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Elysiums do not allow fighting, even the ritual kind. Fortunately, the Conspiracy of Silence has that covered. They own a private ballet studio that in the nights is a school to teach the arts of Kindred Dueling and Courtois. As both a spina and a master of the arts, Jean-Louise Visigny-Winthrope has been invited to perform against one of the school's most successful students, an Oathed Knight by the name of Calloway. They take their position on one side of the ring and stoically await their opponent.
A number of others have gathered to watch, most of them Invictus, but a few Carthians mixed in. Most notably is Lee Garfield, a big deal in the Invictus scene. He seems particularly eager to watch the match. He calls out, "Hey, big shot, you mind if we have a chat during all this?"
Visigny arrives quite notably without retinue, dressed in a plain buffcoat and vest in a bright enough gray to make it clear it isn't black. No pretensions to being the master here. His hair is tied back with a simple red ribbon, and the french rosette he wears over his breast remains pinned in place, along with a sprig of thorned rose sans bloom. He carries his case with him. In a case. As though arriving for a business meeting in Amsterdam in 1788.
He finds a table upon which to set his case, eases the clasps open, and opens the lid to reveal the blades contained within. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and all those between or beyond. Thank you for coming." A glance is spared to Lee Garfield, as though making a point of having to put the face to a name. A nonverbal 'and who are you, exactly' meant to put another party on the backfoot before he's even opened his mouth, "I am to fence you with words and your companion with blades? Contemporaneously?" An eyebrow ticks once.
"If you like. Though I imagine you might better command my attention were you holding the blade at the time, sir." He steps away from the case, allowing his opponent to inspect them if he cares to.
Calloway, meanwhile, is dressed like a professional fencer. They don't have the helmet on yet, but they were clearly dressed for a different sort of event than Visigny. They look awkwardly to Garfield who cracks a smile. "Want my guy to change? They've got some more ceremonial clothes in the dressing room."
"Name's Lee, in case you don't know." He's hard to read. Maybe he didn't notice or maybe he's hiding his true feelings. Or maybe he's just confident in the unnatural level of attention he grabs. He's not using Majesty, but he pulls your attention like he is. The Lonely Curse is about him too, making every look at him give the impression that something dangerous is nearby.
"Nah, I can wait till after the match. Or I can coach my guy on what to ask. Just speak loud enough for me to hear over here. I'm something of an old man. 'Sides, you don't want to see me duel. I'm lousy. Be like dueling a punching bag."
"It takes a gentleman to admit to his limitations without shame in them," Visigny replies, which is a species of compliment. "After or concurrent are just as well. I am at your service, sir." Visigny offers a slight and dignified bow towards Lee, turning his head just so in the manner of the french so that his eyes never waver from the other fellow.
Once he rises, he addresses his would be opponent. "Forgive me, sir. I was invited to a duel. In Vienna we term these sorts of bouts you seem to be intending as exhibitions. If you have not come here intending to carve pieces off of my body, I would be happy to change into whites and use the competition blades of the salle."
He sort of excels at graciously pointing out everyone's shortcomings without identifying them as such. He does it with a smile, too.
Calloway turns nervously to their boss who nods. They leave to go get dressed in proper attire. "Ah, my bad. You want some real action. You wanna see what a Knight can do. Just be warned. My guy might be young, but he ain't a pushover. You want Disciplines in the mix or nah?"
"And since my guy is going to take a while to get changed, how 'bout we talk some now? You hear about the texts everyone got? Don't know if you were in town for it." There's an implied 'because I wasn't looking for you'. "You think you could duel someone from VII, if we had 'em here? Or is it more a Knight's job to take care of problems like that."
"Not necessary. I am happy to play your man to the first touch as Jumel reckoned them. I was paying him the courtesy of assuming he would demand nothing less from me were I to hold pretenses to his blood." That smile returns, genteel and humble and false. "Let us know one another by the stroke of the other's pen, yes?" Visigny folds his hands behind his back and watches the knight depart the way cats watch canaries move about their cages.
Once the young knight is out of view, his regard returns to the nosferatu. "I can duel anyone willing to stand their convictions. But honor is a high concept. Not something for which VII is renowned, unless I am very mistaken?" He leaves the question mark in his voice to denote that he might be, for he is no expert on the VII. "A knight's job?" He mouths the word as though he were unfamiliar with the notion. "Monsieur, I was given to understand knights had responsibilities. Duties. Are you seeking to hire labor, monsieur, to have disputation with your enemy?"
"If so, monsieur, it does heavily present the question 'why not handle this matter in house'? And my answer will greatly depend upon your own. The truth as a gentleman." There is a very heavy suggestion in the 'as a gentleman' that this is a thing people may have abused in the past. Once.
"I don't pretend to know what those loons are up to. Was more wondering in isolation. Like asking about a bear fighting a lion. I don't want it to happen, but it's fun to speculate about."
