What's A King to a God? [Charlotte]

[Renoir]

The night was quiet, eerie, and especially dark. Perhaps it was the weight on Renoir's conscience; perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps it was the reality of things.

The alleyway was clear, and had been for hours. Renoir stood, arms crossed, leaning against the brick wall of an abandoned pub on the far side of town. He had been told to meet here when the moon was highest in the sky, and so it was-- he looked up, calculating in his head the angle that it had created against the ground, assuming this was as close as he would get to perfectly at the top of the sky. It seemed right.

Before long, a cloaked figure turned into the alleyway, approaching him slowly, but without fear. Renoir's unsmiling and unamused face followed the brutish looking figure as it drew nearer, its face totally hidden behind a dark hood. Once it reached him, it didn't speak, and it didn't lower its hood. It simply stood, an ominous presence to make the night a little more eerie. Renoir was unfazed.

Renoir turned his head away. He closed his eyes and sighed. "If you have news for me, let's have it. I'm a patient man, you see, but this is just too rewarding to make me wait much longer." A wicked smile wrote itself across his smooth face as he spoke as if he were talking to a lover.

Finally, the hooded figure spoke to him in a hushed, deep voice, like the vocal embodiment of blood dripping off the end of a curved dagger. "I trust you have been explained the situation. Your reward is 1,000, in gold, waiting for you at a dead drop. Once the deed is done, I will reveal to you the location. There is one more thing you need to know, however," the figure said finally, drawing a bit closer to the archer.

"I'm listening," Renoir said, turning his head back to the man, an eyebrow raised. He was slightly intrigued, and it could just barely be read from his face.

"There is a contact already in the mansion. She is acting as a double-agent-- you likely will not be able to distinguish her from anyone, as she has not been notified of your expected presence at the Count's manor. We have had her on the inside protecting the Count and his guard as a means of retrieving information for a while. You may end up dueling her, but if you tell her, while alone, that you're sent by Davik, she will understand. I trust you'll work things out."

"A pseudonym, I assume," Renoir said, unimpressed. He looked away from the man again, arms still folded. His sweet voice was plain; the silver along his tongue present, but lacking energy. "Fine."

"I trust you'll have no qualms. A target is target, money is money. This is for the good of the people, I assure you. We wouldn't bother hiring an Ilian assassin unless it was of great import to our nation as a unified force." He still hadn't revealed his face.

Renoir sighed, closing his eyes again. "Leaders rise and fall," he said plainly. "It's the way of things." Truly, the man had no interest in Lycian troubles. Whatever the issue was, he was being paid well, and he had taken the mission as a way of testing himself, as opposed to being morally for or against the Lycian division and trade blockages.

The man turned and walked away from him without another word, leaving as slowly as he had come. Renoir followed him through trained blue eyes as he crossed down the alley, eventually turning away from it.

--------

Renoir peered out from behind the leaves of the tree that hid him. He was high up, near the edge of the property, almost totally out of sight. His bow and a full quiver on his back, he was ready. He could see some lights still on in the manor.

"Wow," he breathed to himself, a smile on his face. "Even the Lycian Counts have more money than the commoners. Perhaps I am karma's agent." He studied the property.

One main gate. Tall, impossible to scale. Fence surrounding the area, metal, tipped, impossible to scale. Two guards out front. Two guards patrolling the perimeter. One hundred meters to the front door; seventy-five to the nearest conceivably unlockable window. These circumstances were plenty easy to work with. Renoir's grin faded as he prepared to move along the treetops and make his entrance.

[Charlotte]

“It’s a shame this arrangement is only temporary.”

“Oh? Is that so, My Lord?”

Charlotte smiled through a powdered face, stained lips, and made-up eyes. The blonde tried to remember the last time she’d even donned this much make-up; most in the Lycian courts had moved towards a more natural look, pinching their cheeks instead of using blusher and letting their hair down. But no, Count Tristanine was an old soul, his heart only swayed by the more traditional looks likely not worn since his mother had been alive and well.

But the young woman was a professional, and as such, for the past three weeks she’d woken early, strategically applied her face and pinned her hair, even adopting a more modest style of dress to appease to the Count’s sensibilities - mostly, his fond memories of his late mother. After all, when a directive came from Marquess Revelin’s court, one didn’t simply complete a job for a bit of coin. No, there was influence to be gained here if she succeeded, influence which would benefit her should she be able to come back to the courts once her ‘tour’ in Etruria was through - whenever that would be.

An old contact of hers had approached her a few weeks previous with a follow-up opportunity after the mess that had been the smuggling job Kelvin had roped her into. Tristanine had pull with Marquess Ashby that no other Count in the territory did; the man had tutored Ashby when he was a child, and they were practically inseparable when they had the time to meet, or happened to be at the same ball. Rumor has it that Tristanine was the one who had convinced the malleable Ashby to close off the northeastern border to Laus from all mercantile through traffic, including stricter punishment for those caught smuggling into the borders. Since it was he and Ashby’s guards who protected the borders, the decision seemed fair at the time, especially with Revelin increasing his own troop presence and being excessively vocal in his wish to be considered Margrave. While he hadn’t spoken the words directly, everyone knew why he was rallying so intensely against Ashby’s calls for him to back down.

So now, Charlotte sat across from Count Tristanine in his study, her lips curled in a polite smile as confided in her. He was under the impression that his staff had suggested her as an additional guard because of his now controversial relationship with the Marquess. In reality, though, the Count’s staff and people suffered greatly under the new trade restrictions and wanted nothing more than to have him ousted. And while Charlotte had permission to strike if no other option presented itself, the consultant knew Tristanine would be far more useful to them alive than dead, and for weeks she’d been slowly building the man’s trust in her.

