[ He glances around the rover. Better get this place cleaned up then. Also he'll pull on fresh clothes, so he looks less like he'd rolled around in an avalanche for a day. ]
[ He doesn't answer again, too busy making sure that his rover doesn't look like someone burst in here half asleep and left their weapons lying everywhere. Seriously. He finds one gun on top of Lancer's locker and the other buried in a twist of his own sheets. Apparently he'd been sleeping with it. Wonderful.
By the time Martin arrives, it's sort of tidy, and he looks mostly presentable. He opens the door to let Martin inside, shuts it again quickly to keep the cold out, and then smiles.
It's been a long night, okay? ]
I'm just cold. I'll be fine. We got lost, and I think the moral is that nobody should ever let me drive anywhere.
First time driving, I take it? [ Martin's used to this sort of mess, something nostalgic and comforting about the sight of weapons littered all over the place. Who would've thought he'd miss the fortress that was his prison and sanctuary?
(But it's not Cloud Ruler itself he misses. It's his guards. It's safety, or in truth, the semblance of it. Here, no one has his back. Because no one cares.)
Maybe.
That's why he's here. ] You're cold. [ Wordlessly, sinuous, red-hot flames lick at Martin's fingers. A vortex of hot air heating cool air forms with Martin as the eye of the storm, the room's atmosphere growing balmy. ] I'm fine. I came here to see if you'd be willing to give me sword lessons. I'm growing rusty. My guards would never forgive me.
Second. It was fine, until the autopilot broke, and then...
[ And then he cuts off, because suddenly there's heat and warmth and he moves closer on instinct. It's all he can do not to touch the flames, that feels so good. ]
Please keep doing that. I'm so glad I know you.
[ He lets out a little laugh, and then realises what he's being asked. He's not wearing his sword, but it's on his bed. Glancing at it, he's quick to nod. ]
I can do that. I'd be happy to, it'll let me practice too. Anyway, I wanted to see your style. You said you used a gladius.
I'll be honest, I don't trust these machines yet. [ Nor does he completely understand how automated, digital programs work. And what Martin can't understand frightens him. It is a very human thought. ]
I was going to throw a Fire Cloak on you. But I wasn't sure how you'd react to flames licking at your shoulders. [ But it won't burn you! Martin laughs nevertheless. ]
I do. I've been taking care of it. But what good is a sword that's never used? [ His style? Martin taps his chin, gathering the right words to describe it properly. ] Pragmatic. Quick and effective, if possible. Give them a clean death, even if that's not what they want for you.
I only know what that is because Sephiroth showed me his.
[ After much cajoling. Also, his is enormous. ]
My style is quick. It might feel different, though, because I think a rapier is longer.
[ He moves around Martin, going to his bed and lifting his sword from it. He unsheathes it with a metallic ring, and flips it around to offer Martin the ornate hilt. ]
I'll show you what I can, and practice with you. Can't promise to be as good as your guards. [ He lets a tiny little smile tick up. Imperial guards. That's a thing to live up to. D'Artagnan wonders how they'd compare to the Musketeers. He can hear Captain Treville now, insisting his regiment wouldn't be beaten by any other. It's a nostalgic thought, but it's coupled with another.
That here, there's a whole new set of people to prove himself to. Martin must think he's worth something, to ask this question. He doesn't want to let him down. ]
I'd like the Fire Cloak. By the way. I won't be afraid, I promise.
[ Not of Martin's magic. Not of magic, generally, since he knows his friend wields it. ]
Ah, Sephiroth. [ Martin says, tone clipped. ] They aren't that long, usually. [ Dryly. ] He might be overcompensating for something.
You really are a Breton. [ The swordsman in Martin knows better than to touch someone else's sword without reverence. He holds onto the hilt with care and respect, twisting his wrist to get a better look at the blade itself. ] I'm sure you'll do fine, D'Artagnan. I'm no star pupil—I ended up bruised and ashamed more times than I can count.
Well then. [ With mock seriousness, he taps D'Artagnan's left, then right shoulder with the tip of the blade, flames coursing down its length. Once the impromptu knighting ceremony is done, fire surrounds D'Artagnan's body and his weapon, yet does not burn either of them. ] May the fires of Akatosh keep you warm, Sir D'Artagnan.
[ Of Sephiroth. D'Artagnan is personally uncertain of him. Wariness would be the best description. There's a side of him that likes Sephiroth, that feels sorry for the melancholy in him.
There's another side that finds it incredible how easy it would be for the angel to kill him.
He pushes those thoughts away with Martin's next words, and his face lights up with a smile. ]
I'm a Gascon. Hopefully you won't hold that against me. This is...
