A Dance of Duelists and Diplomats | Verse & Spider Song

[Spider Song]

---

​

---

⟼ @Verse || 1105 Words || A Clash of Swords & Ideals || F - List ] ⟻​

𐌢 The Horrid, No Good, Bad Day Camille Laurant was in the midst of probably the worst day of her life. The young woman slouched slightly in the back of a lovely emerald and gold coach. Pillows and cushions piled up around her as if to wall off the troubles of the outside world. Dainty fingers clutching a letter which had been stained the night before with tears, the hand quivering slightly as would keep her eyes locked straight ahead in a thousand-yard stare. Sounds of other passerby outside of the coach the only sound other than the shouts of the street outside yellow curtains which covered the windows. A sliver of light illuminating the inside of the space as the young woman would reach over. Gripping at the edge of the curtain and pulling it aside to gaze out onto the streets beyond the carriage. The affluent city streets of earlier in the day being traded for crumbling stone of derelict structures which held on like the ghost of something that had once been grand. The lower city of Erandil had once been the original city. It's streets at a time having been dotted with luxury villas and bustling marketplaces. The town first gaining life due to its presence as coastal town for the wealthy away from the Capitol's overbearing watch. The success of its early days attracting many like moths to an open flame. Of course, as the wealthy became more so off the fruits of their garden by the sea, they began to construct even grander cityscape. The landed poor in this case being given what was left behind in this case. In the near past, such peace had not been afforded for the wealthy to just abandon their lavish villas for bigger and better. No, instead the wealthy had to keep their heads on a swivel due to the former rampant dueling culture which had been all consuming throughout the Empire. At one point even the pettiest disputes resulted in bloodshed and sometimes death. Out of this wild hurricane of violence emerged an entrenched social class tailor made for the environment the nobility had created. The duelists were a strange breed to be certain. Rakish, unflinching and self-centered individuals who prided themselves on their "art" as they called it. They certainly had become adept in dealing out death as easily as a dealer did cards. The only growing at a rate quicker than their body count being the egos that came attached to them. Political influence often being tethered to you particular hired killer than any other facet of a noble family's arsenal aside from maybe the pocketbook. After all, why woo the masses with reason when you can just kill your adversaries after making up some trite reason to challenge them to combat. It was perhaps the greatest weakness within the Empire at the time and had led to widespread corruption throughout. Yet it was in this darkest hour that Camille's bloodline, the Laurant's would make a name for themselves. The Laurant family had, in short order beginning with Camille's grandfather Johnathan Laurant, challenge the legality of the duels which ran rampant throughout land. In a battle fought in part in the chamber halls of the Imperial Senate and in the court of public opinion on the other hand, the age of the duelist would meet an opponent it couldn't simply do away with. Driven part by disgruntled public outraged at the actions of duelists outside the arena, the artform of dueling would be relegated as a barbarous activity to the history books. The change overnight disenfranchising every house who build their fortunes on the dueling trade and the very duelists who prospered from it. Peace coming to the Empire once more in an age of diplomacy and enlightenment. At least, that is what the common story was when spoken from one peasant to another. In truth, the great power game had moved to a much different form, if not adopting more polished manner. Alliances, power brokering, words to move crowds and money passed under tables now reigned as king. It was the perfect catapult for the Laurant family to ascend to even greater heights than even those they enjoyed after ending the era of the duelist. Heavy is the head that hangs the crown, however. Camille knew of this even as she stared at many dirty faces staring back in her direction as the carriage would pass down the street. Her eyes drifting down to the letter from her brother who had been arraigned three days prior to answer to charges of official oppression, bribery and corruption. Most of these the woman assumed could be attributed to a political ploy in hopes of striking a blow against the Laurant family name. She would not let her brother hang for such things nor would she allow him to rot in a cell. While her parents scrambled to build the case in defense of him, Camille had sought out other means. Her hand resting on the pepperbox pistol strapped to her thigh, making sure the item was snug there. She did not wish to have it jostled from her and to be left defenseless in the street. Her hand releasing to allow her skirts to conceal it away. The woman could feel the carriage slow as she would steel herself, drawing up her skirts to exit the confines of her little bubble of safety. She would be walking the street like anyone else now at this point. The door to the carriage would be opened by the coach driver. His worn face and sandy blonde hair a familiarity as he bowed low. Camille giving a thin smile before descending. Her small princess heel touching down on cobblestone as she would give a small curtsey to coach driver. With that the woman would begin to walk from the street, her footfalls on the stone quick and purposeful as she would give slight pleasantries to all she passed. Her smile warm though not quite extending to her eyes as she would press onward. It was a one-track goal that she pursued at this point. A path taken bringing her to the mouth of an alley where she had been told a drunk could usually be found passed out when not buried in his cups or gambling the last of his coin away. Her face stern as she would look about the area. Watching and waiting for any signs of movement. She had not seen this swordsman in some time...

 

[Verse]

There was still glitter in his life.

