concierge: (Default)
[personal profile] concierge
Any entries earlier than this were pre-reboot.
aspecialkindofwoman: (choker)
[personal profile] aspecialkindofwoman
There are many descriptors that can be applied to Milady deWinter. Perhaps the most important is the term survivor.

She will always do what she needs to do to survive. She's not surprised that things turned out how they did. Not really. She has learned to expect the worst.

But here she is back in this place. This strange, modern place where she can, if she wants, be anything she wants to be. Milady supposes now is the time to figure that out. Surely, it's only a matter of time before Athos lives through what she has. Will he still want her?

Someone will. Surely.

She sits at the hotel bar, draining one glass of sharp, bitter alcohol and signalling for another, her skirt - the finest Parisian silk - covering the barstool, the curve of her shoulder gleaming in the low light.

Not again

May. 10th, 2016 05:31 pm
praiseandglory: (angry bordering on murderous)
[personal profile] praiseandglory
When Porthos stepped into their tent and found himself in a strange, yet familiar hallway, he knew exactly where he was. On either side of the hallway were doors - to rooms, suites, and many more strange places beside. The noises of the camp were gone, but the smell remained, on him, of gunpowder and blood, soot and grime. His usually elegant clothes had seen better days, his now longer hair was tied back and mostly hidden under a kerchief that might have once been white. His pistol was empty and he needed to clean his sword - Treville's sword.

The battlefield was now miles and years away, for all that it was also, somehow, right on the other side of a door. And, in his current mood, that made his blood boil as surely as Spanish insults.

"Not again!" he yelled, and punched the nearest wall with a gloved hand. He winced at the pain, but there was a dent in the wall now, and that felt slightly better.

Feb. 28th, 2016 09:49 am
armedagainstlove: (pick an argument)
[personal profile] armedagainstlove
June, The Nexus

One remaining glove is all Athos has in France to track down Anne, but luckily for the both of them, they know a hotel where they might discuss the future and their relationship.

some mature content
concierge: (Default)
[personal profile] concierge
The annual Nexus New Year's Eve gala began at 8 in the evening. Too grand to be contained by the lobby or dining hall, the gardens at the front of the hotel were employed, with long strings of white lights forming a twinkling canopy from the front doors all the way to the hedge maze. The weather was temperate and calm, and the night perfectly clear.

Drinks were served at various bars set up throughout the gardens and lobby, with champagne cocktails being the specialty of the night. Wheeling through the crowd was a bartender with golden cart providing warm drinks on the go: Tom and Jerrys, rum punch, negus, and Irish coffee.

Crisply-dressed wait staff wove through the collected guests with an abundance of hors d'oeuvres for all different tastes. The Bistro remained open with a limited selection of items for those who were wanting something more substantial.

Above the front doors was hung a large, gold-rimmed clock counting down the last hours, minutes, and seconds of the current year.
averygoodshot: (Fem Aramis)
[personal profile] averygoodshot
Aramis keenly remembers teasing Porthos when he had stepped through the door and become a woman. He had teased d'Artagnan and even Athos.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. He had not intended to do anything, really. He spent a good deal of his time praying, a good deal of time trying to atone for his sins.

Instead, this is what happens.

Much as his friends had, he has hitched his clothing tighter so that it may not fall down, and has fashioned something of a harness for ... well, for his new developments, as it were. He knows he could seek out Constance or even, if he was desperate, Milady, but he is not that desperate. He simply makes do and tells himself that God has a reason for everything.

He has always appreciated women and so maybe this is to test that? Who knows. Aramis does not question, at least not much. He is aware, though, that he looks a little foolish, his hair tied up, his clothing, baggy on him as a man, is like a series of large sacks on him, his boots far too big as he makes his way down the hallways. He smiles, though, not having a hat to tip, as he greets people. He knows he's not the only one who's suffered thusly. That's something anyway.
at_your_side: (072)
[personal profile] at_your_side
There was a strangeness to the moment as the world slipped from one second to the next. As if the ground beneath her feet no longer echoed with not just her footsteps but the footsteps of all the others crossing that same scarred, wooden floor. The sensation that accompanied it was dizzying, the world seeming to spin madly for a moment as she reached out for balance and found the handle of a door rather than the wall she had meant to catch hold of.

The handle turned on an accident of her wrist, the stability reached for then lost as she stumbled where she had been so steady only heartbeats before.

