the end justifies the means

Silas Beauregard. Vice President of Beauregard Bank. Conman. Partner-in-crime. Future Thief Lord. The best thieves don’t only steal commodities, do they? They steal aspirations, power, and above all, that metaphorical throne that exists in every playing field, no matter how prestigious the competition.

[beckmurphy-blog]

There is little about The Victorian that suits him. He doesn’t do this kind of sighing-nostalgia for a bygone era. He doesn’t do nostalgia, full stop. But the heist moves apace, and the heist makes demands, the heist requires his presence for some kind of strategy meeting that he spent most of with his feet propped rudely up on a table, a toothpick hanging out of one corner of his mouth. 

He’d wheedled a free drink out of it, though, and maybe that’s the only reason that he’s still here.

(When they do more than talk and actually act, though, he’ll be much more obliging. With how annoying the thieves, their employer, and their employer’s dearly departed children seem to be, he’s hoping that this one will end with a bullet in at least one person’s head, end with some kind of bloodshed. )

“Hermes Della Giustizia” He says, drawing the syllables out. They do not sound elegant in his accent, nothing really does. The heaping helping of disdain he adds, though, certainly doesn’t help. “What is that, Latin for ‘small dick and a god complex?’”

[silasbeauregod-blog]

The air of The Victorian surely spoke to the gentlemanly mirage Silas Beauregard wore as a skin; had it been owned by anyone else, perhaps he’d have long ago made himself a regular patron. But it wasn’t. No, he held nothing but a firm respect, and the biting jealousy that so naturally accompanied it, for Francis Villiers — it was the risk of running into any of the man’s stroke-inducing children that had him seeking out his evening brandy on neutral ground.

Tonight, for the sake of the heist, he had no such freedom of choice.

The bark of butchered Latin drew his attention, echoing through the dimly lit chambers, the speaker’s accent so unrefined Silas’s own back straightened in contrast, holding himself up while the other man’s own tongue brought him so many pegs downwards. Swirling the contents of a crystal tumbler in his right hand, he sat himself down, eyes piercing the pair of feet propped up on the table. 

Dieu, so much as breathing the same air as Beckett nauseated him. 

“It’s Latin for Thief of Justice, actually,” he hummed, a friendly smile spread across his lips — one so carefully hiding the forked tongue that flicked behind straight teeth and the appearance of an attempt at camaraderie, as if by some grace of the gods that dirty little rodent deserved to call a Beauregard an acquaintance, never mind a friend. “I dabbled in the lost languages in my years at Harvard,” he went on, pausing as he allowed the weight of the school’s prestige to hang in the air. "I don’t suppose they teach Latin where you’re from, do they?”

[silasbeauregod-blog]

MUNICH ✈ LONDON

[tatrisalol-blog]

“Right, comme tu as dit,” she uses the lesser form of address with purposeful selection, knowing how it makes his blood boil. Her mouth purses ever so slightly as she holds in her smile. “I tend to let my mind wander when you’re speaking. It subtracts from the bore.” 

She lets her gaze roam over his stubbornly standing form, unfazed by his dissent. “As you wish. The weakest man in the room is the one who tries hardest to make himself look big.” It’s strangely satisfying to push his buttons. Then again, what’s strange is his vehement adherence to his little veneer, when all the while there’s this sort of delight hidden beneath. “It must be tiring to constantly play the con, oui, mon ami?” She, at least, reverts to some semblance of normality when the day’s work is done. Eyes gleaming, Evie takes her time with answering his question, well aware of how short his fuse burns when under the pressure of time and inconvenience. In that, they are similar. 

“Mhm,” she says after a long moment of pause. Yet as much joy as she derives from letting that fuse blow, Evie’s value of efficiency is too far ingrained to dismiss his seemingly genuine, albeit impatient, attempts to leap into it. “He’s agreed to accompany us. Hibernation, most likely, given the circumstances.” It’s one of those uncomfortable cons that involves some poor bloke crouching in a snowbank – but it what has to be done has to be done. “Meanwhile,” she carefully uses the set of silver tongs to pick up another sugar cube. “I’m having him draw us up a blueprint.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want a cup?” She doesn’t glance up as she stirs her drink again, inflection of her voice rising and falling pleasantly. This is a moment that she’s anticipated. “I imagine you’ll need some sort of calming agent once I tell you what part you’ll be playing. But if all else fails, we do keep tranquilizers in the stables.” 

