The Blood of the Rose - Emeric Desrosiers

[Kleomenes]

Emeric Desrosiers

Name: Emeric Desrosiers
Age: 22 Yrs.
Race: Human, Dementlieuse
Religion: Not Superstitious
A Country Gentleman
Origin: Valey, Dementlieu, House Desrosiers (Ravenloft Native)

[Kleomenes]

Emeric never forgot that dinner.

Valerian Desrosiers was a statue, only the subtle rise and fall of green and pink jacket denoting life. The firelight reflected in his eyes revealed two azure gemstones, hard and cold, looming over the note in his hand. When he moved, it was to hand the piece of paper to his wife. Grandmother placed a hand over her mouth immediately, letting out a little cry, her other hand clutching at the Marquis’ sleeve. Although Arlette’s tears were already forming, she nodded twice as her husband murmured to her. Before they parted he took her hand, giving it a short, but firm squeeze. “And I will speak with the boys.”

The Marquise hurried over to take Eglantine and Brielle by the hand, soft words of encouragement heralding their departure, leaving the Marquis alone with the males of his line. Emile, Emeric and Brice sat quietly, the dinner before them forgotten as the Marquis poured himself a stiff measure of brandy.

“I have bad news.” He began. “Matters have worsened in Port a Lucine. Emile, Emeric, your mother, your father…” the Marquis’ voice hitched in anger. “...My son…” He took a pull of the cognac, but that was not enough. “Damn their eyes!” A sudden flash of anger saw the glass and its contents hurled into the fire. The burst of light from the burning alcohol placed Valerian Desrosier’s battle for control under the boy’s terrified scrutiny. The year was 770, before they knew their grandfather as a man, and came to understand his anger as something akin to a form of abbreviated communication.

Valerian turned back to the trio.  “They have been killed for the crime of their noble birth, swallowed by that place of lazy sycophants and feckless layabouts. Never forget this day. Never cease your vigilance.”

His steely gaze settled on the eldest of the stunned teens.  “You will be the next marquis, now, Emile.”


((Thankyou for the collab, Glowfire and Lotte!))

[Kleomenes]

The carrot must always be accompanied by a stick.

“Begin.” Stated Emeric.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

Emeric could already see the sheen of sweat glistening on Bloyer’s brow as the man got into his familiar swing. He was an incongruous sight, the touch left by the summer sun flushing his cheeks the same pink as the accents on his uniform. He’d taken his shirt off, his swollen musculature on display as he raised his arm in punishment again.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

The barn was otherwise silent. Emeric stood alongside a half dozen household guards. The Marquis always held a practiced neutrality as he watched the dispensation of old-fashioned justice. Emeric stood on his behalf today, and emulated as best he could.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

The lashee was strung up on a whipping post, arms yanked roofwards, muscles taut. Lurid red welts had already appeared on the mans’ back. Emeric couldn’t see his face, but his gasps grew louder with every blow.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

Emeric knew the face well, though. Jean Castillon, one of the stablehands under Emeric’s direct management. He remembered the shock on Castilon’s face. Emeric had strolled back to the stables after hours, seeking distractions for a troubled mind. He’d found instead a drunken Castilon making off with a bushel of hay to feed his garden pigs.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

Emeric also remembered well the pleading looks and desperate entreaties that had followed. “Monsieur, my family! Without me to work, what will they do?” They had not sealed the young nobleman’s lips. His grandfather had learned of the crime, and pronounced the sentence.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

Soon the lash was as wet as Bloyer’s brow, although stained crimson. The relentless strokes showed no hint of slowing. Nor would they. As the Marquis always said, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

The gasps became sobs, the blood running freely down Castillon’s ruined back, joining older stains to nourish the dry earth.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin...

At some point Castillon sagged, hanging loosely from the post. There was a pause then; one reason Bloyer was so valued was how well he knew the limits of a criminal.

The mantle of responsibility helped shield from any doubt. “The full twenty, Bloyer,” recited Emeric, as per grandfather.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

Castillon spasmed, crying out. He could still feel.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin.

Swoosh as the lash sliced through the air. Crack as it kissed the skin...

A bucket of water was needed to bring Castillon round again for the final two strokes.

“See him cleaned up, Bloyer,” There was a pause of his own before Emeric pronounced the harshest part of the Marquis’ verdict. “Then send him from the estate.”

[Kleomenes]

Emeric urged Notable on into a trot as they made their way along the country lane. The colt was eager, full of energy, bringing a smile to Emeric’s lips. To the left and right the last of today’s fields passed him by. Spring was planting season, and men and women were hard at work sowing the seeds of sustenance and, of course, House Desrosiers’ future strength. The nobleman paid them no mind, though. He’d already seen what he needed to and there was time to spare. Those muddy furrows would be a sea of gold by autumn, and all was well.

The sun was nearing its zenith when Emeric steered Notable off onto a dirt track winding its way up a shallow incline. They passed sheep and the occasional shepherd. “Le Furoncle”, named by the frustrated orchardists who crossed it each day t, was hardly a hill. A Lamordian might not even call it that, but it passed for a high point on the Marquis' land, and the summit offered a good view.

The summit, such as it can be called, did offer a good view. On a clear spring day like today, one could see the glittering colours of the Lakes, and a little further, the Musarde snaking its way north. Before that, though, the farmland around Valey. The untrained eye might call it picturesque. It might not see the artifice and effort that lay behind each field, each orchard, each fence and lane. It might not see perfection.

It was on the ride down again that Emeric saw the little patch of yeux bleus, off the path to his left. It looked to be growing well, shielded from the wind by geographical fortune. The colt whinnied, stamping his feet at the enforced indolence as the nobleman dismounted. Up close, the illusion was broken, revealing a sick plot, sorely in need of cultivation. An ugly little gaggle of Bittercress had colonised one corner, already heavy with the buds of its sour, plain flowers. Soon the pretty blue of the yeux bleus would be replaced with the drab green and white of the invader.

Emeric crouched down. A tug, a tug, a tug. The taint was removed, nature’s mistake corrected. He carried the weeds back to Notable to see if he was hungry, and left what was refused to be crushed into the path.

Behind, perfection.

(((Brief edit after some good advice from Tinfy)))