((Warning, mention of relationships that don't fit the age criterias. It is not, in fact, glorifying them, and presents such acts in a negative light, but they are there, albeit not in any explicit way, and only mentioned. That is all.))
20th of Glory, in the 1st year of the reign of House Canaigh (331 A.F), on Ceres Media
When Salamah had barely turned eighteen, he had finally figured out how the world worked. He had scraped and clawed his way up, with his sister and kid brother, and viewed the world from such lofty heights he could not believe it. He had nearly a hundred Solars stashed away, the result of months and months of saving. They were quite unusable in normal situations: Solars were worth so much that an entire sub-strata of currency had sprung up.
A few thousand Solars could buy a mining facility so vast as to be unbelivable, and a hundred could feed a family of three that ate frugally through months of hardship if need be, and could also get them tickets to just about anywhere: such transportation was expensive, and merely from the fact of having seen two worlds, the three were officialy more 'galactic' than the vast majority of other beings.
At the 8th Street Bar--real original name, that--he had a place. He talked to the patrons, all flash lower-middle-class people, with a hint of danger and criminality, the sort of people who dealed drugs, sold information, did the non-violent side of this planet's underworld, which was as much about appearance as reality. Compared to many worlds, this planet had almost no crime, and what organized crime it had was almost smothered in this veneer of showmanship, of style and grace, like those gentle-men thieves.
What would have been merely one small element of posers on a crime-ridden planet, a very tiny slice of the activities was, for the most part, it. And among that crowd, Salamah could cut deals, trade information, serve as the trusted middle-man, and occasionally get involved far mroe directly. It was good money, really, and it played to his strengths: he had good memory, was fantastically charming, and could think on his feet. He was not entirely aware of how smart he was, since his other two siblings, to differing degrees, were around his intelligence level. he suspected his sister might be slightly more intelligent, and his brother slightly less intelligent, but all three would have qualified as Genius' had they taken any number of standard intelligence tests.
And all three of them were part of this latest business, now nearly a year old. For he could hardly do all that he was doing at the Bar without the approval of the owner, a rotund middle aged man with a small, misshappen nose and large brown eyes. The man, Jorge Vellis, was, luckily enough, quite attracted to his sister, who was fifteen when they met.
Aaqilah, for her part, was quite disgusted by him, but she understood that this was the role most useful to their plans, and treated the fact that she was Jorge's lover as a unfortunate, disgusting necessity. She had confided to him after the first time, with a frown, that Jorge was even more unbearable than "Madame."
Salamah didn't think about the fact that his sister was doing an act that disgusted her for money: the gifts she was given went straight into the pool, and with jewelry, they tore out the gem and replaced it with a careful fake. And it allowed Salamah the latitutde to act. To his mind, that made it alright, so long as she was still wiilling to do it.
Morality was entirely a matter of what worked, that and family, always family. Jorge, though, was married, and that's where Marcus came in. Jorge had a young son, to go with his middle-aged wife, and Marcus was the darling of the Mother, and the friend of the son, distracting both with play-dates and the like, when it was necessary.
Were the two acts all that different? While the son was better than the father, Salamah found both distasteful, and if Marcus was far more generous with the boy, older and more the leader-type, Salamah could still tell that there were boys that Marcus, given a choice, would rather have played with. Each member of their small family did things they disliked, for the good of the family as a whole, and so long as it was part of the larger plan, indignities would, in the last, be meaningless.
His siblings were strong, strong like he was, and they could stand against all the crushing force of the world. Just as he had, just as he did. At the time his ambitions, however great, did not extend even a thousandth of the length they would, three decades later.
The three family members lived together, loved one another, and that was enough for today. After many years, he had at last pulled something from the mire of the world.
Three days from when he had this thought, his world would change abruptly.
Cast:
Salamah Laurent, age 18: A quick, handsome young man who is a regular at the 8th Street Bar. If you want to make a deal, he's your man. He loves both his brother and sister beyond words and logic.
Marcus Laurent, age 7: A clever young boy, obsessed with video games, logic puzzles, and toys.
Aaqilah Laurent, age 16: Perhaps as brilliant as Salamah, she is his closest confidant, and they are each others' best friends.
Jorge Vellis, age 52: A man Salamah hates, but pretends to respect. He owns the 8th Street Bar.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Friday, April 26, 2013
Flashback: Omar, Part III
Late Evening.
He cursed his words the moment after he had slid up next to her and made the same sort of insipid offer everyone makes "May I buy you a drink."
Salamah didn't know what was wrong with him. Sure, he'd said it well enough, no stuttering for him, but it was clearly an entirely inadequate way to start a conversation. He had seduced far more women than he should have, and never had he resorted to some line like that. Salamah felt almost detached from himself as she replied, "Sure, but only one. I have to walk home safely, I have a kid at home."
A responsible woman who knows her limitations and is demonstrably fertile, that cold reptillian part of his brain reminded him. It seems as if she might be the one.
"Very well, what do you like to drink?"
"Maybe something a bit fruity..." she said, her smile playful, but not quite flirty.
Salamah ordered a drink himself, and they got to talking, mostly about nothing in particular. Their histories came up and he proceeded with the lies he had planned, and learned more about her. A single mother who worked two jobs, waitress at a night-club and a cashier at a middle-class sort of clothes shop. She dressed quite well, that was to be sure, better than her class would normally afford. And she chose well, dressed to mix modesty, practicality and femininity into a heady brew. By his view, his wife leaned a bit towards the last two: Salamah had nothing against practicality per se but, well...he was prejudiced against his wife.
She did not seem to be brilliant, but nor was she a fool. He introduced himself as Lawrence Salam, and she called herself Ginerva Lu. She had a sunny smile and, while no blind optimist, tended to think the best of people and situations. When she didn't know one way or the other, she thought the best, whether it was on politics, sports, fashion, or any of the subjects that eventually came up, passed briefly over, during the next several hours.
He was startled to find that he liked her and was still attracted to her, and that she seemed to be taking to him as well, though it had taken some work. This made his job harder and easier. Easier to seduce her, harder to inevitably betray her, leaving her with nothing but memories and some money, and him with a child. And it would end like that, he knew, it had to end like that.
"May I walk you home?"
She was a slight bit suspicious--good that she had survival instincts, and knew what such actions often were--but she agreed. It was the genuineness in his eyes that did it. For, well, he planned on doing nothing more than that and then getting her number. Better to come off as the gentleman since, even if she got pregnant after the first time, there would be many months of lies ahead.
Quite late, local time, the pair left the bar. Bars, always bars, he thought as they did...
He cursed his words the moment after he had slid up next to her and made the same sort of insipid offer everyone makes "May I buy you a drink."
Salamah didn't know what was wrong with him. Sure, he'd said it well enough, no stuttering for him, but it was clearly an entirely inadequate way to start a conversation. He had seduced far more women than he should have, and never had he resorted to some line like that. Salamah felt almost detached from himself as she replied, "Sure, but only one. I have to walk home safely, I have a kid at home."
A responsible woman who knows her limitations and is demonstrably fertile, that cold reptillian part of his brain reminded him. It seems as if she might be the one.
"Very well, what do you like to drink?"
"Maybe something a bit fruity..." she said, her smile playful, but not quite flirty.
Salamah ordered a drink himself, and they got to talking, mostly about nothing in particular. Their histories came up and he proceeded with the lies he had planned, and learned more about her. A single mother who worked two jobs, waitress at a night-club and a cashier at a middle-class sort of clothes shop. She dressed quite well, that was to be sure, better than her class would normally afford. And she chose well, dressed to mix modesty, practicality and femininity into a heady brew. By his view, his wife leaned a bit towards the last two: Salamah had nothing against practicality per se but, well...he was prejudiced against his wife.
She did not seem to be brilliant, but nor was she a fool. He introduced himself as Lawrence Salam, and she called herself Ginerva Lu. She had a sunny smile and, while no blind optimist, tended to think the best of people and situations. When she didn't know one way or the other, she thought the best, whether it was on politics, sports, fashion, or any of the subjects that eventually came up, passed briefly over, during the next several hours.
He was startled to find that he liked her and was still attracted to her, and that she seemed to be taking to him as well, though it had taken some work. This made his job harder and easier. Easier to seduce her, harder to inevitably betray her, leaving her with nothing but memories and some money, and him with a child. And it would end like that, he knew, it had to end like that.
"May I walk you home?"
She was a slight bit suspicious--good that she had survival instincts, and knew what such actions often were--but she agreed. It was the genuineness in his eyes that did it. For, well, he planned on doing nothing more than that and then getting her number. Better to come off as the gentleman since, even if she got pregnant after the first time, there would be many months of lies ahead.
Quite late, local time, the pair left the bar. Bars, always bars, he thought as they did...
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Flashback: Omar, Part II
One Week Later, in the 2nd year of the reign of House Redwater
There were distinct advantages to having a job description that included the phrase 'a man about town.' It meant that his wife truly couldn't keep him from going out. She could set his own minor agents, spies, and retainers upon him...except that he had an entirely separate structure of such people, just to be safe, and they wouldn't be reporting his movements to Jamilla.
It all felt like some big game, really, but it was quite serious. He had talked to a few people, called in a few favors, and so Jamilla was going to go on a girls' night out, get distracted and pampered and, no doubt, talk politics, intrigue, the fate of planets and all sorts of girl talk like that.
