Men don't wear business socks in 1625.

Entry tags:

Men don't wear business socks in 1625.

Who: Athos & Redglare
Where: The roof.
When: ~~Business time~~ Early evening, Thursday the 29th
Rating: PG-13 due to violence and/or potential weirdness
Summary: Athos receives a very succinct, brusque note, and chooses to answer it.
The Story:

The text was simple, once he figured out that the numbers were supposed to be letters. Ah, the future. What will they think of next?

Atho2.
The roof.
Now.
Br1n6 your 2word.

The culprit behind the missive was not kept a secret, and therefore he was pleasantly surprised to see that it came from one Neophyte Redglare. It having been some time since their last encounter, Athos finds himself at a rather interesting loss - he meets people, yes, but keeping in touch is not his forté.

Nonetheless, he straps on his outfit, tugging his gloves on in the event of rapier-usage, and traipses up the stairs to the rooftop, a place he hasn't been since he plummeted to an unfortunate death alongside Lord Buckingham during the "revenge" event.

Admittedly, he is much more at home closer to the water.

"Bonsoir," he remarks to no one in particular, stepping out onto the flagstone patio and shutting the door behind him.

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Redglare does not have a normal concept of danger. Things like revealing a secret, any secret, are dangerous to her, but jumping several meters off a dragon and onto the ground with the potential to break her legs is completely easy for her and something she doesn't fear. She sits on the edge of the roof with her back to a long drop to the ground, staring at the door. The way her face lights up is quite the thing to behold, if one considers 'lighting up' to be a grin full of sharp, sharp teeth.

"Ah, you came. I was worried you would be put off by the audacity and suddenness of my letter."

Athos is a musketeer. He doesn't fear danger. He doesn't fear death. He faces it almost every day in his own world, and living each day as though it were his last has held a bit more weight there.

Here, it's different.

The roof just also happens to be a tragic reminder that he spent an entire event killing Buckingham. One would think it might never get old, given their history. In which case one would be wrong.

"On the contrary," Athos bows his head politely, donning a faint smile, "I found it a refreshing message after a weary stream of the same clamoring, day-in, and day-out."

His fingers drum contemplatively over the hilt of his rapier.

"I did, however, find your request an interesting one."

Redglare barks a laugh and curls her fingers around the hilt of her cane. She hasn't removed it from it's sheathe just yet, but only because the banter is as entertaining as the fight when the person she is fighting is not a criminal. No need to make haste if the law isn't being broken.

"Do not tell me that humans are not familiar with the concept of a friendly swordmatch. Granted, the occurrence is rare in troll society, but come now. We must all make cultural sacrifices for the sake of the greater good."

"A friendly duel, now and again," he replies, the smile twitching into something similar to a smirk. He recalls multiple occasions in the past, now, he and his fellow musketeers challenging the Cardinal's guards to rather unfriendly fights.

Even outnumbered, they did not win with difficulty. His Eminence's personal soldiers are, however, poorly trained.

"The greater good being a bit of sport?"

His eyes dart quickly to the slim fingers Redglare wraps around her...sword? It is much like a rapier, thin and long, ideal for thrusting.

"I admit the temptation is strong."

More than strong.

"One relishes a challenge when it is presented."

"The greater good," she says as she stands, "being cultural and battle-centered education. It is possible for us to learn from one another."

She unsheathes her sword slightly, and it is actually a rather bizarre piece of work. the blades are arranged like a rotary beater so there is an edge no matter which way it's held. The few people she has had to stab rather than slice have ended up with marks like asterisks. She also uses it to stab footnote markings into her paperwork.

"Do you not want to at least test our skills against each other? Are you uninterested in my level of skill?"

Edited 2012-03-30 03:31 (UTC)

...learn, yes. There is certainly a lot he could learn from that piece of grotesque work she's wielding. Athos quirks an eyebrow, tipping his head to one side to scrutinize the weapon properly.

With a crook of his thumb, he pushes up the hilt of his own blade. Perhaps boring, by Redglare's standards. But the rapier is tempered steel, a family heirloom, and has won more than its fair share of battles.

It would be a gross insult to Redglare to say that he possesses no interest in her capabilities - as a matter of fact, it is those very same, unknown skills that he wishes to test for himself.

