It had always been agreed upon, in the circles that matter, that Isabelle Montlaville de Chanteloup was no ordinary Gallic woman. For all her adherence to the well-established fundamental gaulish principles, she was far from exhuberant, strict in appearance and, most strikingly for a lady of her position... Not a gourmet. Allegedly, because hardly anyone had ever seen her eat, unless coffee can be considered food.
Isabelle Montlaville de Chanteloup indeed never ate much. Or often. Not that she didn't like food (she loved it) ; she just generally had better things to do. As a result, she had no idea at what time people generally have dinner, a thought that occured only after she invited the brute to join her over, precisely, dinner. A cursory Megatel(1) search regarding luxury liner Argenton's only restaurant provided the following information : "Dinner served from 19h00 to 22h00."
She showed up at 18h55 as dictated by military protocol : to be on time is to already be late. She was wearing a simple (by Gallic standards) dress, midnight blue (as always) that took advantage of her slender build and fell just above knee level. Her physique, features and garments gave her the air of a cold winter night.
She stood by the door and looked around for the brute, unsure as to how people usually find each other in comparable circumstances. Her previous dinner dates had always taken care of such... Procedures.
(1) Gallic equivalent of the Neural Net, successor to the wildly successful and impossibly innovative Minitel.
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
Spotting his date waiting by the door, the brute glides over to her side easily. A soft cough to draw her attention. Where Isabelle was dressed like the first breathes of a blizzard, Stenn looked decidedly more casual, his leather jacket and plain clothes making a marked contrast.
"It's a pleasure to meet you without the usual accompanying guns pointed at me." He gives a slight bow, his smirk evident, and offers his arm to the icy lady. "I trust you made a reservation? I'd hate to start the night off by arguing with the Maître D' for a table."
Chanteloup observed as the brute made his entrance, his every step an ode to impertinence. As he gormlessly stood there, arm extended, she eyed him from head to toe without disguising her disapproval. After a second or two, she accepted the brute's arm and walked him towards the restaurant's counter.
"Stenn... I hope that outfit is AT LEAST comfortable. Come, let's get us a table. What is this notion of reservation you speak of ?" she said, with just enough sincerity in the voice to leave doubts as to the seriousness of her question.
Someone important-looking and impeccably dressed walked up to them as they approached the dining room. He didn't ask about reservations, and Chanteloup merely nodded at him. He simply replied "Par ici, s'il-vous-plaît" and lead them to a table near a wall, away from the center of the room. The exchange had lasted three seconds.
They barely had the time to seat before the apéritif menu was brought to them. Chanteloup needed a drink and surmised that the brute, being a brute, wouldn't refuse one either. She pushed one of the menus towards him. "Let's start with a drink. This is called an apéritif, for your further reference. What will you be having ?"
The bar proposed the following options : chestnut-flavoured Pietra beer, myrtle liquor Mirto and the strong, bitter Cap Corse wine. None of these were any surprise in a Corsican-owned business. Corsicans were a territorial bunch. There were, of course, the usual options for the less adventurous gentleman.
Chanteloup eyed the brute with some curiosity, eager to see what he'd make out of the menu. Might as well enjoy the moment.
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
Point one in his favor. He didn't bother browsing the menu, choosing his own drink quickly, and aware that he's treading in territory that favors his host, makes sure to suggest a champagne for her own pallet. "I'm curious how the Mirto will taste. It's rare that I see such options, given the type of life I lead. However, I do believe that you will enjoy the Boërl & Kroff Brut more than any of these... commoner options."
This type of foreplay was expected, but nonetheless, he was eager to see why someone as high positioned as Isabelle had reached out to a former enemy so unexpectedly. He knew that part of the event was to be scoped out and evaluated before they ever got to business, but he couldn't help feeling that they were going to waste more time than needed to get to the point.
Ah well, at the least the company, despite colder than a blizzards wind, was pleasant to be seen with.
Chanteloup had a crystal-clear, almost good-natured laugh at the brute's suggestion. He had more finesse to him than he let on.
"You know your way around the finer things in life, Stenn. I had pegged you for a relentless piss-drinker. A fine suggestion, indeed, but I despise excessive sweetness... And not only in taste. Deux Mirto, s'il vous plaît" she added at the intention of their waiter.
