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Post by Cpt. Arthur Kirkland on Nov 11, 2011 18:57:47 GMT -5
People say you need to be lucky to be successful. That's definitely the case in Granor, where luck equates to everything.
It had usually been Arthur's own wittyness and quick thinking that had got him out of sticky situations when he'd walked into them. In fact, he usually strived for them. There was nothing more satisfying than waltzing in, looking like you were off your head, before pulling a hat trick on and walking out as casually and composed as he did in the first place. But there was always going to be a time such things were going to backfire.
An ambush. He'd found someone to collect information from, someone he'd agreed to meet outside one of the shadier pubs hanging in the shadows of the noble's district. Arthur had met this person. What he wasn't expecting was to meet about a dozen others too, who all appeared out of the alleyways and shadows, surrounding him. A betrayal. The crook himself was a crony of the nobles. Crap.
Arthur may be daring, but he wasn't stupid. He turned and ran, having to charge one of the men, running for his life down the backstreets. Unfortunately, the men who had opposed him knew the area well, probably better than Arthur himself. He was caught in a back alley, and it was there he couldn't escape. Fists and feet belted him, knives and other weapons slashed at him, and a knife was lethally sliced into him, ending him in a slumped, curled up mess on the alley floor, his blood dripping and starting to drain like a puddle. The outlaws would've continued, if it wasn't for the sound of the military some way off to an unrelated occurence did they all scarper. Those outlaws may have been ruthless and lethal and barbarians, but they were essentially cowards when outnumbered and overpowered.
Unfortunately, it left Arthur gasping and twiching underneath his plan cloak, a soaked hand scrabbling desperately at the cobbles. If he had the energy he'd force himself back to his ship, where he could tend to his wounds -- but the energy was draining from him. His eyes were unfocusing, his breath was shallowing, and the pain was starting to numb him. Shock, he could note faintly in the back of his mind. Shock would set an he'd go unconcsious. And with all the bloodloss, he'd probably die.
His eyes go wide and soft, but they're closing by that time. He'd die, alone. He hadn't expected any different. In fact, he was more annoyed that he'd fallen for such a simple atttack.
And it's there he passes out, curled and slumped in a bloodied mess. Alone. To his death.
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Post by Francis Bonnefoy on Nov 11, 2011 19:56:50 GMT -5
There was always a rush of excitement that accompanied those short, coded messages, making patience an impossible task for Francis. The week that he had to struggle through before meeting with a top-ranking Draconian's courtesan felt stretched. It was a relief for Francis to don an inconspicuous attire - a stark contrast to his vivid, flamboyant style - and steal out of his mansion.
His spy did not meet him at the corner alleyway; rather he was directed to a pub's backdoor to take a slip of paper under a rubbish bin. With a glance, he committed it to memory and struck a match to dispose of it. The ashes had not even touched the ground yet when he blended back into the shadows, hurrying home.
But he did not get far when he heard loud footfalls, the sound of what seemed like a stampede rushing away from him. He paused under the cover of a broken scaffold and tried to still his breathing. There was a faint thump in the alley only a few steps away.
Curious, Francis crept into the alley. There was a heap in the middle of the alley, the shape near indistinguishable until Francis took a closer look. It was a body.
It wasn't moving, so Francis cautiously stepped closer and pushed it back gently. Francis easily recognized sticky substance the body left on his hands as blood. Francis knew it was dangerous, deadly even, to offer any aid, but he couldn't bring himself to leave the wounded figure.
With a grunt, he heaved the figure to its feet. It took him strength that he had long forgotten to simultaneously drag the man and hide them both before he finally reached his mansion, calling for the sleeping servants to help. In a blur of activity, Francis had set up the man in an unused room and had him changed into more comfortable bed clothes. Francis began to tend to the wounds himself, the covert message forgotten.
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Post by Cpt. Arthur Kirkland on Nov 12, 2011 17:45:35 GMT -5
Arthur was out for the count for a while. It was a good 18 hours before he cracked an eye open, and as soon as he did, pain overwhelmed him for a moment. He whimpered, quietely, his eyes watered, and he tried desperately to get used to his surroundings. He sure wasn't anywhere familiar -- the bed he was lying in was too soft and luxurious to be anything...
Wait.
Where was he? What had happened? Who was he?
His mind goes into a blind panic. He doesn't know who he is. Why is that? Shock? Trauma? Permanent? Was he like this all the time? He doesn't even know what's happening.
There's another small whimper, and he sits up suddenly, panicked. This doesn't fare too well, as he lets out a slight scream from the pain. He gasps, gripping his chest, and his eyes wide.
For the first time in years, Arthur Kirkland looked genuinely scared.
What's happening?!
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Post by Francis Bonnefoy on Nov 12, 2011 21:50:11 GMT -5
Francis did not leave the unconscious guest's side until he was sure that the man was as comfortable as he could be. Even so, Francis only ducked back into his own chambers to wash himself and dress into something more suited for nursing an injured guest.
Francis was not certain whether it would be wise to call for a doctor and bring attention to the man and his whereabouts - the circumstances and the violent wounds were suspicious enough - and so Francis decided to tend to the man himself. Unless the man's condition took a turn for the worse.
