodbye at least, and he could pass it along to the people who needed to know, Ponine, the owners of the Musain, the other boys. She would miss them all terribly of course – if she was granted the luxury of missing someone.

When he told her he did not know where Alain was, she almost believed him for a second, so convincing was his lying, but only until he added that afterthought that it would not matter. That would not be said by a mere messenger and his whole attitude rather betrayed someone in charge than just a subordinate. Mylène was tempted to brush his hand off sharply when he grabbed her arm, but the guilt gnawing away at her kept her from it. She had messed this up, she had brought danger down on them both, and any minute something bad could happen. “Sum aristo woman approached me, warnin’ me o’ sumone called the Falcon, tha’ he was evil and had taken Alain, an killed her family”, she explained hesitatingly. “She asked me fer help, an’ I said I’d be meetin’ sumon who could know sumthin’ bout Alain – bu I din’ say where, o’ course!” That was only cold comfort, she knew that herself. “An of course it does matter! I dun buy ye dun know where he is, given half the chance yer tha’ Falcon guy yerself!” she threw at him, even though she was by no means convinced of that fact, she just needed an outlet for her growing unease.

[Deleted]

(OOC: Gwen said I could come in, hope that's okay!)

It was true that if there was anything one could expect from Mylene, it would be that she would do something unexpected. However, Courfeyrac could not have predicted that she would do something quite this harebrained. He scanned the paper a second time after snatching it eagerly from the hands of the gamin who had delivered it to him, because he had read it too quickly the first time to have it make total sense to him. Granted, it didn't entirely make sense the second time either, because what Mylene was thinking – no, she wasn't thinking at all – she was barking mad!

“When did she give this to you?” he demanded, hastily pressing a few notes into the boy's waiting hand. “Jus' tonight, sir, mebbe 'alf an hour ago,” came the uncertain answer. “She said I was suppose' to wait but Ah couldn't 'cuz Ah 'ave to do sumthin'...” He trailed off and Courf shook his head impatiently. “Thank you,” he said finally, glad that the child had not been able to follow instructions.

How foolish she was! To think that she could just run off to meet some mysterious man who she was reasonably sure was dangerous, all by herself, without intending to tell him until later! He knew she was trying to do what was best for him, since he was busy planning, but the finality with which she said Fight for me at the barricades, Prometheus, as if she was never going to see him, and talking of vanishing... it made his blood run cold. It wasn't the best thing for him to lose her now. He would fight for France and freedom at the barricade, but he also wanted to fight for her, and that would require her actually being alive.

Without much more of a second thought, he sprinted in the direction of the garden, though as soon as he got there, he slowed, trying to catch his breath so he wasn't panting loudly, and stepping softly. He could hear the sound of low voices, though from where, he was of yet uncertain. He could hear Mylene's voice rising, it was most certainly her voice, and he crept closer, his heart pounding. It would only endanger her more if he was to emerge, but he waited, hand on the butt of the pistol in one pocket.

[LUCIEN DE LA TOUR D'AZYR]

Lucien could feel some passive-aggressive vibes coming from Captain d’Anthes, and they were not only directed at their incompetent and vain fool of a messenger, but also at him. He didn’t quite know what to make of that, but he guessed it was not really his problem. If the captain was a sore loser, there was nothing Lucien could do about it, it even woke the zest to gloat in him – just probably not now. There was still business to attend to, and if they failed at this strife, there would be no reward for any of them, they would only be faced with Sylvie’s wrath, and he intended not to let that happen. For that, he valued both life and limbs too much, knowing full well that Sylvie had no qualms to vent her anger on those that were stupid enough not to duck and hide in time. Grabbing the hilt of his sword both to reassure himself and to convey a subtle threat towards the messenger, he listened to the ongoing short conversation in which the man received his payment.

If it was for Lucien, this man would get nothing at all, he had a right mind to show him how to really treat his superiors and what awaited those who showed too little respect to the future Marquis de la Tour d’Azyr! But all in his own good time, he guessed, catching this street girl and more importantly the man she had been meeting was the prime priority now. He would memorize that man’s face and if they ever should cross paths again – well, then he guessed it would be payback time! As he watched the man leave, he cast a quick glance between Victor and Sylvie, who had now emerged from the carriage as well. “Time to catch two birds with one stone, don’t you think? We’ve wasted enough time!” The thrill of the hunt slowly took over him, somehow along the line of these short moments, this had ceased to be just a job he would do for Sylvie’s sake. He had no interest in this Falcon per say, but he’d like to bust their little conspiracy meeting, and claim his prize while they were at it. He wanted to see the horror in their eyes when they realized there was no escaping them… he’d long since lived without that surge of power, one could almost think he was growing soft!

