Chapter 242 - The Winter Festival VIII
Lia checked over her equipment one last time as she wandered down a long, empty hall. Though the ice and snow used in its making was abundant, the catgirl could only gawk, knowing that it had been constructed overnight. For a makeshift venue, it was surprisingly durable; the snow-packed barriers could take far more damage than the glass protectors the locals used for their homes and businesses, and they were even warmer to boot. She could practically feel the flaming torches that hung off the walls, illuminating the otherwise dark passage. Without the resulting light, she never would have guessed that the floor was also made of snow. Her feet never sank when she walked, nor did any of it stick to her greaves. It was like someone a thousand times her weight had stepped on every patch and carefully compacted it to its maximum density.
She didn’t encounter anyone else until she reached the end of the corridor, where a bespeckled centaur stood with a large clipboard in hand. She was accompanied by a number of gruff men, all of whom were seated atop a slightly elevated platform. They, she presumed, had served as the morning entertainment. Their injuries were already gone, no doubt thanks to the healers standing by in the corner, but the fresh blood that stained their ripped-up clothes could not be so easily hidden.
“Are you Lia?” asked the horse lady. Her voice was carried not with the warmth or friendliness that one would expect from a receptionist, but rather an air of annoyance. It didn’t look like she had even the slightest desire to be present.
“Y-yes, that would be me.” She couldn’t stop herself from being nervous. It had been a long, long time since she last participated in a public exhibition match, and the last had ended in her total defeat.
The mare looked at her for a moment, half appraisingly, before pointing at an empty chair with her quill. “Take a seat. It’ll be your turn after the stage is cleared.”
“Okay, thank you.” The catgirl moved to her designated spot and cautiously inspected her chair. Her seat, like just about everything else, was largely made of the same stuff as the floor. The soft white pillow’s legs were the only exception. They were forged of ice instead so that the chairs could remain mobile with continuous use.
When she settled in and looked forward, Lia found herself with a perfect view of the colosseum. As was apparent from the lack of water, it had been moved from its previous location. The old building had been demolished by its new owner, who claimed he was looking to erect some sort of shopping center instead. The man had gone on to make a statement regarding his commitment to supporting local businesses, but Natalya was not so blind as to take the claim at face value. The Cadrians fashioned themselves as warriors, but they cared more for victory than the methods that wrought it. It was only to preserve their facades that they bothered to act any differently. That, she had confirmed through an extended observation of the usual moose.
Thinking of the enigmatic creature drove Natalya to look towards the VIP boxes, one of which she had been standing around in just fifteen minutes prior. The count’s party was not as formal as any of the others she had been stuck attending, the worst offender of which had been her godmother’s. The old huskar had spent the better part of an evening introducing the catgirl and her party to a seemingly infinite slew of merchants and policy makers alike. While Lia struggled to cope with the formalities, her friends had tackled them in stride. Claire and Arciel were both accustomed to similar situations, and neither flinched even when the huskar mentioned the stations of those that they saw.
Count Ray'esce's event fleshed out its ranks with commoners, but that was not to say that it was necessarily stress free. As everyone invited had been chosen first and foremost for the military might they could muster, there were proud warriors that stood morally and politically opposed in the same room, eating from the same tables, and conversing about the same topics. Each individual had a mask to cover their face and obscure their identity, but it was not as if the guests had no idea who they were dealing with. Anyone with eyes could easily determine that the bulky, lobster-faced warrior was the captain of Vel’khagan’s city guard. Lord Turrak likewise stood out as the only penguin on the scene, and it took little effort to identify the sole human male as the minister of agriculture and exports. Most obvious of all, however, were a pair of cheeky, wolf-eared fembrats. They were clearly Lana and Tessa Penhorn, joint queens of the Penhorn pirates, notorious in all the northern lands.