The Count’s wrinkled features returned a small grin before looking out the window overlooking the orchard out back. Night had fallen some time ago, but the man did not retire early like some at his age. “You know quite well I’ve appointed some of my advisors as long as twenty years ago, a few before you ever graced this earth. But even then, they seem not to grasp how important tradition is, not as you do. You have an old, beautiful soul, Victoria.” Oh how foreign that name sounded as he addressed her. But Charlotte had chosen a different moniker than usual, partially to protect her true identity further, and also because why not?

The young woman looked downward, her smile becoming falsely meek. “You flatter me, my Lord. I admit I too will miss this when our time draws to a close.”

“Do you know when that will be? Have you heard from your family?” The count sounded genuinely concerned, which was advantageous for the blonde. She’d planted this story in his head weeks ago, but it was finally coming to fruition.

“Likely soon, my lord,” she said, her voice mimicking a sorrowful tone. "With the recent trade restrictions, Father can’t do business with his partner in Laus. Not that I doubt the Marquess’s decision, of course, it has just made life for my family difficult. My father needs my help to distribute his good more at home.”

The Count shook his head, looking to the blonde. “You don’t belong as a simple errand girl. Let me send one of my men to serve for you. Maybe then you can remain on my personal retainer for a while longer.”

Charlotte’s smile sad, she shook her head. “If something happened to Father’s business when I could have done something to help, I could never live with myself. I must serve my family, you understand, no?”

The Count sighed, his gaze pensive as it diverted back to the orchards. Charlotte could only assume he was considering what he might be able to do to keep her here, which was what she’d been waiting weeks to see. She was getting close; she needed to find a way to send a message back to her contact.

Meanwhile, outside, the guard began their rotation change.

[Renoir]

Renoir's hand swung around the top of a thick branch as he quietly tossed himself from his position to a new one, in a further tree with greater protection. From here, he could see into the window he had picked out earlier. It was to the side of a beautiful orchard, and likely had the branch closest to the fence-- with any luck, Renoir could jump from the outstanding branch into the property. He figured it would be easy enough to scale the side of the building up to that window-- it looked empty, though the lights from a few candles told him that it was a room not forgotten about, which meant it might see some traffic. He would have to be careful.

Like a hawk, Renoir watched, biding his time, picking his moments as favorably as he knew how. The guard seemed to be shifting; perhaps they were charging shifts, else they would be patrolling, which might be worse for him than a shift change. He watched as the ones at the gate became replaced by two new men, armed with tower shields and lances, clad in full armor. Renoir clinched his teeth, wondering what sort of Count needed such a heavy duty guard. Those two men would be too much for him, stealth or no. He was happy to have not picked the front entrance.

Fortunately, the guards split off individually, circling the property on opposite sides. This meant that he had the perfect opportunity to off one of them quietly and expertly, but if he did, it meant the other guard would be suspicious when he wasn't met around the backside of the property. So that was a risk too dangerous to take, by Renoir's estimation. If he had sights on them both, it would be easy enough, but perhaps that would also be too much trouble. If he got down from his tree, he risked being seen by the other guards, as well as having to deal with two men using hand-to-hand combat. Easy enough, with his experience, but if the two heavy guards saw him... Disarming them would be next to impossible, and he would surely be killed. The young man never wore armor-- one lance to the chest would be his end. And even his best arrows and his best shots had trouble penetrating armor like that, to say nothing of getting a visual past the tower shields. He liked the challenge, to be sure, but with his life on the line, he wasn't willing to try anything terribly reckless.

He finally made up his mind. He would wait until the guard on his eastern side, the one closest to him, was around the corner, and then he would leap from the tree into the property, scale the side of the building, and come in through the window, being careful to shut it behind him.

Once his time finally came, he stepped quietly out onto the branch from which he would jump. His movements were catlike, silent, and full of years of training in the art of stealth and of hunting. They wouldn't be steps heard by anything or anyone in the surrounding area. He leaped with expert agility from his branch, rustling it only just a bit, and landed with quiet precision on the ground, one knee to the soft grass, his fingers outstretched to silence his fall. He looked on every side of him with his deep blue eyes, yet saw no reason to be on alert. The gate guards hadn't heard a thing, and the man on his far side had turned the corner; he was out of sight, as was the man on the other side of the property.

Quickly and quietly, Renoir approach the side of the building and began to hoist himself up, using the windows and the corner bricks of the building to climb with great speed up the side of the building. He grabbed the ledge at the rim of the small balcony that overlooked the property, the orchard, the balcony that gave way to his window. It was decorative only; without skills like his, it wouldn't normally be used for anything. He pulled himself up over the small railing and approached the window in a low crouch. He placed his hands softly around its edges, looking to see if it might already be unlocked. It wasn't. It was locked tightly.

He sighed, as if a small child had just dropped his food on the ground, as if this was of little import. He pulled a small metal pick from the pocket of his tunic and slid it between the window panes, into where the locking mechanism would be placed. He stuck his finely tuned ear against the glass and listened for the click-- once he heard it, he backed off, slowly pulling the window apart. He blessed the gods that it didn't creak, and he hopped inside, hurling himself quietly over the pane and into the carpeted room. An older library, perhaps. A small one, certainly-- maybe this was a room of personal collections for the count. There was a candle by the door and a candle on the table, keeping the room lit in a dim orange.

Before he could assess any further, he heard steps in the carpeted hallway. Quickly, Renoir took his bow and quiver off of his back and set them in the far corner, so that they couldn't be seen from the doorway. He hurried himself to the side of the door, leaning hard against the wall, out of sight, in the opposite direction of the footsteps. As they passed him, and he heard them pass beyond the doorway, he turned his head out to see a man walking down. Sword as his waist, lightly armored legging, wearing no helmet, bearing the crest of the Santaruz guard on his tunic. Easy enough.

