head after head, and never heads enough

[bumbles]

Date & Time: The Reign of Terror: 23rd March, 1794 – 6th April, 1794
(forward dated to: 15th-22nd August, Exsilium time.)
Location: Paris, France
Characters: Margaery “awww yisss” Tyrell ( shrewdly ) & Adonis “why me” Casey ( bumbles )
Summary: Secret messages hidden in paintings! Fancy stuff! Impractical clothing! Art theft! Pearl clutching! Le fromage! Abuse of exclamation points! Or you can look here!
Warnings: really bad puns, A Song of Ice & Fire factor, possibly painful historical inaccuracies and the occasional beheading.

“The goal of the constitutional government is to conserve the Republic; the aim of the revolutionary government is to found it... The revolutionary government owes to the good citizen all the protection of the nation; it owes nothing to the Enemies of the People but death.”

- Robespierre, 25th December, 1793.

“Terror is nothing other than prompt, severe, inflexible justice.”

- Robespierre, 5th February 1794.

But let's not get distracted; that's a few months before this fine tale of adventure and silk stockings.

Translation technology, fake names and profiles, a base of operations that is actually just a room in an inn, and extra equipment for staging an art heist. There's no way this could possibly go wrong.

Adonis Casey wasn't quite sure what he'd done to deserve this; he wasn't quite sure what Margaery had done, either. It wasn't quite what he'd imagined, when he'd thought about missions being given out based on your qualifications. To be honest, he wasn't quite sure what he had imagined, because it didn't seem all that likely. Blood saturated wood, cartwheels rattling over uneven streets, and rats scurrying underfoot were definitely not what he'd ever thought about when he imagined Paris, at least.

Now, he's not exactly good with history, but art history he can handle. There was all manner of awful things to piece together about the Reign of Terror, even if he tended to think of Delacroix, Liberty Leading the People - never mind if it was some forty years after the fact, or David's Death of Marat-- that had to have been painted this year, he'd realized after they arrived, though it hardly mattered.
War with Europe, desperation and fear rippling through Paris with the British capturing of Toulon. Whispers of the counter-Revolution tearing apart the struggle of the past four years, and of promises never being realised escalated. Desperate measures: dangerous ones, including the suspension of the hard-won new French constitution. The Committee of Public Safety was to protect France in her time of need, from the corruption of those who would undermine the revolution, though it didn't do much to protect France's population. People are careful: madame and monsieur are not to be used, only Citizen. A slip of the tongue is enough to warrant the slide of the guillotine into your neck, and it's safer to turn in someone else than risk being named disloyal.

None of his classes on oils and canvas had been sufficient, as it turned out. None of it had done anything to really brace him for the way viscera and filth invaded each breath. Sticky heat makes the stench cling to his skin, along with lace and fine embroidery.

It'll be fine. They just need to be steady, just keep from getting ahead of themselves.

Comments

→ arrival, aka. clothes pls & EXPOSITION or something

[bumbles]

( On the plus side, it's not like powdered wigs are a thing that are okay to wear, right now. That's what he'd been most alarmed by, the thought of powdering and inevitably inhaling the powder and then fighting with the coughing fit while Margaery did the talking and the charming and the diplomatic... stuff.

On the less-of-a-plus side, there was still the scarf and the lace, the waistcoats and frock-coats and breeches and stockings and heels. Not a big heel, (this is the seventeen-nineties! Practicality is the word of the decade! That and “revolution,” which has a less than ideal relationship with the aristocracy and indulgence-- and yet) but a heel nonetheless.

The only consolation is has is that, at least he is used to wearing stuff tighter and more revealing than this, but that isn't really much of a consolation, as he fiddles with the lace protruding from his sleeve, and fights the urge to loosen the scarf knotted as his neck. Over one hundred ways to knot them, he'd been informed. Every single way made him feel that little bit stupider.

The heat is stifling, the persistent smell of fly-scavenged blood that never has a chance to dry and always sticks is stubborn in the air, but at least here in their base, they have some reprieve from it. Just two more weeks of this; they'll be fine.

A glance at Margaery, and at least he can attempt a smile, even if it isn't quite reassuring and drops away incredibly quickly. ) You o-okay?

( The room – a least not a single room, thanks Initiative – isn't exactly luxurious. )

[shrewdly]

[ One glance in Donny's direction tells Margaery all she needs to know; he's uneasy, but that much she can gather simply from his countenance, how his smile ebbs away rapidly and his hands move to toy with the unnecessary amounts of lace. She's certain her presence isn't exactly reassuring, though she is much more poised than he is. The air is humid and reeks of bloodshed and torture, but Margaery beams in the midst of it, twirling the fabric of her skirts around as she busies herself with studying the room. One does not thrive in Westeros without seeing warfare, after all, and a Tyrell woman is never afflicted by the heat, despite the way her corset clings tightly to her as the too big skirts drag against the carpeted floor. ]

You needn't worry your pretty little head about me.

[ As fragile and delicate as she may appear, it's not as though she isn't quite capable of handling herself, even when thrust into a strange world with foreign fashions. At the very least, the ideals and political situations are the same as the oppressed vie for power, taking up arms against their stifling rich overlords.

( Dimly, she might be thinking of the Lannisters. )

Her smile isn't completely genuine, but it lingers on her lips regardless as she crosses the threshold, hands reaching to fiddle with the scarf adorning his neck. She suspects her efforts might only cause him to become more uncomfortable, but she's light on the teasing. She hums lightly, a soft tune as she loosens it in the slightest. Don't think she didn't notice your fidgeting, Donny. ]

The fashions are a bit much for my taste, but if it's any consolation, we make quite the pair.