"Good pick. Well balanced. Not too bitter, not too sweet." She let a moment pass. "You were, surprisingly, smart enough to accept to meet me AND to find your way here. Surely you've guessed why I went through all that trouble. Have you ?" She let her piercing gaze underline the question.
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
The smile was quickly repressed, and Stenn nods at his host. "I'm no stranger to Gallia. Despite their pride, it's easy to slip past the guards if you know how." Bold, but true. He'd made dozens of sorties into Gallic space in the past, so being here wasn't impossible.
"As for why you wanted to see me, its not hard to guess. People only ever want to meet with me for two reasons. They want me to kill someone for them, or they want to kill me. You don't have enough people for the latter to be possible, so we'll go with the former. However, I'm hoping that you manage to surprise me and have a third, as yet unexpected reason."
Rolling his shoulders, he leans back into the chair, seemingly relaxing while he waits for the answer, his metal fingers tapping rhythmically on the table top.
The Mirtos were brought to the table with good timing, as was customary of Corsican waiters. They were accustomed, by necessity, to navigating through unspoken tensions.
Not replying at once, Chanteloup seized her glass, pensively watching the dark liquid rotate, before switching her focus back to the brute. Her face was utterly still.
"Deductive reasoning. You never cease to amaze, Stenn. Next, you'll tell me that you can count to ten." She grinned and took a sip of the Mirto. The transition from fruity richness to the more sour aftertaste left her in precisely the right mood for what needed to come next.
"If you were counting on a third option, you didn't waste your time coming all the way here." She paused for the briefest of moments. "How would you like to become a Gallic nobleman ?"
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
"Didn't realize Gallia was looking for soulless murderers as nobles now."
He had expected a third offer, but he hadn't been able to predict an offer of nobility. Information first, decision later. He could feel that itch in his spine already, and if he had been carrying one, he knew his hand would already be resting on the hilt of his gun. This felt like a trap.
"What exactly would Nobility entail. I assume fealty, and all manner of oaths of loyalty."
His drink wasn't forgotten so much as it was ignored, his eyes momentarily stopping their customary search of his surroundings to focus properly on Isabelle. Cold and hard, the cold fire within them was undeniable.
"Gallia isn't. I am" came the staccato response. "We don't have temp agencies for soulless murderers and I didn't think I'd be taken seriously if I pushed your name on our potential partners' list. For obvious reasons." She took another sip.
"And yet, soulless murderers are high in demand these days, as I'm sure you're aware. Gallia gets the news and we've heard about the possible resurgence of your little merry band. It caused us... Some difficulty (she uttered those words as though she had just tasted the very essence of dung) and I can't afford to have it happen again. That was for context. Now, as to what it implies..."
Unusually, their waiter showed up at a less optimal moment in the conversation. He brought them the meal options and quietly left. Those included boar civet, corsican-cheese flavoured risotto and the usual charcuterie platters. Chanteloup already knew what she'd be going for, and returned to the matter at hand.
"Understand one thing, Stenn. This is off the books, but my word reaches far, and I have a few favours to call upon in times of need. This is one of those times... The rules are thus. You make a public pledge to the Kingdom of Gallia, saying that you agree to fight for our cause as penance for your past crimes. Not quite fealty... Yet. In return, I guarantee you amnesty, an estate from my own domain... And in time, Gallic citizenship. Which will imply fealty to Charles, yes. But also a life unlike anything you've dreamed of, so far. And yes, one in which you'll still be able to kill people for profit."
Chanteloup's gaze lingered in the brute's. He had dreadful eyes. Not quite those of a machine ; no, this was worse. She wasn't easily unsettled, and yet...
"This is probably a lot to process, take your time. I'll be having the risotto, thank you" she added to the waiter, which had been hovering around the table for the past three seconds.
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
"I don't know. Public apologies aren't really my style."
The words were light, his tone wasn't. This was not an offer to take lightly, nor were either of the participants fooling around.
"I'll have the same." He dismisses the waiter with the words, and returns his attention to the Admiral.
"You know, I'm fairly certain you have a lot more leeway in this than you're letting on. Enough that I might even call the offer flexible. Why don't we start over without a demand as outrageous as publicly shooting myself in the head with an apology."
A public announcement would circulate quickly, especially given the state of the war, and the last thing he needs right now is Liberty knocking down the doors of the Forlorn Hopes last base. Either they would come to better terms, or he'd walk. This still felt like a trap, but maybe it could be a trap of his own choosing.
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