magusdraco:
"Arno…" She’ll remember that- not everyday you hear a name so uncommon. Or perhaps she was so used to the plain tongue of the colonists… No matter, she’d turning ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of his departure, before pondering her next moves.
Seems like wasn’t so easy for the runaway, being a vagabond who yearned for something more. More than the torture she’d endured back in her slave days. But it seems everyone was tortured in these times. Revolution was on the lips of all citizens. From the Americas, to here now. All she wanted was peace, and quiet. Perhaps when this was all done, she’d retire to some random field, build a hut and live off the land herself. Alone, peaceful.
His voice rang in her ears as the rogue turned back, brow raising as he gave her —a place for shelter? No idea where this- theatre was for sure, but she intended to make good use of it, some way to get out the rain before she made her escape. “I-… Thank you…”
But her thanks were unheard, and like smoke on the air, he was gone again. The rain rumbled from the clouds around her, littering her clothes with droplets of water. Cerina jumped, tugging her hood over her hair before sprinting away. hoping she could indeed find this theatre he spoke of.
Fortunately, there were still a kind soul to give directions, and she was soon in the comforts of a dry space. Not warm, but cozy enough for one night. It was all she’d need. Finding a nice, dark area, the rogue threw her things down, and settled in, ears gathering the pitter patter of the rain on the rooftop, aware of any sounds around her.
Such little time and so much to be done. The assassin is always two seconds late, whether or not it’s the rain’s fault that taking the rooftop is a futile choice. Plus your ‘friendly' extremists decide to find fun in shooting at the bloody revolutionist that slips and bounds by. Nevertheless, Arno is crossing the bridge and easily sliding into the cafè.
By now it’s closing time. Everyone who isn’t staying is ushered out into the storm by a much casual dressed Frenchman with a broom. Arno could actually recall a time where he’d talk to those who came — an appreciation for their lovely services. But ever since the death of Élise, all such kindness is lost. Somewhere beneath the cold ground in Versailles lies his entire being with her. No wonder he plots and schemes with De Sade on leaving france and her ill folk behind.
No reason to hope.
Finally, Arno is able to relax and head upstairs to his room, brief obscenities muttered out to the darkness and whatever souls that may listen. But then the feeling decides to prance over him all of a sudden, and eyes do narrow on the hulking figure in the corner of his room.
. ‘What the bloody devil?’
Don’t — seriously don’t mind the phantom blade aimed in your face and a very confused man claiming ownership of said weapon staring you down.
