The International
06-03-12, 09:30 PM
Engines
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“Oh, if my son could see this.” Esme said with intentional monotone and plain pale face, exhausting all of his willpower to contain his own excitement as he brushed a leather gloved hand across the rough crème cloth of an antique flying contraption, ancient in its technology, two wooden cranks connected to a giant upside down corkscrew of cloth and timbre, that corkscrew suspended over a wicker balloon basket for two.. and that was all – a quaint basket and a corkscrew, but it was still awe inspiring, a seed from which the increasingly large contraptions exhibited all around the ruby and gold toned ballroom sprouted.
“Your son would piss his breeches.” Said a familiar mahogany elf from the other site of the contraption, perhaps assuming Esme wouldn’t hear him above the ambient chatter of the crowd or the soft but jubilant dune of the brass orchestra, but he did, and sent the High Graf Schynius a blazing leer to prove it, compelling him to elaborate, but not apologize. “He’d piss his breeches out of enthusiasm. These are all amazing contraptions, brought to us by an amazing man who will be missed dearly.”
“One couldn’t tell. The music, the drinking, the attire.” He turned to the crowd of hundreds of Dark Elves, Dwarves, and Humans, all in festive formal fashion befitting a celebration with one exception. “Speaking of which.” Esme sent yet another glare at the highest noble in the land, looking up and down his bright blue noble longcoat, the seals of nobility adorning each breast and lapel. “You could have educated me on the proper wear. I feel like a damn necromancer in all this black.” He knew good and well, but Schynius didn’t need to know that.
“Either one knows everything about us, like you claim, or one does not.” Schynius said, nose in the air, onyx eyes to the oak rafters above, long coat hovering about as he walked around the contraption to join Esme. “And you Humans speak of celebrating one’s life instead of mourning one’s death. We live it.” he whispered with a smile on his face. Esme could appreciate the passion as he was waved along. “Come. Let me introduce you to the immediate family.”
The eight of them sat at a long mahogany table adorned with hard angled Dwarven carvings, five violet eyed and silver haired Dark Elves, three half elves of Human lineage, all in varying ages from twenty something to two thousand something. They greeted well wishers and occasionally gawked at the largest monument of their father’s achievement directly above them, a massive airship, possibly two hundred meters across by Esme’s estimation, literally a boat not unlike his own three masted sloop, The International, with a huge cloth balloon instead of sails, and four giant corkscrews in place of a rudder. And to think, this was so last century. Esme could only imagine they were admiring the work like a classic antique ship.
“Four-thousand two-hundred and twenty five years. A rare Four Star Elf.” The eldest son broadcasted in slightly slurred Alerian, standing at the end of the table, raising a glass of golden beer for yet another toast as Esme and Schynius approached. “I shall be seeing the shooting star for the third time in a few centuries myself, but I digress. Let us return to the numbers. The Flying Graf Arin’tal Deluge, First in Flight!”
“Fridish!”The crowd cheered as they raised their glasses. It was a rousing tradition. A member of the immediate family was charged with randomly announcing an achievement of the passed on, and the guests would chant Alerian for ‘Salute’.
“First Airship Enterprise!”
“Fridish!”
“Most prosperous airship enterprise in the kingdom!”
“Fridish!”
“Thus in all the world!”
“Fridish!”
“Fifty nine airship models, only half of which you see in this very room!”
“Fridish!”
“Three-hundred and twenty-nine patents!”
“Fridish!”
“Eight exemplary children!”
“Fridish!”
“Now that is a sending off, Mr. Villeneuve.” Schynius said with a laugh as he commandeered a beer glass and clashed it with him. “This is Xilitus Deluge, the Crow Graf, eldest son of Arin’tal Deluge and heir to his enterprise. He has his own, and will surely be combining the two to create a near monopoly of the airship industry in Alerar.”
“And tell me, Deluge.” Esme said, extending his hand, “How does one obtain the title of The Crow Graf?”
“My airships are as black as crows.” He said, locking forearms with Esme and smiling with bittersweet bloodshot eyes, indicating recent tears. “And are you the Villeneuve our High Graf speaks of?”
“He doesn’t speak of my wife and kids to others. Of that I am sure.” A smile crossed his lips. Schynius hated his kids and feared his wife, as all but he did.
“In any case.” The Crow Graf half raised his glass again. “Please send your daughter my gratitude.”
“Which one.” And for what? Esme narrowed his glacial blue eyes.