Perhaps there was something to not just pants but the weight of a sword sheathed at her hip and the heaviness of a gun held in her opposite hand. Perhaps that was reason enough for her finding her balance sooner than she might have while wearing the acres of fabric that came with the court gown she had worn for too long a stretch of days, as there was no hem to trip over as she left the comforting background noise of the voices of her friends speaking for the sudden silence of a hallway in a place she had not expected to find herself in again so soon.

Constance blinked slowly as she straightened, her fingers still tight on the grip of her borrowed pistol. The memory of the Musketeers plans had her turning immediately to look for the door she had come through but found, to her consternation, only smooth, unblemished wall at her back. "Oh," she said, too surprised to be eloquent as she stood staring. "Oh, no."

Jul. 5th, 2015 02:36 pm
armedagainstlove: (comte de la sass)
[personal profile] armedagainstlove
MAY 3 - THE NEXUS

Athos encounters a robot who seems overly concerned with his blood alcohol level.

PG
averygoodshot: (hopeless)
[personal profile] averygoodshot
June 17 | the Nexus

Upon finding the Queen and the Dauphin no longer in the Nexus, Aramis resorts to drink and maudlin romanticism. Good thing his friends come to the rescue.

In progress/no warnings
armedagainstlove: (drunk)
[personal profile] armedagainstlove
Paris, 1625

Once upon a drunken Parisian evening, a clothier's wife takes pity on a drunken Musketeer, hardly knowing the trouble she's getting herself into.

PG-13
armedagainstlove: (!switch)
[personal profile] armedagainstlove
Athos doesn't even realize what's happened, at first.

Ever since Milady had arrived insisting that Athos had been on his way to meet her, ever since he had returned back to Paris and discovered Aramis' treason with the Queen and the result of such a coupling, ever since Rochefort's rearrival on the scene caused him to slouch back to the Nexus, he has been drinking like he hasn't since right after his wife's supposed death. It is in this state that he'd fumbled through a well-known door that he'd thought harmless to him.

Intoxicated with the red wine, he does not notice the shift of gravity in his body, nor the length of his hair different, swept up by the hat. All Athos knows is that he has drank two bottles and is eager for a third, lest he fall into the eager pit of grief and the other complicated affections that lie in wait for him, all coaxed on by the woman whose locket he no longer wears.

When he arrives at the bar for his usual, he's met with confusion. The bartender states that she hasn't been around enough to have a usual. Athos smacks his palm against the counter, his rage brought forward with the incense of it all. "Wine," he snaps, calming himself before his demands grow angrier and more frustrated. "Just bring me wine," he mutters, voice hoarse from the drink.

He slumps into his seat and peers down for the first time, unsteadily taking account of how his clothes now seem to sag and slump on him. Sighing with the inevitable realisation, he lifts an elegant long-fingered hand to the bartender. "Make that two," he adds, before allowing his forehead to collapse against that waiting hand.

How could he have thought this would pass him by forever?

He grasps both bottles of wine greedily when they arrive, eager to trudge back to his room and escape the prying eyes of the public.
at_your_side: (001)
[personal profile] at_your_side
Intoxicated. Yes, that was- that was the word she was looking for. Intoxicated was just the very thing she could use to describe herself...or her state...the state of herself?

While the details of it had become increasingly fuzzy with each of the delightful, oh so colorful cocktails the bartender sat in front of her (how many had she had again?), Constance was fairly certain the day had begun well enough. There had been a bath, a bath! One with an endless supply of hot water piped right into her room so she might lie in her tub with the dawn light filtering in through the glass of her colored windows and wiggle her toes in easy contentedness.

But then there- ah! There had been the issue of dressing. Or, rather, not of dressing but of what to dress herself in when her only...dress, yes, had been worn already for the day before. She could have made do with it if she had had to, had even pulled it on while not pulling too much of a face, but had been all too grateful upon meeting the lovely Ruby in the hallway not far from her door.

Never had she seen a woman who wore so little out in public. It had left her gaping in the second before she had recovered herself, to see so much skin on display with not so much a flicker of concern in the other woman's expression as she had smiled and introduced herself. Somehow - now here the details were particularly fuzzy at that moment - they had gotten onto the subject of Constance's singular dress and somehow further the conversation had become one of the other woman, still a stranger, but so earnestly friendly, had volunteered her help.