Renoir tiptoed out, on the balls of his feet, still in a low crouch. He came behind the man, and with little effort wrapped his forearm around the man's throat, using his other hand to cover his mouth. With a little more needed effort, he dragged the man back towards the small library, and once he had passed out, placed him behind one of the small bookshelves. He grabbed an arrow from his quiver, and without wincing shoved it deeply into the man's heart. No audible noise came, save for the quiet ripping of flesh. Pulling the arrow out might've caused more noise, and he knew that, so he left it there.

Once he checked to make sure the rest of the hallway looked clear, he set out, crouched low, moving with diligent slowness. He needed to listen for voices.

[Charlotte]

A yawn wracked Charlotte’s body, though she was careful to conceal it, covering her mouth with her hand while turning her gaze downward. One, the count would find it rude otherwise, and two, she didn’t need the man sending her away because she appeared tired. He tried so hard to be a gentleman, treating her as if she were a delicate flower that would wilt if she was made to be uncomfortable, when in reality she was here to ensure his safety - well, at least that was why he believed her to be here. Her companionship was a bonus Charlotte had decided to provide, though it was one that proved useful.

As the yawn passed, the blonde raised her gaze again, lowering her hand to gently rest on her lap. Count Tristanine still held his gaze on the orchard, his mind clearly wracked with thought as he tried to determine what, if anything, he could do to keep her with him in the Manor. Charlotte’s hope was that the problem would even just plant the seed that maybe, just maybe the trade embargo could affect him too. The count had no worries of food, shelter, or caring for his family - but what could be threatened was his companionship.

The pair stayed silent for a few moments more, before the count rose to his feet, walking over to the small chaise Charlotte sat on and sitting down beside her. His hand moved to cover hers, his skin clammy and grooved from age. He was old, though not ancient, but still older than her usual clients or targets. Gently flipping her hand over underneath his, Charlotte closed her fingers around his before meeting his gaze. The way his eyes bored into her, he clearly was conflicted, though not enough to keep him silent.

“We’ll find a way, Victoria. Your father’s business won’t suffer.”

Charlotte feigned her most sincere smile. “I appreciate your kind words, my lord, but you mustn't feel obliged at all. My family will persevere, it is in our natu-”

Suddenly, Charlotte felt the Count’s lips on hers, eliciting a gasp from her before she quieted, allowing the man to kiss her. He tasted of tobacco and brandy, his lips were dry and cracked, but she did not pull away. The man was lonely, his wife having passed just two years prior, and the more comfortable and close he felt to her, the more advantageous Charlotte’s position would be when it came to influencing him. But knowing his sensibilities, Charlotte did not push into the kiss, simply allowing it to pass over her lips until he pulled away a moment later, turning from her with a sigh.

“The night is aging, and I’m sure you’re worn. Do you wish me to walk you to your quarters?”

Shaking her head, it was Charlotte now who looked out over the orchard. “Not quite yet, my lord. I’d like to appreciate the evening for just a few moments longer, if you’ll allow.”

“As you wish,” the count obliged, growing silent, his hand still clasped around Charlotte’s.

[Renoir]

Renoir stalked the halls, moving with careful diligence, his steps quite literally silent, pacing forward just quickly enough to count, but not so quickly that his steps could be heard anywhere in the manor. He was certain that at a point, he would find guards that would be patrolling the manor itself. He had already found and dealt with one, leaving him in the same room in which he left his bow. He would be fine without it. He most assuredly didn't need it. Not here. It would simply weigh him down.

Soon, he was able to confirm his own suspicions. He passed across the hall that hung over a grand entryway, with railing that lead him to a large, carpeted staircase that lead down into the main foyer, at which stood two guards of the same wear as the one he had dealt with. Leg plating, crested tunics, swords at the waist. These were less heavy, Renoir assumed, because of their probable lack of necessity. Also, no Count kept heavy guard in his own home. This, though... This was suspicious. It wasn't quite military fortress, but it was close. Did this man expect an assassin to come in time? Was he expected trouble? If he were, Renoir knew it could spell trouble for him... And potentially for his accomplice, whom he had yet to meet. He wondered where he or she was, why he hadn't heard anything from this contact. As he studied the two guards from the distance, he made his move quietly across the top stair, being careful not to alert them-- yet-- passed beyond, back behind a wall that lead south, a hallway that looked like a dead end. And yet... He saw a door cracked open just barely, letting the light from inside spill out into the hall. It looked to be the only one occupied in this hall, and there were no guards in sight. Deciding to test his luck, the man quietly stalked, approaching the door while keeping himself pinned to the wall carefully, listening best he could.

When he was within earshot, he froze, and his ears perked up.

"...Victoria. Your father's business won't suffer."

He narrowed his eyes, approaching a bit slower than before, though with no real need-- the man was silent. Years of being in the forest, years of being in the military, years of hunting prey much like this one-- these experiences had made him a near expert in the art that was stealthy approach.

When he heard the woman speak, he could not help but grin wolfishly to himself. How risqué, Renoir thought. The count has a mistress. How cute. So now there were two bodies to deal with... Easy enough. Renoir reached behind him carefully, pulling a mine from the small pack at the back of his waist. He pulled a long string out of the top of the bag as he came near the door. He stopped right at its edge. He could hear perfectly, but he knew better than to peer inside.

