What color is your soul painted? Grey Your soul is painted the color grey, which embodies the characteristics of elegance, humility, respect, reverence, stability, subtlety, wisdom, strong emotions, balance, and cancellation. Grey falls under the element of Water, and symbolizes the moon, tide, ebb and flow.

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That was unexpected.

It was on the first blush of the sunrise that I had received request from Monsiuer de Tréville for my presence alone in his hotel. What was to transpire did not become much of a surprise to me, you see, as it was the morning following the eventide I had pledged my loyalty and allegiance to Monsieur de Tréville, to His Majesty, and to France. It had become expected of me. My blade, my life, and the very essence of my existence belonged to them; to wield in any way they deemed necessary. If they had asked me to plunge myself to my own demise from the edge of a cliff I would have done so with little complaint. I was my own man no longer. It was as I saw fit to serve something greater than myself. An inner retribution, perhaps.

I forbade any further onward steps from my mute servant, Grimaud, at the entrance before I presented myself in my higher officer's hotel. It was completely barren, unlike the many days I had witnessed the floors being stampeded by footsteps and the air boisterous with laughter from fellow Musketeers who had made Tréville's hotel their own. It must have been a meeting he wished be completely discreet if he had barred his own Musketeers for the morning, whom were very much like his own children through his eyes. I had donned the Musketeer tunic less than a day and already I was beginning to wonder if it was to be stripped from me for some unforeseen reason, after I had spent the last two years working to achieve it. What else could have been so urgent and so secretive? To have your tunic taken away was the lowest dishonor a Musketeer could forego. It was as painful an action as it was, in contrast, a grand honor to earn it. Tréville had been known to be a man honorable enough to undertake this punishment without the company of invasive ears.

With a pounding heart, I knocked my fist timidly against the large oaken door.

( Cut for length. )

Your Heart Is Blue

Love is a doing word for you. You know it's love when you treat each other well. You are a giving lover, but you don't give too much. You expect something in return. Your flirting style: Friendly Your lucky first date: Lunch at an outdoor cafe Your dream lover: Is both generous and selfish What you bring to relationships: Loyalty

Once again I am given the color blue! Can you imagine?

The wind swept through his golden streaked hair, sending its strands flagging upon the mild breeze much like the waves of growing grass that decorated the field. His ice blue eyes carried across the plain without a word. Men fought here once, he thought to himself. Brave men whose only drive was their belief in what they were fighting for was right. Those who would uphold justice in their own right. Swords would clash, spears would shatter, and blood would spill. All upon the land over which there was now barely a trace.

Athos closed his eyes and raised his chin, inhaling a slow breath of the sweet-scented air. Behind the darkness of his eyelids, he listened to the memory of the sounds. The cries of war and pain, the horses, and the carnage that was once considered a great passion for the man. With one hand resting casually on the hilt of his sheathed rapier, he reopened his eyes to behold what it was for which he had come to create. A single spot, adorned crudely with two sticks to form a cross, and a blue strip of torn, velvet cloth flagging in the whispering wind; the last remaining memory of the once coveted Musketeer tabard. The memory of a place where a great soldier fell.

"D'Artagnan," he heard his breath's word carried away on the wind.

( Read more ... )

OOC: Life, I think, has finally had its fill on biting the mun in the toosh. It's been a crazy year for me and while it's still a little chaotic, it's enough for me to finally breathe and say GUESS WHO'S BACK OMG. <3 How I missed you, LiveJournal! Details on the comeback and such will fill out while I get caught up everywhere and update the actual personal journal.

A curious little bird whispered in my ear earlier in the evening. What I'd like to know is: who was it that actually missed me?

The length of my disappearance isn't acceptable. This is something that I must change.

( A holiday gift from the mun to EVERYONE on Athos' friends list. )

Athos had intentionally shipped his gifts a day late. He'd wanted to surprise his friends when they would least expect it.

( Snake. )

( Gabriel. )

( The Doctor. )

( Face. )

( Psyche. )

( Connor. )

( Cassandra. )

( Methos. )

( Fanny. )

( Aramis. )

( Xander. )

( Duncan. )

( Emma. )

( Jackie. )

( Everyone on his friends list. )

---

( Muses in the 17th century (D'Artagnan, Porthos, Aramis, etc.). )

---

Bon Anniversaire, Duncan.

