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exsiliumlogs2013-08-13 04:22 pm
bumbles) wrote in exsiliumlogs2013-08-13 04:22 pm
Entry tags:
head after head, and never heads enough
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.
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.
(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.
→ arrival, aka. clothes pls & EXPOSITION or something
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. )
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. )
no subject
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. ]
no subject
( 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. )
no subject
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. ]
no subject
( 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. )
no subject
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?
no subject
( 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. )
→ FANCY BALL AND STUFF
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. )
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
( 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. )
→ WOW THAT TRANSLATOR SURE BROKE
It'd really suck if something went wrong with the technology. You know, in this situation where being able to speak French is critical, and there is so much paranoia and suspicion, where Donny and Margaery are newcomers having to make their moves very carefully, cautiously. It has been a week, and there has been progress, but it's slow and steady, the way it should be. Their plans are neatly in place.
The autotranslation device has been essential, most importantly discrete, allowing the two of them to communicate in their own language but understand and deliver what seems to be perfect French for the era. Something sings, then screeches in Donny's ear, a sound no one else seems to hear, though he's glancing at Margaery across the courtyard, where someone who looks important - several someones - are in raptures over something or other.
He can still understand, so that means everything is fine, right?
Right. Totally. )
→ BREAKING AND ENTERING IS SO JUSTIFIED
→ ART THIEVING