Tomboys and Troublemakers pt 3

[MrAbdiel]

Bertelis is flummoxed somewhat at the demand that he does not satisfy the demand of his honor. Furthermore, he seems baffled that a Damsel of the lady would make such a requirement.

"...First, of the vampire himself, we have delayed quite enough already for a very long time. I have suspended the good of my family for the good of others long enough; you must understand my reluctance to stay back and wring my hands about what there may, might, if, perhaps, be that does threaten us over there. We've been drawn here for this purpose - the gods have given us back Gimgroth, even, whose name I would have called if asked for a single asset to take to such a conflict. The vampire has been at war with this chaos knight for such a time and each must keep each other's forces in check. They are not the only menaces in the cursed city; neither can have legions, but small cohorts of damned defenders, certainly. The Black Knights of the Ducal Palace, for whatever evil they serve, would brook no brewing competitor. These bands of damned warriors - this is the kind of foe we have been raised up to fight. As for his lair, what of it? It will have dangers. What can we do but brave them, or pay someone else to brave them for us? No, no. We must make our own observations, use our best guile and cunning, but the telling will be done by our courage in the end. Whatever obstacles - impersonators, soldiers, traps, whatever - we can only encounter and seek to overcome with our wits. We cannot require my brother suffer patiently any longer. Not now that we're here, right across the river, awaiting only this final strike."

He throws back the cup of cognac as if to punctuate his insistence - there has been all the planning and delaying he can stand, and he can stand no more. But as for the secondary matter, his eyes darken a little, and move between each of his assembled companions as if waiting for one to crack and reveal this to be a joke in poor taste.

"...This... seems beyond account, to me. I am - and I do not brag to say it - the most natural candidate to participate in such a fight. The Red Knight is a traitor against Bordelaux. My grandfather opposed him with this secret society. He has attacked my mother in law, and kidnapped my brother. I am initiated into the mysteries of Manaan, whose weapon this monster blasphemously wields. Why would-... What is-..."

He frustrates over the proposition that he sit it out. Being unable to act against this particular foe has been a vice of conviction squeezing his skull for months.

"...I do not... consider myself so precious that I must be the one to strike the blow, but I will not remain hidden away in safety while you all go the battle into which I am hurrying you."

[wilphe]

Wighard takes a sip of brandy and swirls it around his mouth before swallowing as he listens to Bertelis

It's not about YOUR safety, it is about whether or not we have to fight you and him at the same time. Either to keep you away from him, or because you have got too close and fallen under his influence.

If you are intent on disregarding the Damsel's counsel understand that you will have to do so through me, I would rather not be acting as bodyguard for the person we are there to kill, and I would rather be concentrating on killing him than thwarting you

[BananaPhone]

Regine Lacroix

Bertelis is flummoxed somewhat at the demand that he does not satisfy the demand of his honor. Furthermore, he seems baffled that a Damsel of the lady would make such a requirement.

"...First, of the vampire himself, we have delayed quite enough already for a very long time. I have suspended the good of my family for the good of others long enough; you must understand my reluctance to stay back and wring my hands about what there may, might, if, perhaps, be that does threaten us over there. We've been drawn here for this purpose - the gods have given us back Gimgroth, even, whose name I would have called if asked for a single asset to take to such a conflict. The vampire has been at war with this chaos knight for such a time and each must keep each other's forces in check. They are not the only menaces in the cursed city; neither can have legions, but small cohorts of damned defenders, certainly. The Black Knights of the Ducal Palace, for whatever evil they serve, would brook no brewing competitor. These bands of damned warriors - this is the kind of foe we have been raised up to fight. As for his lair, what of it? It will have dangers. What can we do but brave them, or pay someone else to brave them for us? No, no. We must make our own observations, use our best guile and cunning, but the telling will be done by our courage in the end. Whatever obstacles - impersonators, soldiers, traps, whatever - we can only encounter and seek to overcome with our wits. We cannot require my brother suffer patiently any longer. Not now that we're here, right across the river, awaiting only this final strike."

He throws back the cup of cognac as if to punctuate his insistence - there has been all the planning and delaying he can stand, and he can stand no more. But as for the secondary matter, his eyes darken a little, and move between each of his assembled companions as if waiting for one to crack and reveal this to be a joke in poor taste.

"...This... seems beyond account, to me. I am - and I do not brag to say it - the most natural candidate to participate in such a fight. The Red Knight is a traitor against Bordelaux. My grandfather opposed him with this secret society. He has attacked my mother in law, and kidnapped my brother. I am initiated into the mysteries of Manaan, whose weapon this monster blasphemously wields. Why would-... What is-..."

He frustrates over the proposition that he sit it out. Being unable to act against this particular foe has been a vice of conviction squeezing his skull for months.

"...I do not... consider myself so precious that I must be the one to strike the blow, but I will not remain hidden away in safety while you all go the battle into which I am hurrying you."

The tiniest of smiles crossed the thief's lips when she finally saw some others enjoy the spirits she had acquired and shared. It was the most expensive item she had ever extended to others, and the quality of the drink was unrivalled. If she were to expire soon, she'd at least like to know she'd allowed them to sample the finest alcohol made by man.

Regine watched Bertelis talk with the same slight amusement a mother might show their child when they recounted a story of how they saw bigfoot. Or, rather, how Regine had seen a mystical monster, for all the good her words seem to have on the gung-ho knight. Regine had seen those in her profession with such a mindset back in L'Anguile. They were dashing and daring and they burned bright, but burned out - they never lasted long.

