chevalier charles-henri sanson de longval (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
painalty) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
himagsikan2018-04-03 07:38 pm
painalty) wrote in himagsikan2018-04-03 07:38 pm
we were the kings and queens of promise [closed; for freshy]
[Vienna was breezy this time of year, but more than that, it was the stage for a minor singularity that caused the city to be overrun with monsters. Marie and d'Eon were needed to put down druids creating hordes of homunculi that invaded Vienna, so of course, where did that leave the men of Salon de Marie?
There was something more. More than just the runaway druids terrorizing the townspeople. Sanson and Mozart were placed on the case. Here they were, walking through the outskirts of a small village. It was deserted, after some Servants had spearheaded an evacuation effort. Gone were the bustle of the streets, the rowdy ballads issuing from the taverns, the screech and scrape of old fiddles in inexperienced hands. The market stalls were empty, and the only sounds to be heard was the whisper of the wind blowing past, and the footsteps of two mismatched Servants. Sanson would have preferred to undertake this mission alone, but Marie had wanted him and Mozart to watch each other's backs. If anything happened to either of them she would be inconsolable, and she finally persuaded them to go with each other.
Not really, Sanson would think to himself. Better for him to be hurt than her.
With his hands in his pockets, he plods onward, his expression unreadable except for the usual morose look in his eyes. He had a bad feeling about the place, but it didn't show in his expression. Nonetheless, he kept his guard up, and glanced over his shoulder at his traveling companion.]
Fate [HA HA HA DO YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE] must be cruel, bringing us together like this. [His frigid blue eyes flick skyward as though seeking some divine intervention that would separate him from this weirdo.] Have you noticed anything yet?
There was something more. More than just the runaway druids terrorizing the townspeople. Sanson and Mozart were placed on the case. Here they were, walking through the outskirts of a small village. It was deserted, after some Servants had spearheaded an evacuation effort. Gone were the bustle of the streets, the rowdy ballads issuing from the taverns, the screech and scrape of old fiddles in inexperienced hands. The market stalls were empty, and the only sounds to be heard was the whisper of the wind blowing past, and the footsteps of two mismatched Servants. Sanson would have preferred to undertake this mission alone, but Marie had wanted him and Mozart to watch each other's backs. If anything happened to either of them she would be inconsolable, and she finally persuaded them to go with each other.
Not really, Sanson would think to himself. Better for him to be hurt than her.
With his hands in his pockets, he plods onward, his expression unreadable except for the usual morose look in his eyes. He had a bad feeling about the place, but it didn't show in his expression. Nonetheless, he kept his guard up, and glanced over his shoulder at his traveling companion.]
Fate [HA HA HA DO YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE] must be cruel, bringing us together like this. [His frigid blue eyes flick skyward as though seeking some divine intervention that would separate him from this weirdo.] Have you noticed anything yet?
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This isn't the Vienna he knows and loves. As far as vacations go, this one is a bust. ]
I'll say. Having to spend so much time around you? At this rate, I'll grow mold.
[ In response to fate being cruel. His jabbing is halfhearted; banter for the sake of banter. ]
—I hear a jaunty crowd in the distance, but they're not close enough that we should be panicking. Yet. [ Green eyes narrow, then wrinkle into vaguely-amused slits. ] Ah, don't worry! When the enemies come, I'll make sure to let you handle them. I won't get in your way.
[ mozart???? ]
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Sanson's mouth is a thin, unimpressed line and he stops abruptly, his boots scraping some loose pebbles as he does so. He kicks one stone to the side. (Maybe he imagined that it had Mozart's face, because it skips a few times before skittering against an empty house.)]
Oh? I shouldn't be selfish. We should share the horde.
[Besides, Sanson would be useless against a surprise druid encounter. His expression softens to one of focus and attention, however.]
I hear them too, but it doesn't sound like an incoming attack.
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He can argue technicalities (and anything else, for that matter) with Sanson for ages, but he drops his inclination once he acknowledges that they're here for an actual mission. It's one thing to disappoint himself, which he always does, but another thing entirely to disappoint Marie or Ritsuka. ]
—Mm. It sounds like a group of scouts: subtle footsteps carried on a careful tempo.
