dear_mun | New Muse: Voice Test

Aren't you a handsome devil? In the name of all the gods that never were, I swear that I have never met a man with such a striking profile! And how dignified you are, my, my.

Though you ought, sir, to take care when inviting any lady to do as she will. The consequences may prove more than you had bargained for.

Edited 2013-03-30 23:01 (UTC)

[Raoul's eyebrows rise in surprise and his eyes lighten. Then he laughs, heartily and warmly.]

Well, Damn me.... we could be brothers, you and I. Imagine that...

[He steps closer, dropping his head to one side as he observes Grantaire.]

Never let it be said that the almighty does not have a sense of humor. What is your name, friend?

[Grantaire has spent enough time here not to be tremendously surprised by much. This sight of this man had thrown him for an instant, yes, but his primary response is amusement, and his enthusiasm emanates unbound. After all, in comparison with the last, ah, uncannily similar man he'd met, this one can't be too much of a trial.]

Perhaps we are indeed brothers, in some strange twist of this collision of universes. Or your almighty, if you prefer; out of respect for a potential brother, I shall restrain myself at present from debating you on that point.

I am called--and rightly so--Aleron Grantaire. [He offers an elaborate bow, grinning all the while.] And you, my perhaps-relation?

Viscount Raoul de Chagny. [He makes a quick, neat bow. Grantaire's exaggerated courtliness does seem to amuse him.]

Debate me, Sir? Debate me as you please, I have nothing to hide. You come bearing my own likeness. I believe that we have no need to stand on ceremony.

A Viscount! Do I hear it spoken true? You are no faux-Viscount, no over-reaching lord, no actor at play? Then I must count this a ten-fold honor, as well as a confirmed pleasure!

Come, if we are to speak further, and certainly if we are to throw open the floodgates of debate, we must have wine. [He gestures toward a nearby table.] Will you do me the honor? Will you join in this endeavor?

It is true indeed. [He laughs, amused by Grantaire's nature.]

I will indeed, wine sounds lovely.

I see you are a man of capital spirit, as well as heady title. What fortune for me, that I have found such a compatriot, such a respecter of the vine! [Dropping into a seat, he pours a glass for the Viscount, then another for himself.]

Capital, my good man!

[He sits down in the chair with neat, quick movements and lifts the glass.]

To your good health, Sir.

[Then he takes a smell of the wine.... then a taste.]

Oh my, wherever did you get this?

[Grantaire is already pouring his second glass as he shrugs.] Where does one ever find fair wine? Simply close your eyes, inhale, and pursue the scent. Though for a could-be-brother, I might just be willing to part with a bottle. You must have suitable fortification as you acquaint yourself with This Great Wherever.

All right then, let me ask again.

Where does one find better than fair wine>

[He's realizing getting answers out of his double may be difficult.]

Why ask such questions, good sir, when there are countless others to pluck from the universe, and questions with far more to mine? This is no world of ends and absolutes! Why, even more than the world from which I stumbled, this is a realm inexplicable, its existence the very defiance of all science, all theology, all our minds may dream! Understand, I do not fault you for your focus on wine--my god and ungod, I should rather laud you for it!--I simply challenge you to seek further, ask elsewhere. Try your mind, O Viscount, on the infinite mysteries of the un-universe!

I'd rather set my mind to the unanswerable question of who pressed these grapes and with what? A good number of possibilities spring to mind and none of them exactly inviting.

[He sets the glass down.]

How about us, then, how are we in this... strange dream of a place? Have you considered that? Is that lofty enough?

No? Then you may tell yourself that this is the wine of the gods in the truest sense, produced by Dionysus himself in a fit of generosity and concern for we wine-starved denizens of the living, breathing world. Let it never be said that the gods have no mercy, however mad they may be!

This place, though... [He finishes his glass, pours another.] Lofty indeed, and perhaps and object for infinite speculation. Ever-changing, its inhabitants an inexplicable assortment, its boundaries porous, you might say unstable (I, at any rate, would say as much). Where I came from, I may have slipped out of life; who can say? And who can say what constitutes death if we carry on as such?

Still, that is no certain answer, for suspicions of my own suggest that it isn't so simple a matter as dying and appearing in this place. Where and when, for instance, have you wandered from?

You can talk, can't you? You're not saying that you think we may be dead, are you?

I for one, am not. Wouldn't I know?

God is playing a joke indeed if this is some kind of afterlife.

No... no it's not that. I'm sure of that. So then, we dream?

[Grantaire is rather delighted with the cluster of questions. This too-familiar-looking Viscount is adding substantial amusement to his evening, innocuous as he seems to be.] Ah, Monsieur, and why should you have recognized the moment of your death? Did this god of yours offer some sacred promise of awareness? Are men of your age (whatever age that may hail from, though I daresay you smell of a world not too far from my own), are you blessed with some foreknowledge of death? How fortunate, and how wretched you must be!

But fear not: I make no certain claim that you or even I have died. I suggest only the possibility, gifted--what a word!--as I am with the knowledge of what I saw. I hold no evidence, and must add that I have met others who have given combat to the idea. Trust not my words, nor any conclusions I may claim to draw. All, you understand, is provisional.

Drink your wine, my good Viscount, and keep a clear head. What good could distress possibly do for you? Whether we are dead or adrift in dreams, whether we are in some new world, higher world, foundational world, who is to say? Whatever and however this place may be, we retain consciousness here. We perceive it as clearly as we see one another. We have no name for it, and our prior experience has not prepared us for an understanding (though, it must be admitted, there was little enough sense in the world before this).

