03-28-2018, 05:30 PM
(This post was last modified: 04-19-2018, 01:05 AM by King Ghidorah.)
We remain in Chatterly's underground haven for the rest of the afternoon and into the night, engaged in intriguing diplomatic briefings and contemptible instructional pantomimes. The spymaster and his cronies spend hours familiarizing me with the social and political background of the duchies and city-states whose representatives will be present at the gala, seated around the table with maps and charts.
The in-depth portrait of the region at-large is fascinating, but it's also the easy part: a grander application of civil principles I've already explored. After that, my lessons in rudimentary politeness begin, and while I have no trouble with the simplest aspects of 'civilized' behavior such as wearing a shirt (as ludicrous an affectation as that may be) or refraining from unprovoked murder, problems arise when it comes to changing my standard of interpersonal etiquette.
As midnight draws near, Cutter and Angus have just gone home. Chatterly dismissed them shortly after the beginning of our latest exercise, when I broke their arms for repeatedly insulting me.
"Let's try this one more time," says the spymaster, visibly annoyed. He positions himself on the opposite side of the table from me, sits down, and assumes an air of languorous boredom with one silk-sleeved arm draped across the back of the rickety chair. "This time I will be playing the nobleman. Do try to remember, the idea is to not kill or maim the person speaking to you, no matter how boorish they might seem. If it helps, try and think of ways to get back at them later, but in the moment the facade of civility must be maintained."
I study him for a moment, watching the cavern's sapphire witch-light ripple across his features, and imagine his face is dissolving.
"You're being unreasonable," I say. "They made fun of my trousers. They criticized my hair. They called my scales 'gaudy', and this stupid muslin shirt - which you made me wear, I might add - shabby. Even as a pantomime, I will not stand for disrespect from creatures so weak! I should have butchered them for such insolence, and yet they were allowed to depart alive."
I spread my hands. "Isn't this progress?"
Chatterly shakes his head and sighs. "Only by the most technical definition. Conducting yourself appropriately at this party will mean that you must not do violence unless you are attacked first. You may ridicule; you may threaten; you may bluster to your blackened heart's content - but if you lay hands, feet, or golden lightning upon one of the Duke's guests without airtight justification it will cause severe problems for everyone, and endanger your future relationship with Harnburg."
I savor the irony (both a concept and a word for which I'm growing a healthy appreciation). The fact that following the gala the Duke and I won't have any relationship but victim and killer frees this exercise from any sense of genuine urgency beyond concern for the aesthetics of my impending betrayal and a lingering curiosity about the Lady Isolda; Of course, Chatterly doesn't know that. He believes I have some intention of following through with his demeaning little plan.
"Well," I rumble, folding my mighty arms across my chest, "We can't allow that, can we. Go ahead then. Let's get this charade over with."
The horrible man nods, shifting his weight. His chair scrapes against the caves stony floor. "Let's. Remember - you're goal is to get through this interaction without trying to maim or kill me." He holds up three fingers and starts counting them down. "Scene begins in three... two... one..."
Chatterly drops his hand, and his entire aspect changes. The razor-edged attentiveness goes out of his eyes. His angular cheeks sag, and his calm self-assuredness is replaced with an aura of bored superiority. Even his slicked-back hair seems to lose its shine; Without having physically disguised himself in any way, he abruptly seems like an entirely different man.
"Hoom," he says, his clipped tones reduced to a grating drawl, "You there. You're the fellow everyone's been talking about, aren't you. Harnburg's new golden boy. Jee-something, was it?"
Swallowing my bitter disdain for him, this process, and the entire concept of acting, I play along.
"Ghidorah," I hiss. "King Ghidorah."
Chatterly's eyes widen very slightly and he nods hurriedly, rubbing his chin. "A king then! I see, I see.... though I shouldn't guess you're king of much around here, seeing as you've taken service with Harnburg. King Aragorn is the only king in Camelot, good sir, though I shouldn't think his Majesty will begrudge you your former title so long as you claim no lands. But come! Sit. There are serious matters afoot, and I'm a curious sort of man. "
I remind myself that Chatterly is trying to make me angry. I listen to the patter of water on the cave-walls, focus on the unaccustomed sensation of the fabric stretched across my arms and chest, and very deliberately do not unleash my golden lightning.
