Unprompted Meeting
@matronoftheblackrose [x]
The Matron listens, and maintains her smile, and waits for Silco to finish. When he does, she gives him a little shrug, her voice light, “Beneath me? Unnecessary? I see, I see.”
LeBlanc titters, her laughter like the gentle ringing of crystal bells, and continues,
“Again, I’m glad we understand each other so well. The bigger picture is both fairly simple and fairly complex. According to you, I should have gone through more official channels to commune with you. Me? I could have, certainly, but I was unsure of the degree of success. From what I understand, many a Noxian entrepreneur went through the proper channels, many Noxian politicians inquired, yet no answers were given. The Noxian imports and exports have noticeably slowed, financially affecting said stakeholders, because of how coy and how much of a tease you yourself have been in regards to such trade negotiations. The longer these negotiations fail, the more likely it could affect my business. And me in all of my egotistical nature thought, ‘Perhaps Monsieur Rynard wants to speak to me directly?’ Perhaps that was the point of all of this. Now, I may have been mistaken, but having received no formal word, no chance for a counter offer, no room for discussion, there was not much I could do and few ways I could interpret such a strong message, not that I fully fault you for this! Some blame can be laid upon my organization and the nature of it. How easy is it to get in contact with us, after all? All we have is word of mouth or the occasional, specific contact. Speaking of whom, I will have to commend Tulip sometime.
I can take some fault, yes, but the other stakeholders who have been affected despite their want to attempt official channels to resolve this issue? C’est simple comme bonjour! At least, it should have been that simple. And the sheer implication made to our Noxian investors, financiers, politicians, generals, entrepreneurs and civilians, I think it is beneath you and unnecessary of you to conduct yourself in such a way. But I refuse to believe you, Monsieur Rynard, would conduct yourself in any such way, and that you have been wanting to make a point. I have heard you fort et clair, and I shall grant you your request.”
LeBlanc maintained her smile as she twirls her staff behind her, releasing it mid swing. She leans back and sits down on what should have been nothing, but her golden staff remains hovering mid-air, acting as a perfect seat for her as she lifts one leg over the other and folds her hands on her lap.
Though she is smiling, the Matron’s voice dips an octave as her warmth, flirtatious tones are replaced by cold professionalism, “Mettre les points sur les i, shall we discuss business? I know you have the time for it. I made sure you do.”
He prefers his threats to be overt. Ouvert, as it were. So of course, here she is, one of the most powerful - and arguably most dangerous - of the Noxian powers, in his office with a smile on her face, a criticism of his way of doing business, and a casual display of unnecessary magic. It was hard to tell just which of these was meant to be the most intimidating, but altogether? She exuded power in a way that made him feel every ache in his bones, every reminder that he was mortal.
“You made sure of it,” he echoes. He turns to go to the side cabinet, where a key in his cuffs unlocks a box of cigars. He doesn’t quite turn his back on her, his head tilted in such a way that he always keeps one eye - the blue eye, out of courtesy - on her at all times. But he unlocks the box and selects a cigar and rolls the guillotine into his palm. “Given your dislike of how our business has proceeded thus far, Madam Leblanc, I have to wander just what your surety has done.” Snip, sharp and clean, the cigar ready for the flame. He sets down the guillotine and closes the box, before turning back to face her, to look at her with both eyes from across the room, gesturing vaguely with the cut cigar. “I will be investigating what ‘I’ have signed today, if you don’t mind.”
He turns to walk to his desk, reaching into his jacket pocket for the lighter as he does so. He exerts effort to make each step steady, to hold the lighter in an unshaking hand. Sitting in his office chair offers only minimal support, as he is too mindful that she was here, pretending to be him not moments ago, but it is enough. To sit gives him the strength to flick the cap, to bring the cigar to the flame, to inhale the sharp sweet burn down his throat.
He will not be using Rioaldonide in her presence. The cigar will have to do, to take the edge off. He will simply have to focus around the blurring of the lines. He will.
“But before I do,” he says, exhaling smoke from the deep pull, “Let us begin with business.” He gestures with the lit cigar to the chair on the opposite side of his desk. Dryly, of course. No doubt that shiny gold pole of hers is far more comfortable than anything that Zaun could offer.