His plans had resolved into a rather vindictive desire to see her suffer. Here he was, trying to at least give some consideration to her feelings, to at least make this as painless as possible, and she'd rebuffed him. And so Salamah planned on seducing a young woman, carrying on with her until she had a baby, and then leaving her behind to present the child to Jamilla as a fait acompli. But Salamah also had to suceed in brushing off the mother of the child, which meant that he had to choose a woman of less than considerable means, but respectable enough to...
Well, it could go on for quite a while. It was a complex, if somewhat sleazy, balancing act, and all of those factors and more had influenced Salamah's choice in bar.
The Backwards Goblet (its traditional joke is 'how can you tell if it is backwards?") was not low class by any means. Several years ago, or so he was told, it had even been flash. For reasons that nobody knew, several of the trendsetters of Azha had alighted on the Goblet, and within a week it had become the hotspot where anybody of note started their night. And if they didn't, well, then they weren't of note. Celebrities of every kind were there, and for nine months it was all but the center of the world. Then, just as arbitrarily, they moved on one day.
Overnight, The Backwards Goblet turned back into what it was before. A lower-to-middling sort of place full of 'Aspiring' people. Aspiring poets, philosophers, courtiers, writers, courtesans, academics. Where once, for nine months, the real deal had declaimed and charmed and posed, now hopeful iimitations sought entry into these circles...and hoped that their stop at The Backwards Goblet was purely temporary.
And Salamah was going to play as an Aspiring Courtier, someone who looked up to him as he might to a Noble. His clothes for tonight were slightly threadbare, but carefully matched. He stepped out of the rusting hover-taxi to gaze upon a giant goblet with the words "The Backwards Goblet" awkwardly stretched around the goblet. And standing beneath it, one little accident from being crushed, was a man with no neck, muscle and fat blended.
He smiled at the man, who grunted and let him in. The place was almost quaint. It had old-fashioned, out of date wood paneling and chairs and bars...it was almost as strange as going back to sticks and stones, in some ways. Real wood, too. There were a few dozen people there, including a number of women who would work.
There was one with long blue hair and pitch-black skin, whose eyes were alight with mischief. There was a beautiful, pale red-head who danced like all the world relied upon it. The way her hair, spiky, seemed to shake with her movements was, to be frank, quite arousing.
But his eyes finally alighted on a young-looking woman of dark, almost brown skin, her face smooth, her hair a nut-brown, her face as expressive and pretty as any of them there. There was a gentleness to the way she was talking to the bartender, nursing a drink that seemed fruity, well-dressed and modest. She was not beautiful, but there was a prettiness and cuteness to her, a warmness in the way she held herself. Of course, everything could be faked.
Still...he was intrigued, and he began to pick his way towards her. Target acquired.
Had he known what he was getting into, he would have turned around right there...or perhaps not.
((This is only half of what I'd planned for Omar II but it's already gotten a bit long, and I haven't released anything in a while, so, well, here you go.))
There were distinct advantages to having a job description that included the phrase 'a man about town.' It meant that his wife truly couldn't keep him from going out. She could set his own minor agents, spies, and retainers upon him...except that he had an entirely separate structure of such people, just to be safe, and they wouldn't be reporting his movements to Jamilla.
It all felt like some big game, really, but it was quite serious. He had talked to a few people, called in a few favors, and so Jamilla was going to go on a girls' night out, get distracted and pampered and, no doubt, talk politics, intrigue, the fate of planets and all sorts of girl talk like that.
His plans had resolved into a rather vindictive desire to see her suffer. Here he was, trying to at least give some consideration to her feelings, to at least make this as painless as possible, and she'd rebuffed him. And so Salamah planned on seducing a young woman, carrying on with her until she had a baby, and then leaving her behind to present the child to Jamilla as a fait acompli. But Salamah also had to suceed in brushing off the mother of the child, which meant that he had to choose a woman of less than considerable means, but respectable enough to...
Well, it could go on for quite a while. It was a complex, if somewhat sleazy, balancing act, and all of those factors and more had influenced Salamah's choice in bar.
The Backwards Goblet (its traditional joke is 'how can you tell if it is backwards?") was not low class by any means. Several years ago, or so he was told, it had even been flash. For reasons that nobody knew, several of the trendsetters of Azha had alighted on the Goblet, and within a week it had become the hotspot where anybody of note started their night. And if they didn't, well, then they weren't of note. Celebrities of every kind were there, and for nine months it was all but the center of the world. Then, just as arbitrarily, they moved on one day.
Overnight, The Backwards Goblet turned back into what it was before. A lower-to-middling sort of place full of 'Aspiring' people. Aspiring poets, philosophers, courtiers, writers, courtesans, academics. Where once, for nine months, the real deal had declaimed and charmed and posed, now hopeful iimitations sought entry into these circles...and hoped that their stop at The Backwards Goblet was purely temporary.
And Salamah was going to play as an Aspiring Courtier, someone who looked up to him as he might to a Noble. His clothes for tonight were slightly threadbare, but carefully matched. He stepped out of the rusting hover-taxi to gaze upon a giant goblet with the words "The Backwards Goblet" awkwardly stretched around the goblet. And standing beneath it, one little accident from being crushed, was a man with no neck, muscle and fat blended.
He smiled at the man, who grunted and let him in. The place was almost quaint. It had old-fashioned, out of date wood paneling and chairs and bars...it was almost as strange as going back to sticks and stones, in some ways. Real wood, too. There were a few dozen people there, including a number of women who would work.
There was one with long blue hair and pitch-black skin, whose eyes were alight with mischief. There was a beautiful, pale red-head who danced like all the world relied upon it. The way her hair, spiky, seemed to shake with her movements was, to be frank, quite arousing.
But his eyes finally alighted on a young-looking woman of dark, almost brown skin, her face smooth, her hair a nut-brown, her face as expressive and pretty as any of them there. There was a gentleness to the way she was talking to the bartender, nursing a drink that seemed fruity, well-dressed and modest. She was not beautiful, but there was a prettiness and cuteness to her, a warmness in the way she held herself. Of course, everything could be faked.
Still...he was intrigued, and he began to pick his way towards her. Target acquired.
Had he known what he was getting into, he would have turned around right there...or perhaps not.
((This is only half of what I'd planned for Omar II but it's already gotten a bit long, and I haven't released anything in a while, so, well, here you go.))
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Flashback: Omar, Part 1
Three Years before Salamah Laurent became a Duke, Azha, late evening.
Azha was not the sort of planet a man like Salamah could love easily. It had nothing to woo him except that this was the home-world of the House which currently held the Emperorship. The Goman years had not been particularly kind to Salamah, who lacked the resolution for any sort of public stance, and yet whose sympathies had lay with the parties that, luckily, had eventually triumphed.
What mattered was that peace now reigned. All of his plans relied in peace, first. The time may come when he would have to fight with more than ledgers and balance-sheets for his place in the Galaxy--should his plans to enoble himself actually work--but he wanted them to be held off as long as possible.
There were worse planets, and at least the weather was nice. Not that, living in an apartment paid for by the largess of the low nobility, he experienced much of it. The city though, that was nice. Not the sort of place where a man would fear being mugged. His brother was away, off on a binge no doubt, his Cousin was practically sleeping in the public library, attempting to soak up as much in the way of galactic records as Marcus did in the way of booze.
There were only two people home. And that was part of the problem. The sun was setting over the rim of a Noble's mansion, casting the cool-colored house into even more gloom. His wife had chosen a style that focused on light blues and sharp edges, and the luxurious, well-ordered apartment always felt to him like some sterile underwater lab.
His warmer colors clashed rather badly against the lights--a deeper blue--in the place, and he'd felt a low level of annoyance over the last few years, annoyance he didn't show, hid behind charm and an outward respect for her quite popular style. Many of the Demimonde, that professional class of revellers, fashionistas and courtiers had followed suit, and by any standards it was one of those minor successes that the courtiers of the middle houses--and that word held no power against the word Houses--of nobility so relished. Except he desired to rise further.
And there were only two steps he could take on the path upward. Either pick a side, become a courtier, a retainer, and point-man, essentially a vassal of one of the Houses, likely one of the Small Houses, and make himself useful. He had been under the patronage of a wide variety of powerful men and women, but that seemed very different to Salamah that the absolute loyalty and submission that such a step would require.
Or he could try to form a House. Buy a coat of arms, bribe his way into it, rise by his own merits along with his family, or lose everything. The risks were great, but recently he had begun reading the writings of a a well-known thinker, who had said, "Victory without risk is triumph without glory." He had been talking about the game of politics, and he had been a player himself of some import, back in the first three-hundred years of Empire. Of course, he was quite the hypocrite, considering when his side lost he didn't have the decency to accept execution, and had grovelled, schemed, and switched sides to avoid death.
Still, it was a nice sentiment.
He stepped through the apartment past the fish-tank and opened the door to the barren, half-empty bedroom. All of the furniture other than the bed was sequestered in the walls. Some called it minimalism, he called it boring. He touched a panel, and the lights came on, his wife blinking awake, dressed in a night-gown that was quite flattering, a pale sort of blue material that clung to her and shimmered with her every motion. He didn't look at her, though he kept his eyes in such a way that it looked like he was, candidly, looking at her.