No, I do not claim any knowledge of my death. But, I did rather hope that the event would not transpire without my notice. Yet, I am neither fortunate or wretched, I believe. I am as good as any man, and no better than any other.

But you are right. Our eyes are open and our heads clear. What else is there to say, other than we are here, and there is no doubt to it.

[Little comfort as it is.] I think I shall stomach the wine after all.

How sporting of you, to overcome your finicky ways. Am I to take it that you are a connoisseur? I suppose all Viscounts are schooled from their earliest days in the cultivation of the palate. My own education has been more rough-hewn, an accumulation of uncouth experiences and years spent well-acquainted with this or that bottle. What I have learned is that the cheapest of wine works its wonders as well as the most widely heralded, and so I need not trouble myself with discernment.

Keep an eye out, and you are certain to find wine more to your liking. You might find anything and anyone here, strange, strange un-place that this is. (And as for whether we are here, rest assured that I might easily find doubt to our existence, and with very little application of my thought. You may also rest assured that I will not trouble you with this discourse at present.)

What do you mean? Is it as simple as closing your eyes and wishing here? Perhaps we are dead after all. Though, if that were always true I'd expect thing would be different. And yet, if we do not know the power perhaps it doesn't matter after all...

Oh, no, nothing quite so simple as that... Though perhaps with the proper technique (surely, someone here must know), you may bring wishes into life. Wouldn't that be lovely, your fondest desires made manifest, all without effort? The world would split at the seams.

What I mean is that this un-place seems something of a collision of time and place, and we who shift through it may well find ourselves thrown into still other worlds--sub-worlds or worlds entirely removed, I cannot say. What I mean is that brethren though we may seem, you and I almost certainly have been carried from different wheres or times. I was plucked from the minor wreckage of Paris in 1832. Can you say the same?

How strange it is! I was taken from Paris, yes, but some fifty years past that. Imagine.

Perhaps that explains things. Perhaps I am a descendant of yours?

[He laughs; this man is almost preciously unseasoned.] God help any child who might lay claim to my paternity! So far as I am aware--and fortunately for the fate of France--I myself left no progeny behind. I cannot, of course, say what may have occurred beyond my knowledge; such occurrences are not unknown in Paris, and I was not unknown to the lovely ladies of the city.

And I should add that I've no sense of what may have come to my relations. One imagines that there are those among their count who chose to people the world with further mouths and crowding bodies. Still, Monsieur Viscount, it must be said that my family is not known for producing members of lofty rank.

[He scoffs.] It's a title, but hardly a lofty one. Come now, Monsieur. You do not give yourself your due. You are well spoken clearly, and as bright as any man of high rank I've spoken to.

[Raoul blushes a bit at the mention of bastard children. His brother is experienced enough, and certainly had some 'wild oats' and if he had an illegitimate child well, Raoul wouldn't be shocked. Yet, to speak of it so freely seems against decency. So, he avoids the subject with a flush.]

[Ah, dear. It appears that the Viscount is possessed of delicate sensibilities. Although it is rather endearing, it won't stop Grantaire from speaking freely (very little will).]

Many a man of means has not a scrap of sense in his head, and I have often wondered whether this man or that has sold his brain for a handful of coins. What use has a wealthy man for a brain? Such a troublesome organ could only cloud his happiness--I should say 'cloud his happiness further,' for when have you met a rich man untrouble by the trials of finances?--and crowd his affairs with superfluous details.

As for me, I am a fool, but one well-schooled in the art of babble. It is my shall-I-say salvation that this nonsense of mine is often mistaken for intelligence. Be wary of anything that I may say or claim. Here or elsewhere, never trust what you are told; we are all of us liars, speaking deceptions far beyond our own recognition. Listen harder--that is my lesson; take it as wisdom passed down from a could-be relation. [He is smiling still, though the words are largely in earnest.]

Oh come now, but you judge too harshly. I don't doubt that there are many a useless man who inherited his money and lives off of it being of no use to anyone. Men who would not be able to do so much as button his vest without a valet to help him. But aren't there also a good many men who prosper through their own wit and skill? Come, Sir.

[But his tone stays amiable.] Yet you Sir, are no fool. And I do not believe that fortune would make you one. Though, I do rather think you'd be much more intoxicated if you were.

If it is a lie then let it be a lie. Nothing has sense or meaning in this place at any rate, so why not? Let us all be liars.

I speak as I see, but I also see and speak in extravagance. I will grant you that there may and perhaps must be exceptions to every rule, and that there stands somewhere a man of mind and money, both. Whether either of these commodities is truly to be lauded remains a matter for debate, but true, the combination must somewhere exist.

Ah, dear Viscount, that I could only become more intoxicated than I am, and so drift among the currents of benumbed, bemused existence. I am a drunkard who cannot be wholly drunk! And you say I am no fool? Give it time, and you will see the full bloom of my fooldom. Or perhaps you will not, perhaps I have become a veritable chameleon, shifting my words to bare the look of sense.

But 'let us all be liars'? [Another laugh as he pours his next glass of wine, then offers Raoul the bottle.] What a sentiment, and how sporting of you to take it on! Indeed, how are we to lie if nothing stands fixed? Is there some solid truth within myself and another within your own? Have these been demolished? And did they ever stand, at all? My god, my un-god, my never-god, you are a fine spirit.

Opps!

runningintothesea - 2013-04-22 00:39 (UTC) - Expand

New Muse: Voice Test

deal with it.

Re: deal with it.

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Opps!