medrautgalant

[medrautgalant]

MICHEL

Fourteen years is a long time. What Medraut recalls with sharp, abject clarity, Michel remembers with the blurred haze of decayed memory. Softer around the edges, not quite so well defined, but still present. He has soldiers who ask him, sometimes, about the Chevaliers – especially now – and the is it true that often follows, poking and prodding at him until he has no choice except to answer or wave them off. Is it true, is it true, is it true that you… 

Medraut Galant pulls up to him as if on horseback, well-trained, subdued. Pulls high on the reins of his own legs and slows at exactly the right time. Were Medraut one of his soldiers, Michel would be impressed. Maybe even offer praise, if he felt so inclined, but the nature of the subject matter does not have him leaning towards any kind of good mood, so he hums. Nods, in return to Medraut’s deferential gesture of kindness. It’s funny to try and reconcile whoever this is with the half-starved dog that he helped to decide the fate of some time ago. There are familiar beats, but nothing immediately recognizable. More than anything else, Medraut has grown.

Michel’d laugh, if he were given the chance to do so. “Chevalier Galant,” he greets, once Medraut is done chattering, filling the air with his voice. People liking to listen to themselves talk is all too common in Val Faim, but Michel would love to know if this is a nervous tic of his or Medraut’s or something else. He lifts a hand in a gesture of good faith, a motion to relax, because he certainly won’t be throwing any of Calandre’s most devoted soldiers into the gallows any time soon. Unless she asked, of course. “I’m only here to welcome you back to the Summer Palace.” There is a hint of earnestness in his tone, some sort of kindness that he’s managed to draw up from some deep well. “It’s been a long time since you’ve been back, from what I can remember. How are you liking it?”

He’s a little unnerved, frankly.

Medraut has forgotten the feeling of being pinned beneath Michel Fortin’s magnifying glass, of being expertly peeled back, layer by layer. It’s unnerving, to say the least, and maybe a little thrilling, too, if he’s being honest. Few have ever well and truly known him—few have ever well and truly tried—and to be the subject of Michel’s watchful eye, keen to detail, is as exhilarating as it is horrifying. 

What a peculiar feeling.

The hand Michel raises is a cut and dry gesture of good faith, a white flag in the sandbox of their convoluted history, but it discomfits Medraut all the same. It makes him feel as though Michel has the upper hand, which he does. It makes him feel as though Michel can undress his ruse of indifference, which he can, and it makes him feel as though Michel can intuit his nervousness, which he can. It makes him feel as though Michel is always three steps ahead of him, which he is.

For all that’s changed since their first meeting, nothing has changed at all, not really.

He finds himself of two minds about Fortin’s attempt at kindness: one-half grateful, one-half indignant. He errs on the side of the former, if only because Fortin outranks him, but the latter yet manifests in a smile that’s all bite-the-hands-that-feeds-you teeth. “I’m finding the halls of the Summer Palace a far sight more hospitable than the first time I walked them,” he says conversationally, voice dry. He makes a concerted effort to frame the words with levity, so as to avoid toeing the line between good humor and antagonism. Michel Fortin is no enemy of his, and he’s keen on keeping it so. 

He tries to relax his posture, slacken his stance, lean into the pretense of two old acquaintances sharing a half-amicable conversation. “And you, Commander?” he asks. “How are you liking the city”—he gestures to Val Faim’s landscape with a broad sweep of his arm—“without me running amok in it?” He smiles again, but this time there’s less teeth. “Surely your days have grown dull without my rabble-rousing to occupy them?”

#c: michel #l: the empressian gardens #d: the seventeenth of maccius

[medrautgalant]

HECTOR

Hector? Softer? Around the edges, maybe, but blunt all the same. Enough to crack Medraut’s teeth should he be bold enough to bite. “No,” is all Hector says to that before moving on.

He takes a moment to take in Medraut and the ways his face has changed in three years. He finds that it hasn’t changed much— he’s a touch more gaunt, with a few more fine lines— but his sunken eyes still teem with emotions he can’t contain.

“I always enjoyed you when you’re hot, regrettably,” he answers earnestly. Medraut’s always been one of the few whose never been intimidated by the way Hector imposes. He finds it refreshing as much as he finds it trying, being tested so willfully by Medraut with the same enthusiasm the rest of the city fawns over him with. But the man Hector knew once and the one he’s trying to read now is still just as tortured. Evidently, the years haven’t made his temperament any less scathing or his tongue any less sharp. Hector worries, perhaps, that it’s gotten worse.

‘ Has our Empress sent you to me with leash and muzzle in hand? ’

“Maybe she has,” Hector muses, making a point to entertain the thought. How long’s it been since he’s had a fight, a real fight, against someone adept enough to match his size and brute strength with swift movement and quick instinct? Too long, he decides, then leans in with to dip his tone so it’s quiet and steady and still strong enough to cut through the noise of the tavern. It’s sly. 

“It’s been a while since I tamed something wild.”

‌ 

It’s a delicate balancing act: rearing at the bit and leaning into the hand that holds the reins all at once. Pushing and pulling, yielding a step with one foot and digging in the heel of the other. A delicate balancing act indeed, and one that Medraut has come to master in the years he’s known Hector. Their history is a muddy one, tangled, tried, and true, and it shows in the way they bare their teeth at each other; the way they speak in double entendres, jabs and jests; the way they expertly walk the tightrope of their ambivalent...friendship, if you can put so paltry a name to it. 

I always enjoyed you when you’re hot, regrettably. Medraut smiles at that, all teeth, all wilderness. So I recall, he doesn’t say, because he doesn’t need to. “Is it so regrettable?” he asks coyly, mischief written in the hook of his crooked grin. “That you enjoy me so,” he clarifies. “Few do,” he points out matter-of-factly. He rocks his chair back on its hind legs and kicks his feet up on the table, one ankle crossed over the other—a perfect picture of insolence. “Enjoy me, that is. Your fondness of my company is a triumph unto itself. Perhaps that will be your legacy, Geraud. The good people of Val Faim will remember you for your keenness for me, and not for slaying big, scaled birds, or whatever it is you do.” Medraut knows exactly what it is that he does, but he lands the blow anyway, if for no other reason than to remind Hector that he doesn’t share Val Faim’s moon-eyed fascination with his pedigree. 

