Visitors? I was not expecting you, my friend, but do sit down, it is a pleasure. An old soldier needs company in retirement, after all. Stay for dinner if you like, too, it will soon be upon us and it has been a long time since I last had guests.
Now, do look around, but perhaps do not look at the paintings too closely, they... Cannot always be explained. I am told it is a symptom of this Afterlife we have been sent to that not all is quite as it used to be. This house, for example, is much cleaner than I ever remember it, and it seems I have been allowed more servants than I was able to afford myself in life.
I reside here with my son, François-Étienne, an accomplished soldier in his own right, though he does not spend much time inside. If it is him you seek, then do borrow a horse and go in search of him around the estate, he will be here somewhere. The gardens... Just be careful.
We welcome any correspondence, though do be sure to be more specific in the address than simply 'Kellermann', otherwise there may be some confusion. We will endeavour to respond in good time, and it would be an honour to hear from our old colleagues once again.
Of course, there is a certain level of decorum expected in letters and actions to us, so please endeavour to be civil. My son may not feel the same, he is a rather different creature, but as the head of this household I will insist upon it on his behalf.
⊱⁘————————«⁘»————————⁘⊰
Notes sur l'Organisation:
#la correspondance du duc de valmy : RP involving Marshal François-Christophe de Kellermann.
#correspondance du général kellermann : RP involving General François-Étienne de Kellermann.
#le général répond : General Kellermann answers asks.
#proclamations du père et du fils : The Kellermanns post of their own accord.
#contes de l'au-delà : Lore posts relating to this strange Afterlife the Kellermanns find themselves in.
#general kellermann reblogs : Anything that General Kellermann reblogs in-character.
#marshal kellermann reblogs : Anything that Marshal Kellermann reblogs in-character.
#ooc : Out of character posts.
⊱⁘————————«⁘»————————⁘⊰
Welcome to my comedic RP blog for the two Kellermanns! This mildly unhinged operation is run by @upbeatmeeting, who for immersion is sometimes referred to in-character as the adjutant.
I am not a historian on these two by any means, and historical accuracy may vary. I will probably get better at portraying them authentically over time as I do more research on them, but do remember that this is meant to be comedic and only semi-serious. What I mean to say is that this isn't 100% accurate and I'm not sure it ever will be. I'm just here to have a bit of fun. Also check out this list of the other members of this wacky roleplay scene.
As above, correspondence (and with that, magic anons) is most welcome. However, do endeavour not to be a cunt, because you will find yourself blocked and yeeted into The Void. I reserve the right not to answer and I will not be answering anything egregiously NSFW or otherwise inappropriate, though a little suggestive is okay.
Have fun :)
Oh, and maybe one day people's names will stop getting autocorrected. Until then, please ignore spelling errors. Also, my French sucks. I know.
Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.
He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.
The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.
It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.
Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.
[ This post is a continuation of a longer thread - clipped due to app performance problems ]
Lasalle is entirely unimpressed by Houchard's height or his demeanour, and as much as he would like to respect a friend of Marshal Kellermann, he is rather insulted by the man's disrespect towards his authority, especially in public in front of his men.
— Please imagine that the below is in German —
And I will not be spoken to and have my authority undermined in such a manner in my own camp! Would you treat someone of a similar rank but your own age in this way? I have reason to doubt it, so do not try it with me. I do not need to be taught or corrected on my own profession, which I like to think I am already well enough acquainted with, and I think you and the other generals from the times of the Revolution should know what that feels like and should know better. You may not respect me at any other time, and I do not care, but while you are here, and especially in front of my men, you will at least pretend. And yes, you are guests here, regardless of what you commanded or what titles you hold, the definition of the word is sensibly egalitarian.
————————————————————————
Grandjean's appearance and intervention defuses him a little, enough that he at least does not go on ranting, but he continues to watch Houchard with a sharp stare, and his tone remains largely cold and unsympathetic. While an apology would probably go down well, he is too wound up already to calm down instantly, and he really is offended at being challenged like this.
If it is Madame you are looking for, then she is in the tent over there, where the two Cuirassiers are on guard. I am not sure if she will be awake, but you are welcome to see her. Marshal Kellermann and his son are in the other closed one. The younger is in a bad state, do not agitate him.
Houchard paused for a moment, considering Lasalle's words. He looked at Grandjean, who was nodding his head emphatically, looking hang-dog guilty.
Houchard ran a shaking hand through his hair, and replied in his horrific jargon of half-German, half-French, all Lorrain.
"Ah... General Lasalle.... my apologies....you are correct, I forgot myself in my worry to reach my daughter.... she is headstrong, as all cavalry are, you know? I wish to know how bad she is.. .and I am sure you will be angry with her as well for her impulsive decision; but I beg you, General, to go easy on her; she is, after all, still my little girl, even if she also contains two past lives in her that were most definitely not female."
Houchard allowed Grandjean to lead him away, his limping gait making it a slower affair than it would have been had he been a younger man; in his worry for DuQuay, Houchard looked aged even older than his 55 years.
"General, I really wish you'd stayed at home, sir. I can handle this..."
"Ach, ja, you handledt it vell, so vell, in fact, dat my girl's hurt now... how bad is it?"
Grandjean winced at Houchard's sharp tone, and replied verrrrryyy carefully...
"Uh... well... um... not as bad as General Kellermann junior but..."
"....but?"
Grandjean nodded to the two cuirassiers playing euchre in front of the tent as they stood, cards falling off their laps, and saluted General Houchard.
Inside the tent, DuQuay slept, the borrowed shirt billowed, except for where it was stuck to the bandage across her chest, which was itself stained dark. She tossed and turned, caught in a nightmare brought on by the black substance.
Houchard staggered, a string of religious curses falling from his lips, and one of the cuirassiers hurried to get him a chair and a strong drink.
"Himmeldonnerwetter... my girl... that does NOT look mild, Colonel!"
Houchard's hand trembled as he brought the glass of schnapps to his lips, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
Everyone who ever had the misfortune of being sent to that desolate wasteland and murderer of empires remembers it as if they were still there.
F̸i̶r̷s̸t̶ ̴c̸o̵m̷e̴s̷ ̴t̸h̶e̵ ̷c̴o̴l̴d̷.̷
The country itself tries to kill him. First the baking heat of summer, but next, longer and worse, comes the cold that never goes away. The snow does not melt; it turns to ice that frightens his horse and sends it into a slippery meltdown, only to be covered by more by the end of the day. The fire does not warm; it only makes the cold burn, frostbitten parts in agony in even the temperatures that are meant to be pleasant. To stay too close to the fire is to die, for as soon as it burns out the cold moves back in with a vengeance. The wind does not stop; it roars over the flat wasteland endlessly, carrying more cold with it, knocking the weaker of men and horses over to meet their last moments, carries a chill that kills within a day. Clothes do not protect; what little they had to begin with is unrecognisable by now, a collection of rags torn apart by a place here everything is hostile, and of course boots hardly exist anymore.
N̸e̶x̷t̵ ̶c̶o̶m̸e̸s̵ ̴t̴h̶e̷ ̵m̴a̶r̵c̸h̷i̷n̷g̴.̷
That never ends either. He is forced to simply march and march with no end through a landscape that never changes, the horse beneath him struggling more with each step and slip of a hoof on the icy remnants of a road, seeming as if it might simply collapse at any time. When he walks, he is the one who could lay down and die at any moment. All is white; his eyes burn with the brightness, just as the rest of him burns with darkness and cold, and there is nothing to look at, even when he can see more than a foot in front of him without a snowstorm to cover it. After all, everything was burnt or buried. As they pass the scorched remnants of structures that were once landmarks, the frozen corpses still staring up at them, begging for help, for food, for warmth, they all seem to scream into the miserable void.
T̷h̷e̴n̷ ̴c̶o̶m̸e̴s̶ ̵t̵h̵e̴ ̴h̷u̸n̵g̶e̷r̴.̴
Most soldiers are used to hardship and hunger; it is merely fate for logistics to fail in such a grand operation on such a scale. But this... This is different. One burns more energy in the cold just to try to live, and how does one explain to an ulcer-ridden and emaciated horse that there is no end in sight, that it must continue to exist and die in constant pain due to the whims of a man it has never seen? A man can sometimes reconcile it, though it becomes difficult here too, but the animal cannot understand. Everything is food: bread with things living in it that somehow survive the conditions, cheese that has ceased to have any normal cheese-like form, soup that is not much more than water, and all of that is scarce in itself. On one of the precious few halts, he will pass a miserable mess, wearing something that has long ceased to be any identifiable uniform, in the process of searching for whatever meat remains on the frozen form of a horse that was little more than skin and bones to begin with. One of these men, a saddle and bridle by his side, sits apart from it and does not look. He will refuse the resulting concoction later, despite the best efforts of his comrades, and his feeling towards the dead animal will kill him in the night.
A̴̢̨̱̔͊̒͌͋n̴̼̍̈̆͗d̴̤̔ ̸̨̮͕̝̜̯̇͝l̸͇̏a̶̾̀̄͒̄̈́͜s̸̗̈̕t̷̛̮͇̾̂͝ ̴͕̝̲̗́̅ć̷̲͠o̶̡̝̖͍̿̀m̶̰̽̄͜͠e̴̙̖̯̜̥͋̍͋͑͛ͅ ̴̨͍̘̩̯̒͌̋t̶̼̏̈́h̷͔̤̜̲̘͑͗e̵̘͙̹͓͌̐̿̋ͅ ̴̹̘̯̮̪͐͒͐̈̂̔p̵̼͎̮͓̋̓͒̂̐͘ě̷̛͖͓̤̙̂̀͋o̵͙͐̂͐p̶̡̡̾̎̈́ļ̷̣̝̗̤͗̽̆͝͠ȇ̷̥̤͘.̷̨͙͕͉̮̈̑̋̈ͅ
The country itself trying to kill him is not enough; the people crave vengeance for the intrusion on their way of life too, crave punishment for the grandiose ambitions of a man who flew too close to the sun and all those who followed him there. The worst are the cossacks; they appear seemingly out of nowhere, are everywhere all the time, and always disappear before the half-frozen remnants of the column are able to lift a finger or take a step in any direction. And it is worse here; instead of men they are the same faceless things that he saw at Waterloo. The wind seems to whisper in between its screams, carrying ominous warnings of doom, shortly followed by an onslaught of the tarry things that make him feel dread just from looking at them. Sometimes there is no warning and they simply appear out of the white void of a snowstorm as he shivers along on a half-dead mount.
And when they come, they come with anger, the column merely a sitting target for their rage. The men are all dying to the weather anyways, a faster death is a mercy to some. But when Delacroix is around, they seem to ignore everyone else, interested in him specifically...
DuQuay.. no... Delacroix.. found themselves in the blinding blizzard again. He lamented the cuirass; though it protected him from the majority of the cold air, it also had frozen to him, and the bearskin rug he had found was now torn into strips, wrapped around his boots. He couldn't feel his feet, or his hands, his mustache embellished with icicles made of his mucus and his breath, the hoar-frost on his unshaven face aging him. What ever clothing he could find, he wore in layers, the heat causing the lice to bite, the eternal itching maddening. His horse stumbled, and he lurched forward in the saddle, the stirrups long discarded; his boots no longer fit in them.
He raised his good arm, broken spear in hand and slapped at an infantryman who had tried to make a cut in his horse's neck to suck the blood out while still riding, the piece of leather in his mouth flapping; it was disgusting, the leather, but the salt from it and the meager protein in it gave him enough energy to continue; until the next encampment. He had tried to get thatch off of the roof of a burning house for his horse before it had gone up completely, the men preferring the scorching heat of the flames to the shelter itself.
He swore he'd seen them roasting a leg of some sort, not sure that it was the deer or animal they claimed it was; he had not bothered to check. The bodies were stacked like cordwood as wind-breaks, stripped of every available scrap of fabric.
The wind, the incessant, blowing wind, the blinding snow that felt like needles of glass driven into his face; and when the sun would come out in rare moments, the snow-blindness was not worth the meager warmth it gave.
The cold... the cold seemed to penetrate his very being, right to his heart. The fear, the worry, the terror - the cossacks at first like hordes. When Delacroix looked at them next, his eyes widened in fear; these had no faces, black as the depths of hell, relentlessly attacking, a never ending wave of darkness. The snow billowed and blew, reducing his visibility to the frozen tips of his horse's ears, making the appearance and disappearance of the faceless horde all that more terrifying.
Delacroix struck left and right, gripping with frozen thighs to the mount he rode, who slipped and skid on the surface, the ice calks in their shoes only providing minimal traction.
Outside of this fever-dream, in the tent, DuQuay groaned, flailing, her breath coming in odd foggy puffs of air, the black stain spreading on her chest.
Houchard rested a trembling hand on his daughter's forehead and exclaimed at the chill he felt. Why was she... freezing?
The horde continues to come and go, striking him with lances and sabres made of darkness, each strike eating away at the frozen cuirass, the substance left behind sizzling and sputtering, sometimes getting on his saddle or his horse and burning those too.
The rest of the column has disappeared, not just in the snowstorm but seemingly entirely. No matter how he manoeuvres or where he looks, he now seems to be alone in the blizzard with the dark horde.
The cold somehow becomes colder, the wind picking up, howling and screaming around him, a whisper carried among the noise: H̸e̸r̷e̸ ̶y̴o̴u̶ ̴w̶i̶l̵l̷ ̶d̸i̴e̷,̶ ̵i̷n̴v̶a̶d̵e̶r̶.̵.̶.̵
The flakes of snow feel like projectiles being launched at him in this wind, each impact painful, making it hard to open his eyes let alone fight, and all the while the cossacks continue to attack.
After more teasing, one of them closes in for the real blow: a lance made of emptiness, plunged through one of the fresh holes in the cuirass and into his chest. It does not have the paralysing effect of the Woerth Entity's sword, but it induces all the same emotions of panic, fear, emptiness...
Delacroix gasps in pain, falling from his horse, the darkness following him down, down, down... down... no impact on the snow, just perpetual falling into a black pit of despair, his cuirass melting away, his old wounds opening up, a roaring in his ears and the pain of utter despair and desolation. He tries to grab at the lance, but it burns him, and he hisses in pain. He grips it harder, gritting his teeth, and tries to pull it out or crawl up it.
"Be done with me, then! I'm already dead, you foul thing!"
DuQuay sits bolt upright, screaming, the black substance sticking to her hand through the bandage, Houchard immediately drawing her to him, holding her as Grandjean scurries in with more blankets.
"Silver... silver!" she manages to cough out.
Houchard looks down at his Saint-Louis medal, at the color of it, and makes a decision then and there. He rips it off of his uniform and presses it to the blackened wound, the black substance seething and boiling, turning into soot where the medal touches it, the rest retreating back, the medal sticking to the fabric outside the wound before it, too, dissipates.
"But your host is not! Is that what you wish? Hmmm? For HER to die as well? Such… delicious energy…. so hungry… so… hungry
At this moment Du Prel walks in, having been sent by Lasalle (still cooling down from the confrontation with Houchard) to check on DuQuay. He halts rather abruptly as the situation plays out, then salutes Houchard.
ADC Du Prel: Do you need the surgeon to come back, Madame?
Outside, Marshal Kellermann paces around the vicinity of the medical tents. His son has gone to sleep again, muttering frenzied regrets until he fell unconscious, so now he simply observes the now somewhat calmed state of the camp, occasionally reaching out to pat a horse that has been tied up along his route. The horses are generally scattered in small groups and tied to any solid enough object, the existing stabling arrangements insufficient for such a large addition.
Houchard nods briskly at DuPrel before turning back to his daughter.
"I need to know what this is, Adjutant... I can see by your uniform you are an Aide de Camp; so perhaps you might brief this old general on what this substance is and why it is affecting my daughter so. I need to know. I wish to bring her to my home to recuperate, where her husband might visit, and make his long-delayed amends for his caddish behavior."
Houchard was calm, his tone measured. No more the wild-eyed hussar of his youth, obviously, he understood the gravity of the situation at hand. He brushed back DuQuay's damp hair, with a look of tenderness and concern.
"... It... ate my medal. 'tis only a bauble come the revolution, to be sure, but it was of pure silver. If I had a hundred such medals I would readily sacrifice them again to see my girl restored to her health."
DuQuay's eyes were closed, and she was too weak to respond, but the nightmare - for now- was over. Houchard laid her back on the surgical cot and motioned for Grandjean to cover her with the blankets. He stood up, joints creaking, hunched over in the low tent and turned to DuPrel.
"Walk with me, Adjutant.... I find I am in need of a constitutional and a smoke; perhaps we may find your commander and Marshal Kellermann; I think it is time we discussed matters."
Du Prel freezes for a moment at the request, questioning whether or not Lasalle would find it acceptable for him to tell. He promptly decides not to risk it, especially considering the incident earlier. He walks beside Houchard as requested, trying to think of a nice way to phrase it.
ADC Du Prel: I am afraid, sir, that it is for my General to decide if he will tell you about this. It is something of a sensitive matter, and I am not permitted to discuss it with outsiders. I can see if he will receive you.
Du Prel then salutes again and walks off to do that, and just as he leaves Marshal Kellermann spots his fellow old man, walking up to him with his pipe in hand.
Kellermann Sr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : I heard that you got him rather angry, and found one of the few things he doesn't forgive as easily. He won't hold a grudge, though, his personality won't allow it; it's almost impossible for him to think badly of anyone for too long.
Kellermann Sr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : I would plead your case, but admittedly I provoked him unwisely too... The things we do while distracted by thoughts of our children, I suppose. How is yours?
Houchard nodded, bending down to pick up a burning stick from one of the nearby cooking fires, lighting his pipe, the rich vanilla-cherrywood scent of American Burley curling around him in the blue smoke.
"Ach, ja... I did, perhaps. In my worry for my girl, I may have overstepped my boundaries. Ah but 'tis normal - we were generals long time before he was - you earlier than me by dint of your noble birth, Christophe; I'd have been content remaining a simple chef d'escadron, I didn't need much to be happy; with Catherine and my children; a retirement would have been sufficient for this old scarred body. But, France called and I had to answer; as I assume many of our men did as well. La Patrie en Danger.."
The two men continued along, walking until they found a place to sit, one of the cuirassiers of Delacroix's regiment dragging over a set of chairs under the shade of a tree, motioning for DesJardins to bring over a small camp table, two glasses and some more schnapps.
"Oh, thank you, trooper.. a place for two old men to rest their bones, share some schnapps and smoke in the shade is a good thing."
Houchard turned to Kellermann and sighed, his bushy eyebrows knitted together. He gestured with the hand that held his pipe, shrugging, brows going up and the only working side of his mouth giving a little downwards pout.
"My daughter - well, let us be frank, she is an adopted daughter, but a daughter none the less - she is headstrong. The two past lives within her do not help that one bit. Delacroix is somewhat more tractable, as he knows us and respects us.. most of the time. The other one... what is his name... Beaune... de Beaune.. he's a bit more... pompous, I would say. Brash, rude. Looks at us with starry eyes, yet always going on how he sacrificed himself and the regiment did to save France."
Houchard rolled his eyes at that, and spat on the ground.
"Zut, so many more have done that and more before him. He is nothing special. I may need to remind him, should he have the temerity to appear... the date of his own death arrives soon, and... that affliction which my girl suffers from at Waterloo is magnified; yet it only lasts a day instead of a damned fortnight. How bad off is your son, Christophe? My girl's got this.... black wound in her chest... it took my Saint-Louis medal. She was so cold... like she was freezing, muttering in her sleep about Cossacks... faceless hordes.. the blackness, the void... that substance ebbing and pulsing.. I saw it. Never seen anything like it... I think it would take a man smarter than I to understand what it was."
Retirement never quite managed to catch up to me, either... Well, at least the Senate was a marginally more peaceful existence than the army.
I think it is important for us old men to remember that those junior to us in years are still perfectly capable... 23 years of service in 34 years of life is nothing to scoff at, after all. If everyone blindly deferred to age, nothing would ever get done in any area of society.
Besides, someone like Lasalle is too viciously independent for that anyways... One cannot expect anything different from someone who joined the army at 11 years old.
Kellermann also sits down, his knees cracking as he does so.
Ach, children... You have it rather difficult, having three in the body of one. De Beaune may need some adjustment, perhaps he is simply trying to prove himself to people he respects. Mine... I never quite know what to do with him, I fear. I locked him in his apartments, and yet he got out anyways. He's in a very bad way now, can't stay awake for very long and seems to be in a lot of pain. At least they managed to get all of that substance off him, it looks painful...
Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.
He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.
The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.
It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.
Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.
Just as Lasalle does not tolerate his sentries being forced, he also does not tolerate those sentries simply rolling over and accepting it, and when he is angry at someone the whole camp walks on eggshells.
So tell me WHY IN GOD'S NAME YOU DIDN'T STOP HIM!