At the mention of duties he perks up. "You know? You're one of the few people in town who takes us seriously. Normally, people look at the Knights and see 'em as hidebound losers. You get it though. An Oath is a powerful thing. Just ask a Changeling."
"I don't want to hire labor, but I'm afraid there aren't that many of us. And until we've smoked the rats out of hiding, I'm not going to call in favors from out of town. I mean, in a perfect world you'd join up and swear the Oath of True Knighthood or somethin' along those lines. I could even fast track you if you wanted. But I figure you aren't interested. I can't imagine what your partners would think."
"Buuuuuuut if you wanted to help us out, friend to friend, we could arrange some gifts for you."
It's Visigny's turn to balk a bit. It's subtle. He's a studied face, after all. But this was clearly not how he expected any of that to land or to be answered. So the candor, if indeed it is candor-- because everyone gets to screw him once --is answered in kind. "Sir, that is because too often the people have been treated as though your positions and birthrights are sufficient will to power. Do you understand my meaning? I am told I can be a bit... dense. The responsibilities of the blood make demands of you that you are only noticed for failing at. So when your young and indifferent do not uphold their resposibilities and fail at being what is demanded of them by duty and destiny in the sight of the people, what can follow?"
"Indeed, that is why I refused to join the First Estate in Vienna. This rot of entitlement replacing noblesse oblige. A decidedly new world corruption as I reckoned it. It swept Europe after the war, propelled by the liberalizing doctrines of a world without Empire. I could write a book, I think, on the topic. Suffice, nothing would please me more than to assist your knights in pursuit of the culprit as peers and equals. The recognition of my worthiness to my blood is all I require of you all, and the only thing you all have thusfar denied me. If you are prepared to speak for the Invictus beyond your Praxis in this matter, that is."
He scratches the back of his head. "I mean, in my mind, your worth was never in doubt. I don't offer things to people who I don't think'll do me and all Kindred proud. And even if you lose tonight, I still think you're great for this job. Especially since you got a whole Coterie to back you up."
Around this time, Calloway returns from the back, dressed like an extra in an Erol Flynn film. Seinfeld grade puffy shirt, loose pants and a half cape. They have a rapier strapped to their hip, fancy and expensive. "What are the rules here? To the blood, to the torpor?" They ask, as they strut back into position.
"I was just telling the gentleman here," Visigny offers to the returning Calloway, "that in Europe a first touch was customary in polite duels. The only torpid duelling I have ever encountered in my travels was in the golden court of Tehran." He then asides back to Lee, "They differed with you with respect to my presumed worthiness." As he is not asleep, one can assume how it went. In any event, his attention is back to Calloway.
"In the interests of the Praxis keeping its best on their feet, let us dispense with investing in our disciplines and trust in our wit and will." He returns at last to the case on the table and clips the chain of the sabre to his hip. It wears high and downward in the manner of an infantry officer. The main gauche frogs onto the back of his belt with similar clips. It is more or less out of view behind the flare of his jacket, even accounting for its relative length. That done, he affixes his campaign cap to his head and steps onto the piste, offering a salute in the initials of his Sire. EW. Though the e is cursived for sake of elegance.
Calloway frowns. You make them get all dressed up for a blood duel and don't even let them do a little brutalizing? They match Visigny's gesture, signing AL. "Shall we begin the Dance?"
Visigny waits for his opponent to adopt a formal en garde, then leans to the side a bit one way and then another as though what he saw from either vantage played some part in what he would do next. He proceeds to draw both of his weapons with the sort of fluidity people spend decades perfecting. The sheathes, which are metal, barely sound a note. It's just that smooth.
And then he falls into a forward facing florentine guard, his main gauche really seeming like more of a small sword with all the warding it does with that point it has. The belly of his sabre is presented turned slightly outward, low and away fro his right hip, point curling up to the level of his chest. It's like trying to assault a porcupine made out of Spanish steel.
"Allez."
The dance that follows is as much a conversation as the literal conversation that preceeded it. Visigny does not once doubt his opponent's worth or ability, but upon getting the measure of his opponent, seeks to end the matter with no harm or insult. Such that when he finally gets an opening, he catches the man's rapier on the quillions of his guard and presents his sabre low, as though to cross his guard and fend off the other's thrust. But he rather adroitly turns his wrist when the pair disengage again such that the blade of his sabre cuts across the exposed ankle of the knight. It wouldn't bleed too terribly on a human, truthfully. But on a vampire, it's hardly anything while also being plainly visible as a gash in flesh.
He does not call his touch. He lets his opponent do so, as a nod to both their honor. Whether or not the other merits it remains to be seen by how he proceeds from here. Either way, Visigny adopts a purely defensive stance once he feels the matter settled.
While the blade does make contact, it doesn't cut. Such is the benefit of being an Oathed Knight: natural armor. Visigny can see the gears in Calloway's head turning. Should they lie and say they weren't hit? Should they lash out and try to rip that Carthian ponce to shreds? But before they can do anything, Garfield starts applauding. "Well, looks like our team needs to study more."
