Athanas Sylvain's page

Barbeau's shriek is like music to the Butcher. It is indeed his face the man sees, for the face of the Butcher is one of patchwork and blood, a face of fear and death. There seems to be only darkness in his eyes, inhuman and unsettling. The knife Barbeau draws is of no consequence, worth not even a glance from the Butcher.

For Le Boucher has his own weapon. A wicked thing, meant for carving flesh, hacking through bone. The ragged back of the blade could saw through most anything, given enough time and effort. The carcass of a sinful man will pose little obstruction.

And so it does. Barbeau may know something of desperate knife fights in alleyways, or slipping a blade between an unsuspecting target's ribs. But he is no match for a trained fighter, a man who has spent lifetimes manipulating fine steel with the purpose of rending flesh. Barbeau's feeble defense is useless before the Butcher's blade. In a flash, he closes the distance, and Barbeau is left stumbling back with a deep slice just under his ribcage.

Jacques Barbeau can only collapse, his legs giving out beneath him, helplessly clutching at his torn stomach. Blood soaks him from chest to groin, his entrails barely held back by his failing efforts. He can only look up at the face of his killer, kneeling before him, impassive and haunting.

"So you, too, join the charnel." Le Boucher's voice is grating, horrid, and awful in its lack of passion. However much the Butcher may revel in his work, he does not let it show in his speech. "Death comes for us all, Barbeau. Those who deal in it must accept their own in turn." The sawback of the blade presses to Barbeau's throat, and the man suffers consciousness for only a little longer as the flesh is ripped to shreds.

Also very late to saying anything on that front--I've had some hectic weeks lately and haven't checked here as frequently as I should have. That's my bad, and hopefully won't happen again. That said, I'm also fine with this being a slower, more detailed game; it's what I expected.

Great! Also, this probably goes without saying, but let me know if I'm ever doing too much creation/suggestion or generally writing too much in my posts. I'm enjoying writing for the character and describing his actions and events, but I can tone it down if you like.

Le Boucher is not the madman some believe. The brutality of the killings, the apparent randomness of the targets and locations; these are carefully chosen, a crafted appearance like the hood over his mask. Misdirection and mystery. Le Boucher is methodical, he is cunning.

Barbeau does not return to his places of habit, his routine holes where he might go to ground. Clever, for once, the Butcher grants him. But Isarn is full of eyes and ears, a city of whispers and pointing fingers. For fifty years and more, all of Isarn has been ready to turn on itself, every man, woman, and child raised to betray their closest friend should the time come. There is little honor among the common citizens, let alone the thieves. It isn't a matter of if someone talks, only a matter of how much pressure it takes to break them.

- - - - -

The first man is a thug, stumbling from a bar where he's likely lost his coppers in dice games. He's little more than a common man of the street, but he works for Barbeau. He breaks down, blubbering, as soon as he sees the Butcher's patchwork face. He confesses sins already known, and is left in the alleyway clutching at the ragged remains of his gut.

The second and third fare little better. They, at least, put up some resistance. Le Boucher is disciplined, but his knives do ache for blood on a night like this. When one takes a wild swing with his own dagger, the Butcher grins beneath his mask as he slashes the man's wrist, blood spurting as the dagger tumbles to the ground. A spinning knife catches the other man in the back as he runs, but neither have concrete information. Two more bodies for the spiral. Had they not fought and run, he might have left them as he left the first: with a chance.

Dawn is well on its way by the time the Butcher finds his information. Another thug, but one he's seen with Barbeau many times. A cousin, perhaps, not terribly competent, but loyal and, for whatever reason, trusted. A mistake, plain and simple. He goes through the cheap wooden back door of his apartment and sprawls in the street, heaved more by his own weight than through what strength the Butcher has. He already stinks of piss, and the stain spreading across his thigh is soon joined by a darker color, as a knife plunges deep in his leg.

The man looks up with nothing but sheer horror in his eyes. You can't--

The knife presses just a bit deeper, drawing a breathless, silent scream. I can. I can leave you here to bleed to death like the pig you are. Or I can call out, and someone might reach you in time to stem the bleeding. Or I can cut your throat and have done with it. Le Boucher stands above him, a visage of death. La Mort. His face betrays no emotion, for it is a face of blood and leather and cruel stitching.

