> “I don’t know how you pay for such parties. It seems you should, logically, be bankrupt before year’s end.”
* Aurinius Collius, Marquee of Faffham, at the Vernal Equinox Gala of the Third Year of Zarconius’ Reign
“Your Majesty.” Garston said, cutting in not moments after the blue-robed man had been dragged off. Typically Garston would observe proper etiquette and give the much higher-ranking man his due space, but Garston’s recent foul, listless mood had put him off politeness.
“What? What is it?” The King, taken off guard, snapped angrily. He then hastily affixed a court smile to his face, and continued: “I apologize for my curtness. It seems that events have conspired to… upset the calm of the evening. You’re Lord Garston, are you not?”
Garston smiled wanly in turn. “Yes, I am indeed. I thank you so much for inviting me to such a glorious collection of…” He cast about for a word, discarding ‘fops’, ‘idiots’, and ‘well-dressed con artists’, and finished with: “... Nobles.”
The two nobles, both thoroughly done with the whole circumstance, surveyed one another with searching eyes for a few moments, before Garston said: “Why is the wine cheap?”
A hush spread in the vicinity. You could practically hear the unvoiced gasps, the lordlings and petty countesses leaning close to catch the exchange.
“What?” The king said, too flabbergasted at the casually inflammatory question to be angry, for a moment.
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“Why is the wine cheap? I know the vintage-- barely three years old, made at a pair of subpar vineyards, without any nuance or flavor in it. It’s scarcely better than mixing grape juice and vinegar. All of which I would excuse as an eccentricity in another circumstance-- but this is a major event, with everyone who’s anyone collected under one roof. And no-one wants to say it, but everyone’s thinking it: how cheap, or worse, how POOR is the throne, to not have the funds for good wine at such an event? So, why is the wine cheap?”
“First I get bellowed at, now questioned? GUARDS! Get him out of my sight! I never want to see him again!”
“You said that exact same thing a few minutes ago.” Garston replied calmly, as guards encircled him. “You know, I think… I think I’m done.” He looked at his arms, stretched them, felt at his face, and sighed. “Yeah, whatever this is, I’m done.” And like that, he vanished in a puff of smoke.
Talent — Hugh Garston looked up at the sky, on a hill far distant from the ball, and remembered bits and pieces of who he truly was. He knew he was trapped-- trapped in some kind of faulty, half-baked illusion of a world, and needed to break free. He was learning, and one thing he had learned that he quite liked was a simple, but momentous crack in the design: inside the false world, he could level. And what’s more suited to a