"It is impressive that you can answer every question I have and dismiss any caution I provide, with the power of speculation, monsieur!" Regine answered, her smile humorous but still holding her ground that she strongly disagreed with how he was approaching the problem.

There was something dashing about Bertelis' damn-it-all-charge! attitude towards danger. A bravery, or recklessness, a manly foolishness to meet the foe with steel and faith. Mad and absurd, confident and self-assured, all in one. Like watching a lone knight charge audaciously into an enemy he knew he could not defeat, because it would buy time for others.

"...I do not... consider myself so precious that I must be the one to strike the blow, but I will not remain hidden away in safety while you all go the battle into which I am hurrying you."

Regine offered a sympathetic look, "but thou must, lest we all perish, Monsieur."

The thief sighed softly, looking at the knight with an expression that was part amusement, part acceptance of some flaw.

"Undead to the right of them. Chaos cultists to the left of them. Disease and death to the rear of them. Into the valley of death rode the five. Bravery and foolishness are often only thinly separated, Chevalier Bertelis," she spoke, leaning in to kiss him once more on the cheek for a second before offering an affectionate smile. Turning back to her cognac and taking a sip, the thief took solace in Bruno departing to purchase more supplies and Wighward being equally determined to keep Bertelis from confronting the Red Knight.

They should be fine.

[farothel]

Bruno grabbed the money and looked at Regine's drink.
"I'll have that when I come back from the shopping trip," he said, "I think it's best if I keep a clear head so I don't forget anything we might need."

Then he would walk out and try to get some supplies they might need.

[MrAbdiel]

"I won't-"

He threw up his hands in frustration, curled his fingers in the air as if strangling the vagaries of fate, then sunk forward onto the tabletop with his elbows. The knight's gaze flicked to Gimgroth and Jasmine then. Regine was Bretonnian and not without the mind of a strategist; Wighard was a theologian and scholar; Bruno was noble - if not born but raised - and something like a knight, as Imperials understood them. But of all of his companions, this was not the first time it was his Halfling and Dwarf companions whose minds he felt closest to. For Gimgroth, there was no question about plunging into the skaven nest on the principle - the damning, deadly, doomed principle - that such creatures needed to be destroyed and their captives set free and the calculus of likelihood was a second and quieter voice. Jasmine was not nailed to a code of honor like Bertelis or Gimgroth (not even close) but she'd displayed a devotion to her companions that manifested along a spectrum from fearlessness to ingenuity to see them delivered. If either of them had been told to stand aside while their brother's tormentor carried on, they would surely feel just as twisted up about it as he does.

But neither were fools; and both would, as Bertelis is forced to, come to reason about a matter so specifically thorny.

"I... will not plunge in, there. I will delay back in another room or whatnot; carry myself in reserve, out of sight, when you confront the knight. I won't wait on this side of the river - but I will not... provoke an ironic demise. Bruno can carry the Company Blade, in this clash..." He glances after the Baronet, as the Talabeclander slips out of the inn. "He knows his way about it, now."

He retreats to the redoubt of many classic sulkers: pretending he was having fun all along, clinking his empty cup against Regine's bottle, for a refill. "Are you satisfied now? Anyway, this delay will have Odmar pleased. Second night in the same inn means Odmar is sleeping in my room, and I am in the hayloft sleeping sentinel over the horses again." The vow he'd made to the Green Knight not to rest his head twice under the same roof had fallen into a routine, now; as close to one as his internal and external restlessness permitted, anyway.

[wilphe]

Wighard downs what is left of his brandy in one gulp, then flings the glass to shatter in the fireplace

I am sure there will be plenty there to kill and plenty of blood to be spilt

[dojango]

Jasmine just says, "It's too early to decide who's fightin' who and whatnot. Perhaps people would be naturally steered towards to where they needed ta be without sayin' who can't fight who and what secret advice we was given. At any rate, there ain't no point ta arguin' before we even got the stuff we need to stay alive out there," and when Bruno leaves, she rushes after him. "Hey, wait! Mebbe we can find a secret stash o' firearms and powder somewhere in this burg."

[BananaPhone]

Regine Lacroix

"I won't-"

He threw up his hands in frustration, curled his fingers in the air as if strangling the vagaries of fate, then sunk forward onto the tabletop with his elbows. The knight's gaze flicked to Gimgroth and Jasmine then. Regine was Bretonnian and not without the mind of a strategist; Wighard was a theologian and scholar; Bruno was noble - if not born but raised - and something like a knight, as Imperials understood them. But of all of his companions, this was not the first time it was his Halfling and Dwarf companions whose minds he felt closest to. For Gimgroth, there was no question about plunging into the skaven nest on the principle - the damning, deadly, doomed principle - that such creatures needed to be destroyed and their captives set free and the calculus of likelihood was a second and quieter voice. Jasmine was not nailed to a code of honor like Bertelis or Gimgroth (not even close) but she'd displayed a devotion to her companions that manifested along a spectrum from fearlessness to ingenuity to see them delivered. If either of them had been told to stand aside while their brother's tormentor carried on, they would surely feel just as twisted up about it as he does.

But neither were fools; and both would, as Bertelis is forced to, come to reason about a matter so specifically thorny.

"I... will not plunge in, there. I will delay back in another room or whatnot; carry myself in reserve, out of sight, when you confront the knight. I won't wait on this side of the river - but I will not... provoke an ironic demise. Bruno can carry the Company Blade, in this clash..." He glances after the Baronet, as the Talabeclander slips out of the inn. "He knows his way about it, now."