Where is Barbeau?

- - - - -

The fifth bell has tolled, the sixth will soon, as the Butcher finds his prey. It has been a long night, longer than he would have liked. The deed should have been done hours ago. But fate is a tricky thing. Men cling to life as though they know they are dying all the while, refuse to give up that which was never truly their own. Le Boucher will pry their fingers open, or cut them free.

So he stalks, quiet. He dare not make for the most impressive of entrances, the grandest of reveals. Appearing just behind in the shadows is a fine trick, a powerful tool, but Barbeau has escaped one such attempt tonight. He will not have a second chance.

Makes sense and sounds good to me. I like the imagery of it; imagining the bell tolls spreading from Le Temple Creux through the rest of the city is really neat.

Quick question for my thread: is the final Perception roll for the random thug who will point me to Barbeau, or for Barbeau himself, who I'm finally catching? Just want to make sure I post with the right event.

Also, as an aside, may I say: I'm already really loving the systems you're using for this cat-and-mouse hunt. Very intuitive while also very flavorful and fun!

As the Butcher stalks through the shadows, he dwells on the sounds of the night. It is true, there are few good people left in Isarn. Too many cheer for the rolling heads that tumble from the Final Blades. Too many are filled with the bloodlust that empowers Goss and his ilk. Le Boucher scowls beneath his hood at this thought. Many believe him to be ruled by that same bloodlust. But it is not thirst for violence which directs his blades. In a city that cries for death, a city of folk who treat their fellows as little more than stock for the charnel house, the Butcher may be the most sane of all.

At least, that is what he tells himself. It is the truth he holds onto as he lurks outside a tavern, crouched low in the darkness, listening and watching. And so Le Boucher waits, slipping from shadow to shadow as he checks the various exits. It takes hours, and it is darkest night in the city before he finally sees his prey. There. Barbeau is smart enough, at least, to leave through the back door; he might have slipped by, were the Butcher not diligent in his vigil. But as the man makes his way from the tavern, a shadow joins those behind him, creeping closer as he waits for the moment to strike...

But a door opens, light from within spilling into the street. Barbeau turns, and the Butcher is there, cast in shadow but visible, and the man runs. Le Boucher curses, and slips from the light. He can find the man again, he's certain--he knows all his hiding places, all his ways to go to ground. It is simply a matter of where he will run, and for how long he will think he can evade the fate now close at his heels.

In his cellar, the Butcher prepares. Apart from the dirt floored landing is the true vault of the old bank, and it is now his war room, with a chest of tools for his bloody trade. The lock on the front is a clever contraption, and he draws the key from his throat again. But this time, he draws the cord taut and inserts the back of the key into the lock. A quick and practiced series of twists later, and the click of the tumblers signals access.

First are the daggers. Tonight is a night of action: his recent work has been gathering information, learning names, surveying places. Tonight he strikes, and for the Butcher to do his work, his knives must be sharp. There are six: five long and lean, with blades made for death and blood. The last is his finest tool, a heavy blade with a jagged edge on the spine, made as much for ripping and hacking as slicing. He draws them all against the whetstone, meticulous and precise, smooth motions that ready the edges for the work ahead. Only after he judges each against a spare strip of cloth, growing shorter with each stroke, does he slide them in their sheathes. Two will go in his boots, two in the spring-loaded holsters strapped tight to his forearms, and two to his belt, easily drawn and visible to the enemy.

Next is the costume. He knows it is a costume, but he knows it is necessary: the Butcher can wear whatever he wishes, but the clothes make the man, and they give him the power of mystery and terror--one and the same, when people fear what they do not know. The smaller mask is first, black cloth with slits just enough for the eyes, covering his face from brow to the end of his nose. Next comes the wig: his long silvered hair is gathered and tied with a small leather thong, and covered with a shoulder-length mop of black. These are not necessary, he knows, for they should not be seen under his hood, but they are needed in case. An added layer of deception. Secrecy is security.