The partygoers themselves were not at all ignorant of their circumstances, and addressed each other directly by name. Hostile, suspicious glares were similarly shot all over. Those that weren’t recognized were treated like enemies—reinforcements for those that were. And as a fairly ordinary person with no real connections to any party in particular, Lia had found herself subjected to nothing but hostility and suspicion. Her scheduled match was a godsend, a windfall that allowed her to escape the tense atmosphere and do away with her nerves.
Taking a breath and finally turning her eyes on the ring, she watched as the staff cleaned up after the last encounter. A line of twenty scyphs moved back and forth across the ring, sucking up bits of debris, while mermaids and penguins followed in their wake. The second wave of casters was tasked with restoring the snow. They brought fresh balls of it with them and used their magic to compact it into the ground.
The receptionist gestured for her to stand as the workers exited the stage. Her clipboard still in hand, the horse silently led her down another hall. Lia’s nerves bit at her with each step. Paunse’s colosseums made a show of introducing each combatant and broadcasting a summary of their abilities to the audience, but there was no such broadcast. She was simply shown onto the stage and silently laid before the crowd. Lia had been caught off guard when they watched their first duel, earlier in the day, but Claire had explained that it was the Cadrian norm. The noise was considered disruptive, pointless, and generally in bad taste. If one wished to learn about the fighters’ abilities, they needed only to ask others nearby. Someone or other was sure to know, or at least provide some degree of speculation.
Natalya’s opponent stepped out at roughly the same time she did. He was an absolute meatball of a warrior, a giant that stood at over ten meters tall. His physique was lean but muscular, and his face was covered with a shaggy brown beard. A pair of knives hung off his belt. Relatively speaking, they were tiny, but they easily eclipsed both the pencil-thin rapier sitting on her waist and the cavalry-killer strapped to her back.
She broke into a dash as the bell rang. Some of the other fighters had been impressive enough to match her while she was boosted, and that was precisely why she refrained from committing too many of her resources. Her opponent appeared to be of the same mind. When their eyes met, she found his gaze vacant and unresponsive. It was like he didn’t care for her attack or any of the damage it would fail to inflict. Seeing that, the catgirl immediately prepared to be parried; she sacrificed fifty points of health to strengthen her neck before swinging the two-handed weapon straight at his knees. She bit down extra hard to brace for impact, but it never came.
Her blade bit through his bone. Blood erupted from the fresh stump as the man collapsed face first, eyes rolled into the back of his head. Lia was left to blink back her bewilderment as the medical staff rushed onto the scene and reattached his severed limb. Evidently, the match was over. Even though hardly an instant had passed.
___
“She’s not very perceptive, is she?” Sylvia stifled a giggle as she watched the confused cat wander off the stage. Her eyes were wide the whole time, her silly expression unchanging even as she returned to the fighters’ stands. “Aren’t warriors supposed to be good at telling how strong people are?”
“I was under the impression that such a feat was impossible,” said Arciel. “The racial divide often transforms apparent weaknesses into powerful tools.”
“You can do it if you’re used to fighting whatever it is you’re trying to appraise, but any giant that chooses to become a rogue and leave his country is a fool. They aren’t exactly going to be hiding from much, standing at that height,” said Matthias.
The party was standing at the edge of the massive ice box that was their venue, looking down on the arena below. Their suite was larger than the others, largely thanks to the invitation extended to Marquis Pollux himself. The count had spoken to him regarding the party, and he had been eager to accommodate, knowing that it would put the princess’ faction in his debt. On his part, the effort was minimal to begin with. The temporary structure had been crafted by mages, built of the materials available all around.
“Really? But Claire always seems to kinda know how strong things are. Oh, and my dad can see levels and classes kinda, so he can pretty much do it too!”
“I can’t tell how strong things are,” said the scalewarden. “I just know if I can kill them.”
“That’s just the same thing, but less precise!”
“I suppose that is not an incorrect interpretation, but I would struggle to label it as entirely accurate,” said Arciel, as she rubbed the bridge of the nose.
