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Post by Spain on Sept 12, 2010 16:57:43 GMT -5
I love those who can smile in trouble, who can gather strength from distress, and grow brave by reflection. Tis the business of little minds to shrink, but they whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves their conduct, will pursue their principles unto death. – Leonardo de Vinci
2 May 1808
As the sunlight fell upon Madrid in the late morning, coloring the streets in bright gold and yellow, a pair of men ran, their breathing hitched as they sprinted down the unusually empty road. Though it was not uncommon for the city’s youth to be sprinting across the pavement, the intensity in their eyes would cause any passer-by to stand in alarm. It was not because of their appearance since their dress signified that they were not the impoverished, though they were not exactly part of the rich either. But rather, normally, the strums of the flamenco guitar echoed down the narrow streets of Madrid as the old man serenaded the people as they began their morning strolls.
Instead, masses of civilians, young and old, some men, some women, were out and about. Their strides were full of intention and the expressions on their faces, purposeful. Though while those people were headed for one direction, these two men ran in the opposite direction, each carrying a sheathed sword with them as they ran. Almost knocking over a couple women who were on their way to the market to buy ingredients to make supper for the evening, they muttered their apologies over their back. After all, they were on a mission this morning, determined to get to their destination as quickly as possible. After making a few twists and turns through alleyways and main roads, they reached a plain looking house sitting on the eastern edge of the city.
Reaching the door, the first of the two pounded on the door aggressively, the sound shouting desperation with each sequential knock. “Antonio! Antonio!” he cried as he knocked on the door, while the other one looked up and down the street, caution written across his face.
The door slowly opened, allowing the light to shine in and illuminate an olive green eye. When the eye lit up in recognition, the door opened wider as the man ushered them inside. “Hey, Sergio, Andrés, come in!” he said, “no need to stay outside!” Once they were inside, he closed the door quickly, letting them take their seats in the wooden makeshift chairs that were set at the table by the entrance. Antonio remained standing as he studied them closely, curiosity clearly reflected in his eyes as he studied them.
Ever since his return to Madrid, after a narrow escape from house arrest in Bayonne, Antonio Fernández Carriedo had been lying low, not even bothering to return to his home. After all, if Francis had discovered that he had run back to Spain, there would have been a fair chance that a troop would be dispatched to drag him back again, something that he would much rather avoid. During his time spent in hiding from the French and their spies, renting a unit from a family that he had known for years (it had been easy to pass off as just another Fernández), he had started to meet secretly with other Madrileños, people who were disgruntled with their latest occupants, discontent with the French interference with their affairs.
In all honesty, Antonio felt the same sentiments as many of them, the feeling of betrayal felt like a stab to the heart, especially since it was Francis who did it of all people. They had fought like brothers, both with and against each other, and even seen their masters marry their children to each other! To have this happen suddenly caused the Spaniard to feel even worse about welcoming the French army to his house like his people did, thinking that Francia just wanted a more favorable attacking position so that they could conquer the Portuguese together!
But all he could do was grimace bitterly whenever he had recollections of the moment when his people, his lands fell into French control.
“So what brings you here?” Antonio asked as he looked over the two men, “we know that it can’t be about a divine revelation, no?” He ran a hand through his chocolate brown hair, recently cropped during his stay in Bayonne, to help keep his appearances “neat.” He had met these men while he was frantically seeking a refuge in the city, knowing that as long as The French were in the city, he could not return to his own home, even though it was so close by.
“Antonio,” Andrés started, “after our meeting yesterday, we were just in the streets when we overheard some of the franceses talking about how that leader of theirs issued an order for Infante Francisco de Paula and Infanta Maria Luisa be taken away! They’re doing it today, people are gathering in el Plaza de Oriente!”
Alarmed, Antonio merely stared at Andrés in silence, processing what he had just heard. “¿C-cómo?” he asked in disbelief, it had only been recently that King Fernándo had left for Bayonne in hopes of having talks in regards to Portugal. Though it was apparent that they were holding the king ransom, albeit unofficially, things were starting to look even more unfavorable for them. By holding the king and el infante prisoner, it could only give Francia an easier access to the Spanish throne, something that could not, must not, happen.
“It’s in el Plaza de Oriente?” he repeated rhetorically as he sighed, clearly distracted in his thoughts, though both Andrés and Sergio both nodded affirmatively. Without a word, Antonio left the room disappearing behind the doorframe and returning with an old musket that he had acquired over the years, though it was a pain to reload it to fire, and a sword. Though rare, the Spaniard did not smile, but instead wore a face of irritation as he strapped on a sheath for his sword and threw the gun over his shoulder. “Well, looks like we’ll be looking to drive out some franceses, no?” he tried to say playfully, though the words were clearly forced, “we have to stop them from taking away our infante y infanta!”
With that, the pair got up, following Antonio out of the house quickly, breaking into a light run after the Spaniard locked up his house. A couple people ran past them, crying, “¡Que nos lo llevan!” and informing the city about the French’s treacherous plans. Other people were headed west towards el Palacio Real, carrying whatever form of weapon they could find, ranging from muskets to knives and swords or whatever else they could find in their homes. Though there was only a cluster of people running around where they were, the numbers increasing as they had passed Buen Retiro, causing Antonio to desperately hope that they would be able to reach the palace in time.
In the distance, Antonio could hear the cries of the Madrileños, their resounding disapproval of the French clearly filling out the plaza as they approached. He muttered a small prayer to San Diego for guidance, for whatever happened today to end in their favor even if he would be fighting someone who he had thought was a close friend. Then as a second thought, he muttered a prayer to San Nicolás as well, for the infante and infanta to be safe and that they had not been taken away. If that happened, all the planning that he had done, the time he had spent meeting and plotting to drive the French out would be in vain.
At first when they reached Plaza de Oriente, the crowd was too dense for them to try to make an attempt to get closer to the palace gates because of the sheer number of angry citizens who were there already. Antonio slowed down to catch his breath, taking a look around to see how filled the plaza had become. As far as he could tell, the center had been filled completely, packed and threatening to overflow to the sides. Frowning a little, Antonio tried to push through the crowd to keep the pillar from blocking his view. However, he found it difficult, as each person was too engrossed with throwing colorful insults at the French official who entered into Palacio Real.
Then suddenly, one of the men pointed at the palace, muttering before it spread throughout the crowd like wildfire. “The infante is crying!” some members of the crowd shouted, “que nos lo llevan!” Watching as the people in the crowd gradually join in chanting, Antonio could not help but feel a sense of national pride welling up in his chest, a sense of unity forming as several people starting to wave their weapons, passion coloring their words as they cried. The Spaniard could not help but go with the flow as he joined in as well. “Que nos lo llevan!” he cried loudly, his voice fiery as he raised his gun in the air as he pumped his arm, “Que nos lo llevan! He doesn’t want to go with you! Just go back to where you came from!” He could feel the unease in the crowd as they pushed back and forth, deep anger growing as the French troops tried to hold them off from advancing any further, but paid no attention as he moved with the swaying.
Then suddenly, almost as if the crowd had lost its self-restraint, a few of the men in the front started to advancing onto the French soldiers, grabbing them and pulling them into different directions. Or at least, that was what it looked like from where the Spaniard was standing. “What’s going on?” Sergio asked him as he strained to see over the heads of the people who were there.
“It looks like the crowd is getting sick of dealing with the soldiers, so they’re fighting back,” Antonio replied, deciding against telling him that it looked like they were getting torn apart. For a few seconds, the Spaniard paused to wipe the sweat that started to drip down the nape of his neck and across his brow, keeping it out of his vision. Then he turned his head, something catching his attention as he saw another French patrol rush over and try to wrestle the struggling men from certain death at the hands of an angry, bloodthirsty Spaniard crowd.
Just as they retreated, the mob seemed to lose its cool, advancing again towards the palace, just as a group of armed men marched in, wearing a uniform that could only belong to the French army. Antonio watched in alarm as the brigade loaded their guns before pointing them at the crowd. Though the crowd had been rowdy, acting out of anger and defiant in the face of the French army, Antonio’s eyes widened in disbelief as the troops pointed their guns at the crowd.
Without warning, gunshots ripped through the air, creating a cloud of smoke as people in the crowd fell over, wounded by the soldiers. However the action only appeared to agitate the crowd further as some picked up the fallen and carried them off while the rest of them merely charged forward as the soldiers stopped to reload, brandishing their own swords and knives. Antonio turned to look at Andrés and Sergio for guidance, only to see that the two of them were feeling as strongly about the situation as he was. Sergio had already taken out an old cutlass that had been passed onto him while Andrés had already unsheathed his own sword.
With people pushing around them from all sides, nudging them towards the palace as they shouted in anger, Antonio could see that he did not really have any choice at this point but to charge forward and challenge the French. Slinging his gun back over his shoulder, the Spaniard withdrew his sword, crafted finely in the last decade for battle. He would have thought that he would be using it in a war, but in his eyes, this was just as much a legitimate war. After all, he was fighting for his own existence, his own sovereignty and his own people. As the sunlight glistened off the pristine blade, he yelled as he rushed forward.
“Viva España!”