The man before him is one of very few dragoons in the camp, and he stands stiffly to attention and offers no excuses and little in the way of explanation, knowing it will only make him angrier. But he does speak in response to this demand, very quietly and apologetically. He had expected this upon having to report the failing, but it is always more terrifying in the moment.
Dragoon: Sir, he... Refused to answer my questions, saying that he's a General and doesn't have to answer to me, and he's going to Waterloo whether we like it or not... And then he just galloped off, and I couldn't have caught up with him without abandoning my post, sir...
Lasalle takes a long drag of his pipe at hearing this, some of his anger towards the soldier dissipating and transferring to anger at the young Kellermann. His voice is still viciously angry, but he is no longer yelling.
Anyone of any rank answers to the sentries, you ought to be aware of this, you are hardly new to the army. It is your duty to hold up whoever you damn well please regardless of how much gold lace they wear, and it is their duty to allow you to do so. If the Emperor himself turned up unannounced I would still expect you to stop him until he can be verified, is that clear?
Dragoon: Yes, sir, I understand...
Then get out. Your officers will discipline you as they see fit.
He waits for the man to leave, then a while longer to ensure he is actually alone, save for the company of Colonel Schwarz and Colonel Colbert, then slams his hand into the table so hard that a few smaller items fall off and his wrist hurts afterwards.
MERDE! What the hell now? If it has taken him to Waterloo then none of us can go get the damn fool!
Colbert: Mon Général, General Kellermann did not die at Waterloo, so if he is there then he has willed the fog to take him there. That would suggest that anyone who was present at the battle can do the same, at least today, seeing as it is the anniversary. I was there, with-
Absolutely not, you're wounded!
Colbert has sustained a relatively inconsequential cut to the arm in one of the now-frequent encounters with the creaures of not-Lasalle, but it has been stitched up and presents little more than annoyance to the victim. Colbert can be an intimidating-looking man to some, but Lasalle is quite used to him.
Colbert: Not severely enough to stop me from defending myself, sir! And I know what you're thinking - you're not going, even if it allows you. It's a bloody big field of battle, you won't know where you're going or what is happening. I've been there before, I know the field and the movements. General. Please.
Lasalle shakes his head, standing and pacing agitatedly.
Damn it, I don't want you going alone. I don't want anyone going alone. It's too dangerous... But it's dangerous for him to stay there, too, he'll get himself fucking hurt, and who knows if he'll find the exit...
He continues pacing, swearing to himself in various regional languages and dialects as he thinks.
(This arrival is after the party has wound down, a grumbling Grouchy is released, and Delacroix (DuQuay) and Grandjean, the two former colonels at Waterloo, casually trot by Lasalle's HQ on their way to another shindig.)
"Wait... lemme see if the rest o' the horde wants to join in. Ain't no party like a cavalry party..." Delacroix says.
"Ah, yeah, that's right, how long you got in that form before it gets bloody, an'way, Gilles?" Grandjean asks, halting the men and readjusting himself in the saddle.
"As long as I damned well please... the bloody form is just one to scare people inta listenin ta me. Troops, parade rest... Stan an' I are gonna see if the great General Lasalle wants ta party with us."
Delacroix and Grandjean ride into the encampment, and dismount, hailing a sentry.
"You! Trooper! Where's yer General? Tell him two of the biggest tinned arseholes are here ta see him!" Delacroix bellowed, staggering in with that waddle all Cuirassiers did, with a bit more stagger than waddle.
Not only did the party have enormous amounts of wine, they'd indulged in strawberry daquiris, so the 2nd and 3rd cuirassiers were a bit.... tipsy.
The sentry seems to swallow hard as he salutes and walks off towards Lasalle's tent. While waiting the two might notice the ongoing construction of huts to replace the current arrangement of tents and their stifling interiors. But instead of the sentry coming back, Captain Fontaine approaches, today forgoing the cuirass on account of the heat, and seems almost concerned about the two men's volume.
Fontaine: Messieurs... I'm afraid you've chosen a rather bad time... Why? Yes, it's... Somewhat complicated, really. Earlier today General Kellermann was seen galloping into the fog, and the sentries were unable to stop him, we believe that he has willed himself back onto the field of Waterloo.
Fontaine: I hear that Colonel Colbert has volunteered to go find him, but the General forbids him to go alone due to an injury, and he is the only one in this camp who was there... You should know I turned that sentry that met you away, the General has had quite enough irritation by them already.
Fontaine: So unless you are somehow in a position to offer assistance, I would suggest that you don't go poking the angry hussar. Easy to forget that side of him when he's hosting dinners and parties... We can't quite decide if he's actually nicer than Nansouty or not.
Of course, being dead long before then, Fontaine is oblivious to the fact that these two are also veterans of Waterloo.
Delacroix looks at Fontaine, and snorts, incredulous, his mustache twitching. In his Limousin accent, he mutters a few choice words, sounding rather like Fournier, before elbowing Grandjean.
"Hey Stan, old bean, wasn't that one a yours, there, at Wagram? Feckin out of his tin too... shame. You, Fontaine... Capitaine Fontaine... I ain't a-feared of General Lasalle. I charged with the 2nd Chasseurs with him at his final run, charged with Stan here and the likes of the great Gen'ral d'Hautpoul... served under that bug-eyed git Grouchy, freezin my couilles off in Russia.. only to don this fuckin tin vest and eat it AT Waterloo! Dontcha know your manners? I am Colonel Jean-Guillaume de Lacroix de Bourgon, Colonel of the 3eme Cuirassiers, under General Kellermann hisself! This here's Colonel Stanislas Grandjean, of the 2nd. We know where to find the General, we was there, tardieu! Fuck, Colbert wasn't even in the thick of it like we were! We charged behind General Kellermann himself and old Marshal Foxy himself!"
Delacroix had a significant amount of swagger for a rather short cuirassier; only standing in at 1m75 or so, his face seamed with a scar across his brow, his cuirass dented properly, and the pong of way too many alcoholic drinks emanating from him.
Grandjean, a much taller, much more refined man from Metz himself, shook his head and clapped Delacroix on the shoulder.
"Easy, there, Gilles... he probably doesn't remember you; not like you or I made any grand sweeping charges or shit like that. Fontaine, tell Lasalle the 2nd and 3rd Cuirassiers of the III Cavalry Reserve, under General Kellerman, 12th Cavalry division under d'Hurbal, 2nd brigade under de Donop....tell him we are here, and we will find our General, come hell or high water!"
Fontaine is not terribly easily offended, being quite a rational man and noticing immediately that Delacroix is quite drunk, and in fact he finds it mildly amusing even though he doesn't show it. Nonetheless he walks - slightly waddles - off, and soon Lasalle comes out, although his expression is still marked with anger and annoyance. He isn't all that much shorter than Delacroix, and so is quite able to stare into his face.
Now you listen to me, there, while you are in this form and in my territory I will have you abide by discipline regardless of how drunk you are, and the next time you speak to or about one of my men in that manner, much less an officer on my direct orders and one of your comrades as you say, you will be dealt with in the manner that the army deals with drunkards, particularly since you appear to be on duty and in command of a regiment at this time and ought to know better. If you know what's good for you, you will not talk back to me, and be glad you are too necessary for me to have you thrown out of here.
He gives Delacroix a sharp glare before turning to Grandjean, addressing him in an instantly friendlier manner and probably taking him a little more seriously than his drunker counterpart, although he is still very serious. He hands him two sealed letters.
Hopefully Colbert described the field in enough detail that these will take you to the right place. The second one is for Delacroix once he regains any sort of sense. Don't open them, and don't be alarmed if you find they have disappeared or been opened after you cross to the other side, it's relatively normal. The longer you stay, the harder it is to get back out, so be quick about it. Repeat my orders and go bring that idiot back.
"Gen'ral... sir... 'm not on duty... it's Waterloo... n' we allus celebrate.... the mem'ry... *hic*"
Delacroix falters under General Lasalle's stern gaze, and wisely falls silent, swaying slightly.
"Ken... ken I gives ya the cognac in mah pistol holsters in exchange fer a coupl'a pistols den? I was wif Gen'ral Kellermann... wif 'em at the last charge...'n... got hurt pretty bad..."
Delacroix motions for one of his men to remove the two very expensive cognac bottles from his saddle and bring them to General Lasalle, the trooper being VERY sheepish about the entire regiments' rather inebriated state. None of the men are technically in any state to fight, but the news of their commanding officer disappearing into the mist and possibly being lost is sobering them up rather quickly.
Grandjean salutes and takes the two envelopes, nodding at General Lasalle.
"My thanks.. I was wounded at the battle and lived... Colonel Delacroix was wounded and did not... please, General Lasalle, cut him some slack.. he's always this way...on this day.... regrets it in the morning, but he's pretty much a lost cause from the 18th to... to the 30th.. but for those 12 days, I've got my best friend back, even if he's in a state. Ah, we may know where General Kellermann is... but this will help immensely."
Delacroix handed the acquired pistols to the trooper, and swayed, hiccuping, trying to get his bearings.
"We'll find him... does his da know what's happened? I dun wanna piss off anudder big hat...right.... Desjardins, give th' botte-selle on that trompette of yers.. We gonna fight one las' time. 3eme! Retroceder Nesciit! Combattez pour moi, pour la France, pour la Patrie comme si j'etais toujours a la tete! Au-dessus de tous!"
Delacroix was still slurring his speech, but that last part, his final words on 30th of June, sent a shiver down Grandjean's lean frame, and the big man gave General Lasalle an odd look as Delacroix staggered off to mount, bellowing Chant du Depart like it was his sole job to carry the tune, off-key, to the ends of the universe.
"General Lasalle.... what happens when the past life avatar of a living person enters that mist? Do we know? I'd.... hate to lose Delacroix, but if I lose... well, who... they really are... your anger right now will be the LEAST and SMALLEST of my problems...if you know what I mean..."
Very well, then, if it'll keep you from getting yourself killed.
Lasalle has a pair of pistols brought and given to Delacroix, certainly one of his spares but still quite a feat of skill on the part of the maker.
I would like those back afterwards, if you can manage it. Next time I would suggest using the holsters for their intended purpose, I'm sure you can think of other places to store bottles on the march.
He turns back to Grandjean again.
And if he regrets it in the morning, then I take it I can expect an apology to both Captain Fontaine and Colonel Colbert. Maybe then I'll think about slack. Both too good-natured to be offended, of course, but my men put themselves through too much on my orders for me not to demand it at a minimum.
Just as Delacroix asks about Kellermann's father, the man himself barrels in on the usual grey horse at a slightly painful-looking canter. He dismounts about as hurriedly as an 80-year-old man can, and is kept busy by Du Prel and the two Colonels for the time being.
Well, if he didn't already, I'd assume he does now. For God's sake, be careful, I have my reasons for wanting you not dead.
Lasalle sighs at Grandjean's last question, this being among the only ones he has no real answer to.
I... Don't know. I do not know anyone else in a similar predicament, so no one of that sort has ever tested it. What we have seen is that those who force themselves into a place they did not die in through willpower will sometimes become stuck in their form at the time of the event. It is only temporary, lasts a few days at most and typically they must remain here to wait it out under supervision, but I would be prepared for something similar to happen, or perhaps the other way around. Why, if he is stuck as Delacroix until the end of the month anyways, we might not even notice any unusual effects. I was briefly stuck as myself at Rivoli for a day, it was rather amusing.
Aside from the mental torment and its physical creatures, the fog does not appear to be capable of causing long-lasting physical damage - the wounds heal, those who have been trapped in a different form of themselves return to their usual selves after a few days, and generally all is well.
The greatest concern, I think, would be if it attempts to lure them into an event experienced by another of their lives. That is dangerous, and he must not be allowed to fall for it, as getting lost on the other side is the greatest risk of going in, and entrances and exits only get more complicated the further you go, and I can only imagine how much more complicated it would get if multiple successive lives were to be involved. Therefore I would suggest that keeping him near you at all times is of greater importance; just about anything else can be fixed quite simply once back on the correct side.
He doesn't have to take the risk if he doesn't want to. Colbert is willing to go, as much as I'd rather not let him.
Grandjean nods, and looks aside at the senior Kellermann, swallowing hard.
"Come, Gilles, we need to get going before the Duc de Valmy sees your state and chews you a new ass."
Delacroix winces and salutes Lasalle, a more sober look on his face.
"Sir, I shall be *hic* careful, I promise. We'll bring the General back. Let it be said that Colonel Jean-Guillaume Lacroix ain't a coward. I'll stick wi' my boys like a burr to a horse's tail. Promise... "
With that, the two cuirassier colonels saluted Lasalle again and wandered off to their regiments, as hurriedly as two heavily armored men could, their stiff boots giving them the characteristic waddle.
The trumpet blared the Botte-selle, and the horde moved into formation, the jingle and rattle of tinned men at the walk, the beat of shod hooves and the chulk chulk chulk of the horses as they moved into the trot and disappeared into the mist gradually fading away.
Lasalle walks off to deal with the new visitor, knowing that at least part of the old Marshal's anger will probably be aimed at him for his security failure, preparing himself for a traditional verbal assault. He has been put through enough of them in his youth to know that one must simply stand at attention and take it so that it will be over quickly.
He finds Kellermann rather deep in conversation with Colonel Schwarz, a fellow German and veteran of Valmy, in their native language. Both stand when Lasalle enters, as does Colbert, but the old man does not bother to switch to French and glares at him intensely.
Kellermann Sr. : Was haben Sie zu Ihrer Verteidigung zu sagen?*
Lasalle @thehussargeneral : General Kellermann zwang die Wache; meinen Männern kann man keinen Vorwurf machen.**
Kellermann Sr. : Ich bitte Sie, sich selbst zu verteidigen, nicht Ihre Männer.***
Colonel Schwarz @thehussargeneral : Exzellenz, er hat alles getan, was er konnte. Er hat zwei Regimenter ausgesandt, um den General zu finden, mehr kann er nicht tun.****
The old Marshal falls silent at that, eventually breaking his eye contact with Lasalle with a sigh and sitting back down. Lasalle nods subtly but gratefully to Schwarz, the colonel of the 5th Hussars and one-time subordinate of both the father and the son continuing to try to keep Kellermann occupied without taking out his anger on his present commander.
Wherever General Kellermann has ended up, it is certainly not the same place on this field that he is used to. By now he has come to not insignificant harm, his blue uniform covered in patches of wet black and his face smeared with red, both of his pistols misfiring incessantly and his arm tiring under the weight of his blade. He is on his second horse, which he holds onto quite carefully, the memory of the incident at Quatre Bras quite fresh. The rebellious General has found his way in, but it seems he had never quite considered the logistics of getting out afterwards.
*What do you have to say in your defence?
**General Kellermann forced the guard; my men cannot be blamed.
***I am asking you to defend yourself, not your men.
****Your Excellency, he has done everything he could. He has sent two regiments to find the General, he can do nothing more.
As Delacroix, Grandjean and their regiments ride into the fog, it shifts, pausing to send tendrils around the quickly-sobering Colonel of the 3rd, the patches of it sticking, testing. This was a new entity to the fog; this one was.... living.
Grandjean shuddered as he saw the mist envelop Delacroix, the man changing to DuQuay on horseback, to another Cuirassier, much much larger than Delacroix, his left arm at an odd angle, with what appeared to be a clip in the palm of his hand, grey of hair, with a mustache and pointed beard, the pants long, baggy, red, the cuirass differently shaped, only to change back again to Delacroix.
The din of battle slowly became louder, muffled at first, the CRUMP of cannonfire, the crackling of musketry, shouts, screams in multiple languages seeming to surround the men, as their horses whinnied and reared, some tossing their heads, the whites of their eyes showing, heads tossed up, a few cuirassiers nearly becoming unhorsed with the more lively mounts. A few dropped their heads and bucked, the CLANG and "OOF!" of an unhorsed trooper echoing.
The fog thickened, and swirls of it parted to show faceless regiments, thundering past, black trails of soot following behind them like ichor-dripping banners, the ground hissing where it hit.
"Colonel! We need to find General Kellermann! Colonel?!! Gilles!!" Grandjean shouted over the din, his voice seeming to drop off almost instantly as he saw Delacroix stiffen, mustache twitching, sabre drawn, his chestnut stallion standing tensed, feet planted, head up, nostrils blowing out gouts of air that made the mist dissipate.
"Troupiers! Sabre a la main! AUuuuuuu PAS!"
Delacroix turned in his saddle, standing in the stirrups, his old chasseur-a-cheval sabre raised high, a souvenir he had kept using, even after his promotion to the tinned regiments.
"Formez en rang!"
The trumpeter, his horse nearly invisible in the mist, blatted out the call, the sound muffled... almost all of the sounds of the regiment had the cotton-wool effect... muted, not traveling far.
The troopers gathered behind their commanders, as they began to pick their way through the terrain, the fog gradually lifting, the squelching of hooves in thick Belgian mud, the sounds of creaking leather and jingling metal beginning to become sharper.
The regiments found themselves walking through the golden wheat, the susurration of the stalks against leather a whisper-quiet sound as they crested a hill, looking down into the open chaos of the field of Waterloo, the farm of Hougoumont in the distance.
And without any of them moving, they'll find themselves in the middle of that open chaos they had just been observing, entangled in a violent melee of faceless men on foot and on horses made of soot, and although they wear the uniforms of friends and enemies, they seem to unite in coming after them.
Cuirassiers might have a tendency to think themselves invincible, but here it will not hold true: mere metal plates provide little protection against swords made of darkness and spite, or musketballs formed from some dense substance that no one quite knows the composition of.
And as they familiarise themselves with this particular chaos, which might be familiar to them anyways, another body of men force themselves into an already cramped fight, this one led by a familiar figure in a familiar uniform, though he has no face just like the rest, and behind him are regiments that these men might just recognise too...
Utter, screaming chaos surrounds the regiments, horses screaming, men shouting, swearing, the clash of metal, the dull THUD of men and horses falling, the stench of battle familiar, yet there is an acrid, burning quality to it that makes their nostrils burn and the men and mounts cough. Several cuirassiers go down, as to be expected; what is not to be expected is the ichor that stains them, eats away at them as they lie screaming, writhing.
"These men have no faces! What is going on??" Grandjean shouts above the din as the men close ranks, flanks touching flanks, horses biting and snapping at each other.
"Gilles!! GILLES!!" Grandjean shouts, hissing as one of the black blades scrapes across his arm.
Delacroix is pale, trembling, eyes wide as the voices in his head begin to merge with the screams of both horse and man, the field at Waterloo shifting, the wheat growing higher, forming buildings, puffs of white smoke emanating from windows, the houses half-timbered, the cuirassier's uniforms changing.
Delacroix.... de Beaune... looks down... the left arm stiff now, reins clipped to it, unable to flex the fingers, the silk of the cushioned cup of the prosthetic rubbing against his stump. A rising panic, cold, knifelike, begins to form in his stomach, the curious tension in the air making him shake his head, the scene shifting back to Waterloo, his men diminishing as they are felled by the hordes.
"Why are our own men attacking us! Retreat!! Colonel Grandjean! We need to retreat while we still ca -" one of the troopers is cut off mid-scream as a cannonball removes his head, the brains hitting Delacroix full in the face, which pulls him back to the present with a gasp.
"Grosjean... we need to regroup! Get away from these men!" Delacroix rasped, hunched over in the saddle, gasping, flexing his left hand over and over again as it holds the reins of his frenzied bay. His cuirass seemed dotted with black blotches, which to Grandjean's astonished eyes looked like holes.
The trumpeter sounded the call to rally to their commander, and Grandjean, the senior of the two Colonels, gives the order to break through, at any cost, keeping Delacroix as close as he can to his side.
"Stay next to me, god in heaven.. Gilles... Corrine... Adrien... if I lose you here, I'll be in a world of shit... more than we are now. Come on now, mes coquillards! Protect Delacroix! Don't worry about the enemy! Ride! RIDE LIKE YOUR LIVES DEPEND ON IT!!!
zalgo'd text: Why not all at once, why not all at once…. you will pay the price for your hubris, three-in-one… you will never make it out of here alive… you will pay…. one of your lives will pay….
Delacroix, meanwhile, will continue to have trouble remaining in a consistent form, the entity testing him in all his lives, until eventually it settles on one for a while... Delacroix is still present, physically, at Waterloo but mentally...
But it is not as De Beaune remembers it. The battle is long gone, the bodies cleared away, the stench of battle only a tinge now. All that remains is the town bearing the marks of war, blood flowing through the gaps in the cobbles with no clear source turning the street slippery, all shrouded in disconcerting silence. But in his head, the voice remains.
He is not to get too comfortable in this scene, even if such a thing was possible in a scene too still and quiet. Every few moments he will see Waterloo again for just a second, then back here to the silence, then Waterloo again, and so on.
