Night Ride on the Caucasus

[baronbalaz]

Who: The Baron and Sherlock Holmes
Where: About town
When: Twilight, June 4th
What: A meeting, long over due
Rating: PG
Status: Closed / Incomplete

Comments

[observededuce]

"I say, is that a cybernetic horse?"

Ostensibly, Sherlock was out conducting a survey of stray cats in Aternaville alleys--one could tell so much by perturbations in feline behaviour--but he couldn't help but notice the unusual animal pummeling down the road with a rather outlandishly Victorian rider at the reins. Even in the meager light of the street lamps, man and horse glinted like a Christmas shop display.

[baronbalaz]

Several yards after the dark-clad man in the alley made his off-hand comment, rider and steed came to a literal screeching halt, a spray of bright blue sparks blooming from the street in sharp arcs. Byron had heard Alba describe the man Sherlock, and as soon as the man in the alley spoke, Byron was certain it had to be him.

Nudging Sabriel into a turn, The Baron cantered back towards the alley, where a few of the more feral cats scattered at his approach.

"It is indeed good sir. You must be Sherlock." Now that he was still, eyes the color of cloudless evening blue swept over the man. Yes, this had to be him. "The one who recruits other people's wards to be their eyes and ears around town." Byron had never objected directly to this. To be honest such a man struck his curiosity something fierce. If nothing else, Alba trusted him, and for that along, he owed to her to be polite.

[observededuce]

Alba hadn't told Sherlock much about her guardian, and Sherlock hadn't pressed her, figuring that he could uncover whatever he wanted to know, should he ever need to.

"And you must be the Baron."

Blue and gold, tunic and cape, his posture on the horse: the Baron was very much intent on broadcasting his station, but it was genuine, not a pretension. Aristocratic and...not human? Sherlock's observations regarding the people he'd encountered in Aternaville had accrued sufficiently to allow partially confident deductions. 79 percent confidence, plus or minus five. And then there was that horse. "Is it a modification, or are they born or made that way?"

[baronbalaz]

"Byron Balaz," He slipped off of his mount, keeping one hand on the reigns even though Sabriel would have stayed without it. The beast's two slim, curved horns dipped down with it's broad head, the metal glinting darkly.

"Modification begins a month before gestation is complete. Nanotechnology is injected into the placenta that primes the foal for surgery not long after birth. Internal modifications occur first, and the armor plating is the final step. Their life span and intellect increases exponentially in the process, and breeding is an incredibly selective process with certain families in my time. Sabriel is the descendant of the first horses the Balaz family ever owned. He's quite tame, I assure you."

The stallion nudged closer to Sherlock, inviting him to touch it's wide, plated muzzle. "Has Alba told you much about me?" It was a fair question, and Byron didn't want to assume.