He retreats to the redoubt of many classic sulkers: pretending he was having fun all along, clinking his empty cup against Regine's bottle, for a refill. "Are you satisfied now? Anyway, this delay will have Odmar pleased. Second night in the same inn means Odmar is sleeping in my room, and I am in the hayloft sleeping sentinel over the horses again." The vow he'd made to the Green Knight not to rest his head twice under the same roof had fallen into a routine, now; as close to one as his internal and external restlessness permitted, anyway.

Regine couldn't help but smirk as she watched the brave, daring and dashing knight, eager to run headlong into the domain of the wicked Red Knight, throw up his hands and sulk forward on the table like a child denied his pudding. 'But I want to fight the Red Knight now!' she could envision him sooking, her lips arching slightly at the very idea. However, to the mans credit, he was yielding his ego to the practicality of the day. Regine had had very little experience with actual 'knights', for to her they were only an icon from fairy tales, figures that would swoop in and save damsels in their time of need or slaw monsters threatening the helpless common folk. Sadly, when she was in the orphanages, no such gallant mounted warrior came for her. Instead, she had only witnessed them from afar, particularly the younger, more hot-headed and impressionable Knights Errant, whose reputation for immediate action was not unlike that exhibited by Bertelis. Yet even her minimal knowledge of their ways and reverences granted her enough insight to know the inner strength the man doubtlessly had to call upon to throw off the shackles of his personal desires so that he could make the only sensible decision that was necessary for the good of the group, and which maximised their chances of success.

Looking over at Wighard and seeing that he accepted this state of affairs, Regine nodded to herself. She also watched as Bruno politely declined his drink so that he could retain all the wits necessary to haggle for good deals, while the Halfling felt likewise. The pair soon departed. Reaching over and drawing their glasses closer to herself, Regine drew one up, brought it to her lips and - head back, swallowed down, took it in all in before slamming the glass upon the table. She then wrapped her dexterous fingers around the other glass and repeated the process, taking in the incredibly expensive and beautifully tasting alcohol. Even now, in her transforming state, Regine was allowed these little joys, as her tastebuds were sharpened and honed to a degree that no human could understand how each flavour and ingredient was observable, detectable and enjoyable to her senses.

"You have made the right decision, Chevalier Bertelis," Regine commented, her voice comforting and her closest hand coming up to reassuringly rub his shoulder.

"The most successful move with silence and violence."

Smiling with unusual open friendliness, the thief drew herself up out of the row-chairs of the table at which they were seated, the deliberations of the evening seemingly complete in favour of acquiring provisions, traveling, gathering the necessarily intelligence before making a strike at the Red Knight in a battle that Bertelis had agreed to eschew himself from, lest he fall beneath the vampires spell. Regine believed that she had done her final job, her final assistance to the group by crafting a strategic vision for success and, with a bit of luck and the Lady's favour, cleansing three foul evils from the cursed Mousillon.

"Wighard, temper Bertelis' hot-headed bravery, as both dashing and foolish as it is!" the thief spoke affectionately, before bending forward in a stylish bow towards those who had remained.

"It has been a pleasure, monsieur's and mademoiselle's, but I must retire. Au revoir mes amis and I will seen you all on the other side!" her smile was bright and inflection warm, before she picked up her half empty bottle of cognac and moved towards the rooms of the Inn, her black hair capturing the illuminated warmth of the hearths.

[farothel]

"I doubt it, and I'm not really going to look for it," Bruno said to Jasmine, "see what happened last time. No, we need rations, waterskins, healing supplies... lots of those actually, some rope probably and more mundane stuff."

[bramblefoot]

bruno: checking out the markets, a small covered wagon pulled by two black horses enters the marketplace. a tall gangly man with a ying-yang mask will begin to hawk his wares "shrieking bagpipes, only one gold crown" whatever the man is hawking, it seems to be a cause for interest, as people line up to check out his wares. small curios and tinctures change hands for silver and gold as the man keeps up a rapid sales patter

gonna check it out?

the peddler


those at the table: marius will walk over and play a small ditty, staying out of arms reach

"Life and death, what a jest,
In the grand play, we are but guests.
From birth to grave, we dance the tune,
A fleeting moment 'neath the moon.

Life's embrace, a tender kiss,
Yet death's cold touch we cannot dismiss.
In the cycle, we find our place,
A journey of wonder, grace, and chase.

Sir Bertelis, hear this rhyme,
As we ponder the rhythm of time.
For life and death, hand in hand,
Shape the essence of this mortal land."

marius smiles, and will scoot off to the bar. He seems to know something you dont. the question is if you want to talk to him

[wilphe]

"Wighard, temper Bertelis' hot-headed bravery, as both dashing and foolish as it is!"


Tempered men, like tempered blades, are more useful and last longer


He looks at Bertelis as she leaves, Don't be lonely in the hayloft

And turns his attention to Marius

[MrAbdiel]

Perhaps Wighard's encouragement lodges somewhere in Bertelis' hindbrain and buzzes around in there; but he pretends not to notice it, ambiguously vulgar as the suggestion is and with two cups of cognac racing up on him. Men of Bordeleaux are famous drunks - all except the sailors, who are forbidden from drink less they foul their duties, and the Duke who simply declines the juice of the vine in general. Bertelis is neither a heavy drinker, not a non-partaker, which means when he does splash out like this occasion he is most susceptible indeed, and before long he is retiring to the stable and dismissing Odmar to take up residence in his room instead. With the horses fed and brushed for the day, he drinks in the solitude and quiet. He does not much care for the Damsel's demands - though often the Lady's servants are cryptic and obtuse, so perhaps some less frustrating way forward will reveal itself. Neither does he enjoy the heady lightness of the drinks he through back - just after lunch is far too early for such a giddy drop. But tomorrow they will leave early, and his companions are taking care of the supplies, and rather than stew in his worries for the adventure to come, he tries to do as the Estalians do and catch a midday nap. Perhaps he'd sleep through until the hours before dawn; that would suit him just fine.

