[ J o u r n a l ] Antonín || Dawn Tempest's Rogue

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Entry o1
Location :: Venezia, Italia

As the sun broke the horizon, Antonín pulled on his boots. The salty sea breeze fluffed the lace curtains, billowing them like delicate sails the polished wood floors and furniture. Lavish garments unceremoniously strewn across the floor hinted at the night of unbridled passion, however, the lingering smile of utter satisfaction on the faces of the rosy skinned maidens with disheveled curls, spoke volumes. Another wild luxurious party. Another crowd full of unsuspecting dupes. Unfortunately, nestled between sheets of satin, three beautiful, unsuspecting victims, of Antonín’s cupidity slept peacefully in drunken bliss.

His single condition of their luring him to heiress’s boudoir was that he must leave at the break of dawn. Collecting up the trinkets of jewels and gold, scattered upon the table, he waded through the garments, toward the door leading to the balcony. Before he left, laid his fine Italian mask and a piece of parchment. When the ladies would later fight over the letter from their mysterious lover, all they would find is a mere shadow of his true identity, a boldly penned “E”, a reminder of "Eugensenti", but the throbbing exhaustion from the night before would linger for a fortnight.

"May you treasure our brief time together, as it was our first and last," Anonín whispered poetically, hearing the servants in the hall, he realized his departure needed to be hastened. With a final, airy kiss, Antonín disappeared behind the curtain, slipping down the trellis, through the garden, and over the wall, heading toward the port where his ship waited to whisk him away again.  

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[PRP]

Featuring :: Val
Location :: France (1775)

Shipwrecked. Even the most seasoned of servants and devout lovers of the Seven Seas, can be thrashed into submission by his salty mistresses. Their barrages of tempests, squalls, and hurricanes, however, were not attacks, but a means of telling the overzealous pirate to slowdown before he got himself killed, or worse caught. Despite his protests, the servants at his Marseille estate refused to allow their master access to another boat until his injuries healed. When word reached Versaille that fate delivered the elusive Vicomte di Marseille, Corentin to the French coastline, weary messengers delivering anxious letters flooded his parlor and drawing rooms. From sunrise to sunset, Antonín's eyes remained fixated upon the rosy horizon and the crashing waves coaxing him 'back home'. Five years had passed since he settled himself in Marseille, but less than a year had passed since his washing up on the shore. By that point, however, Antonín had already made a name for himself in French high society, noted for his elusive and seductive nature.

"I have no interest in header further inland," Antonín flatly refused, dismissing another rather irritated servant ambivalently, rolling a gold coin across the back of his knuckled. 'No interest' was loosely interpreted no financial profit, but then a rather detailed letter from an old friend grabbed his attention by the anchor. It spoke of ladies of the highest grade, like the finest wines, pouring out wealth like water. The letter chronicled nightlong parties of debauchery and mischief, where anyone could be anyone, and do just about anything for the night; dalliance with the Queen, steal from the King, all under the premise of frivolity and with the safety of costuming. The letter seduced Antonín, tempting him with every last one of his vices, forcing his hand to write an enigmatic reply, which was hastened to Versaille immediately.

Antonín descended upon one of Marie Antoinette's famed costume parties without his entourage in tow. Dressed in weathered finery, he strolled in under the presumptuous guise of being the legendary pirate scoundrel Captain Arshavir Eguntsenti. In reality, he simply employed one of his more infamous aliases for the sake of indulging of the spoils and tarts of Versaille. Wind swept curls, kissed blond by the sun, rebelled beneath the scarf tied over his head. A pair of glittering emerald eyes scanned the crowd from behind a black mask: a hungry wolf searching for the sweetest, most tender kill among the flock. So many delicate flowers begging to the plucked from the garden of sin and lust, yet Antonín refused to rest until that one face which haunted his darkest urges.