The entity has never been kind, but it seems to relish in this special cruelty it displays now, and it seems that it is very... Entertained by the energy of the living person.
The more either of them fight it, the deeper the entity will dig, although eventually it will spit Delacroix back out into Waterloo in that form...
But where is General Kellermann, the source of all of this? Not anywhere terribly near where the regiments have found themselves, to be sure, but through his near-delirious state of pain and disorientation he has managed either to see or somehow sense that something new, something perhaps friendly, has joined the fray somewhere, and has managed to acquire a trumpet and squeak out some noises barely intelligible over the generalised roar of battle. It turns out that being a trumpeter is probably harder than he had thought, but what does it matter, noise is noise. If only he knew what two regiments of men are putting themselves through on account of his idiocy... As many tend do, he had made the mistake of assuming that Lasalle and his brigade are average men, and that facing these things with any regularity is an average task. The dangers of normalising near insanity.
Zalgo Text:
Ah, the hubris of senior officers, to prioritise their friends over the protection of their men. We see that some things never change...
Grandjean falters, clapping his hand to his casque, his sword hanging off his wrist by the sword knot.
"Nein! Il faut sauvez mon ami et mon regiment!" His thick Metz accent is strong, the left arm stinging where one of the blades had bit deep.
The troopers plunge and rear, making sure their officers are in the middle, slashing left and right, exclaiming as their sabres hiss and melt when encountering the faceless warriors, some resorting to their pistols which had a desired effect of momentarily dissipating the fog-creatures, some actually disappearing completely when a fatal wound was made.
Why Lasalle had given Delacroix the pistols armed with silver was a decision only DuQuay might have known, had she been in any cognizant form.
Delacroix shuddered and gasped as the entity threw them back and forth from Waterloo to Woerth to Waterloo, the scene shifting so much sometimes that bile would rise in his throat. His left arm felt wooden most of the time now, the ache in the upper part unrelenting.
Uninhabited Woerth was something else, a limbo of sorts, almost seeming to hang suspended in time, a liminal space. His horse, the bay he had ridden, danced on the cobbles, skidding in the blood that began to rise like a tide.
As the entity taunted them, de Beaune reined in his horse, pulling back and unsheathing their long blade, slashing here and there at the tendrils of the fog.
"My death saved France... did you not know of the heroism of the Cuirassiers of Reichshoffen?! We held the line so that the Armee could retreat to safety! Twice I have died on the field of battle, and Twice I have given my life for France! I would do it again and again if need be! Let it be known that Lieutenant-Colonel Archambault de Beaune is no coward! The honor of the Cuirassiers of the Grande Armee is in our blood! Our blood shall water the fields of France so that generations after us may know the freedom of our sacrifice! Show yourself, COWARD and face me! Je suis un géant de fer qui connaît pas la peur!"
With a muffled CRUMP, de Beaune found himself Delacroix again, the cuirass he wore bearing more and more of the frightful wounds of de Beaune, the burning ache spreading across his chest and abdomen.
In the distance, a faint sound, a weak sound, off key, sounding like a badly played trumpet... Grandjean's mount picked up the sound and shied, nearly throwing the big man to the ground. As it was, he slammed his groin into the pommel of his saddle and gave a pained hiss.
*Fuck of a day to forget the damned suspensoir, he thought as he sucked in air through clenched teeth. If I get out of this, gonna need at least a week's rest before I visit the brothels..*
The sound came again, sounding urgent, and Delacroix managed to rasp out, coughing, DuQuay's voice coming out strong for a moment.
"Who the fuck plays a horn like that? That sounds like a dying goose! Grandjean... wheel 'em in that direction... let's make haste...fucking shit... should have known better..."
A faceless officer in the tin tries to cut off the officers from the troops, sabre-slashing, the normally impenetrable cuirasses taking damage. DuQuay flashes in momentarily, gritting her teeth, and mutters a singular curse word in her native Quebecois. "Tabarnak!"
She reflexively fires the pistol, and the silver bullet hits the sooty cuirass just above the heart, penetrates the metal and goes through the fog-cuirassier, the faceless warrior giving a soundless roar as it explodes in a cloud of sticky black mist.
DuQuay flickers back to Delacroix, who hunches over his saddle, as his men wheel towards the weakening sound of the poorly-played trumpet.
Kellermann continues to make what urgently weak sounds he can on the trumpet until it exhausts him, at that point dropping it back onto the ground where it came from and continuing to try to stay on his horse and vaguely alive. He is rather severely wounded by now, not from any one injury but from the combination of the substance contaminating them all and the sheer number of them. It seems that no matter what he does, he cannot beat them back, the creatures seeming immune while he is defenceless and more tired by the second.
Now he is De Beaune at Woerth again. The town is still empty and silent, but the streams of blood have risen, the buildings now have blood dripping from them too, and he is no longer alone. T̷h̶e̷ ̸e̶n̵t̴i̴t̶y̶ in this form is not the reflection of Lasalle that one would expect. It is a thing formed entirely of dark void, riding a horse of similar properties, so black that it hurts to look at against the sunlight, possessing no eyes and yet glaring so intensely that De Beaune might feel it burrowing into his soul, the very presence of it inducing some unexplained feeling of dread.
The horse's hooves squelch through the thin river of blood in the street as it approaches, each step introducing a new intensity of feeling, and as it speaks the voice will rattle in his head with ear-splitting volume.
And it will raise an object in its hand - it is quite impossible to identify since the entity, the horse and the object have no texture or contrast, but it is probably a sword - and plunge it into his chest, going straight through the cuirass as if it doesn't exist, holding it there.
This sword of darkness leaves no wound, and technically De Beaune is not injured at all by it, but the blade in him causes a pain rather difficult to describe: burning like standing in a raging bonfire, the sharp sting of being ran through, but constant, tension and agony in every extremity, and on top of it a creeping paralysis that gradually takes away one's ability to do nothing about it.
It stands there for some time, as if feeding on the intensity, but eventually it will twitch and lean towards him from the dark horse, its surface appearing hot and only adding to the burning sensation.
And it will rip the sword back out from De Beaune, leaving him able to move again but experiencing such a magnitude of emotion that he may not notice the rumble in the ground, the ripples in the stale blood, or the way the sky turns from overcast to the same black as the entity.
But he cannot miss it when the town begins to shake, crack and collapse around him into nothingness. Run indeed.
Zalgo Text:
De Beaune, Delacroix, DuQuay… Three lives, all pitifully optimistic that anything they have done matters… Honour is but a concept you cowards invent to feel better…
Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.
He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.
The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.
It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.
Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.
Just as Lasalle does not tolerate his sentries being forced, he also does not tolerate those sentries simply rolling over and accepting it, and when he is angry at someone the whole camp walks on eggshells.
So tell me WHY IN GOD'S NAME YOU DIDN'T STOP HIM!
The man before him is one of very few dragoons in the camp, and he stands stiffly to attention and offers no excuses and little in the way of explanation, knowing it will only make him angrier. But he does speak in response to this demand, very quietly and apologetically. He had expected this upon having to report the failing, but it is always more terrifying in the moment.
Dragoon: Sir, he... Refused to answer my questions, saying that he's a General and doesn't have to answer to me, and he's going to Waterloo whether we like it or not... And then he just galloped off, and I couldn't have caught up with him without abandoning my post, sir...
Lasalle takes a long drag of his pipe at hearing this, some of his anger towards the soldier dissipating and transferring to anger at the young Kellermann. His voice is still viciously angry, but he is no longer yelling.
Anyone of any rank answers to the sentries, you ought to be aware of this, you are hardly new to the army. It is your duty to hold up whoever you damn well please regardless of how much gold lace they wear, and it is their duty to allow you to do so. If the Emperor himself turned up unannounced I would still expect you to stop him until he can be verified, is that clear?
Dragoon: Yes, sir, I understand...
Then get out. Your officers will discipline you as they see fit.
He waits for the man to leave, then a while longer to ensure he is actually alone, save for the company of Colonel Schwarz and Colonel Colbert, then slams his hand into the table so hard that a few smaller items fall off and his wrist hurts afterwards.
MERDE! What the hell now? If it has taken him to Waterloo then none of us can go get the damn fool!
Colbert: Mon Général, General Kellermann did not die at Waterloo, so if he is there then he has willed the fog to take him there. That would suggest that anyone who was present at the battle can do the same, at least today, seeing as it is the anniversary. I was there, with-
Absolutely not, you're wounded!
Colbert has sustained a relatively inconsequential cut to the arm in one of the now-frequent encounters with the creaures of not-Lasalle, but it has been stitched up and presents little more than annoyance to the victim. Colbert can be an intimidating-looking man to some, but Lasalle is quite used to him.
Colbert: Not severely enough to stop me from defending myself, sir! And I know what you're thinking - you're not going, even if it allows you. It's a bloody big field of battle, you won't know where you're going or what is happening. I've been there before, I know the field and the movements. General. Please.
Lasalle shakes his head, standing and pacing agitatedly.
Damn it, I don't want you going alone. I don't want anyone going alone. It's too dangerous... But it's dangerous for him to stay there, too, he'll get himself fucking hurt, and who knows if he'll find the exit...
He continues pacing, swearing to himself in various regional languages and dialects as he thinks.
(This arrival is after the party has wound down, a grumbling Grouchy is released, and Delacroix (DuQuay) and Grandjean, the two former colonels at Waterloo, casually trot by Lasalle's HQ on their way to another shindig.)
"Wait... lemme see if the rest o' the horde wants to join in. Ain't no party like a cavalry party..." Delacroix says.
"Ah, yeah, that's right, how long you got in that form before it gets bloody, an'way, Gilles?" Grandjean asks, halting the men and readjusting himself in the saddle.
"As long as I damned well please... the bloody form is just one to scare people inta listenin ta me. Troops, parade rest... Stan an' I are gonna see if the great General Lasalle wants ta party with us."
Delacroix and Grandjean ride into the encampment, and dismount, hailing a sentry.
"You! Trooper! Where's yer General? Tell him two of the biggest tinned arseholes are here ta see him!" Delacroix bellowed, staggering in with that waddle all Cuirassiers did, with a bit more stagger than waddle.
Not only did the party have enormous amounts of wine, they'd indulged in strawberry daquiris, so the 2nd and 3rd cuirassiers were a bit.... tipsy.
The sentry seems to swallow hard as he salutes and walks off towards Lasalle's tent. While waiting the two might notice the ongoing construction of huts to replace the current arrangement of tents and their stifling interiors. But instead of the sentry coming back, Captain Fontaine approaches, today forgoing the cuirass on account of the heat, and seems almost concerned about the two men's volume.
Fontaine: Messieurs... I'm afraid you've chosen a rather bad time... Why? Yes, it's... Somewhat complicated, really. Earlier today General Kellermann was seen galloping into the fog, and the sentries were unable to stop him, we believe that he has willed himself back onto the field of Waterloo.
Fontaine: I hear that Colonel Colbert has volunteered to go find him, but the General forbids him to go alone due to an injury, and he is the only one in this camp who was there... You should know I turned that sentry that met you away, the General has had quite enough irritation by them already.
Fontaine: So unless you are somehow in a position to offer assistance, I would suggest that you don't go poking the angry hussar. Easy to forget that side of him when he's hosting dinners and parties... We can't quite decide if he's actually nicer than Nansouty or not.
Of course, being dead long before then, Fontaine is oblivious to the fact that these two are also veterans of Waterloo.
Delacroix looks at Fontaine, and snorts, incredulous, his mustache twitching. In his Limousin accent, he mutters a few choice words, sounding rather like Fournier, before elbowing Grandjean.
"Hey Stan, old bean, wasn't that one a yours, there, at Wagram? Feckin out of his tin too... shame. You, Fontaine... Capitaine Fontaine... I ain't a-feared of General Lasalle. I charged with the 2nd Chasseurs with him at his final run, charged with Stan here and the likes of the great Gen'ral d'Hautpoul... served under that bug-eyed git Grouchy, freezin my couilles off in Russia.. only to don this fuckin tin vest and eat it AT Waterloo! Dontcha know your manners? I am Colonel Jean-Guillaume de Lacroix de Bourgon, Colonel of the 3eme Cuirassiers, under General Kellermann hisself! This here's Colonel Stanislas Grandjean, of the 2nd. We know where to find the General, we was there, tardieu! Fuck, Colbert wasn't even in the thick of it like we were! We charged behind General Kellermann himself and old Marshal Foxy himself!"
Delacroix had a significant amount of swagger for a rather short cuirassier; only standing in at 1m75 or so, his face seamed with a scar across his brow, his cuirass dented properly, and the pong of way too many alcoholic drinks emanating from him.
Grandjean, a much taller, much more refined man from Metz himself, shook his head and clapped Delacroix on the shoulder.
"Easy, there, Gilles... he probably doesn't remember you; not like you or I made any grand sweeping charges or shit like that. Fontaine, tell Lasalle the 2nd and 3rd Cuirassiers of the III Cavalry Reserve, under General Kellerman, 12th Cavalry division under d'Hurbal, 2nd brigade under de Donop....tell him we are here, and we will find our General, come hell or high water!"
Fontaine is not terribly easily offended, being quite a rational man and noticing immediately that Delacroix is quite drunk, and in fact he finds it mildly amusing even though he doesn't show it. Nonetheless he walks - slightly waddles - off, and soon Lasalle comes out, although his expression is still marked with anger and annoyance. He isn't all that much shorter than Delacroix, and so is quite able to stare into his face.
Now you listen to me, there, while you are in this form and in my territory I will have you abide by discipline regardless of how drunk you are, and the next time you speak to or about one of my men in that manner, much less an officer on my direct orders and one of your comrades as you say, you will be dealt with in the manner that the army deals with drunkards, particularly since you appear to be on duty and in command of a regiment at this time and ought to know better. If you know what's good for you, you will not talk back to me, and be glad you are too necessary for me to have you thrown out of here.
He gives Delacroix a sharp glare before turning to Grandjean, addressing him in an instantly friendlier manner and probably taking him a little more seriously than his drunker counterpart, although he is still very serious. He hands him two sealed letters.
Hopefully Colbert described the field in enough detail that these will take you to the right place. The second one is for Delacroix once he regains any sort of sense. Don't open them, and don't be alarmed if you find they have disappeared or been opened after you cross to the other side, it's relatively normal. The longer you stay, the harder it is to get back out, so be quick about it. Repeat my orders and go bring that idiot back.
"Gen'ral... sir... 'm not on duty... it's Waterloo... n' we allus celebrate.... the mem'ry... *hic*"
Delacroix falters under General Lasalle's stern gaze, and wisely falls silent, swaying slightly.
"Ken... ken I gives ya the cognac in mah pistol holsters in exchange fer a coupl'a pistols den? I was wif Gen'ral Kellermann... wif 'em at the last charge...'n... got hurt pretty bad..."
Delacroix motions for one of his men to remove the two very expensive cognac bottles from his saddle and bring them to General Lasalle, the trooper being VERY sheepish about the entire regiments' rather inebriated state. None of the men are technically in any state to fight, but the news of their commanding officer disappearing into the mist and possibly being lost is sobering them up rather quickly.
Grandjean salutes and takes the two envelopes, nodding at General Lasalle.
"My thanks.. I was wounded at the battle and lived... Colonel Delacroix was wounded and did not... please, General Lasalle, cut him some slack.. he's always this way...on this day.... regrets it in the morning, but he's pretty much a lost cause from the 18th to... to the 30th.. but for those 12 days, I've got my best friend back, even if he's in a state. Ah, we may know where General Kellermann is... but this will help immensely."
Delacroix handed the acquired pistols to the trooper, and swayed, hiccuping, trying to get his bearings.
"We'll find him... does his da know what's happened? I dun wanna piss off anudder big hat...right.... Desjardins, give th' botte-selle on that trompette of yers.. We gonna fight one las' time. 3eme! Retroceder Nesciit! Combattez pour moi, pour la France, pour la Patrie comme si j'etais toujours a la tete! Au-dessus de tous!"
Delacroix was still slurring his speech, but that last part, his final words on 30th of June, sent a shiver down Grandjean's lean frame, and the big man gave General Lasalle an odd look as Delacroix staggered off to mount, bellowing Chant du Depart like it was his sole job to carry the tune, off-key, to the ends of the universe.
"General Lasalle.... what happens when the past life avatar of a living person enters that mist? Do we know? I'd.... hate to lose Delacroix, but if I lose... well, who... they really are... your anger right now will be the LEAST and SMALLEST of my problems...if you know what I mean..."
Very well, then, if it'll keep you from getting yourself killed.
Lasalle has a pair of pistols brought and given to Delacroix, certainly one of his spares but still quite a feat of skill on the part of the maker.
I would like those back afterwards, if you can manage it. Next time I would suggest using the holsters for their intended purpose, I'm sure you can think of other places to store bottles on the march.
He turns back to Grandjean again.
And if he regrets it in the morning, then I take it I can expect an apology to both Captain Fontaine and Colonel Colbert. Maybe then I'll think about slack. Both too good-natured to be offended, of course, but my men put themselves through too much on my orders for me not to demand it at a minimum.
Just as Delacroix asks about Kellermann's father, the man himself barrels in on the usual grey horse at a slightly painful-looking canter. He dismounts about as hurriedly as an 80-year-old man can, and is kept busy by Du Prel and the two Colonels for the time being.
Well, if he didn't already, I'd assume he does now. For God's sake, be careful, I have my reasons for wanting you not dead.
Lasalle sighs at Grandjean's last question, this being among the only ones he has no real answer to.
I... Don't know. I do not know anyone else in a similar predicament, so no one of that sort has ever tested it. What we have seen is that those who force themselves into a place they did not die in through willpower will sometimes become stuck in their form at the time of the event. It is only temporary, lasts a few days at most and typically they must remain here to wait it out under supervision, but I would be prepared for something similar to happen, or perhaps the other way around. Why, if he is stuck as Delacroix until the end of the month anyways, we might not even notice any unusual effects. I was briefly stuck as myself at Rivoli for a day, it was rather amusing.
Aside from the mental torment and its physical creatures, the fog does not appear to be capable of causing long-lasting physical damage - the wounds heal, those who have been trapped in a different form of themselves return to their usual selves after a few days, and generally all is well.
The greatest concern, I think, would be if it attempts to lure them into an event experienced by another of their lives. That is dangerous, and he must not be allowed to fall for it, as getting lost on the other side is the greatest risk of going in, and entrances and exits only get more complicated the further you go, and I can only imagine how much more complicated it would get if multiple successive lives were to be involved. Therefore I would suggest that keeping him near you at all times is of greater importance; just about anything else can be fixed quite simply once back on the correct side.
He doesn't have to take the risk if he doesn't want to. Colbert is willing to go, as much as I'd rather not let him.
Grandjean nods, and looks aside at the senior Kellermann, swallowing hard.
"Come, Gilles, we need to get going before the Duc de Valmy sees your state and chews you a new ass."
Delacroix winces and salutes Lasalle, a more sober look on his face.
"Sir, I shall be *hic* careful, I promise. We'll bring the General back. Let it be said that Colonel Jean-Guillaume Lacroix ain't a coward. I'll stick wi' my boys like a burr to a horse's tail. Promise... "
With that, the two cuirassier colonels saluted Lasalle again and wandered off to their regiments, as hurriedly as two heavily armored men could, their stiff boots giving them the characteristic waddle.
The trumpet blared the Botte-selle, and the horde moved into formation, the jingle and rattle of tinned men at the walk, the beat of shod hooves and the chulk chulk chulk of the horses as they moved into the trot and disappeared into the mist gradually fading away.
Lasalle walks off to deal with the new visitor, knowing that at least part of the old Marshal's anger will probably be aimed at him for his security failure, preparing himself for a traditional verbal assault. He has been put through enough of them in his youth to know that one must simply stand at attention and take it so that it will be over quickly.
He finds Kellermann rather deep in conversation with Colonel Schwarz, a fellow German and veteran of Valmy, in their native language. Both stand when Lasalle enters, as does Colbert, but the old man does not bother to switch to French and glares at him intensely.
Kellermann Sr. : Was haben Sie zu Ihrer Verteidigung zu sagen?*
Lasalle @thehussargeneral : General Kellermann zwang die Wache; meinen Männern kann man keinen Vorwurf machen.**
Kellermann Sr. : Ich bitte Sie, sich selbst zu verteidigen, nicht Ihre Männer.***
Colonel Schwarz @thehussargeneral : Exzellenz, er hat alles getan, was er konnte. Er hat zwei Regimenter ausgesandt, um den General zu finden, mehr kann er nicht tun.****
The old Marshal falls silent at that, eventually breaking his eye contact with Lasalle with a sigh and sitting back down. Lasalle nods subtly but gratefully to Schwarz, the colonel of the 5th Hussars and one-time subordinate of both the father and the son continuing to try to keep Kellermann occupied without taking out his anger on his present commander.