And he said, "Love, we should talk. I've come to an important decision for our family, and so of course I wanted to discuss it with you. You know how much your opinion means to me," he said tenderly, voice tined with love.
He found it was somewhat easy to like people, very easy to hate people, and very, very hard to love people. The only persons he loved were his surviving brother, sister, cousin, niece...family, in other words. And currently he also hated, or at least disliked all of them, even while loving them.
And the only person alive he respected was his sister, and were he the sort to hurt family, she'd be dead, after what happened.
Faking love or friendship was far easier, and less painful, than the alternative.
"Thank you dear," she said, batting her eyes and motioning for him to join her in bed. Seeing little else in the way of options he moved forward, his every motion smooth, and slid into bed, turning to her. "Now what is it you have decided?" she asked.
"To risk," he said, simply, each word said in the crispest manner, "To risk...what? Everything, most likely. To work now, for however long it takes, to ascend to become a House, whatever costs are accrued. To give this family all that I can and..." he looked away, "There is a certain thing that is required if we are to truly be a noble House..."
He felt a wave of disgust rise in him. Here he was beginning to dissemble. He had the ability, long practiced in court, to spend a thousand words saying practically nothing, cocooning the important words to soften their impact. He could see that's what he was about to do, and it shamed him. Here Salamah was trying to be bold, to take risks, here he even was taking a risk and all he could think of was...
He stopped his thoughts, let them slide away. She was looking at him, and he realized that his face was doing something he didn't want it to do. It was showing his emotions! Not whichever emotions he wanted someone to think but...he was frowning.
So he let out a sigh and said, "I need an heir. It doesn't matter to me whether they are a boy or a girl," the person he respected the most, after all, was a woman, "Just that they have the skills necessary to take over when I die. And I don't think our niece is going to be that person, do you?"
"No," she admitted, softly. Jamila was fifty two, he was forty eight.
"And, well, I can't have them with you...I mean..."
"I could still have children." IVF had made fifty-five year olds pregnant, and sometimes you got a rare natural case. But, well, for the vast, overwhelming majority of women, by the age of fifty-tswo it was too late. She knew that but, of course, well, humans have a startling capacity for self-deception.
"No," he said, and then let his voice soften, "No...the child might turn out...wrong. And it'd be dangerous for you. You might get hurt, your body might not be able to..." he reached out and ran his hands through her silky blonde hair. "But...I have another idea. We could hire a woman, have a doctor inseminate her medically. She could be in your care, I don't need to see her, just need to know that she's...doing well. She has the baby, we pay her, and that's that."
Salamah knew that she knew that he cheated. It was the mostly unspoken truth. And so he had come up with a cold, clinical, caculating distant and business-like solution to his child shortage. Hoping that she would go for it.
"I won't have it. I am your wife and I," she said, showing the essential tradionalism of her believes, "Will bear your child or nobody will. I will not let any such woman into your house, and I will track down any outside purchases you make."
She said it matter of factly, "We will get through this. Together. I support you, I love you, and I am proud of you for taking such decisive action...we'll see the doctor in a week or two to see if I can't be made pregnant. I know just the Doctor to do it," she said, smiling. "Now..." and her smile turned into almost a leer.
He said, "In a minute, I need to wash up first."
She nodded and he stood, his hair cut short in fashion he was sure would be changed within a few months, and walked into the bathroom, and stared in the mirror. It was expensive, and could also double as a security monitor, a gaming screen, and one could even 'try out' new haircuts in the thing. But Salamah used it for its primary function.
He had hidden accounts, he had all sorts of contingencies, all designed for if his sister came back...but he supposed his wife deserved it. She was nearly as smart as his sister, charming, and she could be surprisingly inventive, even if long-term planning was not a particular talent of hers.
Salamah could see his face hardening into resolve in the mirror.
A business arrangement? No. He was going to...enjoy this.
Cast
Salamah Laurent, 45: A well respected Courtier at the heart of the Galaxy, he has begun to nurture designs far greater than his already-lofty station.
Jamilla Laurent, 52: A trend-setting wife of a major courtier, she is sharp and intelligent, and supports her husbands ambitions...but not some of his strayings from their marriage bed.
Azha was not the sort of planet a man like Salamah could love easily. It had nothing to woo him except that this was the home-world of the House which currently held the Emperorship. The Goman years had not been particularly kind to Salamah, who lacked the resolution for any sort of public stance, and yet whose sympathies had lay with the parties that, luckily, had eventually triumphed.
What mattered was that peace now reigned. All of his plans relied in peace, first. The time may come when he would have to fight with more than ledgers and balance-sheets for his place in the Galaxy--should his plans to enoble himself actually work--but he wanted them to be held off as long as possible.
There were worse planets, and at least the weather was nice. Not that, living in an apartment paid for by the largess of the low nobility, he experienced much of it. The city though, that was nice. Not the sort of place where a man would fear being mugged. His brother was away, off on a binge no doubt, his Cousin was practically sleeping in the public library, attempting to soak up as much in the way of galactic records as Marcus did in the way of booze.
There were only two people home. And that was part of the problem. The sun was setting over the rim of a Noble's mansion, casting the cool-colored house into even more gloom. His wife had chosen a style that focused on light blues and sharp edges, and the luxurious, well-ordered apartment always felt to him like some sterile underwater lab.
His warmer colors clashed rather badly against the lights--a deeper blue--in the place, and he'd felt a low level of annoyance over the last few years, annoyance he didn't show, hid behind charm and an outward respect for her quite popular style. Many of the Demimonde, that professional class of revellers, fashionistas and courtiers had followed suit, and by any standards it was one of those minor successes that the courtiers of the middle houses--and that word held no power against the word Houses--of nobility so relished. Except he desired to rise further.
And there were only two steps he could take on the path upward. Either pick a side, become a courtier, a retainer, and point-man, essentially a vassal of one of the Houses, likely one of the Small Houses, and make himself useful. He had been under the patronage of a wide variety of powerful men and women, but that seemed very different to Salamah that the absolute loyalty and submission that such a step would require.
Or he could try to form a House. Buy a coat of arms, bribe his way into it, rise by his own merits along with his family, or lose everything. The risks were great, but recently he had begun reading the writings of a a well-known thinker, who had said, "Victory without risk is triumph without glory." He had been talking about the game of politics, and he had been a player himself of some import, back in the first three-hundred years of Empire. Of course, he was quite the hypocrite, considering when his side lost he didn't have the decency to accept execution, and had grovelled, schemed, and switched sides to avoid death.
Still, it was a nice sentiment.
He stepped through the apartment past the fish-tank and opened the door to the barren, half-empty bedroom. All of the furniture other than the bed was sequestered in the walls. Some called it minimalism, he called it boring. He touched a panel, and the lights came on, his wife blinking awake, dressed in a night-gown that was quite flattering, a pale sort of blue material that clung to her and shimmered with her every motion. He didn't look at her, though he kept his eyes in such a way that it looked like he was, candidly, looking at her.
And he said, "Love, we should talk. I've come to an important decision for our family, and so of course I wanted to discuss it with you. You know how much your opinion means to me," he said tenderly, voice tined with love.
He found it was somewhat easy to like people, very easy to hate people, and very, very hard to love people. The only persons he loved were his surviving brother, sister, cousin, niece...family, in other words. And currently he also hated, or at least disliked all of them, even while loving them.
And the only person alive he respected was his sister, and were he the sort to hurt family, she'd be dead, after what happened.
Faking love or friendship was far easier, and less painful, than the alternative.
"Thank you dear," she said, batting her eyes and motioning for him to join her in bed. Seeing little else in the way of options he moved forward, his every motion smooth, and slid into bed, turning to her. "Now what is it you have decided?" she asked.
"To risk," he said, simply, each word said in the crispest manner, "To risk...what? Everything, most likely. To work now, for however long it takes, to ascend to become a House, whatever costs are accrued. To give this family all that I can and..." he looked away, "There is a certain thing that is required if we are to truly be a noble House..."
He felt a wave of disgust rise in him. Here he was beginning to dissemble. He had the ability, long practiced in court, to spend a thousand words saying practically nothing, cocooning the important words to soften their impact. He could see that's what he was about to do, and it shamed him. Here Salamah was trying to be bold, to take risks, here he even was taking a risk and all he could think of was...
He stopped his thoughts, let them slide away. She was looking at him, and he realized that his face was doing something he didn't want it to do. It was showing his emotions! Not whichever emotions he wanted someone to think but...he was frowning.
So he let out a sigh and said, "I need an heir. It doesn't matter to me whether they are a boy or a girl," the person he respected the most, after all, was a woman, "Just that they have the skills necessary to take over when I die. And I don't think our niece is going to be that person, do you?"
"No," she admitted, softly. Jamila was fifty two, he was forty eight.
"And, well, I can't have them with you...I mean..."
"I could still have children." IVF had made fifty-five year olds pregnant, and sometimes you got a rare natural case. But, well, for the vast, overwhelming majority of women, by the age of fifty-tswo it was too late. She knew that but, of course, well, humans have a startling capacity for self-deception.
"No," he said, and then let his voice soften, "No...the child might turn out...wrong. And it'd be dangerous for you. You might get hurt, your body might not be able to..." he reached out and ran his hands through her silky blonde hair. "But...I have another idea. We could hire a woman, have a doctor inseminate her medically. She could be in your care, I don't need to see her, just need to know that she's...doing well. She has the baby, we pay her, and that's that."