Maybe she has, Hector says, and Medraut rears at the bit again, pulls away. The implication of of deceit, of betrayal, even in jest, galls him, and it takes only a single turn of phrase to put Medraut on the defensive, nostrils flared, eyes painted wild sea-blue. Hector’s next words placate and provoke Medraut in equal measure, impossibly, and he finds himself charmed by Hector and rankled by Hector in equal measure, impossibly. 

A delicate balancing act indeed.

The two front legs of his chair clamor loudly as he sweeps his feet off the table and plants them on the ground. He follows Hector’s lead, leans in, leans low, drapes his voice in something soft and dangerous, midnight-black silk. “You’d have better luck taming a dragon, Geraud.”

#c: hector #l: the lion's mane #d: the fourteenth of maccius #this is so late FORGIVE ME

[medrautgalant]

VICTOIRE

when: twenty-second of maccius. where: the empressian gardens.  who: open.

it was simple really: victoire did not have time to go for a drink, to parade around the lion’s mane, to rest — he did not have time for such a thing, but the night was quieting. his shift had ended. there was breath in his lungs, and the thick smell of flowers was settling on his skin with an ease he could almost appreciate. ( almost. he so did love to complain about the flowers on occasion. ) maybe he would have time tonight. 

victoire was walking away from the summer palace, but he could not help it; his eyes roamed over the bushes, seeking danger. expecting it. and as if not to disappoint him, he heard the sudden footfalls of another. 

“i’ll bet half my pay it’s another assassin,” he muttered to himself. “alright,” he called with a flourish of his hand. please don’t be heading to the summer palace. “step forward, if you please. let’s get this over with, yes?” 

‌ 

In all his life, Medraut has known many a wretched home—the underbelly of the Underworld, the slums of Hightown, Chevalier camps—and none have been so inhospitable as the Summer Palace. Its lap of luxury, swollen with the kind of ostentatious grandeur that reeks of self-importance, makes him feel...alien, incongruous, out of place. Other. His only solace here is this: the gardens. 

Since his homecoming, he’s grown mildly fond of the gardens, and these grounds have become fodder for his morning and evening jogs. He begins and ends most of his days with a dozen laps around the perimeter of the gardens, and it’s on one such occasion that he has the misfortune of crossing paths with Victoire de Chevin. 

He schools his expression, tries his level best to emulate a farce of levity. “It would seem you owe me half your wages, then, Captain,” he drawls, stepping into Victoire’s field of vision. “An assassination attempt on the Empress at the hands of one of the Empress’ knights seems counterintuitive,” he says flippantly. “And an assassination attempt on you—well...” He shrugs one shoulder dismissively, mischief flickering in the gray-blue of his eyes. “I’ve been the subject of Fortin’s ire once before. It was unpleasant, markedly.” His voice is casual, as if he’s discussing this week’s bad turn of weather, and not his near-fatal encounter with Michel Fortin a decade ago. “I have no intention of incurring his disfavor again, and so I have no intention of assassinating you.” It occurs to him too late that he perhaps should’ve erred on the side of deference, not comedy. “Captain,” he tacks on for good measure.

#c: victoire #l: the empressian gardens #d: the twenty-second of maccius #medraut to roth 1 week earlier: i'll b on my best behavior #medraut 1 week later: [jokes about assassinating the captain of the guard]

[medrautgalant]

SAINTE

Her name. She’s never met him, but perhaps he has met her. Perhaps she is even more eager to help, to hear whatever troubles the strange man, now that he has said her name. There are a dozen reasons he could know her - she has a reputation, and she’s aware of it. But usually, people don’t say her name. People look past her unless they need to, even when she’s speaking to them. This man, though, he seems to have the intention of unsettling her. And she refuses to give in to it.

Instead, she sits, places her hands on the table, gives him a smile. “You say that as though you know exactly what sort of person I am,” She says, thinking to herself that it is entirely possible he does know, or at least knows the sort of person she has presented herself to be. The person she’s built herself to be. “Yet I’m afraid I don’t even know your name, I’m terribly sorry.” After a moment, though, she shakes her head. “No matter. What’s more important, of course, is what happens to be troubling you. I can’t say I’ve seen you here before.” There are plenty of people, in and out of the Mane who she hasn’t seen, who she will never see again. But this man, he’s said he’s a Chevalier. It means something different, she’s sure of it. That he’s not just the usual traveler, passing through. “Are you lost?” It could mean a dozen different things, of course, there are so many ways to be lost - He can choose to interpret it however he sees fit, and maybe, that will tell her more than even his name.

‌ 

You say that as though you know exactly what sort of person I am.

He smiles at that, and it’s not an unkind sight to behold, but perhaps neither is it a kind one. The irony is not lost on him: he knows exactly what sort of person she is. He may not know Sainte Cadieux, but he knows everything about her worth knowing. He knows she was beloved to Gaspard, which makes her at least half-decent, at least half-good. He knows, too, that she was a pupil of Gaspard’s, which makes her at least half-dangerous, half-vicious. He knows that she was taught everything she knows by an Underworlder, and that she has all the makings of an Underworld virtuoso, gifted in all the ways that Medraut never was as a boy. He begrudges her that, he supposes, but he also feels a strange sort of kinship with her, like the threads of their lives have somehow woven together, inextricable, knotted.

