Amour-Propre

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Amour-Propre Post by Saint-Just on Oct 27, 2011, 3:42pm

The Inquisitors, though scarcely established, had taken a series of severe blows. In the sea of zealotry that was the core of the group, Noah Belgrave had been a much needed anchor of moderation. In his sudden absence tempers had flared and, as may be expected amongst egotistical youths, personalities clashed. Royce Luxon and Lawrence Demarque soon realized that their visions were decidedly discordant. While Lawrence firmly believed in the beneficial potential of educating the lower class and permitting them to rectify their situation of their own accord, Luxon had taken matters to a more extreme stance. Moving swiftly beyond this notion of education and correction, coming to view the Inquisitors as a pinnacle of egalitarian idealism, insisting that they could unite the continent's downtrodden in a grand proletarian uprising.

This lofty aspiration experienced its first stumbling block when it became apparent that Royce had been cast in the role of treasonous boogieman by the powers that be. The group had reckoned strongly on the charisma of Luxon in drawing support, a hope dashed as he was confined to basements. His own home had been abandoned, having been sacked by Chief Stability Officer Gregor Metzer upon the surfacing of the letter to the Lucretzia Compound, an impromptu base of operations springing up in the wine cellar of Grey's End, a quiet opium den tucked into an inconspicuous corner of the Sommelier's Quarter. As the cavernous cellar had been built directly into the catacombs, a highly illegal architectural gambit overlooked by some union of blackmail and indifference, there was little fear of apprehension. Sinclaire Thames, loosely connected with the Inquisitors at the recommendation of Arden Saint-Just, had lovingly mapped the network of charnel tunnels tunnels some years prior, enabling the revolutionaries to move about the city with a degree of stealth Metzer could never have anticipated. At the time, Luxon alone required this ignoble precaution, though it was unhappily accepted that more would soon join him.

Before the letter's exposure, young aristocrats expounding the rights of the masses and the evils of socioeconomic inequality were common, such philosophies being as fashionable as they were hypocritical. This was a thing of the past, a public fear of "seditious elements" having become all-consuming. Those who dared express thoughts contrary to the dominant ideology were promptly visited by black-dustered gentlemen, arrested for conspiracy to commit treason and hauled away. The Archduke lamented this and did his best to restore calm, appearing in the city's center to make a bold speech extolling freedom and security, yet nothing came of it. The mania was a progeny of the bourgeoisie and aristocracy, fueled by public reports to public authorities. Even Saint-Just could not curtail this without entirely reshaping the Durantian social structure. At present, he was understandably unwilling to do so.

It was therefore accepted by the Inquisitors, now perhaps fifty in number, that any public speaking would necessitate the speaker's immediate retreat to the wine cellar. Andrew Lorring, brother of Belgrave's lady friend Amanda and ranking member of the Ducal Guard, pragmatically suggested that they branch out to proselytize in the bergs, perhaps even to distribute pamphlets from Ghalea or the Kelsmic mountains. Luxon stridently condemned this proposal as a retreat, to the thinly-veiled chagrin of many. Shortly after, news arrived by way of a state publication apprising Luxon of his father's murder in a Godrite alleyway, an event that remains shadowed. As Eldenn Luxon was a Brevigan clan leader and thus a figure protected by international diplomatic law, this was painted as an act of Godrite aggression. Luxon simply saw the death of his estranged father, an occurrence which filled him with obligatory familial grief and a sizable amount of personal guilt, for he had failed to respond to his father's numerous letters in recent years, consumed as he was in the pleasures of the Durantian upper class.

In a curious fashion, this tragedy served to soften the group's opinion of the grieving son. His goal became a righteous driving fury, his stubbornness became bravery. Soon, though, it became clear that nothing would be gained by creeping though catacombs afraid to speak. It was in this mindset that Lawrence approached Luxon at his writing desk, a warm glow illuminating his careworn face as a candelabra challenged the gloom of the cellar.

"Surely, you see the cause is stalled as long as we remain here..." murmured Lawrence, moving a supportive hand toward Royce's hunched shoulder only to be sharply rebuked as the boy slapped Lawrence's hand away in exasperation.

"You parrot the common sentiment then, brother. I should be more surprised, yet... I knew I would find myself alone." The retort was dry and sarcastic, raising Demarque's hackles a touch.