Salamah knew that she knew that he cheated. It was the mostly unspoken truth. And so he had come up with a cold, clinical, caculating distant and business-like solution to his child shortage. Hoping that she would go for it.
"I won't have it. I am your wife and I," she said, showing the essential tradionalism of her believes, "Will bear your child or nobody will. I will not let any such woman into your house, and I will track down any outside purchases you make."
She said it matter of factly, "We will get through this. Together. I support you, I love you, and I am proud of you for taking such decisive action...we'll see the doctor in a week or two to see if I can't be made pregnant. I know just the Doctor to do it," she said, smiling. "Now..." and her smile turned into almost a leer.
He said, "In a minute, I need to wash up first."
She nodded and he stood, his hair cut short in fashion he was sure would be changed within a few months, and walked into the bathroom, and stared in the mirror. It was expensive, and could also double as a security monitor, a gaming screen, and one could even 'try out' new haircuts in the thing. But Salamah used it for its primary function.
He had hidden accounts, he had all sorts of contingencies, all designed for if his sister came back...but he supposed his wife deserved it. She was nearly as smart as his sister, charming, and she could be surprisingly inventive, even if long-term planning was not a particular talent of hers.
Salamah could see his face hardening into resolve in the mirror.
A business arrangement? No. He was going to...enjoy this.
Cast
Salamah Laurent, 45: A well respected Courtier at the heart of the Galaxy, he has begun to nurture designs far greater than his already-lofty station.
Jamilla Laurent, 52: A trend-setting wife of a major courtier, she is sharp and intelligent, and supports her husbands ambitions...but not some of his strayings from their marriage bed.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Introduction
((This is the Introduction I wrote for my House, and is thus the first piece of character creation. It is a bit rougher than my later Salamah, on the one hand, on the other, it captures what he is like, and gives hints at his background. I hope this will tide you over until Wednesday when, a bit behind schedule--tough couple of days--I'll post Omar Part I.))
House Laurent is one of the newest houses, its head, and the purchaser of the coat of arms, the man who married the woman who had a tenuous claim to high descent—and a good deal of money—are well known.
Salamah Laurent, now Duke, was a man who could have been seen at any party of the rich and powerful, been home at any court, exchanged witticisms and compliments with the highest and mightiest people of the Galaxy. A courtier, in other words, a charming man with brilliant ideas and myriad skills. A man who always had something clever to say, was unfailingly polite, and charming, a man with a smile that could forgive the worst kinds of crime. A man, in other words, who would have a small but valued place in the world of the high and mighty, who might have lived and died in reasonable comfort.
For such a man to spend so much of his money purchasing the heraldry of a Duke, and making it a Duchy quite far from the centers of power, art and pleasure of the Galaxy...such a decision was one nobody expected. Alshain Magna was not the sort of planet a man like him, or so it would seem, would ever want to live in.
But his past is far more complex than that of an upper-middle-class Courtier. Born the son of a barely literate miner, he has worked his way upwards with a single-mindedness that is often obscured by his good manners and pleasing ideas. For beneath his smooth exterior there is a man who will do anything to win.
A man who would and has murdered, blackmailed, donated to charity, seduced, committed adultery, flattered, bought, bribed, sat in dusty rooms working on obsure geological plans, lounged in high-class bars: done, in other words, all these actions and more, every single thing he believed could gain him what he desires.
He wants a place for his family, and power, more power. Love or even like his wife he does not, but his two year old son, Omar Laurent, is a very different story. If he has anything to say about it, Omar will grow up in a world of power and privilege, and become one of the foremost men of the Galaxy.
Those who can see beneath his reasonable exterior—and those are few—might see a fire that, with kindling, may burn into greatness or glory, or might gutter into bloody madness and failure.
The motto of the house is "A vaincre sans péril, on triomphe sans gloire."
Translated it means: A victory with risk is a triumph without glory.
Salamah, despite his pretensions to that sort of reasonable, affable intelligence, lives by this.
Duke Salamah Laurent 48 years old - A dynamic, enchanting genius. He is an average duellist and an accomplished administrator.
Head of Geological.
Jamila Laurent - Wife of the Duke - 55 years old.
An idle, charismatic genius. She is an average duellist and a mediocre administrator
Omar Laurent - Son of the Duke - 2 years old. A child of promising potential.
House Laurent is one of the newest houses, its head, and the purchaser of the coat of arms, the man who married the woman who had a tenuous claim to high descent—and a good deal of money—are well known.
Salamah Laurent, now Duke, was a man who could have been seen at any party of the rich and powerful, been home at any court, exchanged witticisms and compliments with the highest and mightiest people of the Galaxy. A courtier, in other words, a charming man with brilliant ideas and myriad skills. A man who always had something clever to say, was unfailingly polite, and charming, a man with a smile that could forgive the worst kinds of crime. A man, in other words, who would have a small but valued place in the world of the high and mighty, who might have lived and died in reasonable comfort.
For such a man to spend so much of his money purchasing the heraldry of a Duke, and making it a Duchy quite far from the centers of power, art and pleasure of the Galaxy...such a decision was one nobody expected. Alshain Magna was not the sort of planet a man like him, or so it would seem, would ever want to live in.
But his past is far more complex than that of an upper-middle-class Courtier. Born the son of a barely literate miner, he has worked his way upwards with a single-mindedness that is often obscured by his good manners and pleasing ideas. For beneath his smooth exterior there is a man who will do anything to win.
A man who would and has murdered, blackmailed, donated to charity, seduced, committed adultery, flattered, bought, bribed, sat in dusty rooms working on obsure geological plans, lounged in high-class bars: done, in other words, all these actions and more, every single thing he believed could gain him what he desires.
He wants a place for his family, and power, more power. Love or even like his wife he does not, but his two year old son, Omar Laurent, is a very different story. If he has anything to say about it, Omar will grow up in a world of power and privilege, and become one of the foremost men of the Galaxy.
Those who can see beneath his reasonable exterior—and those are few—might see a fire that, with kindling, may burn into greatness or glory, or might gutter into bloody madness and failure.
The motto of the house is "A vaincre sans péril, on triomphe sans gloire."
Translated it means: A victory with risk is a triumph without glory.
Salamah, despite his pretensions to that sort of reasonable, affable intelligence, lives by this.
Duke Salamah Laurent 48 years old - A dynamic, enchanting genius. He is an average duellist and an accomplished administrator.
Head of Geological.
Jamila Laurent - Wife of the Duke - 55 years old.
An idle, charismatic genius. She is an average duellist and a mediocre administrator
Omar Laurent - Son of the Duke - 2 years old. A child of promising potential.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Subsidised
1st of Faith, in the 5th year of the reign of House Redwater
Salamah ate toast with one hand while checking through messages with the other. It was not an activity that he would ever wish to be viewed doing. It seemed too distracted and unprofessional. So when his assistant, a nice man who was competent enough, if a bit of a, well, he was in many ways what Salamah had pretended to be, and still did, arrived and said, "I come bearing a message" there was a small spike of suspicion. And so far as he could tell, it wasn't an act. But some paranoid part of him saw himself in that situation: and Salamah at twenty-six, this man's age, might have been willing to put a vibro-knife in a Noble's back for profit.
He shook off these paranoias and asked, "Who is it from?"
"The Ser Noches, Sir."
Lady Ser Noche had competed in the last election, he recalled, had competed and lost, but still a good showing. And the Ser Noches themselves had an incredibly high reputation. Empresses HAD come from their line before.
He viewed the video, twice, the second time looking for some hidden meaning. It all seemed to be legitimate. Twenty-five thousand Solars!
Immediately he began to ponder who would go. Why go? Because you weren't given such a gift, such a windfall, without showing gratitude. And, really, going to see one of the most powerful Houses in the Galaxy was almost never a bad idea. Almost never.
It couldn't be just him, or his wife would be suspicious that he might stray, again. So she'd have to go if he did. The same logic applied if she went. Marcus, alcoholic that he was, couldn't go unsupervised. It'd take his wife, Josette, and himself to keep Marcus from making a fool of himself. But if he stayed here while Salamah went, he'd find drink anyways. Vincent couldn't go on his own, and he couldn't be trusted not to spend the money on Sathraism or annoy someone. And Audrey would plot or ruin things on her own.
And so, either everyone or no-one would have to go. He knew what his choice would be. But first, he had a message for a certain House regarding the transport of his family.
7th of Faith, after three days of preparation and three days of travel, in the 5th year of the reign of House Redwater
So it was that they found themselves travelling first-class to Algol, said to be a beautiful, peaceful, and watery planet, to meet with the Ser Noches. They could hardly have known how very much would be affected by this one decision. For they were not the only group to be involved.
((This has also been posted as the start of an RP thread. Those in the Galaxy of Capricorn might like to check that out!))
Salamah ate toast with one hand while checking through messages with the other. It was not an activity that he would ever wish to be viewed doing. It seemed too distracted and unprofessional. So when his assistant, a nice man who was competent enough, if a bit of a, well, he was in many ways what Salamah had pretended to be, and still did, arrived and said, "I come bearing a message" there was a small spike of suspicion. And so far as he could tell, it wasn't an act. But some paranoid part of him saw himself in that situation: and Salamah at twenty-six, this man's age, might have been willing to put a vibro-knife in a Noble's back for profit.