“You know nothing of me, then,” he muses, head canted, expression schooled to reflect naught but a blank state of neutrality. That answers a question he didn’t know how to ask: Gaspard never spoke of Medraut to Sainte. He knows everything about her, and she knows nothing about him. The age-old wound of his family’s rejection opens and seeps, but he pays no it no heed; he’s grown too accustomed to his kin’s indifference to be moved to action by it anymore. He’s sure his uncle had his reasons for not telling Sainte a thing about him—even if he can’t presently make sense of such a thing.

“Lost?” he echoes, incredulous, voice caught halfway between a scoff and laugh. “I reckon I could find my way around this haunt blindfolded, with both hands tied behind my back. On one foot, for good measure.” He waves a hand at the Mane’s arena, eyes boring into hers with the kind of intensity that most find disconcerting. “Half the blood that stains these floors was spilt by me, and the other half was spilt from me. Lost, girl, I am not.” He watches her, considers her; weighs the rewards of revealing his hand against the risks of it. “My name is Medraut,” he says slowly, enunciating each letter. A pause. A beat. Another. “Galant.” He lets the weight of his surname settle beneath her skin, lets her connect the dots. 

Medraut Galant, son of Jeanne Galant. 

Jeanne Galant, née Lenoir, sister of Gaspard Lenoir. 

#c: sainte #d: the fourteenth of maccius #l: the lion's mane

[medrautgalant]

DEGARÉ

How long has it been, since Brousseau’s head was taken over Calandre’s limestone floors? Four weeks, maybe five.

What he means to say is that it has hardly been long since the hapless lord met his end amongst the trappings of court, the prying eyes of just about everyone in Val Faim fixed at his neck, yet the wound is no louder than a cautionary tale. People have not forgotten, per se, but for all the people whisper between teeth of tragedy, or the inherent justice of Fortin’s sword, they each agree that the fool’s demise is little more than a word to the wise. Something your nurse might have warned you about, back when you were young, as she tucked your sheets around you. But Degaré knows well that any chainmail can be penetrated, noble or not. Every breastplate has its weak spots, and while golden carapaces do a good job of seeming impressive protective coverings, the iron is easily undone by the executioner’s blade swinging down.

He speaks of Hippolyte’s untimely death with a certain lack of refinement, a commonness, but he is a bastard, and such things are second nature for him, no? He had stood before the Empress, looked Brousseau in the eye, then Calandre herself, and proclaimed he cared not a whit for the man’s fate. Do what you must, Your Imperial Majesty. If it’s justice you’ll have, then have justice. He is but a bastard: who is he to challenge the punishments and edicts of the Empress? He doesn’t put his neck on the line for people he likes, let alone strangers. Certainly not nobles. He has seen firsthand what happens to necks when they do so.

People have already forgotten, in any case. Whatever had been said of Calandre’s justice, or Calandre’s cruelty, is swept under the rug now. It does not surprise him. Even if there were not other affairs to think of, it would not surprise him. Whispers are always drowned out by something louder, something more easily seen; the fact that it is to an explosion that they owe such things had been entirely coincidental. On this point, Degaré has heard accounts of all sorts: to some, the much spoken of mages are radicals, but for others they are heralds with a secret, forewarning of the end of days. He has never much been a man of faith, but he does believe in magic. He has seen it, so he believes it. He saw Brousseau’s head knocked from his shoulders. He did not, however, see the explosion, nor the mages that caused it, or anything else that followed. For that reason, Degaré reserves his judgement.

When Medraut hurls his tankard of ale at the wall to his left, Degaré isn’t far away. The sound of it, and the sound of patrons murmuring beside him, offering grunts of disapproval, stirs him. When the wood splits itself apart on impact, the liquid of the cup spilling forth like a fountain, he answers it. Such things are instinct. Ah, call it what remains of the past month’s celebrations, or every other occasion which called for a cup of ale thereafter. Good for money, certainly, but a surefire way to see blood spilled. Degaré has pulled apart more fistfights in the last six weeks than he cares to count, and while he doesn’t wish to involve himself in yet another, destruction of his property also won’t do. When Degaré draws closer, the very image of irritation, he realises that he knows this face. Not well. Hardly at all, in fact. Medraut Galant had been a fixture here, once; caused dor to flow as easily as wine, as readily the blood he spilled. That had been before. Before the Mane was his, when he tucked himself in hidden corners, hooded. He remembers the face, though.

When he looms over him, Medraut doesn’t meet Degaré’s eye, doesn’t even open his own. “Is that a threat, dog?” He enunciates clearly, his voice a low growl. “Empress’ gallants cross swords with innocent passersby as well as enemies and traitors now, do they? Now, that’s hardly a virtue worthy of the name.” Pushing a man known equally for his rage as his onslaught to the point of execution is unwise, perhaps, but he knows how to deal with such beasts. In fact, he has a bullring for such beasts, and he knows as much from experience as he does whispers that this one fights better than most. Tonight, though, the pen is closed. “If it’s blood you’re spilling, you won’t do it here.”

‍ 

So this is him.

Medraut’s reunion with Iseult two nights ago was as much a debriefing as it was a homecoming, and among Medraut’s first (of many, many) questions was this: “And what of the Mane? Is it still standing?” To which Iseult replied, “Still standing.” A loaded pause. “New owner. Lambert’s bastard—Degaré.” When they said nothing else, Medraut pressed for more. His plea fell on deaf ears, and he was answered with naught but a long-suffering look. But Medraut, ever a dog with a bone, pressed still, and Iseult, ever keen to Medraut’s relentlessness, folded. “A lot of lip on him,” Iseult said. “Tongue like a knife, that one. More dangerous with his mouth than you are with a broadsword, I’d wager.” When Medraut told Iseult he’d have to put their theory to the test, they’d only smiled, as if to say, Good luck, kid. You’ll need it.

Medraut lifts his gaze to meet Degaré’s, one corner of his mouth hooked with a lopsided half-grin. The insult Lambert hurls at him misses its mark. Medraut’s been called far worse by people who mean far more to him than Degaré Lambert; the bastard will have to do better than “dog” if he intends to go toe to toe with an Underworld castaway. “I don’t issue threats,” he says, voice low, full of grit and gravel. “You’ll find, Lambert, that I’m all bite, no bark.” Translation: if I want to gut you, I’ll gut you, and you’ll know it when my knife is belly-deep in you, and not a second sooner.

