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Post by Zoilus on Feb 16, 2018 21:31:17 GMT
Cyprian d'Aleagand, the Marquis Allewyr, sat in his study, watching the candles burn. When they ran out....what would be in store? Had he finally miscalculated? Would it all end in arrest and disgrace? He took another sip of wine, very conscious of his shaking hands, and then there was a knock, and the wine splashed onto the carpet.
"Shit," he hissed, as the door opened. Hardly a good impression for his guest- who could trust a man that couldn't even hold his glass steady? But...it was just his manservant. Still embarrassing, but not world-ending. "Yes? Has our guest arrived?"
"He came and went, lord," the servant said, casting a critical gaze onto the carpet. Moving closer to Cyprian, he handed his master a sealed letter. "He left that for you, to be delivered immediately."
He came to his manor just to leave a note? Was the man mad?! "Good, thank you. I'll read it here, it won't take long. Get a maid prepared to clean this when I leave the room, please." The manservant bowed and left the room, heels clicking perfectly. The man was a menace, and frankly, knew too much without knowing anything...Cyprian shook his head. He couldn't let paranoia eat away at him, not when things finally seemed to be coming together. He looked at the note: sealed with wax, but no crest, thank Artis. He opened it.
My friend. I sympathize, but can't involve myself.
Good luck.
Cyprian pounded his fist into his armrest. Damn it, damn it, damn it! He wanted to scream at that old fool, they needed his support now! But fair-weather friends were what you had to expect when embarking on such on undertaking, no? There were still ways around this, but he had been the easiest one, the safest too. But since when was safety a concern when you conspired to topple a queen?
Cyprian rose from his seat, and carefully burned the note with one of the remaining candles. The others had to be informed, new plans drawn up...a great pain, with nothing but the risk of greater pain in the future. But for the sake of Alendron, for the future, and perhaps even the sake of Trevast itself, this had to be done.
If only it weren't so stressful.
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Post by Zoilus on Feb 21, 2018 19:28:18 GMT
Elaine Errac sat in her salon, laughing at the unfortunately worded and sadly dated joke one that her most important guest, the Viscount, had deigned to tell them. He put a finger to his grease-covered, mustached lips, "Keep that one to yourselves," he chortled, "the Prince-Consort told me that in confidence!"
Right. After a few polite chuckles and even some light applause from the nicer attendees, she put a hand on Viscount's shoulder. "Bravo, bravo! I can certainly keep a secret, if the rest of our friends here can! Usually my salons don't open with such revery, but it's as good a way to start as any. Now, onto the meat of the salon today," she tilted her head, and gave a smirk around the room, "the Closed Council." The mood in the room darkened immediately, and that was an excellent sign.
The Council had increasingly become a resented institution among the grandees of Alendron, a way for the Galathions and Queen Aelin to keep the nobility from carrying out their proper function, keeping them silent and uninvolved in the grand affairs of state. It had been well and good when Alexius was king, or when they'd been at war, but now...well, Aelin hadn't exactly been proving herself since she'd become queen, and her Council of enablers weren't pushing policy that anyone was interested in. Something had to be done, and that was what this salon was about: finding those willing to make that move.
"You are our most exalted guest, Viscount. What do you think?"
The Viscount frowned and sighed, giving the bridge of his nose a little pinch. "I think I can speak for all of us here when I say I'm not exactly pleased. What I think we need is a chance to bring our grievances, the weight of them, to the Queen, but calling a Diet is her prerogative alone."
This is what Elaine had wanted to hear. She had thought she's have to spoon feed the idea to the fat old imbecile, but it seemed that even the dullest mind could reach the most obvious conclusion, given time. "A wise idea, if I may be so bold, viscount. But if the problems are so dire, surely we, the nobility as a body, could assemble a Diet ourselves? If she won't call us, we'll go her." Now. "I spent a great deal of my formative years in the palace as one of Cress- Queen Aelin's handmaids: I know her, how she thinks. And I know nothing will change unless we make ourselves unignorable."
The Viscount nodded slowly, his watery eyes not leaving her face. "Well said, well said! I think that idea...has a great deal of merit. I'll have to bring it up with some of my fellows tonight, see what they think..."
Elaine gave a broad, real smile. "I'm happy to hear it! Now," she eyed the rest of the room, all handpicked by her just for this occasion, "does anyone else have something to add?"
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Post by Zoilus on Feb 22, 2018 18:35:52 GMT
Alan Griflet sat in his opulent office, waiting for the day's most important appointment to begin. He would be meeting with the Avindril Guard's commandant, on paper trying to get the Guard to start buying its armaments and supplies from companies he owned, but they were profitable enough already. Getting the Commandant alone, in this room, was far more valuable. He smiled: value wouldn't be translating into difficulty in this case, oh no.