[farothel]

"Lets see what that's all about," Bruno suggested to Jasmine, heading towards the peddler but staying back a bit to first see what exactly he's selling and to figure out if he knows the mark he is wearing on his forehead.

Spoiler: OOC rolls

Show

all have the same roll: academic knowledge (genealogy/heraldry or history) or common knowledge (empire or bretonnia): 77 vs 59 (in OOC topic)

[BananaPhone]

Regine Lacroix


The thiefs quarters were sparsely furnished, as was the custom of the tavern. A simple bed was the centre of its features and a little desk was adjacent to the wall opposite the entrance, a wooden chair of reasonable quality situated before it. Though she had no prior need for such furnishings, Regine now found herself seated at the fixture, her bottle of cognac resting upon its face, a parchment before her and an ink-tipped quill in her right hand. Though many would be surprised to learn it, the Master Thief was literature. Enthusiastically so, even. Her scripture was cursive and neat, the elegant black letters flowing across each line as Regine put the most personal and private into writing. She had to stop an intervals, not only to take another swill of her expensive liquor, but to dry her eyes or compose and align her thoughts. Afterall, she only had one piece of paper that was suitable to carry her final message and so she did not want to ruin her gesture with inane ramblings. Instead, it was organised, direct and to the point, the preceding sequence of events marked out in catalogued: she had been visited in the night and turned against her will, she had subsequently liquidated what little gains she had from a life of thievery and funnelled them towards an anonymous act of charity and, finally, her sincere apologies that she could no longer remain in their midst for their own safety, and that even if she had alerted them to what was rotting her from within, the outcome would have been no different - this was a disease with only one cure.

With her writing finalised, Regine slouched back in her chair as best one could, its firm and barely comfortable constrictions forcing the girl to shift her weight several times until she found a tolerable position. This required removing one of the few things she still possessed, a knife, its length unsheathed from the holster against her lower back and its steel moved to the table top...Regine paused. A glimmer. Quick, shifting. An image. She brought the weapon closer to her face for inspection, holding it only a foot from her eyes where she saw that it wasn't just any likeness, it was her own. The thief held that blade aloft, altering its angles, tiling it forward a little, then back. It wasn't until she saw a facsimile of half her of her own face looking back at her from that polished steel that Regine ceased her fiddling: the angular features, the eyes, her jaw, skin and mouth and the black helm of hair - it was her. Struck by this moment of recognition at her own familiarity, Regine considered what lay beyond, or within, that image, the mind perceiving and considering its reflection, a nexus of experiences, knowledge and memories whose unique combination would forever remain contained within, never to be fully transmitted to another for safekeeping or further travels. Well, Regine swallowed and rolled her tongue across her top row of teeth, that chance was gone now, wasn't it?

Rolling the parchment into a scroll and tying it off with some string, the thief set it upon the table before collecting the cognac and taking another swill. Two hours had passed since she had opened the bottle, a hundred and twenty minutes of both shared and singular consumption, and now the amber liquid within was almost half empty. Already the thief could feel the alcohol gnawing away at her nervous system, slowing her normally liquid graceful movements and attaching the smallest of smears to every object in her vision when she moved her gaze too quickly. Nevertheless, the thief turned to her door and moved through it, ensuring to close it behind her and keep the key safely pocketed before she headed down the stairs. She returned to the main room of the tavern, only to find the others had dispersed to their own unique duties and activities, to which Regine would shrug and nod, before taking another sip of her drink. Continuing on, she recalled some prior words before she had departed, a smirk creasing her lips as she moved through the main floor of the lodge and towards the stables.

Sure enough, she found him amidst the horses. Clicking her tongue softly and affectionately towards each of the lovely animals that she past, warmly rubbing her palm across the long front face of each, the thief took another swill from her bottle as she came to lean against a support beam at the end of the square, equine pens, her eyes featured on the honorable knight, nestled in bed of golden hay.

Regine smirked and snorted lightly in amusement at the sight.

"Hey," she spoke softly, reaching over to grip something small and soft that she tossed in Bertelis' direction, watching with an entertained eye as it bounced off of his head to hopefully stir him from his sleep.

"Found better company than us, monsieur chevalier?" Regine playfully teased, gesturing to the surrounding horses.

[dojango]

"Yeah sure, I'm sure the others won't mind havin' us spend our gold on knick-knacks and stuff," but she pushes through the crowd, as only someone child-sized can do, and tries to look at the wares up close.

[bramblefoot]

jasmine: the peddler will turn his head as jasmine approaches. "how about a toenail clipping of ludwig the fat?" he offers, pulling a small toenail bit from nowhere and holding it between thumb and forefinger "just a silver to the right halfling!" his eyes twinkle behind the mask. "so, what'll it be miss?"

bruno: you have absolutely no idea what the symbol is, but everyone seems to consider him at least trustworthy. make of that what you will

[MrAbdiel]

"Hey," she spoke softly, reaching over to grip something small and soft that she tossed in Bertelis' direction, watching with an entertained eye as it bounced off of his head to hopefully stir him from his sleep.

"Found better company than us, monsieur chevalier?" Regine playfully teased, gesturing to the surrounding horses.