[ He looks down at himself, at the fire covering his shoulders and arms. At the way it spreads along his sword. That, in particular, is impressive. He holds it out in front of him, watching the way the flames lick the metal. ]
That's incredible. Thank you. Am I to be conscripted to your guard, then? [ He says that jokingly, but really, that's sort of how this feels. There's no doubt that he would act to protect Martin, if need be. He looks up at the mage again. ] How long does it last?
I am not fond of anyone who professes a love for power that brazenly. [ It is dangerous, tempting, to be around such individuals. Martin is better off not associating with such types. ]
I can't hold it against you. I have no idea what it means. [ A nervous laugh. ] I'm a farmer's boy, D'Artagnan. I wasn't raised a prince.
[ Martin waves his fingers like a metronome, the flames following the rhythm. ] If you'd like. But it's for life. And the salary is greater than non-existent, which is all I can afford right now.
[ D'Artagnan looks up at him, a little surprised. He's still holding his arms out in front of him like he's trying to balance something on them - or as if he thinks he has to hold the fire up. ]
My father had a farm in Gascony. That's where I grew up. I joined the Musketeers, after...
After he died.
[ He glances down at the flames again, turning his hand over and watching them crawl over his skin. They have a kind of tickling warmth, which actually makes him want to shiver. Very strange. ]
The flames last for life? [ He looks up - or at least, one of his eyebrows arches up, and he peeks at Martin from beneath the fall of his hair. ] You're not serious. They don't fade?
I'm sorry to hear that. [ Farmers seem to die a lot around these parts. But to go, "Hey, my adoptive father was a farmer and he died too!" would be inappropriate. ]
No. I could enchant your clothes and weapon, but that doesn't last forever either and I lack the proper materials to do so. [ Martin flicks his hands, and the flames disappear. Another wave, and they re-appear. ] I'm feeding the flames with my magicka. Be near me, and I can keep them going. If I leave, they'll last a minute or so, then disappear.
If I knew I was to double as a human furnace today, I would've brought a wine. [ It is, of course, a light-hearted joke. He has no problems staying here for a couple of hours. ] You know, maybe I could get an enchanting table and some soul gems here.
No, you're still sick. We can spar some other day. You sure you don't want some wine? I got a red in my rover.
[ Martin takes the bottle, eyeing the label. ] So, we're just going to drink after each other? [ Eh, he doesn't really care. The cork comes off easily, even without a proper corkscrew. He takes a small drink, savoring it over downing it. ] Nice. Sweet, not too acidic. Is there berries in this? My tastebuds might be off, the cold of this planet kills them.
[ Said with a little roll of his eyes, but a smile to say Martin has amused him. And actually, by cups, he means glasses, but he calls them cups because that's just what he's used to. He sets them down on one of the benches, and indicates for Martin to sit with him. ]
I don't know. Maybe. I usually get Athos' advice on that sort of thing, I'm not much of a connoisseur. Is it different from what you're used to? It's Parisien, I think.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Day 26
I need your help. But you'll like this, I promise.
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That being said... ]
FROM: d'artagnan@cdc.org
Of course, anything you need. You want me to come find you?
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FROM: septim.martin@cdc.org
No, I heard you and some others had a hard day. [ Understatement of the century. ] I'll come to you.
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FROM: d'artagnan@cdc.org
All right. I'm in Rover 9. Are you coming now?
Text > Action
Yes.
[ Martin arrives some minutes later, purposely giving D'Artagnan some time to get ready.
He arrives weapon-less. And, once he glances at D'Artagnan, becomes worried. ] Are you alright? You look pale.
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By the time Martin arrives, it's sort of tidy, and he looks mostly presentable. He opens the door to let Martin inside, shuts it again quickly to keep the cold out, and then smiles.
It's been a long night, okay? ]
I'm just cold. I'll be fine. We got lost, and I think the moral is that nobody should ever let me drive anywhere.
Are you all right? You said you wanted me.
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(But it's not Cloud Ruler itself he misses. It's his guards. It's safety, or in truth, the semblance of it. Here, no one has his back. Because no one cares.)
Maybe.
That's why he's here. ] You're cold. [ Wordlessly, sinuous, red-hot flames lick at Martin's fingers. A vortex of hot air heating cool air forms with Martin as the eye of the storm, the room's atmosphere growing balmy. ] I'm fine. I came here to see if you'd be willing to give me sword lessons. I'm growing rusty. My guards would never forgive me.
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[ And then he cuts off, because suddenly there's heat and warmth and he moves closer on instinct. It's all he can do not to touch the flames, that feels so good. ]
Please keep doing that. I'm so glad I know you.
[ He lets out a little laugh, and then realises what he's being asked. He's not wearing his sword, but it's on his bed. Glancing at it, he's quick to nod. ]
I can do that. I'd be happy to, it'll let me practice too. Anyway, I wanted to see your style. You said you used a gladius.
