A 'Conjugal' Scene

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A 'Conjugal' Scene Post by Saint-Just on Sept 9, 2011, 10:21pm

{High Durant, Durant: Babel}

"...is not nearly enough. The intention driving the consolidation of the military was not to parade them about for Our amusement. We have quite enough frivolities as it is, do We not? Heaven forbid anyone be simply content with the beauty of thorough, skillful work. Capitalism be demmed, there is no satisfying the slavish herd..."

Three men, two standing behind a third seated at a desk, had cloistered themselves within the private salon of the Archduke of Durant. The monarch himself had not deigned to rise from his writings, considering the words spilling from his pen to be of far greater importance than those flowing from the mouths of the Ministers of War and Interior. This was not something to which the worthy gentlemen were accustomed, being veritable demigods within the Durantian political sphere. The Archduke alone behaved in so petulant a manner, perhaps in a concerted effort to combat their ever-swelling egos. The Minister of Interior and patriarch of the Demarque dukedom, one Marchos Demarque, cleared his throat in demonstration of his wish to speak, only to be harshly rebuked by the decisive clinking of Saint-Just's stylus against one of the fine crystal inkwells lining the opulently crafted desk's backboard.

This was the burgundy ink. Both men knew well the implication of his employment of said pigmentation.

Exchanging an unnerved glance with Demarque, Minister of War Gideon Belgrave of the Belgrave Dukedom mouthed the word 'silence'. Demarque acquiesced without complaint. Burgundy, in its dire rubicundity, signified a royal writ, an absolute Archducal command immune to any form of bureaucratic interference. The further implication of this change in inks was that Archduke Saint-Just had evidently found something sufficiently pressing to postpone his annotation of Morand's "Threefold Genealogy" to take definitive action. In response to their obedient silence, Saint-Just renewed his diatribe with redoubled vigor.

"The poniards of Godrin are arrayed at the border, the demands of the Ghaleans increase daily, and what is suggested to Us? Devote a sizable portion of the military to professional loitering in hopes of creating some false sense of security to be enjoyed only by simpletons. False, We place the emphasis on false! Let Godrin have the simple! More may be easily provided, is that not the chief occupation of the lower orders? The slave seeks illusory comforts, dare you accuse the people of Durant of servile sentiment?"

For an instant he was silent, turning his noble head slightly to observe the Ministers through his peripheral vision. His eyes were much like those of his father and son, grey and active, possessing a species of hunger burning with a vigor unmatched by the most ambitious of infernos. Being the eighth scion of the Saint-Just dynasty, his pupils were almost avian, thin vertical diamonds with a barely perceptible red tint amongst the black. When no answer was offered in response to his admittedly rhetorical question, Saint-Just resumed his scribbling. "Slaves they are, though they do not realize it;" he murmured, "few do. The Master Morality, in its sublime simplicity, is incomprehensible to contemporary man. Even We, in Our ruminations, find it troublesome to fully and consistently employ. Consequences, gentlemen, not intentions! A slave values intentions because anyone, anyone at all, may convince him that he was guided by the purest, most benevolent wishes. It is the master who judges others, judges himself, by the measurable consequences of that which the master creates! Belgrave."

The final syllables giving shape to the name of the Minister of War were uttered not in the commanding, sharp tones which the Archduke had thus far employed, but in an abruptly assumed whisper, magnifying the sharpness considerably. Belgrave shuddered involuntarily, stifling the urges to either draw his pistol or hurtle himself through the towering glass window in terror.

"Your Majesty?"

"In distributing soldiers throughout the nation with orders to parade weekly, what were your intentions?"

"I had intended to make the people feel secure... to... create a sense of our genuine interest in their well-being, Your Majesty."

"Fine intentions, Mister Belgrave. Admirable, even. Now let Us examine the consequences. The Ghaleans believe We are preparing to wage war upon them. Kelsma is under a similar impression. A number of magistrates have voiced concern over what they perceive as a looming threat of martial law. The Kurtz company has filed a complaint over what it considers a military incursion upon private holdings. We have taken measures to correct these diplomatic missteps and, seeing Our error in delegating such vital areas of administration, have introduced a series of reforms to the government structure." Rising majestically, loosely bound golden-brown hair whirling about as he turned, Saint-Just thrust sealed envelopes at both ministers with a troubling smirk. "Of course, We wouldn't want Our loyal, well-meaning associates left destitute and under-appreciated. Fear not; you are to be retained. We know better than to deal so fierce a blow to high society."

