Love is a battlefieldIts funny how a song, or just an instrumental theme can evoke images, feelings, and tell a tale, even if that tale exists only within the confines of your mind and no one else will ever hear the same story in the same notes.
It starts off with a gentle plucking of a guitar string, perhaps a broken instrument by the sounds of it. It hasn't been played for quite some time, or maybe the musician is long out of practice. His fingers tease the strings as they sing muted notes in reply, shy of being overheard by an unwelcome stranger. There is a certain melancholy to the tune as the chords whine in the stillness of a cold morning. He's a fugitive in his own land, his own country, under the banner of which he once fought and bled.
The covers stir behind him as a veiled form of a young woman stretches in the pale dawning light. Her untamed hair swirls in messy waves over the sheets while her voice and breath summon memories of a night which should have been forgotten.
The strings pick up now,
The CourtesanThe warm midsummer sun barely begun to set over the dusty Parisian streets when a crowd of all those with means and motive flocked to the nearest sites of entertainment. Already, the clanking of hooves and rumble of wheels could be heard against the pavement before the Grand Théatre as carriage after carriage pulled up to its steps, unloading lovely ladies and neatly dressed gentlemen. Some guests arrived alone, others in groups or pairs, but all sported the best form of evening regalia of the early Empire period. Men strut about like peacocks in their colorful waistcoats and revolutionary three piece suits, gallantly offering their arms to elegant women that fluttered at their side like pastel butterflies. Light muslin gowns clung suggestively to feminine curves, delicately framing exposed cleavages and emphasizing the sway of hips as they advanced towards the building's entrance. The entire scene was reminiscent of an ancient assembly in front of a Roman temple as the