Perhaps only a handful of times in this life, had Édouard known such deep, black waters of rage. But in that moment, as those incomparable grey eyes caught the flash of the brigand’s blade at Lightfoot’s back, he could not have said whether that cold, still pool threatened to drown [i]him[/i] beneath its icy waters, for his failure to foresee this danger, or the soon-to-be-dead man who dared press a blade against - 

[i]”Merde!”[/i] In one deft movement, Édouard lifted the woman from his lap, depositing her gently into a seat and leaping to his feet. "Stay here, Madeleine - [i]do not move from this spot![/i]" The long, deep purple coat fell from his shoulders to the floor, revealing the slender stiletto daggers sheathed at his waist, and the pistol holstered at his shoulder. 

He pulled the pistol swiftly, pressing its smooth grip into her hand. "Anyone not [i]me[/i] comes up those stairs, and you shoot the bastard, you hear me? Anything happens to you, James will [i]never[/i] forgive me. [i]Luc[/i] will never forgive me."

[i]'I'll never forgive me... '[/i] The first pistol shot thundered as he bent to kiss the woman's worried brow swiftly. Soft lips brushed over those tiny furrows before he turned to the crowd below, the only emotion left to be found on his face was in that deep, determined frown and the firm set of his jaw.

By the second report of the captain’s pistol, those steel stilettos were already unsheathed. Édouard leapt to the railing, balancing there for a split second before stepping off, silent as death itself, into the furious storm of shouts, thrown chairs and pressing flesh below. Édouard landed easily on his feet and stood slowly, a preternatural calm, the eye of this mad storm as he moved across the floor, his eyes never leaving the chaos that swarmed around Lightfoot.

Not a single member of the [i]Skate’s[/i] crew saw so much as a scratch as body and blade danced with a mesmerizing grace across the tavern floor, though the belligerent corsairs of the [i]Feather[/i] were not near so fortunate. Hamstrung, blinded, bleeding - Édouard’s cold, silent rage found many warm, ready targets as he strode to the drunken captain, crimson spray and a chorus of surprised screams in his wake. 

His head snapped to the left when the third pistol shot roared, the golden Nicolette breaking a man so thoroughly and skillfully with her bare hands he did not rise again, and then moving to the next with an inexorable efficiency that was sheer poetry. As gleefully as a Viking of old, the helmsman was smashing men and chairs with equal relish, broken men and broken wood falling to either side as the remainder of the [i]Skate’s[/i] crew erupted throughout the Boar. But even in the chaos, those eyes still discerned a deadly order, spotted the mortal threat come from a shadowed corner.

Swift as a serpent, Édouard wrapped his arm about Lightfoot’s shoulders, his neck, both stilettos in one hand now as he snatched the taller man backward to his chest. Bearing the captain’s weight in a preternatural display of strength and uncommon grace, Édouard reached with his free hand for the perfectly-balanced throwing knife tucked into the top of his tall leather boots.

As if guided by the divine hand of the huntress Artemis herself, the blade sailed across the length of the tavern, burying itself in the neck of the most unfortunate First Mate of the [i]Crimson Feather[/i] just as his own pistol exploded, the musket ball hurtling through the empty air where Captain Lightfoot’s head had been less than a second before. 

Édouard spat his disgust to the filthy floor. He had little mercy for fools who lacked the foresight not to bring yet another pistol to a knife fight. He heaved Captain Lightfoot back to his feet, spinning the man around and snatching at the collar of his shirt, yanking the taller man’s face to his own, bending the brim of his lovely black velvet chapeau as he did.

[i]”Quel idiot!”[/i] he hissed through bared teeth, “You drink your piss water, and then [i]invite[/i] death!?” Grey eyes blinked away some unnamed emotion with a growl as Édouard shoved Lightfoot away, turning to disappear back into the press of battling flesh as he snarled over his shoulder. “You return my blade when that bastard is done dying on it, you hear me? If you are so drunk you forget, I shall [i]not[/i] be pleased… “