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Primarily just a quick character sketch for an original universe. I'm having a bout of writer's block at the minute, so I thought I'd just put up the fragment to see if it holds water.
Title: The Rose Knight
Rating: PG
Universe: Rose Knight
Characters/Pairings: Mathilde d'Aubigny (the Rose Knight), Alain-Michel d'Estrées
Summary: Sir Alain-Michel d'Estrées has come to the capital in search of the legendary Rose Knight, the country's premiere magician, spiritualist and champion, in the hopes that she will aid his family. First introductions, however, do not go particularly well. Though they don't go that badly either
Wordcount: 1480
Warnings/Notes: Historical Fantasy, alternate history, 18th Century (ish), lady knights, supernatural elements, awkward social situations, first impressions
Claimer: Mine
Title: The Rose Knight
Rating: PG
Universe: Rose Knight
Characters/Pairings: Mathilde d'Aubigny (the Rose Knight), Alain-Michel d'Estrées
Summary: Sir Alain-Michel d'Estrées has come to the capital in search of the legendary Rose Knight, the country's premiere magician, spiritualist and champion, in the hopes that she will aid his family. First introductions, however, do not go particularly well. Though they don't go that badly either
Wordcount: 1480
Warnings/Notes: Historical Fantasy, alternate history, 18th Century (ish), lady knights, supernatural elements, awkward social situations, first impressions
Claimer: Mine
The Rose Knight
"I'm told, sir, that you are looking for me?"
The voice was rough, hoarse, and very amused. Alain turned from his survey of the salon, startled at the sound of it, and found the most astonishing creature standing a little way behind him. He caught short in amazement, knowing himself to be staring like a fool, and could not for the life of him prevent it.
The woman, for it was without doubt a woman, looked back at him with laughing brown eyes only partly concealed behind silver-rimmed spectacles. It was her manner of dress that commanded first attention, however. How could it not? She wore men's clothing, carrying off the rose-coloured coat and breeches in fine style, though the beginnings of an ample girth strained the buttons of her pale grey waistcoat somewhat. Her hair, the colour of wood ash and completely unpowdered, was clubbed back in a tail with black ribbon, save for the wisps that drifted idly about her round, cheerful face. One of her hands rested lightly on the hilt of the sabre at her hip, an astonishing breach of etiquette even had she been male, while the other cradled one of the delicate pastries from the buffet. Flakes from it fell into the ruffled lace of her sleeve as she stood patiently in front of him, and Alain stared after them dumbly. He couldn't quite help it.
She was a picture indeed, and she knew it. She had to know it. She stood before him entirely at her ease, resting her weight on one hip with languid grace, unmoved by his flap-jawed gaping. Or, well. Not entirely unmoved. When he managed to return his gaze to her face, Alain realised that she had been laughing silently at his amazement all the while.
That realisation did absolutely nothing to help him regain his equilibrium.
"I--" he stuttered, raising one hand and watching it flutter confusedly in the air. "You-- Madame? I'm afraid I don't--"
"I can see that you don't," she agreed mildly, with a hint of a smile. Only a hint, though. She did not overtly mock him.
She shook her head, standing straighter, and popped the pastry into her mouth to get it out of the way. She appeared to savour it, for all her haste. The sight of her thumb brushing flakes from her lips caught at him even through all his confusion. It took him a good few seconds to understand afterwards when she held that same hand out to him in greeting, and another few again before he regained sense enough to return the gesture. Dazedly, he shook hands with her, and only absently noted that her grip was as strong and calloused as any man's.
"Mathilde d'Aubigny," she introduced herself, bowing slightly as they each regained their hands. "Though perhaps you would know me better as 'The Rose Knight'?" She chuckled at his expression. "Yes, I thought so. Madame de Maillard said that you'd come looking for me. I suppose I'm not at all what you expected, hmm?"
Not at all ... No. Most definitely not what he had expected.