[silasbeauregod-blog]

The informal conjugation echoed in her ear, and he knew better than to write it off as a simple mistake. No, she was smarter than that, he could admit — begrudgingly so, while still refusing to place her intelligence anywhere near his own. Each syllable, each attempt to demean, was methodical, a step in a recipe to make him burst. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction — or so he attested to himself, while his hands, still folded over his chest, tightened their grip on his arms, a vein in his forehead began to pulse, and his brows knitted together; all the telltale signs that Silas Beauregard’s seams were but a few well timed remarks away from coming undone.

It distracts from the bore. He could swallow insult after insult, jabs shoddily sewn together, but such blatant lies turned the tone of his flesh a single shade rosier. He was anything but boring, his hubris would attest — but it was nothing but a child’s way of pushing buttons, getting under his skin. It was enough, though, to warrant a single stab of his own. “I’d expect nothing less,” he grunted, voice lower now, less composed, laced with a distinct annoyance he so rarely allowed to seep through. “When half the conversation goes over your head, I imagine it’s much easier to simply drown it out. A shame, how I’ll never be able to truly understand the plight of such simple, uneducated minds.”

A bitter laugh echoed throughout the empty room. “Not nearly as tiring as it must be for a cub to keep up with the leaders of the pack.” She was Francis’s crown jewel, that much had been made apparent — but sharing the blood of a Lord barely made her competition at best, never mind an equal. As she seemed to forget, the job at hand wasn’t a mere extracurricular excursion to keep the hands of her little club busy. Perhaps there, she could cling to what little authority she’d inherited — through blood, mind you, never merit. Here, she spoke to a superior, one who’d already climbed a rung above her on their ladder — and who wouldn’t allow her to forget it.

How laughable, then, that she spoke as if her plan had already been set in stone — as if he’d blindly follow along, as if he hadn’t an array of better suggestions up the sleeve of his suit jacket. “You assume whatever you’ve thrown together is already law?” he challenged, brows quirked in irritated amusement. Slow steps took him towards her table, pulling a chair for himself, lowering his body onto the seat — when it was phrased as an invitation, not a demand, he’d allow himself to sit. “But,” he mused, reaching for a cup of his own, “go ahead and amuse me.”

[tatrisalol-blog]

“Pas probleme. There’s a cafe on the corner of Regency Street. More French, no?” Crossing her legs, Evie settled back in her seat with a teasing smile. “Shame though. None of your business partners would be there to take it with you.” His type, those black-suited, sleek men and women - they loved these halls. The Victorian gave them a sense of old power, of wealth and prestige and the solid feel of gold and tangibility, none of those flimsy paper representations of their success, their ability to afford afternoons in a club of gargantuan proportions. 

“Well?” She raises her eyebrows expectantly. “Sit down. You look like an ape, standing there with your head so big.” She places her teacup down upon its saucer. 

[silasbeauregod-blog]

No matter how practiced her accent, how textbook her diction, the sound of his tongue in her mouth made him sick. ( The irony, as his own venomous words bubbled up in English, was entirely lost on him. ) “Comme j’ai dit,” he spat, “I didn’t come for tea.” 

Her invitation to sit — no, not an invitation, an order — only caused his back to stand straighter, arms folded over one another. “I’m quite comfortable here, merci.” With a cock of his head, he rested his back against the support of a pillar — a much better height from with to survey the room, to survey her, granting himself the physical satisfaction of remaining above the girl that dared speak to him as if the word of a lady meant a thing to a king. “Well?” he echoed, his brows quirking to mirror hers. “As it’s the only thing you have to fill your time, I imagine you’ve checked in with Bryan?” A chuckle laid beneath his pointed question, bitter and haughty — in the time it takes you to map out a heist, I can do the same and run an empire.

[tatrisalol-blog]

“Are you here for tea,” she watches with an expression of rapt nonchalance as the figure enters the room, a private meeting chamber bedecked in the signature dark elegance of the Victorian. Like a tail, a white-frocked server dutifully follows, a platter held upright on one hand. “Or are you here to brainstorm?”

