« on: November 26, 2017, 09:05:28 PM »
Prologue,
Of Smoke and Mirrors
Running a hand through his hair, the man turned the lock on the door into his office. The day's business was mostly left behind him, he thought -- at least with those that came from without. Soon, there would be internal business, things for him to take care of for his new place of employment. It stunk less than the last, and it was, at the very least, mostly legitimate to outside beholders. Small reliefs.
What wasn't a relief is his exceptionally speedy promotion. He didn't expect to come into so many responsibilities within the first two weeks of his job, but, all he could afford at that thought was a shrug. His punishment for doing his job too well, and perhaps, doubly so, a punishment for his hubris. That little facet of his is likely to never disappear, and he might one day come to regret that, but now was not the time. Before business of the company could come, he had to deal with his own, personal business. He stepped behind his desk and sat in the tall chair that accompanied it; his throne. Leaning back and crossing his right leg over the left, boot slightly outstretched over his knee, his hand deftly withdrew a tiny booklet from his shirt pocket. He opened it with the same hand and began flipping through its pages.
Most of what he scribbled within was abandoned scripts and stories, even poems and symphonies, and perhaps entirely counter to that, diagrams and schematics, nigh unintelligible to the untrained eye. Luckily, he was trained. Though near the end of the booklet, came an oddity -- a single page, solely listing initials, and naught else....
...
His eyes seemed to catch his smile at the last he read, as if remembering a pleasant memory.~~~
"Laurent! Where are you pointing that sword? You hit them with the pointy end, not the broad side of the toothpick!"
His instructor's hollering was nothing new, the boy thought to himself. A rather greasy and chubby Dementlieuse man, blonde of long hair and brown of pig eyes, Pierre Roche barely qualified to teach eating to a glutton, even by the boy's own measure, yet it was all his father could afford -- not out of lack of coin, but rather to keep appearances. A winter retreat in Chateaufaux for the boy's sixteenth birthday, all the escargot he could eat, and the humiliation of being yelled at by... bloody Pierre Roche.
Despite being sixteen, he hadn't developed much beyond his height. His black hair was a disheveled mop, and he had already developed black circles around his blue eyes, though none to match those of his spectating father, a wiry person, much like himself, but one that definitely appeared to be his age, with dark eyes and hair, and a full mustache. They trained in the courtyard of the inn where they stayed, near the stables, so as to not bother anyone.
"You know, Pierre," The boy called to him in near-perfect Mordentish, traces of his lineage masked well despite him being out of breath. "I didn't hear that the first time,
so how about you keep shrieking? That'll do the trick, won't it? Or, or -- oh, wild idea! Maybe you could actually teach." He mopped at his brow, then entered a haphazard stance, barely mimicking that of his opponent.
"If your father wasn't watching I would have beat the hell out of you by now for that sass." Pierre seethed, pointing his rapier accusingly toward his student, when the aforementioned spoke.
"Do it anyway." He said with a smile, arms folded as he observed from his seat on the bench, all much to the chagrin of his son. "I pay you to teach him, not coddle him. That's his mother's job."
Those words not only drew out an exasperated sigh from his son, but a grin from his instructor; and for the next few weeks, he would learn that Dementlieuse etiquette was the only thing that saved him from a new collection of bruises.~~~
Those were simpler days, he thought. His eyes snapped back into the here and now, his brows knitting together as he surveyed his office again. Odd how far he'd come in half a lifetime, yet his swordsmanship was just as useless, that a now-elderly Pierre Roche could still give him a wallop. Swords hung from his walls and lay in glass cabinets, but it wasn't like he was about to use any of them; not even the one currently sheathed and propped against the drawers of his desk. No, he was quietly content with sitting in a packed, ledger/weapon heavy office and follow the script.
His father had given him the training he needed to continue his path. A formal and informal education, in a great variety of fields -- some only enough so that he could mimic the truth, and others, learned truly. His eyes carried him further down the page....
...
It didn't end there, but he knew the rest. No need to review those, or strike them out. In time, he'll make it to the bottom of the page, but for now, he allowed himself to get comfortable. He kicked his legs up on the table, crossing them at the ankles, and tucked his booklet away.
To Erwin von Brandt, the world was a stage; a stage full of characters. Those that mill about in the background, the ones whose actions are barely worth being in the script, and those that take the parts of the grand plot -- the Dramatis Personæ, in Darkonese. His intent, partially, was to find them, and observe them, and perhaps bounce off of them, but at the top of this list of main characters, was only one initial. After all, most of his life was aimed at getting just there.
Welcome to the show.
« Last Edit: November 28, 2017, 04:11:26 PM by Pav »
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