As he studies Degaré, who looms over him with bared teeth, tongue poised to strike, Medraut thinks Iseult was right about at least one thing: Degaré Lambert’s mouth is dangerous. The way he reaches into Medraut, roots around his person, within and without, looking for for raw nerves to poke, for soft spots to press down hard on—that’s dangerous. The way Lambert intuits that his first blow—“dog”—misses its mark—that’s dangerous. The way Lambert learns from his error in judgment, recalculates, adjusts his strategy, and lands his second blow with uncanny aim—that’s perhaps the most dangerous thing about him. A tongue like Degaré’s is a hazard all on its own, but a tongue like Degaré’s paired with a nose for open wounds like Degaré’s is lethal, especially to Medraut, whose every sentiment, fleeting or otherwise, is written all over his face and body, hidden in plain sight. 

Let the sharper knife win, then: Degaré’s tongue, Medraut’s anger. 

He can’t be sure which of Lambert’s words, exactly, snag on the bramble and thorns of his pride, but somewhere between “dog” and “worthy,” his temper flares, and he has to stow his fists beneath the cover of the table to hide the shaking of them from Degaré. “An innocent passerby?” he repeats. He means to sound flip, but there’s a tightness in his voice that betrays his charade, if you listen closely. “You’re the proprietor of Val Faim’s hub of secrets. I’d wager the well of your innocence runs shallow, Lambert.” A wolf is a wolf is a wolf, no matter how well-spoken—and Degaré Lambert is a wolf.

Indifferent to any voice of authority that isn’t Roth’s, he bristles at Degaré’s order—“you won’t do it here”—and makes no concerted effort to school his scowl. “I’m meant to spill blood here only when it suits your coffers, is that it?” he scoffs, indignant. “Dance, Chevalier, dance?” Medraut can practically hear Roth groaning in his head, begging his composure, his restraint. So public a display of insolence from one of Calandre’s Chevaliers reflects poorly on crown and kingdom alike, and Roth will no doubt be unhappy to hear of it. Fists still hidden beneath the table, he leans forward, entreating Degaré to meet him halfway. “Noble by half or by whole, it matters little to me. I don’t answer to you, Lambert.”

#i wish medraut could simply.....Calm Down #alas........ #c: degaré #l: the lion's mane #d: the fourteenth of maccius #tw violence #tw gore

[medrautgalant]

SYLVIANE

The Lion’s Mane is just as they remember - busy, noisy, grimy, and exactly the right space they need to disappear into the crowd and simply not think for an hour or two. Always a haunt with a few familiar faces, though more often than not they never knew the name for the face, simply lingered in corners with their sketchbook taking down likenesses of whatever barfly or bruiser happened to catch their eye. They’ve always preferred things rough around the edges. There are less familiar faces now, lost to two years of absence and changing fortunes, but their eyes roam the crowd nonetheless, waiting to snag on something like fabric on a bramble. Snag they do on a dark corner, figure within it all coiled tension and sharp lines. A wicked smile hooks across their face and they push forward to the bar, procuring two tankards of ale despite the one that graces the far table’s surface. 

They wend their way over to the table just as Medraut snaps, and it’s a damn good thing they bought him a drink as his previous takes up residence on the wall and the passers-by instead of in his cup. It’s such a fitting setup for a reunion that they have to laugh - no matter what structure the Order gave him, he never quite seemed to outgrow that feral scrappiness that had captivated them in the first place. 

“How tragic,” they drawl as they approach. “I’ve seen you covered in worse, Medraut Galant, and it’ll take a far lot more to scare me off than a hissy fit.” They place the tankards down on the table, settling easily in to the chair opposite him. They grimace at the wetness that seeps up into their clothes, but it is a fleeting discomfort in the face of their exuberance. “Careful that Lambert doesn’t gouge you for the price of the tankard, though, or the emotional distress of his patrons,” they quip with a wry smile. The Mane has seen far worse things than one angry man and a bit of spilt ale. They doubted anyone would even recall the incident after another cup. 

“Chin up,” they say as they nudge one of the tankards closer to him. “Have another drink, for old time’s sake.”

Finally, he thinks, a welcome fucking reunion.

Sylviane is, perhaps, the first familiar face he’s glad to see in this foul city. They are exactly as he remembers them: impudent, quick-witted, mouthy—and all the more beloved for it. It was Sylviane’s cheek, their brazen shamelessness in the face of convention and couth, that first marked them as a person of interest to Medraut, and what later marked them as a prized friend. Impertinent little mischief, they are. They do not balk at his outburst, and neither do they turn their nose up at it. They answer his anger with humor—a bold gamble, perhaps, but one that reaps a generous reward, much to the disbelief of the Mane’s patrons, who indiscreetly gawk at the ease with which Sylviane pacifies Medraut. He’s swiftly charmed, through and through, and his anger cools to a low simmer. 

It’s a sight to behold, if nothing else: Medraut Galant placated by naught but a jeer.

“Patronizing a Chevalier—and one off-leash, at that?” Medraut asks, one eyebrow raised and the other knitted. He clicks his tongue reproachfully, face and voice both affected with disapproval. “Your flair for self-preservation yet leaves something to be desired,” he drawls. He sounds callous, maybe even a little cruel, but the warmth in his eyes betrays the sharp cut of his words, and the left corner of his mouth twitches with a grin he’s trying in vain to stifle. “A sentiment shared by my informants,” he says drily, reaching across the table to take the tankard of ale nearest to him. “Playing in the Obsidienne’s sandbox, are we?” he asks, eyebrows pitched high. He brings the tankard to his lips and takes a long swig. “Have you grown so bored absent my company that you’ve resorted to hunting ancient terrors for entertainment, Sylv?” Another click-click-click of his tongue, this time underpinned by a wagging finger—a fine imitation of Roth, if he does say so himself. “You need only write me next time your find your hands idle, my friend.” 

