Champagne ( province)
brass
president
The galloping of the horse's hooves
echoed in her ears as she urged it onward, eschewing well-worn
trails for the sloping green hills she had seen in her dreams; as the
sun rose higher in the cloudless sky, she paused near an outcropping
of trees to rest, sliding off the saddle and nearly tripping over her
skirts. Cursing under her breath at the impractical garments and the
stupidity of the side-saddle as she rustled in a saddlebag for a
flask of water and a crudely-drawn map, Charity took a deep draught
before unfurling the document and puzzling over its cryptic
directions. With a sigh, she patted the horse's flank gently before
leading it into the shady copse of trees, listening for the sound of
the creek indicated on the map, the soft trickle of the water growing
louder as she approached. Trying the horse to a tree near the water,
she sat down on a nearby rock, using the moss from the trees to
determine her bearings before unrolling the map again.
She was already well within Champagne,
according to the chart's markings, but some 20 kilometers from her
goal, a secluded chateau in the heart of the wine country. A snort
from the horse made her look up, automatically reaching for the
brass-barreled pistol hidden within her skirts; all was silent,
however, save for the splashing of the water, and she slowly returned
to her perusal of the map, weapon still within her grip. The
president of the organization had given her this mission
himself...and she would not fail.
roses
hobby
arch
The vines climb higher up the wall,
embedding themselves deeper into the cracks of the stone, a verdant
web superimposed upon the columns. Tangled within them are the roses,
in vivid shades of reds and pinks, the blooms carried to greater
heights by the net of ivy that supports them. Walking among them, the
queen bends to sniff at a delicate bud, holding it between slender
fingers, their bloodlessness accentuated by the brightness of flower
and vine. She plucks the bud, tucking it into her bodice before
moving on, occasionally picking wilted flowers or dead leaves as she
indulges in her favourite hobby. The brilliant riot of roses mask the
entrance to the castle's wall...but not the faint scent of decay
caused by vicious thorns still embedded in rotting flesh, nor the
subtle glimpse of bleached bone that lies at the arch's foot.
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