The Foucault family deals mostly in furs traded from the Mordentish people from the south. Julian Foucault, head of the house old wasn't young enough to be brash with his money, but hadn't gotten old enough to be disillusioned with gambling. He had sired three children, two married, the eldest expecting his first, which they were hoping to be a boy to carry on the household name. Rene Foucault, his wife, was a woman who covered her ferocity under the numbers and accounting for the company; she much preferred business than the trite expected of the wife of a Count's son. This bitterness had left her passion solely in her logistics for the company, leaving the bed of Julian and Rene Foucault cold, perhaps leading to the reasons as to how Julian found himself at a seedy bar in Marchand.
A rowdy tavern, filled with bawdy tales and rapacious laughter, pints of ale clattering together to celebrate a drunkards toast. While most may argue this is hardly the venue for well-to-do business men, the truth of the matter is that all good business deals are done over tables sticky with ale and sweat.
"Listen, buddy, moniseur Julian," Marceline spoke slowly, struggling to pronounce her slurred vowels through the messy color of the room. Her fingers slither across the dubious surface of the shared table, and perch themselves comfortably on mister Foucault's arm. She had convinced him to check his coat at the door (which no doubt he wouldn't remember to retrieve by the time she was finished with him), and for all his money and heavy velvet fineries, he could dissolve into the crowd of sweaty, rowdy men if she lost track of him. Ale filled Julian's face with a rosey glow to compliment his loose smile. "Marceline... Marceline, I, I don't even know if..." He laughed* and shook his head.
"It sounds like a good idea... But we'd need a warehouse... and tradesmen, the licensing..." Julian trailed off into his next pint of amber beer. "Juliaaan... Listen, ouais? Listen, I'm just saying, I'm -just-, saying, if you opened up a, refining, situation, for those furs here in the city. See I know some girls, know their way 'round a stitch, and I got some boys, mhm, they know how to treat a mink fur, ouais?" Reyer honeyed her words, and leaned forward on the table in a particular fashion that beckoned more attention than her proposal. "Mmhm... my wife, did enjoy that sample you sent me..." his concession came absently as his mind wandered. "But, no. It's much too risky."
"Mhm, mhm... listen you already got a licensing for your operation in the south, it ain't hard to get them shuffled, and I mean, we're talking about building your -legacy- here, makin' the Foucault a house hold name. Something to pass on to the youngi-- Cousette!"
Cousette Farriere was a pretty young woman; her work as a laundress indoors kept her skin pale like the wheat of her hair. Big, blue eyes were shaped like tea-cup saucers, with a smile that rivaled even seasoned enchanters with its charm, Cousette was a once-in-a-life-time woman, hidden in the slums of Port-a-Lucine. Even her voice was unique; it carried a color like the blue found on fine porcelain that deepened and brightened when she sang. Cousette was a lamp light in a wretched place; it was no wonder that she was ever followed with attention, as moths follow flames. "Marsi, Marsi, Marsi... You didn't tell me you had good taste in men!"
She helped herself to their table crowded with dirty dishware, stealing the lordling Julian's pint from his hands to drink from, while he was busy drinking in her presence. Marceline, however, was already immune to her friend's charm, and the bitter jealousy that crept up in her stomach that came along in her wake. "Mmhm, this one's hitched, Cosy. Tryin' to talk him into movin' his business here to the big city." Cousette chanced a sneaky smile toward the man, sizing him up from the otherside of her mug. "OoOooh? Well, if you're staying, you -have- to see me perform at the Muse. I'm going to be doing a number with the house band and, it's going to be my debute!" Reyer added to the weight of Cousette's attention as she re-assessed the lordling, now out numbered in gender. There was something to be said about the way Cousette could wrap a man around her finger with just a smile.
"Ahem, yes, I, erm, excuse me, madamoiselle, but you seem to have me at a disadvantage. Can you introduce us, Marceline?" Julian was eager to trade up to the deluxe model of Ouvrier. That knot of dread shifted itself in her belly, but she was sensible enough to ignore it. Dutifully, she went on with the introductions, facilitating what would no doubt prove to be poor ideas.
From there, Reyer's part in the conversation was over. She drank from her ale and let the colors of their voices mix together with the rest of the palate of the bar, making for an ugly, murky haze. They must have hit it off as, at some point during the conversation, she noted a sudden absence of Julian's silver band around his ring finger, and the particular angle Cousette's smile as she pretended to not notice. Some unhappy marriage of guilt, jealousy, and disdain wrestled inside her stomach, but it wasn't a disturbance that couldn't be settled with a few more gulps of ale. After all, now the deal was as sure as summer's rain. The wheels of commerce would keep turning, with or without her encouragement.
In the small hours of the morning, Marceline escaped the murky haze of the tavern, out into the dreary quiet of Marchand. Drink had made her gait uncertain, but routine made her direction sure. Even with the keg she'd filled her belly with,dread continued to knot itself in her jaw and stomach. The source of this would reveal itself in the heavy, coppery scent of blood caught in the harbor's sigh. Turning a corner on the street, her intoxicated march home was paused by the scene of a wreckage. A cart, or at least, it used to be a cart, now slanted forward at a dramatic angle, it's wheels snapped from the weight forced upon faulty spokes. Split crates weep vegetables and jagged splinters of wood onto the cobbles, occupying most of the street.
Underneath it all was a twitching silhouette of an ox of a man, as if a bull had shed his horns and hooves for a shirt and trousers. Marceline struggled with her tongue as she tried to make sense of what bits were mashed up tomatoes and what was smashed flesh. He couldn't be dead, she reasoned, no, dead people don't move, he was still moving, twitching. She chanced a step closer to the wreckage, and the young would be gardener, tilted his head up to look at her. A large wooden splinter, roughly the size of a palm sized spade protruded from his throat, seeping a dark color of blood she didn't know could exist.
At first she thought it a trick of the eyes, maybe it was tomato paste, or juice, it was terribly bright, and dead people don't move. They don't twitch their fingers, or tremble, or gurgle, They don't touch at their neck, at their wounds, with the tentative exploration of an infant, or grasp at the thing that killed them, like it was a hand that could be bargained with. It shouldn'tve come as the surprise that it did.
burn it down
This is Port-a-Lucine, after all. The wheels are always funny.