milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The snow, it neither bothers or pleases Hercule Poirot that much, At worst, it can be a nuisance. At best, it makes for a nice change, a bit of scenery in the city and a reminder of the change of seasons. But as he walks outside, bundled up properly and just barely feeling the cold, it brings back memories. Of the Christmas he took a case to escape his heat-less apartment and found more than he expected. And of the trip across Europe on the Orient Express, a mystery that even to this day disturbs him and remains a secret known by only a few. The chill he feels down his spine is not from the cold.

But that does not stop him from taking a walk across the snow.

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Cassian's at the firing range with his blaster in sniper form and his blue parka tight at his throat while he fires quick and accurate shots. When he hears footsteps on the snow, he leans his rifle down to see who's approaching and waves when he recognizes Poirot.

Poirot sees his friend, and his friend's unique weapon. It is, quite frankly, somewhat frightening, a device that fires energy instead of bullets. But he know that, like many weapons, it is not the weapon but its user that makes it dangerous.

"Good morning, Captain."

(OOC: Sorry for tagging and disappearing, I'm traveling but wanted to start a thread.)

"Good morning. How do you like the snow?" Poirot seems not too with how many layers he's wearing.

"The snow, it is fine from time to time. I do not like the cold, but the white, it is pretty for now." And for the moment, he's actually not cold. "And you, my friend?"

“It’s clean snow which is nice. I don’t mind it, I grew up where it was always cold, so I’m used to it,” He doesn’t like it but he knows how to deal with it.

"Where I came from, the cold, it was never terrible, due to the currents, due to warm waters making the air warmer." He doesn't entirely know how it works, but London rarely saw substantial snow, nor did Brussels. "It was never that warm, either, but after thirty years I grew accustomed to the weather."

"I've been on planets like that, its comfortable. What would be your perfect weather?"

He doesn't have to think on this long. "There is a place called the French Riviera, where it is nearly always temperate, where the sun, it shines and the breeze, it comes off the water, and every day, or nearly every day, it is pleasant. Rarely too hot, rarely too cold. That is my ideal."

"That does sound nice. Have you ever lived there?"

"Non, that would not have done. The little grey cells, they would have found little challenge. While there is crime in even the paradise, there would most likely have been far less than in London, and I would have passed on from the boredom." Also, a few French police detectives would not give him much authority.

"Still a little boredom can be a restful change for a time, but I can see wanting to be where everything happens,"

Most of Cassian's moments like that come from waiting so its never relaxing. And his missions also take him closer to the danger of the Empire.

"The odd thing is how often I would travel, would see rest, and something would happen." Sometimes it was quieter in London.

"What kinds of things? The sort that you would normally search out?"

He can understand that, he's always listening and looking when he's traveling.

"The sort of thing I was usually hired to deal with. There were times when I felt as though death would travel with me. But what happened, it would have happened anyway. The events where already in motion. And perhaps Poirot merely needed to be there to see that justice was done." Or something as close as possible to justice.

The idea of carrying justice is a hopeful interpretation, "Justice and death are often near each other."

"Only when death is itself unjust." The quiet death, the ones that had no violence, are merely deaths. The step to the next world, but still merely deaths.

"Yes, but just deaths are rare in my experience,"

Some of the ones he's ordered to do are meant to be a form of justice, Cassian's not always certain they are. He hasn't known a lot of times when a death felt right.

"That is something that we as God's children are not ever able to know entirely. We can only work to bring justice." Though how much he truly believes that is a matter for him alone.

Cassian considers Poirot, the phrase 'god's children' isn't one he knows but he understands the idea.

Its not one he's ever been comfortable with, that there's something beyond that will decide what matters. In that kind of reckoning, his life doesn't feel like it will balance out,

"Yes, at least you were in a position where you had some control of what happened."

"It sounds as though you wish to have served as a police officer or a detective in another life, yes?" He knows this man has no such luxury, but that would not prevent such a hope.

"If they were actually able to do what they set out to do, perhaps,"

He knows that's possible in other worlds but the idea of them working that way feels almost unbelievable.

"There can be, even in unjust places, some justice. I know of a few in my native land who did not flee, and who did their duty despite the occupiers." Often at great risk.

"Yes, I'm always trying to find them, they can change the balance. There are even a few still in the Senate. The Empire searches them out too."

"As before, I wish you will with such a quest.

"But surely you did not come out into the snow to speak of the quest for justice, mon ami?" Sometimes, Poirot wants to hold on to his good mood.

He shakes his head, he doesn't mean to bring the conversation down. Poirot is good at listening and asking good questions so he finds himself saying more than he expects.

He shows his blaster, "No, I was using the firing range. I haven't had access to this much space lately. What are your plans for this snowy day?"

Edited 2017-11-29 02:16 (UTC)

"Just to take a walk, and then return and perhaps have some tea or some cocoa. One has few plans in the afterlife, mon ami." He wishes it were not so, but he has come to accept that.

"Do you wish that you had more plans?"

"Oui. But one can hardly wish for a murder in the afterlife." And he is too old to ever consider returning to a job as a gendarme.

"No, and I guess the problems of the various changes aren't as intriguing."

"Changes?"

"The translation problems, when people turned into children but their minds were the same. I've never heard what caused either of them to happen other than magic."

"I would dare not investigate events of a magical nature, Captain. It would be as if I tried to find the cause of death without being a doctor." He knows his limits. And yet...

"I understand. I'm always curious about them but I never know where to start,"

None of his normal analysis would work.

"Perhaps there are some...wizards?...here we could ask?" Surely someone is managing the magic.

"I know one person who I feel like would know the questions to ask. Her name's Ysalwen, she using magic and tries to understand it."

"What an unusual name. Where is she from?" His curiosity is piqued, just a bit.

"A world called Thedas. Her species are known as elves."

"Elves? She is small and delicate with pointed ears?" He knows little of such creatures, having read little in the way of fantasy.

"She has pointed ears but she's a fighter. Delicate isn't a word I'd think of with her."

He cannot quite imagine it. "What other features does she have?"

"A tattoo across most of her face, white hair and she usually has a large dog companion with her."

He still cannot imagine it. Tattoos are not for women. They are for sailors.

"I shall look for her. If nothing else, I will meet someone new."

"I think you would get along. She's always facing unexpected challenges."

"Then I shall find her.

"But that will wait until I am warm again. I find that the cold has at last penetrated my coat. But I am glad for the moment to talk. Au revoir, Captain."

"I think I'll do one more round then head inside. It was good to speak to you."

Poirot touches the brim of his hat and returns to the warmth.

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