He shrugs one shoulder dismissively. “Ah, well—I suppose you’ve had worse ideas, no?” You’re friends with me, after all, he doesn’t say, because—well, frankly, he doesn’t need to. Befriending Medraut Galant is among Sylviane’s best worst ideas, to be sure, and they both know it.

#c: sylviane #l: the lion's mane #d: the fourteenth of maccius #[pleading face emoji] !!!!!!

[medrautgalant]

SAINTE

Sometimes, Sainte thinks herself a protector of sorts, of what, she isn’t entirely sure. There are so many angry people in the city, though, wandering restlessly like stray cats. Or perhaps they have somewhere to be, perhaps she only sees it as wandering, and they see it with more purpose than that. Either way, she’s happy to be a guiding hand. Even when one isn’t being asked for, even if the guiding is unwanted. It’s almost a flaw. More than almost to others, but to her, not quite. 

The man who shoves his cup to the ground seems in need of something, although Sainte is doubtful that it’s her help. Still, she can try, can’t she? Or perhaps guide him to the door, if he’s prone to cause more trouble. She approaches with caution, hyper aware of every weapon on her body. Again, it’s as though she’s approaching a stray cat, though he seems larger, more fearsome. She’s not afraid, though, there’s little Sainte Cadieux is afraid of. Or at least, the things she fears are long dead by now. 

“They clean up rather the same, in my experience.” She replies, folding her arms across her chest. “And anyway, I won’t be the one doing the cleaning, so the trouble doesn’t really lie with me.” She does feel a bit bad, for whoever will have to pick up the pieces. Though, the stranger is right. Blood would be worse. She doesn’t say it out loud, though. “But something does seem to be troubling you. Perhaps I can be some kind of assistance?” 

‌ 

He recognizes her, which he finds to be altogether disconcerting, for he’s never met Sainte Cadieux before today. But he recognizes her all the same, for while he might not be known to her, she has been known to him for quite some time by proxy of his uncle’s stories. He recalls Gaspard’s tales of a trying young girl full of grit and scrap, a near-perfect match to the outline of Medraut’s own sharp-cut mettle. His uncle, an odd duck among birds of prey, too prone to piety and compassion, always took to Medraut in a way his mother—Gaspard’s sister—never did, and much of his youth was spent meeting with Gaspard in confidence, listening to him weave together stories threaded with pearls of wisdom. Even after Medraut’s exile, Gaspard never gave him his back, and they continued to convene in the shadows of Hightown, where Gaspard would still spin stories from straw for Medraut, and where Medraut would listen keenly, content. 

After Gaspard’s undue passing, the stories stopped, but Medraut remembers each and all of them, and he remembers Sainte Cadieux, Gaspard’s greatest and most beloved pupil. Gaspard spared no detail of her, and Medraut’s not sure if it’s her eyes that tip him off, or her countenance, or the color of her hair, or the way she stands (feet braced apart, at the ready—an uncanny imitation of Gaspard’s stance)—but he recognizes her, and he’s of two minds about it: one-half awe, one-half apprehension. 

Perhaps I can be of some assistance, she says, and he considers that, head canted, eyes slitted. “Perhaps you can,” he concedes, waving a hand at the chair opposite him—an invitation to have a seat, please. He plainly sizes her up, takes in every detail of her person, and he makes no effort to be discrete about it. He wants to see if she’ll balk, squirm, shy away; he wants to see if Gaspard was wrong about her, or if the pair of them really are made of the same stuff. “Pray tell, how do you imagine someone like you might help someone like me?” He affects his voice with indifference, and he does his level best to school his expression into one of Roth-like neutrality. “What kind of assistance should you have to offer a disagreeable Chevalier with an disagreeable temperament, Cadieux?” he asks, showing her his hand. I know your name, he says in the quiet spaces between his words. I know you.

#c: sainte #l: the lion's mane #d: the fourteenth of maccius

[medrautgalant]

HECTOR

Hector doesn’t have to go asking questions– Calandre’s got better suited minds at the task– but he does anyway. He wouldn’t be entirely honest if his reasons for being here were solely to look for answers, though.

When Medraut’s outburst happens, Hector’s and everyone else’s focus is on the man who’s in the midst of a fit. But when the tension fades and Hector’s still glowering, it’s obvious that he’s got business with him. So the crowd parts for him, and Hector steps forth, casting his large shadow over an old acquaintance. “That mess?” He gestures with a tilt of his head to the little spill Medraut’s just made. “It doesn’t trouble me, no–” Hand on the hilt of his claymore, he slips into the seat opposite of Medraut. “But the one I’m looking at does.”

Cornering a snarling dog doesn’t seem like the smartest thing to do, not when it’s been long enough that it might’ve forgotten his scent. But Hector decides to poke it anyway, and it’s clear what he’s doing: sizing up someone he used to know to see where they stand. 

“They let you off your leash? So soon?”

‌ 

His eyes are still closed when a low, gravelly rasp cuts through the din of the Mane, but he doesn’t need to look up to put a name to the voice—he knows Hector Geraud by the sound of him alone, even after all these years. When he lifts his gaze to meet Hector’s, something caught halfway between fondness and caution flares in the gray-blue of his eyes, unsure if the hand extended to him is one he ought to bite. “The mighty dragon-slayer, in all his glory, troubled by a lone Chevalier?” Medraut clicks his tongue admonishingly. “Have you gone so soft in my absence, Geraud?”  

He notes with no small amusement the way Hector’s dominant hand rests on the hilt of his sword, at the ready should the ties of old friendship prove too feeble to restrain Medraut’s temper. Smart lad, Medraut thinks. 