"I would be a fool," he admits, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "To refuse a lady's offer to dance."

Athos draws his weapon slowly, smile lingering on his lips.

"As we say in France: En garde."

Redglare pulls it out in all it's 6 edged glory, tucking the sheathe into a small loop on her suit. Truly, only a race that has mastered space travel and is exceedingly violent could possibly think that such a ridiculous weapon is a good idea. Only a legislacerator fond of cutting the arms off her opponents no matter the way her cane is facing would use it.

Gosh, isn't she appeal?

"You haven't struck me as a foolish man since we talked for the first time." She grins, sliding a foot back and balancing on the ball of her front foot. She presses down, almost crouching, and lunges forward immediately. Redglare, when it suits her, is not a patient woman.

She'd be a-peeling his skin off with that thing if he wasn't light on his feet, as per usual.

Redglare is quick. She moves with the grace of an experienced fighter, but the impatience of a headstrong Gascon, both of which can create a volatile opponent. Athos is form. He fences with as much calm and method as though he were in fencing school, beat parrying her strike, none too surprised by the force behind the maneuver.

He initiates a counter-attack as he side-steps around her nimble frame. Athos executes the flèche, sprinting past Redglare and flicking his rapier over her shoulder.

The move is not so much used to inflict a wound, as it was not meant for that purpose, as it is to tear a reaction from one's opponent, to surprise them into stepping back.

Redglare snaps her head to the side faster than anyone should be able. The fleche is hard-pressed to make her step back, as it's a bit faster than she can smell. It's nice to have a little mystery and the blur of a sword. It's how she knows her opponent is good. She opens her mouth and lunges towards the side of his sword. She bites down on it hard, and winces at the taste of plain metal and how unpleasent it feels biting down on something that hard.

Still, it allows a good position and an excellent amount of surprise factor is involved in such a risky move. Her tongue has been sliced multiple times like this, but not often enough. Her bite is sure and fast. Redglare moves her sword arm fast, pointing it at Athos' face.

Athos has never seen a move quite like that.

Then again, a human's bark is much worse than its bite.

Frowning for the first time thus far, he tightens his grip around the hilt of his rapier, glaring daggers at the wickedly sharp teeth clenched around his blade. He's surprised enough.

Enough to jerk back on his sword to wrench it free, stumbling into a displacement to recover his equilibrium, lips twitching into an even deeper frown when Redglare's prickly excuse for a weapon slices across the meat of his cheek. The wound is shallow, but crimson pours down one side of his face and into his beard.

A recovery from his falter is almost second nature, but he's still overbalanced.

First blood drawn goes to the lady in the red dress.

He jerks the sword back and she winces when it scrapes across her teeth and lets go as soon as possible. She grins as he stumbles and is somewhat pleasantly surprised when she feels her blade slide across skin and suddenly takes the sent of cherry in the air.

It occurs to her after she is done feeling smug, that perhaps friendliness is not the same to troll and humans and that he has seen this as an affront to him.

That simply will not do, which is what causes her to sheathe her cane and walk over to him, attempting to examine the cut without getting too near.

"Do try not to stab me until I know the extent of the damage, would you?"

Humans do not generally say hello with a bite or a casual swordfight, so there's at least one glaring cultural difference between their races.

Athos does not necessarily take her gesture as an affront - more likely, he is simply frustrated that someone is markedly willing to draw their own blood by taking hold of a sword with their teeth. The blade itself also happens to be his very best, and one of the few belongings from home he possesses here.

The cut on his cheek, though...

"It is nothing," drawing the back of one gloved hand over the side of his face, smearing it further. As long as it keeps out of his eyes, he's fine. Athos does, however, lower his blade when Redglare approaches.

"Nothing that cannot be easily remedied."

Redglare's nose flicks towards his sword for a moment, expression somewhat noticeably surprised. Not a nick or a scrape, which is a good thing for a friendly swordmatch, but a bad thing for her dental hygiene. "Suppose that's how it goes when one starts slacking off on toothcare."

She shrugs and slinks closer, slipping a hand around the blade of his rapier and sniffing at his face. "What a heavenly scent," she says with a grin. There's too many teeth, really, before a long serpentine tongue peeks out and licks it's way across Athos' face.