"Your majesty, what-"

"Mister Belgrave, We are not conducting interviews at present. You are excused. Please inform Mister Foster that We are prepared to speak with him at his leisure, provided his leisure does not bring him into Our study before the tolling of the evening bells."

Nodding numbly, Belgrave flitted through the door, Demarque following with a barely perceivable twitch biting at his left eye. Smiling to himself, the Archduke strode to the window dominating the rear wall of the chamber, the sprawling gardens bustling with activity far beneath. They were his secret source of pride, the acres of ornate and perfectly maintained flowers, fountains and sculptures he had installed in place of the grim utilitarian parade grounds. While it would be misleading to call Saint-Just a vain man, he certainly took pleasure in attaching his name to things of beauty. This was of course excepting shows of a militaristic nature. What use had he for parade grounds? The people did not benefit from the pomp and bravado of soldiers on the march. Such displays were egotistic masturbation for insecure rulers, nothing more.

With his newest series of writes, the distribution of the military was considered mended. Once more they populated the garrisons arrayed along the borders, their hours spent in training, exercise, arts and crafts, and quietly polishing their light armor of smokey grey. It may be considered curious that, in spite of his condemnation of an ornamental army, Saint-Just insisted upon the installation of a battalion tailor in each unit to see to the upkeep of the fine crimson uniforms worn with the armor. To this he would readily answer that, so long as one does not sacrifice functionality, there is much to be gained in a well-dressed force. Most notably the boon of intimidation, which translates directly to prevention of conflict.

This philosophy was embodied and focused to a blindingly brilliant point in the Archduke himself. Sleeping no more than four hours each night, some hours before dawn he would awaken and submerge himself for a time in a basin of benign acids, scouring his form of oils and impurities. Rising in a species of sublime agony, he then shakily throws himself into an adjacent basin of soothing oils. This balm of restoration and preservation also served to shroud him in his favored scent, a blend of charcoal and spices which was both masculine and evocative of destruction, of warfare. It should be noted that, prior to sleeping each night, Saint-Just would furiously vent his frustrations through vigorous physical exercise with a zeal uncommon amongst even soldiers. His body thusly worked, purged and eased, the Archduke then proceeds along an open air gallery suspended between his private tower and the general Archducal chambers, his body being hardened and chiled by the morning breeze. He took a great deal of pleasure in pausing, should time allow, to watch the sun rise over his beloved gardens.

Now situated in his dressing chamber, the Archducal handmaidens are tasked with preparing his hair and face, and of garbing his regal frame. The former consisted of of brushing, combing, perfuming and binding his long hair, after which powders are applied to his face to restrict perspiration. His eyebrows are plucked, he is shaven, and he is proclaimed perfect. The latter ordeal, the selection of garments, is simplified somewhat in that the chosen outfit is prepared the previous evening. Under his clothing Saint-Just is fitted with a tight, lightweight series of scale plates intended to protect against blade and bullet alike. While somewhat restricting his movement, it had more than once thwarted the machinations of a would-be assassin. On the day of his interview with mister Henry Foster, Saint-Just's oufit was a particularly stately and exceedingly Durantian affair. A blouse of purest white, starched at the collar and loose about the sleeves, was the first order of business. This was securely tucked into splendid grey muslin slacks, tailored to perfection. A waistcoat, unique in its sloping high collar reaching its apex between his shoulders at the base of his neck, was tightly fitted over the blouse. It was composed of a fabric the hue of fine red wine, the subtle pattern being an interlocking sequence of fleur-de-lis. The lapels, emphasized in their large size, revealed the lighter red of the lining. Into its double-breasted folds was tucked an ascot tied in the overlapping naud gordien style, its fabric an imposing burgundy surpassing the waistcoat in menace by some degree, yet clearly distinguishable from black. This was intended to compliment the trim and lining of his resplendent grey coat, unbuttoned and descending to the knees. Its shoulders were ornamented with polished plates of grey, tastefully studded with rubies. The sleeves of the coat were similarly plated at the cuff, terminating just far enough up the wrist to display the elaborate cufflinks of the blouse beneath. Over his fingers were black leather gloves, a single formidable signet ring glimmering upon his right ring finger. Knee boots, plated at the crest and slightly upturned at the toe, completed the image. Absent was the Archduke's diadem, an accessory Saint-Just fancied "a touch too childish". A simple sash of red and grey sufficed.

Finally, godlike and shimmering in his trappings, Saint-Just always strapped a pistol pragmatically to the interior of his coat and, with less subtlety, a long saber in its dazzling sheath to his waist. He was a monarch to the core; one cannot doubt the royalty saturating every facet of his person. It was upon this image of divinity in repose that Henry Foster would enter.