Lawrence glowered impatiently. "You have never been alone, Royce. Even now we still carry your banner, or we would be long gone from this dreary place. It is as your friend and ally that I stand here..."

"Very well. Accepting this premise, what would you have me do?" A glimmer of hope drifted hesitantly across Luxon's countenance. Perhaps, for the good of the cause, he would allow leadership to leave his hands. Lawrence at once identified this thought, being intimately familiar with the workings of his old friend's mind.

"I wouldn suggest, having given this much consideration, that you step down from the prominent post to which you have ascended in the past weeks. You are wanted in two nations and distrusted in all others. Step back, Royce. Be a shadow general, as the Godrites say."

"A shadow. All I am to them is a shadow. Fie on these people, too weak to fight..."

Rage blossomed within Lawrence at this profane utterance, flowing to his palm as it exploded across Royce's face in a swift stroke. "How can you speak thus?! We risk all to fight, to help, and you have the unmitigated narcissism to imply that you alone stand against the world?"

"What, is it not so?" Mused Royce, cynicism biting at Lawrence's flushed ears. "Who but I can claim any level of infamy born of success?"

Aghast, Lawrence stood speechless for a moment before roaring a response. "Success?! You are infamous because you had to sign your demmed name in full on a letter to a group which we had no reason to trust! Your blunder had condemned Noah and trapped you in a bloody basement! Because of you and your infantile way of carrying on, we are constricted and losing hope!" As he labored to catch his breath in the musty chamber, Lawrence was somewhat pleased to observe Royce's face contorting in fury.

"Dare you continue, Demarque? Twist the dagger! Twist it!"

"With pleasure! Look at you. Even now, you have managed to turn this around in your head, haven't you? Somehow, in a staggering feet of pompous mental acrobatics you have convinced yourself that you are the victim here. We, thee slavering horde, are conspiring to rob poor Royce of his glory. Heaven help us if we make you lose the game you're playing!" His voice had risen to an outright shout, a number of curious faces peering through the cellar door. Luxon opened his mouth to fight back, yet was silenced as Lawrence passionately brought a righteous fist down upon the desk, Luxon's wineglass tipping and spilling its sanguine contents over the nearly written documents.

"Save your protestations, Royce! You're too far lost; we only waste more time by hearing your nonsense. I came here to help you, to save your name if nothing else. There's no saving you, though. Blind and poisoned... goodbye, Royce! Goodbye!" Like a burning wind he departed, taking with him the observers. No one descended the stairs to comfort Luxon, for no one was left. He was alone for the time and, perceiving this, we wept bitterly. It was not the abandonment which afflicted Royce so; the validity of his best friend's criticism was far more horrifying.

Re: Amour-Propre Post by Saint-Just on Oct 27, 2011, 4:50pm

Lawrence, on the contrary, was decidedly pleased with his actions. This seemed to be an unanimous opinion, for not one Inquisitor objected as Lawrence seized the reigns. He knew that the chance had been lost, a victim of Luxon's zeal. This was no longer the time for their brand of change, and he acted accordingly. Practical measures were thusly postponed, meetings becoming akin to salon discussions. The hesitation which defined Lawrence's character once more asserted itself, the thirst for change stagnated, and all began to unwind. This fact was not lamented, however, for all involved knew very well the fate which awaited dissidents in the current climate. They were not cowards, but nor were they fools; they felt very clearly the value of their lives and had no desire to be deprived thus without very compelling reasons.

It was in this way that the Inquisitors shifted from the role of an underground subversion force to a disjointed band of observers. This proved to be a highly effective maneuver, for in this seemingly unbiased role the Inquisitors were far more adept at influencing their friends and acquaintances. On a bimonthly basis they would meet, narrowing their collective focus to a handful of targets intended for swaying. Confidence returned and with it, purpose. A proper base of operations was established in the historic Cafe Labrousse, a favorite of performers and poets tucked between an opera house and a gallery in the Thespian's Quarter. The proprietor of the little coffeehouse, a greying gentleman of sallow complexion and feminine lips, was none other than monsieur Colm Beaconsfield. He had in his youth been an actor of some renown, execrated by critics whilst courting the fondest affections of theatregoers. His starring role as Maurice Lindey in Le Chevalier de Maison-Rouge is still viewed as the precedent for the character, a fact of which he would deny knowledge with a good-humored grin. His fame had served to propel his establishment forward, necessitating his retirement from the arts in order to properly manage his affairs. This was much to the liking of the Inquisitors, for the constant presence of Beaconsfield in the cafe ensured an ever vigilant finger upon the city's pulse, his access to the writers, musicians, and painters constituting an invaluable resource.