If he was honest with himself, Francis was in equal parts torn between impatience, dread, and curiosity as he waited for the man to come to. Fortunately and unfortunately for him, he wasn't present to face the man's awakening. He left the man's bedside for a short while to deal with some business. When he slipped back into the room quietly, Francis was greeted with the sight of his guest, wild-eyed and tangled in the sheets.
"Good afternoon," was all Francis could think of saying at the moment. He took a deep breath to gather his bearings and rushed toward the man.
"Please don't panic," said Francis, keeping his voice soft. "You're safe here."
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Post by Cpt. Arthur Kirkland on Nov 13, 2011 7:00:06 GMT -5
Arthur seemed to shrink back into his sheets a little as he heard someone approaching, and when he looked up...
It was a just a man. A rather dressed up, beautiful -- (not handsome. He wasn't exactly masculine) -- man. He didn't recognise him in the slightest.
Dried blood in his hair and a black eye from last night, his eyes mutely observed the other for a moment, almost innocently.
".... W-Where am I..." He murmurs, a harsh contrast from his usual demanding tones. He didn't help he was more pale than his normal complexion, due to having lost most of the blood in his body, or something. His shoulders remained rigid, his chest still searing with pain. He barely dared to breathe too deeply.
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Post by Francis Bonnefoy on Nov 13, 2011 13:16:18 GMT -5
There was something of a lost child about the way the man looked at Francis that made Francis want to reassure him. Francis stepped towards the bed carefully with his hands up, the way one would coax a scared rabbit out of hiding.
"You're in my home," Francis answered, offering a small smile. "It's all right. You don't have to be afraid."
He inched toward the seat by the bed, making sure that their proximity would not alarm his guest. Francis settled on the seat and studied the man. There were still so many injuries to tend to, but Francis decided not to touch the man until he trusted Francis, even a little.
"My name is Francis." He paused, unsure how to phrase his question. "Would you mind telling me who you are?"
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Post by Cpt. Arthur Kirkland on Nov 13, 2011 16:53:46 GMT -5
Arthur looks towards the approaching man, and as he gets his name he repeats it to himself, quietly.
"Francis," he murmurs, in his own crisp accent, if faintly vulnerable at this moment in time. That was probably the first thing Arthur noticed, after his appearance -- the weird, flavourful accent the other had.
Arthur would have pondered on the thought further, if Francis hadn't asked for his name. He freezes.
"--I a-am---"
No, he still can't remember. Who was he? ..... w-whoreboy.... c-chico...? They weren't right. He could grasp those words faintly but he was sure they didn't connect as comfortably as something as his own actual name would.
The distress this was causing Arthur was starting to set in. "I-I..."
He grips at the sheets, tightly, and he presses his lips together just so. He stares ahead, not daring to say anything else. He didn't want to know what he didn't know.
Tears started aligning his eyes. Why couldn't he remember?...
His chest hurt...
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Post by Francis Bonnefoy on Nov 14, 2011 8:53:09 GMT -5
It was odd to see someone fumble for his own name, but Francis saw that it was clearly more than that. At the sight of the stranger's tight, pained expression, Francis hastened to calm him down. Without thinking, Francis reached for the man, rubbing his shoulders comfortingly.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
Francis caught the glisten of tears in the man's eyes, and realization struck him. He pulled away from his guest, but maintained contact by placing his hand over the other's.
"You don't remember, do you?" he said quietly.
Francis had to pause and ponder on his next words. How could he even continue this conversation if the other did not even know his own name?
"What can you remember, then?" Other details. He could help the stranger piece the truth together. "Would you like to tell me?"
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Post by Cpt. Arthur Kirkland on Nov 14, 2011 11:27:42 GMT -5
Arthur could only sit there and stare ahead, his lip quivering dangerously. He was trying to think, but nothing was coming of it. He barely acknowledged the hand above his own, but he did glance at the other for a moment, eyebrows frowning slightly in disparity.
He really couldn't remember anything. A ship, a... a forest? A.... faeries? A....A...
He'd be ashamed once he was okay. He'd be ashamed that something could panic him so much. But he couldn't remember.
"I---I ...A -A.... H-Hn.... I--...."
Almost unconsciously, he seems to tighten up on himself. Curl up in a tight space, hide away from all the scary things of the world, alone. Where no one could get him.
He couldn't remember why he'd do that though.... He can't even remember last night...
"I-It h-hurts--"
He starts to cry.
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Post by Francis Bonnefoy on Nov 14, 2011 15:27:22 GMT -5
Francis should have taken it as a warning when the stranger recoiled from him and retreated into himself. Once Francis saw the tears falling, he had to fight down his own panic. He never could stand to see anyone innocent cry.
"Oh! Oh, my dear," he breathed. Boundaries were the last thing on his mind when he moved to sit on the bed and take the other man into his arms.
"Hush, it's all right," Francis cooed softly, patting the man's back. "It's all right. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Now, where does it hurt?"
Francis wasn't sure whether it was the man's injuries or his memory loss that pained him. Either way, Francis would have to take the cue from the man. His guest was fragile at the moment, so easily spooked, and Francis did not want to drive him away. There was something in Francis that made him want to see this man well and happy.
"Listen," said Francis, "why don't we get you cleaned up properly, and replace those bandages too? Then we can head down to the kitchens to get you something to eat. You must be absolutely famished."
Francis pulled back slightly from the man with a tiny smile. "How does that sound?"
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