<div class="floatleft">(http://imgur.com/RcjBCPf.jpg)</div>Isabela's fingers drummed lightly on the surface of the table, her chin resting heavily in the other hand. An expression of pure boredom was plastered across her face, her eyes shifting up to inspect the rafters of the inn for lack of anything better to do. Nothing ruined a day quite like being sober with absolutely no entertainment in sight. Is this what her life was like before? She could barely remember the woman she used to be anymore - that cold, calculating woman whose life was a miserable and repetitive cycle of stretching her own morals just to see another paycheck. Isabela was actually glad that woman was dead and buried.<br/><br/>Isabela audibly growled, some part of her hoping one of her servants would take notice and offer a solution to her dilemma. First, there was Thomas, who was in no shape to help. The gangly youth was halfway through a second mug of ale, his head drooping toward the table and his skin pale. To his credit, the boy feebly tried to protest when Isabela ordered another round of drinks, awkwardly trying to point out that Isabela had forced him to drink so that there would be<em>less</em>alcohol to go around. All it took was a look from Isabela that dared him to continue his train of thought for the boy to resign himself to a night of painstakingly sipping at a beverage that made his face contort every time it touched his tongue. The torture was partly for his own good, or at least that was what Isabela reasoned. Sure, deep down she was hoping to see a drunk teenager acting like - well, a drunk teenager. Instead, Thomas retreated inwardly as the dizzying effects of alcohol took hold rather than breaking free of his shell as the countess had hoped. There was a plan that had brewed in Isabela's mind where she would talk or bribe some local girl into taking the boy into her bed after the alcohol had done its work and loosened him up a bit and gotten all those excuses and hesitations out of his system. Thomas needed an infusion of confidence, and in her experience, nothing propped a man up more than conquering a woman. But alas, not even the nectar of poor decisions could accomplish the herculean task of getting Thomas out of his own way. Don't let it be said that she never tried to help the boy.<br/><br/>Mathieu wasn't much help, either. The man's arms were crossed across his chest, his head tipped forward and his breathing heavy and sedated. Isabela stared at him for a good minute, trying to discern if he was actually asleep or just deep in his own thoughts. It wasn't uncommon for Mathieu to zone out like that for hours at a time. He called it 'meditating' but she called it 'some weird foreign thing Mathieu picked up from god knows where.' Whereas other servants would partake in what paltry festivities were offered to those of their station while Isabela enjoyed the true party for herself, Mathieu would always patiently wait outside for his mistress looking much as he did now. It puzzled her greatly to think of how he managed it. How did he not drive himself insane with all of that<em>thinking</em>?<br/><br/>Then there was Reynauld. The grizzled war veteran had amassed an impressive collection of empty glasses in front of himself and yet another was being tilted back as Isabela watched on with near amazement. With a loud thud, the man slammed the glass to the table and offered his mistress an inebriated grin and a wink. God, he loved this job. Free drinks, free food, free bed,<em>and</em>he spent every waking moment in the presence of the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes upon. He wasn't a fool, he knew she was miles outside of his league, but that didn't stop his mind and eyes from traveling to places they shouldn't. Just another perk of the easiest job he'd ever had. It didn't even matter if he was absolutely blasted right now; nothing was going to happen. Nothing<em>ever</em>happened. The most bodyguarding he had ever done was when he put some perverted fop that couldn't keep his hands off the Countess in his place. Watching that pig dig his fingers into Isabela's ass and pull her in tight as she tried to push away filled him with a rage he never knew he had. The sound of his arm breaking still brought a smile to Reynauld's lips.<br/><br/>Isabela's attention was torn away from her frustratingly useless entourage by the sound of another visitor making his way inside the inn and the hushed whispers that accompanied him. She knew well enough what he was without needing to be told though: a musketeer. She had longed to acquire such a figure for her court since she learned of their order; they carried such a prestige that having one employed became a matter of pride in the noble circles. This man was just the perfect toy she needed to shove in that stupid bitch Countess Simone's face. Isabela grinned to herself, a spark of delight in her eyes. Perhaps this night wouldn't be such a terrible waste of her time after all. "Thomas." The boy stirred slightly and groaned but didn't raise his head. Isabela rolled her eyes and sighed heavily before snapping her fingers and raising her voice. "Thomas!"<br/><br/>The boy suddenly shot up like a rocket at his mistress' commanding voice, his eyelids still heavy and his eyes dulled. "Y-Yeah?"<br/><br/>Isabela paused for a moment, contemplating admonishing the boy for not addressing her properly but ultimately decided against it. This was too urgent. "That man." Isabela pointed across the room at the musketeer seated by himself, "Bring him to me. Inform him that I will take care of all of his expenditures as well if that is what it takes."<br/><br/>Thomas' head bobbed with what Isabela could only assume was meant to be a nod of affirmation. The young man stood from the table, his eyes going wide momentarily as a rush of dizziness hit him. With a slap against his face and a few rubs of his eyes, Thomas set off across the inn to speak to the stranger. "Greetings, my lord. I hope the night finds you well." He may have been inebriated but Thomas was still raised to be a servant; a little alcohol wasn't going to rob him of the tact that had been hammered into his brain for years. "My lady," Thomas stepped aside and motioned toward the immaculately dressed dark haired woman across the room, "the kind and generous Countess Sabine Gautier, requests that you join her for the evening at her table. She has graciously offered to pay for any drinks or food you may have need of."<br/><br/>While Thomas made his introduction, Isabela busied herself with a little bit of last minute primping: flattening out her dress, adjusting her hair, and adopting a rigid posture befitting a noble. Isabela was intent on making a good impression and hoped her displays of wealth, power, and nobility were enough to win the man over. Below the surface of her calm exterior, however, she tingled with excitement. In fact, she hadn't been this anxious about something in quite some time. Imagine: her very own musketeer. The idea nearly made her squeal in delight. Taking a final deep breath to calm her nerves, Isabela placed her hands on top of the table, one folded over the other, as she patiently awaited the arrival of the musketeer and her future bodyguard.