He shook off these paranoias and asked, "Who is it from?"
"The Ser Noches, Sir."
Lady Ser Noche had competed in the last election, he recalled, had competed and lost, but still a good showing. And the Ser Noches themselves had an incredibly high reputation. Empresses HAD come from their line before.
He viewed the video, twice, the second time looking for some hidden meaning. It all seemed to be legitimate. Twenty-five thousand Solars!
Immediately he began to ponder who would go. Why go? Because you weren't given such a gift, such a windfall, without showing gratitude. And, really, going to see one of the most powerful Houses in the Galaxy was almost never a bad idea. Almost never.
It couldn't be just him, or his wife would be suspicious that he might stray, again. So she'd have to go if he did. The same logic applied if she went. Marcus, alcoholic that he was, couldn't go unsupervised. It'd take his wife, Josette, and himself to keep Marcus from making a fool of himself. But if he stayed here while Salamah went, he'd find drink anyways. Vincent couldn't go on his own, and he couldn't be trusted not to spend the money on Sathraism or annoy someone. And Audrey would plot or ruin things on her own.
And so, either everyone or no-one would have to go. He knew what his choice would be. But first, he had a message for a certain House regarding the transport of his family.
7th of Faith, after three days of preparation and three days of travel, in the 5th year of the reign of House Redwater
So it was that they found themselves travelling first-class to Algol, said to be a beautiful, peaceful, and watery planet, to meet with the Ser Noches. They could hardly have known how very much would be affected by this one decision. For they were not the only group to be involved.
((This has also been posted as the start of an RP thread. Those in the Galaxy of Capricorn might like to check that out!))
Saturday, April 13, 2013
Celebration, Part II
21st of Hope, 5th year of the reign of House Redwater, halfway to midnight. On Alshain Magna
Of course, things were rarely so simple. He had to keep up the act of slowly but surely getting a little bit intoxicated. He was a quiet drunk on the rare occasions he allowed himself to drink--he was afraid that he might share his brother's weakness--the sort who didn't cause much trouble, was slightly melancholoy, but mostly just absented himself more and more from the situation, turning in on himself. So it was easy to simply slowly but surely become a bit less social, a bit less likely to chime in with a witty comment, to slowly withdraw from the stage and slip out after the fourth or fifth hour of socializing.
But as he slipped out the door, avoiding his brother who, nearly as smart as him, had long ago guessed at the nature of the alcohol, and no doubt would demand to have the nanobots shut off. Of course, if that was done, it'd kill the man, since he had drunk so much alcohol that if it entered his brother all at once, well...he loved his family even when he despied them, so he wasn't about to do this.
He ran right into Jamilla. She smiled and offered to take him to bed since he was so drunk. She knew, of course, but she had a goal to her manipulations.
And so he found himself laying in bed with her, staring at the ceiling, wondering why the world was as it was.
She loved him, which was the most insane thing he had ever heard of. She loved him and sometimes didn't fall for his lies, though sometimes she did, and she cared for him with a passion that hadn't yet waned, despite having every reason in the Galaxy to do so. There had not been a moment of fidelity on his part, or even love. And yet somehow he could not fully hate her, not when she was so smart, not when...but he certainly didn't like her.
And he had no idea why that was. There was nothing wrong with .
her. Sure, he'd married her for her money and status, and she was older than him, but there were no flaws that should have won such great disapproval. She was lazy, and not the best person to run his house-hold, but she could be nearly as charming as him, and she had a head for business--she merely lacked the motivation.
And she was beautifl, her blonde hair soft, her skin not at all wrinkled by age, laying in bed, naked, next to him.
"This move, it was supposed to bring us together, dear," she whispered gently, "Get you away from all of those distractions..."
Like every woman who was not her. Or family. The staff were all male, the nanny sixty years old, and an ardent lover of women, and women only.
He smiled and said, "Has something been wrong?"
"You've been so busy, sweetie..."
"I'll try to make some more time," he assured her.
He could tell she didn't quite believe him, which was wise. She could see through some of his lies all of his time, while other types of lies he presented her with she always bought.
Salamah reached out and stroked her cheek, his face a mask of love, "You are still as beautiful to me as the day I met you," which was true.
"Oh," she said with a smile, "You say the most romantic things." She shifted, exposing her body, her small, still surprisngly pert breasts, her nakedness that any woman of fifty-five would be envious of. He allowed his face to alight with lust as he thought of women who were not his wife. Any of the would do.
He pulled at his boxers. There were some lies she would always believe.
The Duke could lie with his body, and she'd never believe it was anything but lust.
And so he got on to the task with the enthusiasm of a boy doing his homework.
Sometimes, well, sometimes he wished he loved her. It would make so many things so much easier if he could just stretch his heart to love one more person.
Despite all that, he slept soundly that night, and woke to another good day.
Cast
Duke Salamah, 48. Husband of Jamilla Laurent, who he married for her money, and her indirect noble descent.
Jamillla Laurent, 55. Wife of the Duke, she loves him, despite all that he does, and all that he is.
Of course, things were rarely so simple. He had to keep up the act of slowly but surely getting a little bit intoxicated. He was a quiet drunk on the rare occasions he allowed himself to drink--he was afraid that he might share his brother's weakness--the sort who didn't cause much trouble, was slightly melancholoy, but mostly just absented himself more and more from the situation, turning in on himself. So it was easy to simply slowly but surely become a bit less social, a bit less likely to chime in with a witty comment, to slowly withdraw from the stage and slip out after the fourth or fifth hour of socializing.
But as he slipped out the door, avoiding his brother who, nearly as smart as him, had long ago guessed at the nature of the alcohol, and no doubt would demand to have the nanobots shut off. Of course, if that was done, it'd kill the man, since he had drunk so much alcohol that if it entered his brother all at once, well...he loved his family even when he despied them, so he wasn't about to do this.
He ran right into Jamilla. She smiled and offered to take him to bed since he was so drunk. She knew, of course, but she had a goal to her manipulations.
And so he found himself laying in bed with her, staring at the ceiling, wondering why the world was as it was.
She loved him, which was the most insane thing he had ever heard of. She loved him and sometimes didn't fall for his lies, though sometimes she did, and she cared for him with a passion that hadn't yet waned, despite having every reason in the Galaxy to do so. There had not been a moment of fidelity on his part, or even love. And yet somehow he could not fully hate her, not when she was so smart, not when...but he certainly didn't like her.
And he had no idea why that was. There was nothing wrong with .
her. Sure, he'd married her for her money and status, and she was older than him, but there were no flaws that should have won such great disapproval. She was lazy, and not the best person to run his house-hold, but she could be nearly as charming as him, and she had a head for business--she merely lacked the motivation.
And she was beautifl, her blonde hair soft, her skin not at all wrinkled by age, laying in bed, naked, next to him.
"This move, it was supposed to bring us together, dear," she whispered gently, "Get you away from all of those distractions..."
Like every woman who was not her. Or family. The staff were all male, the nanny sixty years old, and an ardent lover of women, and women only.
He smiled and said, "Has something been wrong?"
"You've been so busy, sweetie..."
"I'll try to make some more time," he assured her.
He could tell she didn't quite believe him, which was wise. She could see through some of his lies all of his time, while other types of lies he presented her with she always bought.
Salamah reached out and stroked her cheek, his face a mask of love, "You are still as beautiful to me as the day I met you," which was true.
"Oh," she said with a smile, "You say the most romantic things." She shifted, exposing her body, her small, still surprisngly pert breasts, her nakedness that any woman of fifty-five would be envious of. He allowed his face to alight with lust as he thought of women who were not his wife. Any of the would do.
He pulled at his boxers. There were some lies she would always believe.
The Duke could lie with his body, and she'd never believe it was anything but lust.
And so he got on to the task with the enthusiasm of a boy doing his homework.
Sometimes, well, sometimes he wished he loved her. It would make so many things so much easier if he could just stretch his heart to love one more person.
Despite all that, he slept soundly that night, and woke to another good day.
Cast
Duke Salamah, 48. Husband of Jamilla Laurent, who he married for her money, and her indirect noble descent.
Jamillla Laurent, 55. Wife of the Duke, she loves him, despite all that he does, and all that he is.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Celebration, Part I
21st of Hope, in the 5th year of the reign of House Redwater, one minute and thirty three seconds before noon. On Alshain Magna.
Salamah Laurent smiled as he worked, and it was mostly genuine. He had woken up this morning faced with a problem, but one that felt like victory itself. A risk, yes, but also a sign of how far he'd come in only months. And as his own motto said: A victory without risk is a triumph without glory.
The planet of Circe was a market rich and needy enough that, were it not for a number of economic concerns, he might have made his home world there. There was a real call for Minerals, especially precious ones like gold, silver, platinum and more. The call was unbelievable, the profit margin impressive. But only if the targeted surveys he was contemplating sending found something. It'd cost thousands of dollars to send them out. And what if the reason nobody was exploiting this opportunity was because there was no opportunity, because they had done the same surveys he was contemplating, and discovered nothing.
