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Post by EDMOND VALOIS on Mar 19, 2013 17:33:53 GMT -5
| [cs=2][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style, width:400px; border-bottom:solid 10px 1BE0B2; ,bTable][atrb=style,background-color:FCFCFC;] He had known from the moment he entered the small village that something was wrong. Many a building were charred and in various states of disrepair, and the square was silent. Edmond could feel the wary gazes of the thin people who hid in the shadow of their doorways. It felt wrong.
Knights had usually been heralded as saviors of the common people, donning their gleaming armor in their defense-- save perhaps, those who were deemed evil. And while Edmond knew that was far from the truth of the matter, he had never been in such a...hostile community.
"Haven't your kind caused enough trouble?" Edmond turned his mount and nearly knocked over a frail-looking, elderly man. He furrowed his brow; perhaps a band of rogue knights?
He forced himself to not scoff outright at the thought of being associated with such riff-raff (though, a dark voice in the back of his mind told him, wandering knights weren't much better). Opening his mouth, he spoke in a lightly accented, lilting English. "Monsieur, I assure you--"
"Out, get out!" a female voice shrieked, and suddenly it seemed the whole of the village had converged into one, large, furious mob. The blood bay horse began to whinny nervously, backing up and tossing its head.
Thinking quickly, Edmond looked from side to side, seeking an escape route-- as much as his irritation begged him to cut a bloody swath through these ignorant peasants, it would not help his travels through England.
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Post by amour propre on Mar 20, 2013 17:45:13 GMT -5
| [cs=2][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style, width:400px; border-bottom:solid 10px #DE1B49; ,bTable][atrb=style,background-color:FCFCFC;] She moved throughout the crowd like black mist, a shadow under the wet cloak - disguised as a man. The blacksmith, actually, with his family's raven-colored hair and sharp nose peaking out. He had died... recently, but only she was aware. Very handy.
The wrecked village smoked in the pessimism of the rain. A small crowd had gathered around a man on a pretty horse, and she wavered any curiousity - her large hand dipping into the folds of clothes for money pouches. The townsfolk were yelling at the man in their rough voices, trying to grab at the reins of his horse. She merely smiled to herself, a brawny smelter's grin, as if she were really plucking flowers in a meadow.
She wandered at the fringes of the crowd, tucking a final pouch away. This was becoming rather excessive. The man was obviously a nobleman, and to slaughter him would not be the safest choice. The village was her home after all, and whomever attacked, as happened today, could kill her as well. She was not one to step in, but she had no choice.
"OY! Leave 'im alone!" She shouted, pulling down the hood of her cloak to reveal the smith's respected countenance. OY! The folks turned their heads around, listening with bitterness in their hearts. "He wasn't one of 'em mauraders. Just take 'is horse - a toll for the road - and use it to clear out the dead."
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Post by EDMOND VALOIS on Mar 21, 2013 9:09:04 GMT -5
| [cs=2][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style, width:400px; border-bottom:solid 10px 1BE0B2; ,bTable][atrb=style,background-color:FCFCFC;] He turned, the horse's long legs kicking out a little as Edmond fought for control. With a look of indignation he spoke in disbelief at the rugged faced, oddly off stranger. A village elder, perhaps.
. "My thanks, sir, but a palfrey of Valentine's caliber is worth more than the contents of this village five times over!"
In truth, he loathed giving up the mare because he had trained her himself-- he still remembered when fath- the lord duke had had a stable boy lead in the prancing filly. Valentine was, since he had left the manor, his closest confidante. When they were in solitude he spoke to her of many things, and she spoke back. What were neighs and whinnies to common, magic-less folk, were sighs and whispers, comments and complaints to Edmond.
"Flee," the mare insisted, tossing her head, even as Edmond warily kept a light hand on his sheathed weapon.
Anger still glittered in the eyes of the villagers, who had formed into a enclosed, right circle around him. All that separated him and them was the man speaking. "Might I pay in an amount suitable for the purchase of a draft horse? I'll not have my mare subjected to such tasks," he spoke firmly this time, stubbornly holding on to his assertion.
The crowd was going restless again. Even assured that he was not a marauder come to steal their women and salt their fields, they were out for blood. Edmond shifted slightly in his saddle, nervous even as he schooled his face into the calm, indifferent expression of a noble.
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Post by amour propre on Mar 23, 2013 17:16:12 GMT -5
| [cs=2][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style, width:400px; border-bottom:solid 10px #DE1B49; ,bTable][atrb=style,background-color:FCFCFC;] "Heh, what is your money worth eh?" lifted the rough and sure voice. "All the draft horses - well, the ones that aren't dead - have been put to work. Your commodity is worth more to us than your gold. If you havet a soul, you would provide us with this kind charity."
The blacksmith's face smiled with a haughty sheen. The crowd parted a bit as she walked a little closer. The horse - it was a very fine one with a shining red pelt and velvety nose. She had it in mind for herself, not for the dead, of course. She looked into its big black eyes and wonder if it could smell through her disguise. Perhaps not - it seemed more afraid by the pressing desire and envy of the farmers and the milkmaids.
She cleared her throat, addam's apple bobby with reluctance.
"Otherwise, I can't promise a safe soujourn, m'lord."
Several other villagers spoke up too with their own taunts. He was an interesting fellow, and quite bold to still hold the reins. She wondered how much he thought about using his sword - perhaps that was why he hadn't run away. So proud, these foreigners. | | [atrb=style, background-color:#DE1B49;,bTable] |
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Post by EDMOND VALOIS on Mar 25, 2013 7:17:15 GMT -5
| [cs=2][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style, width:400px; border-bottom:solid 10px 1BE0B2; ,bTable][atrb=style,background-color:FCFCFC;] Edmond struck a noble figure against the gray, bleak sky, his mouth drawn into the thin line of indifferent nobility. Holding a firm grip on Valentine's reins, he narrowed his eyes at the man. "You would threaten at a man you ask kindness from?" Edmond voice was chilly, his blue eyes as cold as ice. He had often been told that in these moments he resembled his lord father-- and the duke was not a man to be trifled with, honorable or not.
Dear Valentine certainly deserved better than this dirty, spiteful lot. She was a high-strung, lean horse, built for speed-- and very skittish. She snorted and backed up a pace as the broad-shouldered man came closer. He leaned a little closer and dropped his voice to a murmur, so as not to be heard by the others. Speaking a string of lilting French, he reassured her, laying the hand that did not hold the reins on her neck.
Irritation coursing through his body, the next insult, a crowing remark about "the likes of him" was nearly the final straw. Without so much as a twitch of the brow, Edmond drew out his sword with lightning speed. It gleamed in the light, and the closest villagers shrunk back in fear. "The honor of a chevalier is not one you tarnish lightly in France, Englishman. I am less familiar with your treatment of knights in England, but I will not parlay while your folk insult my name," he met his eyes boldly, taking on the proud air of his title.
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