((The following is adapted from play with Alain DeMuer and Solange LeClerc))
The wind finally began to unsettle the tidy chignon at the base of Solange's neck. She had hastily pinned her heavy brunette locks early this morning while en route to Rhydin's West End and House DeMuer. The Attach? had planned on finishing her international relations tour on behalf of Baron DeMuer with a visit and brief stay in St. Aldwin, but rumors of some sort of disturbance in Rhydin had cut her itinerary short.
She had been not quite enjoying an enlivened discussion on the merits of the taxation of various luxury imports and the impact it would have on the national production and exportation of cultured pearls with an Envoy of Mayence and the Vice-Consul of Santiago, when an urgent message was delivered to her via a silver-tray wielding butler. Thankfully, she excused herself from the debate and retired to a private parlor to open the envelope. It was from her steward who had been running errands for her. He had heard disturbing gossip surrounding Alain DeMuer and assassination attempts in Rhydin's West End. He had told her as much in the letter that was nearly left on the carpeted floor, Solange could barely hang onto it. She had hastily offered her regrets of having to leave and made an excuse about a dying grandmother. The men were heartsick, and offered every condolence, as well as several escorts. While Solange expertly accepted their sentiments, she declined the escorts.
The past day was once more replayed in her head as her heels began to sink into the soft soil that surrounded the concrete blocks and piles of lumber. Solange's first stop had been Alain's primary residence at House DeMuer, which turned up empty until she was told to look for him here, at this construction site. She thought, at first, that it must be a joke; surely the Baron would not be employed in such manual labor. But before the long-legged Attach? could even finish her contemplation, she knew he probably would be here. Alain was never afraid to get his hands dirty; neither literally or figuratively. He had been that way ever since Solange had first met him all those years ago back in Nouveau Bretagne.
Her hand brushed a stray lock of hair away from her carefully rouged cheek as she strained to find his familiar form. It was obvious that her wardrobe, as it often was, was not conducive to hunting a working construction zone for someone. The white silk crepe suit was starting to accumulate dust around the hemline of its pencil skirt, and the heels of her satin covered pumps were no longer the demure Ceylon blue, but dark gray instead. Twice had she nearly stumbled, only to catch herself on a nearby pile of lumber, the last time, practically destroying the pearl bracelet on her right hand. The sun was high in the mid-afternoon sky, Solange lifted her fingers to her finely shaped brows' level. The longer she went without seeing Alain, the quicker her pulse raced. The violent and bloody flashbacks of Nouveau Bretagne were coming too furiously for her usual calm demeanor to placate.
"Alain?" She caught herself, "Lord DeMuer?" Her heels were now the color of the dirt beneath them; still, she trudged onward.
A taller man, who did little to hide his surprise and joy at seeing someone of Solange's carriage in a place like this, grinned at her before pointing a burly finger toward the western area of the site. "He's over there, M'am," came the words followed almost immediately by a juvenile giggle that he wished he could have sucked back into his mouth.
Feeling suddenly as if she could breathe again, she smiled at the man and nodded her thanks before setting off in that direction. The wind picked up again, the sides of her suit blew back to reveal the gentle blue of the thin cashmere shell she wore beneath her jacket. "Lord DeMuer?" she was closing in on a figure that she would have walked right past had she come this way first.
"Please, it's Alain," came the reply before he had even turned around. In spite of her familiar Newbreton accent the young man had forgotten her voice - written correspondence was more regular, but when had the last time been that they spoke on the phone? Last spring? The winter before that?
The man who turned to face her had aged ten years in the five since he'd arrived in RhyDin, but other than a few new scars he still looked like Alain DeMuer. He'd been working at a table saw, and his safety goggles and a copious amount of sawdust still kept her from view. "What can I do for you..." He paused when he finally pulled off his goggles, and a tentative smile crept onto his face. "...Solange? I heard you were coming, but I barely believed it."
She was taken aback at first. This was not the boy she remembered leaving. At least, that was how she had perceived him. To her, he was a stubborn boy who had, as yet, to realize his potential, his power, his providence. In the span of time that it took Alain to face Solange, he had grown from the youngest of the D'Mourrir males to the Baron DeMuer that was taking this region by storm, the organizer and, some would argue, savior of the near countless refugees who came to call this corner of the world "home." He was no longer the headstrong young man who continually clashed with her on issues of politics, policy and semantics. Here was a man who understood his mission, who embraced his calling and who just might have the pluck to pull it off.
Three years ago this land had a single village, Esp?rance, and Teobern remained a ruin. Now it had grown to well over thirty thousand souls, and the progress could be seen all around them: the sea to the east was covered liberally by the white sails of countless trade ships, and to the north the old city of Teobern had grown into something new, townhouses and warehouses and office buildings and stone streets stretching here to the final remaining expanse of ruins. What could not be saved or reused from the old elvish city had been demolished, five enormous piles of white stone rubble a testimony to their destruction, and now that enough space was cleared for the new settlers, they built.