Notes: - For those of you who don't know, Bad Friends Trio (BFT) consists of France, Prussia and Spain - Dos de Mayo is the day that the Spaniards finally decided to rise up against the French occupants who had taken over in March. Their prior king, King Carlos IV was forced to abdicate the throne to his son Fernándo VII, and the long unpopular Minister of Foreign Affairs, Godoy (who was also the queen's lover) was forced to resign as well. These two events led to Napoleon's loss of confidence in the political stability of Spain and his decision to take over the kingdom. During this time, Napoleon was trying to force the king to step down to install his brother Joseph on the throne, but the Spaniards felt very strongly about that and finally decided to fight back when Murat (a French commander) tried to take away the former monarch's children. Fed up, the many rebellions sprung up around the kingdom, triggered by the strong sense of Spanish identity (sentimiento nacional). The rise of such sentiments would play a huge role in Spanish politics in years to come as people would play up to it and use it to manipulate the kingdom and its people. - L'Amour de Soi: Love of Self; Jean-Jacque Rousseau's political theory talks about this notion that man has these primal instinct for self-preservation, not too different from that of an animal. As a result, this desire to sustain himself will often drive his need to survive in society. - L'Amour-Propre: Self Love; According to Jean-Jacque Rousseau, there is also the notion that is opposite of l'amour de soi, a notion that man also receives self-esteem based on society's perception of them. As a result, man could never obtain true happiness in society. - Infante y Infanta: Prince and Princess - Que nos lo llevan: They are taking him away! The crowd started yelling when they heard that Infante Francisco de Paula started crying (some accounts say while standing in the balcony), which the crowd took to mean that he did not want to go to France. - Madrileños: People who were born and live in Madrid - San Diego: St. James, the patron saint of Spain - San Nicolás: St. Nicholas, the patron saint of children - Viva España!: Long live Spain![/font][/size]
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Post by France on Sept 17, 2010 3:56:30 GMT -5
If there was one thing that the French militia had, it was stylish uniforms. Or at least, Francis thought so. Everything from the dark blue of his waistcoat, to the ornate golden epaulettes, to the tail pockets -with piping no less- were the very definition of stylish by his way of thinking. This was an era of pompous dress for Francis and his army, and if detailed, flashy uniforms were all that was needed to win wars, then nobody would stand in the way of his armies. England wouldn’t stand a chance. In spite of his vanity and obsession with style, Francis was not ridiculous enough to put all his faith in flashy and important looking garments. There were things far more important that uniforms and looking amazing, which was why he had come to Madrid in the first place. Today, his forces were to remove Charles’ children from the palace and move them back to Bayonne; a task that seemed rather simple to Francis. How hard could it be to simply go in there, get the infante and his adult sister and march on back to Bayonne? C’est facile, hadn’t that been what General Murat had implied?
In any case, Francis had another reason to be prowling the streets of Madrid this warm May morning, in addition to his leaders’ orders to assist the good general. Charles IV may have been in Bayonne at the moment, but someone else who should have been there was not. A certain loveable Spaniard seemed to have vanished from under France’s rule, no doubt having fled from Bayonne the moment Francis had turned his attention elsewhere. There could be no doubt that Antonio had returned to his home, the question had been where was he hiding? Madrid seemed a likely place, if nothing else for the fact that Charles’ children were still here. There was no way to be completely sure however, without word from any of the French spies in the area. Who would have thought that tracking down another country could be such a chore?
But Francis was not alone in this endeavor. Just as his Grande Armée had the Prussian Regiment to help out, Francis had Gilbert by his side. Together, they would find Antonio and force him back to his proper place in Bayonne, by any means necessary. With any luck Antonio would see the sense in coming back with them quietly and without fuss. France was not a particularly bloodthirsty nation, and he still liked to think of Spain and him as being on friendlier terms; or as friendly of terms as they could be on with him ordering Spain under house arrest and pushing his nose so far into Spanish affairs. It really was for Spain’s own good though and it was annoying that the Spaniards didn’t seem to see this. That was the problem with the world sometimes; nobody thought exactly like Francis.
Fancying himself the leader between him and Gilbert, Francis lead the way through the dusty streets of the Spanish city. There were not many people left in the immediate area, and the few civilians who were out on the streets were all heading in one direction- towards el Plaza de Oriente. What these mere citizens hoped to accomplish by being in the plaza was a mystery to the blonde Frenchman. Surely they couldn’t expect to stop his forces from taking the children away? Being as how he and Prussia were heading towards the plaza themselves, he supposed he would find the answer to that question soon enough.
Arriving at the plaza, Francis was greeted with the unnerving sight of far too many people packed in such a limited area. Not just any people either, but angry looking and sounding Madrileños, screaming and shouting at the French soldiers who barred their paths. Francis tried to ignore the cries of "que nos lo llevan!" and focused on scanning the disagreeable looking group. The Spaniards were losing patience and all traces of reason and were starting to struggle with Francis’ well trained soldiers in vain attempt to get past. He predicted that things were not going to end well, even before the gunshots started in. Such madness and chaos! Not to mention disregard for French authority. Indignation setting in, his hand slipped to his calvary officer’s sabre, gripping the slightly cool metal handle but not yet withdrawing the blade. Not explicitly being a member of the infantry, Francis lacked the rifle and bayonette that many of his men used. This did not bother him in the least however, his sabre was much less common and more flashy, a perfect fit for a great country such as himself. It was a reminder that he was not some mere infantry, either by dress or by weapon choice.
The Madrileños were in full charge now, but Francis had an advantage being behind the throngs of people. He and Prussia had not been there earlier to take part personally in removing Charles’ children from the palace which meant that they were not in the immediate sights of the spirited civilians. He was about to turn to his Prussian companion and say something, when a familiar form caught his eye in the impossibly thick crowd. Fighting alongside his own misguided people, was Spain himself, his distinct and familiar features noticeable to France despite the crowd surrounding him. “Look who we have here, Gilbert. Our friend Antonio must have decided to come out of hiding.” He studied the Spaniard in action momentarily before the other was swallowed up by the crowd again. There were two pressing issues now, helping to stomp out the resistance and dragging Spain back to Bayonne where he belonged. The feisty Spanish country should have known better than to have run off in the first place. Of course Francis would find him, eventually. Really it had only been a matter of time.
“On y va.” he commanded, as if he thought Gilbert needed told. In truth, Francis just loved being in a position to give commands to someone. Especially when that someone else was a fellow country. There was a slightly intoxicating feeling of power to be had by giving orders and actually having them followed. Finally withdrawing his blade from its overly ornate sheath, the blonde nation charged towards the crowd, intent on finding and dealing with Antonio first.
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C'est facile = It's easy. On y va = Let's go.
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Post by Prussia on Oct 3, 2010 3:57:15 GMT -5
A/N: And the rating goes up to PG-13 for Gilbert's dirty mouth and an unpleasant ending.______________________ Gilbert could sense that Francis was doing him a great wrong by ordering the Prussian's around. Those men were born Prussians, not French. Their ruler was King Wilhelm, not Emperor Napoleon. Their country was Prussia, not France. Gilbert was not like Francis, could never be Francis, he hated Francis! But he kind of liked Francis’s boss. A strong and powerful man, that one was. So over and over Gilbert's thoughts ran in circles, giving him no relief and only making him more anxious. An anxiety King Wilhelm had forbidden him to breathe a word about to anyone lest Francis discovers his puppet did not like having its strings pulled. If anyone thought he was fucking pleased about all this, however, they probably had their head up their asses anyway. King Wilhelm told Gilbert to play nice with Francis, to obey— I'm not weak, I'm not finished, it's not over yet—but King Wilhelm's council told the King what scum the French really were. Gilbert hadn't heard their words for his own ears, however, he wasn’t allowed to hear about the discontent, but the maids were more than happy to loosen their lips when a silver comb or dainty necklace slipped its way into their apron pockets when he brushed up close beside them and asked if they had a moment to spare. But shit, if anything was like Francis, trying to get cozy with the hired help certainly was. At least he could make his great escape through the palace when he had heard the words he wanted. He wouldn’t be like Francis, damn it! House arrest wasn't too hard to handle. It was the feeling of being paper-thin that did him in at first. In the beginning came the horrendous defeat— I should have won! Undefeated since the Seven Years War, I should have fucking won!—that was swiftly followed by the occupation, with the feeling of something akin to hundreds to thousands of creepy crawlers wriggling beneath his skin for hours on end. It had lasted him a day, a long day, and then it was no more, thank fucking God. Yet insult came to injury. The money flowed like water through Gilbert's hands as he had to fund Francis's damn pleasure stay for nearly two years, and even still the theoretical axe gave Prussia the chop. Two-thirds of his lands, gone in one fell swoop. His army was nearly decimated to nothing more than a few crumbs of the glory it had once been. Gilbert would have called it a nightmare but he still wasn't sure if it was over yet. It was as though his body moved on its own and he merely watched. Waited and watched, for there was nothing he could do. Francis thought himself the savior of the day when he created his Prussian Regiment--it was only an idiot who thought he could call that motley gang a Prussian Regiment, even if the men were Prussian--from men who were still boys, officers who had been nobodies in Gilbert's real army, and, of course, the prisoners. Mostly prisoners just like Gilbert, just like Prussia. With nothing better to do at home besides waste away and hope that remaining one-third of his land wasn’t pulled out from under his feet, Gilbert brought what was left of his meager ambitions and faded grandeur to at least follow a man of intelligence, cunning, and a skill for warfare. It was only a shame that Gilbert had to stick by Francis's side to do that. He almost had half a mind to shot himself in order to get on medical leave. The desertion rate of his Prussians alone was high enough to show for it. The other half, however, dreaded what Francis might do if Gilbert showed any more weakness. “Look who we have here, Gilbert. Our friend Antonio must have decided to come out of hiding.”There also came the issue that Gilbert was a good soldier. Shooting himself to get out of rank was not an option. Even his continuous wish to stab the real Francis in the face one day was just a numb undercurrent of his present thoughts. With his attention ready, his eyes sweeping across the masses of civilians with their guns and sticks, fancying themselves fighters for whatever cause they had dreamed up, he managed to find the one Spaniard in particular. "I see him," he replied, voice flat and his lip quirked up in a smile yet there was no amusement there. Red eyes followed as Antonio seemed to charge forward into the mob in front of the gate, his mouth opening in a shout that Gilbert was too far to hear. If following Francis's commands was what it took for Gilbert to regain his old fighting skills, he would continue to keep his mouth shut like the subordinate he was. Leading and following both had their pros and cons anyhow: either you led and got shot first or you followed and got shot in the ass. It was thoughts like that that helped Gilbert feel a little better about his current position, but not by much. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and adjusted the rifle in his hands, a pale finger tapping quietly and rapidly in some strange anticipation. Not quite eager but not quite reluctant to fight. The fact that he was not on the receiving end of this battle helped relieved him of some pent-up tension. The mob in front of the gates looked like pigs ready to be rounded up and brought down. “On y va” Francis commanded and Gilbert was charging forward without delay, a simple bark of "Ja" resounding from his lips. He had nothing against Antonio, and Gilbert's own involvement in all this was not even a political move against him. If going after Antonio meant to keep Francis from leering over Gilbert's back, he would fight. It had turned to chaos at the gate. Gilbert did not much care for what happened to the French guards, but the civil disobedience put a bad taste in his mouth. He focused his path on his target while keeping his wits about him. The target was in that chaotic sea of swords and shouts and blood, however, and so Gilbert slipped the strap of his gun over his head and arm to sling it on his back and drew his saber before he slipped into the meat of it all. Antonio did not seem to notice his advance. Gilbert was just another fighter, just another threat among many, his sword no sharper than any others. As he made his approach, he was jostled and pushed. He pushed them back towards other foes, a few clashes of sword in some cases before he managed to make his way through, and hurried on. There was little interest or point to waste any of his good effort on same random civilian. Gilbert was upon his target within minutes and Antonio's back was as open as ever. A swift cut to come, a clean defeat to end this, and then with Antonio on his knees, Francis would pay Gilbert back handsomely for his assistance. Not in this fucking lifetime. It was a sad day when Gilbert’s idle wishing could not be depended on anymore. His sword was raised low for an undercut lest he leave himself open to a side attack. His face was blank, eyes narrowed as he kept his focus, and the strike rose to slice across the rich fabric on Antonio's back. The sudden thought of how fucking ridiculous all this was crossed his mind and his strength slackened. Yet the slice continued and finished with the clatter of swords. Someone had stretched out at the last minute and cut off Gilbert's attack. The flash of anger at being blocked, at having Antonio vanish behind this new opponent, lasted only a second. The man was an idiot, too eager to jump into a fight with a new opponent without gaining proper footing, only having the goal of blocking Gilbert's initial attack without preparing for the next one to come. The intruder paid for the mistake with steel piercing through his belly. Gilbert's left hand grabbed the man's wrist after a sudden attempt to counter, and the sword fell from the man’s hand after a quick twist and the crack of a wrist under Gilbert’s fingers. Over the man's shoulder, Gilbert's eyes finally made contact with Antonio's. It sent a shiver up his spine but he said nothing, his face expression revealing nothing, his lips sealed. A final jerk of the sword into the man's gut enforced the wound to bleed and with a well polished black boot--one of the few things he could appreciate about being Francis's Prussian Regiment--he kicked the man into Antonio in hopes of catching him off balance. It was easy to catch a prey with a net, but a heavy body would work as well.
