La Chappelle des Roses

[hedanicree]

La Chappelle des Roses
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About a mile outside Paris stands a little chapel, far enough south from the city to be secluded but not quite isolated. Frequented by merchants and travelers who wish to ask a blessing on their travels as they journey to or from the city, the chapel also sees a surprising number of military men from various companies around Paris.

Inside, La Chappelle is nondescript, plain wooden pews and a marble altar overlooked by a statue of Saint Genevieve, patroness of Paris. Outside, however, the Gothic stonework is almost totally obscured by twining rose vines planted around the building which send flowers in a myriad of colors trailing up the walls. Local legend has it that Genevieve herself planted the first bushes and watered them with her tears as she fasted and prayed for the safety of her city from the invading forces of Attila the Hun.

The floral profusion continues along a well-worn track into the woods, which opens out into a large clearing. Perhaps this is why the chapel sees so many martial regulars: the grove is an excellent spot for a duel.

_{(Original post written by Siroc
Tue May 10, 2005 5:00 pm)}

[newsgirl29]

Isis stood in the old church yard as the cool winds blow around her. Through the winds she could read that great times of change where coming from south, the felt like anything she felt before. (what could this be it sends chills of fear down my back, darkness far away thou what it could be I do not know only that it has no color and that means it could come from any where and be anyone. This more powerful then my sister or I ever could be.)

[jeantre16]

Quiet and subdued, the foreign woman makes her way into the church courtyard. Almost obscure from sight, blended in the backdrop of the structure, she places herself to the right of the chapel entry. Her rose-brown eyes perceive a young woman in the square—shapely and purposeful. Watching, she says nothing, only pulls her shawl tighter about her to secure her warmth, sits and waits for another to come.

[warrioress]

Vespasien Durrand wearily slinks down the boulevards of Paris, attempting to blend with the evening shadows as he makes his way slowly but surely toward the southern edge of the city. Uncharacteristically out of his musketeer-issued greys, he nevertheless has avoided appearing as his mischevious alter-ego Rye. His last experience in that getup brought on near-disastrous consequences, and he shudders at the memory of his discovery by both a musketeer officer and a guardsman. Fortunately, neither have spoken a word regarding the incident, and Vespasien has allowed that silence to continue unabated. After so many years of secrecy, it is hard to imagine maintaining close personal friendships.

So, since then he has attempted to keep as low a profile as possible, going about his duties and patrols in studied disciplene. His near undoing has prompted him to become more vigilante for clues to his family's wearabouts. In his most recent investigation with the musketeers, he learned of an older woman who begs near the Chappelle des Roses. Rather than a blessing, though, he has heard that this pauper dispenses with information for a pilgrim's kindness. So Vespasien has bided his time, awaiting his first night's leave in anticipation, and quietly changed into a carefully selected wardrobe of dark clothing and cloak.

Now that he is so near the building itself, his fear and anticipation mix in a feverish combination. Six years he has been without substantial news or knowledge of his remaining family, and he wonders now if his questions will finally have answers, or if he is placing his faith in a fool's errand. Taking a deep breath to solidify his resolve, Vespasien approaches the aging chappelle and wearily regards the terrain, keeping a weather eye out for brigands and soldiers who enjoy the secluded spot for reasons other than worship. Although he has left his musketeer blade back at the barracks for fear of discovery, he absently fingers the knife attached to his left hip, his last remaining memory of his beloved uncle torn from him so many years ago.

After several apprehensive moments of searching, Vespasien at last spies a small figure huddled against the chapel, as if seeking to fade into the very stonework. The person could almost be a statue, but Vespasien spies its slight movement and approaches. Unsure how to begin the strange tete-a-tete, he softly calls, "Madame?"

[jeantre16]

Grasping her shawl to her nape with her left fist, she warily scans the cloaked figure addressing her. It is uncommon for her to be so addressed. Most walk by unnoticing of her presence, and those who note her either do so by her beckoning for coins or by the encouragement of others promising secrets. Allowing yet another possibility, that he only asks directions or looks for another, she extends her right palm and looks expectantly into the young man’s greenish-blue eyes. “Alms?” she asks, her voice cracking from disuse.

[warrioress]

Vespasien winces, not from horror at the figure's appearance or voice, but from sympathy. Within the bounds of the Roma camp, there was no poverty or neglect. It is only within the "civilized" corners of the world that he witnessed older people left to fend for themselves. His heart goes out to this poor woman, who begs in a spot he knows members of both local corps use as an illicit dueling site. It would only take one drunken slip to harm this beggar, and none would care or morn her loss.

Reaching deep within his shirt, Vespasien lifts out a small bag that holds one of his most valued possessions: an old Italian coin belonging to his uncle. He has kept it faithfully since receiving it, and remembers being teased that it would be his bridal gift before being taken from his family and impressed into the French military and culture. Now, he offers this meager memory of his family in the hopes of finding the true article. Placing the coin firmly into the beggar woman's outstretched hand, he murmurs "I have need of your services, Madame. I am looking for someone."

[jeantre16]

She takes the coin, clasping her worn fingers around it in a ball without a glance and lowers it to a hidden purse at her belt. By its feel, the far from ignorant woman knows that it is not the usual franc she is offered. “Tonight I will eat well,” she relishes aloud, while testing his character to see if he will press the matter. "And the woman you seek, she has just left," she adds to muddle her intent.

[warrioress]

While he has planned to offer his most valuable possesion to gain the woman's trust, Vespasien still fills his heart drop as one of his last physical reminders of his family dissapears in the beggar woman's clothing. His moroseness dissipates at the woman's words, though, and he blinks in astonishment. Woman? He remembers vaguely seeing a pentinent on the outstrech of the church yard as he approahed, but can not believe he would not recognize one of his own or that his answers would so nearly "drop out of the sky." Rather, it appears that the lady believes him to be a suitor, which instantly raises his hackles and Roma sensibilites.

'Easy, Ves, just do what you came for,' he reminds himself, and bends to be on level with the lady. "It is no one lady's arms I seek, but several." He nearly chokes on his own words, realizing how they must sound, but presses on. "Women, older, like yourself, with children, sold as slaves six years ago." He licks his lips nervously, still unsure how much he can trust the strange figure before him. Finding a well of daring he has not felt in weeks, he continues, "They were Manouches, captured on the Italian border."

[jeantre16]

The speculated Genevieve watches the young man falter, saying that he seeks several women. Under her carefully practiced charade, she keeps from revealing her amusement. Her senses key into his nervousness kept in check. ‘He shows patience, yes, but he is a desperate one,’ the eerie thought filters through her reasoning.

At the mention of the women he seeks, a frightful chill transfers from the cold stone beneath her and ices her veins. ‘This is not a light favor he asks,’ she cautions herself. Only for an unguarded moment she flinches and rejects another option. No, she does not take him to be one of the Cardinal’s men; he was too coy. Jules’ men knew no fear; this one reeked of it. “Ghosts are who you seek,” she forces through tightened lips, all pleasantness gone. Upset, she points a ragged-gloved finger at him. “And ghosts spell death.”

[newsgirl29]

Isis had felt the womans percent watching her, she could read from the wind that woman had come here to meet some one and was to change their search, but the question was who and what or who were they searching for. Isis started to walk away as if to leave but in truth to only to hide and see who it was that was coming to meet them. She was going to stay in watch but the winds gave such a strange feeling that did not know what to think and at the same comforted her. (I need to think more on this.) As she left the church yard from the back gate a man came into the same yard from the main gate it was Vespasien Durrand a musketeer.