Zi'da 49, 717
Venora Charity Gala
He felt compelled to create for himself an exit, a good moment to slip away for a drink, forcing the conversation to dwindle for Caius felt his own interpersonal endurance waning,
"Well, I'm quite confident that's not at all how the economy actually sarding works, but that's only because I have my own two hands in it, Lord Tulburn. Far be it from me to have an in the battle perspective or anything." The printer's diri smirked, wiggling ink-stained fingers without a hint of shame for emphasis, quite aware of the man he was speaking to, the memory of his garden's lovely ornamental pool and his daughter's party not terribly far from his ever-busy mind, "You can't just hoard nel and claim you're helping the poor. Because you're not. But you can't just toss it onto the cobblestones of Andaris, either. You have to put that coin where your mouth is, well, at least where the sweat is. Into the businesses of the working class."
He rubbed shoulders with that Fates-be-damned working class, after all—Basilius Moad, Professor Verigan, the paper mill workers of Andaris, carpenters, metalsmiths—and by the sweat of his own noble brow, he made something worthy right there alongside them. The young Gawyne was tired of the rhetoric that only the wealthy were responsible enough to handle real money and real power, that somehow cutting out the up-and-coming working class, the ignored political game changer that even the Merchant Houses chose to pretend wasn't gaining momentum under their noses, would benefit the Kingdom of Rynmere and strengthen the crown. It sarding wouldn't. The anti-noble sentiment would continue to grow so long as those deemed beneath those in power were worth keeping down. They weren't. Like a garden, they needed cultivation, but they would grow and blossom whether the King wanted them to or not.
It was the way of change, but no one wanted to recognize that golden nugget of knowledge. No one but a Gawyne.
Caius sighed, his words stirring debate about the relative value of coin in the current post-conflict economic times and he realized he'd failed to get their attentions, to capture their hearts. But it was the pause he needed, so he'd succeeded, even if he wasn't leaving them with the wisdom he'd hoped to convey. Smirking, he looked for Darcy, who wasn't far, but first the scholarly noble knew he needed just that one drink to give him fuel for the rest of the evening. For Fate's sake, it had almost been too long already.
Excusing himself from the quickly deteriorating conversation, fingers listlessly strayed to run through his eloquently unkempt hair as he walked with a purpose toward the tables of food and drink, brushing past a server to barely miss the tray the young woman held with such precarious skill. Reaching out to steady the clinking glassware, the printer's diri grinned with an awkwardly apologetic expression, the server smiling at him shyly before disappearing into the crowd with her drinks.
He forgot to take one—bogs!
Sharp blue eyes drifted to the tables set up with a far wider selection of drinks, wandering his choices before a woman passed before his vision, both familiar and yet not, for not only did their wider circles overlap by birthright but their more personal ones overlapped far more than perhaps either of them immediately realized. Caius had just never been granted an actual in-person sort of introduction, so, he'd have to do so himself,
"My Lady Warrick!" He smiled, swallowing the molten lead that churned in his chest and bit against the back of his tongue for getting himself into yet another sarding conversation, for he'd seen Charlotte Warrick with Oliver and wasn't stupid, not at all, though he personally had no objections to the apparent chemistry between them, "Excuse me if I'm interrupting you, but I don't believe anyone has quite exactly remembered to properly introduce us, though perhaps that's only because your presence has our Host rightfully distracted."
The northern noble's grin was lopsided with his compliment, and he offered a curt bow, "I'm Lord Caius Gawyne. The pleasure is mine."
"Well, I'm quite confident that's not at all how the economy actually sarding works, but that's only because I have my own two hands in it, Lord Tulburn. Far be it from me to have an in the battle perspective or anything." The printer's diri smirked, wiggling ink-stained fingers without a hint of shame for emphasis, quite aware of the man he was speaking to, the memory of his garden's lovely ornamental pool and his daughter's party not terribly far from his ever-busy mind, "You can't just hoard nel and claim you're helping the poor. Because you're not. But you can't just toss it onto the cobblestones of Andaris, either. You have to put that coin where your mouth is, well, at least where the sweat is. Into the businesses of the working class."
He rubbed shoulders with that Fates-be-damned working class, after all—Basilius Moad, Professor Verigan, the paper mill workers of Andaris, carpenters, metalsmiths—and by the sweat of his own noble brow, he made something worthy right there alongside them. The young Gawyne was tired of the rhetoric that only the wealthy were responsible enough to handle real money and real power, that somehow cutting out the up-and-coming working class, the ignored political game changer that even the Merchant Houses chose to pretend wasn't gaining momentum under their noses, would benefit the Kingdom of Rynmere and strengthen the crown. It sarding wouldn't. The anti-noble sentiment would continue to grow so long as those deemed beneath those in power were worth keeping down. They weren't. Like a garden, they needed cultivation, but they would grow and blossom whether the King wanted them to or not.
It was the way of change, but no one wanted to recognize that golden nugget of knowledge. No one but a Gawyne.
Caius sighed, his words stirring debate about the relative value of coin in the current post-conflict economic times and he realized he'd failed to get their attentions, to capture their hearts. But it was the pause he needed, so he'd succeeded, even if he wasn't leaving them with the wisdom he'd hoped to convey. Smirking, he looked for Darcy, who wasn't far, but first the scholarly noble knew he needed just that one drink to give him fuel for the rest of the evening. For Fate's sake, it had almost been too long already.
Excusing himself from the quickly deteriorating conversation, fingers listlessly strayed to run through his eloquently unkempt hair as he walked with a purpose toward the tables of food and drink, brushing past a server to barely miss the tray the young woman held with such precarious skill. Reaching out to steady the clinking glassware, the printer's diri grinned with an awkwardly apologetic expression, the server smiling at him shyly before disappearing into the crowd with her drinks.
He forgot to take one—bogs!
Sharp blue eyes drifted to the tables set up with a far wider selection of drinks, wandering his choices before a woman passed before his vision, both familiar and yet not, for not only did their wider circles overlap by birthright but their more personal ones overlapped far more than perhaps either of them immediately realized. Caius had just never been granted an actual in-person sort of introduction, so, he'd have to do so himself,
"My Lady Warrick!" He smiled, swallowing the molten lead that churned in his chest and bit against the back of his tongue for getting himself into yet another sarding conversation, for he'd seen Charlotte Warrick with Oliver and wasn't stupid, not at all, though he personally had no objections to the apparent chemistry between them, "Excuse me if I'm interrupting you, but I don't believe anyone has quite exactly remembered to properly introduce us, though perhaps that's only because your presence has our Host rightfully distracted."
The northern noble's grin was lopsided with his compliment, and he offered a curt bow, "I'm Lord Caius Gawyne. The pleasure is mine."
❦