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by shahmat on Sept 11, 2011, 1:49pm

Henry Foster was waiting in the gallery, standing calmly in front of a painting of a raging storm at sea. The sky in the painting was darker than the water, brooding over the depths and tossing a fleet of inconsequential little ships about in an all-consuming, infinite rage. The door the Archducal chambers slammed open, and the hurried click of two pairs of feet intruded. As soon as the doors closed, they were whispering to one another frantically. Politicians, then. Henry Foster was uninterested in politics. He remained fixed on the painting. It almost seemed that the sky was another ocean, that each was a perfect infinity of substance, controlled by the whims of a science as complex as the human mind.

"Mr. Foster." He glanced over at the men, who had come to a stop before him. They were cabinet ministers, he thought, and bowed slightly in automatic response. "The Archduke will see you now."

He nodded a cold affirmative and began his heavy progress down the gallery, the regular thump of his cane and slow step of his lame leg making him feel like an absurd peasant amidst the royal splendor. But then, that seemed to be very much the Archduke's style. Why else would he have the gallery at all, if not to intimidate guests with his power and regal splendor as he made them wait a good goddamn hour and a half for meetings he requested?

The Archduke made him deeply nervous. Erick Saint-Just possessed the power of life and death from instant to instant, and while that was something Foster envied and lusted for, he did not ever wish to be subjected to it. He still didn't understand the reason for the summons, either, which made his discomfort all the worse. Perhaps it was his legal status? Most of his papers were still aflutter in clerk's offices. Of course, it was doubtful that the Archduke would know or care about the situation. In fact, Foster had never thought that, as an individual government-funded scientist, the absolute god-king of his home nation had ever heard his name. Now he was at a horrible disadvantage, and that knowledge put him on edge. He pushed through the heavy double doors into the antechamber of the Archduke's rooms, paused, ghosted a hand over his lapels, and composed himself further. Any trace of emotion was smoothed away from his expression. He knocked at the ornate door sharply to announce his presence and waited for permission to enter, determined to be unshakable and composed, fingers smoothing repetitively at the ivory handle of his cane.

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by Saint-Just on Sept 11, 2011, 2:55pm

The final rays of the vanishing sun fought vainly against the voltaic chandeliers of the antechamber, a silent handmaiden sliding open the door to admit mister Foster. As the scientist entered the chamber, lit by candles shining in defiance of the modern electric lights, he was greeted by a luxuriant wave indicating a chair separated from another by a table piled high with all manner of documents. Back to his guest, the Archduke seemed quite consumed in the completion of a letter which, after dripping a large quantity of grey wax upon the envelope into which the missive was gently slid, he sealed with a decisive and practiced flourish of his ring hand. Rising imperiously he moved to the high-backed chair opposite that to which his guest had been directed, falling back upon the brocade padding with a sigh. He wouldn't be sleeping tonight, as was often the case. What right had a god to sleep when he had yet to answer a single prayer in the course of the day? Gathering his force of character, he fixed his leonine gaze squarely upon the scientist.

"We encourage you to be at ease in Our presence, estimable scion of Minerva, if it pleases you."

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by shahmat on Sept 11, 2011, 9:45pm

The scientist sat, though not without some difficulty, maneuvering his crippled leg to be outstretched. He met the Archduke's gaze squarely, hating that the man's sheer force of personality overcame him regardless. He felt humbled and self-conscious. How dare the man combine formal condescension-- the royal We, the wait, finishing his work before speaking to a guest-- with respect-- the encouragement to be at ease, the odd intimacy of seeing the man busy at work-- to put him so off-balance?! "I suspect that that is the only suggestion that your guests ever disobey, your majesty," he informed the Archduke bluntly, managing to be both flattering and flatly honest. It was clear, from the moment he entered, why the Durantian people considered him a god. Foster would never worship him, but he had clearly become a pure symbol of the nation. Still, he was nothing more than human, whatever he wanted people to think. There were flaws behind those unnerving eyes... excessive grandiosity, for a start.

The reassurances were only mildly helpful.

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by Saint-Just on Sept 13, 2011, 12:22pm

The sun had finally made its way beyond the horizon, taking with it the obfuscating glare which had hitherto darkened the form of Saint-Just in the eyes of his guest. Now left at the mercy of manifold candles, his features were bathed in the warm glow of wax-fed flame. The otherworldly glow of those cold, grey eyes was evident, the boons of careful breeding embodied in the Archduke. Unprompted, the two handmaidens moved from the door to either side of the window, untying the weighty red drapes and dragging them into position. Saint-Just visibly relaxed.