We may have our quarrels, but you are one of the finest men that I ever had the pleasure of knowing.

I was not meant to love or be loved, simply stated. Not now will I once again elaborate of the misery that consumed me and my bride when I finally decided to wed her. What was designed to be the happily ever after ended to be a feigned mask that eventually led us on a journey that would make even Hell itself envious. I loved the woman to the point I practically worshiped her, but that apparently wasn't enough for me when the time came I was needed most as a husband. Stinging tears streamed down her rosy cheeks, her horror filled cries begging for me and our love, and I did nothing more but wrap the noose around her neck and turned away without offering my wife a second glance that I deemed undeserving for her.

From that day forward I no longer possessed the ability to hold anyone with a full, bleeding heart. I speak little when it comes to women because I bear no trust for them and why, I ask, should I? Women are often deceitful, lost creatures that wield and flaunt their beauty until they wrap their prey of choice around their finger; be it at that moment or later when they leave you with nothing. There are exceptions to everything, mind you. I have discovered that every once in awhile a rare angel will come into my presence. Madame de Bonacieux Constance is a fine example. She was neither mine nor did I harbor any intention or yearning to be the man to share her bed with, however she was truly an angel sent from the heaven to walk on earth. The exception, as it were, that I permitted at the very most my respect for the madame, so it was no wonder why my grief was neighbored to D'Artagnan's when the pair of us bore witness to her final breaths. She was the heart's beat for my dearest friend and the way she cried for D'Artagnan's embrace so that she could die in the arms of the man she loved? It was as though my heart broke with his as I wept the words, "God would not permit such a crime."

Ironically, she became a victim of little else than falling upon the destructive path belonging to the demon that became my wife. A cup filled with poison given to her from whom she trusted as a friend was the pair of culprits who had been discovered to commit this heinous act. I watched the venom slowly eat her soul and it was then, as I held a weeping D'Artagnan in my arms, I swore I would take responsibility for Constance's killer and track her down to finally put an end to her wrath regardless of whatever tenderness I may still have carried for her; that which prevented me from putting an end to her life in the first time we were reunited. Seeing Constance's warmth fade under the rain of D'Artagnan's love murdered whatever shadow of care I still had. The fate of Milady de Winter became all the more clearer to me; I had to stop the monster I'd created.

If you have not already gathered what is, decidedly, my worst quality, it is that I will sacrifice love for honor without hesitation. I am too dedicated to my brothers and my blade that there is no room for the manipulatous repertoire of a woman to be in my life. Love is a dying flower that blooms only for a few blissful time before it dies while honor is a powerful foundation meant to be built upon. But even then where is the line drawn when the worlds between those two bleed into one another? Is self-honor sacrificed when you betray love?

A curious question, that.

The thunder clapped after a blinding bolt of lightning flew down from the black cloud overhead which was pouring its soul down upon the castle wall on which the two men stood, facing each other, separated only by the full rising moon that had just crest the horizon, not high enough yet to be concealed by the overbearing storm. Dampened blades singing their metallic war cries was the only sound that contrast the growling roll that dominated the sky when the two men squared with each other, boots brushing across the stone floor upon which they fought. Though all features of the pair looked reflectively similar, their clothing was the single thing that set them apart. One bore the honorable symbol of the Musketeer, background by the rich blue tunic that expressed the type of elite loyalty confessed by he who wore it. The other boasted garb of a noble: vibrant colored, expensive fabrics dyed with imported inks. Yet when a wrist cross lock brought the pair nearly nose to nose, only their crossed blades between them while they snarled their hatred for each other, one would notice that their faces were identical.

The bitter ring of blade-on-blade depicted the separation of the men and once again they faced off, aiming the sharpened tips of their polished rapiers at the ready toward each other. The man dressed in the Musketeer's uniform clutched his side desperately from the wound that was inflicted upon his shoulder earlier, the blood seeping and paling his skin from the pain. Every injury that the man of his past scarred him with had the opposite effect of what Olivier desired; his resolve was strengthened rather than his spirit weakened.

