Connosieur Of Fine Art.

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Oh. So that's your conversational partner. Yeah, this might get weird. You might try to maintain some civility, you might simply remain deeply cold to each other, or perhaps your potentially mutual dislike of your partner will prove to be too strong to resist, resulting in some form of argument.

Please use this thread to converse - or argue - with your partner. If you're stuck, we'd recommend starting with your reaction to realising who your partner is.

————————⁘•⁘————————

OOC Considerations:

Soult's eyes widen, though his scowl remains the same. Well, no use dwelling on this... absurdity.

General, give me your arm.

You are acting like I have been shot and am bleeding out in front of you. It is just a sabre cut which for some reason has decided to open up again, and I really think this is a gross overreaction. Better if you don't ask how I got it, that's a weird story.

He grimaces a little as the wine is poured over the wound, but it is not because it hurts...

Could have drunk that, you know.

Wounds do not open up for no reason. You must have aggravated it somehow with your antics.

It is also extremely rude to bleed all over the dining table.

Not that it's also rude to start dressing wounds in the middle of dinner. It's also pretty rude to stop your guests from leaving. Whatever spell has been placed on Soult to stop him from being suspicious of any of this is surely being very strained right now.

————————⁘•⁘————————

Oh. So that's your conversational partner. Yeah, this might get weird. You might try to maintain some civility, you might simply remain deeply cold to each other, or perhaps your potentially mutual dislike of your partner will prove to be too strong to resist, resulting in some form of argument.

Please use this thread to converse - or argue - with your partner. If you're stuck, we'd recommend starting with your reaction to realising who your partner is.

————————⁘•⁘————————

OOC Considerations:

Soult's eyes widen, though his scowl remains the same. Well, no use dwelling on this... absurdity.

General, give me your arm.

————————⁘•⁘————————

Oh. So that's your conversational partner. Yeah, this might get weird. You might try to maintain some civility, you might simply remain deeply cold to each other, or perhaps your potentially mutual dislike of your partner will prove to be too strong to resist, resulting in some form of argument.

Please use this thread to converse - or argue - with your partner. If you're stuck, we'd recommend starting with your reaction to realising who your partner is.

————————⁘•⁘————————

OOC Considerations:

General, your logic contradicts itself.

Soult takes a sip of the cold red wine and makes a face.

If this land- or rather, a particular realm is capable of torment, then surely it possesses intent, surely it is an existence that can be brought to heel. If it acts with malice, then it can be made to act with compliance.

Of course, this is not... easy, as I will admit. Perhaps it is, as you believe, impossible, especially with your- especially with the given resources at hand.

But there is plenty of time in this cursed afterlife, n'est ce pas?

Kindly inform me when you manage to make inanimate objects follow orders.

And assuming it is possible, who would you place at the head of such governance? Yourself, I presume?

In truth, neither am I.

I would prefer to take my retirement with my wife in an eternal rest. If that is barred to me, then I am happier wielding my sword sans scabbard than bickering with politicians all day.

There are options that are not myself.

...

L'Empereur, perhaps.

Ah, the severed arms. Lasalle will probably never get over that.

Who else could be suggested but the Emperor? Or perhaps Marshal Berthier could administrate it into submission in triplicate. If it is capable of feeling, then perhaps sufficient boredom would do it. Make the land submit torment request forms in triplicate or something.

... Excusez-moi?

Inattentive?

That is a new one. Je vous en prie, développez. Do elaborate on what you mean, General.

Lasalle's gaze, previously wandering about the space, now fixes upon Soult and becomes a glare. His own voice is now similarly icy.

On many occasions you conveniently failed to mention my men, even when great successes were had, presumably due to inattentiveness... Unless you would like to admit it was something else?

He raises his eyebrow suspiciously for a moment, still ignoring the growing pain.

Take, for example, Burgos... My poor chasseurs outdid themselves, cut the Spaniards to pieces completely, only to receive no reward or even acknowledgement whatsoever beyond what I could offer them, and a General can only offer so much before it is noticed that his superiors do not appreciate him.

Mon dieu, you are still dwelling on such petty things? You and your men have won plenty of glory for yourselves before and since. To focus on one single alleged incident of "celebratory" neglect speaks ill of your character and of your temper.