Calloway glares at Visigny. He's made an enemy today. They put their blade back into its strap and fume off. "Don't mind them." Garfield says, waving a hand, "they're what the kids call a Basement King. Best in their division and think they're the best in the world."
If one is going to earn a lifelong enemy, let it be for something so patently merciful. The anger is met with a bright peal of very gaulloise laughter. "Vraiment?" he queries the knight with that bright smile never dimming. His delicate fingers fan over his heart, touching the rosette there and idly indicating the thorns he deigns to wear in this peroson's house. Sure, it might look like a casual 'what's wrong with you?' gesture, but it's not. It's a 'come back here and do something about it, hot blood, and see what happens' gesture. It's as street as street gets where he's from, which probably means it flies right over the other's head. But fuck about and find thee out.
They don't really fight over badges and favors here in Philly like they do in Vienna, though. His head shakes, and he turns his back on the knight before they've even left the room. Dismissed as a concern out of hand. They could have simply had some manners about it. But noooooooooooooooooooooo.
"Perhaps your covenant might benefit from a study abroad program. There are creatures sitting thrones in Europe that would literally regard them as lunch and little more. I do not mean to say they need to know their place, but I do mean to say they need to know the score." He says this to the other as though Lee knows what's what in the night.
"Yeah, kids these days." Garfield shrugs. "Wouldn't last a minute if they were here before the Sakima was. Back in the old days, you know. When Kindred were Kindred and Kine were Kine." He sighs. "If I weren't important here, I might move myself."
Visigny does give that a dubious look. "But why of all things would one do that? Here one is free to be first and foremost oneself. Free to associate with whomever one pleases in almost any manner one prefers. My point is that in many parts of the world kindred are still very much kindred in every sense. And behaving as though this place is not a special Eden in the horrors of an otherwise horrible world is..." Visigny goes searching for the word.
"Comment-dit on--" He snaps his fingers. "It's very stupid. I want to stab them in the face for rubbing shit on a praxis equivalent of the Mona Lisa. I find it endlessly aggravating. So if you find life here tedious and unpleasant, I do encourage you to relocate to where your talents will be rigidly exploited by those above you in accordance with what you can manage to make others do on your behalf. Me, I'll be here, becoming my best self." That smile again.
"One can be themselves unless they grow too tall. Unless they try to grab for power. Unless they want to rule." He waves a hand vaguely. "In San Francisco, you know, they have a council. Members can debate and argue amongst each other and pass policy. That's a town that knows how to set up an All-Night Society. In Boston, Elders command respect. Here, I'm just another Kindred amongst the masses, notable only in that I have a successful company." He smiles, the kind of smile that someone gives when they're a little pissed off. "You're more than welcome to embrace mediocrity and stay here. I want to be my best self in a way that matters."
"But, I am where I am. I can't imagine living somewhere without cheesesteaks, you know? It's all hypothetical. Thinking about what could be instead of what is. Tell me, if you were the prince, what would you do different?"
"I have always observed that liberty of one's own body and mind to pursue what both might to the extent they are capable is a limiting prospect only to those whose bodies and minds find them wanting. I will never subsume to mediocrity, monsieur, because I am personally exceptional. That you feel you will find purpose in ruling over others speaks of a profound discontent in what you are left to command in your own faculties. But I do not wish to speak out of turn to a man with a successful company." Visigny removes his campaign cap and tucks it under arm, offering a bow that is apologetic the way collection letters start with 'dear sir'.
"Abolish the monachy of the night, obviously. I favor informal Carthian arrangements of social order. Informal citizenship responsibilities. Social contracts-- which I imagine you should only favor for the rigidity they instill in transactions. But I've seen what comes of people who actually just want power trying to create councils. It's always laughably terrible. Everyone loses. Especially them." He actually chuckles and wags a hand dismissively, as though he's seen it himself.
Garfield laughs. "We should talk more often. You're a fun man, Mister Visigny-Winthrope." He pulls out a business card and hands it over. "I got work to take care of, but I hope you have a lovely night, tonight and all others. And if you ever need a friend in the importing business, hit me up. And let it be said, if you ever want to be Prince, I'd back you."
Flattery. He laughs at that, genuinely enough, and dips his head agreeably. "I have found your candor refreshing. Your company, all things considered, has been quite agreeable!" Sure, they sparred verbally. But that was literally what he'd proposed and what he'd given. Can't fault a Spina for keeping his word, can you?
"Ah! Imports!" He accepts the card and taps it against his temple, "If you can find cognac and champagne duty free, you will find a friend in me, monsieur. I still favor a soixante-quinze in my blood now and then." A simple request for someone worth talking to about other things in the future.
"Until then, monsieur," he offers with a slight bow, watching the other undead leave. Only then does he return his blades to the case, tuck them in their velvet coverlet affectionately, and ease the lid closed. Another time, precious ones. Then he lifts his case, takes up his cane, and calmly steps back out of the duelling hall of the Invictus. Alone, unbowed, unconquered.
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