Xilitus stared into the distant stretches of his memory. “Auburn hair. Freckles. Eyes like the lagoons of Scara Brae.”
“Ah. Maelle.” Relief. If it had been the other daughter, Ludivine, it would have something to do with seduction or murder, but wait. If it had been Maelle, she likely ran a confidence scheme on one of this Graf’s enemies. He would surely get his answer soon enough.
“She was critical to the negotiations of the renewal of ‘the treaty’.” Xilitus said with air quotes. The Hand That Feeds The Treaty – the one that threatened to embargo all essential food imports to a mostly infertile Alerar if their airships were seen near the shores of any of the island nations of the known world. That meant Scara Brae and Fallien in addition to the maritime empire of Corone. “They were asking for truly unreasonable restrictions on our very own lands. She wore them down.”
“Yes. I was there.” A younger version of Xilitus rose and shook hsnds with Esme. He wasn’t his son however. “Afterwards, every side was convinced she was with them, Coronians and Alerians alike. Very clever. You taught her well.”
“Mr. Villeneuve, this is Maxi Deluge, second son of the deceased.” The High Graf’s voice was plain, surely in an effort to hide some disdain. “He was the primary engineer in the Flying Graf’s enterprise.
“Evening, Schynius.” Maxi reciprocated with a narrowed set of violet eyes.
“High Graf Schynius.” Schynius corrected.
“As soon as you call me Elder Deluge.” The second son hissed. “Your King gave me that title personally.”
“He’s your king as well.”
“Gentlemen, Gentlemen, Gentlemen,” Esme put his hands on their shoulders with a contagious look of glee. “Let us not sully the festivities that are my first Elven funeral.” He turned to the eldest son. “I tell you, Xilitus, I shall put this in my will post haste. My children will need something in this vein.” Indeed they would, given their unique situation. Neither of them were likely to die of natural causes, even age, so it would be good in the event of his death for them to party the night away before taking an incredibly gruesome revenge the next day.
“I am inclined to agree. Have you two paid your respects?” Xilitus asked. They both followed him to the other side of the vast room where, along ruby wall was a brass framed painting of The Flying Graf Arin’tal Deluge, the spitting origin from which his children sprang, noble longcoat draped about him, awards and honors pinned to his person, shaded golden goggles signature of an aviator hanging off his ashen neck. Esme couldn’t help but smile, realizing he knew the man as a boy more than four thousand years ago, for when you’re virtually immortal and have lived for more than seven millennia; you tend to forget faces, even when a name like his is mentioned often. He had to resume his naïve façade as Xilitus educated him on the way of Alerians, nay: all Elves. “You see, Mr. Villeneuve, Arin’tal didn’t have to give me his enterprise. In fact, all Elves, New, Old, Wood, they rarely leave everything to the eldest, for no man or woman is going to wait four thousand years for Papa to leave this world. It usually goes to the one most qualified, thus the youngest, and most recently trained. All my siblings are qualified, especially Maxi, but they’ve all turned to endeavors unrelated. I am a lucky son.”
“Which begs the question, Crow Graf.” Esme said as he lit a candle inside one of many small paper balloons with one of many candles to pay his respects. “What do you plan on doing with your father’s enterprise?”
“Consolidate, first off. The we shall combine designs and technologies. Maxi will collaborat with my engineers to create new airships.” Xilitus said nodding his head and smiling. “It shall be a marvelous new age in travel.”
“And how does Maxi feel about your decisions?”
“He is content as long as he continues to design, and trust that I don’t intent on letting him go. Now if you will excuse me…”
They locked forearms again, watched him leave, and Esme waited until he heard a subdued growl from over his shoulder. “So that’s what you’re here for?”
Schynius said nothing.
“And you don’t like what you heard?” Esme said as he turned to him.
The High Graf shook his head slowly as the smiling façade faded.
“What is it?”
“The consolidation.” Schynius said through clinched teeth. “It means he intends on closing the Ettermire factory.”
“From which you get kickbacks.”
“Taking occupation away from skilled freemen and putting it in the hands of indentured servants on the countryside.”
“And eliminating your kickbacks.”
“Thus risking the safety of thousands by way of diminished quality of airship.”
“And risking thousands in kickbacks.”
Schynius gave a small shrug. “… Kickbacks too. In all sincerity, this enterprise does not rely on the Deluge family name. It relies on the quality and the advanced technology of the engines.” Schynius turned to Esme. “You know your task.”