Bertelis startles somewhat comically when the loose cork - probably from some saddlier's Bordelan respite - bonks off his head. He scuffs his heels against the loft with a flurry of hay kicked up and sits bolt upright, eyes hunting around wildly before settling and focusing. Deep at night, the sudden energy might have been disquieting in evening gloom. Here, in the afternoon glow, it's just silly.

"Ah... What..."

He takes a moment to gather his sense. Having shed his leather armor, he wears only the battered and faded linen tunic that has held with him throughout his many adventures since leaving home, and the their accompanying white trouser-trunks. Both are stitched and repaired over and over from damage, in many places with corresponding blood stains from whatever arrow or bullet or blade or claw made the wound. A thorough wash and the occasional patch has prevented this gear from being a complete travesty; but it displays is wear.

"Ah, ma'amselle... Hah, yes, well, I supposed they would not judge me for carrying my liquor poorly. Gimgroth would be ashamed, I think." He rubs one eyesocket with the heel of his palm. It's the one with the scar that runs from the corner of that eyeback through his hair above his ear; the one he says was nearly shot out by a skaven longarm. Judging by the entry and exit holts in his helmet he's not lying. "It's a very fine drop - I've just... made a habit of avoiding drink, these last couple of years. Now with two cups, I am liable to say foolish things. Ah..." At this point, his rebooting brain seems to catch up to the fact that he is in his underwear in the presence of a woman. He makes a split second decision to try not to draw attention to it, though a light colouring in his cheeks betrays him. "Though I may be prone to those things sober. If I had the wit to have vowed not to sleep twice in the same bed, rather than under the same roof, I might still be resting on feathers, not hay."

[BananaPhone]

Regine Lacroix

The Master Thief smirked at the knights words.

She leaned against a support pillar for the barn, her tall, lithe figure seemingly at ease where-ever she found herself as she cradled the last half of her bottle of alcohol in her arms. She took a sip straight from the flagon.

"Vowed not to sleep twice in the same bed?" Regine smirked and snickered.

"Back in L'Anguille there weren't working girls with that sort of work ethic..."

To a high-strung, touchy and prickly man, the womans words would have been insulting, to say the least. But from her? With her playful attitude and months of shared hardships? It was a friendly tease, at worst.

Approaching and twirling herself about on the spot with the liquid grace few other humans could match, Regine tumbled backwards to land on her rump just a foots distance from the knight, a soft "Ahh!" escaping Regine's lips as she did so.

"That was my choice back then, you know?" she spoke matter-of-factly, taking another swill from her flagon before holding it out for Bertelis to take and sample.

"Girls like me? No name, no family, no education and straight out of the orphanage? The lucky ones acquire husbands. Those who aren't choose between whoring or thievery. Do you think I chose honourably?"

[farothel]

Bruno wasn't about to buy stuff, so he waited for Jasmine to come back before he would move on to get those things they really needed.

[MrAbdiel]

Bertelis lets the oblique comparison to a prostitute glide by, repaying it with a tutting, half-hearted smile. He was less judgemental than he used to be; but perhaps more than that, pretty women have a way of generating forgiveness in men - especially those they catch off guard. When she plops down beside him in the hay, his options are to splutter and complain or play it off. And how would he complain? Indeed, he has taken a sip from her flagon in spite of, moments ago, confessing to coming here to rest off the buzz he was already feeling. When she asks if she made the honourable choice - between becoming a professional in vice or a professional in crime - he does not need to give it much thought.

"You make the choice you can live with. Honour is a thing that changes in what it demands of you as you change. The privileged endure a greater demand, because they are privileged. Those with precious little are demanded to obey its precepts in the most elemental ways. If a woman has no choice but to sell herself, she is more honourable not to sell herself to the husbands of other women. If she sees no way forward but to steal, she ought to steal in such a way that is least injurious to her fellow man. I cannot, a boy born to a caring family with support and wealth and heritage, condemn an orphan girl when she steals to live." He lets this magnanimous sentiment hover in the air, but then follows it up with a qualifier - a wagging finger extended from the flagon's handle. "But a thief who steals to live year after year is not a very good thief. And you, ma'amselle, are a very good thief. Are you going to tell me there was never any point in that path where you had enough that you might have taken some small risk to leap to a more respectable one? I suspect now you'd have very little trouble indeed finding a husband. Some... cheerful merchant in Couronne who needs a woman as urbane and clever as he, who can speak guilefully to the wives of his partners in Marienburg, and Ubersreik. Or cut a path of your own, even. That crossbow alone you could pawn to start a new life in a city of your choice. You have everything you need to be a woman who does not need to ask hypotheticals about her honour."

[BananaPhone]

Regine Lacroix

The thief smirked. It wasn't so much what the chevalier said, as how he said it. Skirting around the issue, pillowing his final, gentle opinion. It was clear the answer was 'no', but he took care to be saccharine, as to spare her any hurt or offense. In other words, he cared what she thought.

"I should have met you earlier in life then, mon chéri?" Regine smiled amiably with a wink.

"Non, when I was a little girl I learned very quickly that the stories were all conneries. There was no knight coming to save me. There was only me. Did I tell you how I afforded my first set of lockpicks? Oh la vache! Ten ecu for a reliable series! Where did I get that kind of money?"

Regine then reached each of her hands over to the other, holding the base of her fingerless gloves and dexterously drawing them off to expose her fair skinned palms and digits beneath. Holding both up and towards the knight as if she were expecting them both to be held and kissed, Regine gestured to the now noticeably soft set of calluses across both sets of her knuckles.

"La Vipère Noire of L'Anguille!" she announced with a bright smile, as if presenting herself.