Alan heard a clear knock on his mahogany doors; the Commandant had arrived. He was shown through the door by Alan's employees, and he was finally able to get a good look at the man. The gaudy armor of the city guard hid a well-maintained physique, though his face was framed with the baby fat of a pampered noble son. A fine disguise, from what Alan had learned about the man's private life. "Commandant, I'm so pleased we were finally able to arrange this meeting, please, sit down. I paid too much for those chairs for them to go unused!"
The Commandant gave a polite chuckle and sat down. "Very comfortable, my lord patrician. Still, I'm afraid this meeting will mostly be a courtesy. Our current suppliers-"
Alan raised one finger. "Before you start, a gift." Alan laid a silk scarf on the table, unique in that it had a small crimson stain on one corner, marring the the otherwise beautiful pattern. "You recognize this, don't you?"
The color drained from the Commandant's face, and he gave a small nod. "Yes."
Alan gave him a grin, the kind he reserved for his prey at their most cornered. "I thought so. Think of how embarrassing it would be for me, to show you some other man's scarf? Ha! If this is yours, it's only the tip of the pyramid, but don't worry: your private affairs are your business, as long as your public ones are mine."
The Commandant took a breath. "What do you want? You know I'll cooperate."
Alan tilted his head. "No no, you misunderstand. It's not a single thing I want, but long term cooperation. Don't worry though: I am a believer in the stick and the carrot, one of the many reasons my businesses outclass my so-called peers. You will receive, monthly," he slid a slip of paper across the table, "this amount, as long as you cooperate. You will also accept these terms for the supplying of the Guard," he gestured to an already prepared contract.
The Commandant looked at the slip, and his eyes widened. "Well...this is, ah, more than reasonable. Yes." Giving the contract a glance, he skimmed it long enough to find the lines that required his signature, and signed.
"Perfect!" Alan exclaimed, "perfect. Now, I will need both of those back. One of many lessons I expect you to take from this meeting is not to leave things lying around, hmm?" He gave him a wink. "You may go now. We will be in touch."
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Post by Zoilus on Feb 23, 2018 18:37:54 GMT
Dindrane of Varras sat in her cell, the fifth one she'd seen this year. This was a new record, even for her, but a few days behind bars just gave her more material, no? They couldn't keep her here, not without riots or her patrons raising a stink that no constable was willing to deal with. She sighed. Surely providing her some parchment was the least they could do while she waited on this farce to end? Maybe a little practice would convince them; she cleared her throat:
'Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil’s foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids’ singing,
Or to keep off envy’s sting-'
One of the constables stomped up from the barracks, deep shadows under his eyes. "Must you?"
She pouted. "I must! Look at your face, one would think you'd appreciate some music, some art. What else are you living for?"
The constable shrugged. "Peace and quiet, and if I get it, I'd be willing to negotiate. You were whining about parchment? Fine." He pulled a bundle out from under his greatcoat, along with a pen and ink. "Happy?"
Dindrane gathered up the materials, not paying the constable any more attention. He watched her lay out the papers and get the pen ready, and she looked up. She tilted her head, "Still here? I'm happy, I'm quiet, you can go." The constable shook his head and stalked off. Some people, Dindrane thought.
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By the next morning, Dindrane had filled half the parchment with notes, ideas, and outlines, and run out of ink, which was rather frustrating. She was going over what she'd written for the third time when the same constable from that night, looking far more alert, approached her cell. "Proactive of you. I need more ink-"
"Not why I'm here," he half whispered. "I- I have, ah, more parchment for you. It's, uh, of higher quality. Go through it carefully." He slide the pages under the cell door as quickly as possible and almost ran away. What was this...?
She flipped through the pages, and sure enough, found a well written note in the middle, unsigned, and with no seal. My my. Reading it, she felt a broad grin spreading on her face: it was an offer and a promise, with her end beginning with guaranteed release tomorrow. It seemed her admirers and adherents were of a wider spread than she'd ever imagined, and more, they understood what her songs meant.
She sighed again. If only she has some ink!
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Post by Zoilus on Feb 26, 2018 21:51:01 GMT
Vice Admiral Cerdic d'Evaine stood on the high parapets of Avindril's great Arsenal, just outside the door to the offices of the place's blasted overseer. One of Admiral Marie-Therese's toadies, who'd once again denied Cerdic's requests for priority or even repairs on his fleet. She'd already given half his ships to the Commodore for her insane adventure, but now they wouldn't even humor him? Damn it all! Who was the senior officer here? Who had spent his life in the navy, worked his way up the ranks the real way?