As the guest of honour and central figure in the upcoming deposition, she had been swamped with conversation partners aplenty. It was only because she claimed she wanted to watch her friend’s match that she was able to slip away from the party, and even then, its more ambitious negotiators had tried to hound her. They stopped only when Claire and Matthias insisted with their respective silent gestures and intimidating smiles that the lady had meant she needed a breath of fresh air.
While not entirely untrue to begin with, the argument was greatly aided by her overall presentation. She was, for once, dressed as a princess instead of a witch. Her signature hat was resting on Count Ray’esce’s living room table, her lunar markings had been covered up by a thick layer of makeup, and her clothing had been adjusted to suit the occasion. The corset she wore was especially tight around her waist, and her dress had a thin silhouette to aid in providing the impression of a harmless, dainty maiden. Her face was obscured like many of the other guests’, but with a veil instead of a mask.
“Is it just me, or do you sound kinda tired?” asked Sylvia.
“You would be correct. It brings me nothing but pain to know that I must maintain this facade until dinnertime at the least.”
“Wait, dinner?” Sylvia opened her eyes wide. “Are we really going to be stuck here all day!?”
“She is. We don’t have to be,” said Claire.
The claim was met with a violent response. Arciel grabbed onto the lyrkress’ shoulders, her fingers shaking and her eyes swirling. “Surely, Claire, you would not be so cruel as to abandon a friend in such a time of need?”
“This is hardly a time of need.” The reckless earwarden raised a hand to push the other noble lady away, but stopped upon sensing an onlooker’s gaze. She turned to the bearded gentleman instead, and stared until he averted his gaze before recommitting herself to the petty harassment. “See? All you have to do is intimidate them.”
“That is far too Cadrian an approach. They may be our allies now, but will one day do to me as they are doing to the harlot, should I treat them so obtusely.”
“They’ll try it anyway. You’ll need to be an aspect at least if you want to cement your rule with violence.”
“I would much rather carry forward with a promise of prosperity.”
“Violence is better. Fewer headaches.”
“Oh, speaking of violence, wouldn’t this be like, a reeeeaaaally good time for someone to try and attack us?” asked Sylvia. “I mean, you’ve pretty much got a bunch of super important people here that are working with you and stuff, right?”
Matthias laughed, his mandibles clattering noisily as he pressed his scythes into the ground. “They’d have to be crazy to try. We’ve got ten times as many fighters as we had last time they attacked, and we’ve put the fear of us into them already.”
“You are growing complacent, Matthias. We repelled a pair of units. They could very well bear down on us with the full brunt of the army’s might should they be willing to bear the international dispute to follow.”
“The army’s a joke. I’d be more afraid of a few elites, myself,” said the mantis.
“I doubt they’d get very far,” said Claire. She scanned the arena as she spoke, her eyes focusing on the many armed guards scattered throughout. “Pollux has his own scattered around.”
The statement was not exactly false, but it was backed by little of the moose’s confidence. She had no idea exactly how strong the marquis’ best soldiers were—or if they were even present to begin with—but the common rabble polluting his ranks was practically worthless. His scouts, at least, encouraged career soldiers the world over to seek an untainted label. They were certainly resolved for death, but she had seen civilians that developed greater strength and speed after just a few week’s worth of training.
“Whatever the case, I believe it is time that I return to entertaining our guests, lest I am willing to risk a loss of confidence.” Arciel reached for her fan, only to frown when her fingers found it nonpresent. It too was sitting on the admiral’s coffee table.
“It’s hardly been five minutes. You could probably waste a few more without anyone complaining,” said Matthias.
“It is precisely that attitude that has prevented you from earning your promotions, rhiar.”
“Eh, don’t need ‘em. The higher up the ranks I go, the less I get to go in swinging.”
“Perhaps an evaluation of your priorities may be in order.”
The noble lady shook her head as she spun around and returned to the crowd where the hungry sharks awaited. It didn’t even take a second for one to take the bait; she was approached immediately by a portly scyph whose tentacles were covered in gold rings.