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Post by Spain on Oct 5, 2010 1:52:38 GMT -5
The clang of metal coming into contact with metal, a sense of injustice done, and a need for survival ran through Antonio’s mind as he defended himself against his opponent. Parrying the bayonet as the Frenchmen thrust at him, he followed the blade in and slashed downward to send the man flying backwards. Olive green eyes burned with passion as he watched his opponent writhe in pain before ignoring him, the man was good as down anyway. Sergio had disappeared in to the crowd, eager to challenge the French soldiers in an attempt to protect the infante and infanta. Granted the youth had a tendency to act on his impulses and let his temper get the best of him. However, he could see Andrés close by, fighting just as fiercely as anyone else around him.
With the vibrant blue color of the French uniform, it had not been hard to pick out the French soldiers from the Madrileños, who were dressed much more modestly. Granted, a few decades ago he would not have minded the sight of the French uniform, in fact, he welcomed it. However, that was when they worked together as allies in war, but betrayal had completely turned any of the Spaniard’s warm regards for the Frenchmen into spite. Antonio was not about to complain about the uniforms at this moment, they made those ridiculous peacocks easier to target!
Men and women fell down around him, the latest casualties of the riot as Spaniards fought against Frenchmen like freedom versus oppression. He could feel his blood boil as the adrenaline coursed through him, driving his aggression as he crossed blades with the next man. He had not felt such purpose driving his being forward, perhaps not ever since la Reconquista when he was finally able to become whole.
“Toño!”
Upon hearing his name, the Spaniard turned around, surprised by the devastation in the voice. Olive green eyes met crimson red eyes, widening as Antonio’s body stiffened for a second, though the moment felt more like an eternity. When he realized he had been stalling, he noticed that Andrés stood petrified and watched in horror as the man crumpled, revealing Gilbert’s freshly stained blade. “No,” the word escaped his lips as his weapon arm dropped and he held his free arm out to catch the man when the Prussian kicked the wounded Spaniard.
“Andrés, Dios Mio! You’re bleeding!” he cried as fresh blood oozed from the stab wound, “Quickly put pressure on it to stop the bleeding!” To emphasize his point, he ripped his necktie from around his neck and pressed it to the wound, concern growing as the cloth quickly stained red. Seeing how bad the bleeding was, Antonio could tell how deep the wound was, desperation surging through his mind as he tried to figure out how to save his friend. Conflict seeped into his heart as he tried to weigh out the option of running away with the man in order to get medical attention against staying and fighting Gilbert as a way to avenge his friend. After all, there were very few bonds were as strong as that which existed between the state and its people.
“No,” Andrés said, teeth gritted together as he pulled Antonio’s hand away, and shook his head, “don’t worry about me.” The statement caused his lips to tighten as he shook his head in refusal for there was no way that Antonio could even think of abandoning his own countryman, especially one who was so willing to give his life over to his nation. The Spaniard felt so moved as he held up the man and proceeded to look around for someone to help carry André to a medic or a church, anywhere that could help at this point. But then the man pushed his arm away, stepping back as he pressed the other hand – which was bent at an odd angle – to his wound. “No,” Andrés said as he shook his head as said weakly, “I can find some place to get bandaged up, I’ll manage by myself, just get those franceses out of our city all right?” Antonio could only watch in half-bafflement and half-helplessness, as the man limped away, knowing that Prussia would be sure to follow if he decided to turn his back.
Prussia. Antonio stopped himself from saying the country’s name out as he glared at the man with enough anger to slice him open. Over the last century, he could never quite figure out if they were allies or enemies, though he knew for sure that regardless of the situation, Gilbert was most definitely a formidable force on the continent. Here the Spaniard found himself standing on the opposite side of the man, sword drawn, hesitant to jump into engagement because he could not read the expression on his face. That in itself caught him off-guard for as long as he could remember, Gilbert was one of the most extroverted people he knew. Though, he thought to himself, perhaps times changed? After all, even though Prussia lost to France recently, why would a Prussian even be here? Antonio’s eyes swept over the Prussian’s form, the royal blue sleeves, the red trim and the white breeches and smirked. A French uniform, the irony.
Unfortunately for him, it looked like not only was France an enemy, but evidently Prussia was also not on his side.
In comparison, Antonio’s appearance was far more modest, having discarded most of his luxuries when he went into hiding. His simple linen shirt, collar loosened when he had undone his necktie earlier, covered his dusty breeches. But the Spaniard did not really care about the difference, at least he was not dressed like a dog of the French. Thrusting his sword at Gilbert, pommel raised at chest-level, he spoke with an intensity that matched the look in his olive green eyes. “It’s been a while, Gilbert, it’s great to see you,” he remarked snidely, displeasure clear as crystal in his voice, “I suppose they got you, didn’t they?”
Taking a step towards the Prussian, Antonio narrowed his eyes and smiled mirthlessly, “You’re letting Francis order you around now? Talk about everything being backwards!”
Notes: (Because I forgot them!) - After talking amongst ourselves, we decided that Prussia would indeed be wearing a French uniform. That conversation inspired Prussia to write this: Today I join Francis's Prussian Regiment. I wish I had seen the uniforms before I signed up. They are exactly the same as the French army's. FML. (Please tell me if I need to take this off.) - I almost started writing certain phrases in Spanish, but refrained, after all, we do speak English here. Orz
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Post by France on Oct 8, 2010 4:45:05 GMT -5
Find Antonio, possibly beat some sense into him and drag him back to Bayonne. Oh, and also see that the removal of Charles’ children went off without a hitch. It had all seemed so very simple to Francis at first. He had been expecting the Spaniards to just back off and let his forces lead the children away without a fuss; after all, they were just being taken to Bayonne. Where was the harm in that? They should have felt privileged to be brought into such a sophisticated, gorgeous and powerful country. There was no need what-so-ever for them to suddenly throw a fit over the whole affair. Spaniards could be so very unreasonable.
Locating Spain through all the fighting Frenchmen and Madrileños proved to be a much harder task than Francis had been hoping for. The moment he had charged out into the noisy chaos of battle, he had lost any hint as to where Antonio was. There were just too many people. Everywhere he turned there appeared to be walls of angry Spaniards; all of them fighting with whatever they could find. Many of them had swords, some had rifles, but some were so absurdly desperate to fight that they were using non-traditional weapons as well. Pieces of wood, household equipment and even fists were being aimed at Francis’ poor outnumbered men. Through the throngs of moving bodies, Francis was sure that at one point the saw some Madrileño swinging a frying pan at a reloading French officer.
His men were of course doing the best that they could with what they had. Being so outnumbered and confined in such close quarters, their outcome was not looking good. Many of his well dressed infantry were reliant on bayonets, which were not that useful when you were being mobbed by pissed off Spaniards. Reloading was proving to be near impossible for some of his poor brave men, who were vanishing under the sea of violent Madrileños at an alarming rate. Luckily many of Francis’ countrymen were also equipped with swords, for some close range combat. At this point some had tossed their unloaded rifles aside and switched purely to cold hard steel.
Shoving people aside, Francis scanned the crowd for Antonio or Gilbert - who had also been quick to disappear in the fray. A few sloppy looking individuals aimed sloppy slashes at him with broadswords, but they were easily parried. He was not overly kill-happy when he could avoid it, and was for the most part focused on locating his fellow nations. Best to let his men do most of the dirty work with these ruffians, while he dealt with the Spanish nation himself.
The blue-eyed Frenchman was making his way towards the general area he thought he had witnessed Antonio vanish in, when a particularly aggressive looking man caught him off guard with a shovel. The blow caught France full in shoulder rather painfully, getting dirt on his nice elegant blue uniform in the process. Indignant from both being taken by surprise and failing to block the blow with his saber, and at being hit with a crude farming tool of all things, Francis immediately counter attacked with a slash to the man’s scruffy face. Whirling on the spot, he slammed the bloodied saber into another oncoming Spaniard, giving the blade a quick twist before withdrawing it and parrying another blow. He may not like having to bloody his sword and waste time with normal people when he could avoid it, but he was not going to let himself be shoved around and whacked with dirty farming equipment. He was a country, damn it! Not some run-of-the-mill French officer!