He had almost decided on sending out the surveys despite that risks when he realized the time. He had a family gathering to address on the good news. He stood and went do the door, which opened for him, letting him out into the somewhat cramped, but quite comfortable, quarters of the Castle, which was more like a house, or a little womb, surrounded by a fortress to keep out the weather, to keep out the world--one of the bigger expenses was a communications array good enough to make it through the inevitable winter snow-storms, to keep the flow of information offering.
The color scheme of the mansion had been decided on, it would be warm, with soft curves, a gentle, friendly place...or that was the idea. He checked the time: just a few seconds to noon, he was slightly late. The door opened, and he stepped into a somewhat large audience chamber, all of the seats filled with family members or staff--butlers, accountants, tech guys, but no maids--with a podium at the front.
His wife, Jamila was standing by the podium, and she smiled sunnily when she saw him. He looked away from her blonde hair, which was really greying, and her smooth, tight skin, didn't pay much attention to her blue dress that went so well with her pale skin. He didn't want to drink her in because, well, there were things between them deep enough that, for his part, he couldn't truly appreciate her features.
He picked a safe topic, or rather one that is the sort of dangerous that they could negotiate as long as they agreed to a collective amnesia of much of the past three years, "So, Omar's staying away?" His voice softened, and he felt a spike of genuine affection for the boy. And spike was the word, for it hurt how much he loved the boy, only two."
"Yes, our son would have been bored to tears, and we'd have to take him away before the drinking anyways," she said, patting him on the shoulder, "The nanny is doing her job fine, and we'll both have time for him tomorrow." Salamah had more time for his son than he had for her. "You'll do fine," she said with genuine affection, "Once they hear the news..."
He stepped up to the podium as she sat down. Vincent was near the back, looking as slovenly as ever. His brother was eyeing the food tray, or rather the drinks, with alcoholic hunger, his frame far thicker, older, stronger than Salamah's. Next to him was his wife Josette, pretty and dead-eyed as usual, her clothes neat as ever: she was good at organizing things, but that was about all he could say for her. Still, there were worse people for his brother to marry. At least she wasn't the sort to enable his shameful addiction.
Salamah wasn't one either. The wine was an expensive variant, with advanced nanobots in them. They neutralized the alcohol if activated. It would be activated for his brother Marcus and himself, for different reasons.
And, near the back, looking as beautiful as ever, but eyes as furious and empty as ever, still in the same bad mood that had caused her to hurl an expensive vase at his head, was his niece, Marcus' daughter, Audrey.
The Laurent family was all there.
He began matter of factly. "If the projections are accurate, we will end this month, provided there are no other expenses, with more than we entered it. This is a momentous time, and I needed all of your help to get this far. This is only the beginning of a long journey for this family, but if we can, in only a little over two months, get this far, we must continue to strive for loftier heights. This month's surplus of $1000 is but a little of what we will achieve in the months and years to come."
Audrey stood up and said, in a voice as shrill as she was lovely, "Well, you're just going to spend that surplus on Vincent's ridiculous religious things, and your little 'surveys'," she said it as if they were somehow fronts for debauchery, rather than justified and necessary expenses that had already begun to pay themselves back, "So what is there to celebrate?" She gave a sneer and looked around for support, her expression all but demanding it as her right. The reaction was rather more mixed than she likely had hoped for.
"That we might start expanding our wealth?" Vincent asked testily. Marcus nodded, siding with whoever wanted a celebration that he hoped would involve alcohol.
Josette temporized between her daughter and her Duke, "Well, it isn't perfect news, but it is something. Will this party throw off the budget?" It was said accusingly, but even she knew the answer: she was backing him without getting on the bad side of her daughter.
"No," he said, fielding the softball question, "It's all budgeted into the household accounts. Now, if there are no other objections, perhaps we could bring out the food and drink."
Now, he thought to himself, if he could just avoid his wife and still mingle at the party, make sure nobody's feathers are ruffled, it would be a good start to a great afternoon.
Cast:
Duke Salamah Laurent.Age 48 Head of the Family, in charge of Geological, husband of Jamilla Laurent.
Jamilla Laurent. Age 55 Wife of Duke Salamah Laurent. In charge of household expenses, among other things.
Marcus Laurent. Age 37. Kid brother of Salamah. He is angry and violent when drunk. An alcoholic who hasn't had a drink in several weeks, and not by choice. Husband of Josette Laurent, father of Audrey Laurent.
Josette Laurent. Age 37. Wife of Marcus, Mother of Audrey. Tries to be the peacemaker, but one can see where her daughter Audrey got her ability to be disliked by others, as well as her beauty. She's a surprisingly good organizer, though, and works with filing and organizational systems for the Duke. An apathetic, irritating individual. An average duelist and administrator.
Audrey Laurent. Age 18. Daughter of Marcus. She has set herself up as an enemy of Salamah, perhaps hoping his slip might lead to her rise. This is unlikely because she is a diligent, repellent dullard and a mediocre duellist and administrator.
Omar Laurent. Age 2. Son of Salamah. The person his father loves most in the entire world. He is a child of promising potential.
Salamah Laurent smiled as he worked, and it was mostly genuine. He had woken up this morning faced with a problem, but one that felt like victory itself. A risk, yes, but also a sign of how far he'd come in only months. And as his own motto said: A victory without risk is a triumph without glory.
The planet of Circe was a market rich and needy enough that, were it not for a number of economic concerns, he might have made his home world there. There was a real call for Minerals, especially precious ones like gold, silver, platinum and more. The call was unbelievable, the profit margin impressive. But only if the targeted surveys he was contemplating sending found something. It'd cost thousands of dollars to send them out. And what if the reason nobody was exploiting this opportunity was because there was no opportunity, because they had done the same surveys he was contemplating, and discovered nothing.
He had almost decided on sending out the surveys despite that risks when he realized the time. He had a family gathering to address on the good news. He stood and went do the door, which opened for him, letting him out into the somewhat cramped, but quite comfortable, quarters of the Castle, which was more like a house, or a little womb, surrounded by a fortress to keep out the weather, to keep out the world--one of the bigger expenses was a communications array good enough to make it through the inevitable winter snow-storms, to keep the flow of information offering.
The color scheme of the mansion had been decided on, it would be warm, with soft curves, a gentle, friendly place...or that was the idea. He checked the time: just a few seconds to noon, he was slightly late. The door opened, and he stepped into a somewhat large audience chamber, all of the seats filled with family members or staff--butlers, accountants, tech guys, but no maids--with a podium at the front.
His wife, Jamila was standing by the podium, and she smiled sunnily when she saw him. He looked away from her blonde hair, which was really greying, and her smooth, tight skin, didn't pay much attention to her blue dress that went so well with her pale skin. He didn't want to drink her in because, well, there were things between them deep enough that, for his part, he couldn't truly appreciate her features.
He picked a safe topic, or rather one that is the sort of dangerous that they could negotiate as long as they agreed to a collective amnesia of much of the past three years, "So, Omar's staying away?" His voice softened, and he felt a spike of genuine affection for the boy. And spike was the word, for it hurt how much he loved the boy, only two."
"Yes, our son would have been bored to tears, and we'd have to take him away before the drinking anyways," she said, patting him on the shoulder, "The nanny is doing her job fine, and we'll both have time for him tomorrow." Salamah had more time for his son than he had for her. "You'll do fine," she said with genuine affection, "Once they hear the news..."
He stepped up to the podium as she sat down. Vincent was near the back, looking as slovenly as ever. His brother was eyeing the food tray, or rather the drinks, with alcoholic hunger, his frame far thicker, older, stronger than Salamah's. Next to him was his wife Josette, pretty and dead-eyed as usual, her clothes neat as ever: she was good at organizing things, but that was about all he could say for her. Still, there were worse people for his brother to marry. At least she wasn't the sort to enable his shameful addiction.
Salamah wasn't one either. The wine was an expensive variant, with advanced nanobots in them. They neutralized the alcohol if activated. It would be activated for his brother Marcus and himself, for different reasons.
And, near the back, looking as beautiful as ever, but eyes as furious and empty as ever, still in the same bad mood that had caused her to hurl an expensive vase at his head, was his niece, Marcus' daughter, Audrey.
The Laurent family was all there.
He began matter of factly. "If the projections are accurate, we will end this month, provided there are no other expenses, with more than we entered it. This is a momentous time, and I needed all of your help to get this far. This is only the beginning of a long journey for this family, but if we can, in only a little over two months, get this far, we must continue to strive for loftier heights. This month's surplus of $1000 is but a little of what we will achieve in the months and years to come."
Audrey stood up and said, in a voice as shrill as she was lovely, "Well, you're just going to spend that surplus on Vincent's ridiculous religious things, and your little 'surveys'," she said it as if they were somehow fronts for debauchery, rather than justified and necessary expenses that had already begun to pay themselves back, "So what is there to celebrate?" She gave a sneer and looked around for support, her expression all but demanding it as her right. The reaction was rather more mixed than she likely had hoped for.
"That we might start expanding our wealth?" Vincent asked testily. Marcus nodded, siding with whoever wanted a celebration that he hoped would involve alcohol.
Josette temporized between her daughter and her Duke, "Well, it isn't perfect news, but it is something. Will this party throw off the budget?" It was said accusingly, but even she knew the answer: she was backing him without getting on the bad side of her daughter.
"No," he said, fielding the softball question, "It's all budgeted into the household accounts. Now, if there are no other objections, perhaps we could bring out the food and drink."