When he had pulled enough string, Renoir tossed the bag that was the mine to the other side of the door, and it landed quietly on the other side of the frame. He pinned the string to the ground near his side of the frame. A tripwire. When the count walked out, the mine would explode-- the noise would be loud, and would certainly alert the guards, but he had no fear of them. Or of anything. He couldn't be in a better position. Renoir grinned again, more wickedly than before. His blue eyes grew wild, almost bloodthirsty. It was rare he felt so passionate about hunting a target... And he rarely hunted humans.

"As you wish."

Perfect. He would remain there long enough for Renoir to get a better position. He kept himself crouched low, stalking quietly back to the corner of the hall, putting himself around its edge, so he was out of sight of the stair guards, and also effectively out of sight from the door that he now patiently watched. His eyes stayed trained on it-- not blinking, totally unwavering. They were fierce, the eyes of a hunter, and in this case, of a killer.

The man reached back into the small sack at the back of his waist and pulled another fist sized bag. This one shone a little more brightly, and was less heavy. His last smoke bomb. Once the trip wire went off and the explosion sounded, he would throw it to the door, dizzy the count and his mistress, kill both of them, and escape out the window. From the looks of things, he could escape into the orchard, if his estimation of direction was anything close to accurate. He knew it was.

For now, the man waited, losing patience, though not in form. He stayed low, his hand clasped around his tool, eyes trained on the door. Soon, one would retire to bed. Then he could strike.

[Charlotte]

As Charlotte and the count sat in his study, trouble was stirring in the east wing of the manor. Head Guard Winters was supposed to have heard back from his east wing guard by third patrol, but the foolish new man seemed to have forgotten his place again. Muttering under his breath, Winters walked with haste to the east wing hall the green guard had been patrolling, finding it unsurprisingly empty. His hand gripped the hilt of his blade out of habit; this was the last time the damn boy would fall asleep in the library, that was for sure!

Storming into the candle-lit room, Winters was surprised not to find the guard right away, as he usually slept within sight of the door. “You’d best wake, dammit; do you think the count pays you to sleep on his time?” Unable to recall the boy’s name, Winter’s threats were general but loud, directed towards the sleeping boy just as he spotted his from below a table.

Shaking his head, Winters knelt down, grabbing the fool’s shoulder and flipping him to face him. But before Winters could say anything else, he immediately saw the arrow in his heart and the blood-stained carpet below him. Instantly Winters knew: someone had broken into the Manor with ill intent, no doubt directed towards the count. Standing quickly, Winters quickly exited the library, breaking into a jog in the direction of the count’s study. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too late.

---

Unsure of how much time had passed, Charlotte grew tired of looking over the dark orchard, though more so of the count’s cold hand clasped in hers. She did not complain when she was on a job, but her tolerance for his presence had worn thin incredibly fast after he’d kissed her. She needed time alone to recharge, regain her focus that had slipped away much too quickly for her liking. This had never bothered her before; why now?

Gently pulling her hands from beneath the count’s, the blonde rose to her feet, smiling down at the count as his gaze followed her. “We can speak more in the morning at breakfast,” Charlotte said with a falsely meek smile, taking a few steps towards the door. “For now, I’ll retire.”

The count slowly rose as well, a smile upon his aged lips as he nodded. “Sleep we-”

“My Lo-!” BOOM! A bright flash filled the room, and a great force instantly exploded in front of them, the sheer sound shattering the wall of windows behind them. Charlotte flew backwards, her body only stopping when it crashed into a tall cabinet. She gasped for air, trying to speak through the high-pitched ringing in her ears and iron taste of blood on her tongue.

When no words came, she tried her best to blink the spots from her eyes, desperately seeking out the count amidst the settling rubble and papers of his study, some of which had begun to smolder. Ignoring the glass all around her, Charlotte painfully rose to her feet, one hand grasping for the ties of the corset that now choked her as she used the other to pull herself up. She felt glass cutting into her hand, but she didn’t have time to care. Finally her searching hand found the strings of her corset, immediately pulling out the tie that held it tight, feeling its grip loosen on her ribs and allowing her to gulp in air.

The door had been completely blown off, leaving scorched walls and a charred looking guard at the front; Charlotte could only assume it was the head guard, Winters, because of the slight difference in the light armor on his chest - well, what was left of it after all. Her eyes scanned the room, past the sitting area and his desk until they landed on the man’s broken-looking body lying against a short, collapsed bookcase.

Unsure of who might be coming, Charlotte grabbed a small round pouch from a hidden pocket in her skirts, throwing it towards the blown-out entrance. As soon as the bag hit the ground, it burst into a thick white smoke, giving Charlotte a bit of cover to work with as she defiantly limped towards the count. While she had been closer to the door and had taken a decent amount of the impact, the man’s old bones wouldn’t have taken the explosion well.

Bending over the county, Charlotte pulled one of his arms over her shoulder, ignoring a low moan coming from him as she struggled to get him to his feet. “Come now, my lord, we must move with haste.” There was a servant's’ door hidden just behind and to the left of the desk; if Charlotte could get them through and lock the door behind them, she could hide the count in the hollow walls of the manor and allow the guards enough time to respond to the explosion. She had no idea if his attempted assassin was still in the manor, but they couldn’t afford to take chances.

[Renoir]

"Mm," Renoir grinned an evil smile, almost uncharacteristic of him. He was, by no means, a man of evil nature-- after all, it was his good nature that had kept him afloat for so long, his compassionate actions that sustained him, and yet... These inklings, these feelings of bitterness and excitement over the thrill of the hunt, these feelings were overcoming him, especially as he waited patiently to see how the Count would react to his trap. It was almost as if a suppressed side of Renoir was making itself known...