All of which led to her sitting there at the bar of the Smoking Room, wearing pants of all things while Ruby slid a drink in front of her. She was certain there had been sense behind the action, and no, she did not feel the least bit overexposed with the buttoned shirt she wore beneath her corset or the coat she wore that hung down to her knees (she tried not to giggle at the thought of needing to cover her bum, but was only partially successful). What was even more certain was that these - those little cocktails, they were delicious.
praiseandglory: (determined)
[personal profile] praiseandglory
Porthos tended to leave the act of attempting to drown one's feelings in wine to Athos, who had made such an art of it. But once in a while, especially when there was no one to fight, he didn't think twice about indulging. Today was definitely one of these days, with the news Aramis had just broken to him, and the conflicted feelings warring in his chest.

He ordered a bottle of wine, paid for it with some of the gold he had earned on Phryne's pirate ship, then commandeered a table at the back of the Smoking Room, intending to drink until things eased inside his lungs. The man who usually looked open to anything was staring vacantly at his table as he drank, and thought, a dark look on his features. If only Aramis had heard him, but he suspected that he had not, and that the final, inevitable separation would be all the more cruel for the time they might have here.

He had forgotten his hat in his friend's room, he realised distantly. He would go and retrieve it after he finished this bottle of wine. The hat wasn't going anywhere.
aspecialkindofwoman: (hair up)
[personal profile] aspecialkindofwoman
April 2 | The halls

Milady arrives to the hotel and immediately finds the first and last person she's looking for.

No warning | Rated U for unrequited and unresolved | ongoing


~~
April 6 - Open

One of the things that has kept the woman known as Milady de Winter alive in all she's been through: she is resilient and she is tough and she is opportunistic. She has learned what she thinks there is to learn about this place and eyed a few doors, but she hasn't tried any yet. This isn't cowardice; it's canniness. She needs to know what she's doing. So this is how she comes to wander through the shop then making her way to the Smoking room. She's looking at everything and everyone; the clothing some wear here is ... intriguing. She's tempted to take some; it would be easy enough. But in the meantime, she walks, hip swinging, offering a smile at the men that she thinks could benefit her, while sizing up the women. She'll have a drink or maybe more, seeing who might be buying.
somanyopinions: (009)
[personal profile] somanyopinions
15 March 2015 | The Nexus Hotel

Her Majesty the Queen of France arrives at the Nexus in the midst of dire straits. Fortunately, there are some Musketeers on hand to help.

Ongoing | Spoilers for S2
praiseandglory: (genderswap!)
[personal profile] praiseandglory
Porthos was nothing if not stubborn, and he refused to let this transformation keep him down. With no specific deadline to look forward to, he felt that he had no choice but to train, until he regained, even in this body, at least a modicum of skill at what he usually did best: fighting. It didn't help that the breeches he'd secured for himself in this form were a lot tighter than anything he was used to, but he was learning to move about in them well enough.

Much more troubling by far was the weight of his broadsword. The Schiavona was much too heavy for his current strength, but it was all he had to practice, and so he found himself outside in the gardens, going through the basic motions of swordfighting as if he were only getting to know it, hoping that repetition would help. But in this body, not only was his sword too heavy, but his balance was off, and even his very style was wrong for someone who could no longer fight like a force of nature.

Fifteen minutes into his exercises already found his oversized shirt sticking to his back with sweat, and after stumbling through yet another move that should've been easy, he pulled off the kerchief he wore over his hair and threw it aside in a show of temper, planting his sword down in the soft damp soil and looking about as frustrated with himself as a not-a-lady Musketeer could get.

Which was, apparently, a lot.
averygoodshot: (over the shoulder)
[personal profile] averygoodshot
"Just ... give me a moment," Aramis says over his shoulder. He is tired, his body aches, he still has glass in his hair, he is sure, and a cut on the back of his head that needs cleaning. His leg hurts and even the scratches on his face need tending. But he needs a moment. Just ... a moment to himself, to collect himself.

spoilers for Musketeers 2.06 )