:::::
:::::
“Oh, if my son could see this.” Esme said with intentional monotone and plain pale face, exhausting all of his willpower to contain his own excitement as he brushed a leather gloved hand across the rough crème cloth of an antique flying contraption, ancient in its technology, two wooden cranks connected to a giant upside down corkscrew of cloth and timbre, that corkscrew suspended over a wicker balloon basket for two.. and that was all – a quaint basket and a corkscrew, but it was still awe inspiring, a seed from which the increasingly large contraptions exhibited all around the ruby and gold toned ballroom sprouted.
“Your son would piss his breeches.” Said a familiar mahogany elf from the other site of the contraption, perhaps assuming Esme wouldn’t hear him above the ambient chatter of the crowd or the soft but jubilant dune of the brass orchestra, but he did, and sent the High Graf Schynius a blazing leer to prove it, compelling him to elaborate, but not apologize. “He’d piss his breeches out of enthusiasm. These are all amazing contraptions, brought to us by an amazing man who will be missed dearly.”
“One couldn’t tell. The music, the drinking, the attire.” He turned to the crowd of hundreds of Dark Elves, Dwarves, and Humans, all in festive formal fashion befitting a celebration with one exception. “Speaking of which.” Esme sent yet another glare at the highest noble in the land, looking up and down his bright blue noble longcoat, the seals of nobility adorning each breast and lapel. “You could have educated me on the proper wear. I feel like a damn necromancer in all this black.” He knew good and well, but Schynius didn’t need to know that.
“Either one knows everything about us, like you claim, or one does not.” Schynius said, nose in the air, onyx eyes to the oak rafters above, long coat hovering about as he walked around the contraption to join Esme. “And you Humans speak of celebrating one’s life instead of mourning one’s death. We live it.” he whispered with a smile on his face. Esme could appreciate the passion as he was waved along. “Come. Let me introduce you to the immediate family.”
The eight of them sat at a long mahogany table adorned with hard angled Dwarven carvings, five violet eyed and silver haired Dark Elves, three half elves of Human lineage, all in varying ages from twenty something to two thousand something. They greeted well wishers and occasionally gawked at the largest monument of their father’s achievement directly above them, a massive airship, possibly two hundred meters across by Esme’s estimation, literally a boat not unlike his own three masted sloop, The International, with a huge cloth balloon instead of sails, and four giant corkscrews in place of a rudder. And to think, this was so last century. Esme could only imagine they were admiring the work like a classic antique ship.
“Four-thousand two-hundred and twenty five years. A rare Four Star Elf.” The eldest son broadcasted in slightly slurred Alerian, standing at the end of the table, raising a glass of golden beer for yet another toast as Esme and Schynius approached. “I shall be seeing the shooting star for the third time in a few centuries myself, but I digress. Let us return to the numbers. The Flying Graf Arin’tal Deluge, First in Flight!”
“Fridish!”The crowd cheered as they raised their glasses. It was a rousing tradition. A member of the immediate family was charged with randomly announcing an achievement of the passed on, and the guests would chant Alerian for ‘Salute’.
“First Airship Enterprise!”
“Fridish!”
“Most prosperous airship enterprise in the kingdom!”
“Fridish!”
“Thus in all the world!”
“Fridish!”
“Fifty nine airship models, only half of which you see in this very room!”
“Fridish!”
“Three-hundred and twenty-nine patents!”
“Fridish!”
“Eight exemplary children!”
“Fridish!”
“Now that is a sending off, Mr. Villeneuve.” Schynius said with a laugh as he commandeered a beer glass and clashed it with him. “This is Xilitus Deluge, the Crow Graf, eldest son of Arin’tal Deluge and heir to his enterprise. He has his own, and will surely be combining the two to create a near monopoly of the airship industry in Alerar.”
“And tell me, Deluge.” Esme said, extending his hand, “How does one obtain the title of The Crow Graf?”
“My airships are as black as crows.” He said, locking forearms with Esme and smiling with bittersweet bloodshot eyes, indicating recent tears. “And are you the Villeneuve our High Graf speaks of?”
“He doesn’t speak of my wife and kids to others. Of that I am sure.” A smile crossed his lips. Schynius hated his kids and feared his wife, as all but he did.
“In any case.” The Crow Graf half raised his glass again. “Please send your daughter my gratitude.”
“Which one.” And for what? Esme narrowed his glacial blue eyes.
