From the gantry above 'The Painted Chamber', Arch-Duke Jean-Baptise Dervau watched the flurry of activity in the room below. Men in a dozen different military uniforms milled about, and from where he was standing, Jean-Baptiste could hear conversations in half a dozen languages. The walls of the chamber were covered in grand and ornately drawn frescos, as was the vaulted ceiling above, lending the chamber it's name, but it was the floor itself that had everyone's attention. The floor had been a project of Jean-Baptiste's father, and it had taken years for it to be finished, but from the gantry above, it was still an awe-inspiring sight. A map of Europe, stretching from the frozen eastern reaches of the Empire of Stabuga and the steppes of the Empire of Khazaria, all the way to the western coast of the Kingdom of Hispalis, intricately detailed, stretching more than two dozen feet from one end to the other, the painting was a masterpiece, drawing from the most accurate and detailed charts and maps available. It was over this map that the men below walked, and it was the subject of their discussions.
The gathered figures were military leaders from each of Grimhout's new allies, and as Jean-Baptiste listened, he could hear conversations in Kehsian, Colveili, Hispalian and Illwi, as well as the more recognisable tones of Dilmondian. As well as the military leaders, Jean-Baptiste could make out the distinctive dark green uniform of the Imperial Palace servant's, men that the Arch-Duke had personally chosen to their grasp of languages, intended to help ease the conversations between these powerful leaders. Jean-Baptiste had studied languages himself, as any future Arch-Duke was expected to, but he was conversational at best. In the coming months, he did not doubt that his grasp would improve through practice. After all, the doors of Grimhout and her neighbours had been thrown open, and a new dawn of peace, and brotherhood, was breaking over the horizon.
Grimhout had always been a patchwork empire, ever since Jean-Baptiste's ancestor had first united the warring states under a single banner, and Jean-Baptiste could vividly remember the day that his father had told him that it was this patchwork that was the empire's greatest strength. For generations, the empire had mixed blood with it's neighbours, and yet they had all been unified. Jean-Baptiste had travelled from one corner of Grimhout to the other, and he had seen for himself the disparity between the cultures of those that live on the northern coast of Woluzen, and those that carve out a living in the forests of Eeksen, and yet they were all of Grimhout. Some thread ran through them all, and that same thread that ran through Jean-Baptiste himself. The Arch-Duke did not doubt that it was this thread that had drawn Grimhout's neighbours together, and as he watched the congregation below him, he could almost see that same thread running across the room. It is rare for anyone to realise they are living in a moment of history until that moment has passed, but standing on that gantry, with the proof of this new alliance before him, the air around Jean-Baptiste felt electric.
The walls of 'The Painted Chamber' told the story of the Empire of Grimhout, every intricately detailed painting capturing a moment in the empire's history, and as a boy, Jean-Baptiste had spent countless hours learning about each moment, of the great battles, and the grand alliances, but as he had grown older, it was not these paintings that brought him back to this chamber again and again. It was the blank spaces on these walls, the emptiness that was still waiting to be filled. When he stood in this room alone, as the rest of the palace slept, if Jean-Baptiste closed his eyes, then he could almost hear his destiny calling from those blank spaces. He had heard that same calling when he had signed the treaty that had forged The Western Alliance, and standing on the gantry, he could hear it again. The west had united under a single banner, just as the warring states had centuries before, and Jean-Baptiste knew that this moment would be immortalised in one of those blank spaces, that his face would join those of his ancestors. For a brief moment, the Arch-Duke allowed himself to simply revel in that fact, before he reluctantly stepped back into reality. The alliance was a monumental step forwards, but the world was still ravaged by war, from the war in Europe, all the way to the trouble stirring in India. With a wave of his hand, Jean-Baptiste called Marc Choquet, his valet, forward from where the man had been patiently waiting.
"Yes, your Grace?"
"I want to send an invitation to Cappes. It is time to call Christophe home, and I want him to bring Princess Marie as his guest of honour. I would like to meet the young woman that has so infatuated my son, and to give them my blessing."
"Very good, your Grace. Is there anything else?"
Jean-Baptiste hesitated for a moment, brow furrowed slightly. In this new dawn for Grimhout, it was easy to thing of nothing but peace and love, but he had read the reports from the east, and he could little ignore the voices crying out in anguish and pain, still shackled and cowed by the ugly face of war. Nodding his head as he came to a decision, Jean-Baptiste spoke again, his voice ringing with authority.
"Call Monsieur Chevotet and Monsieur Seyrès to meet me in the Red Drawing Room, I have more letters to write. And inform the gathered commanders that I have something I wish to discuss with them all over dinner this evening. That will be all, Marc, thank you."