So he opens the door, his hat under his arm, and steps ... into someplace else entirely, some place he's never seen before. Into a huge elaborate anteroom (lobby), even more grand than most rooms at the Louvre. What is this place? He turns and the door he had come through is gone. So, he turns back around, wary, pushing his hat onto his head (wincing some at the sting) but all the better to be ready, a hand on his sword, the other holding his pistol. Had he fallen again? Hit his head? Is this all a dream? If so, he would like his dreams to be a little more ... well, intimate, actually, not populated by people dressed entirely differently and looking at him like he is the stranger in a strange place. "Beg pardon," he asks (unless the one approaching is a Musketeer), "... where am I?"
concierge: (Default)
[personal profile] concierge
A large sign placed prominently in the Nexus lobby reads:

The Nexus Hotel
proudly presents the
MARDI GRAS MASQUERADE BALL

Event Location
Nexus Dining Hall
8 PM - 2 AM

Masquerade dress recommended, but not required for all guests


The Dining Hall's central table and chairs had been removed to create a dance floor wide enough to accommodate fanciful masquerade costumes. On one end had been placed a long bar providing free drinks, and on the other a small chamber orchestra providing the music for dancing. The entire room was bedecked in gold bunting and twinkling candlelight, and masks were available for those guests who hadn't brought their own.

Feb. 8th, 2015 07:11 pm
sawny: (Default)
[personal profile] sawny
They say that some men are born to battle, are born with black powder on their hands and the keen edge of sword an extension of their bodies. It makes their hearts beat faster and their blood run hot and drives them to madness that can only be slaked on a field against a foe.

Jamie isn't one of those. Oh, aye, he's good at it - damned good at it, which has saved him more than once. But he's no one of those that likes it and the last thing he wants is to be fighting a losing war alongside the fool pretender, the Bonnie Prince, when he could be safely wrapped up with his wife in a crofter's house somewhere.

It's a simple life he wants and yet he seems thrust into this one instead, this destiny that's only going to end in bloodshed on a field in April. It's only October now, so he's got some months to spare but it's not long enough. He means to delay his inevitable death if he can, more for Claire than for himself.

It's to that end that Jamie goes about stealing the wheels and pins off all of Cope's cannons in hopes he won't be able to mount a defense. The English have them outgunned, to be sure, but without ordnance and muskets, the Highlanders know the land and know every hill and burn. They'll have the advantage once the firepower's gone. At least, that's what Jamie hopes.

He means to make his way back to camp to show Claire his prize, to give her all the cotter pins off the English cannons and show her that he's found a way to rout the English at least this once but he gets twisted in the dark. When he pushes back the flap of the tent to greet her, it's a richly-appointed corridor he sees, not the smiling face of his wife.

"Och, aye, what's this, then?" He's covered in soot from head to toe and with his hair long and his kilt and plaid askew, he looks for all the world an outlaw. He is, actually, if the broadsheets are to be believed and he thinks he ought to be every inch a braw Scottish brigand if he means to escape the English yet again.

"What devilry is this?" There's a door behind him, pushed shut, and when he tries it, it won't open.

Damn.
armedagainstlove: (steady)
[personal profile] armedagainstlove
At times, Athos does wonder whether this odd inn has a sense of malice in its humour or whether it simply can see into his heart to know precisely how to strike him. There have been blessings in Porthos and d'Artagnan's presence to reassure him that he has not gone mad, but there is the continued presence of the doors. If it is not bright lights or screaming children, it is giving d'Artagnan false memories or it is wreaking havoc on him and has for hours.

If he didn't know better, he'd say that this suits him terribly. He'd met a woman in a similar situation to Athos' current predicament, but she seemed to have endured them longer.

This morning, Athos had awoken from his brief respite from home (needing the time after nearly causing a coup in France given a new heir, found) and upon leaving his room to have breakfast, something had changed. It had been as if the ice covering his heart had infected all other parts of him, sending a strange frisson of fear through him. And, more worryingly, since that moment, everything he's touched has turned to ice.

Currently, staring at red wine that's frozen over, he's beginning to see the trouble.

Anne might laugh at him, if she could see him now. That coy, sharp, steady laughter that he had found charming once, but now saw it for what it was -- vindictive and cutting. She might say that it's about time his body caught up with his cold heart, able to put his wife to death so easily, but it had been unavoidable. How could Athos have done anything else? Perhaps this is his punishment, then.

"Sangdieu," he spits out a frustrated curse when he reaches for a grape and freezes that over, too. Chewing it stubbornly, he abandons his table in a hurry and hopes that no one has seen the fuss he's made, for Athos needs to find himself somewhere warm to counteract the continuous ice his hands seem keen to produce.

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