How embarrassing it would be if Napoleon could see his beloved country getting smacked by Spanish civilians. Francis was sure he would die of shame if his boss would have witnessed that little slip up. Luckily for the agitated French country, his boss had better things to do than hang around this dusty little city and deal with the unreasonable inhabitants. Had he not been hunting for Spain himself and figured this a good place to look, he might have been more inclined to plead with his boss not to send him here in the first place. He was very fond of Napoleon, and he liked to think his boss was terribly fond of him as well. Surely he would have listened; being the great leader that he was. But in the end it all came back to the idea that Antonio had fled Bayonne and needed to be located again and returned. So Francis had not complained when he had been ordered to go to Madrid on this particular business. In that way, the Frenchman was quick to blame Antonio for him even being here in the first place and having to go through this nonsense. He only hoped that Spain would see the sense in coming quietly and without fuss. If he was anything like his people though- which he was likely to be since he represented them- there was bound to be some problems.
Mon dieu! Where the hell did Gilbert run off to? Not for the first time, Francis wondered if he was simply having bad luck when it came to finding his old companion nations. Gilbert had vanished without a trace the moment he had entered the chaotic plaza, and Francis hoped that the other man had at least found Antonio by now. He had initially been keen to encounter Spain first, but after being jostled about and having to block so many attacks, he was starting to not care who would be first to find the other country. You would think a man like Gilbert would stick out better. He has white hair and red eyes! How can he blend in so well? It was an appropriate thing to wonder, especially since more and more of Francis’ blue clad men where disappearing amongst their plainer looking foes.
France’s eyes widened as he looked around himself. Where had most of his infantry men gone? There were of course still some fierce Frenchmen fighting gallantly, but he was losing numbers fast. Way too fast. Worry for both his own well being and that of his countrymen gnawed at him. “Retraitez!” he called out to his remaining men. Changing direction to retreat out of the plaza, he caught a fleeting glimpse of what looked like white hair beneath an ornate French hat. “Faire retraitez!” he repeated loudly slashing and stabbing at people who made to bar his path as he charged after the white haired man. ________________________________
Mon dieu! = "My God!" Retraitez! = "Retreat!" Faire retraitez! = "Make a retreat" (It's not as awkward in French, I swear. XD)
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Post by Prussia on Oct 20, 2010 0:36:48 GMT -5
There was only a moment to take in the Spanish nation and his dying--soon dead--friend. With all intentions to strike Antonio in the head with the butt of his sword, to knock him out, Gilbert only managed another step forward towards where Antonio was now burdened with his comrade. Something hard slammed into Gilbert's back, right below the shoulder blades, and he was forced to engage in a petty fight again. That was the problem with wild mobs: they didn't stop until they were crushed under the heel. His ears remained acute to Antonio's panic voice, as they sounded like the only words in all the senseless cries around them: “Andrés, Dios Mio! You’re bleeding!" The mop wielded by his new opponent was tricky, as the sword did not quite want to slice all the way through the wood. Gilbert took a few painful blows to the shin before he was able to grab the top end, right under the man's grip, and yank it away.
"I’ll manage... just get those franceses... our city... right?" With a brief rueful grin, Gilbert finally managed to land a fist on his opponents temple, the sword still in his grip making his knuckles cry out but adding force to the deed. The man tumbled down and crawled away under the feet of those nearby. The Prussian waited a beat, his senses peeked and his eyes darting around to see if any others would challenge him. It would seem that he was one man down, in fact, as Antonio stood alone and the bloodied man was only just now limping away.
The anger in Antonio's face was palpable. No surprises there, since his friend did just get a sword straight through the gut. Then Gilbert remembered that the Spaniards were having a revolt. Passion was practically Antonio's middle name. Well, somewhere in there between Antonio and Fernández, at least. Passion and anger combined were a deadly force. The Frenchmen were only just now realizing that as the disorder became obvious.
Fuck, Gilbert wished he could revolt for himself already. Turn coat and just walk the hell out of Madrid. Even the French uniform he wore, a more recent addition when Francis realized he couldn't let the Prussians run around in their own old military rags, was degrading. Worse, it was an embarrassment! But if anyone thought this uniform had any effect on him, they were wrong. If Antonio thought he was now some sort of Frenchman, he was wrong, and Gilbert would gladly stab him through the gut, too, if such a thing was spoken.
“It’s been a while, Gilbert, it’s great to see you,” Antonio finally said, his voice understandably malicious. Something about that was a little cheering: another day, another foe.
But a tightness formed in his stomach and he grimaced. He really did not fucking care what happened over on Francis's western borders. It was the eastern one that concerned him.
Antonio took a step towards him. Quick as slicing through warm butter, Gilbert brought the tip of the wooden mop to point right below Antonio's ribcage to keep him at arm's length. There was no way in hell he would take a blow from the Spaniard while fighting under Francis's flag. “You’re letting Francis order you around now? Talk about everything being backwards!”
"Sounded like you and that guy had a nice long chat," Gilbert said casually, his expression bordering on the curious. He wasn't allowed to talk about Francis or how much he wanted to ring his neck. He could almost picture it: how the man's wavy blond hair would appear fairer as the face would turn a sickening grey, how the blue eyes would suddenly be swimming white when the eyes began to bulge, how Francis's hands would beat against him but Gilbert would be oblivious. "He might live. You never know." A fight was one time to do much speaking, but he disregarded that one himself right away. "What's that about ordering me around? I was just taking a day trip to visit your, er"--he glanced around at the chaos--"great city." His laugh only contained one weak chuckle.
As though Francis had heard him, he could hear the sudden shout coming from what could very well have been from the man's own damnable mouth: “Retraitez!” Gilbert just stared right at Antonio, the mob and soldiers whirling and whipping about them on either side as though caught in a storm. “Retraitez!”
A twitch of his finger was the only motion Gilbert gave to the sudden urge of smacking himself in the face with the stick of the mop. His Regiment being a small portion of the whole French forces, the brunt of battle had not seemed that harsh. "I wonder... if you plan to do more than just get your head cut off for this, Antonio," he said, still in the idle, apathetic tone, but the feeling he got while he said it was different and his eyes brightened up with it. He felt a sense of great interest and expectancy. Gilbert did not want to lose this battle, as a regiment or otherwise, but just as the Austrian's defeat had led to the Holy Roman Empire's and then Prussia's own, perhaps all everyone needed was this little event to spark more upheaval. "What makes you think you can possibly win this?"
He took a step back. "I'll see you another time then," he said, flashing a grin as he tossed the mop to the ground between them-- "Don't let the French get you down!" just a quick tumble of words--and he took off running out of the plaza in the other direction.
Following the footsteps of others dressed like him, he made quick progress. Using them as shields when need-be helped, too, but it was only a fate held for those who muttered their outrage in French and not German. Not that any of them were cut down in his presence. A few extra cuts were nothing for them to write home about.
Perhaps it was because the man's hair liked to shine golden in the sun like some fucking Adonis or he just had that much of a pull on those he had subdued, but Gilbert found Francis swiftly and fell into step beside him. "Done already?" he asked, more joyfully than he should have. "I only have a couple bruises and a cut sleeve, though." For emphasis, he held the sleeve up for Francis to see. With it, the bloodied sword that still needed a good wipe-down was also exposed. "So how did you manage?"
Almost as an afterthought but purposefully saved for last, he added, "Oh! Right! I caught Antonio."
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Post by Spain on Oct 30, 2010 1:46:07 GMT -5
When the Prussian spoke to Antonio, he continued to hold up his sabre warily, olive green eyes staring into the man's red ones with suspicion. He could see that the man held up a mop to his chest to maintain the distance between them, but the Spaniard could really care less. If the man standing in front of him had been Francis now, he would have probably ran him through without a second thought. However, considering the fact that what stood before him was clearly a mere prisoner of war, a victim of being at the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong resources, Antonio was less inclined to involve outside parties in a conflict between him and Francis. Besides, it was Gilbert, someone who he had considered an ally in the last war, though it was not uncommon to be allies in one war and then enemies in the next.
“Sounded like you and that guy had a nice long chat. He might live, you never know... What's that about ordering me around? I was just taking a day trip to visit your, er, great city,” Gilbert said. It did not matter whether or not the man's words had any sympathy for to Antonio, those words were as useful as pressing ones fingers to the man's wounds to stop the profuse bleeding.
Antonio ignored the casual tone that Gilbert used with him, choosing to continue to look at him with enough intensity to bore a hole into the Prussian. He had been involved in enough wars and dealt with enough injuries during times of war to know false comfort when he heard it. Considering the wound that Andrés took, he found it extremely unlikely that the man would find a medic in time to survive. Perhaps he would have had a chance if Antonio was able to go with him, but by himself, most likely not. And here the Spaniard stood, staring down the perpetrator and attempting to suppress the urge he had to avenge his friend.
“You're the last one I'd want words of comfort from,” he said coldly as he pushed the mop away from his chest, taking a couple extra steps into distance set apart. “Next thing you are going to tell me is that all he has is a flesh wound and that it will heal up in a week. Nothing good for a man's soul like a good gutting,” he said sarcastically as he kept his sword pointed at Gilbert. The urge to deck Prussia grew exponentially the longer he stood at the man, though logic told Antonio that to engage with such a dangerous man would be foolish. So Antonio continued to glare at the man with a look in his olive green eyes that could kill – after all, he did remotely hope that the Prussia would just drop dead.
But then his eyes dropped back down to the man's uniform, almost shaking his head as he studied the royal blue accented with white trims and gold buttons. Anyone who wore the uniform of his enemy was surely no friend of his, not at this point at least. Eyes fixing themselves on Gilbert's face again, he opened his mouth to speak before he was interrupted by cries coming from the French soldiers.
“Retraitez! Retraitez!” someone cried, the command causing a gradual retreat as the orders were passed on amongst the Frenchmen.
Distracted by the chaos created by the retreating French and the pursuing Spaniards, Antonio looked away. Olive green eyes took in the scene in awe, almost unbelieving as he watched they repelled the French. Then realizing that he had been gawking, he turned to look at Gilbert, meeting his crimson eyes. He stared at them for what felt like a long time, ignoring the fact that the chaos had been swirling around them and the fact that his bangs were being gently tossed into his vision. His grip on his sword tightened as he resolved to continue to meet the Prussian's gave until he spoke.