[silasbeauregod-blog]

A private afternoon meeting with a high profile client had been excuse enough to pull him from the London office to the Victorian that afternoon, if only for an hour or so. He’d come with the hope that cohorts of use to him would’ve made similar arrangements, yet as he let himself into the private room in the back of the club and spied no bodies but hers, it became evident how wrong he’d been. “If I’d gone out for tea, I can assure you this is the last establishment I’d have chosen,” he scoffed, haughty amusement contorting his expression. It was just the two of them — there was no need for games, no need for masks. “I’d hoped to discuss some ideas with the other partners, but I suppose I have enough time for you to run whatever haphazard plan you’ve concocted by me. Make it quick — I’ve got a press conference in an hour.”

[estelasalvarez-blog]

“You don’t expect me to simply waltz into a building full of police officers, right?” Estela kicked her legs up, propping them on top of the table and attracting more than a few of disappointing looks. She watches as the server comes in, displaying cups and teapots, followed as he exits by the look of disbelief in Estela’s face. “Also, it’s Vegas – it’s really hard to draw attention when absolutely everyone draw attention.”

[silasbeauregod-blog]

“Ma belle,” he hummed, sliding into the empty chaise across from the snake-eyed girl, gilded smile toying with his lips. “Is half of the fun not in the challenge of it all?” His words were smooth, easily swallowed, sure to be mistaken for a wish of encouragement — but the man’s tongue was a double-edged sword, and with each supposed profession of good will came a noxious sentiment, one he choked back all on his own. Do you doubt yourself, little girl? You're right to.

[tatrisalol-blog]

Cross-Crew: Team One

@haleroth @silasbeauregod

MUNICH, GERMANY // 5 JANUARY 2016 // 10:14 AM / BACKGROUND INFO

Team One: To find out how Marianne found the Heist Society, investigate Klaus’ study, and  find out how much leverage she really has. (break and enter Munich estate, question servants, etc.) 

The small car speeds across snow and ice, the Stadtwerke München Electric Company’s logo printed boldly upon each side as it bypasses evergreens and roads laden with white, a dark bullet traveling pointedly towards its target. Gripping the wheel tightly as she maneuvers through the sparsely shoveled backroads of Munich’s ‘rich country’, a dark-haired young woman drives the lightweight vehicle quickly, with intent, and without consideration for the comfort of her companions. Snowdrifts are stubbornly fought through, nonexisting ruts are made anew, and as they break from the trees, there’s a crack as the wheels send a scattering of stones ricocheting down a ravine. As the destination finally comes into view, a massive manor rising from the barren landscape like a steel castle, she loses some of her tension, releasing a breath half of relief, half of anticipation. 

The woman’s name is Adelina Mendalsohn, and she is one of Stadtwerke München’s general inspectors. She is twenty-five years old, has a brother named Gerhold, and dresses like she’s twice her age. Her hair is short and sensible, her expressions are austere, and the German she speaks is stiff and serious. She has been sent from the company on urgent call to investigate a gas leak in the   Grünwald district, at the home of longtime customers Klaus and Marianne Sommer. The grey morning sky seems particularly dismal when she is speaking into the atmosphere. Adelina is a no nonsense type of woman. She is also currently in Marseilles, France, on a holiday vacation with her husband of two years. 

As the manor looms ahead and the car finds its footing on the long gravel driveway (thankfully salted and starting to thaw) Adelina speaks to her coworkers in a voice that is not at all austere or German. “Alright boys. Let’s make this an in-an-out job. Three hours at worst.” They pull in. In front of the estate, a small pool of people has gathered - servants, butlers, maids - all in their neat black and white attires, shivering in the winter chill as they await help from professionals. There’s a gas leak, after all. This isn’t some run of the mill lightbulb change, Gott verdammt. 

The SWM car stops a few dozen metres from the congregation. Adelina parks, blinks slowly once, and without turning her head, asks a single question of her two roughspun companions, who are crowded in the backseat with twin expressions of discomfort. The ride hasn’t treated them well. Nor will Fräulein Mendalsohn. “Wie ist Ihr Deutsch?” It’s a simple statement, but said in a characteristically severe tone. How’s your German?

She opens the door, steps out, checks to make sure that her coat, a hideously vintage thing that was at some point in time fashionable, is tied tightly. Fifty metres away, the receiving party waves a frigid hello. She doesn’t wave back. After all, the game has already begun. 