"There are things," be began in explanation, "which trespass within spheres to which they are foreign. With the steam lift and the heightening of man's towers came a great mistake, for their concentration at such heights is... perturbing. It is therefore Our preference that any apertures through which We may be viewed be sealed upon the setting of the sun. Were that you could see with Our eyes, mister Foster... better, perhaps, that you don't."

Taking a dainty sip of a glass of water, the Archduke surreptitiously placed a miniscule pill of a soft, light blue to his lips, sighing deeply as if having accomplished some great physical feat as it vanished. No explanation was offered this time.

"Now... mister Foster. We have called upon you for a number of reasons, the most trivial of which being Our interest in your citizenship. Or rather, your lack of citizenship after having expired some years heretofore. We have met a dead man, and the resemblance is wholly absent in your demeanor. You do not appear to be decaying at any faster a rate than the average human. Tell Us, then, who We must dismiss from the service of Our government for making so egregious an error."

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by shahmat on Sept 13, 2011, 6:16pm

The man across from him offered a quiet, rather sarcastic laugh at the reason offered for the closing of the blinds, fingers going white on the handle of his cane for just a moment. Some of the tension in his broad frame seemed to have been dispelled. Fears of impossible monsters, medicines to restore sanity, all of these were terribly familiar to Henry Foster. "It wasn't an error. There was an accident at sea. An entire ship was lost, and after some reasonable length of time, they assumed I wouldn't be coming back." He stopped speaking, the realized that this wasn't anything remotely like a complete story, and that there was a limit to the disrespect he could blatantly offer the Archduke. "...I came back," he offered lamely.

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by Saint-Just on Sept 13, 2011, 6:56pm

"You... came back." Echoed Saint-Just, rising a richly arched eyebrow quizzically. For a moment he was silent, pondering the explanation with great consideration. At long last his face relaxed, a bemused smirk replacing the pensive grimace. "So you did. We really must have words with the gentlemen at the Office of Mortality Adjustment... only last week We were very much affronted by the absence of the Emissary of Grantz at Our fête, only to be informed so hours later that the good man had been for some months deceased. Here We find the opposite, in which a man long since abandoned to oblivion strolls..." Here Saint-Just paused, his left eye twitched, and he resumed, "...steps... into town. The appropriate papers are not being filed, and Our trusted magistrates are crippling..." again he twitched, "...debilitating... the system."

Nodding authoritatively at his servants, Saint-Just produced from his coat pocket a silver rod which, when flicked somewhat aggressively, extended into a serviceable baton which, upon rising from his seat, Saint-Just employed in the languid identification of a small island upon a sprawling world map suspended between the handmaidens.

"Regius, mister Foster. You are no doubt familiar with the locale, being a scientist of some experience. One does not accomplish much of anything without bending the rules in these days of so called 'ethical practices'. If We recall, Our associate Doctor Hilbert was expressing irritation over this precise matter. We would respond, perhaps, that calling such a gentleman a doctor is the greatest breach of any theoretical code of ethics, but We are not in any position to question such things. In addition, We have digressed unforgivably. Pray be patient, mister Foster, for We have a point."

With a deliberate flick of his cuffed wrist the archduke directed the baton's ruby-crowned tip at a point just southwest of the island identified as Regius.

"Monte Cristo, mister Foster. So much more than meets the eye, We believe. We are familiar with the Kurtz Corporation's endeavor to construct a subaquatic research station about the upper extremities of the mountain... and We are more familiar still with the undesirable outcome. Did your boat, by happenstance, meet its end in the vicinity of this damned rock?"

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by shahmat on Sept 13, 2011, 8:13pm

The guest's hand tightened visibly on his cane until the bones creaked, fingers white with contained fury at the repeated faux pas. Still, he managed to remain calm, face more coldly blank than ever, until Hilbert's name was mentioned. Foster's free hand slammed onto the desk with a violent sound, clenched into a tight fist, and he nearly rose from his chair, remembering himself just in time. The Archduke of Durant was unlikely to tolerate such actions, and if he was arrested, or detained, or just quietly disposed of, he'd never be able to finish his work.

He settled back into the chair uncomfortably, leg twinging and sending bolts of pain up his body. the scientist flinched, unable to quite hide the reaction, and adjusted it awkwardly. "To what outcome does your majesty refer?" he inquired, stiffly but carefully. On one hand, this discussion could easily entrap him. On the other... Erick Saint-Just would be a powerful ally indeed. "I am somewhat familiar with the place."