As Gilbert pulled back, Antonio looked back at him in surprise. "I wonder... if you plan to do more than just get your head cut off for this, Antonio. What makes you think you can possibly win this? I'll see you another time then, don't let the French get you down!" he said, almost too cheerfully.
With that, the Prussia took off before Antonio could process what just transpired, leaving him to only be able to watch the retreating back of Gilbert – the back of Francis's newest pet as he disappeared into the crowd and chaos. Part of the Spaniard burned inside as the Prussian's words echoed in his head over and over again while the other part remained confused by his parting words. He could not deny the fact that he was still upset about what had happened to Andrés. Perhaps he should have pounced on the chance to punch Gilbert in the face when he had a chance, for he had a feeling that he would not get such an opportunity for a very long time.
Yet, he felt that the Prussian was doing more than just acting like Francis's lackey. After all, they could have crossed swords like they would have normally in war. However, with Gilbert's experience in land battles, Antnio was certain that he would have been overpowered and dragged (kicking and screaming) to Bayonne.
But he didn't.
At one point, Antonio found himself shoving the thoughts into a corner of his mind, telling himself that the whole thing required too much thought and not worth overanalyzing. Instead, he allowed himself to get pulled into the cheers and excitement of the crowds as they celebrated the fact that they had claimed the square. “We have driven them out!” one man cried, “Let's drive them out of the rest of the city!” The people around him seemed to agree as they echoed his cries in their celebration. The joy that they wore on their expressions proved infectious as Antonio found himself smiling as he waved his sword in the air before sheathing it.
Remembering his comrades, Antonio ran in the general direction that he saw Andrés wander off to, weaving through the crowds of people, turning to the side to slide through the cracks as he needed. However, based on what was going on, though they had taken over Plaza de Oriente, the rest of the city was far from reclaimed. Breaking into a light jog, he ran past a group of people who were attacking the Marmelukes and the Lancers who were brought over from Egypt and Poland respectively, fiercely bludgeoning them with whatever they could find, their passionate hate for them reflected in the blood-thirsty methods they chose. By this time, it was obvious that the fighting had spread throughout the city as people lashed out at the French soldiers quartered in the city, even breaking into the artillery depot in the city to raid the supplies. Antonio could tell as he saw the people running with French rifles, chuckling at the irony of the fact that they were using French weapons to beat the French.
Finally stopping when he had reached the garden, Antonio turned and looked around, narrowly dodging a horse as it teetered before falling on its side. Its rider was immediately stripped off the saddle as the civilians grabbed at him, his screams filled the Spaniard's ears as he looked around desperately. Who would have thought that it would be this hard to find an injured man, Antonio thought to himself, humans sure are stong!
Reluctant to completely abandon the original intent to find Andrés after the fight against Gilbert came to pass, the Spaniard desperately uttered a prayer for guidance and for the man's safety. For all he knew, Andrés could be curled up behind a tree back at the palace, writhing in pain as he died a slow painful death. However, he knew that the youth was smarter, too determined to just lay down and accept his fate.
Sighing and feeling helpless suddenly, Antonio turned and headed south, running for the Puerta de Toledo after he heard a couple people yelling for fortification in the southern part of the city. His breathing hitched as he broke into a sprint, twisting and turning as he tried to navigate his way through the crowds and aiming to take side streets to avoid the heavy traffic. His intention to go save the king's children had long been discarded when it looked like the situation was under control at the Palacio Real, opting instead to put his energy in defending the parts of the city that needed it the most.
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Post by France on Nov 3, 2010 1:49:45 GMT -5
With being jostled about and pushed into by both comrades and enemies alike, Francis was reminded as to why exactly he hated angry crowds so much. The plaza was such a confined area, all things considered, and both fighting in it and then retreating was proving problematic. At least on most proper war fronts, there was more room to move around. It was not that France hated battles, but that he hated confined battles. Especially confined battles with his forces so outnumbered.
A pair of retreating Frenchmen had blocked the initial glimpse of white hair that Francis had been trying to catch up to, so he was once more left to trying to peek over and around the moving figures for another sight of what he hoped had been Prussia. Feeling far to much like a sheep being herded by dogs, the incredibly irritated blonde nation pushed and shoved his way between men as he attempted to make his way more quickly to the edge of the plaza. Somehow in the fray, some form of a weapon- he couldn’t tell if it had been a sword or a piece of wood- knocked his ornate hat off his head and onto the ground, where is was quick to be trampled underfoot by his own men. “Merde!” His exclamation of discontentment was all but drowned out by the sounds of the retreat, and he was forced to leave his prized hat where it had fallen. Not that it would have been wearable anyways after being smashed by dirty boots, but it had been one of his favorite hats and the urge he had had to attempt and retrieve it had almost been instinctual.
"Done already?"
The all too familiar voice startled Francis, who had been focusing ahead. He turned to the side, his blue eyes coming to rest on Gilbert. The Prussian sounded far more happy with the situation than he should have, almost as if he had found this little skirmish fun somehow. How on Earth anyone could enjoy fighting in such close quarters on a hot day like this was beyond Francis’ comprehension.
"I only have a couple bruises and a cut sleeve, though."
France stared at Prussia’s sleeve for a moment, registering the cut and the decent amount of gore decorating the blade he held. It appeared that the other nation had been keeping busy at least. “We’re not done until we have stopped this riot somehow and gotten ahold of Antonio. However, I think that retreating to a safer location is a good idea for the time being.”
"So how did you manage?"
“Personally of course I managed just fine. My skill with a blade should be legendary I think, after all.” He exaggerated, a strong note of pride in his voice as he gripped his saber a bit tighter. “But look at how many of my good, fine Frenchmen those barbaric Spaniards have killed.” He gestured toward his retreating forces with a sigh. “Who would have thought they would fight so fiercely over something like the removal of their King’s children. It’s not like we are marching them off to the gallows after all. They’re so unreasonable, Gilbert.”
"Oh! Right! I caught Antonio."
Blue eyes widened once more at this tidbit of information that his subordinate had somehow forgotten to mention sooner. “You caught Antonio? Well where is he?!” Francis was quick to do a double take of the Prussian besides him, looking him over almost as if he expected Gilbert to withdraw a beaten Spain from behind himself, or maybe make him appear out of thin air besides them. He didn’t see the familiar dark haired nation anywhere. Gilbert for sure was not holding onto him.
“Where did you encounter him last, Gilbert? Did you by chance see which direction he went?” Francis was full of questions for the time being, and bothered by the fact that he had to call the retreat and allow the Madrileños to claim the plaza. He had to remind himself that they may have the plaza for now, but they by no means had claimed the entire city. That, they could not do until all of Francis’ men had been either killed or had fled; which would never happen. He would make damn sure it never happened. They would need to squash the rebellion quickly in order to get things under control again, but first, there was the matter of Antonio to deal with. Taking Spain down might of course help with the chaotic uprising, and it had the added benefit of being one of the reasons Francis had been keen to come to Madrid in the first place. It would be killing two birds with one stone.
Finally making it all the way out of the plaza and onto the streets, France beckoned for Prussia to follow him. “We know our “friend” Antonio is here, so we’ll find him again one way or another.“ A small handful of confused looking French infantry took note of the hand gesture and decided to follow as well. Saber in hand, Francis broke into a slight run down the dusty street, intent on finding Antonio, even if he had to search every inch of Madrid for him. A shot rang out unexpectedly, startling the blonde nation, who turned in time to see one of the Frenchmen who had been following slump to the ground; a patch of red starting to form on the chest vicinity of his blue coat. Looking up, Francis saw a man withdraw a rifle from one of the many windows along the streets. The Spanish were shooting from the relative safety of their homes and shops. Not good for any French forces that happened to be trapped in the streets. Like Francis himself was now, without a rifle no less. He couldn’t damn well go back the way he had come though, not with all those Madrileños in the plaza. He turned to see how many of his men were with him besides Prussia.
Five blue-clad men remained standing, one of which -a younger man by the name of Bayard- he knew on a slightly more personal level. Not that they were good friends, but he had spoken to the man before and found him pleasant enough. With his rich auburn hair and bright blue eyes, he was also an attractive sort of man. A perfect Frenchman, in Francis’ eyes. And how on Earth he was going to get all of these men out of these streets with trigger-happy Spaniards lurking around in the windows, was a completely upsetting mystery to France. “Watch the windows.” He cautioned his group, once more picking up the pace. Deciding there really wasn’t much he could do other than keep moving to make himself a harder target, Francis moved closer to the buildings on the left side of the street, keeping on the lookout for enemies. As gorgeous as his men's outfits were, even he had to admit that sometimes they just might make them easier targets. It wasn't enough to make him want to switch to a duller uniform, but something to be mindful of in fights. _____________________ Wow, only used one French word this time. Yay for fewer translations!
Merde = Shit. The word is pretty versatile, and used the same way we would use it.