He'd come seeking the aid of the Rose Knight, yes. She was a legend. The premiere exorcist in the country, a knight and a duellist of some renown, there were stories told about her from one end of the provinces to the other. It was said that she had twice won duels of honour against fae knights, once with swords and once with poisons. She had battled three nights with a demon while only seventeen years old, and banished it back to the far reaches of the infernal realms. She had come to the king's attention at twenty four years old when she had, on arrival in the capital, accepted a dare to cleanse the haunted Hotel de Bayerne of spirits within a week, and succeeded within only four days. Now, eight years later, she was a champion of the realm, a magician, a swordswoman, and a spiritualist of prodigious power. She was a hero. If you were beset by the unnatural, there was no better port to turn to. He'd thought ... he didn't know what he'd thought.
"You were expecting someone taller, I think," she said softly, a wry, gentle look in her eyes. "You were expecting a fair and virtuous maiden, with blonde hair and blue eyes, her silver sword bright and shining at her side. The champion of legend, not some portly, bespectacled little beldam helping herself to the pastries. Am I right?"
"I--" Alain tried, and then cut himself off. He shook himself, very deliberately, and made a concerted effort to regain his equilibrium and, most importantly, the full use of his senses. A fine show he'd made of himself so far, he thought grimly. The very picture of a poor idiot from the provinces. How was he to accomplish anything, when this was the impression he made?
"I'm sorry," he said instead, tiredly and sincerely, as he bowed to her once more. "My sincere apologies, Chevalier d'Aubigny, for any offence I may have caused you. The only excuse I can offer is that I have been travelling alone for several days, and I fear the sudden surfeit of people has bewildered me. It was not my intent to offend you. Indeed, quite the opposite. I had hoped to beg your favour, and your aid in a matter that has greatly troubled my home."
She studied him for a second, those brown eyes sharp behind their lenses. He straightened himself in the face of it, trying to leave his expression as open and earnest as possible, so that she could see the truth of his apology and the urgency of his request. He had an idea of what picture he must make in his turn. A harried country gentleman, perhaps, far less fashionably dressed than she, hard-travelled and ill at ease in these light-hearted surroundings. There was no help for that, however. It was only the truth.
"... Why don't we make our excuses, you and I, and repair to my lodgings," she suggested after a moment. He looked up, startled and hopeful, despite the vague impropriety of the suggestion, and she offered him a softer and much less mocking sort of smile. "We can discuss what favours you might need more comfortably over tea, I think, and without this ... surfeit of people, yes?"
She chuckled at the flush that answered her, and held out her hand to him once more. He took it, by this stage much bemused all over again, and she reeled him in to rest on her arm as she turned and began making her way serenely through the crowd. Alain followed gamely after her, matching his stride hastily to hers. He didn't see that he had much choice. She nodded to the hostess, a gesture of long familiarity, and somehow contrived to pass wholly without comment. She paused only once in her course, as they left the salon and stood briefly poised in the front hall. She turned to look at him, standing fearful and bewildered at her side, and grinned in quiet, terrifying mischief.
"I do hope, by the way, that you will introduce yourself at some point in the interview?" she said, and laughed at his flinch of embarrassed shock. He had forgotten to-- Great gods. But she didn't seem at all perturbed. She patted him reassuringly on the arm, and turned to pull him onwards once again. "Don't worry about it. I've had much worse responses to my reality, let me tell you. And one could argue it's quite a compliment, that a man should forget his own name at the sight of me."
"... I think," Alain managed, after a moment, "that a name is the least a man might forget in the face of you, Madame." She shot him a glance, startled, suspicious, perhaps even flattered, and abruptly he found his bearings once again, and even some semblance of dignity. He gave her a grin of his own, wry and half-sheepish, and inclined his head in acknowledgement. "You are without doubt the most astonishing person I have ever met, and I'm sorry to have made such a poor show in response. I believe you deserve a great deal better. For what it is worth, though, my name is Alain-Michel d'Estrées, and I am honoured to make your acquaintance."
