Namor, however, is not quite so lucky. He had been previously been about to walk into a restroom in a high end restaurant in New York City. Instead, he takes a step into open air and ends up face planting in the dust not too far from a horse.
Marie is busily extracting herself from the hay with minimal success, ending up rolling out of it onto the dirt floor and onto her back, breathing heavily.
Namor pushes himself up off the ground, brushing his suit off as he does so, hovering slightly off of the ground. "What deviltry is..." Catching sight of Marie, he pauses and heads over, offering her a hand.
Unceremoniously dumped to the ground nearby is a man in a blue-so-dark-it's-black bodysuit and a torn-up batch of weird webbing on his back that forms an ugly cape. With a big gaudy bauble bracelet on his forearm.
There is another set of footsteps, marked mostly by the soft clinking of metal as it moves with the unidentifiable person. The woman's voice is cut off abruptly, though the intervening voice is low and urgent, and difficult to discern the words, it is clearly male. The footsteps halt.
Namor tilts his head to the side, listening to the voice approaching and then the cessation of the voice. Pressing his lips together, he heads toward the sound of the voices, not looking to see if his newfound compatriots are following him.
His hands are out to the sides and his feet are on the ground for the moment.
The Duke takes the proffered weapon from the Marchioness' doppelganger with cautious interest, glancing over it briefly before handing it to one of his men. "You would have ambushed a fine herd of horses, certainly," he counters, "Though here you would have headed next and how you would escape given your clear unfamiliarity with the territory will have to remain a mystery."
A brief hand gesture, and the group is moved off towards the Lady Maximoff's estate - and a more sequestered setting.
Wanda's solarium is a quiet, peaceful place, hung about with bright tapestries depicting a mountainous countryside rather unlike the landscape of the Maximoff estate.
The mistress of the estate seats herself in her chair and automatically reaches for her sewing basket, taking out a small pair of trousers with a hole in one knee. As she begins to patch the garment, she seems more relaxed than she had in the stables.
And yet, despite her obvious concentration on the task, her gaze frequently returns to the one called Jean-Paul who is not Lord Beaubier.
"Lord Beaubier has been and continues to be a good friend," she says with quiet dignity. "I thank God each morning that our family has been blessed by such friends, and by such a liege lord as His Grace." She nods at the duke.
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And hooves. Big, heavy, sharp hooves.
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A sneeze quickly follows.
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Namor pushes himself up off the ground, brushing his suit off as he does so, hovering slightly off of the ground. "What deviltry is..." Catching sight of Marie, he pauses and heads over, offering her a hand.
"My lady."
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Wings? She takes the hand and allows herself to be pulled to her feet, making certain to take a step back once she's steady.
"Who the hell are you?"
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Namor's brows are arched looking around, "Can someone actually take a moment to explain what in Neptune's waterlogged beard is going on here?"
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This is eerily familiar.
"Aw, shock. Are we doing this again?"
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Morph moves over to wrap the nominal team leader in an impulsive hug.
"Looks like we might be getting saddled with a bunch of newbies. You want to give them the spiel, or shall I?"
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"Sha, sha, beautiful ones, swift ones, whatever disturbs you, we will deal with it, I swear--"
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His hands are out to the sides and his feet are on the ground for the moment.
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"Ruh-roh."
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A brief hand gesture, and the group is moved off towards the Lady Maximoff's estate - and a more sequestered setting.
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The mistress of the estate seats herself in her chair and automatically reaches for her sewing basket, taking out a small pair of trousers with a hole in one knee. As she begins to patch the garment, she seems more relaxed than she had in the stables.
And yet, despite her obvious concentration on the task, her gaze frequently returns to the one called Jean-Paul who is not Lord Beaubier.
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"You have an interest in my counterpart, I think." Again, that growling tone that is almost an accent in itself.
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