cesare • borgia (
caditquaestio) wrote in
eachdraidh2014-08-20 08:52 pm
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video / action (?) | open to all
[ It's all misery footage, Caer Glaem in paltry glory: rammed gates, scratched walls, torn stone, upturned soil, roughened up trees. The locket's coverage pauses on each 'tourist attraction' from a high vantage point, briefly stumbling on hands that are exceedingly worn, blistered and bitten. ]
What has... what's... wrought this? How many dead does the court mourn, how many supplies were lost to - to enemy unknown?
[ A pause, then less startled, slightly cold. ]
...how do they wish us to make war upon each other, if they give siege first? Not the finest general, not the most accomplished tactician can devise strategy against Anaximander's unknown. Not Caesar - Caesar, who had little gain from the Gauls without paying the blood price, but at least he knew what enemy lay in wait.
And we? Look here. Remember this next you think the time is nigh to fight well and fight fairly: we are not armed with weapon or knowledge. We are played for puppets, and when our masters go without their laughs, our strings are cut.
[ Muttered. ]
'Lawkamercyme'. Hah. We do not even know what the word means, or who gave it to us for the telling.
[ ooc: ...and lo, amuch belated, for RL KO'd, APOLOGIES! wild intruder appears in the Seelie court! He's given up his war declaration in favour of sheer horror at Ariadne's mad interior decorating skillz. Those who'd like to run into a Borgia need but look for the 'worker' who's... probably... holding... the tools by the wrong end. ]
What has... what's... wrought this? How many dead does the court mourn, how many supplies were lost to - to enemy unknown?
[ A pause, then less startled, slightly cold. ]
...how do they wish us to make war upon each other, if they give siege first? Not the finest general, not the most accomplished tactician can devise strategy against Anaximander's unknown. Not Caesar - Caesar, who had little gain from the Gauls without paying the blood price, but at least he knew what enemy lay in wait.
And we? Look here. Remember this next you think the time is nigh to fight well and fight fairly: we are not armed with weapon or knowledge. We are played for puppets, and when our masters go without their laughs, our strings are cut.
[ Muttered. ]
'Lawkamercyme'. Hah. We do not even know what the word means, or who gave it to us for the telling.
[ ooc: ...and lo, a
no subject
Yeah. Better if you get the hang of it yourself, though.
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[ More laughter, easily lent. He can afford the one allowance.
What he can't afford, however, is extended ignorance. He looks up from his tool, eyes wide and innocent and just a little glazed by the fatigue of long travel. ]
...forgive me. I failed to take your name. The fault is with me entirely.
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Ben Hawkins.
[he remembers when they first spoke, cesare had assumed he took care of hawks. maybe some recognition will hit him this time around.]
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...there it is. The hawker.
Yes, it all ties together now, knots well. The voice, the manner. And does the hawker know he is Ce - Valentino? Perhaps not. He has not greeted, and their world is not yet so hostile that a stranger would refrain from his courtesies. And yet, there're men more used to searching the lockets than Cesare is, men who have similar devices in their world, men who know a voice in transmission as the same in true life, because the similarities are frail.
Does the hawker know him?
It's a gamble, really. He goes with the smile, sheepish. ]
...are you! How extraordinary. I... I'm afraid I - you remember me, yes? If you think? I - just now I gave you - you must understand, when you travel on enemy ground, it's no good telling -
[ And whispered: ]
It's me - Valentino.
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he presses his lips together, and his voice is much more flat that usual, as if he's trying to reel in his anger. (it's not working).]
I know who you are.
[and he wants to have a little chat with you, cesare.]
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Cesare Borgia has survived his would-be assassins; perhaps it is time for Valentino Masi to know his first.
He has, again, options: throw the trowel, show himself a friend, coax talk and good humour. Wager on that chance.
Or (and this he does), keep the tool-now-weapon close and let the smile speak his lies for him. ]
Do you.
[ How gracious, when Cesare himself begins to forget. ]
Shall we walk, friend?
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ben is really no good with fights in the first place unless he's got a weapon and unsuspecting people. he doesn't like to fight unless it's necessary. he's hoping it doesn't come to that, no matter how much he just wants to punch cesare in the face.]
Fine.
[he motions with his hand toward the halls behind him.]
Lead the way.
