The Better, the Philanderer, The Adulterer @fernandaguillard - Tumblr Blog

No one touches my property.

A Fermented Friendship

The elder Kurzick had waited at the designated location upon a cliffside surrounding an array of bankrupt states. The one they stood over specifically bore the Villefort crest; one which had once housed a plethora of refugees from the sieged terrain beyond the city walls. Desolated, initiating the downfall of a once reigning name, leaving a scarce few scattered across the noble fabric of Tyria.

A young woman stood before Fernand, frail and flaxen in her complexion as both hands cradled the hellion's own as a waning smile curled her lips as hazel hues trailed toward Johnny. Within fragile, dexterous digits held a key to be slipped within Fernand's palm. He glanced over his shoulder, yanking down the maw of his mask so cerulean pools affixed upon the other. The folklore of Ebonhawke would have suggested the youthful woman, barely beyond her teens was a myth, one claimed to have been deceased.

"Anastasia, go inside and wait by the portal. The moment it erects, step through," remarked the gravelled baritone. The potential connection of two names: Anastasia Villefort, a gravestone that occupied the tombs of fallen nobility. And yet, the name crooned from his lips with liquid ease. The woman inclined her head, sparing a final glance toward Johnny before retreating into the adjusted stone pointing downward to a tight, agile cave.

He turned, confronting his companion fully for the first time. The once meeting place of the rebellion against the charr now nested below their feet, centuries of anguish new palpable upon woeful graves.

"The rest of our merry band of misfits are going to try and meet with the remaining noble houses in an old alliance today."

Johnny took a second, the man still clearly catching his breath from the climb upwards before teetering his understanding in the form of a low nod of his head as he turned his gaze, looking outwards. “An for what timing? Seems jus’ as good a time as any. What’s in th’plans, Fernand?”

Slowly, he began to peel back his shroud to reveal dyed, ashen locks and a slightly more scruffed beard. Already high cheekbones and the etched mendalas upon his side-shorn trim vanished beneath a freshly barbored cropping. He could have been a spitting image of the gaunt woman who vanished, near identical to a surgeon who occupied the Reach. "Today, I am Baptiste Villefort," he announced, claiming a legacy of a charr-ridden massacre not but two decades prior. Silvered streaks still fell over one eye, a suit laying beneath the violet duster of emerald, navies and gilded trim. "And -today I have called upon you to join me at this meeting."

The ruffian parted his lips slightly, as it was clear he was having to do a small amount of mental catch-up in regards to the stark alteration of the man’s appearance. It wasn’t his typical work, no doubt, but the change in venue was yet of interest to him as he slipped his thumbs into the belt around his waist, nodding his head. “How soon an’ where?”

"We have a half an hour before I told the guests to begin arriving. They believe Baptiste and his daughter, Anastasia to be dead, and that the Villefort family has been inherited by bastards. As you can see, the woman who has given us access is, not only my betrothed, but entirely not dead."

“Aye, seems to be in good health.” He commented, looking into the direction the woman had walked before panning his gaze back towards Fernand. “What is it ye’ need me to do? Just show up?”

"First, we will convince the gathering that their information is useless in regards to the Aguillards. That they are allies of this franchise. We will put the information we want within their heads, for that, I am giving you full reign. I care only that their focus is redirected from my cousin. We will serve them wine that will be an acting paralytic. It takes one hour to begin working. This is how long we have to get them out of the estate. My men are waiting in the wings to bring them to Garenhoff. There? They are yours." He paused, eyes narrowing a mere trice.

“And… do not bring up my betrothed’s health. Ever.”

@watchwork-n-whiskey @theaguillardfamily

#a new friend #co-written #actual rp

hvitserkk

I sent a woman with a gun to your youngest brother’s office. I’m alright, she fired into the ceiling.

annabelledaily

bladesrunner

PEAKY BLINDERS | Episode #1.3

└ We’ll always know when the Lees plan to attack. With all the strikes and troubles, can’t really depend on the police. Anyway, we’re more honest.

archivesofmylife

The band.

saralou23

siennadufort

Plague Unfinished

“I loathe when you’re ill,” the elder Aguillard stated quite flatly as cerulean hues traipsed across the room to the bed of his betrothed. Ivory sheets invited her like a coffin to a corpse within his own chambers, an occupancy she hardly ever accepted. With a rouged bridge of her nose, the woman rubbed a tissue beneath her nostrils as ringlets fell in a carefully deconstructed braid to slump over one shoulder.

“I loathe when you hover over me,” countered the ever dried affect of Sienna Villefort. Even plague-ridden, the woman was never devoid of a manicured aesthetic, even with an oversized tunic slumped over her shoulder. She allowed the weight of her skull to fall against the headboard with an audible thunk. Honeyed, hazel hues shot toward the Cathedral ceilings, garnering a fleeting sneer as she briefly resented the very opulence which drove their union. Was being ungrateful of his attentiveness, and she knew it.