"Bareknuckle. I was fifteen. I never lost a match. I wasn't the strongest, or the toughest. But I was the quickest. None could touch me enough to hurt me. Body blows initially, wear'em down and exhaust them, weakening their guard around the head, leaving them open for..." and the thief shot her left hand forward, swift as an arrow, the knuckles of her index and middle finger jutted forward to narrow the area of exposure through which all that force would flow to maximise the pressure.

"But...I was a little too good, monsieur. Some very shady mec' approached and wanted me to throw a fight. I refused. So I bet on myself to win and walked away with enough to start a new career...but the men I had turned down had other ideas, hehehe," the thief snickered as if remembering fond days because, in some odd way for her, they were.

"I never stole from anyone who wasn't in the game, or who couldn't afford to lose it, chevalier," she nodded, her right hand still gloveless and held out, "You wonder why I never gave it up?" she pursed her lips, thought and then shrugged, "because I liked it. I was one of the best at it. Scoping out a target, the challenge of access and retrieval, the heart-race of escape on foot!" Regine smiled brightly, a genuine, warm smile as if recalling a family dinner, "I never felt so alive, mon lapin . I did not do it for money. I did it for me."

Looking at Bertelis and smiling, almost as if he'd said a good joke, she twiddled the fingers of her right hand as she turned it over; "only the knuckles are rough; my palms are still soft, see?"

[MrAbdiel]

The knight listened to the tale with slow melting scepticism in his eyes. The idea of Reginé brawling her way through childhood as a juvenile pitfighter seemed farfetched. She was too delicate for that. But then, she wasn't talking about muscling through an infantry press. Girls often grew faster than boys, and so there might well have been a number of L'Anguillan lads paired up against a younger Reginé without the overpowering force of their pubescent birthright making the matchup foolish.

Between that rationale, and this being another shovel full of validation of his disdain for treacherous L'Anguille as a city - not only turncoats but also abusing children for sport fights - he was able to accept the tale of Le Vipère Noire.

When she calls him mon lapin, he instinctively scrunches his nose. A more masculine comparison would suit his preference more; and he had taken a while to become used to Wighard spreading the Le Chevalier Hérisson epithet for him. Unfortunately, the very scrunching of the nose was a somewhat leporine gesture in itself, lending support to the cause he wanted to undermine.

"I suppose we grew up throwing fists at the same time in different parts of the kingdom, ma'amselle. The knights do not except their sons and squires from training relentlessly. Pitting all the boys of one household against another in pitched battle games; Roi de la Colline, Ramenez-les à la Vie, snotball... Not for money, but for the expectation that, at some point, the Skaeling would be wrapping around the coast of L'Anguille, or the Bilbalian dons would take a bite of Carcassonne, or Sigmar's singes qui huent would come scrambling through Axebite pass with their cannons and quote-unquote 'knights'... And it would be for real, then." It occured to Bertelis only at that point that money probably did change hands, over those contests; it was hard to imagine the lords not gambling on the outcomes, now that he thought about it.

At some point in that reverie, Bertelis had quite subconciously taken Reginés hand into the custody of his own doubled hold; his thumbs brushing the soft palms while his fingertips tracked to the calloused knuckles she had drawn attention to.

When had he last sat in a quiet place and held a woman's hand? He had a vague memory of an imperial girl whose family's coach he had shared the road with long before Professor Lorrimer had died. It felt like decades ago. What had her name been..? Ingrid? Sigrid? Something blunt and exotically teutogen, like that.

"I remember looking forward to such a day, with real battles. I've lead a few handfuls of soldiers now, but not been in a war; but the appeal is certainly gone. I suspect I will not see one. I... think I may die in Mousillon tomorrow, or perhaps in an escapade shortly after that. I don't know."

A gloomy turn for the conversation, as the melancholy tries to lurch up and take him. The knight's eyes, a light and sincere blue almost to the verge of purple, look tired and far away, even as his thumbs circle mindlessly in the thief's palm.

[BananaPhone]

Regine Lacroix

"We did not have as many spectators. Even in L'Anguille not many want to see young ladies punching the hell out of each other. They'll still bet though - scruples wither before gold," the thief smirked.

Regine remained quiet as Bertelis spoke his words, while below, her thumb slowly came to rest over the knuckle of his that was idly rubbing her palm. When Bertelis revealed his inner belief at his own demise, the thief perked an eyebrow and smirked coyishly. Softly, she folded her hand over his.

"You think tomorrow is your final day?" she asked with warm scepticism, before easily turning herself about and leaning back so her back was against his chest, usnig her hold on his hand to draw his arm abut her. Her black hair framing her face, she looked up at him, and took another sip of her cognac in the most ladyish way possible.

"You're path doesn't end in Mousillon, mon chéri. Not if you use that handsome head of yours and listen to the halfling. Sneak. Hide. Lure the Red Knight where you want him, and let the barrels of gunpowder do the rest. Honor is an anchor in that blighted land, and it will drag you deep beneath the swamps - and you can't further your name with a pretty girl you rescue from a tower if you end up in the mire now, can you?"