Still, it must be said that the public fear of traitors and spies had slowed revolutionary progress to a crawl. As Lawrence sat pensively at the counter of the Labrousse, the music of the adjacent opera house penetrating the walls in a dull roar, Beaconsfield lazily flicked the the previous day's gazette as he absentmindedly polished a particularly radiant circle of counter space. This monotonous, compulsive swirling of rag and water captivated the troubled young man, blending with the intrusive white noise of the performance to thrust upon Lawrence the impression of a ravenous maelstrom. He allowed his mind to be seized by the imagined current, admittedly with the assistance of several drinks, a sudden upswing in pitch and pace filling his mind with frantic thunderbolts and lashing rains. He did not struggle as he circled the gluttonous expanse, eyes half open to admit the glimmer of Beaconsfield's silver tooth. In the wine-ravaged world to which Lawrence had submitted, this artificial moon watched as indifference as he rounded the final ring, vanishing into the sea. Down, down too quickly; the water had left him, only shadows caressed his cheeks. Slowly... or was it quickly? He could no longer tell. He felt nothing, perceived nothing. No roar, no moon, no rain...

"...not what... really took us... surprise... some time..."

The words were thick, oily, impossible to grasp. They spun about Lawrence in a mocking dance, his hands impotently clawing at the languid trails they left in the abyss.

"...he doing? Get... of ice... his throat."

The impact was sudden and jarring, a frozen plain rising from the void to halt Lawrence's descent. He gasped, water once more dominating his senses as he crashed through the ice. Quite suddenly, it was all gone.

Blinking rapidly and convulsing, Lawrence spluttered incoherently as he took stock of the world into which he had been unceremoniously thrust. The most apparent and pestiferous element was the presence of a large quantity of frigid water on his face, chest and neck, telltale cubes of ice littering the wooden floor. As his vision sharpened and extended, two boisterous faces gained definition. Beaconsfield was leaning over the counter, that silver tooth reflecting the lamplight.

"...supposed to be a waning gibbous..." slurred Lawrence, frowning in confusion. Both faces contorted with booming laughter, the second figure setting a dripping glass on the ground next to Lawrence. A small quantity of ice water remained in the goblet, the cubes and crystal meeting in a cacophony all too disagreeable to the gentleman for whom it was intended.

"What the devil did you give the boy, Colm?" chortled the individual, crouching to help Lawrence to his feet.

"The ruddy fool wanted to drink like a proletarian so I gave him a glass of the stuff we got from Cambrent's boys."

"Then another... and another..." muttered Lawrence as he regained his seat, glancing apologetically at the second man. His mind functioning once more at its optimum level, he at last recognized the fellow as Nicholas Garret, a journalist employed by the tabloid Beaconsfield had been reading. He was a classically handsome young thing, a firm jaw and bold chin ornamented by fine mustaches. Shaggy hair, soft and brown like that of a rabbit, seemed strapped to the head by relatively long sideburns terminating just below the ear. Narrow, sparkling eyes accustomed to being aware at all times of at once everything an nothing, a talent of the paparazzi ensuring that no detail is perceived at the expense of others, radiated life beneath bold brows. This method of viewing the world in a series of wide portraits had lent itself well to the composition of several respectable novels, the royalties of which permitting him to pursue his journalistic endeavors without need of a supplementary occupation. He had been introduced to the Inquisitors by Beaconsfield and quickly proving his worth by gathering information at a speed conceivable only by reporters, a talent which even now proved fruitful.

"Up we go, Lawrie, we'll see to that concussion later-"

"Concussion?" interjected Lawrence with slight discomfort.

"Aye, you had a messy fall."

"How so?"

"I tried to get you to drink a bit of water to clear your head. You took great offense, threw yourself to the floor with admirable alacrity, and promptly did a stunning imitation of the Gastonbury Fountain."

"Ah... I was... a tad lost, my apologies," murmured Lawrence sheepishly.