The visible costume has been acquired over time, pieces added and taken away until an image of horror came to fruition. The leather armor, studded with iron, is not hidden, but the apron which goes atop draws the eye with its crude stitching, patches, and bloodstains. His hood is that of the executioner, rough burlap and heavy clock, stitched with thick thread in a haphazard way; more stains add to the patchwork, and it smells as much of death as the apron. The knives are belted and sheathed, and his pack goes over his shoulders, holding his other tools: tools of healing, tools of pain. Into a pocket of the apron he places two small vials, containing a dark and viscous liquid. These are his voice, and he will drink one when he nears his quarry.

Finally, he is ready. It takes time for the Butcher to ready for his work, but that is good. Preparation leads to success. He must be prepared against danger, against surprise. He must protect his secret, and taking time aids in that protection. When he leaves the vault, it is quietly; he steals up to the second story, and looks through the barred window to the alleyway to ensure no one will see when he leaps down, pulling the bars shut again behind him.

Tonight, he seeks a man called Barbeau. A young fool, who thinks himself special for buying a piece of the city from the Caydogs. He feels that purchase has given him authority, security, the right to prey on the people of the Sud, but he is wrong to think that. The Butcher has watched men like Barbeau wither and die, whether at the end of the knife or simply the end of their days. But death will not wait long for this thief, this wretched leech on the good people of Isarn. Death comes in a sheath on the Butcher's belt.

And so, in the Isarn evening, an elf in a mask of terror stalks the streets. He makes for where he believes his prey will be tonight: a place Barbeau frequents, relaxing in the pleasures he has purchased with stolen coin, paid for with the sweat and blood and tears of the people. The Butcher recites Pharasma's words in his head as he goes, remaining as dispassionate as he can, reminding himself that this is the work of life and death, insuring prosperity for those Barbeau would maim or kill. But he is also eager, for he hopes this will be a good night of fine work.

Athanas Sylvain watches the last of his employees leaving the office, his hands folded behind the small of his back. The sole window of his office's foyer is heavily crossed with crude iron bars, breaking up the scene beyond, but such is the price to pay for natural lighting in today's Isarn. The elf is tall and thin, his age-silvered hair flowing below his shoulders, his clothing the simple attire of the middle-class artisan--his surgery clothes are already off to the laundry of Le Remède, to be duly washed and returned the next morning. His bearing is statuary, his pale eyes unblinking as they follow the workers down the street. Only after they are beyond his view does he move, and then quickly: he draws a key from his pouch as he walks, and barely pauses to unlock the door to his office before stepping inside and relocking the door.

The office is well-furnished, if sparsely, but he does not dwell long within. Behind the desk, Sylvain crouches down, drawing a second key, this one from a thin cord around his neck. It fits just so in a crack between two of the floor's tiles, and turning it triggers an audible click as a section of the floor comes free on its hinge. With a final anxious glance toward the office's door, Sylvain opens the trapdoor and descends the stairs beneath, closing it behind him.

The hidden room is dark, but Sylvain knows well where he keeps his belongings here, and has established a routine. The flint and steel are set on a small table at the bottom of the eleven stone stairs, and next to them, a candle in its holder. The wick catches on the second strike, and he takes the light up to light other candles about the room. A human might have trouble navigating with such sparse lighting, but Sylvain's keen eyes fare well in the gloom. Once the candles are lit, he goes about his first order of business, settling onto the floor of the landing and sifting through the dirt.

It takes some time to unearth all the bones, but they are quickly formed into the proper spiral. Once they have been laid out, Sylvain pulls two small pieces of parchment from his pouch, strips on which he wrote names earlier in the day, during spare moments. One he sets at the outer end of the spiral: Emma Dupond, a girl delivered the day before in one of the rooms upstairs. The other paper, he lays at the center of the spiral: George Roche, who finally passed this morning, after many years of incessant coughing.

Sylvain chants, low and soft, as he moves around the spiral, circling about it, tracing his way into and then out of its curves, trailing the black scarf in which he keeps the bones. The hymns are Pharasmin, old and forbidden in this city. He has no book, but his voice does not stumble. When he reaches the place where he began his circling, Sylvain kneels and looks down, falling silent for several minutes, falling deep within himself.

Finally, the elf takes a long, deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling once. Le Boucher raises his head, his eyes gleaming in the flickering light of the candles. By now, the seventh bell has come and gone, and night is coming fast to Isarn. It will soon be the Butcher's time. His tools wait in his chest; his work waits in the streets.