[silasbeauregod-blog]

There were few worse hells he could imagine, than being shoved in the backseat of a cramped service car with the two of them. The only crueller punishment could be to be forced inside a plumber’s uniform, its polyester sure to leave a rash on skin accustomed to nothing but cashmere and silk. Had her German not been a smidge more polished than his, it would have been he driving the vehicle, holding a clipboard, back straight, expression stoic, prepared to corral the manor’s staff with a curt authority. Silas was no stranger to sacrifices made for the sake of the heist, but this — this was a new low, one he’d ensure both Evie and Hale would come to pay for, either come the heist’s next round.. or when their eyes were shut tight, guards down, least expecting retaliation. He had yet to decide their fates.

His muscles tightened at the sound of her voice, the car pulling to a stop at the mouth of the driveway. Boys, as if they — no, he — were her children, in desperate need of supervision, certainly not capable of carrying out such a job without her. Three hours at worst, as if he’d ever given her, or any of the rest of them, a reason to believe him as slow and incompetent as some of the fools that had somehow managed to slither their way into the society’s ranks. Shaking fingers found themselves a home in his pockets, his nails easily digging holes in the fabric of that filthy uniform — for authenticity’s sake, Silas, we need a little dirt and grime on those overalls; what plumber has the time to wash up in the middle of the day? His expression, though, reflected none of it. He only flashed the pair of them a confident smile, swallowing all bits of resentment and petty anger. “Gut genug, um in die und aus in zwei sein.” Good enough to be in and out in two.

They were already waiting — lined up, pre-herded, simply waiting to be conned. Had their stupidities not brought such fate upon themselves, he might have felt the most fleeting pang of sympathy for the poor simpletons. The thought was abandoned just as quickly as it had arisen. Today he was Dieter Scholz, a friendly plumber whose warmth made up for all of Adelina’s frigidity; while she’d gain her information through no nonsense interrogation, he was one of them, a meagre service worker, speaking friend to friend. A simple man, Dieter spoke with a stutter, so easily overwhelmed by large crowds of people. It was why he did his best work alone, undisturbed, leaving Silas with the privacy needed to complete the real job at hand.

Stepping from the car, he feigned a bashful smile all too easily, offering the crowd a shy wave. “Ich bin D-Dieter,” he choked out, forcing his tongue to trip over the name it should have known like a friend. “Ich werde im keller be-beginnen.” I’ll start in the basement. “Aber, um sicher zu sein, alle ro-rohre sollten überprüft wer..den.” But, to be safe, all of the pipes should be checked. “Vielen dank für ihre.. ged-geduld. Ich werde nicht mehr lange dauern, ich ver..spreche.” Thank you for your patience. I won’t be long, I promise.

A wave of thanks and safety concerns erupted from the staff as they gestured towards the manor, giving rushed, muffled instructions — You’ll need to make a left at the end of the staircase downstairs. Or maybe it’s a right? No, definitely a left. Be sure to check the master suite’s pipes as well, Fräulein Sommer’s quarters must be secure for her return. Throwing them a final meek smile, the kind Silas would surely take pleasure in wiping off of the face of an imbecile like Dieter, he stumbled through the doors, only allowing his smirk to break free once he was shrouded by the manor’s twisting hallways, entirely alone. “I’m in,” he hummed into his earpiece, seeking out the staircase and heading up the first flight — certainly not towards the basement. “And it looks like I’ve found our widow’s study. Keep the help occupied for an hour or so and I’ll have everything we need.”

[silasbeauregod-blog]

LONDON ✈ MUNICH

[thickasthievesrpg-hidden]

SILAS BEAUREGARD “AH, MON CHERI. I’LL BE AN ANGEL UNTIL YOU TAKE MY CROWN.”