Speed and stealth would be the order to call now, therefore he did not draw his rapier yet, but his steps were a determined stride as he set out in the direction of the park. Had this been a military operation, he knew he would have had to wait on Victor to sound the advance, since he was the man with the highest rank around, but he refused to see this as a military operation. He was practically bursting at the brim to get into action, and it showed in the determined, cold look on his face. He was sure Victor and the guards Sylvie had hired would follow. Once they all were in position, it was probably either Victor or Sylvie who would sound the immediate attack.

[VICTOR D'ANTHÈS]

Victor moved almost immediately to obey the woman's order. He could hear the slightest tinge of excitement in Sylvie's voice despite her air of boredom—mainly because now, with the chase drawing so near, he felt the excitement himself. However little he liked politics, he could admit—silently and to himself—that they could be thrilling if things went his way. Working alongside the Marquise, he felt this operation was almost inevitably likely to work out in his favor. Unless he did something to break his alliance with her and incur her wrath.

The money was there on hand, already counted and ready for the little thief. He held it out to him, keeping his body as far away from the boy as possible. He was still uncertain about what diseases and parasites might dwell in the creature and on his sickeningly fashionable but threadbare clothing. It took only an instant for him to snatch it out of his hand, and Victor felt the distinct anxiety that if they stayed too long the thief might decide to use his talents on them despite whatever agreement he had made with Sylvie. Clever, no doubt, but revolting. Victor could only reassure himself that he at least did not seem to be in the revolutionary mood shared by half of Paris.

He saw the thief move a little closer to the lieutenant, and glanced back at him in near warning. No doubt the fencer would notice the movement, but Victor did not particularly want to hear Lucien's yelp and subsequent complaints should the creature succeed in stealing from him. If he could catch the thief, he would kill him—but that would hardly be the end of it with someone like Lucien, Victor thought. Instead, they would hear about the brashness and stupidity of the thief for the rest of the operation except when absolute silence was required, and perhaps beyond—at least until Sylvie would grow tired of it and put an end to it.

It was, then, a dual relief when the thief went on about his way. Victor didn't like his posture or the tone of his parting comment, but stopping him to correct that was its own brand of foolishness. He wanted nothing to do with such a being, and instead turned back again toward the lieutenant and the Marquise.

“Of course,” Victor finally said in answer to Lucien's comment. Then, turning back toward the carriage and Sylvie herself, “Shall we, then?”

[PAUL CHAUVELIN]

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[/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 || Mylie?

AMATEURS, Chauvelin swore silently as he listened to Mylie speak and the scope of the disaster became steadily and brutally clear. This was what came of dealing with AMATEURS. Her insistence that she hadn't given 'the aristo woman' reassured him not one iota. Sylvie St-Cyr was not an amateur -- she had, in fact, identified and captured half a dozen of the old spymaster's own men, none of whom had been easy marks. And all of whom had died in ways that made even his blood run cold.

He should have known better. Hell, he had known better. But he'd let his friendship with and debt to the Grognard override his instinct and experience. And now, if he didn't move fast, he was going to pay the steep price of that folly. Never again, he vowed to himself.

The street girl continued to speak, but Chauvelin continued to walk, even quickening his pace as he signaled to Fumier to follow at a distance. If she wanted to keep talking to him, she was going to have to keep up. He'd already lingered here far too long. "I don't care whether you believe me," the old spymaster half-snarled. He kept his voice down, the only remaining concession to the facade of 'Brother Paul.' "I care about getting out of the mortal danger you've put us both in." you stupid wench he managed, barely, not to say aloud.

"The net is gathering around us, if it hasn't closed already. If you want to live ... run."

notes ||

[/b] none at present[/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 Under normal circumstances, Sylvie enjoyed having men fight over her. One man seeking to win her affections was very nice, but two competing for them was even better. And if those two happened to be friends otherwise, it was positively delicious. She gloried in the feeling of power it gave her and, if she were honest with herself (something she rarely, if ever, was), she took a jealous pleasure in damaging or destroying a kind of bond she was incapable of feeling. This evening, though, the Marquise had more important priorities that held the promise of far greater gratification. With a bit of regret, she put aside for a time the fun of listening to her 'colleagues' prickle at one another and focuses on the main prize -- the man who would, whether he wanted to or not, take her to the Crow. The Falcon thought he'd broken the chain that led back to him, but he would soon find he was foolishly, fatally wrong. "Indeed," Sylvie said in reply to Victor. "Driver!" Barely allowing the two young men time to leap back aboard, she rapped sharply on the carriage roof with the handle of her fan. "Le Jardin de Luxembourg. Immediately!" Her tone made it plain that any minor impediment -- such as pedestrians -- was not to be allowed to slow their pace. || tagged: Monty? || notes: none yet || lyrics: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander

Table made by Satara of Caution 2.0!