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by Saint-Just on Sept 14, 2011, 7:00pm

The blow dealt to the delicate table, combined with the collective gravitational force of the mountain of books, proved too much for so feeble a furnishing to bear with any dignity. A sharp crack reminiscent of a gunshot resounded throughout the chamber as the wood abruptly parted ways with itself, chaotic mounds of literature crashing unceremoniously to the wooden floor. A particularly malignant splinter, propelled by both the force of the destruction and some deep-seated resentment lingering from the tree used in the crafting of the table, rocketed through the still air, narrowly missing the Arch-Duke's cheek as he deftly tilted his head and embedding itself squarely in the neck of one of the handmaidens who, by what could only be described as the will of a vengeful god, happened to be moving about behind Saint-Just at that precise moment. Dropping soundlessly, as was no doubt a thoroughly reinforced habit amongst such servants, the poor girl convulsed lightly and did everything she could to restrict the flow of blood to her own clothing, fearing even in the throws of death to dirty the Archduke's floor or, in what was truly the stuff of nightmares, the Archduke himself.

Saint-Just did not trouble himself with even the most cursory of glances as life faded from the hapless being, his attention very much focused on Foster. His gaze had been immovable since the initial conversation misstep, those blazing eyes searching at all times for something. It seemed he had found it, for even as the remaining handmaiden hurried to bundle up her fallen companion in a sheet and drag her from the site of the gentlemen, his majesty was making his way to a chest of drawers across the chamber. The scratching of papers hastily perused filled the silence, joined by the song of a lone whippoorwill after some tense seconds elapsed. There were, of course, no birds to be found fluttering about at such a height. Saint-Just shudderingly acknowledged the presence of something acutely aware of death beyond the closed window, grateful for the obscuring folds of silk. Eventually he returned to his seat, ignoring entirely the ruined table.

"We noticed that you are especially tender with your leg, Mister Foster. Furthermore, you appear to be quite sensitive about this affliction. We shan't mention it again, and rest assured that we only did so at all for the most pragmatic of reasons. We have, you see, a file. Yes, We pronounce the word 'file' with the greatest of reverence, for few things can be so valuable as a well-maintained bundle of documents pertaining to an individual. Naturally We cannot be bothered to take such detailed notes on every one of Our subjects, nor do We fancy anything of great value would be gained in return for the toll such labors would take on Our sanity. In fact, We were not even aware of you until relatively recently. We mentioned a man named Hilbert, did We not? Certainly We did, for Our table would still be in good health if We had not done so. Combining this fascinating aversion to the name with your evident displeasure at the state of your leg, We have confirmed that the contents of Our intelligence thus far are tolerably accurate. That is to say, you were afflicted by the subject of your researches in a lasting physical fashion, and you did come into conflict with your peer, Dr. Hilbert. What is not correct, mind you, is the assertion on this page..." At this point the Archduke flipped through the papers, placing in Foster's view a list of names supposedly lost in what was identified as the realistic window of disaster surrounding the Monte Cristo project's failure. Foster's name appeared, with a caption of "very dead" in a spidery hand.

"Dr. Hilbert provided this at our urging at the conclusion of the affairs of Monte Cristo. We were understandably curious, as We had funded a portion of the project personally, Our family owns the mountain in question, and a number of bright individuals of Durantian citizenship were lost. He humored Us, but we have always believed the information provided to be, if not false, then certainly... selective in its presentation. For instance, We do not for a moment believe the selection of the location to be wholly arbitrary, nor a mere matter of isolation. We do not believe the research conducted to be restricted to 'botanical theory' and 'experimental physics'. In fact, We are quite certain that much of this is, in no uncertain terms, fluff. However, it is quite difficult to interrogate the dead without the proper tools. Necromancy is the province of the Kelsmic people, not at all Our forté. In seeking the few survivors, Hilbert excepted, We were time and again met with the discovery of their demise within a year of the incident."

Visibly irritated, as evidenced by the spasmodic twitching of his ring hand, Saint-Just leaned forward to rest his elbows against his knees. Bringing his hands together to form a contemplative ziggurat of sorts upon which his brow came to rest, he continued.

"You arrived at a splendid hour, Mister Foster. It is about time We met a ghost that wasn't entirely unwelcome. May We offer you a beverage, or perhaps a plate of cheeses cut into charming shapes?"

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by shahmat on Sept 14, 2011, 8:34pm

There was a spike of vicious pleasure as the servant dropped, as the papers scattered... then the full realization of his action landed and Foster remained very still. The god-king of his home nation stood calmly from the ruined table and began fiddling with papers across the room. He had just utterly destroyed a piece of furniture, dumped everything on it to the floor in a heap, and actually killed a handmaiden. It was inconceivable that such a thing could be overlooked as a social misstep, but then, how like the Archduke. The man had no doubt seen far stranger things in his meeting room, and the handmaidens seemed more upset by the blood than by their sudden decrease in number. Saint-Just was supposed to be a god, he reminded himself; he had hundreds of thousands of lives at his disposal.