All this, while making an even pace at her side. She faltered before he did, albeit only briefly, and he finally felt some match for her humour and command. She saw it, too, when she looked at him. She seemed even to appreciate it, rather than take offence. Madame Mathilde d'Aubigny, the Rose Knight, looked into the face of his sudden self-amused dignity, and inclined her head happily in return.
Well then, he thought. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.
A/N: Mathilde's surname is a reference to the fabulous historical Julie d'Aubigny, who was a duellist, an opera singer, a crossdresser, bisexual, thoroughly impetuous, and generally a thoroughly larger than life sort of person. She's amazing.
"I'm told, sir, that you are looking for me?"
The voice was rough, hoarse, and very amused. Alain turned from his survey of the salon, startled at the sound of it, and found the most astonishing creature standing a little way behind him. He caught short in amazement, knowing himself to be staring like a fool, and could not for the life of him prevent it.
The woman, for it was without doubt a woman, looked back at him with laughing brown eyes only partly concealed behind silver-rimmed spectacles. It was her manner of dress that commanded first attention, however. How could it not? She wore men's clothing, carrying off the rose-coloured coat and breeches in fine style, though the beginnings of an ample girth strained the buttons of her pale grey waistcoat somewhat. Her hair, the colour of wood ash and completely unpowdered, was clubbed back in a tail with black ribbon, save for the wisps that drifted idly about her round, cheerful face. One of her hands rested lightly on the hilt of the sabre at her hip, an astonishing breach of etiquette even had she been male, while the other cradled one of the delicate pastries from the buffet. Flakes from it fell into the ruffled lace of her sleeve as she stood patiently in front of him, and Alain stared after them dumbly. He couldn't quite help it.
She was a picture indeed, and she knew it. She had to know it. She stood before him entirely at her ease, resting her weight on one hip with languid grace, unmoved by his flap-jawed gaping. Or, well. Not entirely unmoved. When he managed to return his gaze to her face, Alain realised that she had been laughing silently at his amazement all the while.
That realisation did absolutely nothing to help him regain his equilibrium.
"I--" he stuttered, raising one hand and watching it flutter confusedly in the air. "You-- Madame? I'm afraid I don't--"
"I can see that you don't," she agreed mildly, with a hint of a smile. Only a hint, though. She did not overtly mock him.
She shook her head, standing straighter, and popped the pastry into her mouth to get it out of the way. She appeared to savour it, for all her haste. The sight of her thumb brushing flakes from her lips caught at him even through all his confusion. It took him a good few seconds to understand afterwards when she held that same hand out to him in greeting, and another few again before he regained sense enough to return the gesture. Dazedly, he shook hands with her, and only absently noted that her grip was as strong and calloused as any man's.
"Mathilde d'Aubigny," she introduced herself, bowing slightly as they each regained their hands. "Though perhaps you would know me better as 'The Rose Knight'?" She chuckled at his expression. "Yes, I thought so. Madame de Maillard said that you'd come looking for me. I suppose I'm not at all what you expected, hmm?"
Not at all ... No. Most definitely not what he had expected.
He'd come seeking the aid of the Rose Knight, yes. She was a legend. The premiere exorcist in the country, a knight and a duellist of some renown, there were stories told about her from one end of the provinces to the other. It was said that she had twice won duels of honour against fae knights, once with swords and once with poisons. She had battled three nights with a demon while only seventeen years old, and banished it back to the far reaches of the infernal realms. She had come to the king's attention at twenty four years old when she had, on arrival in the capital, accepted a dare to cleanse the haunted Hotel de Bayerne of spirits within a week, and succeeded within only four days. Now, eight years later, she was a champion of the realm, a magician, a swordswoman, and a spiritualist of prodigious power. She was a hero. If you were beset by the unnatural, there was no better port to turn to. He'd thought ... he didn't know what he'd thought.