Here the latest group of Newbretons would live, another hundred fleeing the increasing tempo toward global war on their home world, along with more than three hundred Uplanders and Vrasheen who could have been from the Hindu Kush by looks alone, and a growing number of Cantanovians whose olive skin could have placed them in Italy, if not for the fine points to their ears. But these were not the only races present at the site, not when one counted all the volunteers and hired contractors: the Aurks, like slender elvish-built orcs with pale green skin and small tusks, half-elves, gnomes, dwarves, and what looked like three blue-skinned men, each gifted with four arms.
Alain reached a hand out for Solange before he got a good look at it (it was filthy); he thought better of the offer and just smiled. "Welcome home."
The softened breeze pulled at her now almost untidy chignon, tendrils swirling about her pink rouged cheeks. Solange didn't know whether to embrace him or shake him. She was more than relieved to find him not only unharmed, but seemingly unaffected by any of the rumors that had made it to her attention. He was not dead, nor recovering from any assassination, nor in the midst of an uprising. So many stories had found her ears since she decided to hurry home; her all too vivid memories of the bloody assassination of the Lord-Chancellor back in Nouveau Bretagne all those years ago were drudged up mercilessly.
She didn't even notice the grime of his palm as it was offered to her. Instead, she reached out quickly before Alain had completely retracted it. She needed to touch him and make sure he was indeed there. Manicured fingers clutched at his hand as her breath caught. He was there, he was fine. Black lacquered lashes closed only briefly as she exhaled, a moment's weakness in the steely resolve of the political Attach?. "You're..." she paused to gather her mental strength and her wits. Swallowing, her gaze leveled on his hand in hers. "You're filthy." As if awakening from a dream, Solange took an instant to survey her surroundings. She was in the midst of a work zone, with dust, dirt and debris churning around her. Her polished heels were half-deep in mud, her hair was nearly fallen, her blazer was being pulled at ruthlessly, and Alain was slathered in sweat and the work of the day. But he was alive.
Alain and Solange's history had been troubled in the past, but as she had noted, the boy had grown into a man, and he was happy to see an old friend. Though perhaps with a touch of the old mischief he'd turned on her in the past, he used her grip on his filthy hand to step in closer and press a kiss to her cheek. "Yes, I'm filthy... but I'm also okay. And I'm glad you've come home."
The wind finally began to unsettle the tidy chignon at the base of Solange's neck. She had hastily pinned her heavy brunette locks early this morning while en route to Rhydin's West End and House DeMuer. The Attach? had planned on finishing her international relations tour on behalf of Baron DeMuer with a visit and brief stay in St. Aldwin, but rumors of some sort of disturbance in Rhydin had cut her itinerary short.
She had been not quite enjoying an enlivened discussion on the merits of the taxation of various luxury imports and the impact it would have on the national production and exportation of cultured pearls with an Envoy of Mayence and the Vice-Consul of Santiago, when an urgent message was delivered to her via a silver-tray wielding butler. Thankfully, she excused herself from the debate and retired to a private parlor to open the envelope. It was from her steward who had been running errands for her. He had heard disturbing gossip surrounding Alain DeMuer and assassination attempts in Rhydin's West End. He had told her as much in the letter that was nearly left on the carpeted floor, Solange could barely hang onto it. She had hastily offered her regrets of having to leave and made an excuse about a dying grandmother. The men were heartsick, and offered every condolence, as well as several escorts. While Solange expertly accepted their sentiments, she declined the escorts.
The past day was once more replayed in her head as her heels began to sink into the soft soil that surrounded the concrete blocks and piles of lumber. Solange's first stop had been Alain's primary residence at House DeMuer, which turned up empty until she was told to look for him here, at this construction site. She thought, at first, that it must be a joke; surely the Baron would not be employed in such manual labor. But before the long-legged Attach? could even finish her contemplation, she knew he probably would be here. Alain was never afraid to get his hands dirty; neither literally or figuratively. He had been that way ever since Solange had first met him all those years ago back in Nouveau Bretagne.
Her hand brushed a stray lock of hair away from her carefully rouged cheek as she strained to find his familiar form. It was obvious that her wardrobe, as it often was, was not conducive to hunting a working construction zone for someone. The white silk crepe suit was starting to accumulate dust around the hemline of its pencil skirt, and the heels of her satin covered pumps were no longer the demure Ceylon blue, but dark gray instead. Twice had she nearly stumbled, only to catch herself on a nearby pile of lumber, the last time, practically destroying the pearl bracelet on her right hand. The sun was high in the mid-afternoon sky, Solange lifted her fingers to her finely shaped brows' level. The longer she went without seeing Alain, the quicker her pulse raced. The violent and bloody flashbacks of Nouveau Bretagne were coming too furiously for her usual calm demeanor to placate.