The scientist flinched when the royal finally spoke, hating that his weaknesses were so obvious, his faults so open. His lip curled when the paper was presented and the annotation spotted at once; that handwriting was instantly familiar. Good, then, that Hilbert thought he was dead. Good, that the bastard was still struggling with loose ends. Henry Foster planned to be the last loose end, the one that unravelled him.

It seemed that the Archduke would be an ally, after all. "A drink wouldn't be unwelcome, if I wouldn't be imposing. The island of Monte Cristo is one of Doctor--" the emphasis was mocking "--Hilbert's greatest successes. I am one of his greatest failures. What does your majesty want to know?"

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by Saint-Just on Sept 16, 2011, 9:36pm

For the first time in his reign, the commanding wave of Saint-Just’s royal hand went wholly unanswered. For a moment his smile of authority remained unchanged, his gaze fixed on Foster in a habitually mandated pause as the anticipated beverages were, in his mind, prepared. To his mounting dismay, nothing seemed to be moving. Surely the broken hand had been replaced by now... what was the source of this unprecedented delay? Admittedly, it was uncommon for such an accident to occur; the life of an archducal handmaiden is a sheltered one indeed, girls being selected at young ages from the handful of orphanages in the capital to undergo the process by which one is rendered suitable for such a lofty post. That is to say, the process of removing one’s vocal cords, obliterating any memories of life beyond the archduke and his chambers, binding the body to restrict and regulate growth, and the traditional Obscuring in which the supposedly fortunate being is ritualistically scalped, a veil sewn on in its place. These practices, as is generally the case when one refers to unjustifiable barbarism in the modern era, were the product of religion, the Caelestis Nobilium demanding a species of absolute utility in the forms of the “high priestesses” of their god. Accordingly, being artifacts of an ancient faith, these servants were the most valuable in the field of domestic labor. Saint-Just acknowledged this, inwardly lamenting the loss of such a tool. Still, the tardiness of his desired drinks weighed far more heavily on his mind.

“Ahem.”

Again he waved his hand. Again the response was underwhelming.

“...We should very much enjoy a tray of refreshments, if anyone happens to be listening...”

The lone ticking of a sizable, abstractly crafted grandfather clock answered, its pace defiant of conventional measures of time and its passage. The towering timepiece was a trophy of Saint-Just’s travels amongst the lands beyond the seas, an Idrachi device seeming to bend inward from all angles toward a single, nondescript point on the structure’s torso. It did not, however, contort in any way amenable to the production or retrieval of libations.

“...sink Us... where-”

As the Archduke’s formidable thighs convulsed in preparation to rise, the handmaiden responsible for the disposal of her fallen associate bustled into the chamber with a look of evident dismay upon her doll-like face. Behind her cowered an identically dressed girl, clearly the new appointee. Staring at them with no discernible expression, Saint-Just at last proclaimed,

“The symmetry is all wrong. No matter. Our orangeade?”

Nodding at once, perhaps in an effort to correct the allegedly skewed symmetry, the handmaidens busied themselves with the fetching of a drink cart while the Archduke pondered.

“Ah...” he at last murmured, “the broken one was her twin... how bothersome. We so enjoyed the unity of their service, mister Foster. Alas. Now then, you say you are a failure where Dr. Hilbert is concerned. We suggest that, on the contrary, you are his only success, for you alone seem capable of breathing after any significant period of time having been spent in his company. Even an entire research station was unable to tolerate his presence without imploding spectacularly. We have since visited the site, and are pleased to say that it has been cleaned up nicely. That little project, however, is immaterial to Our present discourse. Mister Foster, dear ghost, We wish for you to chronicle your experiences from the point of meeting Dr. Hilbert onward, concluding with your appearance at Our door. This is not to be completed in a single burst of artistic zeal, of course, so We have determined that it should be completed alongside a more pressing task. You are a scientist of some renown, and it would be the most natural thing in the world for a scientist to be curious, no? If We were to gesture vaguely at the unprecedented spike in unnatural occurrences throughout the land, at an almost imperceptible yet wholly inexplicable shifting of longstanding magical currents, at the effects of Monte Cristo upon processes...” Pausing, he sipped from the glass of orangeade, its twin being offered silently to Foster by the surviving twin. For an instant, her empty eyes met Foster’s, and just as quickly she was gone. “If We gestured accordingly, sir... surely a scientist would be driven to investigate. Especially if the mere declaration of one’s intent to do so carried with it land and title, and the personal gratitude of a monarch.”