Suddenly, the man's ears perked up and his eyes immediately widened. As he heard the footsteps of someone in a near sprint coming from behind, he leaped aside, shrouding himself in a small access hallway across the way, which wouldn't be much of a hiding spot, but since the man coming was in a dead run, he assumed he wouldn't be noticed. Taking his chances as such normally served the man well, and in this particular case, he wasn't off the mark. This new guard, as Renoir saw, ran right past him without seeing anything. At first he was simply amused, but then--

"No!" He watched as the guard tripped the wire, causing the explosion. Renoir gritted his teeth and braced himself, looking away as the light from the explosion filled the hall. This wasn't good. The guard set it off-- there was a chance it wouldn't have killed his target, or his target's mistress. As he watched, Renoir was prepared to give chase, but then the unexpected happened-- a trap, much like the one he held in his hand, was set off. A cloud of white smoke? Renoir became immediately confused, and had little time to think as the two remaining guards charged up the stairs. Without hesitating, Renoir threw his own smoke trap down the stairs, and listened to it quietly explode as it made contact with the two guards, effectively dizzying them and causing them to fall back down the stairs in fits of coughing. He didn't have much time.

He leaped up, sprinting towards the door. He was familiar enough with the chemicals from the smoke bomb to know his senses would be dulled, but he placed his mouth in the crook of his elbow to prevent breathing in any fumes, making the effect slightly less effective. Still, his eyes grew watery, his vision blurry, and his movements more erratic, less precise, as they had been thus far. The soft leather heels of his tall boots clicked quietly against the carpet as he stepped in, seemingly unaffected by the trap. He knew well how to hide his pain in the face of danger. Appearances were everything.

When he could see well enough, he saw the Count, and the woman he assumed to be his mistress. He stood in front of them, fearlessly, one hand on his hip, leaning himself on the weight of one leg. He smiled wickedly at the duo, who were clearly injured. The woman looked to be in more suitable shape-- perhaps she had thrown the smoke bomb. But the Count... he looked to be near death. This was good. But he didn't have much time to be coy.

In a sweet, soft voice, the man mused about, as if his job were a game. "You know, my friend, someone has offered to pay me a great deal for your head. In a station such as yours, I expect you'll fight it-- but death's agent doesn't operate on your clock. I hate to say it, but Fate is out for you, dear old man."

[Charlotte]

While the blonde struggled to lift the count to his feet, the old man seemed to be regaining some semblance of mind as after a few seconds he assisted Charlotte in uprighting. Any hope that he was in a reasonable state of mind went out through the shattered windows, though, as he began to mumble. “My grandmother’s name was Victoria.... long brown hair…. hanging sheets with the servants in summertime…”

Rolling her eyes, Charlotte urged the count past his desk, practically dragging him the last few feet to the door before she heard the muffled bootfall amidst the crackling embers of the still smoldering rubble. Just a foot from the servant’s door, Charlotte whipped her head around just in time to see the silver-haired emerge from the smoke. He had been wise enough to cover his mouth to keep from breathing in the smoke, but his eyes were still red and watering from the alchemical powders swirling through the air.

Still holding up the count, the blonde froze in her place with narrowed eyes as the man’s saccharine words tried to claim victory over the old count before he’d indeed won. She was getting so close to turning the tides with the man, ensuring that a murder wouldn’t be necessary to disrupt the embargo. It seemed, though, that someone else had other plans. Her own employers had told her if she took too long they would send someone to deal with the count, but they’d have had to warn her first.

“You’ve taken a fool’s errand,” Charlotte hissed. They were mere inches in front of the servants door, and with her left arm wrapped around the count’s lower back, its movements past her shoulder were masked to the assassin. She couldn’t see any weapons on the assassin’s immediate person; the mine must have been his plan A. While she ran the risk of being rushed and overpowered, Charlotte quickly devised a plan, hoping he was still concocting his own. He likely wasn’t as fast as her, which she’d have to exploit.

“Pity you've wasted your time!” In the blink of an eye, Charlotte’s left arm reached back to the servant’s door, pushing it open as her right hand pushed the count’s chest, causing him to stumble back into the dark hall. “Help!” She screamed down the hall, and as soon as he was clear of the door Charlotte pulled it closed behind her with her left hand, her right having pulled her iron dagger from the folds of her dress, now holding it out towards the man who had moved closer now. Hopefully someone would be in the servants’ halls and would help the count move, if he didn’t on his own. They didn’t have any other way out, after all.

“Stay there, before I have to waste your life too.” Grimacing, Charlotte hoped she wouldn’t have to kill the man. What a waste it would be if she did, but with the dagger hovering, even with his heart, she wouldn’t hesitate if he charged her. Charlotte wasn’t interested in allowing this assassin killing the count, but she certainly wouldn’t die for the old man.

[Renoir]

Renoir laughed, this uncharacteristic evil becoming nurtured in his deep blue eyes. He was settling into the mist now, the effects of the smoke beginning to wear off slightly enough for his eyes to dry. His vision was a bit blurry, but it didn't matter. He could see plenty. He could see the dagger pointed at him, and he could see that the count was effectively out of sight. Did that mean he'd have to kill this woman, then move into the access hall to finish off the count? He hadn't planned for this, but his face remained stoic, unchanging, totally unaffected by his circumstances.

"Hmm," he said, drawing closer to the woman slowly, fearlessly. "And who might you be? The immoral count's shameless hussy? What a pity it will be to destroy a woman so beautiful. My time is never wasted, love. Nor my life. Strike me down, and more will come. But what have you to gain from this? There are plenty of old, disgustingly rich men with evil hearts rooted in greed for you to bed with. This one makes no difference!"