Now, he thought to himself, if he could just avoid his wife and still mingle at the party, make sure nobody's feathers are ruffled, it would be a good start to a great afternoon.
Cast:
Duke Salamah Laurent.Age 48 Head of the Family, in charge of Geological, husband of Jamilla Laurent.
Jamilla Laurent. Age 55 Wife of Duke Salamah Laurent. In charge of household expenses, among other things.
Marcus Laurent. Age 37. Kid brother of Salamah. He is angry and violent when drunk. An alcoholic who hasn't had a drink in several weeks, and not by choice. Husband of Josette Laurent, father of Audrey Laurent.
Josette Laurent. Age 37. Wife of Marcus, Mother of Audrey. Tries to be the peacemaker, but one can see where her daughter Audrey got her ability to be disliked by others, as well as her beauty. She's a surprisingly good organizer, though, and works with filing and organizational systems for the Duke. An apathetic, irritating individual. An average duelist and administrator.
Audrey Laurent. Age 18. Daughter of Marcus. She has set herself up as an enemy of Salamah, perhaps hoping his slip might lead to her rise. This is unlikely because she is a diligent, repellent dullard and a mediocre duellist and administrator.
Omar Laurent. Age 2. Son of Salamah. The person his father loves most in the entire world. He is a child of promising potential.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
About Nova and Capricorn
I expect that what little traffic I get will mostly be players of Imperium Nova, but there may be a person or two who aren't familiar with the site.
http://www.imperiumnova.com:8080/Imperium/
It is text based, and each player controls and leads a Dynasty. The galaxy is Capricorn, currently in the fifth year of the Elective Emperorship of Yale Redwater, of House Redwater. As the constitution stipulates, if it is followed, there will be an election sometime this year, likely towards the end.
What is a year in Imperium Nova? Each day is two real-world hours long, and each month is made of fourty days. There are ten months in Imperium Nova. Origins, Hope, Faith, Virtue, Fates, Glory, Vigilence, Tributes, Resolve and Culminations. My house, House Laurent, got started near the very end of Culminations, the 36th, and is currently in its second full month.
Our sphere of activity is Geological, which was determined by the fact that Alshain Magna, despite being a tiny frozen planet with next to no-one on it, has "boundless" mineral resources.
I started out with $25000. House Laurent will yet rise, I'm sure.
For more information on Capricorn, go to the helpful, if not always updated as regularly as one might hope: http://inwiki.wikispot.org/Capricorn
Now, about the future of this blog. I currently have two blog-posts almost done, both in anticipation of an event that, barring some natural disaster, will occur on the 20th of Hope, or so (which is to say tomorrow at 2 in the morning for me.) So, with any luck I'll have Celebrations, Part I up tomorrow. Then Part II by the day after that.
Not sure how regular I'll be, it depends on if I have anything to talk about, really, since I want this to be at least somewhat based in the games.
Additionally, I'm currently working on a Flashback post, which will, of course, be less connected to the game, and start to cover some important events in the backstories of Salamah and his family.
So, see you then!
http://www.imperiumnova.com:8080/Imperium/
It is text based, and each player controls and leads a Dynasty. The galaxy is Capricorn, currently in the fifth year of the Elective Emperorship of Yale Redwater, of House Redwater. As the constitution stipulates, if it is followed, there will be an election sometime this year, likely towards the end.
What is a year in Imperium Nova? Each day is two real-world hours long, and each month is made of fourty days. There are ten months in Imperium Nova. Origins, Hope, Faith, Virtue, Fates, Glory, Vigilence, Tributes, Resolve and Culminations. My house, House Laurent, got started near the very end of Culminations, the 36th, and is currently in its second full month.
Our sphere of activity is Geological, which was determined by the fact that Alshain Magna, despite being a tiny frozen planet with next to no-one on it, has "boundless" mineral resources.
I started out with $25000. House Laurent will yet rise, I'm sure.
For more information on Capricorn, go to the helpful, if not always updated as regularly as one might hope: http://inwiki.wikispot.org/Capricorn
Now, about the future of this blog. I currently have two blog-posts almost done, both in anticipation of an event that, barring some natural disaster, will occur on the 20th of Hope, or so (which is to say tomorrow at 2 in the morning for me.) So, with any luck I'll have Celebrations, Part I up tomorrow. Then Part II by the day after that.
Not sure how regular I'll be, it depends on if I have anything to talk about, really, since I want this to be at least somewhat based in the games.
Additionally, I'm currently working on a Flashback post, which will, of course, be less connected to the game, and start to cover some important events in the backstories of Salamah and his family.
So, see you then!
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Open your Heart...or at least your Wallet.
1st Hope, in the 5th year of the reign of House Redwater, Near Noon
Salamah, Duke of the House of Laurent, sat behind his desk, his face arranged into pleasant blankness, and seethed. The room was warm, pleasantly so compared to the planet he had decided to live. He wondered why now, even though the blueprints and the ledgers laid out on his small, functional desk told the story.
His features were vaguely angular, long, flowing black hair kept up in knots. It was a court style he was sure was, by now, after only a few months away, obsolete. His skin was deeply bronzed, burnished and dark, contrasting with his clear green eyes, the color of spring. He had a small mouth and thin, pale lips curled up into a smile that looked genuine. He was widely considered to be a handsome man, and he did not look his forty-eight years, not really.
He was dressed in a tightly cut red silk vest, and long black slacks, hidden beneath the desk. There was a moment's pause before he determined that his will had been gathered again, and he returned to the ledger, manipulating virtual numbers, and coming up with solutions to a variety of small problems. There were those who had less cautious optimism than he did about the future of the House. The shattered vase lying on the floor behind him was proof enough.
The new mines would take several weeks to build, and to buy the land, and make them, especially at this speed was not cheap. Of course they were losing money now, but that wasn't a sign of a deeper problem, and if the House held its course, rather than veering wildly less than two months into its real existance, it would profit.
He was glancing at the projected five-year mine outlays when the buzzer to his door rang, loud and shrill. For a moment the temptation sat upon his desk, smiling, to refuse to be interrupted. But if he started revealing the truth, why, he'd never stop, and then where would he be?
"You may enter," Salamah said, his face shifting into his third-warmest smile, eyes filled with interest and respect for whoever came through the door. It was his cousin, Vincent, who slouched in, his clothing as disordered as ever, his marked with acne as if he was sixteen, rather than thirty-six.
"Good day cousin," he said warmly, "It is good to see you." The cousin's eyes lit with gratitude, making them look a little less harsh. He was a smart man, but none of his family could particularly stand it, and only Salamah was wise enough to hide it, since he respected the mind, if not the person. And so Vincent was under the illusion that they were friends, allies even.
It was a useful illusion.
"It is good to see you as well. I have much to speak of. I have seen the future," Vincent declaimed, and stopped to scratch his whiskers and rub at his eyes, "And it is in the stars themselves, their blackness, their energy, their life, which have given birth to all of humanity."
For a terrifying moment, Salamah thought Vincent was speaking of branching out into transportation. No doubt Vincet would have some clever plan, maybe even one Salamah would like, but they couldn't afford to split their money at the moment. He'd have to marshal arguments about the strength of the market, their Galactic position, spin out of whole cloth something convincing enough for a man about as smart, if much more blunt, than him.
Then Vincent continued, "I have found religion, and though I respect your right to disagree, I believe it is the most true one. I have meditated many hours on it, and I am ready to declare that I am a Sathraist."
If Vincent had stripped right before Salamah and declared his intention to go out into that frigid tundra of a planet and live a life as a polar bear, he would have been less concerned, confused, and worried.
Of all the questions he could have asked, the first to come out, in a tone of rather startled inquiry, "When, precisely, did you find the time to convert to a religion?"
"Well, it's a very interesting," he paused, and let out a loud, long belch before saying, "Damn, the food here gives me indigestion. Too heavy," which was only expected of a winter world like Alshain Magna. He didn't really say sorry, not that Salamah expected it.
"You see, I was in the Capital, looking for all of the bars."
"Ah," Salamah said, understanding at once, "You wanted to warn them about my brother?" That showed a remarkable and hithero absent understanding of the feelings of other people.
"Yeah, you'd told me weeks ago that if he went on another one of his drunken rampages, it'd ruin our reputation."
"Thank you," Salamah did, and meant it. Sure, it wasn't anything big, but, well, it was more than he expected. "So you met someone?"
"Yes, and he was quite interested when I revealed I was your cousin. And so now I'm a Cadet..." he blinked, and saw the Vase, "Is that a vase?"
"Yes, it is," Salamah said drily.
"Wasn't it supposed to be over there?" he asked, pointing at the empty stand.
"Audrey threw it at me."
"Wait...what, why?!"
"My niece," he said slowly, "Believes that the House is going down, and thinks me a fool for not seeing it. I am tempted to marry her off to the first swain who'd have her, but, well..." Salamah knew that, beneath the masks, he possessed few enough virtues, and one of them was loyalty to family. "It is no matter. She is wrong, as always, and nothing is lost except a vase worth eight thousand dollars given to me by a dear friend." Vincent missed the sarcasm completely.
"That seems like a lot. Um...well, at least you weren't hit."
Remembering her shrill screams was bringing his headache, and his rage, back, and so he asked, pleasantly, "What have you come here for?"
