Difference between revisions of "3433/The Lost Art of Civility"

Latest revision as of 22:37, 9 December 2015

The Lady (913) has posed:
The Pleasure Palace has just about anything a Confederate Elite could want for in their downtime. Food, drink, luxurious settings, and whatever else a Confederate might want for themselves are found inside. Entertainment of almost any hue and stripe that could be named can be found here.

Tucked away from the main thoroughfare is a small alcove like one might find in an extremely classy bar. There, in a large and reasonably private booth, as regal as though she owned the place, sits the Lady.

She is not simply 'a' lady, but /the/ Lady, empress of half the known world in the place of her origin. Compared to the average everyman of her empire, she is as a goddess. Although safe and orderly, not all are satisfied with having their decisions made for them, it seems, and there are pockets of rebellion smoldering throughout the north.

The trials and tribulations of single-handedly running an empire are things the woman is most familiar with, though. She's been doing that for several hundred years, now.

She's elegant in a red and gold brocade dress with the odd black accent, a white and lace tricorne with ostrich feathers trailing from its brim, and a net of pearls over her long, straight black hair. Her hands are covered by black gloves, possibly velvet; gold and silver jewelry glimmers when the light catches it.

At the moment she has a glass of wine before her, and several people at her table beside herself -- a young woman almost conspicuous in her plain appearance, dressed in black leather and a hood swept back from her face, made all the more plainer by the stunning beauty of the Lady. On the Lady's other side sits a man with receding hair, a close-trimmed beard, and a habit of fidgeting. He looks a little unsettled, and every so often looks to the Lady, somewhat warily.

Power is almost palpable about the two women, but not at all about the man. Hmmm.

For the time being, the women are conversing quietly, almost urgently, in some bizarre language that the multiverse doesn't see fit to translate -- something old and mysterious, or maybe just plain old.

Taro (399) has posed:
    By comparison, Taro's credentials are much less impressive. But then, his purpose has always been to serve. While that service has provided some generous rewards - Neo Arcadia, among other things - he (usually) does not forget his place in the Grand Scheme of Things. Thus, a simple gray cassock and a kufi-style cap cut of the same silk fabric, his belt for tools and his prayer beads are enough for him.
    Plus, silk is naturally fire resistent. Very useful in his line of work.
    A pot of tea and a teacup are also enough for him, which he carries along in his search for a table after a day of work and prayer. There's a flicker of recognition as he passes by a certain table, followed by a small arch of an eyebrow. Rather than passing by entirely, he moves toward it instead, and gives a nod to the trio when he's close enough to be acknowledged. "Good evening."

The Lady (913) has posed:
The hushed conversation halts almost immediately, and the regal woman looks up, a flicker of recognition through her own face as her eyes light on the simple attire and humble figure of Taro and his tea service. Tea is not unknown to the Empire in the North, and it's considered a delicacy by much of the nobility; and somewhat of a necessity, to its sovereign.

A fleeting smile crosses the Lady's face, and she beckons him toward the chair. "Mister Taro. I remember you. Good evening. Do have a seat; join us, by all means."

"Allow me to introduce my... associates." Something flickers across the plain woman's face, and something near the man's right eye twitches, but it's difficult to say what it is. Humour? The Lady indicates the woman beside her, pretty but overwhelmingly plain, with brown eyes and brown hair drawn back into a tidy horsetail. "This is one of the Ten Who Were Taken, my faithful lieutenants." Is that a hint of sarcasm in her voice? No; surely not. "Her name is Feather." Feather, on indication, inclines her head politely. Her plain brown eyes linger on Taro, studying him.

She indicates the man in the black uniform, next, who looks like he's trying to will everyone around him to forget he exists. In other words, he looks a little nervous. "This is my Annalist, and physician of the Black Company, a unit of mercenaries in my employ with a most storied history. He is here to record events, particularly events involving the Confederacy."

"A pleasure." The man eyes the technopriest with undisguised wariness, but then again, he regards every Elite with wariness. The Ten Who Were Taken are the least of them, and even one of the Taken can eat him for breakfast and still be hungry. "Name's Croaker."

The Lady folds her hands in her lap, inclining her head graciously to Taro. "Although I was forced to tend to Imperial matters, I have returned to Confederate service. I trust you have been well in my absence?"

Taro (399) has posed:
    Tea is one of the great discoveries, a balm that helps to make civilization civilized. With a nod that's both thanks and acceptance, Taro sets his teapot and his cup on the table in front of one of the empty chairs at The Lady's table.
    He looks from her to her associates as they're introduced, or in Croaker's case reintroduced if his memory serves, and gives a deep nod to each of them in turn. He's not one to meet eyes any more than he is to give broad smiles, and so he does neither, not even when looking at them during the introductions, and not when both Croaker's and Feather's keep their eyes on him.
    Once that small ritual has concluded, he pulls out the chair and gracefully settles into it. "Welcome back. I understand that many of us have duties outside the Confederacy that cannot be easily ignored and dismissed. I hope all is well in your Empire, or at the least it has improved?" He'll wait for her answer - and the others, if so inclined to jump in - before answering her question. "I have been generally well. Life has been interesting, which is generally better than being dull, even with some mishaps."