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

There was no way she would let this Paul now get away, no matter how fast he walked! Just a few more moments and he would be out of the park, and by the way he had reacted towards her, probably out of her life as well, never to give her the answers she wanted. Why was he so bloomingly stubborn?! It was one simple word, the word of the hiding place and then she would leave him in peace! Then she could work on a plan of her own to get to Alain, or even get him out of there. Alain didn’t deserve to be held captive for so long, not even for his own safety! There had to be another way, there simply had to!

Of course she had been stupid and she would have liked to slap herself multiple times for ever thinking of trusting Elise, but did that give him the right to treat her in such a condescending manner? Nothing had happened so far, right? Nothing at all! Mylène quickened her pace so she could keep up with him, and then, impulsively grabbed hold of his arm again and pulled him back with quite some force. “Oh right, ye dun care!” she hissed. “But it’s YE attracting attention with tha’ senseless flight an’ not me! Do ye see anyone here? No! Yer paranoid! An’ I won’ let a paranoid fake monk walk away from me without givin’ me wha’ I want te know. Tell me where Alain is! Where did ye hide him?!”

One thing was certain, they would probably not become best buddies in a lifetime. What did Alain see in this obnoxious man?! He called him a very good friend, and yet this friend had been keeping him locked up for two years, that was not Mylène’s definition of friendship. Not to speak of this horrible condescendance, this feeling that only added to Mylène’s own sentiment of shame. But this all made knowing where Alain was even more important, or she would have risked her life for nothing! That could just not happen!

[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 Moving at a more rapid pace than usual, Sylvie's coach bounced a bit more than she really cared for, but there was no help for that. The streets of Paris were in shockingly -- to her way of thinking -- poor repair these days. Even in the cobbled portions the stones tended to be uneven, and some were missing altogether. Probably pried up by ungrateful peasants, she suspected, to throw at guardsmen and their other betters. Well, that would all be dealt with shortly, now that Lamarque was almost out of the way. They could put that predilection for mindless violence to use fighting the Austrians. Or perhaps the Spaniards, but the Marquesse would prefer the Austrians, finding their language guttural and grating. The Spaniards had their flaws, to be sure, but at least they didn't sound like barking dogs. After rounding a corner, the carriage rolled to a stop, and Sylvie took a glance out the window to see that they were parked near Le Jardin de Luxembourg. Good, she thought, along with finally. Soon, the rebel and the street tramp would be in her hands. Picturing it, the Marquesse stroked her fingers across the rings on her opposite hand. One of them was more than a simple bit of jewelry. At a subtle press and turn of the stone, a needle would emerge from it. No bigger than an adder's fang, it was similarly venomous, though the poison it delivered wouldn't kill. A mixture of baneberry and belladonna, it would disorient and semi-paralyze for an hour or two, perfect for the transport of fractious prisoners. Smiling, Sylvie leaned back in her seat, trying not to tap her fingers impatiently as she waited for events to unfold. || tagged: Monty? || notes: sorry to jump the queue, but Sylvie needs a post for the activity check || lyrics: "Black Unicorn" by Heather Alexander

Table made by Satara of Caution 2.0!

[Deleted]

He was a young man whose heart was ablaze with revolutionary sentiments and sympathy; acting rashly in the face of opposition was his specialty. That didn't meant surviving, though he had thus far. Whether he would tonight remained to be seen. Now, if he died here, then he could not die with his brethren on the barricade that was to come - nor could he live with them there to see what their striving would bring. And he would be the first to tell Marius or anyone else that dying for a jade was a stupid thing to do when you could spend your efforts and last breath more nobly elsewhere. However, Mylene was not a common mistress, and these distinctions between common and noble were exactly what Courfeyrac was working to eradicate anyway.

So he would endeavor to get Mylene out of this - whatever this precisely was - not because he wanted to play the hero, but because it was the right thing to do. Her dark letter had only illuminated some things. There was still so much he did not know about the Crow and the Falcon. He just didn't think Mylene should be mixed up with any of the lot of them. If she was going to be mixed up with anything, it should be with their Cause for freedom. That wasn't to say he had not fought with her before about whether she should be at the barricade. There were other things she could do besides stand in the line of fire, shooting her own gun, though he had taught her to do that so she would be prepared just in case. He just didn't want her to be in danger. Rather too late for that now.

Perhaps it wasn't that dangerous, but there were too many people here for a friendly late-night tete-a-tete, and the carriage... well, he would trust his instincts that that wasn't normal. Unfortunately, his instincts hadn't made him quite as resourceful as Mylene when it came to getting her away from the little gathering. He only looked around for a few moments when he heard her suggestion to run before he realized they would just have to do that.

Bursting out from the bushes, he hoped the element of surprise would help him, for it was all he had as he darted forward to grab Mylene's arm.

(OOC: I didn't really know if Courf should be doing this, but I guess we could do something to move this thread along to its conclusion )