They let you off your leash? So soon? He bristles at that, but he perhaps bristles less so than he would in answer to anyone else. There’s a long and tried and true history that exists between Hector and Medraut, one that marks Hector more friend than foe, and for perhaps this reason alone, Medraut stays his hand, checks his temper; chokes back his instinct to respond with violence. There is no real malice to be found in the fine print of Hector’s jab, and no real danger, either. 

“Too soon, evidently,” Medraut says drily, waving a hand at the splintered tankard on the floor and the ale pooling around it. “Has our Empress”—he makes a concerted effort not to say “your Empress”—“sent you to me with leash and muzzle in hand?” It’s a question as much as it’s a dare.

Question: are you here to put me back on my leash?

Dare: you can try.

#c: hector #l: the lion's mane #d: the fourteenth of maccius

[medrautgalant]

ROTH

There is an aura of change that Roth’s mind sees in his surroundings and the Chevalier has no doubt his time in Widrowem and its’ border with Celestine has somewhat contributed to that barely noticeable shift in Roth’s attitude towards his duties as a Chevalier. Roth recalls the way his grip was so tight on the sword’s handle that his knuckles turned white. Roth remembers how, back then, impressing his mentor and Calandre was all he wanted. It gave him a goal, a sense of control over his own chaotic sense of fate.

But, somewhere along the line, things changed. Or maybe he has changed. And how much, Roth can’t help but wonder. Rules and control are still at the very core of his being but regret is a powerful emotion; so much so that Roth has caught himself wondering about a life he built simply because of a connection he’d made. Years ago, he never would have doubted his life, years ago he never would have wondered if there are other means of getting that sense of control on a life that is chaotic by nature. 

The only thing that hasn’t changed, though, is his family. Although there are new worries attached to both Adraste and Medraut — worries that Roth can’t seem to put into a wording eloquent enough to get his point across (not that he’s tried to, anyway) — there is one thing that will never change about Roth and that is the clear notion that, should it be necessary, there is nothing he won’t do for either of them. And that involves putting himself between them and any danger that comes their way, even if that danger came in the form of an angry patron about to having a discussion of flying fists at The Lion’s Mane. 

Roth had told Medraut to do one simple thing, away from the chaos that could throw away all that the other Chevalier has accomplished. Yet, something told him that checking up on his brother is a necessity that he ought to catch up to and as he walks in the bar that is the eye of the storm on a night like this. Roth stands there, at the entrance, delaying any intervention until he absolutely has to. He has faith in Medraut but the people surrounding his brother? Not so much. 

And as Medraut throws his tankard across the room, Roth hurries in his direction without hesitation and he puts himself between Medraut and the man that had stood up with a fire in his eyes that meant he would soon become a problem. “Easy,” he says, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezing it, his dark eyes meeting the man’s fiery ones, “don’t even think about trying to get through me because you won’t be able to. So, how about we forget about all of this, hm? Your next two drinks are on me if you walk away right now.” His voice is stern, leaving no room for the man to try and get a different meaning from any of his words. 

An electric silence settles between Roth and Medraut’s would-be-headache. He doesn’t let go of the man’s shoulder nor does he take his eyes away from his and only when there’s evidence of the man finally calming down, does Roth relax his stance but not his hand. “Walk away,” he repeats and finally, the man breaks free, slapping Roth’s hand away. The Chevalier watches as he walks away. Only when the man is far enough and Roth’s gaze around the room causes every curious pair of eyes to finally look away does Roth finally fully relax, taking a seat next to Medraut. “I’m guessing you didn’t find anything worthwhile on your search for any clues?” His eyebrow raises, a lighter tone attached to his words — lighter than expected, though if it was anyone but Medraut (or Adraste), Roth’s attitude wouldn’t even come close to the one he has now. 

Roth keep his eyes on Medraut for a few heartbeats before he speaks again. “Are you good?” His eyes are devoid of any sort of disappointment or surprise for it’s worry that takes precedence to any other emotion Roth might have towards the situation.

As Medraut, shipwrecked, treads the tide of his emotions, caught in the eye of a storm of his own making, he looks to Roth—a lighthouse, a buoy—and he tries with all his might to swim to the shores of his patience, his serenity. It takes a little finessing, but the boiling point of Medraut’s anger deescalates to a low simmer. With keen eyes, he watches as Roth mediates the would-be brawl and places himself between Medraut and his would-be opponent. His temper has cooled a little, but his teeth are still bared, for Roth, in placing himself between two wardogs, has gambled his own safety, and Medraut, like a viper lying in wait, coils tight, ready to strike should he detect any intention to harm Roth. He rises to his feet, eyes tracking the scene unfolding before him with predatory acumen. Medraut is a markedly more frightening at his full height than he is folded in a chair, and the man, to his credit, balks a little.

Medraut’s drive to protect the person he loves most in this world stirs the dark thing that lives within him, and shadows pass over his face in a way that makes him look more man than monster, more nightmare than dream. 

When Roth begins talking to the man, he almost—almost—feels a little sorry for the poor bastard, for he knows well what it’s like to fall prey to the stern whip of his reprimand, and he knows better yet that when Roth commands an audience, there’s little choice but to oblige, to fall in line. Medraut isn’t sure if it’s the promise of violence in his eyes that placates his adversary or the promise of peace in Roth’s eyes, but eventually, the man relents, and he retreats to his companions to lick his wounds. 

With Roth no longer at the helm of any present danger, Medraut releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding and sinks back into his chair, shoulders sagging. When the dust has settled and Roth at last deigns to speak to Medraut, his voice is imbued with good humor, each of his words inflected with something light and airy—and Medraut’s chest aches in answer. He knows that this sort of gentleness from Roth, who prides himself on law and order, and who is famed for his strict methods, is rare (though perhaps less so where Medraut is concerned). How many times has Roth had to soften the edges of his bark for Medraut’s benefit? How many times has Roth had to walk on the eggshells of Medraut’s temper? How many times has Roth had to expertly navigate the labyrinth of Medraut’s emotions? How many rules has he bent for Medraut? How many exceptions has he made? How many punches has he pulled? How many?