“How wonderful it is to meet you, Princess. I am Arde Larggen, scyph wallspawner and the proprietor of the Arde Company.”
“The pleasure is mine, Arde. I am Arciel Vel’khan, imperial bloodkraken, and heir to the Vel’khanese throne.” It was the very same line she had repeated over a dozen times already. She was sick of speaking it, but alas, she had yet to meet or greet all of the fifty-some participants.
“I have heard many great things from Lord Ray’esce, but I would like to confirm with you personally the details regarding our taxation policies going forward.”
“Of course, Mr. Larggen. The new administration shall endeavour to bring the taxation rate to a thirty-year low, with policies focused first and foremost on the growth of business. The flat rate tax per head is to be reduced to a single silver piece a year, while taxes pertaining to entrepreneurs and landowners is to be measured not as a percentage of revenue, but rather operating profits, the calculations of which may…”
Claire could feel herself zoning out. She kept her eyes from drooping, but they slowly lost their focus. She looked around for something to sharpen her hazy mind, but there was nothing. She half wished for an incident, just so there would be something to do, but alas, the party continued undisturbed, boring and tiresome as ever.
Chapter 242 - The Winter Festival VIII
Lia checked over her equipment one last time as she wandered down a long, empty hall. Though the ice and snow used in its making was abundant, the catgirl could only gawk, knowing that it had been constructed overnight. For a makeshift venue, it was surprisingly durable; the snow-packed barriers could take far more damage than the glass protectors the locals used for their homes and businesses, and they were even warmer to boot. She could practically feel the flaming torches that hung off the walls, illuminating the otherwise dark passage. Without the resulting light, she never would have guessed that the floor was also made of snow. Her feet never sank when she walked, nor did any of it stick to her greaves. It was like someone a thousand times her weight had stepped on every patch and carefully compacted it to its maximum density.
She didn’t encounter anyone else until she reached the end of the corridor, where a bespeckled centaur stood with a large clipboard in hand. She was accompanied by a number of gruff men, all of whom were seated atop a slightly elevated platform. They, she presumed, had served as the morning entertainment. Their injuries were already gone, no doubt thanks to the healers standing by in the corner, but the fresh blood that stained their ripped-up clothes could not be so easily hidden.
“Are you Lia?” asked the horse lady. Her voice was carried not with the warmth or friendliness that one would expect from a receptionist, but rather an air of annoyance. It didn’t look like she had even the slightest desire to be present.
“Y-yes, that would be me.” She couldn’t stop herself from being nervous. It had been a long, long time since she last participated in a public exhibition match, and the last had ended in her total defeat.
The mare looked at her for a moment, half appraisingly, before pointing at an empty chair with her quill. “Take a seat. It’ll be your turn after the stage is cleared.”
“Okay, thank you.” The catgirl moved to her designated spot and cautiously inspected her chair. Her seat, like just about everything else, was largely made of the same stuff as the floor. The soft white pillow’s legs were the only exception. They were forged of ice instead so that the chairs could remain mobile with continuous use.
When she settled in and looked forward, Lia found herself with a perfect view of the colosseum. As was apparent from the lack of water, it had been moved from its previous location. The old building had been demolished by its new owner, who claimed he was looking to erect some sort of shopping center instead. The man had gone on to make a statement regarding his commitment to supporting local businesses, but Natalya was not so blind as to take the claim at face value. The Cadrians fashioned themselves as warriors, but they cared more for victory than the methods that wrought it. It was only to preserve their facades that they bothered to act any differently. That, she had confirmed through an extended observation of the usual moose.
Thinking of the enigmatic creature drove Natalya to look towards the VIP boxes, one of which she had been standing around in just fifteen minutes prior. The count’s party was not as formal as any of the others she had been stuck attending, the worst offender of which had been her godmother’s. The old huskar had spent the better part of an evening introducing the catgirl and her party to a seemingly infinite slew of merchants and policy makers alike. While Lia struggled to cope with the formalities, her friends had tackled them in stride. Claire and Arciel were both accustomed to similar situations, and neither flinched even when the huskar mentioned the stations of those that they saw.