The Lady (913) has posed:
"Things have improved," the Lady says simply, with a dismissive tone. "Some would reject order and stability in favour of a foolish notion of 'freedom,' and this nonsense is more insidious than I would like. It has been uprooted and stamped out, for the time being, although such silliness has a habit of returning at the most inconvenient times." She offers a charming smile; the sort that would melt stone. "Thank you for asking."

The others don't jump in. Croaker looks like he's trying to be invisible, and Feather remains silent, those somber brown eyes fixed thoughtfully on Taro. She doesn't seem like the type to say very much without prompting.

"'Interesting' can run both ways," the Lady finally ventures, tilting her head and regarding Taro through hooded eyes. "What precisely is 'interesting' to mean in this situation, I wonder? With an organisation like the Confederacy, I should hardly expect that things have remained quiet, after all." Again she gives a faint hint of a smile. "Imperial matters can wait. What have I missed in my absence?"

Taro (399) has posed:
    "Mm." Taro lifts the teapot by the handle to pour a measure of it into his glass. If Feather is watching him keenly, she may note that his motions are just a bit too smooth, a bit too precise. It's the little things that give away his inhumanity. "Order and stability I would agreee with. What many call 'freedom' seems to be little more than chaos. While the occasional disruption is necessary, as at times one must destroy in order to rebuild, I see little benefit in the rule of the mob." The pot is set back in its place, almost exactly as before.
    "You have missed several things, I imagine." There's little expression to be found in his face, though he does look in the Lady's direction. "I haven't had my hand in many operations this year - I've found that my talents serve the Confederacy best by making sure the rest of you are well supplied and armed...Neo Arcadia and the Church of SHODAN share in that support, of course, in addition to my own personal contributions."

The Lady (913) has posed:
Although the gesture is faint, Feather narrows her eyes at that inhuman precision and smoothness. Normal people don't move like that. Even someone with outstanding self-control and discipline does not move that way. It's simply not possible for most. So she narrows her eyes, and she continues to watch Taro like a proverbial hawk, silent and still. If not for the intensity of her regard, one could almost forget she's there.

The Lady ignores her underling, regarding Taro a little more languidly. Her regard never seems quite so raptor-intense; never rushed, never hurried, but always elegant.

"A mob it is," the Lady agrees, gaze slanting to regard Taro coolly. "Disorganised, fighting amongst itself, and not even pursuing the ideals it had raised the flag of rebellion under." She gives a quiet but long-suffering sigh. "Half their vaunted Circle of Eighteen are puppets of my husband, and the foolish rabble they've rallied do not even suspect how far astray they have been led."

She sips delicately at her wine before setting the glass aside. "I imagine that I have. No matter, if there is nothing you can tell me; I have already instructed the Limper to prepare necessary information for me." It pays to be thorough, and to have competent minions. Well, mostly. The Limper's still working off his string of failure after failure, and paperwork is something that should keep him out of too much trouble.

"I see. That is reasonable enough; there is always a need for proper support. As my Physician may prove, even a competent outfit such as the Black Company requires the appropriate level of preventive measures and medical personnel. That is the Rebel's foolishness. He pokes and pries at the Imperial lines, but he does so without heed to his own safety. The Battle of Charm robbed him of much of his boldness, but there seems to be no shortage of foolish, foolhardy generals left to test imperial defenses. They are not an insurmountable problem, to me, but they try my patience."

Taro (399) has posed:
    Taro takes a moment from their conversation to give a murmur and gesture of blessing over his teacup. He's aware that he's being more than just casually observed, but he's gotten accustomed to such things. At least he's not being outright stared at, as has been known to happen in other company...
    "A shame that you cannot simply allow the rebels to turn upon themselves, to weaken their cohesion, and perhaps even settle the problem for you." He lifts his cup gently to not quite his chin, pausing to savor the curling steam and aroma of the brew. "I have had some success in that regard, though I'm also aware that the circumstances of my own city are quite difference in comparison. While we're working to restore the environment outside the walls, for now it remains an effective deterrent to any rebellious groups. Sir Hellsing has rebels to contend with as well in her country, though all they have been able to accomplish lately is the occasional bomb in public places."
    He takes a sip, and deems it more than acceptable. Then, after lowring his cup, he tilts his head ever so slightly as he regards The Lady. "If I may ask what may be an impertinent question...?

The Lady (913) has posed:
"Are you certain about that?" The Lady doesn't smirk; that would be inelegant. There is nonetheless a hint of amusement about her. "With a movement as misled and confused as the White Rose Rebellion, it is inevitable that the centre cannot hold. It will collapse under its own indecision, sooner or later. With every one of their vaunted Circle of Eighteen that the Rebel loses, he grows ever more desperate; ever more confused."

"They have no chain of command," Feather adds, in her plain voice. "And what little they have left squabbles amongst itself."