[ Looking fab as always. ]

[bumbles]

( At least he can manipulate his magic to make himself colder, but it seems like it could be an unfortunate giveaway if he accidentally bumped into someone and was radiating cold. The heat doesn't bother him, in truth; it's more the smell, the clothes, all aggravated by summer inching closer. )

Uh.

( Oh. Okay, yep. He kind of stops in place, and there's something familiar about it, like how Max would smooth down his ties, slide her hands down his arms and doublecheck his cufflinks. Despite it not being Max that's close, there's still something helpful about it. His eyes slip shut: inhale, exhale. )

Thank you.

( Less softly, he huffs a slight laugh. )

Uh, they used t-to um, b-be more-- ( He can't quite explain it, just manages an awkward gesture with his hands, palms open and just kind of-- just it was all grander and even more frivolous.

Hopefully mild incoherence is something she can muddle through. )

[shrewdly]

[ Cooling one's own body with magic is a brilliant notion when not surrounded by individuals; inadvertently colliding with another might lead to accusations of Edward Cullen stalking the streets. Thankfully, Margaery has no knowledge of strange teenage romance literature, nor does the population of 1794, so that comparison is (fortunately) one no one can make.

He relaxes underneath the gentle nature of her fingertips and she smiles, satisfied with her ability to alleviate a portion of his disease. It wouldn't do for Donny to be tense and anxious lest they wish to compromise themselves, after all, but her concerns aren't strictly business-related.

She nods in acknowledgement of his voiced gratitude while he responds to her banter and, as always, Margaery is quite adept at translating mild incoherence into eloquent sentences. ]

More stifling?

[ It's part jest, part truth. While the fashions of the era and location are fascinating in their own right, she's much more accustomed to looser, draped fabrics rather than the constricting material of the gowns she's been provided with. Regardless, she moves as though she's been donned in lace brocaded corsets and magnificent skirts for eons. ]

Highgarden's dresses were never so — [ a beat. ] — ornate.

[ That's the nicest way to say the dress they've shafted her with at the start of the mission is not up to her standards. ]

[bumbles]

( A little more of a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, before he attempts a little more gravity. ) Uh, m-more d-difficult to um, to fit through d-doors.

( Okay, the gravity failed. The thing is, this is a mission. He has to pull it together for missions, and that makes this marginally more easy, even if part of him is having a constant heart attack on the back burner, just waiting for the choice moment to serve it up.

Donny glances down at himself, fingers curling nervously into the ends of his sleeves, fiddling with the lace as his gaze flickers back to Margaery. )

Do-- ( This is a stupid question, he can feel it, but it's half out now. ) you m-miss it?

( Highgarden. )

[shrewdly]

[ It's a complex question, truly, unable to be answered with a simple yes or no. Does she miss her home? Certainly, though even returning to Westeros would not allow her to reside amongst the tall rose bushes, the sun a constant source of heat on the small of her exposed back. She is meant to stand beside a boy and nurture him to become a great king — for the realm and for the legacy of her own family. She's thought little of her own desires, even upon arriving in Exsilium, but a brief moment of consideration confirms it; yes, she misses it dearly.

Her smile is more wistful, but her face does not drop. ]

Each day. I cannot imagine anyone would want to leave Highgarden, but my home has been elsewhere for quite some time.

[ Whether she's referring to King's Landing or her time spent in Exsilium is anyone's guess. ]

[bumbles]

I'm s-sorry.

( Quiet, in the way that Donny is so frequently quiet, over-serious and earnest and all the things he's been mocked for over the years. There's a moment, overlong, before he takes a step back, kneeling and digging through the bag for some of the documents the Initiative gave them. ) We'll, um-- w-we'll all uh, g-get home.

( He's sure of it, has to be. There has to be some positive, here, something for them to grasp onto. It was what he had to do to, what Atlas had to represent, though he couldn't exactly turn into Atlas here.

He sort of wished he could; it might be more reassuring for Margaery to be working with someone so much steadier, but he could hardly have his mask, here. ) Just, uh. A d-day at a t-time, right?

( Another cliche, hardly helpful, and he shakes his head at himself as he straightens up with their mission directive. )

[shrewdly]

[ She smiles — more a sad little grin than the charming, mirthful beam she's known for. An army united with a purpose is a strong foe, indeed; the people here will hardly let anyone stand in their way, content to cooperate while devising their own plans to travel home. Margaery will be flown to Westeros, but King's Landing is anything but a true home. ]

Even in Westeros, I would not be allowed to return home.

[ But it is duty, a sense of obligation to House Tyrell, that prevents the melancholy from lingering. She rolls her shoulders into what might be a faint shrug, a clear sign of dismissal as he rifles through his bag and emerges with the mission directive. She gestures to the documents, head tilted. ]

What favors do they ask of us?

[bumbles]

( Her own melancholy might dissipate, but Donny's brow furrows, and he watches her carefully. ) Why?

( Less timid than usual, more purpose. Atlas creeping into Adonis, concern and not being able to go home if she wants to (and it seemed like she did), that's not okay.

A glance to the papers, and he flips open the folder, paging through to the relevant point. ) Art um, art r-requisition and uh, d-diplomacy.

( But he's paying more attention to Margaery than the documents. ) The United Earth has um, b-been-- been c-communicating secret m-messages in p-paintings, so um. I find the p-paintings, I g-guess. B-but uh, you're-- you're the b-brains of the operation.

( Basically. )