Count Ray'esce's event fleshed out its ranks with commoners, but that was not to say that it was necessarily stress free. As everyone invited had been chosen first and foremost for the military might they could muster, there were proud warriors that stood morally and politically opposed in the same room, eating from the same tables, and conversing about the same topics. Each individual had a mask to cover their face and obscure their identity, but it was not as if the guests had no idea who they were dealing with. Anyone with eyes could easily determine that the bulky, lobster-faced warrior was the captain of Vel’khagan’s city guard. Lord Turrak likewise stood out as the only penguin on the scene, and it took little effort to identify the sole human male as the minister of agriculture and exports. Most obvious of all, however, were a pair of cheeky, wolf-eared fembrats. They were clearly Lana and Tessa Penhorn, joint queens of the Penhorn pirates, notorious in all the northern lands.
The partygoers themselves were not at all ignorant of their circumstances, and addressed each other directly by name. Hostile, suspicious glares were similarly shot all over. Those that weren’t recognized were treated like enemies—reinforcements for those that were. And as a fairly ordinary person with no real connections to any party in particular, Lia had found herself subjected to nothing but hostility and suspicion. Her scheduled match was a godsend, a windfall that allowed her to escape the tense atmosphere and do away with her nerves.
Taking a breath and finally turning her eyes on the ring, she watched as the staff cleaned up after the last encounter. A line of twenty scyphs moved back and forth across the ring, sucking up bits of debris, while mermaids and penguins followed in their wake. The second wave of casters was tasked with restoring the snow. They brought fresh balls of it with them and used their magic to compact it into the ground.
The receptionist gestured for her to stand as the workers exited the stage. Her clipboard still in hand, the horse silently led her down another hall. Lia’s nerves bit at her with each step. Paunse’s colosseums made a show of introducing each combatant and broadcasting a summary of their abilities to the audience, but there was no such broadcast. She was simply shown onto the stage and silently laid before the crowd. Lia had been caught off guard when they watched their first duel, earlier in the day, but Claire had explained that it was the Cadrian norm. The noise was considered disruptive, pointless, and generally in bad taste. If one wished to learn about the fighters’ abilities, they needed only to ask others nearby. Someone or other was sure to know, or at least provide some degree of speculation.
Natalya’s opponent stepped out at roughly the same time she did. He was an absolute meatball of a warrior, a giant that stood at over ten meters tall. His physique was lean but muscular, and his face was covered with a shaggy brown beard. A pair of knives hung off his belt. Relatively speaking, they were tiny, but they easily eclipsed both the pencil-thin rapier sitting on her waist and the cavalry-killer strapped to her back.
She broke into a dash as the bell rang. Some of the other fighters had been impressive enough to match her while she was boosted, and that was precisely why she refrained from committing too many of her resources. Her opponent appeared to be of the same mind. When their eyes met, she found his gaze vacant and unresponsive. It was like he didn’t care for her attack or any of the damage it would fail to inflict. Seeing that, the catgirl immediately prepared to be parried; she sacrificed fifty points of health to strengthen her neck before swinging the two-handed weapon straight at his knees. She bit down extra hard to brace for impact, but it never came.
Her blade bit through his bone. Blood erupted from the fresh stump as the man collapsed face first, eyes rolled into the back of his head. Lia was left to blink back her bewilderment as the medical staff rushed onto the scene and reattached his severed limb. Evidently, the match was over. Even though hardly an instant had passed.
___
“She’s not very perceptive, is she?” Sylvia stifled a giggle as she watched the confused cat wander off the stage. Her eyes were wide the whole time, her silly expression unchanging even as she returned to the fighters’ stands. “Aren’t warriors supposed to be good at telling how strong people are?”