She pulls back, smacks her lips and, good lord, licks a bit of blood that has gotten on her nose. "Not bad as far as taste goes either. You should be proud." Redglare grins again. Really. No one should have that many teeth.

Edited 2012-04-01 00:52 (UTC)

His eyes flicker down to the fingers wrapping around his rapier, and Athos shifts to one side, leaning away as the inquisitive, grey-skinned woman cranes closer.

He isn't intimidated. Athos is never intimidated. Very little daunts him, and despite his general distrust of the fairer sex, he certainly isn't about to give a practical demonstration on How To Be Awkward Around Ladytypes.

"I don't believe I've had the honor of that compliment before."

The statement peters off slowly, quietly, into complete silence as Redglare's tongue laves up the side of his cheek, hot and wet and far too invasive a gesture. Stock-still, Athos remains tense until she pulls away - and even then, he can't quite relax.

Not completely.

Raising an eyebrow, remaining just as quietly calm as always (seeing as it's his default, and he can always compose himself) the musketeer inquires:

"...and what, pray tell, does the roseate ichor that is my lifeblood taste like?"

Redglare backs up and curls an arm around the curve just below her ribs, still ripping her cane. The nose of the dragon is digging into her side as she pops and elbow up on the top of it. She cradles one side of her face in her free hand and stares at him, grinning.

"Like cherries, iron and bitterness."

She reaches forward to dab at his face with a gloved hand, the fabric covering her hand being surprisingly absorbent. It's meant to assure her grip on her sword in the most bloody situations, and to make sure whatever blood she looses is absorbed flawlessly.

Edited 2012-04-04 00:17 (UTC)

Cherries, iron, and bitterness. Yes, that sounds fairly accurate.

His mouth twitches as gloved fingers brush over his cheek, and Athos bats the gesture away gently with a hand of his own.

That's enough touching for one day.

"How can you determine that?" Athos asks; a much more polite version of What sorcery are you using to divine such truth?

Redglare pulls her hand back and nips at the fabric of her gloves, trying to suck the remainder of the blood out. It's tainted with the taste of what she's touched and eaten today, but it's sharp and it stands out against those tastes. She's tugging a finger of her gloves off with her teeth before he asks the question and pauses for a moment to start tugging it off with her other hand, leaning the canesword on her thigh.

"The taste? The same way anyone would, I suppose? Is most human blood not bitter?" She smiles and pulls the glove off the rest of the way, and her hands are scarred with slices and stabs. Sometimes being involved with criminals requires you to grasp a sword or two... or several. "Unless we are talking of a different sort of bitterness."

She shrugs, "I can taste and smell lies and falsehoods, truths and emotions. After so long, the other senses make-up for a loss of eyesight. Eventually, after such a long time, it becomes even better than seeing."

"Human blood tastes of metal and iron," Athos replies quietly, "But the bitterness may be the taste of something else."

Something along the lines of my wife left me and my country is on the verge of war and my only real enemy here is a fop. He finds it fascinating that she can see without sight, but the fact in and of itself makes him nervous with regards to his own past: a safely guarded thing that very few are privy to.

"A curious trait, one I assume is unique to you and you alone," the musketeer adds, deflecting the conversation away from his life to another's. He lowers his sword, sensing that their duel is no longer in immediate play.

Redglare shrugs and offers a small smile in return. "Bitterness is a common taste for many reasons. I would imagine everyone has some underlying their scent and taste, just out of reach."

She appreciates that his bitterness is on the surface, and mentions not the rose perfume scent that lingers on his person as a result. He isn't the only one of this roof who is bitter after all, though her bitterness has more to do with unfairness. It is stupid, she knows, to expect the world to be fair. She is no longer a wriggler who can cling to that naive belief, but she no longer thinks it's naive, is the thing. She thinks it's right. Knows it is.

"Oh no. My descendant can do it as well, though not to the extent that I can, I'd imagine. She only has six solar sweeps of experience behind her, while I have more than a century."

Athos appreciates the fact that she isn't bringing up anything else regarding his smell, because he recalls Milady's perfume all too well, and the reminder isn't a welcome one.