Wherever General Kellermann has ended up, it is certainly not the same place on this field that he is used to. By now he has come to not insignificant harm, his blue uniform covered in patches of wet black and his face smeared with red, both of his pistols misfiring incessantly and his arm tiring under the weight of his blade. He is on his second horse, which he holds onto quite carefully, the memory of the incident at Quatre Bras quite fresh. The rebellious General has found his way in, but it seems he had never quite considered the logistics of getting out afterwards.
*What do you have to say in your defence?
**General Kellermann forced the guard; my men cannot be blamed.
***I am asking you to defend yourself, not your men.
****Your Excellency, he has done everything he could. He has sent two regiments to find the General, he can do nothing more.
As Delacroix, Grandjean and their regiments ride into the fog, it shifts, pausing to send tendrils around the quickly-sobering Colonel of the 3rd, the patches of it sticking, testing. This was a new entity to the fog; this one was.... living.
Grandjean shuddered as he saw the mist envelop Delacroix, the man changing to DuQuay on horseback, to another Cuirassier, much much larger than Delacroix, his left arm at an odd angle, with what appeared to be a clip in the palm of his hand, grey of hair, with a mustache and pointed beard, the pants long, baggy, red, the cuirass differently shaped, only to change back again to Delacroix.
The din of battle slowly became louder, muffled at first, the CRUMP of cannonfire, the crackling of musketry, shouts, screams in multiple languages seeming to surround the men, as their horses whinnied and reared, some tossing their heads, the whites of their eyes showing, heads tossed up, a few cuirassiers nearly becoming unhorsed with the more lively mounts. A few dropped their heads and bucked, the CLANG and "OOF!" of an unhorsed trooper echoing.
The fog thickened, and swirls of it parted to show faceless regiments, thundering past, black trails of soot following behind them like ichor-dripping banners, the ground hissing where it hit.
"Colonel! We need to find General Kellermann! Colonel?!! Gilles!!" Grandjean shouted over the din, his voice seeming to drop off almost instantly as he saw Delacroix stiffen, mustache twitching, sabre drawn, his chestnut stallion standing tensed, feet planted, head up, nostrils blowing out gouts of air that made the mist dissipate.
"Troupiers! Sabre a la main! AUuuuuuu PAS!"
Delacroix turned in his saddle, standing in the stirrups, his old chasseur-a-cheval sabre raised high, a souvenir he had kept using, even after his promotion to the tinned regiments.
"Formez en rang!"
The trumpeter, his horse nearly invisible in the mist, blatted out the call, the sound muffled... almost all of the sounds of the regiment had the cotton-wool effect... muted, not traveling far.
The troopers gathered behind their commanders, as they began to pick their way through the terrain, the fog gradually lifting, the squelching of hooves in thick Belgian mud, the sounds of creaking leather and jingling metal beginning to become sharper.
The regiments found themselves walking through the golden wheat, the susurration of the stalks against leather a whisper-quiet sound as they crested a hill, looking down into the open chaos of the field of Waterloo, the farm of Hougoumont in the distance.
And without any of them moving, they'll find themselves in the middle of that open chaos they had just been observing, entangled in a violent melee of faceless men on foot and on horses made of soot, and although they wear the uniforms of friends and enemies, they seem to unite in coming after them.
Cuirassiers might have a tendency to think themselves invincible, but here it will not hold true: mere metal plates provide little protection against swords made of darkness and spite, or musketballs formed from some dense substance that no one quite knows the composition of.
And as they familiarise themselves with this particular chaos, which might be familiar to them anyways, another body of men force themselves into an already cramped fight, this one led by a familiar figure in a familiar uniform, though he has no face just like the rest, and behind him are regiments that these men might just recognise too...
Utter, screaming chaos surrounds the regiments, horses screaming, men shouting, swearing, the clash of metal, the dull THUD of men and horses falling, the stench of battle familiar, yet there is an acrid, burning quality to it that makes their nostrils burn and the men and mounts cough. Several cuirassiers go down, as to be expected; what is not to be expected is the ichor that stains them, eats away at them as they lie screaming, writhing.
"These men have no faces! What is going on??" Grandjean shouts above the din as the men close ranks, flanks touching flanks, horses biting and snapping at each other.
"Gilles!! GILLES!!" Grandjean shouts, hissing as one of the black blades scrapes across his arm.
Delacroix is pale, trembling, eyes wide as the voices in his head begin to merge with the screams of both horse and man, the field at Waterloo shifting, the wheat growing higher, forming buildings, puffs of white smoke emanating from windows, the houses half-timbered, the cuirassier's uniforms changing.
Delacroix.... de Beaune... looks down... the left arm stiff now, reins clipped to it, unable to flex the fingers, the silk of the cushioned cup of the prosthetic rubbing against his stump. A rising panic, cold, knifelike, begins to form in his stomach, the curious tension in the air making him shake his head, the scene shifting back to Waterloo, his men diminishing as they are felled by the hordes.
"Why are our own men attacking us! Retreat!! Colonel Grandjean! We need to retreat while we still ca -" one of the troopers is cut off mid-scream as a cannonball removes his head, the brains hitting Delacroix full in the face, which pulls him back to the present with a gasp.
"Grosjean... we need to regroup! Get away from these men!" Delacroix rasped, hunched over in the saddle, gasping, flexing his left hand over and over again as it holds the reins of his frenzied bay. His cuirass seemed dotted with black blotches, which to Grandjean's astonished eyes looked like holes.
The trumpeter sounded the call to rally to their commander, and Grandjean, the senior of the two Colonels, gives the order to break through, at any cost, keeping Delacroix as close as he can to his side.
"Stay next to me, god in heaven.. Gilles... Corrine... Adrien... if I lose you here, I'll be in a world of shit... more than we are now. Come on now, mes coquillards! Protect Delacroix! Don't worry about the enemy! Ride! RIDE LIKE YOUR LIVES DEPEND ON IT!!!
zalgo'd text: Why not all at once, why not all at once…. you will pay the price for your hubris, three-in-one… you will never make it out of here alive… you will pay…. one of your lives will pay….
Delacroix, meanwhile, will continue to have trouble remaining in a consistent form, the entity testing him in all his lives, until eventually it settles on one for a while... Delacroix is still present, physically, at Waterloo but mentally...
But it is not as De Beaune remembers it. The battle is long gone, the bodies cleared away, the stench of battle only a tinge now. All that remains is the town bearing the marks of war, blood flowing through the gaps in the cobbles with no clear source turning the street slippery, all shrouded in disconcerting silence. But in his head, the voice remains.
He is not to get too comfortable in this scene, even if such a thing was possible in a scene too still and quiet. Every few moments he will see Waterloo again for just a second, then back here to the silence, then Waterloo again, and so on.
The entity has never been kind, but it seems to relish in this special cruelty it displays now, and it seems that it is very... Entertained by the energy of the living person.
The more either of them fight it, the deeper the entity will dig, although eventually it will spit Delacroix back out into Waterloo in that form...
But where is General Kellermann, the source of all of this? Not anywhere terribly near where the regiments have found themselves, to be sure, but through his near-delirious state of pain and disorientation he has managed either to see or somehow sense that something new, something perhaps friendly, has joined the fray somewhere, and has managed to acquire a trumpet and squeak out some noises barely intelligible over the generalised roar of battle. It turns out that being a trumpeter is probably harder than he had thought, but what does it matter, noise is noise. If only he knew what two regiments of men are putting themselves through on account of his idiocy... As many tend do, he had made the mistake of assuming that Lasalle and his brigade are average men, and that facing these things with any regularity is an average task. The dangers of normalising near insanity.
Zalgo Text:
Ah, the hubris of senior officers, to prioritise their friends over the protection of their men. We see that some things never change...
Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.
He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.
The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.
It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.
Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.
Just as Lasalle does not tolerate his sentries being forced, he also does not tolerate those sentries simply rolling over and accepting it, and when he is angry at someone the whole camp walks on eggshells.
So tell me WHY IN GOD'S NAME YOU DIDN'T STOP HIM!
The man before him is one of very few dragoons in the camp, and he stands stiffly to attention and offers no excuses and little in the way of explanation, knowing it will only make him angrier. But he does speak in response to this demand, very quietly and apologetically. He had expected this upon having to report the failing, but it is always more terrifying in the moment.
Dragoon: Sir, he... Refused to answer my questions, saying that he's a General and doesn't have to answer to me, and he's going to Waterloo whether we like it or not... And then he just galloped off, and I couldn't have caught up with him without abandoning my post, sir...
Lasalle takes a long drag of his pipe at hearing this, some of his anger towards the soldier dissipating and transferring to anger at the young Kellermann. His voice is still viciously angry, but he is no longer yelling.
Anyone of any rank answers to the sentries, you ought to be aware of this, you are hardly new to the army. It is your duty to hold up whoever you damn well please regardless of how much gold lace they wear, and it is their duty to allow you to do so. If the Emperor himself turned up unannounced I would still expect you to stop him until he can be verified, is that clear?
Dragoon: Yes, sir, I understand...
Then get out. Your officers will discipline you as they see fit.
He waits for the man to leave, then a while longer to ensure he is actually alone, save for the company of Colonel Schwarz and Colonel Colbert, then slams his hand into the table so hard that a few smaller items fall off and his wrist hurts afterwards.
MERDE! What the hell now? If it has taken him to Waterloo then none of us can go get the damn fool!
Colbert: Mon Général, General Kellermann did not die at Waterloo, so if he is there then he has willed the fog to take him there. That would suggest that anyone who was present at the battle can do the same, at least today, seeing as it is the anniversary. I was there, with-
Absolutely not, you're wounded!
Colbert has sustained a relatively inconsequential cut to the arm in one of the now-frequent encounters with the creaures of not-Lasalle, but it has been stitched up and presents little more than annoyance to the victim. Colbert can be an intimidating-looking man to some, but Lasalle is quite used to him.
Colbert: Not severely enough to stop me from defending myself, sir! And I know what you're thinking - you're not going, even if it allows you. It's a bloody big field of battle, you won't know where you're going or what is happening. I've been there before, I know the field and the movements. General. Please.
Lasalle shakes his head, standing and pacing agitatedly.
Damn it, I don't want you going alone. I don't want anyone going alone. It's too dangerous... But it's dangerous for him to stay there, too, he'll get himself fucking hurt, and who knows if he'll find the exit...
He continues pacing, swearing to himself in various regional languages and dialects as he thinks.
(This arrival is after the party has wound down, a grumbling Grouchy is released, and Delacroix (DuQuay) and Grandjean, the two former colonels at Waterloo, casually trot by Lasalle's HQ on their way to another shindig.)
"Wait... lemme see if the rest o' the horde wants to join in. Ain't no party like a cavalry party..." Delacroix says.
"Ah, yeah, that's right, how long you got in that form before it gets bloody, an'way, Gilles?" Grandjean asks, halting the men and readjusting himself in the saddle.
"As long as I damned well please... the bloody form is just one to scare people inta listenin ta me. Troops, parade rest... Stan an' I are gonna see if the great General Lasalle wants ta party with us."
Delacroix and Grandjean ride into the encampment, and dismount, hailing a sentry.
"You! Trooper! Where's yer General? Tell him two of the biggest tinned arseholes are here ta see him!" Delacroix bellowed, staggering in with that waddle all Cuirassiers did, with a bit more stagger than waddle.
Not only did the party have enormous amounts of wine, they'd indulged in strawberry daquiris, so the 2nd and 3rd cuirassiers were a bit.... tipsy.
The sentry seems to swallow hard as he salutes and walks off towards Lasalle's tent. While waiting the two might notice the ongoing construction of huts to replace the current arrangement of tents and their stifling interiors. But instead of the sentry coming back, Captain Fontaine approaches, today forgoing the cuirass on account of the heat, and seems almost concerned about the two men's volume.
Fontaine: Messieurs... I'm afraid you've chosen a rather bad time... Why? Yes, it's... Somewhat complicated, really. Earlier today General Kellermann was seen galloping into the fog, and the sentries were unable to stop him, we believe that he has willed himself back onto the field of Waterloo.
Fontaine: I hear that Colonel Colbert has volunteered to go find him, but the General forbids him to go alone due to an injury, and he is the only one in this camp who was there... You should know I turned that sentry that met you away, the General has had quite enough irritation by them already.
Fontaine: So unless you are somehow in a position to offer assistance, I would suggest that you don't go poking the angry hussar. Easy to forget that side of him when he's hosting dinners and parties... We can't quite decide if he's actually nicer than Nansouty or not.
Of course, being dead long before then, Fontaine is oblivious to the fact that these two are also veterans of Waterloo.
Delacroix looks at Fontaine, and snorts, incredulous, his mustache twitching. In his Limousin accent, he mutters a few choice words, sounding rather like Fournier, before elbowing Grandjean.
"Hey Stan, old bean, wasn't that one a yours, there, at Wagram? Feckin out of his tin too... shame. You, Fontaine... Capitaine Fontaine... I ain't a-feared of General Lasalle. I charged with the 2nd Chasseurs with him at his final run, charged with Stan here and the likes of the great Gen'ral d'Hautpoul... served under that bug-eyed git Grouchy, freezin my couilles off in Russia.. only to don this fuckin tin vest and eat it AT Waterloo! Dontcha know your manners? I am Colonel Jean-Guillaume de Lacroix de Bourgon, Colonel of the 3eme Cuirassiers, under General Kellermann hisself! This here's Colonel Stanislas Grandjean, of the 2nd. We know where to find the General, we was there, tardieu! Fuck, Colbert wasn't even in the thick of it like we were! We charged behind General Kellermann himself and old Marshal Foxy himself!"
Delacroix had a significant amount of swagger for a rather short cuirassier; only standing in at 1m75 or so, his face seamed with a scar across his brow, his cuirass dented properly, and the pong of way too many alcoholic drinks emanating from him.
Grandjean, a much taller, much more refined man from Metz himself, shook his head and clapped Delacroix on the shoulder.
"Easy, there, Gilles... he probably doesn't remember you; not like you or I made any grand sweeping charges or shit like that. Fontaine, tell Lasalle the 2nd and 3rd Cuirassiers of the III Cavalry Reserve, under General Kellerman, 12th Cavalry division under d'Hurbal, 2nd brigade under de Donop....tell him we are here, and we will find our General, come hell or high water!"
Fontaine is not terribly easily offended, being quite a rational man and noticing immediately that Delacroix is quite drunk, and in fact he finds it mildly amusing even though he doesn't show it. Nonetheless he walks - slightly waddles - off, and soon Lasalle comes out, although his expression is still marked with anger and annoyance. He isn't all that much shorter than Delacroix, and so is quite able to stare into his face.
Now you listen to me, there, while you are in this form and in my territory I will have you abide by discipline regardless of how drunk you are, and the next time you speak to or about one of my men in that manner, much less an officer on my direct orders and one of your comrades as you say, you will be dealt with in the manner that the army deals with drunkards, particularly since you appear to be on duty and in command of a regiment at this time and ought to know better. If you know what's good for you, you will not talk back to me, and be glad you are too necessary for me to have you thrown out of here.
He gives Delacroix a sharp glare before turning to Grandjean, addressing him in an instantly friendlier manner and probably taking him a little more seriously than his drunker counterpart, although he is still very serious. He hands him two sealed letters.
Hopefully Colbert described the field in enough detail that these will take you to the right place. The second one is for Delacroix once he regains any sort of sense. Don't open them, and don't be alarmed if you find they have disappeared or been opened after you cross to the other side, it's relatively normal. The longer you stay, the harder it is to get back out, so be quick about it. Repeat my orders and go bring that idiot back.
"Gen'ral... sir... 'm not on duty... it's Waterloo... n' we allus celebrate.... the mem'ry... *hic*"
Delacroix falters under General Lasalle's stern gaze, and wisely falls silent, swaying slightly.
"Ken... ken I gives ya the cognac in mah pistol holsters in exchange fer a coupl'a pistols den? I was wif Gen'ral Kellermann... wif 'em at the last charge...'n... got hurt pretty bad..."
Delacroix motions for one of his men to remove the two very expensive cognac bottles from his saddle and bring them to General Lasalle, the trooper being VERY sheepish about the entire regiments' rather inebriated state. None of the men are technically in any state to fight, but the news of their commanding officer disappearing into the mist and possibly being lost is sobering them up rather quickly.
Grandjean salutes and takes the two envelopes, nodding at General Lasalle.
"My thanks.. I was wounded at the battle and lived... Colonel Delacroix was wounded and did not... please, General Lasalle, cut him some slack.. he's always this way...on this day.... regrets it in the morning, but he's pretty much a lost cause from the 18th to... to the 30th.. but for those 12 days, I've got my best friend back, even if he's in a state. Ah, we may know where General Kellermann is... but this will help immensely."
Delacroix handed the acquired pistols to the trooper, and swayed, hiccuping, trying to get his bearings.
"We'll find him... does his da know what's happened? I dun wanna piss off anudder big hat...right.... Desjardins, give th' botte-selle on that trompette of yers.. We gonna fight one las' time. 3eme! Retroceder Nesciit! Combattez pour moi, pour la France, pour la Patrie comme si j'etais toujours a la tete! Au-dessus de tous!"
Delacroix was still slurring his speech, but that last part, his final words on 30th of June, sent a shiver down Grandjean's lean frame, and the big man gave General Lasalle an odd look as Delacroix staggered off to mount, bellowing Chant du Depart like it was his sole job to carry the tune, off-key, to the ends of the universe.
"General Lasalle.... what happens when the past life avatar of a living person enters that mist? Do we know? I'd.... hate to lose Delacroix, but if I lose... well, who... they really are... your anger right now will be the LEAST and SMALLEST of my problems...if you know what I mean..."
Very well, then, if it'll keep you from getting yourself killed.
Lasalle has a pair of pistols brought and given to Delacroix, certainly one of his spares but still quite a feat of skill on the part of the maker.
I would like those back afterwards, if you can manage it. Next time I would suggest using the holsters for their intended purpose, I'm sure you can think of other places to store bottles on the march.
He turns back to Grandjean again.
And if he regrets it in the morning, then I take it I can expect an apology to both Captain Fontaine and Colonel Colbert. Maybe then I'll think about slack. Both too good-natured to be offended, of course, but my men put themselves through too much on my orders for me not to demand it at a minimum.
Just as Delacroix asks about Kellermann's father, the man himself barrels in on the usual grey horse at a slightly painful-looking canter. He dismounts about as hurriedly as an 80-year-old man can, and is kept busy by Du Prel and the two Colonels for the time being.
Well, if he didn't already, I'd assume he does now. For God's sake, be careful, I have my reasons for wanting you not dead.
Lasalle sighs at Grandjean's last question, this being among the only ones he has no real answer to.
I... Don't know. I do not know anyone else in a similar predicament, so no one of that sort has ever tested it. What we have seen is that those who force themselves into a place they did not die in through willpower will sometimes become stuck in their form at the time of the event. It is only temporary, lasts a few days at most and typically they must remain here to wait it out under supervision, but I would be prepared for something similar to happen, or perhaps the other way around. Why, if he is stuck as Delacroix until the end of the month anyways, we might not even notice any unusual effects. I was briefly stuck as myself at Rivoli for a day, it was rather amusing.
Aside from the mental torment and its physical creatures, the fog does not appear to be capable of causing long-lasting physical damage - the wounds heal, those who have been trapped in a different form of themselves return to their usual selves after a few days, and generally all is well.
The greatest concern, I think, would be if it attempts to lure them into an event experienced by another of their lives. That is dangerous, and he must not be allowed to fall for it, as getting lost on the other side is the greatest risk of going in, and entrances and exits only get more complicated the further you go, and I can only imagine how much more complicated it would get if multiple successive lives were to be involved. Therefore I would suggest that keeping him near you at all times is of greater importance; just about anything else can be fixed quite simply once back on the correct side.
He doesn't have to take the risk if he doesn't want to. Colbert is willing to go, as much as I'd rather not let him.
Grandjean nods, and looks aside at the senior Kellermann, swallowing hard.
"Come, Gilles, we need to get going before the Duc de Valmy sees your state and chews you a new ass."
Delacroix winces and salutes Lasalle, a more sober look on his face.
"Sir, I shall be *hic* careful, I promise. We'll bring the General back. Let it be said that Colonel Jean-Guillaume Lacroix ain't a coward. I'll stick wi' my boys like a burr to a horse's tail. Promise... "
With that, the two cuirassier colonels saluted Lasalle again and wandered off to their regiments, as hurriedly as two heavily armored men could, their stiff boots giving them the characteristic waddle.
The trumpet blared the Botte-selle, and the horde moved into formation, the jingle and rattle of tinned men at the walk, the beat of shod hooves and the chulk chulk chulk of the horses as they moved into the trot and disappeared into the mist gradually fading away.