Such is the constant cry of subordinates. You have covered yourself in glory, must you ask for laurels and medals for every engagement?

He continues glaring at Soult, his expression becoming more intense, but at the same time almost involuntarily so. It is likely that no one will notice it yet, but a small streak of blood is seeping through the sleeve of his uniform...

You exaggerate. If one were to hear you speak, you would have others believe that you and your men have never been recognised, when you yourself are one of the most storied men of the Grande Armée.

This persistent fixation on past slights is not becoming of an officer of your rank.

... Ah. You have spilled some food on your sleeve. Let me call for a footman to aid you in wiping it away.

Nonetheless, the footman makes an unsuccessful attempt to wipe off the substance, the deep red colour that should be familiar to soldiers staining the immaculate white of the cloth.

Kellermann did not spare mine for a minute, and I survived.

His eyes narrow as Soult notices the stain but misidentifies it, then pushes the footman away as the handkerchief comes away red and the wound, aggravated by this attempt, begins to bleed more.

Oh, how I wish it was only food.

Damned surgeon told me the bandage would last the evening...

We need to re-bandage the wound- discreetly- come with me.

A Faceless Footman: Messieurs, kindly do remain seated, it is most impolite... The Host may be offended...

He glares at the footman as they are forced to sit back down, glancing at the affected arm to find that the bleeding is gradually becoming heavier. What the fuck is wrong with this wound?

————————⁘•⁘————————

Oh. So that's your conversational partner. Yeah, this might get weird. You might try to maintain some civility, you might simply remain deeply cold to each other, or perhaps your potentially mutual dislike of your partner will prove to be too strong to resist, resulting in some form of argument.

Please use this thread to converse - or argue - with your partner. If you're stuck, we'd recommend starting with your reaction to realising who your partner is.

————————⁘•⁘————————

OOC Considerations:

General, your logic contradicts itself.

Soult takes a sip of the cold red wine and makes a face.

If this land- or rather, a particular realm is capable of torment, then surely it possesses intent, surely it is an existence that can be brought to heel. If it acts with malice, then it can be made to act with compliance.

Of course, this is not... easy, as I will admit. Perhaps it is, as you believe, impossible, especially with your- especially with the given resources at hand.

But there is plenty of time in this cursed afterlife, n'est ce pas?

Kindly inform me when you manage to make inanimate objects follow orders.

And assuming it is possible, who would you place at the head of such governance? Yourself, I presume?

In truth, neither am I.

I would prefer to take my retirement with my wife in an eternal rest. If that is barred to me, then I am happier wielding my sword sans scabbard than bickering with politicians all day.

There are options that are not myself.

...

L'Empereur, perhaps.

Ah, the severed arms. Lasalle will probably never get over that.

Who else could be suggested but the Emperor? Or perhaps Marshal Berthier could administrate it into submission in triplicate. If it is capable of feeling, then perhaps sufficient boredom would do it. Make the land submit torment request forms in triplicate or something.

... Excusez-moi?

Inattentive?

That is a new one. Je vous en prie, développez. Do elaborate on what you mean, General.

Lasalle's gaze, previously wandering about the space, now fixes upon Soult and becomes a glare. His own voice is now similarly icy.

On many occasions you conveniently failed to mention my men, even when great successes were had, presumably due to inattentiveness... Unless you would like to admit it was something else?

He raises his eyebrow suspiciously for a moment, still ignoring the growing pain.

Take, for example, Burgos... My poor chasseurs outdid themselves, cut the Spaniards to pieces completely, only to receive no reward or even acknowledgement whatsoever beyond what I could offer them, and a General can only offer so much before it is noticed that his superiors do not appreciate him.

Mon dieu, you are still dwelling on such petty things? You and your men have won plenty of glory for yourselves before and since. To focus on one single alleged incident of "celebratory" neglect speaks ill of your character and of your temper.

Such is the constant cry of subordinates. You have covered yourself in glory, must you ask for laurels and medals for every engagement?

He continues glaring at Soult, his expression becoming more intense, but at the same time almost involuntarily so. It is likely that no one will notice it yet, but a small streak of blood is seeping through the sleeve of his uniform...

You exaggerate. If one were to hear you speak, you would have others believe that you and your men have never been recognised, when you yourself are one of the most storied men of the Grande Armée.