"Alain?" She caught herself, "Lord DeMuer?" Her heels were now the color of the dirt beneath them; still, she trudged onward.
A taller man, who did little to hide his surprise and joy at seeing someone of Solange's carriage in a place like this, grinned at her before pointing a burly finger toward the western area of the site. "He's over there, M'am," came the words followed almost immediately by a juvenile giggle that he wished he could have sucked back into his mouth.
Feeling suddenly as if she could breathe again, she smiled at the man and nodded her thanks before setting off in that direction. The wind picked up again, the sides of her suit blew back to reveal the gentle blue of the thin cashmere shell she wore beneath her jacket. "Lord DeMuer?" she was closing in on a figure that she would have walked right past had she come this way first.
"Please, it's Alain," came the reply before he had even turned around. In spite of her familiar Newbreton accent the young man had forgotten her voice - written correspondence was more regular, but when had the last time been that they spoke on the phone? Last spring? The winter before that?
The man who turned to face her had aged ten years in the five since he'd arrived in RhyDin, but other than a few new scars he still looked like Alain DeMuer. He'd been working at a table saw, and his safety goggles and a copious amount of sawdust still kept her from view. "What can I do for you..." He paused when he finally pulled off his goggles, and a tentative smile crept onto his face. "...Solange? I heard you were coming, but I barely believed it."
She was taken aback at first. This was not the boy she remembered leaving. At least, that was how she had perceived him. To her, he was a stubborn boy who had, as yet, to realize his potential, his power, his providence. In the span of time that it took Alain to face Solange, he had grown from the youngest of the D'Mourrir males to the Baron DeMuer that was taking this region by storm, the organizer and, some would argue, savior of the near countless refugees who came to call this corner of the world "home." He was no longer the headstrong young man who continually clashed with her on issues of politics, policy and semantics. Here was a man who understood his mission, who embraced his calling and who just might have the pluck to pull it off.
Three years ago this land had a single village, Esp?rance, and Teobern remained a ruin. Now it had grown to well over thirty thousand souls, and the progress could be seen all around them: the sea to the east was covered liberally by the white sails of countless trade ships, and to the north the old city of Teobern had grown into something new, townhouses and warehouses and office buildings and stone streets stretching here to the final remaining expanse of ruins. What could not be saved or reused from the old elvish city had been demolished, five enormous piles of white stone rubble a testimony to their destruction, and now that enough space was cleared for the new settlers, they built.
Here the latest group of Newbretons would live, another hundred fleeing the increasing tempo toward global war on their home world, along with more than three hundred Uplanders and Vrasheen who could have been from the Hindu Kush by looks alone, and a growing number of Cantanovians whose olive skin could have placed them in Italy, if not for the fine points to their ears. But these were not the only races present at the site, not when one counted all the volunteers and hired contractors: the Aurks, like slender elvish-built orcs with pale green skin and small tusks, half-elves, gnomes, dwarves, and what looked like three blue-skinned men, each gifted with four arms.
Alain reached a hand out for Solange before he got a good look at it (it was filthy); he thought better of the offer and just smiled. "Welcome home."
The softened breeze pulled at her now almost untidy chignon, tendrils swirling about her pink rouged cheeks. Solange didn't know whether to embrace him or shake him. She was more than relieved to find him not only unharmed, but seemingly unaffected by any of the rumors that had made it to her attention. He was not dead, nor recovering from any assassination, nor in the midst of an uprising. So many stories had found her ears since she decided to hurry home; her all too vivid memories of the bloody assassination of the Lord-Chancellor back in Nouveau Bretagne all those years ago were drudged up mercilessly.
She didn't even notice the grime of his palm as it was offered to her. Instead, she reached out quickly before Alain had completely retracted it. She needed to touch him and make sure he was indeed there. Manicured fingers clutched at his hand as her breath caught. He was there, he was fine. Black lacquered lashes closed only briefly as she exhaled, a moment's weakness in the steely resolve of the political Attach?. "You're..." she paused to gather her mental strength and her wits. Swallowing, her gaze leveled on his hand in hers. "You're filthy." As if awakening from a dream, Solange took an instant to survey her surroundings. She was in the midst of a work zone, with dust, dirt and debris churning around her. Her polished heels were half-deep in mud, her hair was nearly fallen, her blazer was being pulled at ruthlessly, and Alain was slathered in sweat and the work of the day. But he was alive.
Alain and Solange's history had been troubled in the past, but as she had noted, the boy had grown into a man, and he was happy to see an old friend. Though perhaps with a touch of the old mischief he'd turned on her in the past, he used her grip on his filthy hand to step in closer and press a kiss to her cheek. "Yes, I'm filthy... but I'm also okay. And I'm glad you've come home."