"I could advance myself in the hierarchy, from Cadet to Pilot, if I made a donation of $5000," he said, "And so I was..."
"I'm sorry," he said, not sorry at all, but sounding it, "But I don't have that kind of money."
"But, don't you still have fifteen thousand dollars?"
"Yes, for now, but expenses will occur, and I'm not yet ready to take any loans, or make any promises," Salamah concluded, leaning back in his hover-chair.
"Wait, maybe you can't give me five-thousand," none of the family had any money Salamah didn't personally give to them, "But you should give me some! There's good reasons!"
"Do tell," he said, drily.
"Well, Audrey thinks you're in a death spiral, but you think you're on top. If your own brother couldn't scrape up five-hundred dollars to donate to his religion, there would be those who would talk, or something."
Blackmail, of a sorts, and not of the sort that Vincent would engage in. It had the hands of Salamah's wife all over it. Had she converted too? Or maybe she was just attempting to keep the peace. It was hard to tell, sometimes, though he doubted she'd turned against him...
Still, it was a good argument.
"Very well," he conceded, manipulating the ledgers, "I have transferred five-hundred dollars into your account. Spend them on Sathraism if you wish. But don't try to convert me."
"Thank you! Thank you, Your Grace. I wish you a good and prosperous day, Duke Salamah!" Vincent walked backwards out, bowing, and just before he left, Salamah gave him his second-best smile.
His Grace, Duke Salamah of House Laurent...that had a nice ring, and he felt unusually pleased by the title in the mouth of his cousin.
His smile was, almost, real.
Cast:
Duke Salamah Laurent, Head of House, age 48: A dynamic, enchanting genius. He is an average duelist and an accomplished administrator. Head of Geological. Two months ago, his house became a Noble House.
Vincent Laurent, Salamah's Cousin, age 36: A diligent, repellent genius. He is an average duelist and a mediocre Administrator.
Marcus Laurent, Salamah's Brother, age 37. An idle, ordinary genius prone to alcoholism. He is an average duelist and administrator.
Audrey Laurent, Salamah's Niece, Marcus' daughter, age 18. A diligent, repellent dullard. A mediocre duelist and administrator.
Jamila Laurent, Samalah's Wife, age 55. An idle, charismatic genius. She is an average duelist and a mediocre administrator. Married for her money. Salamah--who has not spent much, if any, time faithful to her, quite dislikes her, despite her virtues.
Salamah, Duke of the House of Laurent, sat behind his desk, his face arranged into pleasant blankness, and seethed. The room was warm, pleasantly so compared to the planet he had decided to live. He wondered why now, even though the blueprints and the ledgers laid out on his small, functional desk told the story.
His features were vaguely angular, long, flowing black hair kept up in knots. It was a court style he was sure was, by now, after only a few months away, obsolete. His skin was deeply bronzed, burnished and dark, contrasting with his clear green eyes, the color of spring. He had a small mouth and thin, pale lips curled up into a smile that looked genuine. He was widely considered to be a handsome man, and he did not look his forty-eight years, not really.
He was dressed in a tightly cut red silk vest, and long black slacks, hidden beneath the desk. There was a moment's pause before he determined that his will had been gathered again, and he returned to the ledger, manipulating virtual numbers, and coming up with solutions to a variety of small problems. There were those who had less cautious optimism than he did about the future of the House. The shattered vase lying on the floor behind him was proof enough.
The new mines would take several weeks to build, and to buy the land, and make them, especially at this speed was not cheap. Of course they were losing money now, but that wasn't a sign of a deeper problem, and if the House held its course, rather than veering wildly less than two months into its real existance, it would profit.
He was glancing at the projected five-year mine outlays when the buzzer to his door rang, loud and shrill. For a moment the temptation sat upon his desk, smiling, to refuse to be interrupted. But if he started revealing the truth, why, he'd never stop, and then where would he be?
"You may enter," Salamah said, his face shifting into his third-warmest smile, eyes filled with interest and respect for whoever came through the door. It was his cousin, Vincent, who slouched in, his clothing as disordered as ever, his marked with acne as if he was sixteen, rather than thirty-six.
"Good day cousin," he said warmly, "It is good to see you." The cousin's eyes lit with gratitude, making them look a little less harsh. He was a smart man, but none of his family could particularly stand it, and only Salamah was wise enough to hide it, since he respected the mind, if not the person. And so Vincent was under the illusion that they were friends, allies even.
It was a useful illusion.
"It is good to see you as well. I have much to speak of. I have seen the future," Vincent declaimed, and stopped to scratch his whiskers and rub at his eyes, "And it is in the stars themselves, their blackness, their energy, their life, which have given birth to all of humanity."
For a terrifying moment, Salamah thought Vincent was speaking of branching out into transportation. No doubt Vincet would have some clever plan, maybe even one Salamah would like, but they couldn't afford to split their money at the moment. He'd have to marshal arguments about the strength of the market, their Galactic position, spin out of whole cloth something convincing enough for a man about as smart, if much more blunt, than him.
Then Vincent continued, "I have found religion, and though I respect your right to disagree, I believe it is the most true one. I have meditated many hours on it, and I am ready to declare that I am a Sathraist."
If Vincent had stripped right before Salamah and declared his intention to go out into that frigid tundra of a planet and live a life as a polar bear, he would have been less concerned, confused, and worried.
Of all the questions he could have asked, the first to come out, in a tone of rather startled inquiry, "When, precisely, did you find the time to convert to a religion?"
"Well, it's a very interesting," he paused, and let out a loud, long belch before saying, "Damn, the food here gives me indigestion. Too heavy," which was only expected of a winter world like Alshain Magna. He didn't really say sorry, not that Salamah expected it.
"You see, I was in the Capital, looking for all of the bars."
"Ah," Salamah said, understanding at once, "You wanted to warn them about my brother?" That showed a remarkable and hithero absent understanding of the feelings of other people.
"Yeah, you'd told me weeks ago that if he went on another one of his drunken rampages, it'd ruin our reputation."
"Thank you," Salamah did, and meant it. Sure, it wasn't anything big, but, well, it was more than he expected. "So you met someone?"
"Yes, and he was quite interested when I revealed I was your cousin. And so now I'm a Cadet..." he blinked, and saw the Vase, "Is that a vase?"
"Yes, it is," Salamah said drily.
"Wasn't it supposed to be over there?" he asked, pointing at the empty stand.
"Audrey threw it at me."
"Wait...what, why?!"
"My niece," he said slowly, "Believes that the House is going down, and thinks me a fool for not seeing it. I am tempted to marry her off to the first swain who'd have her, but, well..." Salamah knew that, beneath the masks, he possessed few enough virtues, and one of them was loyalty to family. "It is no matter. She is wrong, as always, and nothing is lost except a vase worth eight thousand dollars given to me by a dear friend." Vincent missed the sarcasm completely.
"That seems like a lot. Um...well, at least you weren't hit."
Remembering her shrill screams was bringing his headache, and his rage, back, and so he asked, pleasantly, "What have you come here for?"
"I could advance myself in the hierarchy, from Cadet to Pilot, if I made a donation of $5000," he said, "And so I was..."
"I'm sorry," he said, not sorry at all, but sounding it, "But I don't have that kind of money."
"But, don't you still have fifteen thousand dollars?"
"Yes, for now, but expenses will occur, and I'm not yet ready to take any loans, or make any promises," Salamah concluded, leaning back in his hover-chair.
"Wait, maybe you can't give me five-thousand," none of the family had any money Salamah didn't personally give to them, "But you should give me some! There's good reasons!"
"Do tell," he said, drily.
"Well, Audrey thinks you're in a death spiral, but you think you're on top. If your own brother couldn't scrape up five-hundred dollars to donate to his religion, there would be those who would talk, or something."
Blackmail, of a sorts, and not of the sort that Vincent would engage in. It had the hands of Salamah's wife all over it. Had she converted too? Or maybe she was just attempting to keep the peace. It was hard to tell, sometimes, though he doubted she'd turned against him...
Still, it was a good argument.
"Very well," he conceded, manipulating the ledgers, "I have transferred five-hundred dollars into your account. Spend them on Sathraism if you wish. But don't try to convert me."
"Thank you! Thank you, Your Grace. I wish you a good and prosperous day, Duke Salamah!" Vincent walked backwards out, bowing, and just before he left, Salamah gave him his second-best smile.
His Grace, Duke Salamah of House Laurent...that had a nice ring, and he felt unusually pleased by the title in the mouth of his cousin.
His smile was, almost, real.
Cast:
Duke Salamah Laurent, Head of House, age 48: A dynamic, enchanting genius. He is an average duelist and an accomplished administrator. Head of Geological. Two months ago, his house became a Noble House.
Vincent Laurent, Salamah's Cousin, age 36: A diligent, repellent genius. He is an average duelist and a mediocre Administrator.
Marcus Laurent, Salamah's Brother, age 37. An idle, ordinary genius prone to alcoholism. He is an average duelist and administrator.
Audrey Laurent, Salamah's Niece, Marcus' daughter, age 18. A diligent, repellent dullard. A mediocre duelist and administrator.
Jamila Laurent, Samalah's Wife, age 55. An idle, charismatic genius. She is an average duelist and a mediocre administrator. Married for her money. Salamah--who has not spent much, if any, time faithful to her, quite dislikes her, despite her virtues.
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