This persistent fixation on past slights is not becoming of an officer of your rank.

... Ah. You have spilled some food on your sleeve. Let me call for a footman to aid you in wiping it away.

Nonetheless, the footman makes an unsuccessful attempt to wipe off the substance, the deep red colour that should be familiar to soldiers staining the immaculate white of the cloth.

Kellermann did not spare mine for a minute, and I survived.

His eyes narrow as Soult notices the stain but misidentifies it, then pushes the footman away as the handkerchief comes away red and the wound, aggravated by this attempt, begins to bleed more.

Oh, how I wish it was only food.

Damned surgeon told me the bandage would last the evening...

We need to re-bandage the wound- discreetly- come with me.

————————⁘•⁘————————

Oh. So that's your conversational partner. Yeah, this might get weird. You might try to maintain some civility, you might simply remain deeply cold to each other, or perhaps your potentially mutual dislike of your partner will prove to be too strong to resist, resulting in some form of argument.

Please use this thread to converse - or argue - with your partner. If you're stuck, we'd recommend starting with your reaction to realising who your partner is.

————————⁘•⁘————————

OOC Considerations:

General, your logic contradicts itself.

Soult takes a sip of the cold red wine and makes a face.

If this land- or rather, a particular realm is capable of torment, then surely it possesses intent, surely it is an existence that can be brought to heel. If it acts with malice, then it can be made to act with compliance.

Of course, this is not... easy, as I will admit. Perhaps it is, as you believe, impossible, especially with your- especially with the given resources at hand.

But there is plenty of time in this cursed afterlife, n'est ce pas?

Kindly inform me when you manage to make inanimate objects follow orders.

And assuming it is possible, who would you place at the head of such governance? Yourself, I presume?

In truth, neither am I.

I would prefer to take my retirement with my wife in an eternal rest. If that is barred to me, then I am happier wielding my sword sans scabbard than bickering with politicians all day.

There are options that are not myself.

...

L'Empereur, perhaps.

Ah, the severed arms. Lasalle will probably never get over that.

Who else could be suggested but the Emperor? Or perhaps Marshal Berthier could administrate it into submission in triplicate. If it is capable of feeling, then perhaps sufficient boredom would do it. Make the land submit torment request forms in triplicate or something.

... Excusez-moi?

Inattentive?

That is a new one. Je vous en prie, développez. Do elaborate on what you mean, General.

Lasalle's gaze, previously wandering about the space, now fixes upon Soult and becomes a glare. His own voice is now similarly icy.

On many occasions you conveniently failed to mention my men, even when great successes were had, presumably due to inattentiveness... Unless you would like to admit it was something else?

He raises his eyebrow suspiciously for a moment, still ignoring the growing pain.

Take, for example, Burgos... My poor chasseurs outdid themselves, cut the Spaniards to pieces completely, only to receive no reward or even acknowledgement whatsoever beyond what I could offer them, and a General can only offer so much before it is noticed that his superiors do not appreciate him.

Mon dieu, you are still dwelling on such petty things? You and your men have won plenty of glory for yourselves before and since. To focus on one single alleged incident of "celebratory" neglect speaks ill of your character and of your temper.

Such is the constant cry of subordinates. You have covered yourself in glory, must you ask for laurels and medals for every engagement?

He continues glaring at Soult, his expression becoming more intense, but at the same time almost involuntarily so. It is likely that no one will notice it yet, but a small streak of blood is seeping through the sleeve of his uniform...

You exaggerate. If one were to hear you speak, you would have others believe that you and your men have never been recognised, when you yourself are one of the most storied men of the Grande Armée.

This persistent fixation on past slights is not becoming of an officer of your rank.

... Ah. You have spilled some food on your sleeve. Let me call for a footman to aid you in wiping it away.

————————⁘•⁘————————

Well, it's hardly a comfortable arrangement. Tension strangles the air, sometimes seeming like it might snuff out the candles with how suffocating it is, and in all directions there appears to be some awkwardness, bickering or something else going on. This seating plan must've been devised by some manner of psychopath, presumably whatever or whoever the host is, intent on seeing the result of putting the most disagreeable pairings imaginable together.

You might spot a friend across the table, maybe stare at them longingly pretending they can offer any assistance, maybe address someone else nearby in passing. But don't neglect your partner, that would be bad manners, wouldn't it? Well, assuming you still have them by this point.