Lasalle walks off to deal with the new visitor, knowing that at least part of the old Marshal's anger will probably be aimed at him for his security failure, preparing himself for a traditional verbal assault. He has been put through enough of them in his youth to know that one must simply stand at attention and take it so that it will be over quickly.
He finds Kellermann rather deep in conversation with Colonel Schwarz, a fellow German and veteran of Valmy, in their native language. Both stand when Lasalle enters, as does Colbert, but the old man does not bother to switch to French and glares at him intensely.
Kellermann Sr. : Was haben Sie zu Ihrer Verteidigung zu sagen?*
Lasalle @thehussargeneral : General Kellermann zwang die Wache; meinen Männern kann man keinen Vorwurf machen.**
Kellermann Sr. : Ich bitte Sie, sich selbst zu verteidigen, nicht Ihre Männer.***
Colonel Schwarz @thehussargeneral : Exzellenz, er hat alles getan, was er konnte. Er hat zwei Regimenter ausgesandt, um den General zu finden, mehr kann er nicht tun.****
The old Marshal falls silent at that, eventually breaking his eye contact with Lasalle with a sigh and sitting back down. Lasalle nods subtly but gratefully to Schwarz, the colonel of the 5th Hussars and one-time subordinate of both the father and the son continuing to try to keep Kellermann occupied without taking out his anger on his present commander.
Wherever General Kellermann has ended up, it is certainly not the same place on this field that he is used to. By now he has come to not insignificant harm, his blue uniform covered in patches of wet black and his face smeared with red, both of his pistols misfiring incessantly and his arm tiring under the weight of his blade. He is on his second horse, which he holds onto quite carefully, the memory of the incident at Quatre Bras quite fresh. The rebellious General has found his way in, but it seems he had never quite considered the logistics of getting out afterwards.
*What do you have to say in your defence?
**General Kellermann forced the guard; my men cannot be blamed.
***I am asking you to defend yourself, not your men.
****Your Excellency, he has done everything he could. He has sent two regiments to find the General, he can do nothing more.
As Delacroix, Grandjean and their regiments ride into the fog, it shifts, pausing to send tendrils around the quickly-sobering Colonel of the 3rd, the patches of it sticking, testing. This was a new entity to the fog; this one was.... living.
Grandjean shuddered as he saw the mist envelop Delacroix, the man changing to DuQuay on horseback, to another Cuirassier, much much larger than Delacroix, his left arm at an odd angle, with what appeared to be a clip in the palm of his hand, grey of hair, with a mustache and pointed beard, the pants long, baggy, red, the cuirass differently shaped, only to change back again to Delacroix.
The din of battle slowly became louder, muffled at first, the CRUMP of cannonfire, the crackling of musketry, shouts, screams in multiple languages seeming to surround the men, as their horses whinnied and reared, some tossing their heads, the whites of their eyes showing, heads tossed up, a few cuirassiers nearly becoming unhorsed with the more lively mounts. A few dropped their heads and bucked, the CLANG and "OOF!" of an unhorsed trooper echoing.
The fog thickened, and swirls of it parted to show faceless regiments, thundering past, black trails of soot following behind them like ichor-dripping banners, the ground hissing where it hit.
"Colonel! We need to find General Kellermann! Colonel?!! Gilles!!" Grandjean shouted over the din, his voice seeming to drop off almost instantly as he saw Delacroix stiffen, mustache twitching, sabre drawn, his chestnut stallion standing tensed, feet planted, head up, nostrils blowing out gouts of air that made the mist dissipate.
"Troupiers! Sabre a la main! AUuuuuuu PAS!"
Delacroix turned in his saddle, standing in the stirrups, his old chasseur-a-cheval sabre raised high, a souvenir he had kept using, even after his promotion to the tinned regiments.
"Formez en rang!"
The trumpeter, his horse nearly invisible in the mist, blatted out the call, the sound muffled... almost all of the sounds of the regiment had the cotton-wool effect... muted, not traveling far.
The troopers gathered behind their commanders, as they began to pick their way through the terrain, the fog gradually lifting, the squelching of hooves in thick Belgian mud, the sounds of creaking leather and jingling metal beginning to become sharper.
The regiments found themselves walking through the golden wheat, the susurration of the stalks against leather a whisper-quiet sound as they crested a hill, looking down into the open chaos of the field of Waterloo, the farm of Hougoumont in the distance.
And without any of them moving, they'll find themselves in the middle of that open chaos they had just been observing, entangled in a violent melee of faceless men on foot and on horses made of soot, and although they wear the uniforms of friends and enemies, they seem to unite in coming after them.
Cuirassiers might have a tendency to think themselves invincible, but here it will not hold true: mere metal plates provide little protection against swords made of darkness and spite, or musketballs formed from some dense substance that no one quite knows the composition of.
And as they familiarise themselves with this particular chaos, which might be familiar to them anyways, another body of men force themselves into an already cramped fight, this one led by a familiar figure in a familiar uniform, though he has no face just like the rest, and behind him are regiments that these men might just recognise too...
I have always been fascinated with you, marshal. If it is not too personal, and you are inclined to answer it---how religious are you?
You have lived through much, but do you still cling to your beliefs even when all went to hell after, lets say, 1810?
You may be aware, Anonyme, that I am a Freemason. I wouldn't call myself religious in that sense, I consider it more of a spiritual obligation. Indeed, I have always retained my beliefs throughout all that happened during the wars, though sometimes one's faith cannot help but wane when presented with such disasters as Russia. As for more general beliefs, I have continued to believe in individual liberty and the core tenets of the Revolution throughout my career, despite what my detractors often say of me - even after the return of the monarchy, I continued to vote for those things in the Senate.
Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.
He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.
The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.
It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.
Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.
Just as Lasalle does not tolerate his sentries being forced, he also does not tolerate those sentries simply rolling over and accepting it, and when he is angry at someone the whole camp walks on eggshells.
So tell me WHY IN GOD'S NAME YOU DIDN'T STOP HIM!
The man before him is one of very few dragoons in the camp, and he stands stiffly to attention and offers no excuses and little in the way of explanation, knowing it will only make him angrier. But he does speak in response to this demand, very quietly and apologetically. He had expected this upon having to report the failing, but it is always more terrifying in the moment.
Dragoon: Sir, he... Refused to answer my questions, saying that he's a General and doesn't have to answer to me, and he's going to Waterloo whether we like it or not... And then he just galloped off, and I couldn't have caught up with him without abandoning my post, sir...
Lasalle takes a long drag of his pipe at hearing this, some of his anger towards the soldier dissipating and transferring to anger at the young Kellermann. His voice is still viciously angry, but he is no longer yelling.
Anyone of any rank answers to the sentries, you ought to be aware of this, you are hardly new to the army. It is your duty to hold up whoever you damn well please regardless of how much gold lace they wear, and it is their duty to allow you to do so. If the Emperor himself turned up unannounced I would still expect you to stop him until he can be verified, is that clear?
Dragoon: Yes, sir, I understand...
Then get out. Your officers will discipline you as they see fit.
He waits for the man to leave, then a while longer to ensure he is actually alone, save for the company of Colonel Schwarz and Colonel Colbert, then slams his hand into the table so hard that a few smaller items fall off and his wrist hurts afterwards.
MERDE! What the hell now? If it has taken him to Waterloo then none of us can go get the damn fool!
Colbert: Mon Général, General Kellermann did not die at Waterloo, so if he is there then he has willed the fog to take him there. That would suggest that anyone who was present at the battle can do the same, at least today, seeing as it is the anniversary. I was there, with-
Absolutely not, you're wounded!
Colbert has sustained a relatively inconsequential cut to the arm in one of the now-frequent encounters with the creaures of not-Lasalle, but it has been stitched up and presents little more than annoyance to the victim. Colbert can be an intimidating-looking man to some, but Lasalle is quite used to him.
Colbert: Not severely enough to stop me from defending myself, sir! And I know what you're thinking - you're not going, even if it allows you. It's a bloody big field of battle, you won't know where you're going or what is happening. I've been there before, I know the field and the movements. General. Please.
Lasalle shakes his head, standing and pacing agitatedly.
Damn it, I don't want you going alone. I don't want anyone going alone. It's too dangerous... But it's dangerous for him to stay there, too, he'll get himself fucking hurt, and who knows if he'll find the exit...
He continues pacing, swearing to himself in various regional languages and dialects as he thinks.
(This arrival is after the party has wound down, a grumbling Grouchy is released, and Delacroix (DuQuay) and Grandjean, the two former colonels at Waterloo, casually trot by Lasalle's HQ on their way to another shindig.)
"Wait... lemme see if the rest o' the horde wants to join in. Ain't no party like a cavalry party..." Delacroix says.
"Ah, yeah, that's right, how long you got in that form before it gets bloody, an'way, Gilles?" Grandjean asks, halting the men and readjusting himself in the saddle.
"As long as I damned well please... the bloody form is just one to scare people inta listenin ta me. Troops, parade rest... Stan an' I are gonna see if the great General Lasalle wants ta party with us."
Delacroix and Grandjean ride into the encampment, and dismount, hailing a sentry.
"You! Trooper! Where's yer General? Tell him two of the biggest tinned arseholes are here ta see him!" Delacroix bellowed, staggering in with that waddle all Cuirassiers did, with a bit more stagger than waddle.
Not only did the party have enormous amounts of wine, they'd indulged in strawberry daquiris, so the 2nd and 3rd cuirassiers were a bit.... tipsy.
The sentry seems to swallow hard as he salutes and walks off towards Lasalle's tent. While waiting the two might notice the ongoing construction of huts to replace the current arrangement of tents and their stifling interiors. But instead of the sentry coming back, Captain Fontaine approaches, today forgoing the cuirass on account of the heat, and seems almost concerned about the two men's volume.
Fontaine: Messieurs... I'm afraid you've chosen a rather bad time... Why? Yes, it's... Somewhat complicated, really. Earlier today General Kellermann was seen galloping into the fog, and the sentries were unable to stop him, we believe that he has willed himself back onto the field of Waterloo.
Fontaine: I hear that Colonel Colbert has volunteered to go find him, but the General forbids him to go alone due to an injury, and he is the only one in this camp who was there... You should know I turned that sentry that met you away, the General has had quite enough irritation by them already.
Fontaine: So unless you are somehow in a position to offer assistance, I would suggest that you don't go poking the angry hussar. Easy to forget that side of him when he's hosting dinners and parties... We can't quite decide if he's actually nicer than Nansouty or not.
Of course, being dead long before then, Fontaine is oblivious to the fact that these two are also veterans of Waterloo.
Delacroix looks at Fontaine, and snorts, incredulous, his mustache twitching. In his Limousin accent, he mutters a few choice words, sounding rather like Fournier, before elbowing Grandjean.
"Hey Stan, old bean, wasn't that one a yours, there, at Wagram? Feckin out of his tin too... shame. You, Fontaine... Capitaine Fontaine... I ain't a-feared of General Lasalle. I charged with the 2nd Chasseurs with him at his final run, charged with Stan here and the likes of the great Gen'ral d'Hautpoul... served under that bug-eyed git Grouchy, freezin my couilles off in Russia.. only to don this fuckin tin vest and eat it AT Waterloo! Dontcha know your manners? I am Colonel Jean-Guillaume de Lacroix de Bourgon, Colonel of the 3eme Cuirassiers, under General Kellermann hisself! This here's Colonel Stanislas Grandjean, of the 2nd. We know where to find the General, we was there, tardieu! Fuck, Colbert wasn't even in the thick of it like we were! We charged behind General Kellermann himself and old Marshal Foxy himself!"
Delacroix had a significant amount of swagger for a rather short cuirassier; only standing in at 1m75 or so, his face seamed with a scar across his brow, his cuirass dented properly, and the pong of way too many alcoholic drinks emanating from him.
Grandjean, a much taller, much more refined man from Metz himself, shook his head and clapped Delacroix on the shoulder.
"Easy, there, Gilles... he probably doesn't remember you; not like you or I made any grand sweeping charges or shit like that. Fontaine, tell Lasalle the 2nd and 3rd Cuirassiers of the III Cavalry Reserve, under General Kellerman, 12th Cavalry division under d'Hurbal, 2nd brigade under de Donop....tell him we are here, and we will find our General, come hell or high water!"
Fontaine is not terribly easily offended, being quite a rational man and noticing immediately that Delacroix is quite drunk, and in fact he finds it mildly amusing even though he doesn't show it. Nonetheless he walks - slightly waddles - off, and soon Lasalle comes out, although his expression is still marked with anger and annoyance. He isn't all that much shorter than Delacroix, and so is quite able to stare into his face.
Now you listen to me, there, while you are in this form and in my territory I will have you abide by discipline regardless of how drunk you are, and the next time you speak to or about one of my men in that manner, much less an officer on my direct orders and one of your comrades as you say, you will be dealt with in the manner that the army deals with drunkards, particularly since you appear to be on duty and in command of a regiment at this time and ought to know better. If you know what's good for you, you will not talk back to me, and be glad you are too necessary for me to have you thrown out of here.
He gives Delacroix a sharp glare before turning to Grandjean, addressing him in an instantly friendlier manner and probably taking him a little more seriously than his drunker counterpart, although he is still very serious. He hands him two sealed letters.
Hopefully Colbert described the field in enough detail that these will take you to the right place. The second one is for Delacroix once he regains any sort of sense. Don't open them, and don't be alarmed if you find they have disappeared or been opened after you cross to the other side, it's relatively normal. The longer you stay, the harder it is to get back out, so be quick about it. Repeat my orders and go bring that idiot back.
"Gen'ral... sir... 'm not on duty... it's Waterloo... n' we allus celebrate.... the mem'ry... *hic*"
Delacroix falters under General Lasalle's stern gaze, and wisely falls silent, swaying slightly.
"Ken... ken I gives ya the cognac in mah pistol holsters in exchange fer a coupl'a pistols den? I was wif Gen'ral Kellermann... wif 'em at the last charge...'n... got hurt pretty bad..."
Delacroix motions for one of his men to remove the two very expensive cognac bottles from his saddle and bring them to General Lasalle, the trooper being VERY sheepish about the entire regiments' rather inebriated state. None of the men are technically in any state to fight, but the news of their commanding officer disappearing into the mist and possibly being lost is sobering them up rather quickly.
Grandjean salutes and takes the two envelopes, nodding at General Lasalle.
"My thanks.. I was wounded at the battle and lived... Colonel Delacroix was wounded and did not... please, General Lasalle, cut him some slack.. he's always this way...on this day.... regrets it in the morning, but he's pretty much a lost cause from the 18th to... to the 30th.. but for those 12 days, I've got my best friend back, even if he's in a state. Ah, we may know where General Kellermann is... but this will help immensely."
Delacroix handed the acquired pistols to the trooper, and swayed, hiccuping, trying to get his bearings.
"We'll find him... does his da know what's happened? I dun wanna piss off anudder big hat...right.... Desjardins, give th' botte-selle on that trompette of yers.. We gonna fight one las' time. 3eme! Retroceder Nesciit! Combattez pour moi, pour la France, pour la Patrie comme si j'etais toujours a la tete! Au-dessus de tous!"
Delacroix was still slurring his speech, but that last part, his final words on 30th of June, sent a shiver down Grandjean's lean frame, and the big man gave General Lasalle an odd look as Delacroix staggered off to mount, bellowing Chant du Depart like it was his sole job to carry the tune, off-key, to the ends of the universe.
"General Lasalle.... what happens when the past life avatar of a living person enters that mist? Do we know? I'd.... hate to lose Delacroix, but if I lose... well, who... they really are... your anger right now will be the LEAST and SMALLEST of my problems...if you know what I mean..."
Very well, then, if it'll keep you from getting yourself killed.
Lasalle has a pair of pistols brought and given to Delacroix, certainly one of his spares but still quite a feat of skill on the part of the maker.
I would like those back afterwards, if you can manage it. Next time I would suggest using the holsters for their intended purpose, I'm sure you can think of other places to store bottles on the march.
He turns back to Grandjean again.
And if he regrets it in the morning, then I take it I can expect an apology to both Captain Fontaine and Colonel Colbert. Maybe then I'll think about slack. Both too good-natured to be offended, of course, but my men put themselves through too much on my orders for me not to demand it at a minimum.
Just as Delacroix asks about Kellermann's father, the man himself barrels in on the usual grey horse at a slightly painful-looking canter. He dismounts about as hurriedly as an 80-year-old man can, and is kept busy by Du Prel and the two Colonels for the time being.
Well, if he didn't already, I'd assume he does now. For God's sake, be careful, I have my reasons for wanting you not dead.
Lasalle sighs at Grandjean's last question, this being among the only ones he has no real answer to.
I... Don't know. I do not know anyone else in a similar predicament, so no one of that sort has ever tested it. What we have seen is that those who force themselves into a place they did not die in through willpower will sometimes become stuck in their form at the time of the event. It is only temporary, lasts a few days at most and typically they must remain here to wait it out under supervision, but I would be prepared for something similar to happen, or perhaps the other way around. Why, if he is stuck as Delacroix until the end of the month anyways, we might not even notice any unusual effects. I was briefly stuck as myself at Rivoli for a day, it was rather amusing.
Aside from the mental torment and its physical creatures, the fog does not appear to be capable of causing long-lasting physical damage - the wounds heal, those who have been trapped in a different form of themselves return to their usual selves after a few days, and generally all is well.
The greatest concern, I think, would be if it attempts to lure them into an event experienced by another of their lives. That is dangerous, and he must not be allowed to fall for it, as getting lost on the other side is the greatest risk of going in, and entrances and exits only get more complicated the further you go, and I can only imagine how much more complicated it would get if multiple successive lives were to be involved. Therefore I would suggest that keeping him near you at all times is of greater importance; just about anything else can be fixed quite simply once back on the correct side.
He doesn't have to take the risk if he doesn't want to. Colbert is willing to go, as much as I'd rather not let him.
Grandjean nods, and looks aside at the senior Kellermann, swallowing hard.
"Come, Gilles, we need to get going before the Duc de Valmy sees your state and chews you a new ass."
Delacroix winces and salutes Lasalle, a more sober look on his face.
"Sir, I shall be *hic* careful, I promise. We'll bring the General back. Let it be said that Colonel Jean-Guillaume Lacroix ain't a coward. I'll stick wi' my boys like a burr to a horse's tail. Promise... "
With that, the two cuirassier colonels saluted Lasalle again and wandered off to their regiments, as hurriedly as two heavily armored men could, their stiff boots giving them the characteristic waddle.
The trumpet blared the Botte-selle, and the horde moved into formation, the jingle and rattle of tinned men at the walk, the beat of shod hooves and the chulk chulk chulk of the horses as they moved into the trot and disappeared into the mist gradually fading away.
Lasalle walks off to deal with the new visitor, knowing that at least part of the old Marshal's anger will probably be aimed at him for his security failure, preparing himself for a traditional verbal assault. He has been put through enough of them in his youth to know that one must simply stand at attention and take it so that it will be over quickly.
He finds Kellermann rather deep in conversation with Colonel Schwarz, a fellow German and veteran of Valmy, in their native language. Both stand when Lasalle enters, as does Colbert, but the old man does not bother to switch to French and glares at him intensely.
Kellermann Sr. : Was haben Sie zu Ihrer Verteidigung zu sagen?*
Lasalle @thehussargeneral : General Kellermann zwang die Wache; meinen Männern kann man keinen Vorwurf machen.**
Kellermann Sr. : Ich bitte Sie, sich selbst zu verteidigen, nicht Ihre Männer.***
Colonel Schwarz @thehussargeneral : Exzellenz, er hat alles getan, was er konnte. Er hat zwei Regimenter ausgesandt, um den General zu finden, mehr kann er nicht tun.****
The old Marshal falls silent at that, eventually breaking his eye contact with Lasalle with a sigh and sitting back down. Lasalle nods subtly but gratefully to Schwarz, the colonel of the 5th Hussars and one-time subordinate of both the father and the son continuing to try to keep Kellermann occupied without taking out his anger on his present commander.
Wherever General Kellermann has ended up, it is certainly not the same place on this field that he is used to. By now he has come to not insignificant harm, his blue uniform covered in patches of wet black and his face smeared with red, both of his pistols misfiring incessantly and his arm tiring under the weight of his blade. He is on his second horse, which he holds onto quite carefully, the memory of the incident at Quatre Bras quite fresh. The rebellious General has found his way in, but it seems he had never quite considered the logistics of getting out afterwards.
*What do you have to say in your defence?
**General Kellermann forced the guard; my men cannot be blamed.
***I am asking you to defend yourself, not your men.
****Your Excellency, he has done everything he could. He has sent two regiments to find the General, he can do nothing more.
It's that day again... I have no men to command in this life, but I still feel the need to charge... I envy those like Lasalle, he has all the company in the world. I am lonely here, but no one with a sane mind wishes to associate with me, not today.