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But a Borgia is nothing if not courteous (the conditional, now: when wanting something), so he does lead, heading not through the halls, where too many guards might wait, but to the nearby patios. ]
I've seen the harm that's found your court.
[ He hesitates. ]
My sympathies. It's... no kindness to the foreigner's eye. I cannot imagine what it is to you. What it must be like to live here.
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he takes cesare's sympathetic words with a grain of salt.]
Why are you here?
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I'm a courier. I brought a message.
[ How own message, needlessly delivered. Details. ]
Earned a little coin. You know how these things go. It's the trade.
[ And he laughs, twirling once in place. Excited. He's so very honoured and privileged an excited, as any meagre courier should be before the Seelie sight. ]
But it's my first time to visit, so I thought to learn the lay of the land, greet a few familiar faces.
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You ain't even supposed to be over here.
[as far as he knows, anyway. he could grab a guard if he really wanted, but he won't, because he knows he needs to figure out what cesare is really doing in caer glaem. plus, snitching is bad.]
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I'm not.
[ He shrugs evenly, causally. Practised.
And he resumes his step. ]
What would you have me say? I know what they do to my sort here.
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what would have happened if ben hadn't caught sight of cesare struggling with a tool? what are his plans here?]
I don't care. You stay away from Alayne, you hear?
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A number of immediate retorts, all suited for children's play, but in the end he favours honest: a frown, a shrug, complete dismissal. ]
...her. Yes. I'm afraid the tide's turned. We're no longer to marry. I -
[ He pauses. No. She's stubborn and irksome and a fool, but to say a girl - and a bastard at that - was rejected for matrimony is to ruin all her prospects. He's not so cruel. ]
She refused me. Well, what can I say to that? Her father's a lord, so... it stands that she wouldn't concern herself with the likes of me. [ And then, lightly. ] You should have said you meant to court her.
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Court her? She's a friend. You don't got no right talkin' like that.
[he closes a bit of distance between them, if not to just suggest an intimidation technique.]
You harassed her. That's ain't right. You just mind your own business and keep away.
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But it is not Valente's pride that took the wound, and when Cesare's hand does come up, it's in objection. ]
...harassed her? Hold. The girl never discouraged or made intention clear. She even spoke to me of how to court her in the way of her people.
[ Clever bits of cold recollection, voice firm. ]
Put anything at my door, but not that she was forced. I have mother and sister. I do not press women.
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Don't lie to me.
[he wants to protect her, to make sure she is safe, away from harm's way.
especially away from cesare. he had his doubts at first, and his doubts are definitely being confirmed. he'll hold sansa's word high over cesare's.
one his hands, still hanging at his side, spreads out, fingers straight and palm facing the floor; a "stop" sign indirectly made at the man in front of him.]
What business you got here ain't none of mine. Just don't be talkin' to Alayne no more. She don't want nothin' to do with you.
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And this one yaps on.
He should walk past. Leave. The Hawker's scolded, and men who give you words don't give you violence. There is nothing to fear here. He takes the step forward -
- and stops before Ben's hand, bringing his to meet it, palm on palm, finger on finger.
Whispered, then. ]
You tire me.
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swiftly, his hands retreat up and he pivots his right foot behind him to brace himself before he shoves cesare, palms on his chest so fast and so hard that he's glad he braced himself (he would have stumbled back a bit if he hadn't).]
Don't touch me.
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Stumbling back until he recovers balance, he makes for his waist to bring out - what? Cloth? Dagger? Cloth... dagger... cloth... dagger...
Cloth wins. His hand comes away with kerchief, carefully embroidered with thread of gold. A woman gifted it - the excuse is unspoken, but immediate, ready should it be asked. He frowns vaguely at the dead white thing in his hand. No, not 'a woman.' The token is too expensive. Don Lorenzo's own wife, for good service to her man. Better.
And then he holds it out. ]
Wipe yourself [ Grudgingly - ] The fault is mine.
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No.
[he brushes past cesare, which is, perhaps, not the best idea since he's giving him so many openings to hit him back, but he doesn't care. being around the guy makes his stomach churn. he's never met someone so fake.]
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And, insult on injury, the man passes right by him.
He thinks to trip him. Beat him down. Use the dagger for his advantage, call this to an end.
And doesn't, in the end, only whispering as he starts to walk the other way. ]
Very well, sir. Let us not meet again.
[ Else Cesare's cuts won't be the only blood shed between them. ]