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OOC Considerations:

"I've had better. That's for sure. Food's sub-par too, Jean d'Enfer."

Very cute nickname. A play on "Duke of Damnation", I take it. Shall I call you "clef des champs" or "clebard", General?

HI JEAN!!!

@the-little-miss-poet

The ADCs had been waving excitedly at Emilka, who they had met before, but as she taps the marshal on the shoulder, they freeze. The marshal's voice is icy when it comes.

Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle. I do not believe we are on such... familiar terms. You may be acquainted with me. I most certainly do not know you.

He turns around and glares at her, though honestly with that resting bitch face, he could just be looking at her. But it's probably a glare. Yup, this is definitely not Jean Lannes. This guy's hair is curlier, more russet, and his uniform is slightly different - a red sash instead of gold, a white plastron on the coat's chest, golden aguillettes. And instead of Lannes' fierce grin or moody smirk, he is definitely scowling.

I-i'm so sorry... I-i-i mistook you for... Marshal Lannes...

*The girl stammered and her eyes filled with tears. She probably wouldn't forget that sight for the rest of her life...

She mechanically took a step back and was about to run away when heard the menacing man suggesting*

...Oui, Monsieur. I'm Emilia and I'm an orphan. I hang around here and I know a few marshals. I-i also know your aide de camp... B-but i can't bother you and your people anymore... I promise.

*the girl swallowed and backed up a bit more*

Once again, I apologize for the incident. Goodbye!

Brun, Petiet, go after her and calm her down.

Brun: Understood, Monsieur.

Brun and Petiet scurry after, trying to catch up with the terrified girl.

Petiet: Mademoiselle Emilia! Our marshal is sorry that he scared you!

From behind them, Soult huffs as Saint-Chamans and Bory just kinda mill behind him nervously.

I'm sorry... *she stuttered after a long moment.* I didn't mean to... I didn't know... I thought it was Jean...

Brun: He doesn't like being startled. Or loud noises. Or being interrupted. Think of him as an old grumpy man, which he is.

Petiet: Are you okay? You seem really shocked! If you come back with us, the marshal will let you have a pastry!

Brun: (Bold play, Petiet.)

(Hello, Marshal Soult! How are you? I am… Goodsir… a man… a surgeon, you know… who comes with a very important message from Marshal Bessières. I am really sorry for any previous confusion and… I don’t want to disturb… just wondering if I can speak with you for a moment?)

(from @your-dandy-king, but not really)

In French, Soult icily tells his ADC,

... Brun, take this man and find out what he wants. Throw him out if he can't come up with a decent explanation in less than five minutes.

Brun: Entendu, Monsieur le Maréchal.

... Bonjour, Monsieur Goodsir.

Brun is going to speak his French very slowly.

Brun: snrk

Brun is barely stifling a snigger. Straight face, straight face.

Brun: Ahem. Petiet will get a blanket for you. Tell me more about Monsieur Fart and the precise message he wishes you to convey.

————————⁘•⁘————————

Oh. So that's your conversational partner. Yeah, this might get weird. You might try to maintain some civility, you might simply remain deeply cold to each other, or perhaps your potentially mutual dislike of your partner will prove to be too strong to resist, resulting in some form of argument.

Please use this thread to converse - or argue - with your partner. If you're stuck, we'd recommend starting with your reaction to realising who your partner is.

————————⁘•⁘————————

OOC Considerations:

General, your logic contradicts itself.

Soult takes a sip of the cold red wine and makes a face.

If this land- or rather, a particular realm is capable of torment, then surely it possesses intent, surely it is an existence that can be brought to heel. If it acts with malice, then it can be made to act with compliance.

Of course, this is not... easy, as I will admit. Perhaps it is, as you believe, impossible, especially with your- especially with the given resources at hand.

But there is plenty of time in this cursed afterlife, n'est ce pas?

Kindly inform me when you manage to make inanimate objects follow orders.

And assuming it is possible, who would you place at the head of such governance? Yourself, I presume?

In truth, neither am I.

I would prefer to take my retirement with my wife in an eternal rest. If that is barred to me, then I am happier wielding my sword sans scabbard than bickering with politicians all day.

There are options that are not myself.

...

L'Empereur, perhaps.