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Post by Prussia on Dec 22, 2010 2:50:19 GMT -5
The Spaniards had never caused Gilbert to hate them or want to fight them, so in truth it was a pity that it had come down to something like this. But it was hard for Gilbert to feel distressed for long, what with Antonio and Francis there to keep his spirits up, such as when Antonio said, "Nothing good for a man's soul like a good gutting."Yet the way Antonio didn't attack, didn't breach past what was practically a twig between them, amused Gilbert just a little. I guess that would make us all saints here, he couldn't help think and think to himself alone. Antonio was much more of a devout Catholic than Gilbert, who was more Protestant than anything, and may not find the humor, especially not now when his people were under siege from an invading army. Under siege from an invading army that was now running in the opposite direction. Gilbert was caught between feelings of happiness that Francis had gotten a good kick in the balls and weariness that Gilbert was technically losing again. If France lost here, if the attack failed, then that could tarnish the Prussian's reputation. But that was saying that his humiliating defeat to Napoleon hadn't spoiled his reputation, in addition to his ego and strength, enough. If anything, Gilbert could have beat Antonio all by himself. He swore he could if Francis would just give him some elbow room. The thought only gave him a spot of comfort, and he hid the grimace by grinning two-fold. Better to be an annoyance that a pessimist. You're the last one I'd want words of comfort from, Antonio had said, and the words resonated. The last one I'd want words of comfort from.Words of comfort from me aren't that awful! Gilbert mentally countered. France's western front didn't concern Gilbert in the slightest, but the chance of glory and of proving himself did. As a Prussian, Gilbert could work to rebuild the glory and prowess of a Prussian soldier, within the French Regiment or elsewhere. As long as he was a Prussian and not a Frenchman, there was plenty of hope for his bright future. "I think that retreating to a safer location is a good idea for the time being," Francis informed him while they fled, except they weren't fleeing. It turned out they weren't losing. Glancing around to see all the other Frenchman and Prussians-in-disguise showed him that they were more caught by surprise than actually haggard and worn from battle. But more so than the desire to have sliced Antonio across the back, the real urge to punch Francis in the jaw for his self gloating was very much real. "My skill with a blade should be legendary," the Frenchman said first, making Gilbert look like the man had gone crazy--but he hadn't gone crazy, Francis was just being Francis. "But look at how many of my good, fine Frenchmen those barbaric Spaniards have killed.""So barbaric that they crawl away on hands and knees at the presence of a few awesome Prussians," Gilbert tossed in. Defeated or not, that in no way hurt his extraordinary feelings of self-worth. "They’re so unreasonable, Gilbert.""Yeah! I don't know what's gotten into them! Not wanting to bow down to our awesome combo army…" Once again Gilbert injected his own--albeit mediocre--presence in this side of the confrontation between Spain and France. "What an idiot!"When it came to Francis's sudden surprise that Gilbert hand caught Antonio, Gilbert could only laugh. "You called the retreat so I left him behind! Plus he ran away with his tail between his legs before I could grab him," Gilbert added with a snicker, bending the truth for his own amusement and hints of self-praise. "Where did you encounter him last, Gilbert? Did you by chance see which direction he went?""I was back in the plaza, of course!" He stabbed at nothing in front of him as though he were back in the fray. "Antonio ran off in the very opposite direction; he's probably half-way across the city by now, if he's not rearming his people to defend the plaza again." That was what the Prussian would have done, at least. Rearm. Recapture. Fight back. Push them out. Antonio was his friend, in a way, and Gilbert would be damned if he made friends with guys who would lie on the ground and just let invaders march over them like a welcome rug. But he had been friendly enough with Francis over the years and he couldn't help but look at just how spectacularly horrible that one turned out. Gilbert followed Francis's beckoning onto the streets and was dealt a good degree of nervousness that maybe the Frenchman had developed the ability to read his mind. "We know our 'friend' Antonio is here, so we’ll find him again one way or another, " Francis said. "A guy like him is probably--" At the sound of a shot, Gilbert spun with a greater degree of panic than expected. Seeing Francis look up made him look also-- "Sheiße!"--and then fall back to one side of a building with a damn sword in his hand and nothing to hide behind. The shots didn't seem to be very frequent, especially with such a small group of infantry on the ground, so Gilbert took that spare moment to pull out a cloth to wipe the blood off his sword before sheathing it—even in the midst of battle, it was vital to keep one’s equipment in good form. The rifle he drew into his hands was more reassuring, and he managed to load it with a little degree of difficulty while Francis continued to lead the group of them down the street. "Watch the windows," Francis said. "Don't need to tell me twice," Gilbert replied. "But tell me this, do you plan to have us run around the city and get shot down one by one while we search, or do you actually have safer location in mind?" His eyes scouted across the windows above and alongside them while his fingers twitched nervously, excitedly, for someone to show their face for just a second too long. Antonio may have said there was nothing like a good gutting for a man's soul, but these days there was nothing like a good shot for a man's life. When they were all wearing French uniforms, it was hard to tell a Prussian from a Frenchman unless he spoke or, in the Prussian's opinion, fought. For all Gilbert knew, the man left behind in the street was one of his. __________ A/N: D-Don't hate me for taking so long. T_T I never didn't want to continue this, I was just... off my rocker or something, I don't even...! But seriously, this thread is too awesome to do anything except post to it! Hopefully my post flows well and fits in with everything properly, since it's been a while since I've written a historical post. *Will try to be more awesome from now on!*
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Post by Spain on Jan 1, 2011 22:02:52 GMT -5
The rest of the city was no different from the Plaza de Oriente, filled with Spanish cries of freedom from the French oppression as angry mobs swarmed the streets and swallowed whatever isolated group of Frenchmen they found. Antonio recalled the scene from earlier, when the people pulled a Marmeluke off his proud horse, hands reaching for him from all different directions, none with any less malice than the other. Though the soldiers were professionals, it would not be a surprise if the white-hot Spanish passion for independence and their own survival overthrew the cavalry. With the fierce look that was clearly in all of their eyes, it was apparent that more than brute strength was helping the Spanish civilians push their French captors back. The recollection of the scene before, in all its brutality, kept the pride burning in the Spaniard, fighting against the effects of the adrenaline that threatened to impair his judgment.
Yet, though there had been small victories taking place around the city, he was not blind to the fact that the French were well resourced enough that they would be able to launch a counterattack against them if they wanted.
The uneven cobble and dirt felt hard under his tired feet, though numbed by the momentum that the group in Plaza de Oriente had set for the rest of the city. He caught himself as he almost tried to push himself past a pair of men who were hacking at each other, remembering that in spite of the feeling of victory, they were still fighting. Considering how he had managed to go through all the fighting in the plaza and escape with merely scratches and a few minor bruises, it would be ironic if he had decided to either walk into a fist or worse, a sword. The damage suffered would not only be to himself physically, but his ego would take a huge hit as well.
Lungs gasping for air, Antonio had lost track of the amount of time that had passed since he had started to run from the plaza. However the fact that it felt as if needles were getting lounged in his throat and the fact that it felt as though nails were being driven into his side meant nothing to him at all. Olive green eyes looked up at the buildings on either side of the streets, hearing the people as they shouted from their homes and peered over the balcony as if they were watching a festival from their homes. Some of them waved their rifles, Adhering to his sudden urge to thrust his gun in the air and shout loudly, Antonio furrowed his eyebrows together as he yelled passionately. However his voice was drowned out with the various shouts behind him.
“We raided their armory!” the men yelled, “we have the guns of the stupid French!”
Chaos continued to devour the Spanish streets as the civilians continued to charge onward, either towards the French troops or to fortify strategic points in the city. Soon, the deafening sounds of cannon fire rang in the air, occasionally punctuated by random bouts of gunfire as the fighting continued. Antonio could not help but wonder, how much longer would they have to keep at this before it would end? Were they even at the point where they had successfully turned the tables or perhaps close to driving the French out of the city? Until either were true, it was certain that Antonio would continue to fight for his people and dodge capture by the French.
Though surely, if Antonio had run into Gilbert earlier, it would have meant that Francis had to be somewhere in the city. In spite of how hard of a worker Prussians were, something told him that the French tend to keep their dogs on a tight leash.
Finally, he had reached a spot where the road split off into a round-about, which was filled with citizens joining the line that was set up and waiting for the French to arrive. The scene in itself was rather comical, seeing as they were a group of men and women banding together against one of the finest, well-trained military troops currently.
Running towards the group, he recognized a couple who he had met at one of the gatherings that they held in secret since the French occupation. Though a bulk of them had agreed to meet by this gate after completing their respective mission. When he got closer, he recognized one of the guys to be Esteban, who had helped him sneak out of Bayonne and go into hiding when he desperately needed it. “Hey Esteban,” as he greeted, “it's good to see that you are doing well. Looks like we've gotten the best of those Fre-”
He was cut off suddenly as one of the men started to scream, “They're coming! Those French bastards are coming through the streets!”
Turning around in surprise, Antonio looked warily down the street that he came from, the feeling of dread in his stomach as he saw the vibrant colors of the French army. Despite the amount of gunfire and other random objects hurled in their general direction, it was apparent that the French were slowly gaining ground as they made their way uphill. The sounds of gunfire and signs of falling men indicated that they were killing men, but the French column was making their way up the hill slowly, returning fire at the people who shot at them. Antonio cursed under his breath as he took out a sack of gunpowder from the pouch attached around his waist and began to pack it down. He could hear as other men took his lead, some of them mumbling prayers for hope and for guidance.
Then holding up his gun, Antonio aimed it at the moving troop, though refraining from firing. “Hold your fire til they get closer,” one man said, “you do not want to waste your supplies.” But the Spaniard did not have to be told, he had been in enough battles to know when to save up resources and when to charge forward. He could feel the sweat start to collect on the back of his neck, the aftermath of the running he had done earlier and anxiety as he waited for them to engage the French.
- Happy New Year /drops a post on you both - I presumed that we can just kind of fast-forward through some of the fighting because otherwise it would drag on -- I hope it is okay to be describing what your men are doing right now, Francis - Sorry for such a boring post. /dies
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Post by France on Jan 6, 2011 17:42:07 GMT -5
"Don't need to tell me twice."
France knew this to be true. For all his problems he may have had with Prussia, he had to give credit where credit was due: Prussia was no idiot. He knew how things went, and he knew how to handle himself in battle situations. In France’s own personal opinion, the Prussian was nowhere near his skill and level when it came to these things, but that was hardly saying anything since he fancied himself the best there was.
Lacking a proper rifle such as Gilbert had, Francis kept his saber firmly in his right hand. It would not be any help against those firing on them from the windows, but if some stray Spanish men had the misfortune of putting themselves within his reach, he would be able to cut them down in a heartbeat. The ornate cavalry officer’s saber was already stained with the blood of the men he had fought in the plaza. He had yet to notice, but a few flecks of the gore now clung to his once perfectly white glove; the result of the thin rivulets traveling down the grooves in the handguard. Fighting was such messy business.
"But tell me this, do you plan to have us run around the city and get shot down one by one while we search, or do you actually have safer location in mind?"
France frowned at the remark, trying to figure out if he did indeed have a safer way of finding Antonio and stopping the revolt. What would his leader do if he were in a similar situation? As much as France adored his current boss, he was at loss as to what the man would do if her were there. Was there really any safe place in Madrid right now? With those Spanish barbarians running amok it was hard to imagine a safe haven anywhere in the dusty city. There was however, safety in numbers, and ideally France would be able to locate some more of his men and slowly force his way to Antonio’s hiding spot. They could not force their way back through the plaza though, so the only way to go currently was forward.
