|
Post by SIR PERCIVAL BLAKENEY on Aug 28, 2015 12:08:40 GMT
Percy was stood outside the forecourt of the Palais De Justice. It seemed like an eternity ago he had infiltrated its walls in order to rescue The Comte and Comtesse de Tournay and their daughter, but perhaps soon he would be doing it again. He felt a thrill of excitement shoot through him, a part of him loathed the quiet life. He loved the thrill of a puzzle, of confounding the Frenchies and jumping off high walls into haystacks. He knew he wasn’t as young as he once was, but he wasn’t dead either. He noted, from his position by one of the market stalls, that there seemed to be double the guards at the entrance.
It would appear they also sensed the rumbles from the people; they were directly in the eye of the storm. Percy knew he would be ready, for when the storm would finally arrive. The league were restless, many felt the way he did. It had been too long; too long had they sat in their fine halls, while the France took a downward spiral. Percy, walked slowly along the market place, he was dressed down, well as dressed down as he could be for Percy. Less colour meant he was less likely to attract as much attention as Sir Percy tended to. He was wearing his black full length coat, buttoned up to his crisp white cravat. Smart and simple.
The market place was busy and there seemed to be a small gang of young people gathering around the entrance of the gates, no doubt a group gathering to protest one of the governments many actions. Protests here were not uncommon. Percy recalled a few years ago when it was popular among the people to dress dummies in fine gowns and burn them outside the Palais. It was a protest against the aristocracy. Percy wondered if there would ever be peace in France, the fighting seemed to have been going on for so long. Percy was only grateful that England upheld the rights of its people, although England itself could be doing more for France. Percy flicked a silver coin at one of the stall owners and pocketed one of the pies for sale. No doubt it was cat…he chuckled to himself, Sir Andrew had been moaning about the lack of good food, well his reaction to the pie would certainly keep Percy in good spirits for the rest of the day.
Being back in Paris filled Percy with a sense of accomplishment; this is what he was born to do. To make a difference in people’s lives, a small difference maybe, but a difference all the same. The break from league work had been a long one, he originally thought that stopping the work was what he wanted, but after a few months the novelty of the break had worn off and he became restless. He loved the thrill of the job and the satisfaction that came with it. Zounds! He was the Pimpernel! The Pimpernel didn’t rest and he was at the top of his game. Why stop helping the people of France when there were Frenchies to confound?
template by eliza @ TB & SP
|
|
|
Post by AZELMA THENARDIER on Sept 5, 2015 1:04:01 GMT
Azelma sat, tucked up in one corner of the old--and filthy--garret she shared with her father, her mother, and her sister. An equally old, equally tattered, and equally filthy doll--the same one that caused the upset all those years ago between that little girl and she and her sister, though Zel barely remembered that--sat on her lap. Her eyes were closed, and she was dozing, nearly asleep, propped up against the wall. The fingers of her left hand were in her mouth, and every now and then she sucked them, sometimes waking herself up. She blinked, peering around the room, and finding herself alone, Azelma cuddled the doll closer and resumed her nap.
The previous evening, Papa had whipped her, soundly, because she'd knocked into his mug of gin, and spilled it all over the just-finished stack of begging-letters. The paper was old, and thin, the ink cheap and poorly made, and before she could blink, most of the letters were little more than a soggy mess. She told herself she deserved her punishment. Of course she deserved it. Those letters were what kept her family in clothes--threadbare and thin as they were--and food--never mind that it was usually several days old, and sometime rotted or spoilt by the time they got hold of it--and a house--or a room, in any case, with a window, and a chair, and a fireplace, and two beds, and a roof and four walls besides, which was far better than some of the places they'd lived.
Zel told herself all that, but the strap still stung, and she'd cried--though she tried not to, as that only made Papa more cross, and more likely to keep hitting her till she stopped--and Papa had shouted at her, called her stupid, and useless and clumsy, and that hurt even more than the thrashing he gave her. After, Mama had held her, and kissed her, and said not to mind her father, he was only old and cross, like a grumpy old bear. That had made her giggle, but quietly, and into her mother's shoulder, and she'd spent the night curled up next to her mother on one of their little pallets.