age: twenty-six

loyalty: beauregard

occupation: vice president of beauregard bank & head of the london branch

criminal occupation: the conman, partner-in-crime & magpie

faceclaim: max irons

Unlike his cousin, a perfect scoundrel with his women and devil-may-care attitude, Silas is the very picture of elegance, a gentleman seemingly of the old world despite the relative newness of the Beauregard name. Victor and Lillian’s firstborn was always exactly who they hoped he would be: a synthetic blend of his father’s careful nature and his mother’s beauty and charm, the best aspects of both leaders placed into a perfect son, and indeed they never found a circumstance in which they were disappointed by him. There was never a moment in his youth when he was caught unaware, never a family photograph or professionally filmed home video in which he wasn’t exceedingly pleasant, all cheeky smiles and bubbling laughs, the poster child of what a matrimony between a newcomer and a Rothschild could bring about. He spent his early years in bowties and cashmere sweaters, wandering through the headquarters of his family’s banks, gazing up at the marble statues and Rococo paintings with such sincerity that passing patrons couldn’t help but ask: qui est-il? Il est trop mignon! And it was never quite a surprise when they learnt that the sincere, bright-eyed boy was none but the president’s son and heir. All children who are destined to be rich and respected have a certain air to them, don’t they?

He grew up gracefully. When Xanthe, and then Isabel, were born, Silas stood over them and was lauded for his performance, a protective older brother looking out for his sisters. At the soirees and charity galas, he smiled for the cameras, truly France’s sweetheart, and hopefuls eyed the Beauregard son, imagining that twenty years from that day, their daughters would pull a similar move as Victor had with Lillian and marry into those new heights. But what his parents never saw, and what he never showed the world when he was the apple of its eye was his converse identity, the other side of the story. Dr. Jekyll always had a Mr. Hyde, and Silas Beauregard’s angelic front had a very dark underside. When he was ten and little five-year-old Hale got the new gadget that Silas had wanted for Christmas, he couldn’t stand it — and the next day, took his grandfather’s cane from the foyer and smashed the toy to smithereens. It wasn’t that he couldn’t have asked for the same and gotten it with a snap of Lillian’s fingers…it was the fact that Hale had been the first to get it. Silas’ competitive streak had always lain within him, the desire to be the very, very best, and anything could set it off. If Xanthe was complimented on her appearance, Silas immediately stood up straighter and waited for his own recognition. When it didn’t come, his eye would twitch, fingers itching for revenge, and later on if he felt particularly irritated, he might cut a hole into her favorite dress. Even with Dmitri and Azariah, who were known to suffer a home life far inferior to his, Silas couldn’t stop his jealousy…when the former brought home emeralds and the latter brought home notoriety, he was the one watching them most vehemently, comparing what they had to what he did. It wasn’t any one group of things that set him off; it was everything, every day, every moment.

But he hid it well. Every hamartia has what seems like a petty start, and this one was no different. They never truly knew the extent of his duplicity, and he never gave them reason to question it. So he was carried through his teenage years with pomp and circumstance, a modern heir to an expanding empire.

He had everything from King Charles spaniels to museums dedicated in his name, but little did his unsuspecting parents realize that they had shipped their son towards his ultimate destruction when he was sent to boarding school at age twelve for the first leg of his education. Lillian believed strongly in rearing a classical scholar, not simply a thief but an able and prolific inheritant of the family enterprise. The heist would come later, when Silas was ready, and so he arrived at Eton with his leather suitcases and golden cufflinks, immediately a prince among princes. Born into power, raised in opulence — it never became tiresome, the superiority, the privilege, the absolute pleasure of being at the very tip of the mountain of wealth and standing. So it was in the hallowed halls of the world’s most acclaimed all boy’s school that Silas grew into the mold of Machiavelli’s Prince, with a exterior of silk and opulence, but hidden beneath. an iron heart well accustomed to the ways that sheep moved and what had to be done in order to manipulate them for his devices.

He learnt to play games with his power, challenging his limits, expanding them. He came to use his charm to his benefit, luring his friends and enemies alike into his presence, ever hearty and ever magnetic in his grandness. The boy with the dreamy stances and pleasant disposition had long melted away in lieu for this new creation, a dichotomy of light and shadows. They came like moths to a flame, falling like dominoes at his feet - there was something carelessly beautiful about the boy with the bronze hair and soft eyes. The surety of step, the fluid grace of his movement, the fullness of his person — he commanded the room with a subtle but very definite presence, and the spoke volumes among a group of adolescents who would someday own half the world. In an effort to be like Uncle Francis, a great man who he had always sought approval from, he named his posse the Hyacinths; and as he imagined Uncle Lorenzo to be, he ruled them with a noble, vicious malice. They were dangerous and they feared him, his group of boys with their lovely faces and the mean streaks hidden in their chests – but they weren’t nearly as dangerous as their leader. Silas was the epitome of their double edged sword, a Venus fly trap, a hyacinth (exquisite but poisonous), the ever-dancing flame. He was the downfall of all that he came across: boys, girls, adults who didn’t know better. They trusted him, and he used them for his own means. And if his victims ever knew of how deftly he moved them to his will, herding them with careful smiles and a click of his well-conditioned tongue, they would’ve barely believed it, that their beloved prince, their drinking mate, the boy who they had so admired, had done such things. But they neverknew until it was too late, and he never regretted a single maneuver. There were many pawns to exploit, but there was only one chance to grow into an extraordinary being.