[ Mozart waves an index in time to the sound. ]
They're not hostile yet, but they won't be happy to see us.
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Anyway, he doesn't need to be told what that sound is. Sanson gestures for Mozart to keep following him. They had a mission, and it wouldn't do for them to get caught or wind up in a battle they couldn't fight.]
Well, we have no intention of meeting them, do we? Let's keep moving so we can find out what else has been terrorizing Vienna...
...aside from a pervert of a composer, of course.
[SANSON STOP.]
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[ A dismissive wave, and Mozart starts making his way down the empty street, past a broken building and towards one of the town's bigger landmarks. Obviously, he's not thrilled at the prospect of running into anything he can't handle; if he can get away with being a tourist in familiar terrain (even if it's rendered alien due to their circumstances), he'll stick to that. ]
—Besides the stuffy, constipated court politics, that is! That's one thing I don't miss.
[ He has one index finger pointed skywards, conducting to a lullaby that he hums after he finishes speaking. It's a consolation for all the lost souls that may still be lingering, a way to calm frayed nerves. ]
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Stuffy, constipated court politics are the least of our problems right now.
[As if on cue, the ground under their feet rumbles. There seems to be...something, in the air. A bad feeling? A smell of something foreboding? Whatever it is, it's enough to make the hairs on the back of the executioner's neck stand on end.
Epée de Justice materializes in his hand. It's a good thing Sanson was ahead, otherwise he might have poked Mozart in the back with his sword, oops.]
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Speaking of death: here it is, in imminent form. From between the foundations of a broken-down building, a dragon rips forth, scattering bits of plaster and wood as it whips its head and tail from side to side in open aggression.
Ah.
Not great. ]
—Just our luck!
[ Here's the good news: Sanson has Class Advantage.
Here's the bad news: Mozart is his only support unit.
That said, Mozart doesn't waste any time; with a flourish and a flick of his conductor's baton, he plays 'A Little Night Music' to boost Sanson's morale. Even if for a moment, his fellow Servant should be able to hit hard. ]
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At the sight of the dragon rearing up, Sanson takes a step back, but not in fear; instead, he's switching to a combat ready stance. He has decapitated many a dragon before; although this one might pose more of a challenge since he's taking it on alone. Well, not really alone, but Mozart was vulnerable. The last thing he wanted to do (besides die, or fail the mission, of course) was wind up having to carry Mozart piggyback-style to meet up with the others.
Little does Sanson know that the tables may be turned today.
He wants to make a quip about Mozart being a bad luck charm, but already the music has begun to play, lifting Sanson's spirits (which is saying something considering his default demeanor). Sanson grips the hilt of his sword in both hands as though he were up for bat in a baseball game, except that he's looking to hit more than just a home run.
Yeah, Mozart can be good for some things, too. Good thing Sanson didn't run him through by accident. Despite their situation, he can't help but flash the most fleeting of smiles. Leave it to Mozart to begin playing their battle tunes.]
Merci. Now...get back!
[The dragon lifts itself from the ruins of the building, roaring its challenge before swooping down. As it approaches, Sanson swings his blade in a wide arc, slashing across the dragon's claws and cutting through scales effortlessly. But before he can make a second strike, claws meet metal with a loud, resounding clash, almost like a huge pair of cymbals being struck, and Sanson is driven back, his boots cleaving twin grooves in the ground. Despite this, he remains upright, breaks away, and leaps onto the ceiling of a shed that managed to escape the carnage.]
Amadeus, distract it!
[He doesn't wait for an answer. Sanson disappears completely from view using Presence Concealment, although Mozart will still be able to track the Assassin's presence anyway because Sanson's PC stat isn't that good.]
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But, ah. The curse of being Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is that he gets inspiration from anything and everything. He closes his eyes (sue him, he's an artist and not a fighter), and turns his attention to the sound of scraping dirt, the screams of falling buildings, the tremble of the ground and the crescendo of violence.