"I think that I'll stand," I say, staring down at him.
The spymaster nods again, making a show of being taken aback and rallying swiftly. "Fair, fair. Suit yourself then. But do tell me, how does a creature like you become involved with human folk? Primes don't need money, and I shouldn't think you have any great love for normal people, looking the way you do. Is it our women you're after, perhaps?"
My brow wrinkles in confusion. Other than perhaps as a novel, time-consuming way to end their species, what possible use could I have for singling out humans by gender?
"... what?"
"Our women," He continues, favoring me with a conspiratorial smile. "I shouldn't imagine you're finding a surplus of giant golden girls to warm your bed at night, eh?"
My mind goes blank with crimson fury; The insinuation, the very idea that I would debase myself through any kind of mating behavior with creatures so far below me as to be mere dust beneath my feet is so utterly revolting it shears through any affectation of restraint I may have had. A triple-helix of golden-white lightning erupts from my throat and the palms of both hands, obliterates the table, and crashes against Chatterly's invisible shield, sending cascading arcs of power spitting in all directions, slamming into the walls and ceiling. Choking limestone powder and the scent of scorched air fills the cavern, chunks of rock rain from above, and a crater two meters across appears in the floor.
Chatterly, damn him, is still alive, though thoroughly singed. He darts past me, trailing smoke, and flees up the tunnel towards the valley, his boots somehow silent on the debris-strewn floor.
By the time I catch up with him, on the grassy night-time slopes of Harnburg Valley, I've calmed down enough to remember that I'm not supposed to kill him yet. For his part, the spymaster is wary, keeping a constant distance between us as he discards his scorched and blackened cloak and tears the now-white-hot necklace from its chain around his neck. Wisps of steam rise from his chest where his metal charm has burned him; where he grips the molten bangle, smoke curls from the leather of his glove.
Chatterly is thoroughly rattled, and it shows. He's never seen me unleash that much power in my humanoid form before, and he's sweating, shaking, breathing hard.
It's immensely satisfying - right up until he speaks, in his typical, calmly confident tones, and the effect is ruined.
"Well done," he says, visibly controlling himself. "You held out longer than I expected. Of course, there's still much work to be done before the gala..."
He tucks his rapidly-cooling medallion away in a leather pouch hanging on his belt. Wind rustles his tattered clothing, and mine. Clouds cover the stars.
"...but I think that's enough for tonight."
The in-depth portrait of the region at-large is fascinating, but it's also the easy part: a grander application of civil principles I've already explored. After that, my lessons in rudimentary politeness begin, and while I have no trouble with the simplest aspects of 'civilized' behavior such as wearing a shirt (as ludicrous an affectation as that may be) or refraining from unprovoked murder, problems arise when it comes to changing my standard of interpersonal etiquette.
As midnight draws near, Cutter and Angus have just gone home. Chatterly dismissed them shortly after the beginning of our latest exercise, when I broke their arms for repeatedly insulting me.
"Let's try this one more time," says the spymaster, visibly annoyed. He positions himself on the opposite side of the table from me, sits down, and assumes an air of languorous boredom with one silk-sleeved arm draped across the back of the rickety chair. "This time I will be playing the nobleman. Do try to remember, the idea is to not kill or maim the person speaking to you, no matter how boorish they might seem. If it helps, try and think of ways to get back at them later, but in the moment the facade of civility must be maintained."
I study him for a moment, watching the cavern's sapphire witch-light ripple across his features, and imagine his face is dissolving.
"You're being unreasonable," I say. "They made fun of my trousers. They criticized my hair. They called my scales 'gaudy', and this stupid muslin shirt - which you made me wear, I might add - shabby. Even as a pantomime, I will not stand for disrespect from creatures so weak! I should have butchered them for such insolence, and yet they were allowed to depart alive."
I spread my hands. "Isn't this progress?"
Chatterly shakes his head and sighs. "Only by the most technical definition. Conducting yourself appropriately at this party will mean that you must not do violence unless you are attacked first. You may ridicule; you may threaten; you may bluster to your blackened heart's content - but if you lay hands, feet, or golden lightning upon one of the Duke's guests without airtight justification it will cause severe problems for everyone, and endanger your future relationship with Harnburg."