[MrAbdiel]

Bertelis did not believe it. At a logistical level, he did not believe that they would find barrels of gunpowder tucked away somewhere in this lighthouse village devoted to Verena, nor in Mousillon proper, and they certainly wouldn't be able to haul them through the marshy streets and set a useful trap even if they had them. At a moral level, he could appreciate a good trap but could never embrace a martial philosophy of running and hiding, so anathema was it to his whole self. And at a deep, perhaps selfish irrational level, he could not believe the job would get done without him. When Gimgroth left the group to seek the protection of his goddaughter, the knight had felt the weight of responsibility hit his shoulders like a leaden, laden yoke: Now I am the line. Before this, if I failed, I could fall knowing Gimgroth would carry the day. Now I am the mightiest we have. I must engage the enemy at their strongest point and reserve nothing, because if I fail, they will all die. A narrow field of thought, for sure; an unfair discounting of the martial abilities of his companions, Jasmine's flair for survival and proven deliverance of dark moments, and Wighard's rapidly growing grasp of frightful forces beyond the veil. But they were his thoughts all the same, and when Gimgroth rejoined the party, the knight's temperament was already bent to the wheel of self-destruction. He could not imagine that tomorrow, or over the next few days, there would be a moment where he would remain behind and his companions would dispatch the vampire without him. His bones knew something would happen and he would need to do... something.

He felt a hundred years old. It had taken a hundred years to walk, ride, sail, and mystically teleport back from the Empire to his homeland where his family's future was vapor and shadow, and once he had given up a last breath putting these things right, he could wheeze out his last geriatric breath and collapse into his grave.

The thought that he had not responded to her question, rhetorical as it was, draws him back from his inward spiral. Now he is holding her, somehow - she has maneuverer herself close, and his arm was around her, and she lay halfway into his lap, peering up at him with her big bright eyes.

He wasn't a hundred years old, actually. He was a young man. And gods, oh gods, of grace of Rhya, it feels good to hold pretty young woman close like this.

His voice cracks a little. His eyes shine like he is near to tears.

"You are very beautiful, ma'amselle."

[BananaPhone]

Regine Lacroix

Leaning back into his front, the thief smiled a warm, genuine countenance to the knights words. Her angular features were framed by her black hair, her green eyes at the centre peering up at the ruggedly hewn Bertelis. What was going on behind those orbs? What was she thinking? She hid much from others, and whatever thoughts that were currently passing through her skull were no exception. But whatever constellation of attitudes were contained within, from without, her intentions were clear as day.

"I know," Regine replied softly with a coy smirk, before she simply leaned upwards and pressed them against his. She reached above and gently pressed her hand against the back of his head, and breathed through her nose - she wasn't letting go.

[MrAbdiel]

* * * * *

Odmar closed the door with as gentle a click as possible. When he'd come back to the stables to get his good bathing rag from one of the saddlebags, he'd had the good instinct to try to enter quietly expecting Bertelis to be asleep already.

It had become immediately apparent that wasn't the case, and an awkward undetected retreat was in order.

Good for them, he thought. The adventuring life, as far as he could tell, was so desperately dangerous and miserable that the folks who risked their lives and freedom deserved whatever joy they could get. As a man who might easilly have been dragged all the way to the centre of the earth to work for the ratmen until he died, Odmar had more than a little reverence for 'freebooters' and their do-gooding. He hadn't been sure about Regine - she'd flogged him out of a few silver early after her joining the company in a game of Old Man Fetch which he was quite sure she wasn't as new to as she claimed. But she'd been on deck on the ship, fighting for her life against the northmen on the wild quest to free another batch of miserable captives from a different fate worse than death again. The panicking horses had nearly kicked him to death on that voyage, but even battered and bloody on the floor below deck, he had been praying for the Companions above, instead of for himself.

Good for them.

"Where is Bertelis?"

Odmar startled and spun to see Maxime, pouty and imperious as ever, with a pair of demilances in arm. The points had been caped with straw packed leather; mercy to the chin of the vanquished in such training. Odmar had met him when he was a her before the whole ruse had been established, and he had assured the Companions he would abide by it for Maxime's sake - a girl who wanted to be a knight in a land that didn't recognize women as cantidates for such an office. Not that there had been many lady knights in Ostland or Averland or anywhere else he'd been; but far be it from him to know the mind of a woman, let alone a Bretonnian one. If she wanted to give up her life of comfort for the privilege of charging into the teeth of doom, so be it. And Maxime had been there on that deck when the northmen attacked too, so pouty and imperious as the squire was, Maxime was a hero in his book. But he was not blind to the complex dynamics going on in the party, the sulking Maxime did when Bertelis was in his distracted fugues and unable to spare his afternoon for training, and the troubled mix of anger and adoration the squire seemed to harbor for the Knight-Banneret.

"He's... asleep, master Maxime."

Damn. His voice had cracked while he was concocting the lie and he saw the squire's face screw up in detection immediately.

"Before two bells in the afternoon? Surely not. I will rouse him, lest he be unable to sleep tonight."

The squire tried to step around him, and he stepped in the way.

"Really, he's quite - he said not to disturb him!"

Now he saw the anger clouded Maxime's face. The lie wasn't convincing, but more than that, he was performing a crime that was worse in Bretonnia than even in the Empire: getting in a toff's way. Maxime tossed the demilances to the ground beside, and seized Odmar by the shirt.

"He might have said so to you. Stand aside, footman."

He tried to keep his stance, but with a skilful little upward tug, he felt the weight coming off his feet, and his knees loosened to compensate, and with an almost comically gentle thrust she shove him aside where he spilled to the ground. Arguments would not halt the squire; but he could hardly let Maxime wander in to the stable at such a moment. So he rationalized, considered how much he would be personally willing to suffer to spare the frollicking companions their private moment, and decided it was enough.

Scrambling to his feet as Maxime's hand settled on the door handle to the stable, Odmar cranked back his arm and gave the squire's backside a ringing, crisp slap.

The layers of offense and indignity in the act turned Maxime's whole body paralytic with outrage. That was good, because Odmar needed those precious seconds to run.

Good for them, he thought again as he sprinted away down the village's main street with the red faced squire racing after. Good for them.