For the last two days I've felt like this, ever since Quatre Bras... And something... Hurts, and I'm tired. Probably the wounds, I suppose, and falling off the horse. But I am not wounded here, so why?
Etienne de Kellermann sits at a desk in a dark, empty study, now and then standing to pace around the room, the contents of a bottle of wine gradually diminishing. But it is not enough to quiet his mind.
Pssst... Etienne.... c'mon... La Haye Sainte... bring a dish and spoon. I'll need your help wrestling Grouchy to tree and securing him with duct tape... it's an old tradition.. Ney, and the rest of the 3rd and 2nd Cuirassiers are in on it... it's payback. We duct-tape him to the tree, fasten the headphones on his ears and blast Abba's Waterloo... while we eat strawberry shortcake in front of him and pelt him with the hulls....
I'm in non-Delacroix form so he won't suspect a THING...
Eventually he can no longer resist the thoughts. He must return, although he hardly knows why, the compulsion seemingly having no reason. Sneaking out is rather simple, since he has done it so many times already, and quite soon he is on his horse.
He has heard discussion of the fog around General Lasalle's encampment, that it can take one to various parts of their life and death, and it seems that if he wills it enough, it might allow him onto the battlefield.
The beginning of Lasalle's domain is marked by the beginning of a dense pine forest. The constant obstacles do not deter him or his horse from the flat out gallop they maintain, barrelling straight towards the white void in the distance. But a gunshot interrupts, and although he continues to spur the horse it stops and turns towards the source of the noise.
It is a soldier, probably one of Lasalle's sentries. Of course he wouldn't leave the border unwatched, the General is a smarter man than that. For all he knows they probably saw him coming long before he even crossed over. The man tries to question him, but he becomes defensive, refuses to answer or cooperate and kicks his horse back into the gallop as soon as it will obey.
Lasalle will probably kill him when he finds out; he has had men shot for forcing his sentries, and he has never had any issues with treating anyone entering his domain as under his command. But his mind is not rational now, the only thought being how he can get back to the battlefield as soon as possible, and he'll get his wish soon as he disappears into white nothingness.
It's that day again... I have no men to command in this life, but I still feel the need to charge... I envy those like Lasalle, he has all the company in the world. I am lonely here, but no one with a sane mind wishes to associate with me, not today.
For the last two days I've felt like this, ever since Quatre Bras... And something... Hurts, and I'm tired. Probably the wounds, I suppose, and falling off the horse. But I am not wounded here, so why?
Etienne de Kellermann sits at a desk in a dark, empty study, now and then standing to pace around the room, the contents of a bottle of wine gradually diminishing. But it is not enough to quiet his mind.
Pssst... Etienne.... c'mon... La Haye Sainte... bring a dish and spoon. I'll need your help wrestling Grouchy to tree and securing him with duct tape... it's an old tradition.. Ney, and the rest of the 3rd and 2nd Cuirassiers are in on it... it's payback. We duct-tape him to the tree, fasten the headphones on his ears and blast Abba's Waterloo... while we eat strawberry shortcake in front of him and pelt him with the hulls....
I'm in non-Delacroix form so he won't suspect a THING...
It's that day again... I have no men to command in this life, but I still feel the need to charge... I envy those like Lasalle, he has all the company in the world. I am lonely here, but no one with a sane mind wishes to associate with me, not today.
For the last two days I've felt like this, ever since Quatre Bras... And something... Hurts, and I'm tired. Probably the wounds, I suppose, and falling off the horse. But I am not wounded here, so why?
Etienne de Kellermann sits at a desk in a dark, empty study, now and then standing to pace around the room, the contents of a bottle of wine gradually diminishing. But it is not enough to quiet his mind.
I am quite sure that you are aware of the recent disagreement between generals Dupont and Fournier, and it has been brought to my attention that you are Dupont's commanding officer.
I write to you with the hopes you would aid me in settling and ending this matter, as having had the entirety of the situation explained to me, I am somewhat disturbed to discover the triviality that led to this conduct.
This disagreement started in the early years over nothing more than a disagreeable message conveyed by Dupont from his commanding officer, a matter I am sure you recognise to be a ludicrous reason for a duel to begin with, let alone a feud spanning decades like this one. I am also sure you recognise the need for duelling to be reserved for only the gravest of insults and wrongdoings, in order to preserve its status as an affair of honour.
General Fournier has been dealt with quite thoroughly by his own commanding officer already, but I kindly ask for your cooperation in ending this dispute on General Dupont's side. Allowing such a situation to continue to fester is nothing more than a waste of energy and men for what was, at its inception, an incorrectly perceived slight. It is acknowledged that Dupont is not at fault for starting the dispute, but his help in ending it would be invaluable.
Regards,
François-Christophe Kellermann.
[ @les-ducs-de-valmy ]
Houchard read the letter, and looked up at both d'Hautpoul in his full battle dress, and at Dupont, who had a look on his face that would sour freshly-drawn milk.
"This was after my death, yes?"
Dupont nodded, taking off his hat and running his fingers through the feathers, while Ange looked at one of his gloves, inspecting the seams, trying not to pay attention.
"Yes, it started in 1794, when I was under General Moreau, as a brigadier general, as his ADC."
Houchard blew through his nose, which whistled slightly due to the damage to it, and tapped the letter against his palm.
"General d'Hautpoul, dismissed. I can say that the new uniforms for the heavy cavalry are certainly.... impressive. I can't hold you responsible for this. You more than likely were not aware."
d'Hautpoul, who had served with Houchard in the Corsican legion, knew that Houchard was pissed; he saw that flash in the old man's eyes, and knew that Dupont was in for a good sound verbal thrashing. He saluted, and remounted his horse, riding out of the courtyard and back towards his own chateau.
Houchard rose from his chaise, and beckoned for Dupont to follow him to his study, General Ernouf at the staff desk, rustling through papers, with no real business to be performing.
"Ernouf, out. Dupont's going to write this letter...Dupont, sit. Write the following to General Kellermann:
"General Kellermann;
I have been made aware of this event, and while I was not aware of the origins thereof, I will deal with this matter on my end.
Unfortunately, I had been.... sent to the scaffold before this event happened, and General Dupont has informed me that it was General Moreau who was his commanding officer at the time.
Perchance, it would behoove us both if we were to contact General Moreau on this situation, and have him present in a meeting of both yourself, myself, Fournier and Dupont, and Fournier's commanding officer.
Salut et Fraternite ~
Jean-Nicolas Houchard,
General en Chef
Armee du Nord"
Dupont handed the letter to Houchard for him to sign, looking unrepentant.
"He started it. All I did was deliver a - "
"ENOUGH! You will NOT reply to any of Fournier's challenges, no matter how inflammatory the language! It is my understanding you won the first duel?"
Houchard roared, slamming his fist on the desk, making the inkpot rattle.
Dupont swallowed hard and nodded, not saying a word. Houchard, when he was angry, was downright TERRIFYING. For some strange reason, the afterlife did not return his face to his pre-mangled appearance, and the thin, jagged scar that bisected his neck was a stark reminder of his true fate, Houchard unable to wear a properly-tied cravat because of how the scar would get irritated and weep blood-tinged fluid.
"Then that should have settled it! For Fournier to continue to demand satisfaction when it was already determined he was the loser... that is insanity on a scale that not even I can allow! No, Dupont! We will contact General Moreau at Chaillot, and you, Fournier, his CO, General Kellermann and I will settle this, once and for all! You had best be hopeful that Madame does not catch word of this.... it is by HER grace that we were brought together into this.... existence, and by God, you'll abide by her rules or I'll make sure you FEEL it! They may have abolished the rod in the Revolutionary Armies, but they did not when I first received my baptism of fire!"
A trio of Marshal Kellermann, General Lasalle and General Fournier ride towards Houchard's domain. Kellermann rides a quiet grey gelding in civilian tack and wears his old revolutionary General's uniform, Lasalle rides his lively bay mare, and Fournier struggles to stay atop his still somewhat dazed chestnut. It turns out that being thrown off by a horse hurts, and so does sitting on one properly afterwards, so his position in this moment leaves some to be desired.
Lasalle @thehussargeneral : Fournier, I've seen men with their guts spilling out onto the saddle ride better, would you prefer to walk?
Fournier, at least knowing better than to argue in this moment, simply shakes his head.
Fournier @thehussargeneral : No, Sir, I wouldn't...
Lasalle @thehussargeneral : Then sit yourself up properly before I make you trot the whole way there so you cannot slouch, or I decide to break your back like you're breaking the horse's.
Fournier complies with not insignificant pain, trying to hide his pained expressions by glancing away from the other two, neither of whom are particularly sympathetic to him right now. Lasalle's onslaught had already been brutal, but additionally being subjected to Kellermann's more old-fashioned notions of discipline has worn him down to the base compliance of a soldier.
You've fallen off a horse, not been ran through, Fournier, are you trying to embarrass Lasalle by being a coward? You were quite brave enough to challenge a man to a duel for no reason, yet you cannot stand some pain riding after a fall? How were you to handle any pain from injuries sustained from the duel, or did you merely assume that you would come away uninjured, particularly considering you did not bother to engage a surgeon? By God, what did General Lasalle ever do with you on campaign?
Kellermann had actually been somewhat surprised to find Lasalle of all people punishing a man so harshly for duelling, but it all made sense once the ludicrous origins of the feud had been revealed. Nonetheless, it is him that Fournier fears more despite being more escapable than his commanding officer.
The old Marshal is the first to dismount once they arrive at Houchard's residence, knocking on the door with unusual fervour for a 290-year-old man in an 80-year-old's body. The revolutionary uniform suits him much better than the Marshal's one ever has, just as the personality of a revolutionary general suits him better.
Lasalle @thehussargeneral : For God's sake, do I have to unseat you from that horse twice in one day?
Fournier twitches and dismounts with discomfort, limping slightly up to the door as Lasalle jumps down himself.
When the door is answered, Kellermann speaks for the group.
We have decided that a certain wayward duellist ought to apologise for his conduct in person to all disturbed and inconvenienced by it. Haven't. We.
Fournier @thehussargeneral : Yes, Sir, we have.
There would be contempt in his voice if it wouldn't risk another mauling from two officers rather adept at that delicate art.
General Ernouf nods, seeing Lasalle, Marshal Kellermann and Fournier, and gestures for them to come in.
"Didn't think I'd see you all again, you know. General Houchard is in the smoking room with General Moreau and General Dupont."
Ernouf, a rather medium-sized, fat man, walked slowly down the hall, the paintings on the gallery hall showing battles that Houchard had been in, portraits of his children and wife, and himself before his horrific facial injuries. Forever a lanky, tall, bony man, Houchard had a rugged handsomeness before the injury in Corsica had rendered him into a gargoyle in a French General's uniform.
Sitting in the parlor were General Moreau and Dupont, who stood up when the other men entered, General Houchard standing by the sideboard and pouring Moselle wine into a glass, his meerschaum pipe in the other hand.
Houchard was six and a half feet tall, with a long-limbed, janky gait and a terrible countenance, with wild, bushy eyebrows and a fierce, penetrating gaze, his eyes deep-set, with dark undereye circles. A shot had displaced his mouth, sending it back toward his left ear. His upper lip had been split in two by a saber blow, which had further split his nose, and two more saber blows furrowed his right cheek in two parallel lines, severing one of the nerves, causing that corner of his mouth to droop. The rest of his body was no better spared than the head. His chest was riddled with scars, and it seemed as if victory had been won by mutilating him. He spoke a barbaric jargon, half German, half French, which his difficulty in pronouncing made even rougher. His cravat was open, still, due to the healed scar that had cost him his life; the scar of the National Razor.
But that horrific countenance lit up when he saw General Kellermann, and his accent, while rough, was understandable enough.
"Ach, Kellermann! 'tis a gut t'ing to zee you herre, und dere is junge Lasalle, und dis musst pe Vournier, our mann ob das uhr...Komm, komm, sizt jetzt, und ve barler 'bout dis, hmm?"
Houchard gestured to the chairs in the parlor, which had been arranged by a considerate Ernouf into a circle, with a tin of fine American Burley tobacco and spare pipes in a pipe-holder on the table.
"Vrom our dear Madame Kleber, dat fine fraulein... she is like ein tochter to me, ja.. She t'ink de worldt ob me an' myn famille."
General Moreau nodded to General Kellerman and General Lasalle, and leveled Fournier with a steady, blue-eyed gaze. Moreau was a man of middling height, with a calm demeanor; it was hard to tell what was going on in that man's head usually. But now? It was clear what he was thinking.
"General Fournier... it is my understanding that you were offended by the missive I sent with then Brigadier-General Dupont, as a member of my staff, and challenged him to a duel. Are you not familiar with the phrase 'don't kill the messenger?' - and if you HAD been doing your duty, Fournier, I would not have had to SEND said message, non? Your beef with Dupont is misplaced, sir. Do you wish to have something to say to me, after over 200 years, about this supposed slight on your very sensitive self, or are you finally realizing the.... foolishness of your ways?"
Kellermann smiles when he sees Houchard, a man who he simply never saw or heard of again after his release from prison in 1794. He had found out much later of his fate.
And here I thought I'd never see you again, General. Shame we had to meet in this exact situation, but we ought to catch up later, I think.
Neither Lasalle nor Fournier have ever met or known Houchard in life, though Lasalle has encountered him at a certain little party in the afterlife. The former sits with a friendly greeting in Lorrain, but Fournier is somewhat intimidated and tries to stop himself from staring at... Well, all of him, really.
But soon he is distracted by Moreau, who he is clearly unafraid of.
Fournier @thehussargeneral : General Moreau, I did not challenge Dupont purely on the basis on the content of your message, but on the basis of his actions surrounding it.
Fournier @thehussargeneral : I am not here to bow to everyone in this room and be ridiculed for it, least of all by you, I am here to apologise to Dupont and end this matter as ordered. Presently you come dangerously close to insulting me, and thereby commencing a different affair directly after the conclusion of this one.
Both Lasalle and Kellermann give him a sharp glare as he becomes more agitated, and he inhales deeply to force himself to calm down and stay silent. He is rather tense now, both from the physical pain from earlier and from realising just what he has said, knowing that Lasalle and Kellermann are being merciful by not saying anything in front of these three. It seems they think this situation is humiliating enough for him at present.
Houchard looks at Kellermann, and asks him in German.
"Does this young pup have a terminal case of stupid? Does he feel the need to duel anything and everything? Is he part rooster?"
Moreau sits upright, and that placid, calm face turns ice-cold, the blue eyes glacial, and he sets down the cigar he was smoking into the pedestal ash-tray, his hand trembling. If Fournier is thinking that shaking is because Moreau is intimidated, he's dead wrong.
"You know, Fournier... you have the biggest pair of balls I've seen on a man of your.... type. Addressing your superior officer, a man who was your COMMANDER in such a fashion... Have you met Madame DuQuay-Kleber yet? She has a phrase for cocks-of-the-walk like you... "deconner, decouvrir" - politely - "thou mayest test thine theory at thy convenience, and report back to us with your conclusions."
Dupont gave a sharp bark of laughter at that. "Fournier's not smart enough to get the gist of that, General Moreau. After all, he DID interpret your letter to be an insult. Perhaps we should have drawn pictograms instead. Fournier.... you've fucked around for nigh on two decades, it's time to find out. General Moreau was not the only person who came from Chaillot to visit General Houchard regarding this matter."
Kellermann Sr @les-ducs-de-valmy : Manche lernen es einfach nie.*
Ich habe versucht, ihm etwas Vernunft beizubringen, aber nach meinem Tod ist er eindeutig in die alte Art zurückgekert.**
Lasalle speaks German well, although his accent is distinctly Alsatian rather than Messin as one might expect, having learned the language while serving in an Alsatian regiment as a child.
Kellermann Sr @les-ducs-de-valmy : Hat Ihnen niemand beigebracht, ohne Akzent zu sprechen?***
Die Preussen verstanden mich gut genug, ich sah keine Notwendigkeit.****
Kellermann simply rolls his eyes in amusement, quite certain that this is a reference to something but choosing not to try to explain it for fear of being awkward.
Fournier, meanwhile, continues to dig himself into a hole, quite oblivious to the German conversation.
Fournier: Yes, was, for you no longer command me, and haven't in a long time. Happily, we are both quite equal now, both in that we are both dead and that we are of equal rank. That means, of course, that should you persist in insulting me, the matter can be dealt with in the manner I'm sure you're quite familiar with.
At this moment Lasalle pulls himself back into the French-speaking world, turning to Fournier with a glare to remind him of where he is and who with. Kellermann also interjects, but for a different reason.
Indeed, I command you now, and I tell you that you will show General Moreau the respect he is due and cease your useless threatening at once, or else being thrown off that horse shall be the least painful thing you experience today.
Kellermann Sr @les-ducs-de-valmy : And Dupont, I expect more decorum from you, I recall you being a decent subordinate. There is no need for such hostility and gloating, soon you might give him a legitimate reason to challenge you again rather than apologising, and I think we can agree that the latter is preferable.
Fournier: Anyways, I have not met this Madame DuQuay-Kleber, but I hardly see how that is relevant to this situation.
*Some just never learn.
**I tried to teach him some sense, but clearly after my death he went back to his old ways.
***Did no one ever teach you to speak without the accent?
****The Prussians understood me well enough, I saw no need.
Houchard gave a lopsided grin, and replied in his own awfully accented Germanic dialect.
"Ach, na ja, Akzente sind ja ganz nett, wenn du das Deutsche verstehst, wo ist da das Problem?"*
He then switched back to his Native mix, and addressed Fournier and Dupont.
"Both of you are out of order. Dupont, do not provoke the man. You know better... as for you, Fournier - you will never be equal to General Moreau, myself or General Kellermann. You have never commanded an entire army, and there were good reasons for that. I have heard of your irregularities, ones that not even young Lasalle here would tolerate, and knowing hussars like I do..."
Houchard was interrupted as the door opened, and Madame DuQuay strode in, dressed in a modified 11th Hussar's uniform, her silvering hair in the proper lovelocks and queue, her silver tassels on her boots swaying as she entered. She was tall for a woman of their era, and built like an Amazon - broad of shoulder, generous of hip and bust, with short but thick legs, and thick arms.
"Eure Exzellenz, es ist schön, Sie wiederzusehen, und zwar in der Uniform, die Ihnen am besten steht. General Lasalle, Ihr Mund steht offen. So fängt man Fliegen. Papa Houche, Jean-Vic... Dupont..... und Sie müssen Fournier sein....Ah, excuse me... You must be Fournier."**
Her accent was straight Saxon German, but her French, that was Poitevin to the core. There was the slightest touch of her French in the German, but not enough to be well noticed. She gave Kellermann a soft nod, and came around to kiss the formidable Houchard on the cheek, then clapping Moreau on the shoulder and wagging a finger at Dupont.
"So, I hear, Citizen Fournier, that you see fit to continue the absolute insanity of dueling with Dupont. Don't you ever get tired of getting your ass handed to you? It's clear Dupont was and is the better man here, even if he can't keep his fool tongue in his head sometimes."
Dupont sat upright, and made to get up, but DuQuay gestured for him to sit, with a look that made Houchard's visage look mild in comparison. She turned that look to Fournier, and jabbed a slender finger at him.
"This ends, now. If I hear one more word of you, Fournier, starting shit, or even attempting to start shit, what the Duc de Valmy or Lasalle do to you will seem peanuts compared to what I can put you through."
Houchard shifted in his chair and reached out to touch DuQuay's arm.
"Corrine, dear.... your temper... Fournier's a duelist.."
"He THINKS himself a great swordsman. If he WAS, why then did Dupont kick his ass time and time again? Hmm? No no, he's one of those jumped-up little shits with something to prove. Well, stand up then, mannele, and PROVE it."
Moreau went to get up, to hold DuQuay back, resting a hand on her shoulder, murmuring something under his breath about "spicy damned Poitevins" and "Poor Kleber".
"Dear... you shouldn't... women shouldn't fight..."
"Yeah, tell that to Bonaparte. I introduced my idiot cousin to involuntary yoga the other day for insulting my husband. He fucked around, and found out. The problem here is that this little Poltard hasn't been taught proper manners, and who better than a woman from his own damned district? Yeah, I hear that accent, Fournier... and I hear it well. You're a damned baudet and you need to be brought to heel."
Houchard sighed, and looked at Kellermann with a wry grin on his face, shrugging his shoulders.