I savor the irony (both a concept and a word for which I'm growing a healthy appreciation). The fact that following the gala the Duke and I won't have any relationship but victim and killer frees this exercise from any sense of genuine urgency beyond concern for the aesthetics of my impending betrayal and a lingering curiosity about the Lady Isolda; Of course, Chatterly doesn't know that. He believes I have some intention of following through with his demeaning little plan.
"Well," I rumble, folding my mighty arms across my chest, "We can't allow that, can we. Go ahead then. Let's get this charade over with."
The horrible man nods, shifting his weight. His chair scrapes against the caves stony floor. "Let's. Remember - you're goal is to get through this interaction without trying to maim or kill me." He holds up three fingers and starts counting them down. "Scene begins in three... two... one..."
Chatterly drops his hand, and his entire aspect changes. The razor-edged attentiveness goes out of his eyes. His angular cheeks sag, and his calm self-assuredness is replaced with an aura of bored superiority. Even his slicked-back hair seems to lose its shine; Without having physically disguised himself in any way, he abruptly seems like an entirely different man.
"Hoom," he says, his clipped tones reduced to a grating drawl, "You there. You're the fellow everyone's been talking about, aren't you. Harnburg's new golden boy. Jee-something, was it?"
Swallowing my bitter disdain for him, this process, and the entire concept of acting, I play along.
"Ghidorah," I hiss. "King Ghidorah."
Chatterly's eyes widen very slightly and he nods hurriedly, rubbing his chin. "A king then! I see, I see.... though I shouldn't guess you're king of much around here, seeing as you've taken service with Harnburg. King Aragorn is the only king in Camelot, good sir, though I shouldn't think his Majesty will begrudge you your former title so long as you claim no lands. But come! Sit. There are serious matters afoot, and I'm a curious sort of man. "
I remind myself that Chatterly is trying to make me angry. I listen to the patter of water on the cave-walls, focus on the unaccustomed sensation of the fabric stretched across my arms and chest, and very deliberately do not unleash my golden lightning.
"I think that I'll stand," I say, staring down at him.
The spymaster nods again, making a show of being taken aback and rallying swiftly. "Fair, fair. Suit yourself then. But do tell me, how does a creature like you become involved with human folk? Primes don't need money, and I shouldn't think you have any great love for normal people, looking the way you do. Is it our women you're after, perhaps?"
My brow wrinkles in confusion. Other than perhaps as a novel, time-consuming way to end their species, what possible use could I have for singling out humans by gender?
"... what?"
"Our women," He continues, favoring me with a conspiratorial smile. "I shouldn't imagine you're finding a surplus of giant golden girls to warm your bed at night, eh?"
My mind goes blank with crimson fury; The insinuation, the very idea that I would debase myself through any kind of mating behavior with creatures so far below me as to be mere dust beneath my feet is so utterly revolting it shears through any affectation of restraint I may have had. A triple-helix of golden-white lightning erupts from my throat and the palms of both hands, obliterates the table, and crashes against Chatterly's invisible shield, sending cascading arcs of power spitting in all directions, slamming into the walls and ceiling. Choking limestone powder and the scent of scorched air fills the cavern, chunks of rock rain from above, and a crater two meters across appears in the floor.
Chatterly, damn him, is still alive, though thoroughly singed. He darts past me, trailing smoke, and flees up the tunnel towards the valley, his boots somehow silent on the debris-strewn floor.
By the time I catch up with him, on the grassy night-time slopes of Harnburg Valley, I've calmed down enough to remember that I'm not supposed to kill him yet. For his part, the spymaster is wary, keeping a constant distance between us as he discards his scorched and blackened cloak and tears the now-white-hot necklace from its chain around his neck. Wisps of steam rise from his chest where his metal charm has burned him; where he grips the molten bangle, smoke curls from the leather of his glove.
Chatterly is thoroughly rattled, and it shows. He's never seen me unleash that much power in my humanoid form before, and he's sweating, shaking, breathing hard.
It's immensely satisfying - right up until he speaks, in his typical, calmly confident tones, and the effect is ruined.
"Well done," he says, visibly controlling himself. "You held out longer than I expected. Of course, there's still much work to be done before the gala..."
He tucks his rapidly-cooling medallion away in a leather pouch hanging on his belt. Wind rustles his tattered clothing, and mine. Clouds cover the stars.
"...but I think that's enough for tonight."