Not like the crystal of champagne flutes and light-catching chandeliers, perhaps, but there was sparkles to be found in metal mugs of cheap ale and the ever-present glare off his blades when they moved for him. He remembered the embroidery in gold thread on his vests, growing up. Not that he'd gotten to wear them as much as other children of his generation. The purpose, of a duelist is his skill, his father Leopold Kerzig had said. And so the middle son of the Kerzig house also had to go through the harrowing training that would make their's not only a duelist house, but a prominent one. The youngster got to travel to the orient and learn from mystics and philosophers in their art. People killed each other in many ways all over the world, and Errid Kerzig had to learn as many of them as he could, to keep up with his brothers and a heavy legacy of fighters. But Errid made it through the hardships with the marks and knowledge and young wisdom to bring down other men because of the promise of glory. The crown had decided to give honor to those who fought, after a handful of swordsmen had beat down the last reaches of a civil war that had its clutches around the castle itself, once upon a time.

Laws were set in place, aiming to translate bloodshed to both money and political power, as gratitude for the strong people who had fought for King Sander De Lorraine. And then the Duelist Economy had blossomed. The novelty at first, with the old houses hiring these new fangled toys in the shape of brilliant fighters that the crown had let into their midst. But the more they fought, the more they gained. Soon duelists were afforded a real seat at the best of tables. A golden era. At the end of it they were shoulder to shoulder to bloodlines that made their money with paper and handshakes. House Kerzig had been all but royals themselves, back then, according to Leopold. Oh, the Kerzig father had loved telling those stories to his sons, and they'd listened with wide eyes and swollen hearts, seeing not just their past glory but also the glory they had in their future.

A future that never came.

The oldest of them, the pride of their family, Leopold's darling, Kennan Kerzig, who liked to use his strength as well as his form in duels, lived long enough to make promises before he was cut down, overwhelmed by challenges. Reuter, the youngest of them, had barely debuted before his dancecard was overfilled with insults upon his person. Reuter, Errid's darling, fought valiantly for two years before another duelist who should never have challenged him took his life. Leopold urged Errid to build his form but all that was left in the second son of three was his viciousness and the ghosts of forbidden movements he'd sought out during his travels. It was said Leopold died of heartbreak and that his last opponent had only been a formality. Errid's warmth had gone with his father, after promising him glory on his deathbed. But he was only looking for it in a bottle or a whore's bosom now.

And that's where he'd been ever since; wondering where his legacy had gone. All he ever saw of the riches were the ruby falls out of his opponents wounds. He dug for them diligently. This frequency of challenges directly upon them was sure to be persecution. But he found something in himself, fueled by his lost. A fury that wouldn't relent even when his bones softened from fatigue and his heart was exploding with every beat. His opponents saw it too, before they died. And their patrons and the others in the audience. A rumor started about the last Kerzig man; that he was possessed. Errid was noticing a trickle-down of fighters willing to face him now. But it didn't matter. The damage had been done three-fold upon his house. The once strong-as-stone generation of Kerzig was whittled down to a single sword, who only had addictions to his name, and what money he could get from gambling and bloody bets.

He was in an alley now, after a night filled with libations and fornication. His limbs were memories of Kennan's long body, and the fine bones in his face reminded of pretty little Reuter. Though it was father's noble nose that brought strength to his features. Tailored burgundy coat and black trousers into dark boots had been all the fashion when they were made, but were outdated now, and even thought they stuck to his athletic, though perhaps slightly malnourished, physique well because he slept with a seamstress's daughter, the fabrics were becoming threadbare in the folds. But the silver sidesword gleamed new and oiled in its sheath, as well as the accompanying knife her kept with it. He still took pride in maintaining the family's collection of tools of their trade.

He took comfort in this alley not only because it was between houses who didn't dump their waste in it, but because it was defensible, if people came for him for imagined slights. And when he couldn't go home, he'd hold up here and collapse when the first rays of sun hit the Erandil horizon. But his shallow sleep against the farthest corner of this shadowed corridor was interrupted. The last Kerzig son touched the wall and got ready to get up. He smelled her. And then her silhouette cut the light in front of him. Pretty. He knew that already as he staggered up, affected by the cheap alcohol and cheaper skinship. His other hand touched the sword. It was a feign. He'd throw the knife if he needed to and dart after it.

"You're clean. You shouldn't be here." he said and wiped his lips with the back of his free hand as he shouldered the wall on his way toward her. Sometimes women like her wanted the clandestine entertainment of low men killing each other in her name. Or they had stains on their honor that blood could wash out. Either way they paid well enough that he'd hear her out. But Errid stood straight, for a moment cured of his drunken ailment when he saw who it was. "You're a Laurant." he accused. His jaw pressed. He was very aware of their politics. They were a big part of why he sometimes slept on cobblestone when duelists were worth a place by her table. She was lovely, like his life might have been. Her beauty stung. "I don't think we can to business." he hissed out, most of his black hair down from the knot at the back of his head. The black blades interrupted his brown, almost red gaze, but they couldn't filter the disdain. He towered over her, and found that he wondered what she would taste like.