He falls back, just out of range of the dragon's whiplash tail, hands raised. Attentive. ]
Gentler, gentler...
[ Is his reedy mumble, under his breath. A score of headless musicians appear around the dragon in time to Mozart's humming, providing short-lived distractions before they get cleaved through, one by one, with sharp teeth and claws. ]
...A little help, executioner!
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He doesn't even have the time or the energy to spare to tell Mozart not to shut his eyes now; in any case, Sanson really needs Mozart's inspiration and musical ear right now.
Instead, he scores a direct hit on one of the dragon's wings, wounding it so that it can no longer fly away. The dragon howls in pain, taking out its rage and agony on what's left of Mozart's band. Sanson finally flickers back into sight a good distance away from it to yell:]
You're welcome! Can you do anything else?!
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[ Which is to say: "no, not really". A musical genius can hardly be expected to overachieve in the realm of brute force.
But, well. Even chronic underachievers have a principle or two that they don't want to break: for Mozart, his driving force in this undeserved second life is to at least expend a modicum of effort for the sake of a world that Marie tries so hard to protect.
So his arms lift; his wrists turn. Prana gathers at the end of his baton, where it congeals into a blue-violet haze that rains down on the dragon from where it's thrashing.
Momentarily stunned, the monster coughs bile from the back of its throat. Digs its claws into dirt-paved roads and tries to scream above the funeral dirge that's holding it down. ]
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Why couldn't he have been paired with the Chevalier instead? Or Marie. He'd take Marie even if it meant constantly being anxious for her well-being or her possibly seeing his Noble Phantasm - the materialization of the guillotine - in action.]
They say there's a first time for everything!
[Luckily, what Sanson lacked in strength he (sort of) made up for with agility that's a step up from his strength stat. Like an arrow loosed from a bow, he darts forward again before jumping onto one roof and using that as a springboard, aiming straight for the dragon's neck as his coat and hair ripple and rustle in the wind.
The good news is that Sanson manages to strike, causing a cut along the side of the dragon's throat.
The bad news is that before he can dig his blade deeper or make another strike, the dragon recovers just enough to swing its claws at him, and scores a direct hit. Sanson only had enough time to let out a piercing yell of pain.
As high as he soared, the executioner is slammed into the ground hard enough to crack the point of impact and cause a shower of debris, dropping his sword in the process. The fall would have killed a normal human instantly, but Sanson is alive - albeit dazed, with a bleeding nose and ripped clothes already sporting blood stains. It's a struggle for him to just sit up, his wounds already beginning to glow with the soft white light of regenerative magic.
Ow.]
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(See?, he thinks bleakly to himself. Good intentions only get me so far.)
Fatigue settling in like a vice, Mozart tries to move to a clearer area when he spots, out of the corner of his eye, a monochrome bullet whizzing past him and onto pavement. ]
Oh, he's dead.
[ He mumbles to himself, though not without a spike of urgency that cuts through whatever semblance of dry dispassion he was attempting. Scrambling to reorient himself, the musician kicks off from his safe distance away from the wounded beast (now whipped into a dying frenzy, bleeding rivers onto half-baked mud) and makes his way, on two left feet, to where Sanson is struggling.
He's no expert, but the executioner looks a right mess. ]
—Before you say anything: don't.
[ Brows half-furrowed, Mozart puts his hands up in the universal sign for "I don't know what the hell to do at a time like this." ]
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But unlike Mozart, Sanson's hearing isn't as sharp, and in any case, it's hard enough to hear anything over the dragon writhing and screeching in agony as it bleeds - just like its opponent, bracing himself onto his arms as he gradually recovers and looking up at Mozart. Although he eventually stops dripping blood onto the pavement he wrecked, there are still red traces on his face and on his coat.
Don't.
Sanson narrows his eyes and snarls as he finally gets back onto his feet, swaying. His expression almost seems to say in response, "Then why did you even approach me, you idiot musician?" Really, he could do the rest of this battle -
He catches a flash of movement from the corner of his vision. Either due to its death throes or because it was smart enough to find an opening, the dragon, with a keening roar, swings its spiked tail toward Mozart.]
