The Book of the Courtier

"I am as swift, milord, as the breeze itself! Why, I am not standing before you at all! I am five feet away! Did I fool you? Such is my preternatural agility!"



You whip out your pistol and flourish it for emphasis.

"My draw is quicksilver and my tongue all the more! I have talked walls into unknitting the lime between their cracks and falling to pieces before me! I fast-talk the pants off a picaroon faster than you can say please get that halberd out of my face."



Viscia takes in a great inhalation to knock his heart from his throat back into the vault of his ribs.
"You're certainly fast on the draw, boy, and your heart seems to be generally in the right place, so let me offer you some advice: Maybe don't go waving a gun around in someone's reception hall."



"Sorry, milord! The lax manners of the country haven't exactly prepared me for court."

"Indeed? Well." Viscia sits gingerly back down.



"Your display, as impressive and ill-conceived as it was, is not quite the proof I desire before your fealty is sworn. Is there some more impressive proof of this rapidity in disposition you can give me?"

"Such as, milord?"

"There's always some sort of malevolent beasty or bandit afoot in the countryside to prove your martial worth against." Viscia shrugs. "Or perhaps you could duel some fiery squarer you find in town. Or something of that sort. If you want to show me that quick wit of yours I have a daughter you could marry. No? Just checking." He sighs. "Would that someone would take the wench off my hands."