He dashed at her with his greatest speed, kicking off the ground from the balls of his feet, reaching outwards with open palms. When he didn't have his bow, he knew he could rely on the prowess he possessed in hand to hand combat. All she had was a little butter knife-- the easiest to disarm. He reached out quickly with his left hand, grabbing her right wrist, and with his middle finger he squeezed the pressure point where her hand met her wrist. With his other hand, he grabbed her left wrist, attempting to push her back. He didn't twist-- he wasn't trying to disarm the woman yet. He wanted answers. She likely was close to him-- maybe she could be swayed, lest he have to dispose of her.

Renoir leaned in, putting his face past hers, so his mouth was right at her ear, while he held her, in a deadlock, with no conceivable victor. He cooed softly. "Cut your losses and run, my dear. This man's time is up. I have no interest in killing you, but my interest lies behind that door."

Just then, the two guards from the stairs burst into the room and drew their swords. They looked straight at Renoir.

"STOP IT RIGHT THERE! Let go of the woman, and come with us, or your head will roll across this floor!"

[Charlotte]

Taking a half-step back as the man drew closer, Charlotte could have laughed as the man assumed her role in the situation. She’d heard far worse from men like him, used to them trying to use words to break her down, make her cave and grovel as if she were a weaker woman. Instead, though, an amused smirk twisted her lips, shaking her head as he spouted his empty words of hate. No, this couldn’t be an assassin hired by her employers, not with how uninformed he came across.

As soon as he dashed at her, Charlotte tried to dodge to the side, instead finding her usual haste escaped her as her legs still shook from the explosion. He easily grabbed her right wrist, pushing her back into the wall behind her with a thud. While she kept a grip on her dagger, the man’s thumb digging into her wrist was beginning to weaken her hold. She felt the door shake as she impacted it, but it did not cave, the lock mechanism thankfully holding it shut. Charlotte’s breath momentarily escaping her, her free hand lashed out, trying to grab for a fistful of the assassin’s hair to try and distract him, weaken his grip on her. But again he grasped her wrist, pinning her left hand to the wall above her.

Defiant eyes glared at the man as he leaned his face close to hers, his cheek brushing her skin briefly, causing Charlotte to try and withdraw as his hot breath caressed her unwilling ear. Still struggling beneath him, she turned so her lips were just beside his ear, her tone chiding and cruel as she spat back at him. “You truly are a fool, aren’t you? Too blinded by your bloodlust bias to understand what a mistake you’re making.” Charlotte was briefly reminded of another assassin she had recently crossed paths with again, just as shortsighted as the man she was tangling with now.

As the two guards burst into the room, the blonde sighed, annoyed they’d come to save the day when they weren’t needed. Looking over the snow-haired man’s shoulder for only a moment, Charlotte suddenly brought her knee up as quick and hard as she could, aiming for the man’s groin. Even if she’d missed, simultaneously she called to the guards behind them. “The count’s in the walls, find him!” With that, the lumbering guards clattered from the room, leaving them alone again as they sought out the count. Charlotte pushed back against the man’s weight, trying to break his grip with another strike of her knee to his torso.

Finally, she was able to slip at least her unarmed hand from his grip, and as a result it almost magnetically shot grabbed for the man’s mane again, lacing her fingers as close to his scalp as possible before gripping and pulling as hard as she could; she didn’t try to rip the hair out, but the force would be enough to make him stumble, and she had no intention of letting go. “Who sent you, hmm?” She questioned commandingly, tired of these games. Sure, she likely was not the stronger of the two, but she had been hired to 'protect' the count for a reason.

[Renoir]

The guards just left? Renoir thought to himself. She must be capable. They must trust her... Renoir wondered who he was dealing with. As she hissed at him, it made the man smile. He was in some sort of madness, driven only by his desire to complete his hunt. He had yet to lose a prey, in all of his years. He had never lost a prey. He wouldn't lose one tonight...

Just then, his eyes widened. He gasped in pain, feeling the woman's knee come right between his legs, a perfect angle, a perfect kick that dropped the man, causing him to let his grip hang loose around her wrists. He fell down to his knees, and as she slipped her hand away from him, he realized what a mistake he'd made. In his carelessness, he had left himself open for a cheap shot-- one he didn't anticipate, but likely should have. This made him laugh a bit-- normally he would be mad, but under the circumstances, the sniper found it humorous. He coughed, struggling to regain his breath. He gripped his stomach with one hand, feeling the pain surge into him.

"Ngh..." He looked up at her, meeting her cold blue eyes with his own, a battle raging through a stare. His was evil, and hers was vicious and desperate. As she grabbed his hair and pulled back, Renoir released his tension, allowing her the upper hand as she interrogated him. His eyes were fierce, like a prey that knew it could fight back before being done away with, hopefully causing damage to the hunter. Was she the hunter? She wasn't an ordinary courtesan, he knew that much.

At first, he refused to answer, showing only his gritted, white teeth. He thought about her words...

"You're too blinded by your bloodlust bias to understand what a mistake you're making."

As she gripped him, and as they stared at one another, he analyzed her words carefully. If she were a courtesan, she wouldn't claim that he was making a mistake. Any prostitute wouldn't fight understanding-- any normal prostitute wouldn't say he's blinded. It implied that he was missing something. It implied that there was some sublayer of information right in front of him, something that he was missing... Calling it a mistake meant that he wasn't just acting out of turn, or doing something wrong... He had misplaced his judgments entirely. His analytical mind usually saved his skin, but this redefined its ability entirely.

He grinned wickedly. "It's you." He let himself limp, his hands falling to his sides as the woman grabbed his hair, looking as though she might snap his neck at a moment's notice. Aside from his evil, pursed, delicate lips, his face became complacent, stoic. "That's why you sent the guards away. That's why you spoke the way you did. If they had heard you, they'd know. It's you. Well, I must say I'm impressed with how close you got."