Amadeus!
[The executioner doesn't even think to grab his sword from the ground. Instead, he throws himself against Mozart, shoving him roughly and bodily aside as the tail whips toward him instead, striking him into a fence, one of the tail barbs stabbing him viciously through his abdomen in the process. Sanson drops onto the ground again in a heap, his hand on his stomach. His fingers come away bright crimson and although he glows anew as his body strives to heal itself as quickly as possible, the glow is feebler than before.
Still, he speaks, coughing up blood in the process as his healing magic begins to flicker. It can only do so much at one time. He extends a hand. His blade is still lying where it fell, useless without a wielder.]
My sword - my Noble Phantasm - !
[It was his last card. If he could just unleash his Noble Phantasm he could finish the dragon...and maybe die knowing he finally did something more worthwhile with his second life.]
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He barely has time to think before gravity does cartwheels around him, depositing him onto a fresh patch of busted cobblestone and cracked stone. The impact of his fall pushes half-formed wind from his lungs, dizzying him in the process, but Mozart is lucid enough to hear the urgent syllables of his name followed by the ugly crunch of spike to bone.
Stupid, he thinks. What idiot would protect a musician in a combat situation? ]
—And let Maria mourn you for your sacrifice? I don't think so, Charles-Henri Sanson!
[ He yanks himself to his feet, ignoring the rust-red stain that Sanson's left on his jacket. Concern will come after the concert; he's playing for a tough crowd.
(a small part of his subconscious smiles and hums: his confirmation bias whispers that this is what happens to anyone who crosses Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's path. they die.)
A sharp inhale, and Mozart raises his arms. Just in case, though, he kicks Sanson's blade back to where he's fallen (sorry for the indelicate treatment, but he hasn't much time, you know.) ]
Now— quiet, please! The orchestra is about to play.
[ The subsequent performance is a bit rushed, but it's the best Mozart can do with what he's got. A frenzied Turkish March, one that digs at the dragon's wounds without much in the way of precision. ]
no subject
Maybe what he did just now was a sacrifice. Or maybe, it was his final karmic death. Sanson had died peacefully at a ripe old age in his first life; now, he would die in battle defending his rival as his punishment. That was what went through his mind during those seemingly slow moments when he pushed Mozart down to keep him away from the dragon's spiked tail, and was slammed into a wall with a large, sharp barb embedding itself into his gut when he wasn't even finished healing himself.
In any case, he would get what he deserved. No need for Marie or anyone, even their Master, to mourn him. At least his sacrifice would be another greater good for this world.
It's even harder to get up this time, and he watches Mozart stand up from where Sanson had shoved him down to save his life. When Mozart kicks the sword over (a good kick, as Sanson manages to reach for it with little but nonetheless excruciating effort) and closes bloody, mangled fingers around the hilt. Though he's grateful for the assistance, his gaze clearly says, "Really?" Sanson doesn't say anything about that, however.
The concert begins at a fast pace, causing the dragon to writhe in agony yet again and shriek - although the sound of Mozart's tune is the more dominant sound. During this time, Sanson finally raises himself into a standing position again, badly beaten and broken, his breathing labored and his hands trembling as they grip the hilt of the sword held close to him.]
I'm sorry, but your audience won't be around long enough for the finale.
[His voice is hoarse and raspy, but still audible. Sanson allows himself one second to grin - terrible, triumphant, knowing - before shouting out three words that seem to meld and blend with Mozart's ongoing march the way a loud bass drum's beats would.
Time to go out with a bang. Or a slice.]
La Mort Espoir!
[Shadow hands reach up from the ground as though an undead army was about to rise to Sanson's rescue, but all they do is grab the keening dragon and hold it down as though making absolutely certain it cannot escape its fate. A massive guillotine materializes over the dragon, its blade shining in the daylight and its wooden frame casting a frightful shadow over everyone and everything. Sanson gestures once with his sword, and the blade is loosed, falling straight upon the dragon's neck with a metallic sliding sound culminating in a final, decisive thunk.
At the same moment the blade finds its mark, Sanson collapses and doesn't get up.]