As for life...well. Life is unfair.

"...a century," he repeats, brow furrowing. Assuming that a 'sweep' is a measure of time, that still sounds like a considerable amount of time.

"You will not mind my saying that you hardly look a century old?"

It's not a compliment.

It's a fact.

She's very aware that it isn't a compliment, which no reason, in her opinion, not to take it as one. She raises an eyebrow and one side of her mouth turns up in a smirk.

"My my, I wasn't aware that you were taught flattery as well as you were fencing," she waggles hey eyebrows a bit in good humor before shrugging "It's simply how it is in my race. We live for a very long time."

"Flattery is not something you are taught, but something you acquire through years of practice," Athos replies without missing a beat, entirely unruffled. "Much like fencing."

Despite finding it implausible that anyone could live past seventy, at the oldest, and still look that young, he chooses to suspend his disbelief once more. Different lives, different ages, different worlds.

A mantra that remains his constant companion here in Wonderland.

"Many monarchs of my time would envy that," he adds, resting the tip of his blade on the toe of his boot to prevent the end from bending.

"Well then, those you have been flattering these many years have my envy," she says, laughing and spinning her sword with the hilt. It is, thank god, far enough away to keep from carving him up, but it moves the air around quite fast, which allows her to smell everything a little clearer.

"My monarch is unfamiliar with such an envy. She has lived and ruled since before written history. It is... simply what she does."

She curses herself inwardly for the hesitant pause, but she has no love for her queen, who enforces the rigid caste system and cares not for her people. Of course she wouldn't, she knows there are more to come. While they have evolved a careful system of checks and balances, the Condense has not evolved from her savagery since the day she began her rule.

"No matter," she says with an air of nonchalance, "Does the cut still sting, or would you like to resume?"

"By all means," comes the tempered reply, backed up with tempered steel. Athos lifts his rapier again, grateful for the interruption but also eager to press back and draw a bit of blood for himself. Validation that he isn't losing his touch.

Lifting his blade, he assumes the en garde position with a step back, eager to gain a wider range of movements.

"I would be remiss to waste an opportunity like this, my lady," the musketeers admits, bowing his head politely and reaching out to tap one of the edges of her blades with his own, savoring the quiet, for-once smooth sound of metal on metal.

"Shall we dance?"

This time Redglare opts for an actual lasting stance, as opposed to a pause and a lunge. One foot slides a little forward, the other a little back, and she presses her sword against his while leaving an arm out for balances sake. A little more elegant than her previous rash maneuvers, but Athos' poise still surpass her own.

"How polite of you to ask, Asthos. One wonders where you got such manners."

Redglare inclines her head and smirks, flicking her tongue out to taste the air and a hint of blood that she can still smell.

Athos learned his finest etiquette growing up as the son of an affluent countryside count, and therefore tends to know more than the average musketeer when it comes to shmoozing with royals. This isn't a widely-publicized fact, and the only time he divulged this information on himself was when he first arrived, thinking it would be better to use a pseudonym.

Buckingham, unfortunately, listened in, and tends to mockingly use Athos' title whenever he pleases.

The bastard.

"One ought not wonder for too long - it can distract," he chides, lunging forward in the next instant to put her on the defensive.

Redglare parries his strike, putting her weight on her front foot and using it to press forward. Adapting in her specialty, but it's bizarre to fight such a controlled opponent. Most trolls are all ferocity and chaos, not flow and purpose. It's a wonderful change.

She shifts her weight again skips back, sliding around to his flank and inhaling deep.

"A battle with distractions can be as entertaining as a serious-minded match."

Athos is precision, a fighter who moves like a man teaching fencing in a school dedicated to the art.

"A battle requires larger parties on each side," he reminds her brusquely, intent on keeping his statements and replies short, to-the-point (if you'll forgive the pun).

"They are meant to distract."

And to emphasis this, he executes an appel - a quick stomp to draw the eyes down, away from his other movements, while he swings wide. Perfectly aware of her lack of sight, he can at least count on Redglare's exceptional hearing.