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by shahmat on Sept 20, 2011, 11:38pm

Foster kept the slight smirk off of his lips as the handmaiden met his eyes. There was a rush of power at her impotence, at the tiniest stir of feeling he could see in her dull eyes. "It isn't political favors I want." He accepted the orangeade without giving her another look. "The only thing I desire is the completion of my research. If your majesty would give me access to certain documents and funds, I believe our interests could coincide. I... bear something of a grudge against Maximilien Hilbert, and it is likely that any changes in magical currents will involve both him and my research." His leg shifted slightly, and he cast a half glance down at it. "I have been aware of the changes, myself. If I may be so bold, how has your majesty come to be curious about them?"

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by Saint-Just on Sept 21, 2011, 4:12pm

All was coming together beyond his expectations. Nothing had been known about Foster beyond scattered reports of brilliance and servant abuse, preventing the formulations of any accurate predictions. Smiling in that lofty, almost paternal fashion peculiar to monarchs, Saint-Just nodded in assent.

"We accept these terms. Hilbert has been permitted to exist out of necessity; his genius is indisputable. However, supposing a more agreeable individual were to take his place in Our esteem, there would be little worth lamenting in his passing. As to your wish to avoid political favors while simultaneously obtaining access to Our resources... We have come to a conclusion."

With an air of the utmost gravity, the Archduke slipped from his gloved hand the hefty signet ring. The priceless artifact, passed down from the days of the first Archduke, was placed upon a silver dish held by the new handmaiden and conveyed swiftly to Foster.

"It matters little whether or not you choose to wear Our ring; such is a matter of convenience and thus entirely for you to consider. Know simply that you will find no door sealed within the land of Durant so long as you carry the sigil of the Archduke. Thrice has it been worn by civilians throughout history, each serving some fated purpose for the bequeathing monarch. Thrice has it been returned to the throne upon the expiration of its wearer. You are hereby to be considered Our hand. Apply to master Bearnaise Ponywhistle, Our favored clerk, at the banking house of Hunt & Velloise. He is a saucy gentleman, but We imagine a glimpse of the ring will overcome any objections he may pose."

Hunt & Velloise, as readers may recall, is one of the foremost pecuniary establishments found within the Muralisian mainland, rivaling those of Dietmund & Kuhlm, Hollis and Wilmore. While the Archduchy itself served as an accounting entity all its own, the house of Saint-Just had long dealt exclusively with Hunt & Vellois out of respect for some past bond which, while being wholly unremembered in terms of details, had left an impression of obligatory loyalty upon both parties over the generations.

"Furthermore, We welcome you to avail yourself of any of the myriad informational resources at Our disposal. We most recommend the Hydeman Tower's library, its collection being one of unique merit." Having exhausted his orangeade and become rather restless, Saint-Just rose and walked to the window. There he stood, rigid and erect, one foot behind the other at a slight angle and hands clasped firmly behind his back. As the handmaidens drew the curtains aside the room grew momentarily cold, the air beyond the glass seeming to writhe eagerly. The sky was cloudless, yet the moon in its lonely splendor was inexplicably dimmed. This fell muting crept into the study, the ticking of the clock falling away as the candles flickered in irritation. Saint-Just's form wavered momentarily, as if perceived through a wave of intense heat, only to return to sharp stability as the cold and hush abated entirely. The moon once more shone bright against the night sky, the ticking of the clock as audible as ever.

"At times We are compelled to assert Our dominance over certain forces. Pardon Us. Now then, you enquired as to Our interest in magical phenomena. Let that brief incursion by eldritch forces serve as a partial answer. Such things are recent indeed; while foreign consciousnesses have perhaps always been present to some degree, never have they been so bold as to blot out the moon and invade one's private chambers. Unacceptable. There are whispers in the north of things in basements, woods in which no birds sing, rivers which do not gurgle. Things are not as they should be in an ideal world... wrong at the most essential level. We really must know why if We are to have any hope of correcting this deep and horrendous state of affairs."