"Sie ist wütend auf Kleber wegen irgendetwas, da wette ich. Ich bin mir sicher, dass sie ihn inzwischen mit ihrer scharfen Zunge ordentlich aufgezogen hat. Ich kann sie nicht kontrollieren, obwohl ich sollte. Ein Teil von mir will sehen, wie der junge Kerl von ihr ordentlich zur Sau gemacht wird. Als Hentz neulich zu Besuch kam, hat sie ihn am Kragen gepackt. Dabei hat sie einen Riss in den Putz gemacht und Bilder von der Wand gefegt. Der arme Hentz hat sich in die Hose gepinkelt."***
*Oh, well, accents are all well and good, if you can understand (the)German, what's the problem with that?
**Your Excellency, it is good to see you again, and in the uniform that suits you best. General Lasalle, your mouth is open. This is how you catch flies. Papa Houche, Jean-Vic... Dupont..... and you must be Fournier.
***She's pissed at Kleber for something, I bet you. I'm sure he's been thoroughly whipped by now by her savage tongue. I can't control her, though I should. Part of me wants to see that young cock get his arse handed to him by her. She picked up Representative Hentz by his collar when he came calling a few days ago, when she was visiting. Put a crack in the plaster and knocked pictures off the wall. Poor Hentz pissed himself.
Fournier gives a condescending smirk as DuQuay talks down to him, raising an eyebrow at her accusation. Lasalle simply sits back, knowing that anything stupid Fournier does will have natural and potentially entertaining consequences near-immediately, and while Kellermann is somewhat bemused at the sight of a woman in a uniform he says nothing, merely smiling and nodding at the compliment.
Fournier: Why, citoyenne, aren't you a fiery little Poitevin? Poor Kleber indeed. And just what inspires you to get involved in mine and Dupont's business, hmm? It is hardly your place, or really that of anyone else here, but I am forced to tolerate them as they are my superiors. Don't you ever get tired of filling your pretty little head with problems that aren't yours?
He stands and swaggers over to her, that grin still on his face the entire time, his hand resting on the hilt of his sabre, entirely ignoring anyone's orders to sit the fuck back down.
Fournier: My dear, I don't know Kleber, but I do not bow down to rude women, or men for that matter, who see fit to try to command or judge me. I'll prove it, quite happily, but it will only be at your expense.
Fournier: This ends when I say it ends, not when an ill-mannered unstable little lady walks into a room she has not been invited into and tries to tell me what to do!
Someone ought to introduce Lasalle to the idea of popcorn, as it would very much suit the circumstances. He does try to interject to warn Fournier to shut up several times, but the latter is now far too angry from being provoked to listen, so Lasalle decides to leave him to his fate and turns back to Houchard with a shrug.
Nun, ich habe es versucht. Jetzt können wir nur noch zusehen. Zumindest der Kaiser kann es nicht sehen; er würde ihn schleisslich erschiessen lassen.*
Kellermann Sr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : Wissen Sie, ich brauche ständig Traubenpflückern für den Weinberg. Einige meiner Mitarbeiter würden sich über die freie Zeit freuen.**
*Well, I [have] tried. Now we can only watch. At least the Emperor cannot see; he would finally have him shot.
**You know, I always need grape pickers for the vineyard. Some of my workers would appreciate the free time.
Houchard moves to sit up at those insults to DuQuay, his brows knitting into a frown, but he takes one look at his "adopted daughter's stance, and then grins fiercely at Kellermann and Lasalle.
"Prima, Jetz geht's los....Äb ar wìll oder nìt... a zound thrashing..."*
DuQuay moved faster than she had in a long time, given her near half-century on the living planet, and Fournier found himself slammed against the plaster wall, a good three inches off of the ground, with a hand on his barrel-sash and the other twisted in his cravat, as DuQuay's expression was like thunder, her lower teeth bared. She repeatedly slammed him into the wall, cursing him in the filthiest of French curses, ones that made Moreau wince and Dupont hide his face behind his hand, but the smirk was clear in his eyes.
"Bricon! Fil' a putain, del glouton souduiant! Cuivert maleis faus losengier! I am going to rip off your fucking head and shit down your goddamned neck, you arrogant little cockscomb! This is MY TERRITORY and THESE ARE MY MEN and you will NOT disrespect them, nor myself! I will put the last 40 francs in my purse that your prick is as tiny as your goddamned brain! You, will, NOT, SPEAK, TO, ME, IN, SUCH, A, FASHION, AGAIN or I will make sure to have your shriveled little scrote as my fucking new coin purse! I will bust your ass down to buck private so fucking fast your goddamned head will swim! Unless you want my fucking size 9 permanently up your flat little arse, you will CHECK yourself before I WRECK you!"
With each sentence, DuQuay kept slamming Fournier against the wall, the pictures rattling, Moreau jumping up to catch the few that fell off.
"Arrogant little jean-foutre! Bon Dieu de bordel de merde, how fucking stupid do you have to be? Is your ego so inflated that you think you are god's gift to hussars? You fucking little shit!"
DuQuay's voice became deeper in her rage, and she began to shift, the hands getting bigger, her height increasing, her body shifting into that of a man of medium height, in a dented, bloody and battered cuirass, with gray eyes, a dark brown mustache, ruffled, short-cut hair and sideburns, the face stained with blood and mud, a gaping wound on the left side of the skull that was ragged, white pieces of bone and the pink dura mater of the brain clearly showing. A healed sabre cut bisected the man's eyebrow, and his face was terrifying to behold as he glared at Fournier.
With a roar of "Sainte Rosses, sacre foutou trou de viarge!" the transformed DuQuay sent Fournier crashing to the ground, panting, now a battered, wounded cuirassier, the mud of Waterloo coating their boots, their leather pants, and caked in their golden epaulettes.
"Little fucking cocksucker, now look what you made me do."
Dupont paled at the transformation, and looked around the room; seeing Houchard with a smug look on his face, Moreau facepalming and sighing, and lord knows what the others were thinking.
"Colonel Jean-Guillaume de Lacroix de Bourgon?" Dupont murmured.
The transformed DuQuay turned, nodded, still breathing hard, looking at the men in the room.
"Ouais, c'est moi, General Dupont. General Lasalle, Marechal Kellermann, General Houchard... General Moreau... been too damned long... dunno how long I'll be in this form... "
*And here we go... whether he wants it or not..
(OOC: The french curses are just... awful Lol. She's giving him the business, and oops, Fournier has indeed fucked around and found out--- piss DuQuay off enough and she transforms into her Napoleonic past life self, Colonel Delacroix. IIRC Kellermann and Lasalle already met this iteration or maybe not?)
Fournier struggles against her, levelling some not-appropriate-to-reproduce curses particularly aimed at women as he does so. The attempt is somewhat sabotaged by his ongoing pain from the fall from the horse.
Fournier: Who died and made you Emperor, eh? You command no one, least of all me!
Lasalle sits and watches alongside Kellermann until DuQuay transforms into the wounded form. At that point he stands abruptly and tries to push them towards a seat, the hand pressing into the backplate of the cuirass insistent and the voice firm. He ignores Fournier, who is struggling to get up, in even more pain than he was previously.
Now, Colonel, that is quite enough of that, sit down. You are wounded, and rather badly. Sit, you need a surgeon before the rest of your brain falls out.
The knock on the door comes at possibly the worst time, and Captain Fontaine steps in cautiously holding a letter. He balks at the scene, particularly at the sight of the injured Delacroix. He is a much milder man than one would expect to find in the cavalry, rather tall but naturally thin save for the muscle on his body, quite proper about everything and always immaculate. If one wanted to, one could likely think of a great assortment of jokes about his polite but often stiff and awkward manner, lack of excessive drinking and his standard of dress.
Fontaine: Ah, uh... Messieurs... Bad time, I assume? Is the Colonel...?
Fontaine knows better than to ask what happened, aware that whatever response he is given is unlikely to make any real sense to him, but does at least show concern for the other cuirassier in the room.
If you wish to worry about anyone in this room, Fontaine, kindly worry about Fournier over there and make him stand up. Put the damn letter down somewhere, I'll look at it later, once Delacroix here has finished displaying his organs.
Delacroix sat down with a tremble into the seat, panting, wiping at their face with a handkerchief, only succeeding in smearing the blood and mud around.
"Tis no grand injury, General Lasalle, and not one that any surgeon can fix, tho' god knows they tried...took me 12 days to... expire, twelve harrowing, painful days. Fortunately, laudanum was available."
Houchard got up and poured Delacroix a stronger drink than the wine, and handed it to him.
"Young pup, why do you always show up in this state, hm? t'would be better if you showed up whole, instead of... this.... "
Delacroix fixed Houchard with a tired grin, and shook his head, putting his hand over his wound first before he did so.
"Wish I knew, General Houchard, sir. An' I wish I had known you back in my living years... didn't join until 1795, there, served with General Hoche and then General Moreau, was at Marengo, an' then wi' Marechal Davout until I got the tin vest here, to serve with that..... coltord Marechal Grouchy. He was good in Russia, dunno wha' happened ta him in Waterloo... Served with th' Duc's boy there, General Kellermann. Tough little bugger, he was. An' I wonder how he's doin' now...."
Delacroix managed to settle down a bit, the ferocity of his gaze cooling, his body visibly relaxing as he sipped at the brandy, jerking his chin towards Fournier.
"Well, ya done fucked aroun' an' found out, eh, General Fournier?"
Delacroix's accent was thicker than DuQuay's had been, and there was the touch of nobility in the delivery, rather like d'Hautpoul. He looked up at Fontaine, and nodded at the man.
"Capitaine... long time no see...."
(ooc: dunno how long DuQuay will remain as Delacroix.. depends on the time it takes for them to calm down, or whenever I feel like it LOL)
Kellermann Sr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : My son is quite well, although he has gained little in the way of intelligent thought since you last knew or served him.
Fontaine helps Fournier drag himself to his feet for a second time today, largely not paying attention to the conversation. But he does hear parts, and he shudders at the description of Delacroix's death, which reminds him far too much of his own. The difference is that it had taken him more than twice as long to die, and in that time he had not had access to such effective pain relief. He still remembers that month, though only vaguely - the couple of visits from his friends, each painful bandage change, the progressively less optimistic looks on the faces of the ones carrying them out, the last day he spent in that quiet room by himself... In the end he had died alone. He says nothing of it for the moment, hoping no one noticed.
Fontaine: My memory must fail me, Monsieur le Colonel, for I do not recall meeting you, but if I may ask then I would rather like to know how it felt to wear the cuirass for the first time after serving in the lighter variants of cavalry.
Fournier remains silent, even when provoked, merely glaring at Delacroix with some combination of anger and confusion, also breathing rather heavily.
The man's brain is spilling out of his head, Fontaine, let us not bother him with such complex questions.
Fontaine: With respect, Mon Général, I rather would've liked if someone came to speak to me while I was wounded... But I think they knew I would die, and did not want to think about it. They ought to have shot me as one does a horse with a broken leg, then, it would have been kinder.
Ich glaube, Fontaine braucht auch etwas von diesem Brandy.* But yes, Colonel, you really ought to try to appear in one piece in future.
Delacroix sighed, their form wavering again, slowly collapsing on himself until DuQuay was present, her hand still on her head.
"Capitaine Fontaine... I was as a chasseur a cheval at Wagram; and at Eylau. I remember your prolonged death... well, Delacroix does. I don't remember too many visitors as I lay in Paris, insensible, but if there was, I didn't see any. It's like General d'Hautpoul, too - though many visited him as he lay there to settle his affairs. Now, if Monsieur Fournier hadn't pissed me off, I would have remained in my present form, and not shifted into that of my past. I won't tolerate disrespect in my domain, and this is, by my reckoning, my domain. As for wearing the cuirass for the first time - it was an odd thing - heavy, yes, on the shoulders, made movement hard, since I had been used to being light cavalry, but the first time a ball shot at distance glanced off of it, or the sabre of the enemy just slid off... I saw why it was handy... .plus, let's be honest, the ladies did appreciate trying to crack the shell to get to the interior of the coquillard, eh?"
Houchard nodded; and he leveled the staggering Fournier with a look that brooked no disobedience.
"Agreed. This duel nonsense ends now, and I do not wish to hear anything more about it, is that clear?"
Fontaine gives a slight smile in response, an expression rarely seen in the man, and runs his gloved hand over the breastplate of his cuirass. Despite being immaculately clean, it is still an imperfect thing: several deep scratches that haven't quite buffed out cross its surface, and scattered about are four dents to interrupt the smoothness. It is certainly no display piece, but handy indeed, although as a man who did not spend all that much time in female company he cannot relate to the last point. Most of his time in life was spent at his military duties, all the monotonies of everyday life and the task of mentoring the young and largely fresh men put under his command.
Are you alright, Madame?
Lasalle cuts in as DuQuay becomes her usual self again, while Fournier glares at her and Houchard respectively when they speak.
Fournier : Very well, sir, if you do not wish to hear of it, then you shall not, but I urge you to be mindful of what you ask for. As for you, Madame, perhaps a lesson or two in manners towards your betters would do.
Kellermann Sr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : You watch your mouth, boy, we've seen quite enough of your insubordination today. If it wasn't already a miracle that the Emperor didn't have you shot, then it will be an act of God if you survive another encounter.
DuQuay nods, weary, at Lasalle, looking at him with a soft fondness in her eyes and with warmth at Fontaine.
"Proved that cuirass. Good. No dents, don't buy it. Yes, General Lasalle, I am a bit tired, but I am otherwise fine."
At Fournier's insult, DuQuay made to stand, but a sharp word in Lorrain German made her sit back down as Houchard himself rose to his feet, his face nearly apoplectic in his rage at the disrespect. In that barbaric accent of his, Houchard lurched for Fournier and dragged him up by the collar, face to face with his terrible visage, his bushy eyebrows knitted together, his sunken eyes bulging with fury, the broken teeth visible in his mangled mouth.
"You SHALL NOT SPEAK TO MADAME IN SUCH A MANNER! She is the LADY of this DOMAIN and your SUPERIOR! WHO CONFERRED UPON YOU THIS TITLE OF GENERAL? I SHOULD KNOW HIS NAME SO I CAN CORRESPOND WITH HIM TO REMOVE SAID RANK! General Kellermann, General Lasalle? Remove this canaille from my home forthwith before I remove his head and shove it up his arse!"
At six and a half feet tall, nearly as large in bulk as the "man-mountain" of Danton, of whom Houchard had been good friends with, poor, idiotic Fournier found himself a good foot off of the ground, being shaken like a rat in the jaws of a terrier.
Dupont and Moreau sprung to their feet, Dupont's hand going to the hilt of his sabre, his dark eyes burning, and Moreau made to reach for Houchard's arm, to try to calm the raging old man down, giving Lasalle, Fontaine and Kellermann an apologetic look.
"Gentlemen, I think it best once we get Fournier out of General Houchard's grasp to get him the hell out of here. Houchard still has nominal command of portions of the Armee du Nord that were loyal to him, and if this insult gets back to General Kleber, right now will be the safest moment in Fournier's afterlife."
Ernouf skidded into the parlor at his General's roar of anger, saw the situation and backed out, quickly. He wasn't going to get into this, but in a few minutes, a courier was heard galloping out of the courtyard in the vague direction of Chaillot.
Fontaine: It came with three, the fourth was a gift from the enemy. As were all the scratches. I consider it an honour, in a way, to have it seen that one has been in battle.
Why, aren't you romantic after all, hm? Madame, do you require anything - a drink, perhaps? God, don't we all.
When Houchard attacks Fournier, neither Lasalle nor Kellermann intervene at first, both men being firm believers in natural consequences. But at Moreau's suggestion Captain Fontaine steps forward, gently trying to pry Fournier away from the angry general while speaking in that strange almost subservient tone of a good subordinate trying to convince his superiors of something. Whether it is out of guilt due to technically being the one who got him into this situation or something else, one cannot know.
Fontaine: Please, Monsieur le Général, let me remove him from you.
Once he manages to convince Houchard to not rip his head off, he half-drags Fournier out of the room, the receding footsteps caused by the cuirassier's boots audible for some time. A while later, he will return with a folded note that he will hand to Lasalle, who does not say anything about the contents to the others. In brief, the note states that Fournier has "decided" to go to Sarlat and remain there until further orders. Lasalle's only comment on the matter:
Good. Perhaps his old teachers will remind him of himself.
Kellermann Sr. @les-ducs-de-valmy : If not, then I have plenty more for him, or one of Lasalle's drillmasters. Now, General Houchard, I would appreciate if you would return to us here and tell me how you have been, or I shall have to consider this visit in vain.
Kellermann speaks the final sentence lightheartedly, leaning back in his seat and relaxing a little now that Fournier has left.
Houchard dusts himself off, readjusts his uniform, runs a hand through his hair, and settles back in his chair, taking his packed pipe from DuQuay with a curt nod.
"Ach, General Kellermann... or I heard it is Marechal Kellermann now, and a Duke, even... how times have changed. I'm good, very well, in fact. When I found myself here, in this strange world, it was little Madame DuQuay that greeted myself and my family, and imagine my surprise when my old staff came behind her. To say the least, it is odd to find myself not in Vorbach, but rather, in my home in Strasbourg; after some repairs by Madame's young man, under the tutelage of General Kleber's step-brother and half-brother, of the firm Burger et fils.... and no CSP knocking on my door...except the Robespierre brothers come to apologize..."
Houchard drew on his pipe and gestured to the men assembled.
"T'was a strange thing, indeed. Time and distance are... odd here. I can be in Paris, nay, at Chaillot or Buttes-Chaumont in record time, but a walk to Barfussplatz in the center of town takes days, and the city center has changed... since WHEN did young General Kleber age like that, and get a statue in the center of the plaza? Madame says he is buried there in the living world... I thought that only for kings."
DuQuay poured them all a strong brandy, and passed around the tray, nodding to Fontaine again, with a soft and gentle smile.
"Just... don't ask the enemy for a gift of grapeshot... the cuirass isn't rated for that..found that out the hard way back in 1870."
Kellermann listens with curiosity, sipping on the brandy. Fontaine refuses it as usual, while Lasalle lightheartedly rolls his eyes as he does so.
Yes, yes, much has changed... Not all for the better, as you see. I find myself living in the palace at Johannisberg, although I hardly even stepped foot in that place in life. And this version of it can be... Strange. Thankfully, it was already in livable condition for me, for I had no one in particular to greet me on arrival. And luckily relatively soon after I found that dear Lasalle is here too.
Lasalle @thehussargeneral : Time and distance certainly do not work here, and neither do maps. Doing my usual duty here with those factors has been... Interesting, to say the least. A man can relive his death, travel to a place or end up in a foggy abyss all while following the same directions. It surprises me that I have yet to end up in Metz, really. If you are not confined as I am, then I tend to suggest notes of one's destination to help in reaching the desired place.
I am quite sure that you are aware of the recent disagreement between generals Dupont and Fournier, and it has been brought to my attention that you are Dupont's commanding officer.
I write to you with the hopes you would aid me in settling and ending this matter, as having had the entirety of the situation explained to me, I am somewhat disturbed to discover the triviality that led to this conduct.
This disagreement started in the early years over nothing more than a disagreeable message conveyed by Dupont from his commanding officer, a matter I am sure you recognise to be a ludicrous reason for a duel to begin with, let alone a feud spanning decades like this one. I am also sure you recognise the need for duelling to be reserved for only the gravest of insults and wrongdoings, in order to preserve its status as an affair of honour.
General Fournier has been dealt with quite thoroughly by his own commanding officer already, but I kindly ask for your cooperation in ending this dispute on General Dupont's side. Allowing such a situation to continue to fester is nothing more than a waste of energy and men for what was, at its inception, an incorrectly perceived slight. It is acknowledged that Dupont is not at fault for starting the dispute, but his help in ending it would be invaluable.
Regards,
François-Christophe Kellermann.
[ @les-ducs-de-valmy ]
Houchard read the letter, and looked up at both d'Hautpoul in his full battle dress, and at Dupont, who had a look on his face that would sour freshly-drawn milk.
"This was after my death, yes?"
Dupont nodded, taking off his hat and running his fingers through the feathers, while Ange looked at one of his gloves, inspecting the seams, trying not to pay attention.
"Yes, it started in 1794, when I was under General Moreau, as a brigadier general, as his ADC."
Houchard blew through his nose, which whistled slightly due to the damage to it, and tapped the letter against his palm.
"General d'Hautpoul, dismissed. I can say that the new uniforms for the heavy cavalry are certainly.... impressive. I can't hold you responsible for this. You more than likely were not aware."
d'Hautpoul, who had served with Houchard in the Corsican legion, knew that Houchard was pissed; he saw that flash in the old man's eyes, and knew that Dupont was in for a good sound verbal thrashing. He saluted, and remounted his horse, riding out of the courtyard and back towards his own chateau.
Houchard rose from his chaise, and beckoned for Dupont to follow him to his study, General Ernouf at the staff desk, rustling through papers, with no real business to be performing.
"Ernouf, out. Dupont's going to write this letter...Dupont, sit. Write the following to General Kellermann:
"General Kellermann;
I have been made aware of this event, and while I was not aware of the origins thereof, I will deal with this matter on my end.
