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

→ FANCY BALL AND STUFF

[bumbles]

( Jean-Pierre Favre. He's memorised it, had been managing to respond if someone said his name, but it was still weird. However, if there is something he's used to, now, it's playing roles. Stepping into missions and becoming someone else: he'd done this for Max, before, when she needed partners for galas, someone that could also fulfil the role of bodyguard or something more dangerous. It was usually Atlas, though, that did that. Just be Atlas, she'd told him, pinning his sleeve with gold cufflinks; it had been part of it, the colors, like it could remind him of his uniform.

The formal dress is still elaborate, more of that lace. The important part is the black coat with ornate gold embroidery and the red waistcoat, which he had to find before tonight and probably was difficult about, insistent, in a way Margaery probably hasn't seen.

And now he seems calmer than he usually does, stands a little straighter. He can't be Atlas, exactly, but Margaery needs him to play a role the same way Max does. A deep breath, and he knocks at the door dividing their chambers. )

[shrewdly]

[ His request is particular, and though the insistence upon locating the specific items in his wardrobe had been a curiosity, Margaery hadn't placed much emphasis on pondering the choices of his attire. She finds a gown that meshes quite nicely, silken and red, corseted with elaborate depictions of roses swirled in gold to serve as a reminder of home. They're Lannister colors, she thinks; while lions roam worlds away from this bloodthirsty land they call France, the comparison is instinctive, ingrained within her mind. Even so, if they are to play the role of husband and wife ( wife, a role she had donned for Renly quite effortlessly ), Margaery will ensure they look the part, flattering one another with their appearances.

She's prepared by the time arrives at the door, light knocking resounding through the room. Her hand goes to idly thumb at the silk fabric of the choker wrapped around her neck as she exits, lopsided smile lighting up her features. ]

Good evening, my sweet husband.

[ Her tone is sweet albeit playful, bubbly laughter slipping through her lips. The circumstances aren't ideal and a ball is hardly the place to drop their guard and pretenses, but there's a certain spark of excitement and familiarity at the mention of such a celebration. She spins around him, skirts fluttering behind her as she clasps her hands together. ]

I do hope you're prepared to escort a lady, Jean-Pierre.

[ Yeah, she's not letting that alias go. ]

[bumbles]

( He'd joked to Max about playing married with Margaery, but that was a little different to this. At least now he has his uniform; his armour. Even if this isn't truly Atlas, he has his colors. It's different from Tony's birthday party, where he'd just been Donny, where the people there had seen him and knew him for the idiot he is. This is closer to the New York, where he could be anonymous, where Adonis was unknown. Jean-Pierre is removed, but it is a role apart from Adonis as well, so the awkward slouch and self-conscious curl of his shoulders is gone. He has barely slept since he has been here, but while he's certainly tired, there's a great deal of control in that bow he's offering her.

He totally spent ages practicing the bow. ) M-my lady.

( Atlas does not speak; Jean-Pierre must. It doesn't mean he has to tangle himself up the way Donny does. It just means he speaks more softly, mostly just addresses Margaery, let's her take the center stage, and that suited the mission well enough.

It strikes him as funny that Margaery has called him by three names, delights so much in this one, but doesn't know that the third identity of Atlas is his own.

For all that not-Adonis confidence, there's still a moment of hesitation, nerves.. ) Um, you-- you l-look uh, very b-beautiful.

( Because seriously. ) G-- g-good to go?

[shrewdly]

[ It's a bow fitting of the most noble men in the court, of chivalrous knights and ornately clothed princes. Donny seems to be of a place and time that is not her own, but the nostalgia his actions bring forth simultaneously set her at ease and make her heart clench painfully in yearning for familiarity. ]

Kinder words have never been spoken.

[ That's a dramatic exaggeration; Margaery isn't vain, but she certainly knows she isn't dull, attractive to the point to have men swoon at her feet and malleable in her hands. Even so, she supposes it's the first time a man has complimented her, genuinely so, without any agenda of their own. She smiles and links their forearms together, nearly dragging him out of the door. ]

Are you?

[ Not that it matters if he's good to go or not, considering she's already flitting toward their destination. ]

[bumbles]

Uh.

( Head tilted, perplexed, and she's probably just-- doing that thing where she says dramatic stuff again, huh? This is probably Margaery making fun of him. He huffs quietly, nods, and lets himself be led. )

B-beautiful? No.

( But sometimes he can be funny. )