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Mes amours dans l'enclave gauloise. How exquisite et overtly finespun you are. - Printable Version

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Mes amours dans l'enclave gauloise. How exquisite et overtly finespun you are. - Enkidu - 03-05-2020

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Sender ID: Achille Augustain Nadeau. A fine and enterprising buisnessman. Knight of the Roi.

Subject: Do you remember me, my loves? I do not presume that the mere recollection of partners can blot the stain of loss, oh, phyric, withering loss, mon coup de coeur.

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There are only so many gene therapies and medications against the spectre of clinical expiry a man cresting fifty can have before they lose their memory with the faded lines, ami.

So I will not fault you if you do not recall my face, my finespun thunderheads against the abyssal dark. Against the neophyte regime, where all regalia tarnishes into a patina of corrosion - of glory on the fade.

Oh, but you stand, do you? With your boy king slipping into his old position with a practised familiarity?

How uniquely scintillating. Pray tell, whose fingers must a man kiss to gain the key to the ossuary? I have plenty of skeletons in my closet that I so would love to resurrect. Humour me this.



I am Augustian Nadeau, son of Normandie, although I hope to the heavenly powers above that you will not hold that detail against me, and adopted child of our, hm, dearly surrendered Marne. I am willing to turn over my files in exchange for a rendevous. Although, should you request details of my former collaboration, and, as to what I have been busying myself with over the last seven years? Mm. A willful line of inquiry.

I wonder if I am without a friend in the world, mi amores? Now that the Corvidians are a historical mote. You see, I hold the gateway to the sirian edge systems, and the abyssals beyond. I have been there. I have feasted upon their entrails - just as the service de renseignement de Gallia willed. My Iridium, purloined from the tombs of dead gods as if I were a new-age Carter amongst the pharaohs, lined the accelerator rails of your wonderful twists of ironic historical linguistics - the warwolf siege gun.

But now you are under siege, are you not?

Have your annals forgotten me? Of course, they may have. Scum like myself deserve nothing less.

I will bequeath you a bottle of Chateau D'France, should you have one. It's the price of my time - and I believe that the customer should know the vendor's position, and it, like me and my concerns, are tastefully pre-war. Inside, and out.

I bend the knee and trust to fate.



RE: Mes amours dans l'enclave gauloise. How exquisite et overtly finespun you are. - Enkidu - 03-05-2020




RE: Mes amours dans l'enclave gauloise. How exquisite et overtly finespun you are. - Loken - 03-05-2020

Planet Bordeaux, Aquitaine System
5. Mars, 743 AGS


Official Message
The Office of Maréchal Eveline Laroux



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Identité: Eveline Laroux, Maréchal de l'Enclave
Destinataire: Achille Augustain "Fancypants" Nadeau
Sujet: Verbal diarrhoea



Who are you, why am I receiving this, and what are you supposed to mean to me?

Keep it brief, I haven't got time for life stories.

Maréchal Eveline Laroux, Maréchaussée
Gallic Royal Enclave


Pièces jointes: Aucun




RE: Mes amours dans l'enclave gauloise. How exquisite et overtly finespun you are. - Enkidu - 03-06-2020

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Sender ID: Achille Augustain Nadeau. A fine and enterprising buisnessman. Knight of the Roi.

Subject: I deffer to your curiosity.

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I? I am a lost sheep, yearning to return to the comfortable flock. I am the shepherd boy who has lost his sheep and fears the boot of his master. I am the man who the Shepard boy will become, dreaming of the stars.

There are only so many guilded pebbled in the black of the umbral dark can unturn before oneself becomes a mere penumbra of the prime movers and shakers of our glorious celestial chessplay.

Quite uncharacteristic for an insect of my station - I prefer to strut my gangly, snappable frame in the light. What do you think, Ami? Would you prefer that the flames of valor are snuffed out?


Ah! A fresh Maréchal. Pardon my impudence, ami. I do not wish to impose upon your aclarity with riddling loquaciousness, non. Instead, I wish to arm you, not with a rifle, but with the determinator of the embattled that can bring make a temaraire of a destroyer beset upon by an armada; intelligence. Of course, you already have intelligence aplenty - during the perihelion burn of the late Grand Maréchal there was a certain piteous misuse of the jewel of the Hebrides. Gaia - Bordeaux, as it has been optimistically re-engraved, is wrestled and grappled in plasteel and stone - a herculean triumph of a certain indomitable demeanour, no doubt? You made a wise choice. Allow me to revere your jurisprudence.