“Come now Gilbert, you’re not afraid of a few gunshots are you? We should find more of our men and go from there. We need more guns on our side.” Prussia had a point about being picked off one by one. A country could not die like a normal everyday human, but the Frenchmen and Prussians they led easily could. He really abhorred the idea of just charging through the city hoping for the best, but what else could they do? There was nothing to be gained from trying to hide somewhere and wait for things to die down. Besides, that was the coward’s way, and he was many things, but a coward was not one of them. He suspected that Prussia would not be amused with that idea either. That aside, they could possibly hang back and very slowly try to drive the Spaniards back with only a handful of men. He was not fond of that option either however, because it meant that-should he deicide to-Spain would have an easier time fleeing the city while they slowly made recovering ground.
So as distasteful and risky as it was, charging ahead was the best they could manage for now. All but hugging the wall, France speed up his pace. If they needed to get through a street of gun wielding Spaniards, the best thing they could do would be to hurry along. A loud shot off to his right sounded, and a bullet hole appeared on the wall only a foot or so in front of him. He silently thanked God that this particular enemy of his had had a bad shot. One of the men following them was not so lucky, and he heard a slight yell of pain following one of the shots. Apparently this comrade of theirs was not fatally injured, and peering back for just a second, Francis saw the bloodied man aim his own rifle towards a window and fire. With all their enemies at range, France was starting to wish he could trade Gilbert for his gun. He hoped the Prussian was a better aim than some of their foes had proven to be.
“Faster!” He called to the men as he broke into an out and out run. The road they were following branched out, and a band of valiantly fighting Frenchmen greeted his eyes to one side. It was almost comical to see a full out, highly decorated French soldier, fighting what appeared to be merely peasants with crude handmade weapons.
More French were coming. Or maybe they were Prussians? Either way, they were slowly but surely coalescing into a larger grouping. France had since lost track of their exact location in the city, but a feeling of pride washed over him to see so many determined Frenchmen bravely fighting against the throngs of Spaniards, despite the earlier sense of being overwhelmed. The tide seemed to be turning, at least in this area.
Pulling a rifle out of the grasp of one of his dead comrades, France shot Gilbert a look of premature triumph. They would now march onwards as a larger unit and completely overwhelm those who stood in their way. Even those crafty and cowardly Spanish gunmen in the windows would have a harder time taking down a whole group of unified French soldiers.
The mass of blue-coated Frenchmen started moving again, and France fell into step alongside Prussia. Wiping his bloody blade off on a dead foe, he carefully re-sheathed the sharp weapon and instead loaded his rifle. “Once we reclaim the city, we will hunt down Antonio, and face him together this time.” He informed Gilbert smugly. At least, that was the plan in case they did not encounter him sooner.
The angry shouts of the Madrileños echoed through the streets and from the hill they were slowly advancing towards. Perhaps they too felt a change in the tide of battle, and were just now starting to realize that their silly little riot was about to be smashed. They were advancing slowly, and France was keeping near the upper middle of the column of soldiers as they started to gain ground. It struck him again how utterly ridiculous it was that the Spanish had been able to put up such a fight in the first place. He really had underestimated them. But now things would be set right, hopefully, and they would squash the riots, force order on the city and beat some sense into Spain himself for running off and supporting such a cause.
The air was choked with gun smoke, and France’s men fought back fiercely, firing up at the group of Spanish on the hill they were approaching. France himself kept his gun in hand, but made no move to fire. He was too far away and - as much as he hated to admit it to himself- he lacked as much experience with firearms. He could hit targets if they were closer, but those on the hill were simply too far away for someone of his level and he had just as good of a chance at hitting one of the French or Prussian men in front of him. Slowly but surely they started up the hill, the French’s shouts of outrage and encouragement joining in on the Spanish rebels’ cries and the sounds of rifle reports.
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Post by Spain on Mar 5, 2011 16:47:37 GMT -5
It was all happening too fast for Antonio to be able to adequately process what took place as his ears rung from the deafening rifle fire. Though they had been careful about exhausting their supply of bullets, there was only so much that they could empty into the French troops, there was just too many of them. Given the narrow streets of Madrid, it felt as if the troops of men would never win, much to the Spaniards' dismay. Antonio cursed loudly as he aimed his rifle and shot into the troops of men. He could see that the fire was slowing down the French, but they were advancing, advancing too steadily. He gritted his teeth as he watched, his eyes scanning for a familiar face to be in the crowd, for where there was a chance of victory, the French country would always show up. “Shit! We should just fire out cannons into the group!” a man suddenly shouted, possibly an act of desperation and panic as he realized that the mere occasional gunfire was not enough to take out the battle-worn French troops. “No, we're going to wait until they get close enough to accurately fire,” a young officer rebutted, “we'll take them out when they get closer to us! That way we won't miss!” Despite the steadiness in his demeanor, the morale of the group was slowly crumbling. Many of the men had become worn, desperate and passionate about obtaining their independence, yet emotionally worn down by the fact that the French troops seem to grow more organized as time passed. The mere thought of that caused the blood in Antonio’s veins to run cold as the possibility of falling into Francis’s clutches became greater. Though he liked to think highly of himself, he hated to acknowledge the fact that France had grown so strong in the last few decades. But no, he told himself as he gripped the rifle tightly, I do not, will not fall into his clutches again!
Suddenly, the French column stopped advancing, shouts of orders thrown around as the men switched positions. Though the smoke of the gunfire blocked half of the visibility, it was clear enough that Antonio could see that whatever the French had planned, it would involve some sort of exchange of gunfire. Just then, the cracks of gunfire and blinding smoke willed his senses as he raised his rifle and fired in the general direction of the troops. It was not exactly the most ideal of situations, but he could only hope that he had hit something, anything. The cries of his comrades screaming in pain as they fell caused the Spaniard to grit his teeth uncomfortably, his olive green eyes narrowing as he forced himself to focus. Despite the fact that it had felt like they had the upper hand, Antonio could not help but feel like something was horribly wrong.
Dropping his rifle in order to reload it, he tore off the top of the charge and frantically loaded the barrel. Realizing that his shoulders were tense, his grip pale from stress, Antonio clenched his jaw as he tamped the powder with a ramrod. Taking a quick look around as he patted the gunpowder on next, sweat started to roll down his temple as his breathing quickened with urgency. Were we this outnumbered and rushed as before? he wondered, frowning slightly as the passion, though burning hot still, was starting to yield itself to reason. Despite the number of small victories that they had experienced so far today, winning the battle was nothing if they were not able to finish the French off.
“Charge while they’re reloading!” one of the men yelled. The suggestion made sense to Antonio, at the rate that they were going, this would be merely a battle of attrition and the French could easily whittle down their numbers with a few volleys. Not to mention, a sense of panic started to build up in the back of his mind – they had to do something, anything to stop the advances.
Getting up from his crouched position, Antonio started to charge ahead, ignoring the warnings from his more cautious comrades. Though it was a reckless decision, it was enough to get the others mobilized as they joined his charge. Even though the French were ready for them and took them out with their successive gunfire, they did their best to return fire as they tried to close distance on them. The Spaniard cursed as he saw more of his men falling, granted, it was probably already a miracle that their rag-tag resistance had held up a lot longer than expected.
When they met up with the French, Antonio slung his rifle over his back, drawing his blade to counter why bayonets that may come his way. He was worn out, tired from the running and resisting, heck, he was tired of having to drive France out of his home. Did he not get the picture already? Frantically searching the chaos, Antonio tried to find a certain familiar looking blond. Though he had been delaying an encounter with the French nation for a majority of the day, he knew that they would have to eventually meet… and at this point, best to do it when he still at the strength to resist.
"¿Francia, dónde estás?" he yelled in frustration as each flash of royal blue and red caught his attention. Pushing a man aside as he tried to charge at him, Antonio slashed at the man in annoyance as he continued to wander through the chaos.
Notes: - Shorter and less quality post than usual, but with the fact that Spain will be engaging France soon, I did not want to mod the Frenchmen too much, so I'll leave that up to you. - And as you know, for the sake of the thread, I don't mind whatever you do to Antonio... just keep him in one piece. Gracias. <3 - ¿Francia, dónde estás?: France, where are you? - I'll come back and edit this post later. :D;;; <3
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Post by France on Mar 8, 2011 21:38:05 GMT -5
The sound of gunfire was deafening, and the smoke from the Frenchmen’s guns was starting to become so very thick. It was enough to sting the eyes and disrupt some of their vision as they marched towards the hill of Spanish resistance. The men in front probably had the best view, so many of the Frenchmen were just closely following their moves and trying to angle themselves to see through the cloud of gun smoke as best as they could from time to time. Though he had not yet fired upon the hill, Francis found himself choking on the smoke from his surrounding companions more than once, his blue eyes watering from the irritation.
“Mon dieu! I can’t see the devils!” The voice belonged to Bayard, one of the few men who had made it through the streets with Francis and Gilbert. He was off to France’s right side, although the blonde nation could not see him very well.
Speaking of France’s Prussian companion, he had lost sight of him as well. The deafening combination of shouts and gunshots made it near impossible to listen for Gilbert and try and locate him, and he couldn’t very well take the time to try and physically look for the Prussian through all the tightly pressed and moving bodies of his people. He hoped the other nation would pop up once he had found Antonio again, but if not, France fancied himself a good enough swordsman to deal with Spain regardless.
The French nation was not lacking in confidence now, and his determination to win was starting to affect his men as well. From all around him, Francis was starting to hear a slight change in the cries of his people. More and more they seemed to be surging towards the hill with a sort of eager resolve. It was definitely different than the cries in the square when they had been taken by surprise and scattered. This noise, was far more to Francis’ liking.
France nearly ran into the blue-clad Frenchman in front of him as their column stopped for a moment and those in the lead raised their guns in unison and opened fire. There was a sound of returning gunfire from the Spanish side, and Francis could only watch as a few of the front line collapsed, either injured or dead. The ones that had not been killed immediately switched places with some of their comrades as they made to reload their weapons, allowing more fire at Antonio’s men. It was a good strategy to allow nearly continual shots, even though those who popped up in front were suddenly right in the line of enemy fire and at risk of being slaughtered.