"I do believe we've all been there, eh?" Garret shook with warm laughter, slapping Lawrence heartily upon the back. "When one drinks like a farmer, one sleeps like one. By which I mean in the dirt, or perhaps someone else's bed. Good gad, do you remember the look on that old crone's fade when you came to fetch me?"

"She seemed enamored with you, Nick. It's not every day that one wakes up next to a handsome young man wearing naught but his whiskers," mused Colm, drinking deeply from his flask. Lawrence somewhat envied this freedom of the artist's class, a freedom of which they must needs be at all times aware yet, by very definition of freedom, dismiss it as a given in order to avoid becoming a slave to the responsibility of so weighty a gift. Having fully regained his composure, Lawrence gestured at the paper clutched in Garret's fist.

"Has something happened?"

"Why yes, m'boy, yes it has! So sorry, should have mentioned it sooner. Saint-Just is making another speech. Promises to be interesting. Gives us a few days to rally!"

Re: Amour-Propre Post by shahmat on Nov 5, 2011, 11:28pm

Valerie spoke up from behind them, seated in a pulled out chair by an empty table. "What's it to be about, Nick? What sort of rally are you planning? And remind me to get this story of yours later-- from Colm, not you, you great oaf." She shifted to her feet and came forward to dab at the dampened Lawrence with her handkerchief. "Poor Lawrence," she cooed playfully. "The only gentleman of the bunch."

Re: Amour-Propre Post by Saint-Just on Nov 7, 2011, 7:16pm

"Eh?" This unprecedented request for a legitimate plan stunned Garret; it is the fashion amongst young revolutionaries to weave highly energized yet hopelessly vague ideas, not to form functional actions. "We... dance! And drink! Tally ho!"

"I've had more than my share of drinking, sir," retorted Lawrence, demurring from Valerie's touch in as polite a manner as possible. "I daresay it is high time we consider, as miss Blythe suggests, a formal rally of some sort. The opportunity to do so may be denied us in the near future, if His Majesty's speech takes a particularly sinister turn."

"Oi, 'His Majesty'...? Careful with that royalist rhetoric, m'boy..." The incredulity coloring Colm's voice bit at Lawrence's already strained facade of calm dignity. Employing the full extent of his high breeding, he turned to the master of the house with a seraphic smile.

"I do not believe it inappropriate, mister Beaconsfield, to pay my respects to a great man through the simple assignment of a title. Is it 'royalist' to acknowledge the debt we owe to the monarch who ended a war, banished vulgarity and utility from the public square, and redefined what it is to hold the office of Archduke? This does not absolve his regime of its responsibility for the gross neglect of the working classes, but I certainly would not deem it remotely fitting to scoff at Erick Saint-Just."

A tense silence seethed between the two men, their worlds connected only by the slightest of shared sentiments, sentiments which now threatened to violently diverge. Neither allowed their gaze to waver, the only sounds in the chamber being the ever present roar of distant music and the ticking of Garret's hulking pocket watch, a bauble which he now examined with the utmost diligence in an attempt to appear unaware of the brewing unpleasantness.

Re: Amour-Propre Post by shahmat on Nov 8, 2011, 2:12pm

"Children..." Valerie murmured, with a sigh. It sounded much louder than she had intended in the utter silence, and she had to bite back a flinch. This squabbling, the clear class divide within the revolutionary group itself, was almost comic, though of course they couldn't see it. Nick was a good man-- sweet, funny, quick-witted, a touch brash-- but his revolutionist ideas were simply insane. If he understood the lower classes, he wouldn't offer them a sudden increase in power. It would do the nation no favors. But at least it was clear that they were destined for failure...

Re: Amour-Propre Post by Saint-Just on Nov 8, 2011, 3:43pm

One may easily have imagined the blaring of trumpets in regal fanfare as the door to the cafe burst open, admitting a dazzling specimen of foppish masculinity very much at home in the caricatured Godrite propagandist depictions of Durantian profligacy. A moderately tall figure bearing the grey eyes, slender features and golden-brown hair of the Saint-Just line stood proudly within the threshold, black slacks and knee boots blacker still contrasting artfully with the wine-tinted fabric of the sash wrapped carelessly about his waist, a vague paisley apparent throughout its folds when properly lit. The waistcoat, usually blessed with sizable lapels and a sumptuous lining, had been crafted with the clear intention of reflecting the minimalism of the working class, possessing only a modest collar and the most diminutive of embellishments in its placid grey composition. A blouse of unstained white, collar pointed and nestling a cravat tied in the style of the coachman of identical fabric to the sash, rounded out the ensemble. In short, here stood a man who, for one reason or another, wished to present himself as one of the proletariat yet found himself hindered by his own aristocratic sensibilities and a general ignorance as to the conditions of the class he so sincerely wished to emulate. In shorter still, here stood Arden Saint-Just, revolutionary, freedom fighter, and consummate dandy.