Too many, he thinks, and the answer comes to him in his mother’s voice, reedy and cold and full of disdain.

Disappointment and frustration make a home in his the hollow of his chest, filling the empty space there to the brim until he feels as though he’s splitting at the seams, coming undone. Roth’s kindness, the unprecedented care with which he handles Medraut, only escalates his disappointment, his frustration. “Your guess would be correct,” he says through clenched teeth. He can’t quite bring himself to look Roth in the eye, not just yet. He knows better than this—Roth taught him better than this. But returning to Val Faim has awoken something dormant within him, a gnarled, writhing viciousness that he’s not known since his days caught in the clutches of the Underworld. “This is a wild goose chase,” he says, voice strained. “You know as well as I that we’ll only find dead ends here.” He pauses, and a heaviness fills up the air between them, charged with something electric. “The Underworld”—he spits the words—“no doubt has the answers we need.”

Teeming with unchecked anger, he bristles at Roth’s concern. He feels as though he’s let Roth down, somehow, like he’s failed to live up the man—not the monster—he raised him to be, and he can’t stomach the shame of it all. “I’m fine,” he snaps, feeling suddenly too vulnerable, too turbulent, stuck too deep in the quicksand of his emotions. He inhales and exhales through his nose once, twice, three times, and then, once he’s regained some of his faculties, he at last lifts his eyes to meet Roth’s. “I’m fine,” he says again, only this time, he gentles the sharp cut of his voice, and his words, between the lines, are imbued with the fine print of love, honesty, apology. “I am fine,” he promises, and he hopes the words ring true, because Roth has enough to loose sleep over without adding Medraut’s stability (or sudden lack thereof) to the tally. Switching gears, he affects his face and voice with levity, and a faint smile hooks one corner of his mouth. “I’d be a far sight better if we were in Widrowem. Shall we go fetch Adraste and steal away under the cover the night? Perhaps no one will note our absence...” It’s a joke, of course, but he wishes it wasn’t.

#c: roth #l: the lion's mane #d: the fourteenth of maccius #I Would Die For Roth Babin #and so would medraut :/

[medrautgalant]

date: the twelfth of maccius  location: the azure quarter closed to: @iseultrayne

The moment his heel meets the soil of Val Faim, the string knotted between him and Iseult Rayne pulls taut, and Medraut’s feet carry him to the Azure Quarter by virtue of muscle memory alone. For as long as Medraut can remember, since the day the Underworld spat him out and swallowed Iseult whole, and perhaps even before then, the two of them have always woven in and out of each other’s lives, two planets destined always to be in each other’s orbit, if not at times eclipsed by new moons and new beginnings. 

He returns to Iseult now, hours after Matthieu’s less-than-hospitably-received welcome wagon, pulled by that string that binds them, a cord of iron severed not by time or circumstance, or anything in between. Medraut will always grieve their divergence of paths, and he will always begrudge Iseult his allegiance to the Underworld, his inborn belonging to it. He will, he thinks, always carry a small torch for his resentment, kept alight by the festering wound of his pride. But so, too, he thinks, will Iseult always be beloved to him, by him, for he is as much a brother to Medraut as Roth. Iseult has known Medraut in all his colors, in all his shades of self, and he has loved them each and all.

The smell of sea salt and dried fish carries on a sweeping gale, and Medraut’s eyes rove over the faces of those who bustle around him, some masked, some not. He knows that Iseult will be masked—by virtue of their career, if nothing else—but that’s no matter; Medraut could pick Iseult out of a line of masks and hoods and robes, with naught but the color and shape of their eyes to recognize them by.

But he doesn’t see those eyes, not anywhere, and his shoulders sag with the weight of his disappointment. His heel is half-turned when something gold-plated and familiar snags his attention: a coin—a lucky coin, Medraut knows—expertly twirled to and fro between knuckles and long, deft fingers. He fondly recalls watching Iseult maneuver that very same coin in a way that always sort of hypnotized Medraut, pacified him, like a teething-ring for the sharp bite of his temper. Moved by the fever of his excitement, he surges forward—and stops dead in his tracks. The eyes beneath the mask are foreign to him, as lifeless and harrowing as the Obsidienne. 

Confusion and frustration strike him cold and hot, respectively, and though he ought to exercise some measure of sound judgment, though he ought to think before acting, he has always been ruled by the tide of his emotions, and so he falls prey to them. In this moment, he knows only two things: those eyes do not belong to Iseult Rayne, and that coin does. The reins of his temper slip far out of his reach, and with bared teeth, his hand lashes out whip-quick and snatches up the coin mid-pirouette. “Where did you get this?” he all but snarls, sounding more animal than man, and looking just so.

#c: iseult #d: the twelfth of maccius #l: the azure quarter #[softly] what the fuck

[medrautgalant]

date: the seventeenth of maccius location: the empressian gardens closed to: @ofmichel

As he completes his fifth lap around the winding path of the gardens, keeping a pace swift enough to outrun most of Calandre’s guards, Medraut considers the appeal of the Summer Palace grounds. The gardens make for a fine backdrop, he supposes: blooms of rosemary and sage and iris, lines of flowerbeds that stretch on and on, lush sprawls of green. They make for a fine stomping grounds for his morning jogs, too, but it all seems a little...monotonous. He longs for the seascape of Widrowem, for the smells and sounds and sights of it, and when he turns a corner to find Michel Fortin standing at the threshold of the gardens, arms crossed, his longing to be someplace far, far away from Val Faim grows tenfold.