France shoved the men in front of him aside to get a good clear look at the enemy lines. It was a bit of a rude move for a supposedly well mannered country, but in wars proper manners were quickly pushed aside for more important things. Like killing the opposing side’s men. His rifle already loaded since he had yet to fire it, the wavy blonde-haired country scanned the enemy’s ranks, seeking out a target as quickly as he could. Aiming the weapon upon a rather gruff looking Spaniard, he pulled the trigger and watched his target collapse back into the Madrileños behind him-a spot of red staining his white shirt. Not wanting to be a target any longer than he had to, Francis ducked back into his sea of soldiers to reload.
A few yells from his men caught his attention, and Francis looked away from awkwardly re-loading his gun in enough time to see their Spanish foes charging towards them. It was a surprisingly bold move, but then France’s blue eyes caught sight of Antonio charging near the lead and it all made sense. So he’s had enough running and now wants to face me properly. The thought made a slight smile touch the French nation’s lips briefly. If he could subdue Antonio, they could put this little resistance down quickly. He lost sight of the enemy nation as his men leveled their bayonets at the approaching Spaniards, but he knew the general area that he would find his foe.
Handing his newly re-loaded rifle over to one of his men, Francis began to push past his people in the general direction he had last seen Antonio charging in, drawing his sleek cavalry saber as he did. The Frenchmen and Spaniards around him were once more engaged in bloody hand-to-hand combat, and more than once France had to avoid being slashed, shot or ran through.
"¿Francia, dónde estás?"
The voice sounded from nearby, and France eagerly followed it like a bloodhound catching a scent. A man near Francis collapsed from an injury to the side, and the overly confident nation was suddenly greeted with the sight of his target. “Antonio. C’est toi.” he stated, the other man’s appearance proving that the voice he had heard had indeed been Antonio’s. “I’ve caught glimpses of you since the Palace Square, but you do a lovely job of hiding it seems.” He slashed for the other nation with his saber. “Just look at all the trouble your people are causing, and for no good reason. You should be ashamed Antonio. For not only this mess, but also running away like that. You should have known I would find you and take you back to Bayonne.” Trying to keep his cool, commanding demeanor, Francis moved to the right slightly looking for a chance for another strike. ________________________________ ((Shorter post, but I did not want to move Antonio without your consent, so I left it there.
C'est toi = It's you))
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Post by Spain on Mar 13, 2011 23:27:10 GMT -5
Through the flurries of smoke, flying bullets and jabbing bayonets, Antonio did his best to press on, ignoring the sting as his olive green eyes scanned over the ocean of royal blue uniforms. Whipping around to see if the Frenchman was behind him, his breathes shallow as he watched the crowd with anticipation. When the chaos broke out, it had become much harder to find his target and harder to defend himself , which made him even more agitated as his last adversary fell. He watched with almost a look of indifference in spite of the amount of agitation and hate he had felt earlier, perhaps even feeling a sense of satisfaction that he had taken down another member of the French army. Though Antonio would gladly use his body to shield one of his own people and had been known to surrender himself to another as a means of protecting them, but never would be willingly allow a mere soldier to take a swipe at him, if he could help it.
I must not, will not go back with them. Antonio repeated in his head over and over again as he shoved off another assailant and struck him with the pommel of his sword, to which the man crumpled to the ground, holding his head. During his stay in Bayonne, he was called a guest though it felt more like a prison decorated with neo-classical art and other elaborate furnishings. Though Francis and he had their moments together, it did not feel nearly as bad as when he was paraded around and it felt… like he was some sort of prize that was recently won. He had gone along with Francis’s jokes, even sided with him multiple times as it suited him (and broke just as many treaties… when it was necessary for the good of the rest of the world), but this, he just could not stand being under another’s rule when he had worked so hard for his own freedom three hundred years ago. I will not allow Kingdom of Spain will be France’s property!
"Antonio. C’est toi. I’ve caught glimpses of you since the Palace Square, but you do a lovely job of hiding it seems." The familiar voice was mocking, biting with sarcasm and struck Antonio with a sudden urge to punch its owner.
Looking up, olive green eyes met sky blue as his gaze fell upon the French nation, standing and looking smug in his proud and flashy uniform. For a moment, it almost seemed as if the action around them slowed as Antonio raised his sword to parry the strike as he took a step back. The blow was much more solid, confident in its placement in comparison to the strikes he received from his mortal adversaries. Though he was fully aware of the fact that he was fighting for his own existence and for the freedom of his people, the blow he just blocked made the fight feel more urgent, more real.
“It was just that you weren’t looking hard enough, Francis,” he shot back, a tired smirk on his lips as he looked defiantly at Francis, “can’t help you if you can’t keep track of us Spaniards, granted you could not even keep your own people in line for a while!” Looking around, he was surprised to see that Gilbert was not here, but he was a bit relieved that the Prussian had wandered off -- the last thing he wanted to do was fight two nations in his state. Sneaking a glance around him, Antonio reassured himself that Gilbert was not lurking in the crowd behind him. It would be problematic if he was attacked from behind from such a dangerous man for amongst the three of them, Gilbert probably had the greatest physical strength (though it seemed as though Francis has proven that he could hold his own against the Prussian).
“Just look at all the trouble your people are causing, and for no good reason. You should be ashamed Antonio. For not only this mess, but also running away like that. You should have known I would find you and take you back to Bayonne,” Francis said accusingly. But that was enough to push Antonio over the edge; how dare someone accuse his people of wanting freedom, wanting to drive the people who had forcefully taken over without their consent!
“Trouble my people are causing?” Antonio’s eyes burned with passionate hate as he looked at Francis. “If memory serves me right, this is my house that you have invaded. How dare you spend my money, eat my food and even try to tell me how I should take care of my house! Not everyone has time to parade around like a proud peacock like you,” he spat, the tone in his voice dripping with anger as he watched Francis. Circling him with his sword raised, Antonio’s expression darkened significantly. Gone was the cheerful demeanor that he always had – the whole situation had taken a toll on him. He was looking for an opening to strike France and knew that the other was doing the same, waiting for the other to slip up and leave an opening in their defense stance. Though fatigue had already set in since he had joined the forces at this particular point, he had been feeling himself growing more tired, just like his people. They had been fighting for at least a few hours, putting forth their passion into pushing back the French. They had forgotten to account for the quick response and regrouping of the French Army. The acknowledgement of the fact caused the Spaniard to tense even more.
“Also, Francis,” Antonio continued as he raised his sword at the nation in attack, “your boss may have defiled our throne, but I- we’ll never, ever recognize your authority!”
Note: - Sorry for all the internal monologing and what not... this post is just a mess. /dies - Anyway, not proofread, but will go back and edit later if need be. - Also, let me know how you plan you capture Antonio so I can help you set that up. Yeah, I know that sounds weird. ;A;
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Post by France on Mar 15, 2011 23:47:08 GMT -5
“Trouble my people are causing?”
France kept his eyes locked with Antonio’s, amused by the passion behind the other's gaze. How could the other man doubt that it was his people who started all the problems here? As far as Francis was concerned, it was all too obvious that the French had not started this avoidable mess. No, they had just been doing their jobs. It was clear that Spain’s people had been the ones to start the fight and bloodshed.
“If memory serves me right, this is my house that you have invaded. How dare you spend my money, eat my food and even try to tell me how I should take care of my house! Not everyone has time to parade around like a proud peacock like you.”
France scoffed slightly at the remark. He had to tell Spain how to take care of his house. If he didn’t the Spaniard would take care of it all wrong and there would be even more problems for France to deal with. He felt that his invasion was not only fair, but necessary in this case. “Not everyone has the right to be as proud as I am.” His gaze hardened as he looked at the other nation who had been both friend and rival at different points in his life. “And what do you expect when you won’t care for your own house in the correct way, Antonio?"
He kept a steady hand on his saber, his eyes never leaving The Spaniard as he circled. There was fighting going on around them, but for France, it was just he and Spain in that dusty street-swords raised and eyes glued to each other as they searched for any signs of weakness in the enemy’s defenses. Antonio may have had fierce passion on his side concerning his city and his people, but Francis fancied that he had the better odds of winning this confrontation. Every bit of that fiery passion was countered by France’s desire to win, and confidence that he would do so. Physically he was perhaps not as strong as the Prussian nation who had accompanied him at first, but he had an insanely strong will, and as far as he was concerned that made up for any lack of physical strength.
Plus he was a decent swordsman. Which had to count for something. Despite his obsession with trivial things such as looks and style, he had actually taken the time to learn how to properly attack and defend with various types of swords. It was something that most people just looking at him would never guess judging from his well groomed appearance. Whereas he didn’t like staining his nice uniform with blood, dirt or dust, he was willing to fight and get dirty if it was for a cause that he was passionate about. Like putting a stop to a vicious rebellion, and capturing a runaway nation.
“Also, Francis, your boss may have defiled our throne, but I- we’ll never, ever recognize your authority!”
“I think you’re wrong about that, Antonio. Very wrong.” Francis stated, bringing his ornate saber up to parry the blow. Spain was not such a bad swordsman himself it seemed, and even though Francis had managed to avoid injury with his block, he had almost been to slow to catch it. The way his enemy carried himself in a fight also suggested that Antonio would not be as easy to put down as he would have liked. He appeared to know what he was doing when it came to scanning the opposition for weaknesses and openings.
The blonde Frenchman made a slash for Spain's chest. “You’ll recognize my authority one way or another. Maybe you’ll be less defiant after I beat you here, and you see your people punished for their actions.” Of course Antonio’s people would be punished for starting such a revolt. Francis was sure that Murat would see to that. Just look at all the fine, French blood that now decorated the city! The barbaric-nature of it was enough to enrage any Frenchman. Never mind the black marks on France’s own history, and the fact that he and his people could also be classified as “barbaric” in their actions at times. The important thing here was that Frenchmen had been killed with no cause, and Spain’s people were to blame.
As Francis made for another attack with his saber, a fellow Frenchman was suddenly jostled in between the two nations. Unable to stop the swing, France flinched as his blade caught the man in the side. “Merde.” the word was barely audible over the clashing of swords and gunfire around them. His fellow Frenchman staggered out of the way clutching at his injury. The sight had caused a bit of a distraction for Francis, and he realized too late that he had taken his eyes off Antonio; a dangerous mistake to make when in a duel. France stumbled to bring his blade up for a block. _________________________ ((Apologies for the unusually short post for this thread. As for translations…Merde= Shit. I think I’ve used it before, but just in case I included it again.))
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