"Good gad, the air is positively charged today, my dear fellows! I do believe they're presenting 'Lucia di Lammermoor' at the neighboring establishment. Took all of my formidable will not to stroll right in, yet here you see me and here I shall stay! Eternally at your service, of course. And yours as well, m'dear!" So saying he energetically grasped Valerie's hand, planted a theatrical kiss upon it, and planted himself upon a stool between Lawrence's perch and Colm's position behind the counter, wholly unaware of the disagreeable atmosphere.

Re: Amour-Propre Post by shahmat on Nov 8, 2011, 4:08pm

Valerie determined that it was high time she made use of the excuse of her femininity and moved to Nicholas's side, burying her face in his shoulder. "Oh my god," she whispered, for his ears only, "What is he wearing? What... Why is he HERE?" She muffled a horrified giggle, then turned so that her cheek was pressed against his chest and she could watch the proceedings, looking innocently affectionate.

Re: Amour-Propre Post by Saint-Just on Nov 9, 2011, 3:28pm

"He's wearing the latest fashion. 'Course, keep in mind that the man sets those fashions. Come, love, he's not so bad..." Planting a mustachioed kiss upon her brow, Garret barked a jovial "hullo" at Arden, who responded with a twirl of the hand and slight nod of the head. Lawrence had regained his good humors, as had Colm, the two entirely drawn from the tension of their disagreement by the sudden materialization of the very embodiment of the point of contention. The gentleman in question had been served, upon special request, a serving of "purified water" which he now examined with the most severe of looks. Having been furnished with the glass so recently, and we must repeat obsessively, polished by Colm, the lordling was left entirely pleased and without complaint. Drinking deeply, he placed a hand on Lawrence's knee and resumed his energetic discourse.

"You've heard about the speech, of course? Naturally you have; monsieur le journaliste will have apprised you."

"That he has, albeit in such scant detail that I've nary a clue as to the purpose of the engagement," muttered Lawrence, eyes lingering briefly upon the white-gloved gracing his leg.

"You can read the details in tomorrow's issue, we haven't got the release yet!" Garret's characteristically booming voice resonated with the precise frequency of the wooden stools upon which several parties were seated, adding to the wriggling discomfort of Lawrence.

"Ah yes, my apologies, I had forgotten father's reticence to part with any intelligence on the subject until the preceding afternoon," Arden stated, more to himself than anyone in particular. "As we are all the best of friends, I take it upon myself to spoil the surprise. He is announcing a fête."

"A fête," repeated Colm, dumbfounded. Choosing to interpret this repetition as an enquiry for additional details, Arden nodded innocently. "Indeed, a masquerade. He feels is it necessary to celebrate the unification of the nations of Muralis." Greater exasperation still greeted this statement, the silence no doubt being acknowledged by Arden as excitement surpassing language. Lawrence eventually voiced the common opinion.

"The... nations are hardly unified, Arden."

This was met with a dismissive wave of that long, elegant hand. "Not yet, perhaps, but it is a foregone conclusion. The Kelsmic peoples are no doubt isolated due to a national case of social anxiety, the remedy naturally being a proper party. As to dire Godrin, I am all but certain that they will find their enmity washed away by wine and general merriment. The war is over, is it not?"

Colm chuckled. "I'd say postponed is a better word."

"It needn't be," retorted Arden sharply, taking the barkeeper aback. "Great men with great egos would keep us at one another's throats for generations to come. Gad, there's even talk of war within Durant! Would it really be so dreadful if we all stopped for an evening, stood shoulder to shoulder, and had a demmed good laugh?"

"A man after my own heart," thundered Garret, directing a look clearly stating 'leave it be' at Colm. Grumbling, the master of the house stepped jerkily into an adjacent chamber.