"You grew into an utter fool, Athos," the nobleman chuckled with his bloodied rapier in hand, evidently amused with the entire confrontation. It made the Musketeer's brow twitch. "You can't kill me. I'm too much of what you are. I'm what makes you."

"You're a baseless, detestable illusion, Olivier," Athos retaliated toward the nobleman, his face wet and streaming with rain. He should have expected no less but the brutal force that was against him, he pondered, for Olivier was always a man of competence. "I've already defeated you, dear Count. You simply boast the inability to realize when you've lost."

( Cut for length. )

OOC: Mun and muses are back after holiday craziness, birthday fun with the child, anniversary madness, and LEGO Star Wars joy with allfor_god's mun. I think I'm not alone when I say December may be a slow a month.

( Seduction meme result. )

I do not agree with this meme. The only choices offered were not ones that I would have preferred.

Tags and replies will be scarce for the next few days because the beginning of the Holidays are finally here! I plan to spend it to the fullest with my family and relax. If the opportunity opens, I may be able to do a quick reply and write here and there (maybe do a topic? *gasp!*), but don't be expecting much.

Athos hasn't forgotten his threads. psyche_soul, the dinner thread, givenmylife (I think that's everyone) -- he promises to tend to his lovelies when we return.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving to all who celebrate it! *humps the friends list*

(also x-posted in not_headvamp)

"Can you explain to me the meaning of this leave and this letter that I've just received?" I remember asking D'Artagnan after reading the order given to each of us by our commander. Back then we weren't simply granted leave without requesting it but I was soon to discover that it was a guise in preamble to a campaign surrounding a letter that, to this day, my eyes never beheld. Now everyone goes on with your clichéd road trips plagued with misfortunes unimaginable, weaving tapestries of how hilariously difficult it would be to maintain your sanity during these adventures.

I assure you; this tale is the tapestry with the gold fringes.

( Cut for length. )

Much of the remainder of that finality is an appeasing blur to me.

To conclude this story, however, D'Artagnan went on to deliver the letter and we all were, though not without our disarming wounds, reunited one by one. There's never been a question aimed toward our spotless success record. It's merely a benefit we weren't required to document our exploits. Someone might have written a book someday.

I am so excited!

Something above smiled down on me and I was able to snag myself the new translation by Richard Pevear of The Three Musketeers today. My hopes were high when it came to this book because it is supposedly the best translation you can get from all the others. After my experience of reading another translation when I was 12, my brain basically melted and my eyes rolled back into my head. I adore the story, but at the same time, it was horrible translation to read. I couldn't quite get through it without taking an asprin and going "WTF?!" at a lot of parts.

This book flows WONDERFULLY. It is so smooth and it's such a joy to read. I strongly recommend it if anyone is/was a fan. After one night I'm already at page 70 out of 671 and I'm loving every page so far. I doubt I'm going to be slowing down my speed anytime soon. ;)

Back on the subject, though, the point of this post is a notice to expect a few changes when it comes to me writing Athos. Not huge, but I will be leaning more on the book because I want to explore that part of him more. My memory with the book was vague and now that I'm reading it again, his topics will be explored more in that area. My entire goal with writing him is trying to find that perfect balance between the book and the movie(s). I want to grow him and I feel as if I barely begun with the layers of his character.

So bear with me. I appreciate everyone for interacting and putting up with us as long as you guys have. You all are truly the greatest.

And another thing?! LIVEJOURNAL BLOWS. I haven't received any e-mail notifications for over a WEEK, I noticed. So if anyone would like to poke me, please do so here! My week is a little busy with the hubby being home on vacation so any direction would be appreciated! GAH.

In my thoughts is truly the only place I can have any form of release from that which haunts me nightly. My companions will never know how difficult it is for me to whisk off into slumber because of the plague that eats at my brain until the inability to see straight causes me a headache that will eventually put me to sleep. Not even the comforting burn of powerfully dry wine will soothe me enough to drift off. Guilt is, as Aramis describes, a poison that flows not in ones veins, yet stings just as badly.