Xilitus stared into the distant stretches of his memory. “Auburn hair. Freckles. Eyes like the lagoons of Scara Brae.”
“Ah. Maelle.” Relief. If it had been the other daughter, Ludivine, it would have something to do with seduction or murder, but wait. If it had been Maelle, she likely ran a confidence scheme on one of this Graf’s enemies. He would surely get his answer soon enough.
“She was critical to the negotiations of the renewal of ‘the treaty’.” Xilitus said with air quotes. The Hand That Feeds The Treaty – the one that threatened to embargo all essential food imports to a mostly infertile Alerar if their airships were seen near the shores of any of the island nations of the known world. That meant Scara Brae and Fallien in addition to the maritime empire of Corone. “They were asking for truly unreasonable restrictions on our very own lands. She wore them down.”
“Yes. I was there.” A younger version of Xilitus rose and shook hsnds with Esme. He wasn’t his son however. “Afterwards, every side was convinced she was with them, Coronians and Alerians alike. Very clever. You taught her well.”
“Mr. Villeneuve, this is Maxi Deluge, second son of the deceased.” The High Graf’s voice was plain, surely in an effort to hide some disdain. “He was the primary engineer in the Flying Graf’s enterprise.
“Evening, Schynius.” Maxi reciprocated with a narrowed set of violet eyes.
“High Graf Schynius.” Schynius corrected.
“As soon as you call me Elder Deluge.” The second son hissed. “Your King gave me that title personally.”
“He’s your king as well.”
“Gentlemen, Gentlemen, Gentlemen,” Esme put his hands on their shoulders with a contagious look of glee. “Let us not sully the festivities that are my first Elven funeral.” He turned to the eldest son. “I tell you, Xilitus, I shall put this in my will post haste. My children will need something in this vein.” Indeed they would, given their unique situation. Neither of them were likely to die of natural causes, even age, so it would be good in the event of his death for them to party the night away before taking an incredibly gruesome revenge the next day.
“I am inclined to agree. Have you two paid your respects?” Xilitus asked. They both followed him to the other side of the vast room where, along ruby wall was a brass framed painting of The Flying Graf Arin’tal Deluge, the spitting origin from which his children sprang, noble longcoat draped about him, awards and honors pinned to his person, shaded golden goggles signature of an aviator hanging off his ashen neck. Esme couldn’t help but smile, realizing he knew the man as a boy more than four thousand years ago, for when you’re virtually immortal and have lived for more than seven millennia; you tend to forget faces, even when a name like his is mentioned often. He had to resume his naïve façade as Xilitus educated him on the way of Alerians, nay: all Elves. “You see, Mr. Villeneuve, Arin’tal didn’t have to give me his enterprise. In fact, all Elves, New, Old, Wood, they rarely leave everything to the eldest, for no man or woman is going to wait four thousand years for Papa to leave this world. It usually goes to the one most qualified, thus the youngest, and most recently trained. All my siblings are qualified, especially Maxi, but they’ve all turned to endeavors unrelated. I am a lucky son.”
“Which begs the question, Crow Graf.” Esme said as he lit a candle inside one of many small paper balloons with one of many candles to pay his respects. “What do you plan on doing with your father’s enterprise?”
“Consolidate, first off. The we shall combine designs and technologies. Maxi will collaborat with my engineers to create new airships.” Xilitus said nodding his head and smiling. “It shall be a marvelous new age in travel.”
“And how does Maxi feel about your decisions?”
“He is content as long as he continues to design, and trust that I don’t intent on letting him go. Now if you will excuse me…”
They locked forearms again, watched him leave, and Esme waited until he heard a subdued growl from over his shoulder. “So that’s what you’re here for?”
Schynius said nothing.
“And you don’t like what you heard?” Esme said as he turned to him.
The High Graf shook his head slowly as the smiling façade faded.
“What is it?”
“The consolidation.” Schynius said through clinched teeth. “It means he intends on closing the Ettermire factory.”
“From which you get kickbacks.”
“Taking occupation away from skilled freemen and putting it in the hands of indentured servants on the countryside.”
“And eliminating your kickbacks.”
“Thus risking the safety of thousands by way of diminished quality of airship.”
“And risking thousands in kickbacks.”
Schynius gave a small shrug. “… Kickbacks too. In all sincerity, this enterprise does not rely on the Deluge family name. It relies on the quality and the advanced technology of the engines.” Schynius turned to Esme. “You know your task.”