Re: Amour-Propre Post by shahmat on Nov 9, 2011, 4:02pm

Valerie smiled up at the journalist, pleased by his intervention, and then at Arden. "That's... actually quite shrewd of him, isn't it? It would be unforgivable to refuse, so he'll be able to bypass the red tape and actually talk to other representatives, and take the political temperature of Godrin, and all of that... Will you be going?" Her smile widened. "I think I can trust you to notice what everyone wears. Will you come back and tell me all about it?"

Re: Amour-Propre Post by Saint-Just on Nov 9, 2011, 8:21pm

"La, I can do you a touch better! While the gates to the Babel compound itself will be thrown open so as to admit the whole of the populace, should it choose to attend in its entirety, into the gardens, the tower itself is to be the site of the masquerade and accordingly houses the opportunity to interact freely with the crème de la crème of Durant. It may behoove any parties interested in networking, for whatever reason, to drop in. I have therefore placed upon the oh so exclusive guest list a handful of entirely fabricated names, it being the fashion of the high nobility to employ aliases for their own amusement. Considering the theme of the fête, questions shan't be asked." Taking another sip of his water, Arden stared pointedly at the paper still clutched in Garret's hand. "Give it here, Mister Garret, I really must check the theatre schedule for next week."

Re: Amour-Propre Post by shahmat on Nov 9, 2011, 9:36pm

"Arden!" Valerie seized a hold of Garret's coat impulsively. "Are you quite serious?" She seemed quite calm but was squeezing the life out of the fabric in her hands, and there was a slight flush of excitement to her cheeks. "How sweet of you."

Re: Amour-Propre Post by Saint-Just on Nov 11, 2011, 8:10pm

"I am at all times at your service, m'dear," sang Arden, thumbing airily through the paper to settle upon the theatre schedule. "Odd's my life... not a demn thing worth attending... I swear, they are catering to a lesser crowd these days... philistines... I must have a word with the Thespian's Guild, lest some further decay take hold of the arts!" Rising in a huff, the lordling swept out of the establishment without another word. Thoughtfully observing his egress, Lawrence and Nicholas exchanged meaningful glances. Acknowledging the vice-like grip Valerie exercised upon his coat with a playful flicking of her hair, Nick simply rumbled "a tad expensive, eh". Lawrence sighed, scribbling a series of notes. Having accomplished his task he handed one each to Nicholas and Valerie.

"Apply at Timmerman Finery, they have been my family's trusted tailors for generations. You have only to submit my note and they will be happy to provide costumes on my dear father's dime. That ought to be agreeable to all involved, no?" Clearly expecting an affirmative answer, Lawrence politely bowed to the pair and took his leave.

Re: Amour-Propre Post by shahmat on Nov 11, 2011, 10:07pm

"Oh, but certainly we--" But he was already gone, and Valerie was left staring at the note. "Nicholas? Are you going to go?" Her voice sounded suddenly rather small. "And... you don't think Colm is going to start any trouble, do you?"

Re: Amour-Propre Post by Saint-Just on Nov 14, 2011, 1:58pm

"Certainly I'll go, love, without a doubt. Really must keep an eye on things." Nicholas maintained his indomitable air of confidence, though a hint of unease crept into his voice as he continued. "Colm, though... I'm not too sure. Seems we're headed toward something, perhaps a smidge faster than either side would prefer."

Two blocks away, on a recently cleaned corner straddling the line between the Thespian's Quarter and the Mercantile Quarter, perhaps a short carriage ride from the historical Galamont High Street which had dominated the center of the city since its conception, Lawrence had caught up with the uncommonly evasive son of the Archduke. It was most fortuitous that the weather had proven so very agreeable, the clouds blanketing the sky so as to create a uniform greyness which fended off the sun without inflicting upon the Durantians the hellish drizzle to which they were generally accustomed. Had conditions tipped the slightest bit in either direction, Arden would no doubt have employed his cabriolet, rendering pursuit wholly impossible. As it was, the two now stood together in silent consideration of a beggar sprawled in the green across the cobbled street.

"Won't you offer him a meal, m'boy?" Arden's drawling voice, resonant and commanding in spite of its own insistence upon inanity, brought a flush to Lawrence's high cheeks.

"It is not our intention to serve as a soup kitchen, sir," he retorted, brow furrowed.