His eyes changed shape, becoming lurid, excited.

[Charlotte]

”It’s you.” Her fingers still laced into the assassin’s hair, forcing his gaze up to meet hers, Charlotte found herself taking pause as his limbs slacked. His menacing gaze became resigned, as if he’d already accepted whatever new assumption he’d reached about her as law. He was grasping at nothing, of course, to believe he knew who she was - she’d never seen the man in her life, so the only way the man would know who she was would have been through some loose-lipped colleague.

Adjusting her grip on the dagger in her right hand, Charlotte felt her own read on the situation shifting in an instant as he went on, though nothing meant much until he said two simple words: ‘they’d know.’ Her brow furrowed, the woman perplexed at what the man was implying. This man was an unknown, completely unbeknownst to her at the very least, but here he knelt in front of her, believing he had enough insight to know she was deceiving the guards - something a simple courtesan didn’t really have to do. Infidelity wasn’t frowned upon unless it was publicised in the courts.

Suddenly, though, it dawned on her. He was the assassin her employer had threatened to send if she took too long, wasn’t he? It made sense, after all; they’d told her three weeks, and they’d just finished the third yesterday. Her face twisting to a scowl, Charlotte released the man’s hair, still firmly gripping the dagger and standing in front of the access door. Even if he was here by way of her employers, it didn’t mean she had to let him complete his job and let her own suffer; she had too much to gain with them from a success here to allow that.

“That didn’t answer my question,” Charlotte finally replied, her words laced with annoyance as she outwardly ignored the man's likely correct presumptions, “but frankly, I’m not sure I need to know your answer. Whoever employed you did so errantly, because the situation you’re here to rectify is already being handled. You’d do well to leave the manor quickly, before someone less gracious than I finds the man who blew a hole in the count’s study.”

Stepping back, the blond rested her back on the access door behind her, watching the man carefully with the dagger held at ready near her hip. Ribs still aching from the explosion, Charlotte wondered if the count had made it away, but she did did well to not relay her concern nor her discomfort in her features; instead, her eyes swirled with vigorous distrust and indignation. Her employers needed to find credence in her talents and not in some explosive-happy assassin.

[Renoir]

As the tension around his hair grew more loose, Renoir's wicked grin came back, his wild eyes still trained on this woman. He was right-- she was his contact, and he was a bit angry with himself for not recognizing it sooner. Even his sharp wit and intellect hadn't been able to see through her ruse-- she was good. He liked that. He needed to work with skill, and skill she had. He stood back up, leaning against the desk as the woman slumped back, dagger pointed outwards to him. He crossed his legs and his arms, casually watching her as she spoke. She had things under control, did she? Renoir begged to differ, though with only a raised eyebrow at her, he made no immediate notion to dispel her false assumptions. She was silly, and maybe he was too-- frankly the situation itself was silly.

"Handled, mm? Is that what you call this? Being kissed by the oldest, most repulsive lips in the province? What, were you simply waiting around to be toyed with some more before he threw you out? Is that it?" He was angry, but his coy, sweet voice didn't indicate it. He knew what he was doing... But for some reason, he expected that she did as well. He toyed with her. She was obviously an expert at her craft. His eyes narrowed as he studied this woman. He didn't need her name, or her profession... But he did need her out of the way.

Finally looking away, Renoir shoveled his hand around in his hair, sighing loudly. "You know, my dear, it's a shame that in such a high security manor they only have one entrance and exit." A grin began to show itself, but he stopped it. "The front door. Any other design would've put the count in danger. Alas... Windows. Every man's folly, it seems," he said, detached from the situation at hand.

"If they want to carry him out of here, they'll have to make it through that door. And I'll say, much as I would love to play cat and mouse with you, the second I hear them... he's a dead man." It wasn't a thread. It wasn't a promise. It wasn't Renoir showing off, trying to display dominance with his skill. It was a fact. He would kill the count, reset the cycle, collect his payment, and accept his role as death's scythe. Leaders did rise and fall, after all. They weren't just sweet words.

He turned back to the woman, clicking his boot heels against the ground. "I estimate those two are the only ones left. Now, a choice. Let's assume a moment that they are the only two in the house. That leaves four guards on the outside, two at the gate-- the most heavily armed. I'm positive you know these things," his voice was soft, smooth, and analytical.

"You want to play your little game with him. That's fine-- I'll not play along. But you have a choice. You can help me eliminate this man and escape, or you can ruse about, pretending to be cozy until something else happens. Another death, another embargo. More lives endangered. More people dying, more jobs lost, less access to the foodstuffs and healthcare that keep Lycia united... Now I have no interest in these things; the political arena isn't quite my style. But this game is. This hunt is, most assuredly. So what will you do?"

[Charlotte]

Charlotte rolled her eyes as the man yet again took shots at her methods. She hardly expected a man to understand; men weren’t afforded the same opportunity as a woman was when it came to manipulation and subterfuge. Of course men could succeed, but they would always be disadvantaged, not able to use the natural distraction that was a woman’s body to sway their targets to their every whim. Many men she’d worked with found exploiting those emotions cheap, too easy, but Charlotte found them to be fools. Why willingly limit yourself, your talents, your natural skills?

And Charlotte was no fool. When men resorted to insulting her craft, she knew all too well they were trying to remove her from their path, whatever it might be. For this silver-haired assassin, it was her between him and the count. And while Charlotte held no allegiances to the man, she did not simply abandon her objectives because someone had tried to make her shake in her boots. She wouldn’t be called upon as often as she was if she could be swayed so easily.