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by shahmat on Sept 21, 2011, 8:10pm

The scientist eyed the ring with the greatest reluctance, as if it was some sort of reptile that might strike at any moment, and picked it up carefully. It seemed, to his mind, to be very heavy. That had hardly been expected. He had suspected that the offer was something of a whim, that the Archduke had decided that he was suitable to fulfill some mild curiosity. The office that was now in his hands was one of vital weight and frightening importance. He had not asked to be the hand and trusted vassal of the god-king, nor had he made any sort of vow of loyalty. Accepting the damn thing had probably counted, he reflected rather darkly. The unwanted responsibility had saddled him squarely, and he awkwardly examined the size of the official ring and then slid it snugly onto his forth finger. It was rather like a gaudy wedding ring, in a way. He was committed, tied to the state, married to the duty of service.

How he hated politics...

He wanted to ask why he had been chosen, what had made the Archduke select a legally dead cripple who was, by all accounts, mad. More importantly, why had he chosen a man who would clearly be loyal only as long as their interests aligned? But then the man stood and the curtains were drawn and there was a wash of SOMETHING over the room and he forgot. Something unnatural brushed greasily against his mind, and he couldn't suppress a sharp, animal sound of pain, dropping his ridiculous glass of orangeade and bending to clutch at his lame leg. The wave of concentrated power made him twitch and choke slightly, and he was panting and gasping for breath when the Archduke turned back.

"I see," he rasped. "That much I know is true. I suppose I can be of service to you, then, your lordship." He straightened with difficulty and struggled to his feet. "I suppose you understand that I will not be putting my research on hold for this? Of course you do. The north, you said? I'll see to it. If you have any information on the... occurrences, I'd ask for it now. I can leave tomorrow."

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by Saint-Just on Sept 21, 2011, 8:57pm

"If you intended to put your research on hold, We are afraid that We would have to reclaim Our ring. A man who serves out of loyalty is a man who serves out of emotion. Such a man is not to be trusted, for emotions change. Loyalties waver. A man who serves because it is in his best interest to do so, because his own projects will see fruition most expeditiously alongside one's one... that is the sort of agent We prefer. Pursue your researches; We eagerly await your masterstroke. We simply wish for you to, when time permits, send Us a report. Letters will do, though the ring will grant you access to the telegraph so long as you are within Durant or Ghalea. Naturally, We would suggest keeping it hidden when visiting Our charming southern neighbors. It would no doubt be interpreted as aggression, and grounds for renewed conflict. Then again, We fancy that whistling the wrong tune in the streets is sufficient enough cause for a skirmish or two when dealing with those gentlemen."

A hard, fast laugh accompanied this declaration.

"Indeed... the north, mister Foster. That is where the majority of Our concern lies at present, as We know little of the other directions. One can only have so many vassal states, and the Ghaleans are a respectable choice. Those roads ought to be familiar enough, yes? We thank you kindly for your time and favorable behavior... should you need anything..."

At this, Saint-Just turned his head to stare fixedly at Foster.

"...do not hesitate to ask. We have never had the luxury of friends, but at the very least, We should like to consider Ourselves... useful. If utility does not make for friendship these days, We don't suppose there is any hope at all for the species."

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by shahmat on Sept 21, 2011, 10:27pm

Foster's eyebrows shot up, but he met the ruler's eyes. "I will let you know, your majesty, I assure you. I will make my travel plans tonight. ...Thank you." He offered a deep bow-- more genuinely respectful than before. "Have a good evening, your highness. Expect my reports."

Re: Zone II: Bronte, Herod and St. Germain Post by Saint-Just on Sept 21, 2011, 11:06pm

"...splendid." murmured Saint-Just, returning his gaze to the city below. It was so beautiful, every stone. Industry's march would never touch the capital, so long as he lived. If some blasted capitalist tried to construct a factory within the walls of his city, he would personally destroy it. Every day the art of man grew more vulgar, more grey, more prone to producing smog; Saint-Just detested this worship of functionality, this sprint toward metal gods. What of the stone streets, the sprawling estates, the gardens? How he had labored over the construction of parks! Even if he never had a moment in which to enjoy them, it was... simply right that parks exist. The people would always need parks, just as surely as they would always need him.

Ah, but they don't need Us... he pondered, closing his tired grey eyes. He had heard the rumblings from below. The condemnations of the crown, the assertion that he, personally, cared nothing for the people. It broke his heart completely. Had he not sacrificed his identity, his individuality, just to serve them? There were no luxurious trips to the countryside. No royal excesses. He lived in the house of his predecessors. He had even refrained from adding the traditional wing to the Babel complex, as each Archduke had before him, instead using the allotted funds to repair the main streets. A single day was all he allowed himself... a single day of rest every year. It mattered little, though. They remained his people, the city remained his, the country remained his. He needed that responsibility just as much as they needed him, even if they didn't realize it.

At least there was Foster. ''A kindred spirit, that man... bitter, broken, old before his time... We feel your pain, Henry.''