From where does this guilt arise? Heh. That's a mystery even to me. I've tried to reflect, under Aramis' guide, upon the most powerful turning points of my life that I can recall, minus one. He's still yet to be informed about the entire history Milady de Winter and I share unless someone has already told him. In either event, there's others beyond the woman over whom I can't seem to stop pining for she's not the only one that I feel I failed somewhere down the line. Sebastien? There was once upon a time he and I shared a friendship considered unbreakable, yet the crime he committed was a treason beyond which not even I could see past. I'd tried countlessly to show him that my mistakes could be made right through acts of righteousness but I feel my message wasn't strong enough. In that regard there's a lingering feeling of failure that rests heavily in my breast even to this day.

Certainly therein lies the memory of Milady de Winter, my accursed Sabine; the woman I hung to punish her for crimes committed beyond those for which she was branded. It wasn't failure for which I feel guilty in regards to the sun-haired beauty that'd wandered into my life upon the wings of chance, but a betrayal that my regret is that I did not finish the deed. She looked to me for compassion and forgiveness and with what did I repay her? An attempt upon her life. Is there really a reason Aramis is continually trying to lead me down the path to atonement?

The thoughts that battle between my ears wage war so loudly that the lack of sleep is inevitable. These are but two examples of the many voices which sound off in my head, especially after the sun falls behind the horizon while I'm doubled over a tall dark bottle and staring at the solitary oak table at which I sit, only to wordlessly excuse myself from whatever merriment Aramis and Porthos had concocted for the evening without preamble. Perhaps, should I ever find the holy forgiveness I'm seeking, will more than forty winks be the only evening past-time I seek.

Note: Based only on the events of the 1993 film.

Rebellion is what earned the reputation for myself and my brothers, described sometimes as famous and others as infamous, depending on from whose lips the stories were being told. It's not easy and never explainable but each of us are trained to undertake any means possible and necessary to preserve the life of our king. Sometimes that means sparking open rebellion, especially when a messenger came to my door with what was to be my final orders demanding I surrender my blue tunic and my commission as one of the king's Musketeers. When the parchment was delivered, I ordered Grimaud to burn it without so much as skimming the words. Porthos, Aramis, and I had already created a contingency just in case the Cardinal should attempt to enact this careless ruling. The time had come, it seemed, to set the plan afloat.

The opening of the tavern door suddenly filled the once dark room with sunlight that bathed the avenue outside. Inward I stepped with Aramis and Porthos merely a step and an angle behind me. How did we know we'd find them here? Heh, we did fight alongside these soldiers, did we not? All sound ceased and pairs upon pairs of eyes turned to us.

( Cut for length. )

I looked around, seeing that Porthos had disappeared, and swallowed a gulp of wine next to Aramis whom had already begun to clean the blood off of his sword. I lit my pipe and puffed several swells of smoke while we waited for the next round of Cardinal red tunics to come swarming in like bees to the hive. Something itched inside me; a faint sparkle of hope when I heard footprints begin to hurriedly collect near the front door. We were certainly famous by now. Would a particular man donned in black grace our presence and attempt the honor at arresting the renegade Musketeers for his own record?

"Boooo-riiing," I heard Porthos' voice from somewhere in the rafters.

"Patience, Porthos," I advised through a smirk and nursed my pipe, watching the door. "Patience."

We were ready for them.

I believe that monogamy was not originally part of human nature. Lessons of history show us that a greater number of wives was a mark of great fortune and power. Harems among Lords was not uncommon. Caesar of Rome was a remarkable example. Though even through the advances made in both theological law and social etiquette, there are many who cannot abandon the lustful desires of warm skin. More so these days, marriage is no longer considered part of the relation. Monogamy barely even exists.

My father never held the title of a scholar of monogamy. His was voluntary slavery to his carnal lust. Even though my mother was alive he would spend many a night satisfying himself, buried within the busty bosoms of women all too willing to accept what payment he was ready to pass out. My mother was a dying woman and my father's hunger unsatisfied. She was incapable of supplying his needs. In fact, I don't think one woman could be. I cannot say if she was accepting of his way of life for I was still but a lad and she spent her last remaining years in her bedroom until her illness claimed her life. In those days this was not something atypical. Many a married man was known to indulge himself, often outside of his wife's approval.