Then came the heist. He was always destined to be an exceptional conman – he’d been conning society since he was born. Silas’ first job was when he was fifteen, and he was playing the part of a bored millionaire with a childish whim for military grade A hydroplanes…and while he made the biggest fuss of his life over something that was completely true to his character, the crew was casing Washington D.C. His double existence served him well when it came the to the heist…really, it served him well everywhere. In any and every situation, he could appear as the diplomat, a level-headed, charismatic leader with noble visions and a heart to support them. Lillian, who had always favored her firstborn best, was delighted; as was Victor. But while Silas had always held unyielding respect for the former, the latter was a person of conflict. All boys have some innate admiration for their fathers, but Silas’ had fallen away with time, as he saw the truth behind all his “Uncles” and their relation to Victor: a pack of wolves and the little runt, always striving to impress, always striving to be equal. Silas had never sought for equality — his goal was superiority. 

-❈-

The world pans in on a young, impressive man, and he does not disappoint. He’s graced the most exclusive academies with his presence, is a beloved alumni of half a dozen elite clubs, and there’s no commodity in the world that he can’t afford. Classical ceilings to high rises, lilies to scarlet love letters, a blonde beauty on his arm and champagne on his tongue: Silas is in every way his family’s pride and joy, the prized heir with his starch white shirts and red roses who will someday represent them in the global scale, bringing them to inconceivable heights. At least, that’s who he is in public. You see, the thing about the Beauregards is that they all wear their individual masks, and Silas is no different. Behind the scenes, in the dressing rooms after the fencing matches and in the nights when the only pair of eyes on him are the ones in the mirror, that handsome veneer transforms into something much uglier. In many ways it fits him well, his twisted desires. There is always something notable about villains with pretty faces.

But he isn’t here to play. Ambition runs in his veins, it always has, and it’s poisoning him, twisting his perception of the society, of his family and friends, into a sinister puppet show that he itches to control. As a graduate of Harvard’s Business School who has taken the reins of the London branch of Beauregard Bank only this past year, he seems to be at the top of the world. But his appetite has no limits: it isn’t enough. He wants Rothschild Group, he wants to be Head Magpie — every title and position that can elevate him, he seeks to take. The best thieves don’t only steal commodities, do they? They steal aspirations, power, and above all, that metaphorical throne that exists in every playing field, no matter how prestigious the competition. He would rather abandon the heist than grow up to be like his father, looking up to another man, because he doesn’t want to be a Mastermind. He wants to be the Mastermind, the Thief Lord of a new generation.

✕. His initials are S.O.B. – which was either humor on Lillian’s part or an unfortunate coincidence. In any case, he hates it and often signs differently.  ✕. He went to Harvard not because it was his first choice, but because when he Googled “top universities in the world”, Harvard was the first to come up. Even so, he’s very bitter about Hale heading the Kingfishers at Oxford, and has the impression that Hale following in the current Thief Lord’s footsteps indicates a hidden ambition to aspire for the same spot. Really, he’s just jealous of everything that he doesn’t have.  ✕. A skilled orator and ideal representative of any business, Silas takes a certain pleasure in dressing well, speaking well – doing everything to an exceptional point. Consequently, he’s often perceived as having wisdom and experience beyond his years.  ✕. Raised in a bilingual household and having attended school in England for much of his adolescence, his British accent is very convincing…as is his American one. Poor blokes in Boston never knew who was in their midst. What plebs. 

THIS CHARACTER HAS A SLIGHTLY FLEXIBLE FACECLAIM  (SUGGESTIONS: CHRIS ZYLKA, FREDDIE STROMA, ROBERT PATTINSON)

& IS OPEN FOR AUDITION

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