The valet bowed, before moving through the narrow doorway at the far end of the gantry, and disappearing into the palace beyond. Jean-Baptiste let out a sigh, now that he finally alone, and leaned against the gantry railing. Below him, the conversations continued, unaware that the Arch-Duke stood above them, and in that brief moment of peace, Jean-Baptiste allowed himself to relax. But only in that brief moment. Straightening up, the Arch-Duke straightened his ceremonial uniform, and walked briskly along the gantry, towards the doorway that led back into the world of responsibility and duty.
The gathered figures were military leaders from each of Grimhout's new allies, and as Jean-Baptiste listened, he could hear conversations in Kehsian, Colveili, Hispalian and Illwi, as well as the more recognisable tones of Dilmondian. As well as the military leaders, Jean-Baptiste could make out the distinctive dark green uniform of the Imperial Palace servant's, men that the Arch-Duke had personally chosen to their grasp of languages, intended to help ease the conversations between these powerful leaders. Jean-Baptiste had studied languages himself, as any future Arch-Duke was expected to, but he was conversational at best. In the coming months, he did not doubt that his grasp would improve through practice. After all, the doors of Grimhout and her neighbours had been thrown open, and a new dawn of peace, and brotherhood, was breaking over the horizon.
Grimhout had always been a patchwork empire, ever since Jean-Baptiste's ancestor had first united the warring states under a single banner, and Jean-Baptiste could vividly remember the day that his father had told him that it was this patchwork that was the empire's greatest strength. For generations, the empire had mixed blood with it's neighbours, and yet they had all been unified. Jean-Baptiste had travelled from one corner of Grimhout to the other, and he had seen for himself the disparity between the cultures of those that live on the northern coast of Woluzen, and those that carve out a living in the forests of Eeksen, and yet they were all of Grimhout. Some thread ran through them all, and that same thread that ran through Jean-Baptiste himself. The Arch-Duke did not doubt that it was this thread that had drawn Grimhout's neighbours together, and as he watched the congregation below him, he could almost see that same thread running across the room. It is rare for anyone to realise they are living in a moment of history until that moment has passed, but standing on that gantry, with the proof of this new alliance before him, the air around Jean-Baptiste felt electric.
The walls of 'The Painted Chamber' told the story of the Empire of Grimhout, every intricately detailed painting capturing a moment in the empire's history, and as a boy, Jean-Baptiste had spent countless hours learning about each moment, of the great battles, and the grand alliances, but as he had grown older, it was not these paintings that brought him back to this chamber again and again. It was the blank spaces on these walls, the emptiness that was still waiting to be filled. When he stood in this room alone, as the rest of the palace slept, if Jean-Baptiste closed his eyes, then he could almost hear his destiny calling from those blank spaces. He had heard that same calling when he had signed the treaty that had forged The Western Alliance, and standing on the gantry, he could hear it again. The west had united under a single banner, just as the warring states had centuries before, and Jean-Baptiste knew that this moment would be immortalised in one of those blank spaces, that his face would join those of his ancestors. For a brief moment, the Arch-Duke allowed himself to simply revel in that fact, before he reluctantly stepped back into reality. The alliance was a monumental step forwards, but the world was still ravaged by war, from the war in Europe, all the way to the trouble stirring in India. With a wave of his hand, Jean-Baptiste called Marc Choquet, his valet, forward from where the man had been patiently waiting.
"Yes, your Grace?"
"I want to send an invitation to Cappes. It is time to call Christophe home, and I want him to bring Princess Marie as his guest of honour. I would like to meet the young woman that has so infatuated my son, and to give them my blessing."
"Very good, your Grace. Is there anything else?"
Jean-Baptiste hesitated for a moment, brow furrowed slightly. In this new dawn for Grimhout, it was easy to thing of nothing but peace and love, but he had read the reports from the east, and he could little ignore the voices crying out in anguish and pain, still shackled and cowed by the ugly face of war. Nodding his head as he came to a decision, Jean-Baptiste spoke again, his voice ringing with authority.
"Call Monsieur Chevotet and Monsieur Seyrès to meet me in the Red Drawing Room, I have more letters to write. And inform the gathered commanders that I have something I wish to discuss with them all over dinner this evening. That will be all, Marc, thank you."
The valet bowed, before moving through the narrow doorway at the far end of the gantry, and disappearing into the palace beyond. Jean-Baptiste let out a sigh, now that he finally alone, and leaned against the gantry railing. Below him, the conversations continued, unaware that the Arch-Duke stood above them, and in that brief moment of peace, Jean-Baptiste allowed himself to relax. But only in that brief moment. Straightening up, the Arch-Duke straightened his ceremonial uniform, and walked briskly along the gantry, towards the doorway that led back into the world of responsibility and duty.