I'd spent many years molding myself after my father's image though I'd not consciously thought it at the time. Like him, I was invited by lust and less apt to turn it down. I'd always convinced myself to make up for my father's shortcomings and instead I ended up living them. When my inheritance I took from him, the more women flocked to my chamber and were welcomed with open ... arms. Yet out of every caller I'd shared my bed with, none could or would tempt to tame my wild heart.

Then came to me one that stopped the beating within my chest the moment my eyes fell upon her. A vessel that, merely by sight alone, made me truly believe in heaven. As the eternal paradise was described with luxurious words depicting unimaginable scapes of beauty, I could recall each in the moment every detail was caressed by my gaze. If there was ever a time I could rival Aramis in poetry, that would be the day. I still remember, as though it were yesterday, how the breeze carried the floral smell of her golden hair to me even before the glisten of her ocean blue eyes wandered upon mine. I felt as though, through those eyes, I could see every wistful thought she would have. Time seemed to slow to a crawl then when her soft lips allowed a smile to be given to me. I knew from that very moment that it was unto her my heart was going to be bestowed and that she was mine to claim. There was nothing more that I wanted -- nothing greater would I give -- to be with her and only her.

These days I still carry a monogamous heart, if even a heart at all as some would say. I don't partake in what enjoyment the others find in the company of wenches and my bed carries but one man at the end of the eve. A new importance was taught to me and those lessons will remain part of my ethic until the day I die. I still see others yielding to less honorable temptations despite the heart they know is supposed to belong to one. If it's such a debacle, why not simply tell the other of your intentions? That would at least, in my opinion, spare a lot of undue misery. But then ... why even wed at all? Not all are meant to be monogamous. Neither right nor wrong, that's simply the way of it.

(OOC: This roleplay scene takes place prior to the events of The Three Musketeers to explore the history between Athos and Rochefort. Many thanks to all_forme for being the most wonderful Rochefort a Musketeer could ask for.)

He’d ridden for hours on the long road back from La Rochelle, his yearly trek to that godforsaken city. The evening rain was warm and both he and his horse were hot, sweating. The rain was soaking him, getting down under the collar of his cloak, finding it’s way into his shirt. Water dripped its’ way down his face, even getting behind the black eye patch he wore over his left eye, no matter how he angled his hat against it. The mud on the road was kicked up by the horse’s swift passage, coating the bottom of his black leather boots, spots and splotches of it hitting, sticking to the lower legs of the black breeches he wore. His thoughts as dark as his clothing, the man in black made his way swiftly in the deepening twilight.

Finally a light ahead, candles in the window of a small tavern and inn known as the Bulls’ Blood Inn.. A disreputable place, suited only for cut-throats, thieves and the dregs of humanity. A perfect place for him to stop for now. If he was lucky, the wine would not be too undrinkable. And if he were truly lucky, some ruffian would try to rob him, or start a fight with him, or even look at him wrong. Sweet mother, but he wanted to be able to kill a man this night.

Pulling into the yard, and jerking hard on the reins, Rochefort dismounted, handing the horse over to the young stable lad. He reached out, his gloves entwining in the boys shirt, nearly lifting him off the ground. "Take care of her, keep her safe and I’ll pay you well, boy. But if she’s harmed..." He spoke barely louder than a whisper, his voice harsh, rasping. His one dark eye glared at the boy, watching him quail and shake as the child jabbered, trying to convince the older man that the horse would be safe in his charge. With a muttered oath Rochefort dropped the child to the ground, and spun around, taking a small pack off the saddle. Hanging it over his shoulder, he stalked towards the door of the small, ramshackle inn, then yanked it open with a growl and went inside.