His mind’s eye transports him to the slums of Hightown fourteen years ago. He recalls the hard, stern set of Michel’s mouth; it hasn’t changed. He recalls that unnamable air about him—the way authority rolls from him in waves, the way he commands a room; that hasn’t changed, either. He doesn’t recall Michel Fortin looking so...weary—but he supposes a promotion from Summer Palace guard to Commander of the Imperial Army has its costs, and repose is no doubt one of them. Little has changed about Michel, save for the shadows burgeoning beneath his eyes, and Medraut wonders, idly, what Michel sees when he looks at him. Does he see the same Underworld castaway he knew all those years ago—vicious and feral, more monster than man? Does he see the well-groomed Chevalier he now knows little of—still a little vicious, but not so feral, and decidedly more man than monster? Does he see shades of the two blended together, a composite of all the lives he’s lived?

As he closes in on Michel, his pace slows, and by the time Medraut reaches him, his gait is lax, unhurried (his heels are practically digging into the limestone underfoot). Always on his guard, and thrice so when in the company of Calandre’s best and brightest wardogs, he comes to a halt a few feet away from Michel, chest heaving in tandem with the labor of each breath he gulps down. “Commander Fortin,” he huffs by way of greeting. He bows his head deferentially, and his pride bristles in answer. “It would seem I’m a far sight easier to catch these days than I was in my youth.” He makes a concerted to affect his voice with congeniality, a charade of good humor, but his body language knows not how to lie, and his unease shows in the set of his jaw, the tight line of his shoulders. “Pray tell, what have I done to merit your company?” he asks. The question is meant to sound flip, but the pitch and tone of his voice are all wrong, garbled by his disquiet. He tries his hand at levity again. “Is this a friendly visit, Commander, or are you here to drag me to the gallows for old times’ sake?”

#:) #c: michel #d: the seventeenth of maccius #l: the empressian gardens #tw death mention #medraut: [tries to break the ice with humor] #also medraut: remember when you almost got me hanged a decade ago??? lol

[medrautgalant]

date: the fourteenth of maccius location: the lion’s mane open to: all

Impatience, thy name is Medraut Galant.

Espionage is so mundane, all work and no play, and Medraut hasn’t the faintest idea why Roth would send him to gather intel and sniff out Amelie’s whereabouts when the veteran Chevalier’s well of patience runs thrice deeper than his own. If he thinks too long on it, he’ll no doubt connect the dots of Roth’s design, and will see with clarity the blueprints of his intentions: mercy culminated in a sly attempt to keep Medraut occupied while also keeping him far, far away from the eye of the storm that nearly swallowed him whole all those years ago. For this reason, he doesn’t think too long on it.

Cloaks and daggers have never become him, and though he sits at a lone table in a dark corner of the Mane, and though shadows limn his person, and though he’s dressed in shades of black and gray, there’s a kind of restlessness that rolls from him in waves, one that conspicuously marks him as unbelonging to this place, these people, this city. He's ill at ease, too unfocused to convincingly break bread with the Mane’s patrons and ply their tongues loose. With a quiet huff of frustration, he surveys the room for what must be the thousandth time, searching for clues hidden in plain sight. He knows he’ll find none, not here, not anywhere in Val Faim. In the marrow of his bones pulses a truth that he’s loath to swallow: there’s only one place in Celestine where secrets grow like weeds, and his stomach turns at the thought of returning to his motherland. 

Impatiently, he drums his fingers against the tabletop, eyes tracking the sea of faces before him, trying in vain to find the devil in the details. His gaze drifts to the right and snags on the two bruisers circling each other in the Mane’s makeshift ring, knuckles bloody, teeth bared. Longing colors Medraut’s eyes a brighter shade of blue, and without meaning to, he leans closer to the ring. An itch that he can’t scratch pulls the skin of his arms and hands taut, and he clenches his fists to ward off the restlessness of them, the draw to violence, the hunger for it. 

“Amelie!” he hears a girl shout, and his head snaps to the left, eyes scanning the crowd. The Amelie in question embraces her summoner, and when she turns to greet her other companions, Medraut can see that she bears no resemblance to his Amelie, not by any stretch of the imagination. It’s a dead end, as he knew it would be: another fruitless lead. This is useless, he thinks. There’s nothing to be found here. Only in the Underworld will he find fruit ripe for harvest. 

He teeters on the tightrope of his emotions, legs wobbling, one misstep away from falling right into the waiting maw of his anger. Only in the Underworld. Only in the Underworld. Only in the Underworld. Prone to intense emotion, and cursed to always be moved by it, his frustration reaches its boiling point, and he finds himself caught too deep in the quicksand of his anger to tread it. With an angry swipe of his arm, he swears colorfully and hurls his tankard of ale at the wall to his left. The wood of the tankard splinters, clattering to the floor in pieces, and a spray of ale rains on the table adjacent to the wall. The patrons nearest to him huff and puff in equal parts surprise and outrage, and he earns some sidelong glances from others across the room, but none are brave enough (or stupid enough) to approach Calandre’s wardog, who everyone knows is keen to bite any hand, even those that try to feed him. Only one person, it seems, has the gall to step forward: a looming figure that he can sense more than see, for his eyes remain shut tight, the bridge of his nose pinched between his thumb and forefinger as he tries to recollect the reins of his temper. “If it’s the mess that troubles you,” he bites out, voice scathing, “thank Odeline it’s only spilt ale, and not spilt blood.” And not your spilt blood, he doesn’t say.

#faimstarter #d: the fourteenth of maccius #tw violence #l: the lion's mane #tw blood #this is only long bc of context so feel free to shorten!! #ur chara can be one of the people who got splashed from the tankard of ale #or someone looking to fight #or someone looking to DIFFUSE a potential fight #or just an observer #whatever floats ur boat!!!!

[medrautgalant]

MEDRAUT GALANT

thirty-one, he/him, chevalier, portrayed by luca marinelli, written by jem (twenty-six, she/her)

ABOUT / BIOGRAPHY / SKELETON / APPLICATION / CONNECTIONS

#faimintro #sorry in avdance for this Cursed man #ur welcome in advance for luca #connections will be up later today!! #*also fixed the about link so u can read it now SDFJSDF #brain empty :/