So sorry--somehow I missed checking in on this thread Thursday evening, and yesterday I was on the road traveling to visit family.

Estelle--That sounds good to me! I missed the fact that our actual bases of operation were at either end of the district, but agree that the pair would still have some contact. I also like that starting point and the potential for fleshing things out further as things go on. For my part, I imagine it's enough of an acquaintance-ship that Athanas probably makes a point of purchasing supplies directly from Versatile Vials whenever he can.

Other than that, I don't think I'm missing anything I need to respond to, and I believe Athanas is ready to go at this point--let me know if I am missing anything.

For what it's worth, Athanas is torn about his activities, and would very much like for there to be a Galt where Le Boucher doesn't exist. I'll leave his backstory alone for now, even though the last section of the writing doesn't apply just yet--unless he changes drastically as a character in his first chapters, I think it'll still fit very nicely.

I also want to note that Le Boucher is apparently a bit different from my fellow new vigilantes! He neither appears as if from thin air, nor does he disappear into it; even if he smells like musty earth, the man is quite mundane in his activities. He either steps out of darkness or drops from a low rooftop, oftentimes throwing knives before moving in close, and he leaves the same way: on foot and into darkness. He also isn't silent when he fights, and while he usually doesn't speak much with the people he rescues--thanks to his cultivated persona, they're generally almost as afraid of him as the criminals--he doesn't avoid speech when it comes to it.

EDIT: Something else comes to my attention: Athanas and Estelle are both Forlorn elves who live in the Sud Rivière, both have Renown there in fact, and are both merchants (even dealing in potentially similar fields--Athanas has probably purchased alchemical supplies and remedies from Versatile Vials to supplement his own business in the past). I feel that they should definitely know one another at least in passing; would you like them to have more of a relationship at game start, Estelle? I imagine two Forlorn would find a few things in common that they wouldn't have with the average person, even if Athanas is, by my reckoning, at least fifty-odd years older than Estelle is.

Whatever the relation is, I definitely think it'd be confined to their social identities. I think both of us are too invested in the secrecy of our vigilantism to share that without a great deal of trust... and Athanas is paranoid to boot, so he'd rather not share at all unless his hand is forced or he knows someone very well (ideally to the point of mutual dark secrets being shared, e.g., they're also a vigilante, or engaged in a conspiracy to topple the government).

Alright, I've updated the profile with equipment (apologies for not having it done sooner--I started at one point and never finished going over the little things), along with a new background spoiler specifically for the vigilante persona. If anything needs adjusted, added, or changed there, let me know!

To summarize, his area of renown and operation is the Sud Rivière, although he might occasionally venture into the Industrial District in search of his prey. He mainly targets thieves and robbers, but extortionists and their ilk are not safe from him, either, especially if they prey on common folk who can't defend themselves. He is known by his butcher's apron, patchwork executioner's hood, and hefty knife, as well as the vicious wounds on his victims and his rough, low voice (generally helped along by use of gravelly tonic), when he issues his threats and oaths.

As for a location for his buildings, I was looking at a spot near the Industrial District, but still in the Sud Rivière. Fittingly enough, I found a bank in a good location: the Banque Martin Maurel at 17, AV Hoche, 75008. Assuming the scale for distances is roughly the same in Isarn, I could see the bathhouse being where the Hotel Etoile Saint-Honore is in real life, at 214 rue du Faubourg Saint Honore. But honestly it can go anywhere fairly close to the main offices, and may not even really need or deserve its own map marker to differentiate. Your call, of course!

Thanks so much for having me, very excited to be here! I'm interested to see what us vigilantes will get up to as a side story to the main conspirators... But I will equally say, I wouldn't want things to get too cluttered or detract from the main story. If it's too much, I fully understand if we need to be dropped.

Big thanks to Lilli for adding spreadsheet info and such! As for the map, I've found, fittingly enough, a bank in Paris situated about where I envisioned Sylvain's main offices (address is 17, AV Hoche, 75008 Paris). Based on that, I'd set the bathhouse roughly at 214 rue du Faubourg Saint Honore, if the distances are scaling 1:1 between real life Paris and Isarn. If not, that estimation might be a bit off.

I'll also wrap up the final mundane purchases for Athanas shortly; it looks like I never totally finished that and put it in his profile.