[wilphe]

With Beatrice and her father seemingly uninterested in talking to Marius Wighard will get himself up and head over

So let me buy you a drink or two.

You can tell me what you know that we don't that you think we should

And we can discuss how you keep my name out of your mouth

[BananaPhone]

Regine Lacroix

The gentle nudge of the soft-lips of a curious horse brought Regine back to the world of the living. On her front, her black hair down her back, the rough-and-soft texture of hair against her features and physique, the thief said nothing as her eyes groggily opened and light came to be.

Another nudge. Another soft snort. That muzzle was soft against the back of her head, as Regine carefully rolled herself over to peer up at the ceiling.

Another nudge. The thief smiled and gently placed her hand on the long face of the curious equine, patting it softly and carefully pushing its head away so it could no longer indulge in its inquiry.

Inhaling deep, Regine brought in all the scents of the stable, good and bad, as well cast those from outside in the street. Her mind reactivating after slumber, she begun to tune her ears in as distant conversations sounded closer, and every detail of her surroundings sharper. Swallowing, looking over at Bertelis who was still asleep, Regine smiled gently and used her dexterous flexibility to withdraw one of her arms from under him without disturbing his well-earned rest. Quiet, the thief collected her things and got dressed, but when she stood she had to steady herself against the closest pen railing as the residual alcohol still in her system rushed straight into her head.

Which reminded her - where was that bottle?

Finding it bottled and nestled amidst some hay, the thief was relieved to see that there was still a couple hundred mls left within the flagon, as her first action was to take another sip and exhale when that hot liquid of vanilla, butterscotch and fruits hit her tongue. Straightening herself up, exhaling, rolling her joints, Regine looked down at the sleeping knight, another smile crossing her face as she knelt down beside him. Reaching up to her hair, Regine unsheathed one of her mini-scrunchies, a sweet little trinket as yellow as a field of daisies and part of a four-piece set. With its circular and crumpled appearance, it almost looked like a little yellow rose one might pluck from a garden of rare and exotic flora. Looking at this small, soft item, she leaned over and gently rested it upon his chest, before placing a soft kiss on his forehead.

Standing up, Regine considered the man for one last time.

"'till next we meet, Chevalier..." she whispered, her head bowing and her knee's bending in a curtsy. Turning, gathering her bottle, the thief silently departed.

[BananaPhone]

Regine Lacroix


Her will was set. Her funds put to a better use. Her farewells said. Her explanations written. Her last human hours spent in the most human way possible.

Regine stood at the centre of her small room in the tavern, her tall, athletic image bathed by the amber light of the setting sun. The thief had taken to opening the window for this occasion so that she could inhale the vestiges of the light and look upon her last day without impediment. Her senses were even sharper now, and so when she opened that window she could detect every call, every spoken word, every string of laughter emanating from the streets below, a soft choir of humanity to join the thief in observance of her final day.

But, as it always did, the sun lowered beneath the horizon and disappeared, the purple twilight of dusk blanketing the landscape as dots of stars slowly made their presence known in the blackening night sky. The crowds below had thinned and the conversations reduced, as most said their goodbyes and went indoors like the diurnal animals humans were. As we should be, Regine thought, the evening darkness entering her room.

It was time to go.

Inhaling deeply, then exhaling, the thief reached out and snatch her cognac bottle to drink from it again. Still wobbly on her legs, the black-haired girl turned and pushed her door open and closed it behind her as she ascended the nearby staircase, bottle in hand. Feeling that rich taste of vanilla, fruits and butterscotch, Regine hissed the sensation away before reaching the pinnacle of the buildings elevation at its highest floor. Prying a window open and easily sliding out, the thief gripped the roof-tiles above with a practiced grip and gracefully drew her body out of the portal and up onto the roof, where the entirety of the large town stretched out in every direction, the streets still illuminated with patches of lit torches and starlight. Easily maintaining her balance, even in this state, Regine moved across the tiled ceiling as the cool air kissed her skin and whipped her black hair. She moved across the top of the tavern, for it did not suit her purposes. Instead, she chose the bell-tower next to it - leaping from one rooftop to the bas-relief ridge of the next. She had to hug against the white granite and stone wall, but that was no matter. Storing her bottle in her belt, the tipsy thief hummed to herself as she scaled the side of the tower: vines, roughness in the rock, cracks in the seams. All were stepping stones, until finally Regine drew herself up to the very pinnacle, six stories up. The four-pronged framework of the towers summit were beautifully crafted, the cap a dome of white, worked stone. Reaching a hand out, the thief ran her finger along the metal of the bell, its cool temperature running up her skin from the point of contact. She could only imagine how magnificent they sounded when employed, casting out across the town a reassuring, peaceful chime.

Casting her gaze across the town, the thief smiled at the sights of all the tiled and angled roofs, with even the ones hewn from thatch and hay offering a glimmer into past enjoyments. How many times had she fled across the skyline of L'Anguille, angry guards slowly falling behind and bellowing their curses as she made off into the night with gold, jewels and letters? How often had she avoided capture and apprehension, refusing to let others detain and control her?

"You want me you fanged horrors of the night? You bastard fils de pute! You can't have me! I decide where I go - not you!"

Regine smiled. She retrieved her cognac bottle and took a long, throaty drink until only a few drops ran past her lips. Gasping loudly, grinning, stumbling back a little, the thief snickered at first, but then she laughed. And then she jumped.

[dojango]

"If'n I meet a lucky halfling I'll let him know," Jasmine retorts back to the peddler. "I tol' my nieces I'd get them summat nice from Bretonnia, ya got any toe nails from a grail maiden or what not?"