However, Fernand was not at all deterred by the thunderous disposition, wandering closer to seat himself on the edge of her bed nearest the elevated stack of down pillows. Immediately, he began changing out the depleted tissues with new ones, urging them closer to the woman before slumping to partially lean against her stretched thigh, wedging the ivory cloth near her nose. She snared it from him with an apathetic huff, a smile escaping her lips even in spite of her best efforts. “I almost like you better negligent, my Lord,” she crooned with no shortage of nasal filtering through her timbre.

“And I like you undressed. But we both agreed to a union where neither of us win, now didn’t we, my Lady,” he jeered in jest. Snapping the tissue away from her, clammy digits made chase before an abrupt sneeze lurched the youth forward, stalling her pose as dizziness clouded her vision. Even when sprayed with mucus, Fernand eased upward, both hands steadied upon her shoulders as he eased them back to the pillows, lips finding residence upon her boiling temple. He noted the toll such sudden movements took upon her liquified lungs, a wheeze quietly occupying the air between them.

She reached a balmly palm to lay atop his right hand, giving it an assuring pat. “Lady indeed,” she huffed.

“The Lady I love,” he proclaimed, head bowed to linger his lips atop her bared shoulder. “Even though she is the most grand pain in my ass one could possibly be,” crooned he before her response came in kind.

“It’s a shame I am so ill,” she feigned. “I would ravage you this instant, Fernand Aguillard.”

“No wonder your eyes are so brown, Villefort. They’re so full of shit.”

@fernandaguillard

@theaguillardfamily

popularculturesource

Cillian Murphy as Tommy Shelby in Peaky Blinders

"What you ask of him could very well be his end, Fernand," uttered the woman as a locked hinge secured the words to slide between ivory tiers.

"You do not think I am aware, my beloved cousin? It is convenient that he has been so uncharacteristically genuine to you, caring, even. I do not take to outsiders who have not proven their worth to me." Placing the rolled parchment betwixt broad lips, fitted within a tailored, quirked solder, a flame soon burst the miasmic embers to life.

Drawing in a long, slow breath, cerulean pools affixed upon arctic irises. "You truly think when the blade meets his throat that your name will not be the first upon his lips," punctured dubious intonation, even when devoid is incredulous amusement.

"I believe no matter how many times you try to cut it out of him, my name will not leave his lips." She studied Fernand a moment longer as the waterline brimmed with long hidden sentiment. "You wish me to feel your pain," She stated, raising a featherlight brush or her digits to card over a scarred mound beneath sideshorn locks and the masking, inked mendala layered beneath.

Locking stares amidst a pregnant pause, a hushed murmur escaped her lips. "I hurt you in the most horrid of ways. I regret what it had done to you, but I do not regret what has come of it. You have my word that I can never interfere. I was afraid to lose you, then. Just as I am now. We were alone in our fight for so long, Fernand. The keepers of the graves. There is more now. Much more. Seek the happiness we were deprived of in our youth."

His jaw remained firm, lips lean whilst his brow came to rest upon her own. "I'll lower my blade. For now. But I will not wait for him to succeed."

@watchwork-n-whiskey

#the aguillard family #a new ally

tylenaguillard

One of Us

She had let the young guard depart for the evening, having found a small, residential corner within the nook of the Merchant’s Coin. Little did all parties know, the Countess had drawn a sip of her wine to couple with a serrated stare raking over the persons littering her relative proximity. And so, the lurking obscurist, whose hood never fell from his visage watched, from afar. While she seemed fixated upon an entirely different target, her periphery inspired most devout focus.

They are coming from the estate; she reminded herself, the near deafening pounding of her heart distracting from the beats of anticipation. Her window was small, to lure the very one who could end her life away- just in time to acquaint himself with the sheer horror that her namesake could afflict. Reluctance stymied the final sip of her wine as the regal, lissome frame uncoiled from seated purchase. Platform, leathern boots climbed over slender knees, near bolding with the liquid, obsidian leggings hidden beneath a remarkably embroidered overcoat knit of a near satine wool texture. The transition from summer to autumn was one she welcomed, perhaps overzealously. With raven tresses tied back into a low, chignon at the nape of her neck, she felt the stray hairs needle upon her porcelain throat, tucking from her collar. Every misalignment rippled in the liquid gate the coaxed her from the tavern.

As predicted, boots followed the audible clicks of her heels. Winding through the Salma center, she diverted, the street not yet filled with her kinship.

Fuck. Please hurry.

The shadow of a hand raised with a projected hilt of a knife toward her temple, followed by the immediate sting of forced disorientation. Dragged just within the cloak of darkness between two buildings, the grouted stone embedded into her spine as gilded buttons popped from her coat. She tried to open the cerulean pools, only to feel liquid plague lob from his lips right onto her lashes. The steel upon her throat was hauntingly familiar, mind chasing the rabbithole which had left her crippled for so long as the barest freedom she acquired hung so precariously in the balance.