He couldn't outwardly show his displeasure overmuch, not with the guards and marines watching. He'd just have to let his deep frown do all the talking while he made his way out of this damned labyrinth to get back to the docks and his command. More disappointing news for the boys, not to mention what his wife would say when she heard he'd been pushed out again, this time by some bureaucratic functionary of all things. Soon they'd kick him off to some do-nothing professorship at the Academy, probably teaching the remedial courses for the least talented noble scions of Alendron. He sighed.
Times like these called for a drink.
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In short order, Cerdic arrived at Swagger Stick Nick's, currently Avindril's premier establishment for career officers. Approaching the bar, he got sympathetic glances from the older naval officers, and as tradition dictated, was completely ignored by the military men. Cerdic didn't recognize the bartender: he was new, and young too. Nowhere was safe, it seemed.
"Lad, is Nick around? I need one of his specials."
The boy gave him the emptiest grin he'd ever seen. "Nick retired a week ago, sir, but if you describe the drink, I'm sure-"
Cerdic waved his hand. "Whatever. Just bring me a bottle of brandy. Calvados, if you have it." He tossed the payment on the bar, and turned around to look for a seat. Not many inviting faces, but then one of the infantry officers got up, a real smile on his face. He was older, with a great white beard, and Cerdic couldn't help but feel he should know him. Without time to think it over, the man approached.
"Admiral d'Evaine, eh? Orcus de Proinsias, and I must say I'm proud to meet you! Please, come and sit with my friends and I, there are even a few of your precious sea men among us!" Orcus nearly dragged Cerdic to the table, and the bottle of bourbon followed quickly.
"Very hospitable, Proinsias, but-"
Orcus quickly and forcefully interrupted. "Your treatment has been shameful! We know about it, and we share your frustration! Since the king died, the navy and army have been left in the hands of the Council: in the hands of those who put their political ends before Alendron's. It...is laxness of the Queen, the binding of our nobility, that is to blame!" Officers around the table were nodding, and Cerdic understood why. Alexius would never have allowed this, would he? He took a drink.
De Proinsias continued well into the night, and officer after officer joined their table. By the next morning, Cerdic knew what he had to do.
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Post by Zoilus on Feb 27, 2018 18:33:19 GMT
Aerlinus XII, the Patriarch of Alendron and Primate of Avindril, stood adorned in ceremonial robes at the heart of his cathedral, preparing for the ceremonies of the day. The incense was ready, the choirs prepared, and his highest ranking fellow priests had arrived from all over the kingdom to participate: how could they not? Today was a holy day, the celebration of Arturas's coronation as emperor, when the world was set right and Artis's chosen prepared to enforce his dominion over it.
Truly, a day worth celebration, but few of the guests in the cathedral seemed pleased. The priests were tired from their long journey, the nobles that bothered to come were already counting the minutes to the end of the ceremony, and the only Galathion to bother showing his face, Grand Duke Jean, was entertaining a parade of messengers and informants. They were here, and yet, they weren't. Who could really make time for the ramblings of old Aerlinus? He was almost as much a relic as the bones of the saints in their reliquaries to these people, his Church a convenient...inconvenience. Alendron was a kingdom of the world, after all.
Aerlinus steeped forth, presiding as his lesser acolytes began the ceremonies with chanting and incense, the beginning of a spectacle that had been repeated for centuries. Its culmination would, of course, be Aerlinus himself: the Patriarch had the duty and privilege of assessing Alendron in its fealty to Artis, though to do such a thing in truth would mean the destruction of his Patriarchate. For all the old intent, the ceremony was one more day to praise the Galathions, and it was now so rote that most of them couldn't be bothered to show up and hear it. That was what the Church was reduced to: the Master of Empty Ceremony, shut out from any paths of true influence.
Or so it seemed.
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As the opening ceremonies ended, Aerlinus stepped forward to begin his sermon. "Today, we celebrate one more anniversary of Arturas's coronation, an event that has echoed through the ages! Arturas, who sired every true line of kings! Arturas, the chosen of Artis! Arturas, who built an Empire to unite Trevast and the world! But!" He gave a harsh look at his already bored audience. "For all his glory, all his importance, what have his heirs done to maintain that legacy? What do the misers of Luska, the blood-thirsty savages of Rjillund, or the fanatics of Aladez have to do with Arturas? Even during the Empire, how many blooded emperors were overthrown for their excesses, for their failure to come close to the standard of their ancestor?"
"And what, you may be thinking, of Alendron? To many in this room, our Queen Aelin is the rightful heiress of Arturas, the True Empress, and I will not deny that. What I will deny is the rightful inheritance of many others: false friends and advisers, heretics of the heart who lead us all astray with their influence! It is one thing, a great thing, to have the blood, but another entirely to use it, to emulate Arturas and choose those friends that know him well. Alendron, for all its glory...is on a great precipice. To fall in is not to return, despite the whispers of the false and the foolish..."
"And so: remember this on Coronation Day, remember the why of it, not the mere what."
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