Ah, the severed arms. Lasalle will probably never get over that.

Who else could be suggested but the Emperor? Or perhaps Marshal Berthier could administrate it into submission in triplicate. If it is capable of feeling, then perhaps sufficient boredom would do it. Make the land submit torment request forms in triplicate or something.

... Excusez-moi?

Inattentive?

That is a new one. Je vous en prie, développez. Do elaborate on what you mean, General.

Lasalle's gaze, previously wandering about the space, now fixes upon Soult and becomes a glare. His own voice is now similarly icy.

On many occasions you conveniently failed to mention my men, even when great successes were had, presumably due to inattentiveness... Unless you would like to admit it was something else?

He raises his eyebrow suspiciously for a moment, still ignoring the growing pain.

Take, for example, Burgos... My poor chasseurs outdid themselves, cut the Spaniards to pieces completely, only to receive no reward or even acknowledgement whatsoever beyond what I could offer them, and a General can only offer so much before it is noticed that his superiors do not appreciate him.

Mon dieu, you are still dwelling on such petty things? You and your men have won plenty of glory for yourselves before and since. To focus on one single alleged incident of "celebratory" neglect speaks ill of your character and of your temper.

Such is the constant cry of subordinates. You have covered yourself in glory, must you ask for laurels and medals for every engagement?

————————⁘•⁘————————

Oh. So that's your conversational partner. Yeah, this might get weird. You might try to maintain some civility, you might simply remain deeply cold to each other, or perhaps your potentially mutual dislike of your partner will prove to be too strong to resist, resulting in some form of argument.

Please use this thread to converse - or argue - with your partner. If you're stuck, we'd recommend starting with your reaction to realising who your partner is.

————————⁘•⁘————————

OOC Considerations:

General, your logic contradicts itself.

Soult takes a sip of the cold red wine and makes a face.

If this land- or rather, a particular realm is capable of torment, then surely it possesses intent, surely it is an existence that can be brought to heel. If it acts with malice, then it can be made to act with compliance.

Of course, this is not... easy, as I will admit. Perhaps it is, as you believe, impossible, especially with your- especially with the given resources at hand.

But there is plenty of time in this cursed afterlife, n'est ce pas?

Kindly inform me when you manage to make inanimate objects follow orders.

And assuming it is possible, who would you place at the head of such governance? Yourself, I presume?

In truth, neither am I.

I would prefer to take my retirement with my wife in an eternal rest. If that is barred to me, then I am happier wielding my sword sans scabbard than bickering with politicians all day.

There are options that are not myself.

...

L'Empereur, perhaps.

Ah, the severed arms. Lasalle will probably never get over that.

Who else could be suggested but the Emperor? Or perhaps Marshal Berthier could administrate it into submission in triplicate. If it is capable of feeling, then perhaps sufficient boredom would do it. Make the land submit torment request forms in triplicate or something.

... Excusez-moi?

Inattentive?

That is a new one. Je vous en prie, développez. Do elaborate on what you mean, General.

————————⁘•⁘————————

Oh. So that's your conversational partner. Yeah, this might get weird. You might try to maintain some civility, you might simply remain deeply cold to each other, or perhaps your potentially mutual dislike of your partner will prove to be too strong to resist, resulting in some form of argument.

Please use this thread to converse - or argue - with your partner. If you're stuck, we'd recommend starting with your reaction to realising who your partner is.

————————⁘•⁘————————

OOC Considerations:

General, your logic contradicts itself.

Soult takes a sip of the cold red wine and makes a face.

If this land- or rather, a particular realm is capable of torment, then surely it possesses intent, surely it is an existence that can be brought to heel. If it acts with malice, then it can be made to act with compliance.

Of course, this is not... easy, as I will admit. Perhaps it is, as you believe, impossible, especially with your- especially with the given resources at hand.

But there is plenty of time in this cursed afterlife, n'est ce pas?

Kindly inform me when you manage to make inanimate objects follow orders.

And assuming it is possible, who would you place at the head of such governance? Yourself, I presume?

In truth, neither am I.

I would prefer to take my retirement with my wife in an eternal rest. If that is barred to me, then I am happier wielding my sword sans scabbard than bickering with politicians all day.

There are options that are not myself.

...

L'Empereur, perhaps.