The next morning, everybody scattered, but Zel stayed behind. Her back still hurt, and anyway, she hadn't slept well last night--Mama snored though she'd never tell her this--and a whole day to herself, with nobody around to scold or question, was wonderful. Of course, she wouldn't have minded if Eponine stayed behind, too, but her sister had her own comings and goings, and sometimes these didn't include Azelma, That wasn't nice, Zel thought, but, for today in any case, she wasn't up to trailing Ponine through Paris's slums.
She'd spent most of the day in the corner she now sat in, sleeping or talking with Madeleine, the doll. Waking once more, she stretched, pushing herself to her feet. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she'd not eaten since yesterday--and that only some stale, hard bread. Tucking Madeleine under her arm, Azelma crossed to the door. She wedged her feet into her boots--they were men's boots, really, and at least two sizes too big for her feet, but, stuffed with rags, they did alright, and sometimes were warm besides. Grabbing her mantle--little more than a coarse blanket--she threw it over her shoulders and went out.
Perhaps somebody could be found who would give her enough money for a bit of bread, or maybe even a whole pastry. She was very good at looking pitiful. Her parents had taught her well. There was bound to be some kind soul on the streets of Paris today, surely. Humming to herself, Azelma walked, hunting for a benefactor.
It wasn't often that she ventured down by the Palias. Truth be told, she avoided it if at all possible. But she was hungry--very hungry--and there were people there who sold good. Maybe she could distract one of them long enough to knick something. Ponine was better at that than she was but it couldn't be that hard. Right? She spotted the msn first. He looked like a gentleman of some sort, though not a lord or anything so grand. Maybe a very rich merchant then. Maybe he would give her some money and she wouldn't have to try to pinch anything. That would be better. Easier. Then she saw the pastry he held and licked her lips. Perhaps he could convince him to give it to her. A pickpocket she was, and a good one, but taking things out of somebody's hand? That was impossible.
She walked up to him, reaching up to tug on bs coat. "Excuse me, Monsieur? Could you spare a coin?" She pointed to the pastry seller. "I'd like to buy one." people were funny about money. Most of them would rather give food or clothes,mor whatever else they thought the person needed. Anything but coins, which might be spent on who knew what. She wasn't the type to buy gin with good money, but she might've bought sweets. For now though, all she wanted was the pastry.
|
|
|
Post by SIR PERCIVAL BLAKENEY on Sept 9, 2015 18:16:52 GMT
Percy's blue eyes scanned the gates once more, what he really needed was to know when and how often they changed the guards. He could probably get one of the younger league members to keep watch, but Percy was doubtful they would do the job properly. The young men mean't well, but were far too easily distracted. He knew if he sent Charles, he'd probably spend half the afternoon chasing a pretty skirt and come back bashful and apologetic at his lack of information. It really wouldn't do.
Percy felt a slight tug at his long tail coat and he whipped around as quick as you could say Pimpernel! His strong hand shooting out to catch the hand of the perpetrator. There were far too many pickpockets around and frankly he didn't fancy loosing any of his belongings to nimble fingers. He was surprised to see the hand belonged to a young girl, he'd been expecting a boy with a cheeky smile and a poor excuse. Things weren't too different in London and Percy did what he could to support the lower classes, he gave to his charities like a good gentleman.
'Zounds Child!' Percy exclaimed loudly, his eyes darting around for signs of other little hands. If there was one there was no doubt another. 'Do I look like a charitable gentleman?' he asked, waving his hand in his usual foppish Sir Percy manner. He couldn't see any other suspicious children lurking, but that didn't mean they weren't there.
He took a long sigh, as if the whole affair was extremely tiresome for him, 'here have a coin...' he yawned, leaning down to hand her a shiny coin. It was at that moment a thought ocurred to him. He really was ingenious, he thought smugly.
'How do you fancy earning yourself another one of these?' he asked, 'Can you tell the time girl?' he whispered as he gave her a coin. 'You can earn yourself more of these if you can run some small errands for me' he explained.
template by eliza @ TB & SP
|
|