"Like jackals over a corpse," the Lady states, patiently. She is willing to wait out that game of attrition, but the question lies in whether or not she will have the time to spare for that. "Perhaps their numbers are superior, but that is meaningless without clear leadership and tactics."

One delicate brow arches, and that seems to be Taro's only answer to his question: Speak, before I change my mind.

Taro (399) has posed:
    This Rebellion with which The Lady is wrestling could be interesting. Further questioning about that is warrented. The question which Taro's been granted silent permission to speak appears to have some bearing on it, at least from what he knows. "This is not the first time that you have mentioned that your husband opposes you. I find that...odd." He raises his free hand palms-upward, as if to stave off any objections he may receive from Feather or Croaker about broaching the topic. "While I have seen the bonds and commitments between a pair fray beyond repair, normally when a a committed couple cannot remain so committed to each other, they formally end the relationship. If there is nothing left between you two, then why remain husband and wife?"

The Lady (913) has posed:
"My marriage with the Dominator is a marriage in name only," the Lady responds, leaning forward and steepling her fingers. "It was an alliance, forged purely because the old slaver could not subdue me as he had the Taken." She smiles, but the expression is cold. "Perhaps he enslaved the greatest mortal sorcerors of an age in the Ten Who Were Taken, but he found that I am not such easy prey, and so I stood as his equal."

Feather is eyeing the Lady thoughtfully, but offers no comment; Croaker looks like he's content to be forgotten in his chair. To hear him tell it, he's a minnow in a pond full of very big and very mean sharks. And the Lady is one of the biggest, meanest sharks in the pond.

She steeples her fingers again. "There is no negotiation with the Dominator, my ally. If you have any notions of such, I suggest discarding them."

"The Dominator is currently imprisoned within the Barrowlands," Feather states, serenely. "He is entrapped within the White Rose's protective charms and guardians."

"I remain so because I am his equal," the Lady states simply. "And I will not be his servant."

Taro (399) has posed:
    "I see..." Taro lapses into silence for a moment, broken with a sip of tea. "Thank you for that answer, and I apologize if my question was impolite. The religion I serve has a more...nuanced...view of what is considered a committed relationship. I had no interest in negotiating with the man, I simply wished to gain a better understanding of what would still bind the two of you together."
    Croaker has made it plan that he'd rather they all pretend that he doesn't exist, and the android mostly does so. Since Feather brought up a point of interest before he asked his question, his gaze shifts to her when he asks his next one. "Did this rebellion ever have a chain of command to be broken, or has it always been as disorganized as you've described it?"

The Lady (913) has posed:
"As I said, it was an alliance based purely on convenience." The Lady drains her wine glass, setting it aside and rising to her feet. Her retainers likewise finish what they have, standing and flanking her. To the matter of what still binds them together, she tilts her head, fixing Taro with a hood-eyed look. "Titles, and powers. Nothing more. Nothing less. I have every intention of ensuring that he remains within his grave."

Restlessly, no less. The Dominator couldn't have been happy when his wife was wakened from her own stasis, and then proceeded to yank his entire empire out from under him, conquer more territory, /and/ run it more efficiently than he ever did.

She rules with cunning, the Lady; something that the Dominator never appreciated. Cunning more than compensates for brute strength. Cunning is enough to even the odds between them, at least somewhat.

Feather returns Taro's stare coolly, watching in particular the way he moves, studying his nuances even as she answers. "Yes. The Rebel is guided by the Circle of Eighteen, powerful sorcerors and generals. Each of them is a formidable opponent in their own right. We have captured three among the Eighteen, and slain many more. Those who remain squabble amongst themselves for ever greater authority and accolades. As a result, the entire movement is bogged down."

Feather bows her head slightly, and when she turns it slightly to one side one can indeed see a feather tied into her hair; a slender braid on the other side of her head, in which is knotted a brown and white feather. Maybe it's the source of her moniker, or maybe she wears it because of her moniker. "I have intimate knowledge of the Rebel's inner workings. Where once momentum carried him, he is now uncertain and faced with too many choices he is unable to reconcile, because he is pulled in conflicting directions by a devastated Circle. I believe that perhaps he will recover, sooner or later, but until he does, the advantage is ours."

"It is not enough to crush them," the Lady interjects, "but it is enough. The problem arises in that I do not fight the White Rose Rebellion, although a victory over that silliness may yet result from this. The problem is that my husband has managed to influence at least half of the Circle. They are his puppets, although he cannot exert so much influence as to directly control their actions. But their motivations are no longer what they had originally been." The Lady purses her lips, expression one of displeasure. "No. I am fighting the Dominator; the old slaver, and if I lose, I lose the world."

"We will not lose," Feather adds, eyes turning to Taro, "but neither will we win, as things are now. We have reason to believe the Rebel has Union help, just as we have Confederate help. Even a significant victory in the field would not help our cause, or theirs. That we have stymied their leaders is victory enough, for the moment, while we decide where best to break the Rebel's back. Whisper is currently in Rust, managing the eastern front, but siegework is slow and its success is not guaranteed."