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I was going to throw a Fire Cloak on you. But I wasn't sure how you'd react to flames licking at your shoulders. [ But it won't burn you! Martin laughs nevertheless. ]
I do. I've been taking care of it. But what good is a sword that's never used? [ His style? Martin taps his chin, gathering the right words to describe it properly. ] Pragmatic. Quick and effective, if possible. Give them a clean death, even if that's not what they want for you.
I can use a katana too.
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[ After much cajoling. Also, his is enormous. ]
My style is quick. It might feel different, though, because I think a rapier is longer.
[ He moves around Martin, going to his bed and lifting his sword from it. He unsheathes it with a metallic ring, and flips it around to offer Martin the ornate hilt. ]
I'll show you what I can, and practice with you. Can't promise to be as good as your guards. [ He lets a tiny little smile tick up. Imperial guards. That's a thing to live up to. D'Artagnan wonders how they'd compare to the Musketeers. He can hear Captain Treville now, insisting his regiment wouldn't be beaten by any other. It's a nostalgic thought, but it's coupled with another.
That here, there's a whole new set of people to prove himself to. Martin must think he's worth something, to ask this question. He doesn't want to let him down. ]
I'd like the Fire Cloak. By the way. I won't be afraid, I promise.
[ Not of Martin's magic. Not of magic, generally, since he knows his friend wields it. ]
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You really are a Breton. [ The swordsman in Martin knows better than to touch someone else's sword without reverence. He holds onto the hilt with care and respect, twisting his wrist to get a better look at the blade itself. ] I'm sure you'll do fine, D'Artagnan. I'm no star pupil—I ended up bruised and ashamed more times than I can count.
Well then. [ With mock seriousness, he taps D'Artagnan's left, then right shoulder with the tip of the blade, flames coursing down its length. Once the impromptu knighting ceremony is done, fire surrounds D'Artagnan's body and his weapon, yet does not burn either of them. ] May the fires of Akatosh keep you warm, Sir D'Artagnan.
no subject
[ Of Sephiroth. D'Artagnan is personally uncertain of him. Wariness would be the best description. There's a side of him that likes Sephiroth, that feels sorry for the melancholy in him.
There's another side that finds it incredible how easy it would be for the angel to kill him.
He pushes those thoughts away with Martin's next words, and his face lights up with a smile. ]
I'm a Gascon. Hopefully you won't hold that against me. This is...
[ He looks down at himself, at the fire covering his shoulders and arms. At the way it spreads along his sword. That, in particular, is impressive. He holds it out in front of him, watching the way the flames lick the metal. ]
That's incredible. Thank you. Am I to be conscripted to your guard, then? [ He says that jokingly, but really, that's sort of how this feels. There's no doubt that he would act to protect Martin, if need be. He looks up at the mage again. ] How long does it last?
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I can't hold it against you. I have no idea what it means. [ A nervous laugh. ] I'm a farmer's boy, D'Artagnan. I wasn't raised a prince.
[ Martin waves his fingers like a metronome, the flames following the rhythm. ] If you'd like. But it's for life. And the salary is greater than non-existent, which is all I can afford right now.
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[ D'Artagnan looks up at him, a little surprised. He's still holding his arms out in front of him like he's trying to balance something on them - or as if he thinks he has to hold the fire up. ]
My father had a farm in Gascony. That's where I grew up. I joined the Musketeers, after...
After he died.
[ He glances down at the flames again, turning his hand over and watching them crawl over his skin. They have a kind of tickling warmth, which actually makes him want to shiver. Very strange. ]
The flames last for life? [ He looks up - or at least, one of his eyebrows arches up, and he peeks at Martin from beneath the fall of his hair. ] You're not serious. They don't fade?
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No. I could enchant your clothes and weapon, but that doesn't last forever either and I lack the proper materials to do so. [ Martin flicks his hands, and the flames disappear. Another wave, and they re-appear. ] I'm feeding the flames with my magicka. Be near me, and I can keep them going. If I leave, they'll last a minute or so, then disappear.
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He likes them. ]
Then, please. Stay a while. Or I'll come with you and we can spar now, if you like. The thought of outside isn't so bad with this around me.
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No, you're still sick. We can spar some other day. You sure you don't want some wine? I got a red in my rover.
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[ That's basically the only alcohol he'd bought - red wine, the decent kind, from his own era. It reminds him of home.
He retrieves a bottle that's been stopped; it's about three quarters full. He holds it out to Martin. ]
I'll share if you will. Honestly, it'll probably make me warmer.
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[ Said with a little roll of his eyes, but a smile to say Martin has amused him. And actually, by cups, he means glasses, but he calls them cups because that's just what he's used to. He sets them down on one of the benches, and indicates for Martin to sit with him. ]
I don't know. Maybe. I usually get Athos' advice on that sort of thing, I'm not much of a connoisseur. Is it different from what you're used to? It's Parisien, I think.