"Gad, Lawrie, must you be so dire? I was hardly serious."

"You never are."

"You wound me, sir. Sink me, you've missed my intentions entirely."

"Have I, your excellency?" Lawrence's tone had adopted a sardonic edge, far from the moderation that defined his character and earned him the respect of the Inquisitors. "At what, precisely, are you driving? Parties, operas, lackeys... you clearly enjoy your position."

"Can you expect anything more? My wealth is inherited, yes, but you can hardly blame the hereditary estates for the comparative poverty of the rest of the population."

"Oh? Would it not alleviate a substantial portion of the national burden if we merely taxed a meager percentage of that inheritance? If we mandated certain annual donations from capable parties?"

"Charity at gunpoint, Lawrie? Is that the socialist depth to which you would have us stoop? Folderol and fiddledeedee, monsieur, you would turn us into a bourgeoisie commune."

"Would that not be preferable to a state in which three quarters of the population are condemned to mediocrity, if not worse?"

"Not necessarily. There will always be those who have too much, those have haven't nearly enough, and those who are going to take more regardless of their present condition. Humanity cannot be forced into an ideal state. It must be gently coerced into believing unanimously that such a state is ideal for their own interests. That is the trick, mind you... making every demmed party feel that they have the most to gain from the same system. Almost impossible, most would say."

"Of course it is."

"So we are agreed, m'boy."

"On an entirely immaterial subject, yes. This does not in any way suggest that empowering the oppressed will result in a state of affairs worse than that in which we now find ourselves." Lawrence evidently was growing in impatience; he had spent more than his fair share of energy debating such matters with Royce, albeit from a different angle, and his desire to engage in such a battle with the son of the Archduke was waning by the moment.

"What makes you think," murmured Arden, for the first time turning his head to face Lawrence directly, "that the oppressed possess the capacity to govern themselves? Why are they bearing the brunt of the societal burden? Why do they starve? It is not bad luck alone, surely."

"They are born into the role!"

"Not so," retorted Arden, inanity giving way to incisiveness, "not be a demmed wide margin. Look at the Wilmores, the Renfields, the Sulcourts... a generation ago they were nothing. Through careful business practices they have become the very picture of prosperity. Likewise, consider the venerable Galamont line. Streets, institutes, all manner of things bearing the name, yet did they not descend into decadence? Pratley, or whatever his bloody name is, may in fact be the most empty, brutish, abhorrent specimen of fallen nobility the country has ever produced. Do not pretend that anyone is securely chained to their caste. Mobility in either direction is entirely possible, simply not at the reckless rate you propose."

"That doesn't do a blasted thing for the starving masses, for those who have failed!"

"And what responsibility have we to failures?!", roared Arden, grey eyes almost flashing with passion. "It is not, and never has been, the position of the Durantian crown to coddle every bedraggled waif who has, through ill fortune or personal deficiency, reached a low point. Gad, if every malodorous mendicant was given a livable pension we should swiftly be swallowed in a sea of humanity! There is only so much room, only so many jobs, so many houses, so much food. Some people must die."

"So they must..." murmured Lawrence, gazing at Arden's shoes. They were fine things indeed, immaculately polished and lacking any hint of a scuff. "Still... something must be done."

Softening his tone considerably, Arden patted Lawrence upon the head, as a father would a crestfallen child. "And something will be done. Have I not opened to you the path to diplomacy? Please, speak to my father. He is not a tyrant... you have met him. You know he wants what's best for the nation."

"Perhaps so. Though I daresay our opinions may differ in defining 'best'."

Re: Amour-Propre Post by shahmat on Nov 14, 2011, 8:17pm

"Nick... this is..." Valerie sighed and moved away from him to sit on the edge of a table, taking his hand. "Arden and Lawrence don't seem to understand that they're just alienating men like Colm when they try to be peaceful. He isn't going to follow their lead. They're just egging that sort of mindset on, that they won't do enough, won't take a stand... Nick, please, promise you'll be careful with all of this."

Re: Amour-Propre Post by Saint-Just on Yesterday at 7:07pm

"Careful? M'love, I'm always careful! Careful enough, what? I'll keep an eye on things, you know I will... neither side is quite ready for out and out unpleasantness." So saying Nick offered a reassuring squeeze of the hand. "Shall we walk?"