His threats and observations were empty; as he tried to pull her down, pull her away from the door, all she could do was grin, shaking her head. He was confident, but she was even more so - at least in her experience, of course. She knew how many guards were still in the home, and she knew the ways out of the manor - more than the one he had presumed, of course. More important, though, was his reasons why she should move aside. She knew it! Her employers had grown tired of waiting, the damn imbeciles. Lasting change would not, could not come from this, especially with the count’s son involved.

“Your bravado is impressive to be sure, but you’re one man - you realize this, no? You will not hold the entirety of this house hostage, no matter how much you hope to do so.” She paused very briefly, pushing her back into the false wall behind her as she flicked away a stray chunk of hair that had fallen into her face. Her next words were risky and guilt-admitting, but she wanted the man to understand why he was in the wrong, and why the count needed to remain alive. She only hoped the count had been moved through the walls by now; every second the two of them spoke was another second they could usher the old man to relative safety.

“And you believe assassinating the count will lift the embargo? You think it will really resolve this feud between the territories? The son will be no better than his father in the end; he holds no sway over the Marquess like his father does. Your dullards of employers are ignoring the huge opportunity right in front of their noses! They could have the Marquess wrapped around their finger with this old man!” Charlotte had become animated, her left hand articulating her words while her right hand still held her dagger at ready at her side.

“But if you want to gamble that Tristanine’s son will have sprouted a heart where his father had none, that’s your prerogative.” Charlotte rested her left hand on her hip. “But what a fool you would be.”

[Renoir]

Laughing aloud, the giddiness present in his voice, Renoir hopped up on the table, sitting himself down on it. He let his legs dangle over the table, seemingly uncaring of the fact that the woman could slip away any second that she wanted to. She did have access to this false wall, the one she had thrown the count in, and could escape at any time. Additionally, now that the glass had blown away and given view to the outside orchard, the guards on the outside were no doubt alerted, and would, had they any intelligence or skill, be inside the manor at any time. If they did come, Renoir would be in trouble-- but he'd been in enough dangerous situations to know when, and how, to escape. But it wasn't time for that yet. He couldn't leave now.

He rested his palms on the table, leaning back, placing the weight in his elbows as he relaxed atop its wooden surface. He looked up, disinterested, to the ceiling to study the designs as the woman spoke. Without breaking eye contact with the ceiling, and in a softer, less intense tone, he spoke, while he heard voices shouting off in the distance, elsewhere in the manor. "I know your type," he began, not looking at her. "The quietly do-good type. You think you can spare a life, change some minds, and everything will be okay. That it? Is that your prerogative? To do the least amount of harm to the least amount of people?"

Renoir looked at her finally, his eyes narrowed as if he were bored, facing her with a stoic look on his face, but his voice still retained its sweet tincture. "How painfully dull and narrow-minded. In a world like ours, my love, such idealistic mindsets don't come to fruition." For a moment, he let himself think about the orphans he'd taken to feeding in Bern, right under the nose of his old Ilian superiors, when he would take care of the poor hoping that his former military affiliation wouldn't find out. Oftentimes, he felt the same as she did, but... He was less fervent, less passionate about staying true to what he felt was best. He was a man easily swayed by the times, more easily swayed by circumstance, and especially swayed by money. He looked down a moment, almost sad with his situation, weighing his options. It would be unlike him to give this up. He couldn't give this up. A fool? No, no. He knew he wasn't a fool. Regardless of the guards, he might actually be able to pull this off if she weren't here.

But she wasn't going anywhere. He looked fiercely at her, finally neglecting his inner conflict.

"My goal isn't to lift the embargo." He said plainly, the seriousness in his voice coming completely out of nowhere. "My goal is to do my duty, same as you, collect my payment, same as you, and be on with my life-- same as you. The circumstances have put me here, fate has caused me to cross paths with you, tonight, at this time, under these circumstances, and for what? For me to simply be on with myself, to move forward and pretend as though there's nothing to be gained from this little exchange?"

Renoir stood, his face serious still, a rare occurrence for him. He approached the woman, whose name and real mission were still unknown to him. Gently placing his hand around her right wrist, he lifted her arm up to his chest, having her point the dagger into his heart. He pushed himself into it, his face unchanging.

"This world," he began, the seriousness in his tone becoming completely unlike him. The lurid blue orbs in his head stayed trained on hers, like a prey he were hunting in the woods. "is corrupt. We can do nothing to fight it. We can do nothing to fix it. Merely, at best, we can move with the ebb and flow of time and of circumstance hoping that maybe, someday, we can wake up a smile enough to forget about the troubles of the world. My job, your job-- this isn't about what is right for Lycia and what isn't. This is about what we are paid to do. You are paid to keep this man alive, no doubt, as I am paid to kill him. You are the immovable object, and I, the unstoppable force."

He pushed himself closer into her dagger, keeping his hand around her wrist so that she might not move it away from him. He wanted her to stab him or to not. He was fearless, a trained hunter.

"So make your choice. Right now. Will you fight the unending cycle, or will you move with it? You must be able, in your line of work, to be adaptable." He tightened his hand around her wrist, and cocked his head, a slight smile drawing itself across his gentle lips. "If you save him, more trouble will brew. More tragic nightmares will become reality for the Lycian people. If you kill him, you can place your hope in the idea that someone newer, better, stronger, faster, and more suited will be able to replace this man."

He allowed some long moments of silence to pass between the two, and he moved his head down and in, closer to hers, still cocked to the side, as if he could kiss her in the same way the count had. "Enough talk about my goal versus yours. Choose." He kept the dagger trained over his heart fearlessly.