"Not if the individuals are as skilled as most larger parties," Redglare laughs, taking a step back. Her ear twitches slightly at the sound of a foot stomp and moves to sniff at the air to see the motion taking place. Her eyes widen and she can't help but grin at the cleverness of the move. It's the first time she's smelled such a thing, and she steps back but it's not quick enough. The blade cuts through her high collar, nicking her neck and catching the chain of the symbol of the Signless.

The moment after that, she is a blur of movement and sniffing sounds, as she slices her free hand open on his sword to untangle the chain and shove it back into her uniform. It can't possibly mean anything to him, but instinct is instinct after all.

There's a surprising scrape of metal on metal when all he expected was fabric, and perhaps flesh. The grating sound stops as soon as he pulled his blade away, and Athos watches her stuff something back into her shirt with a startling quickness.

The musketeer pauses, blade still raised.

"Did I perchance harm something of sentimental value?"

In which case he would need to apologize for his transgression.

Perhaps she could tell him what he's hit and what it means eventually, but certainly not this soon. So the easiest way to ward off his question is to downplay it as quickly as possible, which is exactly what she intends to do when she presses a hand to her chest and feigns a hurt facial expression.

"Only my pride as a swordswoman," she states, trying to muster up a fake sob and grinning instead.

She shows him her hand, waving it at him as teal blood spills through the slash in her flesh and on her glove. To her it smells like raw elderberries split open, bitter and sharp. She is used to the taste and smell, but it's still rather unpleasant.

"Care to pay me back for earlier?"

...yeah, not buying that for a second.

Athos watches her wide, expansive gesture and the blue-green blood that drips from the cut in her hand. Turquoise, only darker. Closer to a lapis lazuli.

To be honest, it's very distracting to see someone bleed that color. It isn't natural, and he barely catches the generous inquiry.

Ah. That.

"I must...respectfully decline," he replies smoothly, not at all keen on licking someone else to taste their blood. It isn't a practice from his world in its own right, and the musketeer isn't going to start now.

"But I appreciate the offer."

And he does - it's probably an honor where Redglare is from, or has some sort of significant meaning Athos is not privy to.

The glove is already damaged, so she pulls it off and slices off the hand-shaped portion with her sword, wrapping the rest of the glove around the cut in her hand. While her teal sleeve does go a little past the end of the glove, there is still enough gray skin visible to show the scaring that she's gotten from blocking weapon swings with her arm. She uses the remnant of her glove to mop up the blood from the cut in her neck and the smears she's left on her throat from shoving the pendant back under her shirt.

"And that makes us one for two, so I suppose I owe you one."

She switches immediately to a crouch, changing the grip on her sword so that it's more like holding a knife. It makes absolutely fuck all sense to anyone but her, but that might simply be because her blade is one of a kind.

The new position is certainly something to loft an eyebrow at.

Athos does so, grip tightening on his own hilt, readying himself for a fresh onslaught and a series of parries. Her sword is remarkably powerful a definite challenge.

"I haven't got all day," he prompts demonstratively, the tiniest smirk tugging on the edges of his lips.

Redglare bolts, running straight for him before throwing herself and rolling around to flank him. She swings the sword low at his legs, aiming to scratch with the point or slice with the blade. If it was anyone else, a criminal she was sent to apprehend or a serious opponent, she would have been trying to slice their legs off.

Limbless opponents are no less annoying, but they are less mobile

Athos jumps. He isn't wearing the bulk of required cavalier armor, and is therefore able to move faster, slide along the razor's edge, take a risk and a running start around Redglare's blade as it glides towards him.

His moves are fast, but not quite fast enough. The sword glances off the edge of his boot and he rolls across the rooftop, back onto his feet, skirting the line of the flagstone patio that teeters over a ten-story drop.

"J'approuve," he compliments breathlessly.

She slides away across the floor after her move, tearing as small hole in her teal breeches on the concrete. She huffs and sniffs in disdain, lamenting the weakness of fabric over flesh. Her skin is hardly marred. It takes more than friction to damage it. It doesn't even take a second of her to pull herself up and hop back into something resembling a stance.

"No idea what that means," she says with a grin, "but for a moment I thought you were going to tip off the edge. Be a sport and step away from it, hm?"

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Men don't wear business socks in 1625.

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PUNS c:

HAHAHA U SO PUNNY

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