Unfortunately, I had been.... sent to the scaffold before this event happened, and General Dupont has informed me that it was General Moreau who was his commanding officer at the time.
Perchance, it would behoove us both if we were to contact General Moreau on this situation, and have him present in a meeting of both yourself, myself, Fournier and Dupont, and Fournier's commanding officer.
Salut et Fraternite ~
Jean-Nicolas Houchard,
General en Chef
Armee du Nord"
Dupont handed the letter to Houchard for him to sign, looking unrepentant.
"He started it. All I did was deliver a - "
"ENOUGH! You will NOT reply to any of Fournier's challenges, no matter how inflammatory the language! It is my understanding you won the first duel?"
Houchard roared, slamming his fist on the desk, making the inkpot rattle.
Dupont swallowed hard and nodded, not saying a word. Houchard, when he was angry, was downright TERRIFYING. For some strange reason, the afterlife did not return his face to his pre-mangled appearance, and the thin, jagged scar that bisected his neck was a stark reminder of his true fate, Houchard unable to wear a properly-tied cravat because of how the scar would get irritated and weep blood-tinged fluid.
"Then that should have settled it! For Fournier to continue to demand satisfaction when it was already determined he was the loser... that is insanity on a scale that not even I can allow! No, Dupont! We will contact General Moreau at Chaillot, and you, Fournier, his CO, General Kellermann and I will settle this, once and for all! You had best be hopeful that Madame does not catch word of this.... it is by HER grace that we were brought together into this.... existence, and by God, you'll abide by her rules or I'll make sure you FEEL it! They may have abolished the rod in the Revolutionary Armies, but they did not when I first received my baptism of fire!"
A trio of Marshal Kellermann, General Lasalle and General Fournier ride towards Houchard's domain. Kellermann rides a quiet grey gelding in civilian tack and wears his old revolutionary General's uniform, Lasalle rides his lively bay mare, and Fournier struggles to stay atop his still somewhat dazed chestnut. It turns out that being thrown off by a horse hurts, and so does sitting on one properly afterwards, so his position in this moment leaves some to be desired.
Lasalle @thehussargeneral : Fournier, I've seen men with their guts spilling out onto the saddle ride better, would you prefer to walk?
Fournier, at least knowing better than to argue in this moment, simply shakes his head.
Fournier @thehussargeneral : No, Sir, I wouldn't...
Lasalle @thehussargeneral : Then sit yourself up properly before I make you trot the whole way there so you cannot slouch, or I decide to break your back like you're breaking the horse's.
Fournier complies with not insignificant pain, trying to hide his pained expressions by glancing away from the other two, neither of whom are particularly sympathetic to him right now. Lasalle's onslaught had already been brutal, but additionally being subjected to Kellermann's more old-fashioned notions of discipline has worn him down to the base compliance of a soldier.
You've fallen off a horse, not been ran through, Fournier, are you trying to embarrass Lasalle by being a coward? You were quite brave enough to challenge a man to a duel for no reason, yet you cannot stand some pain riding after a fall? How were you to handle any pain from injuries sustained from the duel, or did you merely assume that you would come away uninjured, particularly considering you did not bother to engage a surgeon? By God, what did General Lasalle ever do with you on campaign?
Kellermann had actually been somewhat surprised to find Lasalle of all people punishing a man so harshly for duelling, but it all made sense once the ludicrous origins of the feud had been revealed. Nonetheless, it is him that Fournier fears more despite being more escapable than his commanding officer.
The old Marshal is the first to dismount once they arrive at Houchard's residence, knocking on the door with unusual fervour for a 290-year-old man in an 80-year-old's body. The revolutionary uniform suits him much better than the Marshal's one ever has, just as the personality of a revolutionary general suits him better.
Lasalle @thehussargeneral : For God's sake, do I have to unseat you from that horse twice in one day?
Fournier twitches and dismounts with discomfort, limping slightly up to the door as Lasalle jumps down himself.
When the door is answered, Kellermann speaks for the group.
We have decided that a certain wayward duellist ought to apologise for his conduct in person to all disturbed and inconvenienced by it. Haven't. We.
Fournier @thehussargeneral : Yes, Sir, we have.
There would be contempt in his voice if it wouldn't risk another mauling from two officers rather adept at that delicate art.
General Ernouf nods, seeing Lasalle, Marshal Kellermann and Fournier, and gestures for them to come in.
"Didn't think I'd see you all again, you know. General Houchard is in the smoking room with General Moreau and General Dupont."
Ernouf, a rather medium-sized, fat man, walked slowly down the hall, the paintings on the gallery hall showing battles that Houchard had been in, portraits of his children and wife, and himself before his horrific facial injuries. Forever a lanky, tall, bony man, Houchard had a rugged handsomeness before the injury in Corsica had rendered him into a gargoyle in a French General's uniform.
Sitting in the parlor were General Moreau and Dupont, who stood up when the other men entered, General Houchard standing by the sideboard and pouring Moselle wine into a glass, his meerschaum pipe in the other hand.
Houchard was six and a half feet tall, with a long-limbed, janky gait and a terrible countenance, with wild, bushy eyebrows and a fierce, penetrating gaze, his eyes deep-set, with dark undereye circles. A shot had displaced his mouth, sending it back toward his left ear. His upper lip had been split in two by a saber blow, which had further split his nose, and two more saber blows furrowed his right cheek in two parallel lines, severing one of the nerves, causing that corner of his mouth to droop. The rest of his body was no better spared than the head. His chest was riddled with scars, and it seemed as if victory had been won by mutilating him. He spoke a barbaric jargon, half German, half French, which his difficulty in pronouncing made even rougher. His cravat was open, still, due to the healed scar that had cost him his life; the scar of the National Razor.
But that horrific countenance lit up when he saw General Kellermann, and his accent, while rough, was understandable enough.
"Ach, Kellermann! 'tis a gut t'ing to zee you herre, und dere is junge Lasalle, und dis musst pe Vournier, our mann ob das uhr...Komm, komm, sizt jetzt, und ve barler 'bout dis, hmm?"
Houchard gestured to the chairs in the parlor, which had been arranged by a considerate Ernouf into a circle, with a tin of fine American Burley tobacco and spare pipes in a pipe-holder on the table.
"Vrom our dear Madame Kleber, dat fine fraulein... she is like ein tochter to me, ja.. She t'ink de worldt ob me an' myn famille."
General Moreau nodded to General Kellerman and General Lasalle, and leveled Fournier with a steady, blue-eyed gaze. Moreau was a man of middling height, with a calm demeanor; it was hard to tell what was going on in that man's head usually. But now? It was clear what he was thinking.
"General Fournier... it is my understanding that you were offended by the missive I sent with then Brigadier-General Dupont, as a member of my staff, and challenged him to a duel. Are you not familiar with the phrase 'don't kill the messenger?' - and if you HAD been doing your duty, Fournier, I would not have had to SEND said message, non? Your beef with Dupont is misplaced, sir. Do you wish to have something to say to me, after over 200 years, about this supposed slight on your very sensitive self, or are you finally realizing the.... foolishness of your ways?"
Kellermann smiles when he sees Houchard, a man who he simply never saw or heard of again after his release from prison in 1794. He had found out much later of his fate.
And here I thought I'd never see you again, General. Shame we had to meet in this exact situation, but we ought to catch up later, I think.
Neither Lasalle nor Fournier have ever met or known Houchard in life, though Lasalle has encountered him at a certain little party in the afterlife. The former sits with a friendly greeting in Lorrain, but Fournier is somewhat intimidated and tries to stop himself from staring at... Well, all of him, really.
But soon he is distracted by Moreau, who he is clearly unafraid of.
Fournier @thehussargeneral : General Moreau, I did not challenge Dupont purely on the basis on the content of your message, but on the basis of his actions surrounding it.
Fournier @thehussargeneral : I am not here to bow to everyone in this room and be ridiculed for it, least of all by you, I am here to apologise to Dupont and end this matter as ordered. Presently you come dangerously close to insulting me, and thereby commencing a different affair directly after the conclusion of this one.
Both Lasalle and Kellermann give him a sharp glare as he becomes more agitated, and he inhales deeply to force himself to calm down and stay silent. He is rather tense now, both from the physical pain from earlier and from realising just what he has said, knowing that Lasalle and Kellermann are being merciful by not saying anything in front of these three. It seems they think this situation is humiliating enough for him at present.
I am quite sure that you are aware of the recent disagreement between generals Dupont and Fournier, and it has been brought to my attention that you are Dupont's commanding officer.
I write to you with the hopes you would aid me in settling and ending this matter, as having had the entirety of the situation explained to me, I am somewhat disturbed to discover the triviality that led to this conduct.
This disagreement started in the early years over nothing more than a disagreeable message conveyed by Dupont from his commanding officer, a matter I am sure you recognise to be a ludicrous reason for a duel to begin with, let alone a feud spanning decades like this one. I am also sure you recognise the need for duelling to be reserved for only the gravest of insults and wrongdoings, in order to preserve its status as an affair of honour.
General Fournier has been dealt with quite thoroughly by his own commanding officer already, but I kindly ask for your cooperation in ending this dispute on General Dupont's side. Allowing such a situation to continue to fester is nothing more than a waste of energy and men for what was, at its inception, an incorrectly perceived slight. It is acknowledged that Dupont is not at fault for starting the dispute, but his help in ending it would be invaluable.
Regards,
François-Christophe Kellermann.
[ @les-ducs-de-valmy ]
Houchard read the letter, and looked up at both d'Hautpoul in his full battle dress, and at Dupont, who had a look on his face that would sour freshly-drawn milk.
"This was after my death, yes?"
Dupont nodded, taking off his hat and running his fingers through the feathers, while Ange looked at one of his gloves, inspecting the seams, trying not to pay attention.
"Yes, it started in 1794, when I was under General Moreau, as a brigadier general, as his ADC."
Houchard blew through his nose, which whistled slightly due to the damage to it, and tapped the letter against his palm.
"General d'Hautpoul, dismissed. I can say that the new uniforms for the heavy cavalry are certainly.... impressive. I can't hold you responsible for this. You more than likely were not aware."
d'Hautpoul, who had served with Houchard in the Corsican legion, knew that Houchard was pissed; he saw that flash in the old man's eyes, and knew that Dupont was in for a good sound verbal thrashing. He saluted, and remounted his horse, riding out of the courtyard and back towards his own chateau.
Houchard rose from his chaise, and beckoned for Dupont to follow him to his study, General Ernouf at the staff desk, rustling through papers, with no real business to be performing.
"Ernouf, out. Dupont's going to write this letter...Dupont, sit. Write the following to General Kellermann:
"General Kellermann;
I have been made aware of this event, and while I was not aware of the origins thereof, I will deal with this matter on my end.
Unfortunately, I had been.... sent to the scaffold before this event happened, and General Dupont has informed me that it was General Moreau who was his commanding officer at the time.
Perchance, it would behoove us both if we were to contact General Moreau on this situation, and have him present in a meeting of both yourself, myself, Fournier and Dupont, and Fournier's commanding officer.
Salut et Fraternite ~
Jean-Nicolas Houchard,
General en Chef
Armee du Nord"
Dupont handed the letter to Houchard for him to sign, looking unrepentant.
"He started it. All I did was deliver a - "
"ENOUGH! You will NOT reply to any of Fournier's challenges, no matter how inflammatory the language! It is my understanding you won the first duel?"
Houchard roared, slamming his fist on the desk, making the inkpot rattle.
Dupont swallowed hard and nodded, not saying a word. Houchard, when he was angry, was downright TERRIFYING. For some strange reason, the afterlife did not return his face to his pre-mangled appearance, and the thin, jagged scar that bisected his neck was a stark reminder of his true fate, Houchard unable to wear a properly-tied cravat because of how the scar would get irritated and weep blood-tinged fluid.
"Then that should have settled it! For Fournier to continue to demand satisfaction when it was already determined he was the loser... that is insanity on a scale that not even I can allow! No, Dupont! We will contact General Moreau at Chaillot, and you, Fournier, his CO, General Kellermann and I will settle this, once and for all! You had best be hopeful that Madame does not catch word of this.... it is by HER grace that we were brought together into this.... existence, and by God, you'll abide by her rules or I'll make sure you FEEL it! They may have abolished the rod in the Revolutionary Armies, but they did not when I first received my baptism of fire!"
A trio of Marshal Kellermann, General Lasalle and General Fournier ride towards Houchard's domain. Kellermann rides a quiet grey gelding in civilian tack and wears his old revolutionary General's uniform, Lasalle rides his lively bay mare, and Fournier struggles to stay atop his still somewhat dazed chestnut. It turns out that being thrown off by a horse hurts, and so does sitting on one properly afterwards, so his position in this moment leaves some to be desired.
Lasalle @thehussargeneral : Fournier, I've seen men with their guts spilling out onto the saddle ride better, would you prefer to walk?
Fournier, at least knowing better than to argue in this moment, simply shakes his head.
Fournier @thehussargeneral : No, Sir, I wouldn't...
Lasalle @thehussargeneral : Then sit yourself up properly before I make you trot the whole way there so you cannot slouch, or I decide to break your back like you're breaking the horse's.
Fournier complies with not insignificant pain, trying to hide his pained expressions by glancing away from the other two, neither of whom are particularly sympathetic to him right now. Lasalle's onslaught had already been brutal, but additionally being subjected to Kellermann's more old-fashioned notions of discipline has worn him down to the base compliance of a soldier.
You've fallen off a horse, not been ran through, Fournier, are you trying to embarrass Lasalle by being a coward? You were quite brave enough to challenge a man to a duel for no reason, yet you cannot stand some pain riding after a fall? How were you to handle any pain from injuries sustained from the duel, or did you merely assume that you would come away uninjured, particularly considering you did not bother to engage a surgeon? By God, what did General Lasalle ever do with you on campaign?
Kellermann had actually been somewhat surprised to find Lasalle of all people punishing a man so harshly for duelling, but it all made sense once the ludicrous origins of the feud had been revealed. Nonetheless, it is him that Fournier fears more despite being more escapable than his commanding officer.
The old Marshal is the first to dismount once they arrive at Houchard's residence, knocking on the door with unusual fervour for a 290-year-old man in an 80-year-old's body. The revolutionary uniform suits him much better than the Marshal's one ever has, just as the personality of a revolutionary general suits him better.
Lasalle @thehussargeneral : For God's sake, do I have to unseat you from that horse twice in one day?
Fournier twitches and dismounts with discomfort, limping slightly up to the door as Lasalle jumps down himself.
When the door is answered, Kellermann speaks for the group.
We have decided that a certain wayward duellist ought to apologise for his conduct in person to all disturbed and inconvenienced by it. Haven't. We.
Fournier @thehussargeneral : Yes, Sir, we have.
There would be contempt in his voice if it wouldn't risk another mauling from two officers rather adept at that delicate art.
The temperarily toddlerised version of Étienne de Kellermann [ @les-ducs-de-valmy ] has somehow managed to escape his father's domain, and has now infiltrated d'Hautpoul's stables and is trying to pet the horses with varying levels of success. This form of him is about three years old, but despite the obvious size differences is still relatively recognisable as the son of the old Marshal. Kellermann Sr was planning on contacting Madame to take care of this strange iteration of his son, but clearly the child has had other ideas...
Nansouty pauses, and then grabs the child by the scruff of his collar, picking him up and turning him around, his hands on the child's shoulders, his prim little face in a scowl.
"Hey! You're going to get kicked, boy! Who let you in here, anywa --- General Kellermann? Ohhh.... no... ANGE! ANGE!! GET OVER HERE!! NOW!! SIT-U-AAAAA-TION!!"
Ange tromps around the corner, muttering darkly, in his vest, shirt, breeches and boots, hair mussed, cigar in his teeth.
"Wot the deuce'r ya shoutin' fer, Nansou--- ah, the fuck? A... a... un.. gosse? In OUR camp? T'ain't mine... I ain't got no bastard kids ah'm aware of... GROSJEAN! GETCHER TIN-PLATED ARSE OVER HERE, PRONTO! WE GOTS ONE-UH YER L'IL DROPPLINGS HERE!"
"not, in, front, of, the, CHILD, JOSEPH!"
Nansouty's voice is tense, the toddler struggling in his grasp to get away.
"AGH, didn't Madame have a leash for her child when he was young? Why don't we go there and take... uh.. .General Kellermann... to her?"
"Kellermann? Nah, cain't be... "
Ange squats down, the skriiiit sound of shitty cavalry knees making them both wince, his massive hands on his thighs, the cigar going from corner to corner while the big man squinted at the angry little toddler in Nansouty's arms.
"Well.....I'll be damned... it is little Kelly-mann... coochie coochie... OW! YA RUDDY WEE GOBSHITE!"
Ange howled as the toddler BIT the finger that had been tickling under his chin, shaking the hand, dropping his cigar out of his mouth, sucking on the finger, letting loose a torrent of curses in Occitan as he grabbed for his cigar before the toddler could squirm out of Nansouty's arms and get at it.
Grandjean appeared at the run, skidded to a halt and stared, wide-eyed at the scene - a cursing Ange, a struggling Nansouty, his powdered wig askew, and a wriggling, miniature General Kellermann, and backed away, slowly..
"OH NO YOU DON'T! GET A LEAD LINE AND A DAMNED HALTER!"
Nansouty barked, grunting.
A few minutes later, a very angry toddler Kellermann was in a makeshift toddler harness made up of a halter and a lead rope, staked to a tent stake while the regimental surgeon wrapped Ange's finger with a gauze bandage, and Nansouty fussed with his wig, muttering under his breath.
General Lepic rounds the corner, a brace of roasted chickens on a spit, whistling a ribald tune, clad in petit tenue. He sees Ange on the stool with the bandaged finger, smoking the crumpled cigar, frowning, Nansouty still adjusting his wig, and Grandjean looking befuddled at the miniature version of his former commander at Waterloo. d'Espagne and Montbrun are conspicuously absent.
"Hunh.... since when are we baby sitters?.... one of yours, Grandjean?"
"No, sir.. that's... General Kellermann... as a toddler."
"I can see that's a toddler... I had five boys myself... let me handle this, hmm? Hey there, little guy... you hungry? Tonton Lepic's got some chicken here... let's put it on the fire, over by the seat there, and we'll get you something to eat and drink... can you promise to be good? Not run away? We'll get you fed and then I can find you a pony and we can find maybe something for you to do..."
Lepic yanks out the tent stake, and takes up the lead, carrying the chickens on the spit in one hand, and the lead in the other.
"Well get this off you in a minute... Tonton needs to put this chicken down first and I don't want you to get hurt... "
He seems much happier with this state of affairs, following Lepic and staring rather intently at the chicken as he does so and probably resisting the urge to blow raspberries at all of the others.
By the time things have settled down, Lepic has fed Etienne, told him a sanitized story of his time in the Vendee, when he rescued a foundling girl, raised her to maturity, and then found out she was an heiress; and is currently leading him around on a very quiet old horse, with one of the trooper's bearskin hats on the young child, which Etienne keeps pushing up because it's so large.
"We need to get you back to your papa, we do... how did you get here, young man? Hmm? Can't be wandering about like that, on your own. Sit up straight now, don't slouch. If you are going to be a big cavalry General when you are older, you need to learn to ride properly. Old Cancleux here won't do anything bad, he's too old to care."
Lepic limped as he walked, his knees giving him shit as they always did, but he walked around and around with the horse until one of his troopers came with a long lead line, which he attached to the horse's halter, allowing the horse to walk around him in circles, as he stood in the center.
d'Espagne approached, watching with curiosity, knowing Lepic had boys of his own.
"Havin' a visit with the boys? Where's the other four, then, and your wife, Louis?"
Lepic shook his head, and gestured to the little Etienne on the back of the old white horse.
"Not mine; wish I was in contact with 'em, but Louis-Joseph and the rest are adults now, and the wife's in Andresy. I should go visit them. This is Kellermann fils, somehow rendered into a toddler."
d'Espagne squinted, and his dark eyebrows went up in surprise. "I'll be damned, it is. How'd he get here?"
"No idea. I bet his father is having kittens right now. We got to get him back to where-ever the old Marshal is, before too soon. I've sent out a few of my troopers to find him."
Toddler Étienne: I walked into a cloud! It took me here!
Toddler Étienne says this in response to how he got here as he balances on the horse, seeming quite pleased with himself as young children tend to. He also waves at d'Espagne when he shows up.
Toddler Étienne: I came from... Joha- Joann... Johani...
Being a toddler, the proper pronunciation of "Johannisberg" is somewhat difficult for him to achieve, and he stumbles over it for some time until he gives up.
Toddler Étienne: Castle! It has grapes! And a river!
He pats the horse he is trying to ride, watching its ears move in different directions and giggling.