(Below contains some allusion to violence of the horrific and sexual nature.)

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suraakasri

Their timing had been off by a mere minute, but a minute long enough to see Tylen’s flesh marred - with threats of worse to come. Hasty steps brought two figures hustling through the center of Salma, leathern boots making no attempt at secrecy as they stomped across worn cobbles.

A plan made, but a plan in need of alteration due to the unexpected location had the Vabbian woman improvising as they closed in on the cloaked space between the pair of buildings. Knowing their presence would be heard before their fated arrival, as the duo charged towards the matriarch’s rescue, the dusky skinned woman alerted the man beside her with a circular sweep of a finger that after went motioned towards the back of the buildings. A simple nod of acknowledgment separated the pair and the woman clad in jet black leathers immediately swerved to the left then vanished entirely from sight save for the tendrils of ashen smoke lingering in her wake.

She would not see the assailant so easily escape from the alley.

@tylenaguillard @fernandaguillard @theaguillardfamily )

fernandaguillard

The gesture did not elude him as the elder Kurzick as he slowed, allowing her all the room she needed to perform the disappearing act he envied so dear. If only, was the fleeting thought longing over her trick. However, the brim of his hat lowered enough to obscure the cerulean pools, as he swept into the alley. He slowed as the profound, rich baritone emerged, carrying a dulcet, blues whine filled with woefully amorous lyrics.

“Where did you go my love? My breaths starved for you- my love.”

The assailant gripping his knife against Tylen’s throat careened his neck at the familiar, side-shorn silhouette buried beneath a wool scally. “My live long torn in two, And yet I dream of you… Sitting on the grass with no more than my hand, Clinging to my back as passion paved the sand…” Began the premature refrain that echoed along the bricks.

Tylen’s eyes dimmed to a close as the vengeful, serrated steel licked upward, slicing upon the porcelain tapestry of her cheek. She did not wince, nor crumble beneath what afflicted her, blood raining from her collar, pooling beneath the rich fibres of her blouse. As Fernand neared, the man crammed the blade further against her throat, forcing an unexpected cough from the woman’s lungs, pleading for freedom.

The elder Kurzick removed his cap, brows furrowed with feigned concern. “We can talk about this,” he stated calmly, holding both hands upward, hat draped upon his digits in a surrendering motion. The man’s grip slackened, Fernand a mere yard before cramming his wrist downward as blades hidden within the brim of his cap crudely gouged open a widened path upon the assailant’s cheek, forcing him to stagged back as Fernand’s free hand tore through the air toward Tylen’s locks, yanking her behind him as if the lissome woman were to be discard upon the road, tightly gripping her own throat to stymie the blood now pooling within the shadows of Salma.

@suraakasri @theaguillardfamily

suraakasri

If only, indeed.

A puddle of blackened void spread across cobbles behind the staggering assailant. Wisps of shadow rose and swirled higher in silence, and from the ashen fog emerged the leather clad woman with slitted gaze fixed solely upon the target. With methodical steps, she approached without sound from behind while the figure held to his oozing cheek and fumbled over some plan that would somehow see him victorious - or at the very least see him escape.

There were plenty of families, rich families no less, that would have not been near so poor a choice to tussle with. There were exceptionally few worse than the family that the assailant had been hired to threaten. Mercy was not a trait to be found from them, nor their own hired hand, and death would not come swift nor easy.

An arm wrapped around from behind, gloved hand palming and wrenching the man’s head aside to expose his sanguine stained neck. A steady hand slammed a needle near a bulging vein and with precision thrust the plunger in one smooth motion until every last drop of the toxin - that would see him painfully spasming into unconsciousness in mere seconds - was spent.

Leaving the syringe dangling from his neck, a harsh sole of a boot soundly thumped against his spine and sent the assailant toppling over. Waiting for the man to succumb to his wretchedly induced sleep, she cut an urgent glance to Fernand, then Tylen. “The Vanguard?”

@fernandaguillard @theaguillardfamily )

fernandaguillard

Fernand had seen Suraa’s enclosure upon the defiling creature who had seen his beloved cousin hunched over the cobble with her hand in a vice about the pooling laceration.

“I will get her there. Take this one to Garenhoff,” he prescribed with a serrated, guttural baritone that broiled with a wrath awaiting the freedom to expel entirely. He would temper the cruelty in favor of the efficiency required to tote his languid, slender cousin within cradling arms. There was a pause as he first veered toward Suraa, then the one she had so seamlessly withered to a limp rag.

“Good work,” remarked the bone-deep chill of appraisal as cerulean hues locked upon her own, words barely formed from his broad pout. “Keep him alive and able to speak and hear. Otherwise, the liberty is your own.” And unless stalled in his departure with the laborious breaths rasped within his attentive fold echoing throughout the alley, he’d disengage to race toward the Vanguard.

@suraakasri @theaguillardfamily