"You were expecting someone taller, I think," she said softly, a wry, gentle look in her eyes. "You were expecting a fair and virtuous maiden, with blonde hair and blue eyes, her silver sword bright and shining at her side. The champion of legend, not some portly, bespectacled little beldam helping herself to the pastries. Am I right?"
"I--" Alain tried, and then cut himself off. He shook himself, very deliberately, and made a concerted effort to regain his equilibrium and, most importantly, the full use of his senses. A fine show he'd made of himself so far, he thought grimly. The very picture of a poor idiot from the provinces. How was he to accomplish anything, when this was the impression he made?
"I'm sorry," he said instead, tiredly and sincerely, as he bowed to her once more. "My sincere apologies, Chevalier d'Aubigny, for any offence I may have caused you. The only excuse I can offer is that I have been travelling alone for several days, and I fear the sudden surfeit of people has bewildered me. It was not my intent to offend you. Indeed, quite the opposite. I had hoped to beg your favour, and your aid in a matter that has greatly troubled my home."
She studied him for a second, those brown eyes sharp behind their lenses. He straightened himself in the face of it, trying to leave his expression as open and earnest as possible, so that she could see the truth of his apology and the urgency of his request. He had an idea of what picture he must make in his turn. A harried country gentleman, perhaps, far less fashionably dressed than she, hard-travelled and ill at ease in these light-hearted surroundings. There was no help for that, however. It was only the truth.
"... Why don't we make our excuses, you and I, and repair to my lodgings," she suggested after a moment. He looked up, startled and hopeful, despite the vague impropriety of the suggestion, and she offered him a softer and much less mocking sort of smile. "We can discuss what favours you might need more comfortably over tea, I think, and without this ... surfeit of people, yes?"
She chuckled at the flush that answered her, and held out her hand to him once more. He took it, by this stage much bemused all over again, and she reeled him in to rest on her arm as she turned and began making her way serenely through the crowd. Alain followed gamely after her, matching his stride hastily to hers. He didn't see that he had much choice. She nodded to the hostess, a gesture of long familiarity, and somehow contrived to pass wholly without comment. She paused only once in her course, as they left the salon and stood briefly poised in the front hall. She turned to look at him, standing fearful and bewildered at her side, and grinned in quiet, terrifying mischief.
"I do hope, by the way, that you will introduce yourself at some point in the interview?" she said, and laughed at his flinch of embarrassed shock. He had forgotten to-- Great gods. But she didn't seem at all perturbed. She patted him reassuringly on the arm, and turned to pull him onwards once again. "Don't worry about it. I've had much worse responses to my reality, let me tell you. And one could argue it's quite a compliment, that a man should forget his own name at the sight of me."
"... I think," Alain managed, after a moment, "that a name is the least a man might forget in the face of you, Madame." She shot him a glance, startled, suspicious, perhaps even flattered, and abruptly he found his bearings once again, and even some semblance of dignity. He gave her a grin of his own, wry and half-sheepish, and inclined his head in acknowledgement. "You are without doubt the most astonishing person I have ever met, and I'm sorry to have made such a poor show in response. I believe you deserve a great deal better. For what it is worth, though, my name is Alain-Michel d'Estrées, and I am honoured to make your acquaintance."
All this, while making an even pace at her side. She faltered before he did, albeit only briefly, and he finally felt some match for her humour and command. She saw it, too, when she looked at him. She seemed even to appreciate it, rather than take offence. Madame Mathilde d'Aubigny, the Rose Knight, looked into the face of his sudden self-amused dignity, and inclined her head happily in return.
Well then, he thought. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.
A/N: Mathilde's surname is a reference to the fabulous historical Julie d'Aubigny, who was a duellist, an opera singer, a crossdresser, bisexual, thoroughly impetuous, and generally a thoroughly larger than life sort of person. She's amazing.
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