A certain man had already begun occupying the tavern prior to the man in black's arrival. He happened upon the threshold when he noticed the the first sign of rain, promptly coming to the conclusion that he would rather spend a night within solitude than drenched as he would be if he continued the rest of his journey to Paris to meet his awaiting companions. A night of privacy and peace was necessary, he decided to himself. He was doubtless his brothers would find some means to entertain themselves without him among them. His sternness toward his own drinking never mixed well to their concept which is why he determined to remain here for the rest of the night. Regardless of what he chose, he knew he would be in the same condition, only there he would be more soaked and tired amidst an array of powerful noises and laughter. It was not an alternative he preferred tonight.

Athos raised the third bottle to his lips to settle his thirst with a few heavy gulps while his eyes lazily surveyed the surroundings before him from his dark, secluded corner. It was then he noticed a man enter the dwelling, his suspicions immediately ignited by the dark patch that decorated the newcomer's face. "Rochefort," he grumbled quietly, his tone dripping with the same poison that filled him when the ex-Musketeer's name rolled off of his tongue. Of all the taverns and inns left in France, he was beginning to find it hard to believe that both him and his enemy ended up within the same one on this rainy night. His grip upon the neck of the bottle tightened and he lifted it to meet his lips once more, only to discover there was nothing left.

"Blast," the Musketeer cursed under his breath, tossing the bottle aside in frustration. He was not about to allow Rochefort to ruin his plans simply due to sharing the same walls. Sloppily, he rose from his chair, sauntering his way over to the counter to where he could meet the tavern keeper. He refused to allow his eyes to wander toward his former companion, insultingly disregarding eye contact. "Just so you know, I'm not in the mood to fight with you tonight," he warned the one-eyed figure, his hands gesturing for service to the other man before him to bring in another bottle. "I don't want to get wet."

( Read more ... )

"That would be the Musketeer known as Athos. Remain cautious if you approach, especially if he's indulged in the drink. That man is as cold as a winter's wind."

I've no doubt my purposeful ignorance makes it convincing for them to believe that I'm not listening. I heard the previous statement seep through the lips of a wench to the curious ear of another. Less attention was paid to me since my only companion was the bottle of my favorite wine. The presentation must've had its desired effect for I was left alone for the duration of the evening, letting my Musketeer brothers enjoy their company where each questionlessly knew I preferred the dampness of my solitude.

I am not always the easiest man to get along with. A fact that wouldn't come as a surprise to most. I have lost count of the moments and individuals who have attempted to sit upon the chair across from me only to yield their thoughts of interest to agitation. Aramis had once said that patience is the key if you wish to tolerate me. Perhaps that is why my group of desired company have remained humble.

The gift of social etiquette was not meant to be mine. As a child barely within the inheritance of my land, my interactions were limited to political rhetoric and diplomacy games. I was respected by the peasants through fear of my title, never for the man, as I was constantly surrounded by those who wanted to please me when I already was aware that they were only there for my rank. Back then, I believe, I only had one who would hold the honorably applied title of friend. A fellow Count; it came easy that he would see the man under the ruler and, though the sight was never quite appealing, he was my brother and confidant, despite the blood that separated us. Irony is a sadistic humor; he ended up becoming one my greatest enemies which, I will admit, has left me wary of seeking much beyond the camaraderie I hold with my Musketeers. I never seek my friendships. They're meant to simply happen.

But I am a Musketeer. A man drifting and surrounded by those who share his morals, one would think he was surrounded by friends. I trust my comrades with my life, and they with mine, but I would never bare myself any deeper than that. There were two men, however, that were within the Musketeers long before I ever came, and then one that entered my life several years after I joined. The contrast of personalities would make any wonder how a bond exists between us -- but it does. I'd once held them in the same regard as any until their loyalty to the Musketeers, to brotherhood, and to the relation we had developed between us was put to the test. In result to those fateful days spent with one another we are, even when time decides to discrete us, inseparable. Incorrigible, but inseparable all the same. Though they do misunderstand why it is I prefer to engage in my drink without their immediate company and other decisions I have made with how I wish to live my life, questions are never asked. It is a mutual respect we all share.

We've earned each others' trust. Few will ever earn mine, thus few will ever bear the badge of what's considered a 'friend' through my eyes. As for me, merely the persistence of company, at the very least, ignites enough intrigue to display interest. From there .... well, I offer that test to the hands of fate.