Nay - you have doubts aplenty, I am sure.

In the humble holistic, I am a businessman. A man of salesmanship, sailing on the bonny tradewinds of fortune, with all the fanaticism of my mercantile class. I was, hm, 'swept out' upon the shores of the Sirius Sector - a land of magic and terror, upon the rogue wave of the la malheureuse réunion du conseil et de l'humanité, as Sirius depicted it then. I was a stranger in a strange land without the knowledge to survive in this barren place of intrigue and societal desolation, without grasp of language nor sense of hope. So I... improvised, with the only artisanry I had brought with me.

Over time, I established a band of merry men from my former hm, colleagues, aboard Monte Carlo and Chateau Gontier. We had determined to understand the Sirians. What they would require, and how. We knew that the restitution project would bring the might of the King crashing upon the uncertain shores of the Sirian isle. A mighty invasion armada may be broken by the cuts and scrapes of a million small rocks when the shoals are uncharted. Perhaps such a fate rings true? Certainly the natives carried a far more replete pallet than could be inferred during the centuries of rightful separation.

I had found an opportunity - a glister in the dark, even out in the far taus. I gained a position within the delightfully varified community that the Sirians call the 'Zoners', as a microcosm of their societies resplendent before me - like a Cretian tapas buffet, I could only indulge in the variety. I acquired resources for the crown that were both difficult to locate and vital for the war effort - Iridium, Sirian biologicals, resources and cultural insights into those that would be my countrymen - and my customers, given time enough. I had a fine life. I grew indolent and successful, rising to the level of my incompetence upon the mass of my own hoard. I was a dragon. There were plots afoot to bring the baffin corridor to heel through the efforts of my colleagues.

It was with great misfortune that the military committed to an alternative path. Now? Well, I have been wasting away in the varied dives and holes of Gallia. I have enjoyed a modicum of success at handwaving myself away from imprisonment under the neophyte regime, as the throng interpolates a bodily constitution from a rapidly congealing compromise of the commoners. Galling, is the word of the day in Gallia, today.

I wish to be useful again. I thought, perhaps, I never would be. That I would have to slip into redundancy, as many have in our new age.

Instead, I believe that we may be of use to, well, you. My betters and my superiors in the Roi. The degrees of seperation between us have lessened, yes, but we both persist still - old dynamics may grow again.

I wish to use my present political status to your advantage. I am a natural courtier, admiral. Let me cater to the enclave's requirements. How, perhaps?

I wager that the presumptively cartographed Gaia's subsurface substrates are flooded with all the crude your war machine could require. Yet you certainly will lack sources of the most vital cracking catalyst human science has yet produced on an industrial scale. Without Prometheum, your engines will coke and your reactors will stall. Of course, please - deny it to me. I am an outsider. I doubt you would disclose strategic needs to me.

But if, say, I was able to acquire several transport loads of Prometheum - would your movement be interested enough in their acquisition to grant me a certain degree of lenience? I crave a home back in Hebridean space. I would revel the opportunity to, hm, 'muck in' with the rest of the colonial throng, down the gravity well.

You have a paradise at your fingers, Admiral. I would give any mere sisterworld to feel Bordeaux under my feet.

Call it a resurgence of an old, creeping need.



RE: Mes amours dans l'enclave gauloise. How exquisite et overtly finespun you are. - Catbert - 03-07-2020


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Sender: Adelaide Gauthier, Commandant of Escadron XXII
Recipients: Achille Augustain Nadeau
Message Type: Video
Encryption Strength: Absolute



So, all the eloquence aside, you want to gain entry to Gallic Hebrides and a clearance to land on Bordeaux. In return, you offer valuable cargo and services to the Crown. Since you are an outsider, as you've astutely put it yourself, you'll have to prove your worth before we let you set on our capital world. However, the Enclave does reward merit and contributions to the cause.

You can start by delivering a few shipments of Prometheum you mentioned to one of the Enclave's facilities in the Hebrides. I'll warn the dock masters at our facilities to expect your vessels. Naturally, you'll be under heavy scrutiny while in the Hebrides, especially approaching our bases. It'll be up to the dock masters to allow or disallow docking or mooring. Any suspicion of an ulterior motive or an attempted diversion... I think you understand the consequences, being a Gallic citizen.

Do that, and I'll see about your clearance to visit Bordeaux.