concierge: (Default)
[personal profile] concierge
Any entries earlier than this were pre-reboot.
designerebel: (cinna § 65)
[personal profile] designerebel
For the first few days Cinna stays in his room. He's suffered a loss so great that it's painful beyond the telling of it. Who can speak those words? Cinna cannot, in spite of his usual eloquence. He's had to relive his own demise right up to his death. In a sense, it leaves him numb. But a man like Cinna cannot stay that way forever. He has to feel. He has to exist. He is not an ungrateful man when he is given something so great that it's very near inexplicable. He should be dead. His life, this life in The Nexus, is a miraculous thing - the impossible made possible. He will not squander the gift that has been given to him.

He dresses well in spite of the ache in his bruised muscles as he does so. Cinna doesn't like looking anything but well put together. By his fourth day the wounds on his body have scabbed over. The bruises have turned deep purple and yellow. He doesn't try to cover them up with makeup. There is no sense in that and he knows they'll be gone soon enough. He does don some of his token golden eyeliner. It makes him feel more human. It makes him feel more like himself, tiny gold lines outlined and embellished in black that serve him as well as the greatest suit of armor ever made. He is alive. He exists. He is a fighter in his own right even without conventional weapons. He is Cinna.

He understands The Nexus somewhat in thanks to his time in another very different place although similar in mechanics. Also, in thanks to the kindness of a man he is still indebted to who had helped him understand what was happening when he'd only first arrived a few days ago. He understands that it is a hub of some sort. He also understands that he cannot go home. That is a fate of his own design that he doesn't want to live through again.

It is now, four days later, that he decides to get out and explore this, The Nexus, as Aramis had called it. He can be found anywhere really, moving with an elegance and grace that is intrinsic to him, looking in rooms and shops, outside and inside. Not only does he want to become acquainted with his new home, but he's in search of food and the familiarity of a needle and thread in his hands if he can find it. That's all he needs, really. For now.
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

Apr. 21st, 2015 08:40 pm
temperamentalsteel: (Beaming)
[personal profile] temperamentalsteel
After weeks of hard missions and even harder conversations, d'Artagnan had been hesitant to go through anymore strange doors. Then he'd passed by one left slightly ajar and he'd heard music...smelled wonderful things, and curiosity had gotten the better of him. Luckily, going through the door had resulted in nothing but delight. It apparently passed through to something called an amusement park and d'Artagnan was amazed and definitely amused.

First had been the colorful spinning horses, then the wheel that went up into the sky, and then something insanely exhilarating called a roller coaster. D'Artagnan had ridden several of them more than once, only stopping when hunger sent him to the food stalls and toward something called a funnel cake.

And then, he had found something called the paintball range. Immediately, d'Artagnan was signing up for the next session.

[[He went through the amusement park door. Catch him at any point in his adventure!]]

Apr. 18th, 2015 07:08 pm
averygoodshot: (aramis and dartagnan)
[personal profile] averygoodshot
April 16 | the hallway and d'Artagnan's room

Doing what some might consider the right thing, Aramis lets d'Artagnan in on his not-so-secret

No warnings/PG
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.
temperamentalsteel: (Disillusioned)
[personal profile] temperamentalsteel
Twice now, he had acted only with the King's safety in mind. Twice he had tried to be the man of honor that Musketeers were supposed to be. Twice all he had earned was censure from his Majesty.

How could the King have believed that d'Artagnan would ever have done him harm? In taking the pistol, in playing Marmion's game, they should have known it was a blatant play for time, yet the King had only raged and admonished him. It was just as before, when they had obeyed their King's whims to go to the tavern because no loyal Musketeer would have gone out of turn to criticize his wishes, even in the name of safety. Then, again, because he had spoken out on behalf of his honor and on keeping his word.

Now, d'Artagnan had not been allowed to even defend himself, to say that he had panicked for fear of Constance's life and desperation to stall Marmion.

Instead, the King had let Rochefort take the glory in the same fickle breath that he had condemned d'Artagnan and turned his back on Milady. Though there was no love lost between them, he knew she'd had the nerve to risk her life and get help.

As they walked up to the doorway, the sliver of bright light almost blinded him. When his vision cleared, he saw a smooth, modern doorway and perhaps it made him a coward, but he was relieved to walk into the lobby of the Nexus. In its quiet, clean tranquility, d'Artagnan was ever more aware of the blood and dirt on his face.
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

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.
praiseandglory: (did someone punch me/thinking hard)
[personal profile] praiseandglory
This was, definitely, an odd place. But not, probably, a bad place.

Porthos had been exploring the building for the last couple of hours, and that was the conclusion he had come to. A huge, sprawling building that would have seemed more like a particularly vast hôtel particulier than a hotel to him, but there was no denying the fact that it was open to all sorts of people. And not quite people, for that matter.

Most of them, people and not quite people alike, tended to stare at him a little, probably because he cut such a dashing figure in full Musketeer regalia, fleur-de-lis, hat, boots, sword and all. Aramis would have been jealous.

But it was all quite a bit to take in, so after snagging an apple from the buffet in that place called the Bistro (odd name, that), he found himself headed outside to find a place to sit and munch on the fruit. A few minutes of fresh air, and a chance to let it all settle into his mind.

Including the most pressing problem about this place: how to leave it, and return to Paris. Never let it be said that Porthos could be kept where he didn't want to be.

Nov. 9th, 2014 06:21 pm
temperamentalsteel: (Default)
[personal profile] temperamentalsteel
It was not the grand, sweeping architecture of the hotel that disturbed him nor the apparent technological feats to which he would have to become accustomed. He had, after all, lived in Paris, where all the latest and most important inventions made their way. The bright lights, the motorized devices, the moving doors...Those were things that he could come to an understanding, regarding their use.

No, it was the stillness. The quiet way in which people gathered for meals but didn’t really talk and then wandered the gardens in the same quiet. No threat hung over them, no call to action. D’Artagnan sat useless, feeling as if he might fly apart from inaction and it was only his first days yet. If he was bound here as long as some people suggested, he thought he might go mad.

There was, at least, one distraction that had apparently--blessedly--not changed in the intervening centuries. It was how d’Artagnan found himself at the stables, befriending and saddling up an energetic gelding. He had regarded the young Musketeer imperiously until bribed with an apple and now d’Artagnan could lead the horse out to the surrounding hotel grounds.

D’Artagnan mounted and kicked the horse into a trot and then a canter. It didn’t take long before they gave into their spirits and moved up to a gallop, ranging about the grounds.

At last, if only for a moment, he felt himself again. Caught up in the energy, the sheer joy of riding, d’Artagnan no longer felt quite like he was about to explode out of his skin. Instead he felt alive, raising a fist and shouting his joy.


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