“I was under the impression that such a feat was impossible,” said Arciel. “The racial divide often transforms apparent weaknesses into powerful tools.”
“You can do it if you’re used to fighting whatever it is you’re trying to appraise, but any giant that chooses to become a rogue and leave his country is a fool. They aren’t exactly going to be hiding from much, standing at that height,” said Matthias.
The party was standing at the edge of the massive ice box that was their venue, looking down on the arena below. Their suite was larger than the others, largely thanks to the invitation extended to Marquis Pollux himself. The count had spoken to him regarding the party, and he had been eager to accommodate, knowing that it would put the princess’ faction in his debt. On his part, the effort was minimal to begin with. The temporary structure had been crafted by mages, built of the materials available all around.
“Really? But Claire always seems to kinda know how strong things are. Oh, and my dad can see levels and classes kinda, so he can pretty much do it too!”
“I can’t tell how strong things are,” said the scalewarden. “I just know if I can kill them.”
“That’s just the same thing, but less precise!”
“I suppose that is not an incorrect interpretation, but I would struggle to label it as entirely accurate,” said Arciel, as she rubbed the bridge of the nose.
As the guest of honour and central figure in the upcoming deposition, she had been swamped with conversation partners aplenty. It was only because she claimed she wanted to watch her friend’s match that she was able to slip away from the party, and even then, its more ambitious negotiators had tried to hound her. They stopped only when Claire and Matthias insisted with their respective silent gestures and intimidating smiles that the lady had meant she needed a breath of fresh air.
While not entirely untrue to begin with, the argument was greatly aided by her overall presentation. She was, for once, dressed as a princess instead of a witch. Her signature hat was resting on Count Ray’esce’s living room table, her lunar markings had been covered up by a thick layer of makeup, and her clothing had been adjusted to suit the occasion. The corset she wore was especially tight around her waist, and her dress had a thin silhouette to aid in providing the impression of a harmless, dainty maiden. Her face was obscured like many of the other guests’, but with a veil instead of a mask.
“Is it just me, or do you sound kinda tired?” asked Sylvia.
“You would be correct. It brings me nothing but pain to know that I must maintain this facade until dinnertime at the least.”
“Wait, dinner?” Sylvia opened her eyes wide. “Are we really going to be stuck here all day!?”
“She is. We don’t have to be,” said Claire.
The claim was met with a violent response. Arciel grabbed onto the lyrkress’ shoulders, her fingers shaking and her eyes swirling. “Surely, Claire, you would not be so cruel as to abandon a friend in such a time of need?”
“This is hardly a time of need.” The reckless earwarden raised a hand to push the other noble lady away, but stopped upon sensing an onlooker’s gaze. She turned to the bearded gentleman instead, and stared until he averted his gaze before recommitting herself to the petty harassment. “See? All you have to do is intimidate them.”
“That is far too Cadrian an approach. They may be our allies now, but will one day do to me as they are doing to the harlot, should I treat them so obtusely.”
“They’ll try it anyway. You’ll need to be an aspect at least if you want to cement your rule with violence.”
“I would much rather carry forward with a promise of prosperity.”
“Violence is better. Fewer headaches.”
“Oh, speaking of violence, wouldn’t this be like, a reeeeaaaally good time for someone to try and attack us?” asked Sylvia. “I mean, you’ve pretty much got a bunch of super important people here that are working with you and stuff, right?”
Matthias laughed, his mandibles clattering noisily as he pressed his scythes into the ground. “They’d have to be crazy to try. We’ve got ten times as many fighters as we had last time they attacked, and we’ve put the fear of us into them already.”
“You are growing complacent, Matthias. We repelled a pair of units. They could very well bear down on us with the full brunt of the army’s might should they be willing to bear the international dispute to follow.”
“The army’s a joke. I’d be more afraid of a few elites, myself,” said the mantis.
“I doubt they’d get very far,” said Claire. She scanned the arena as she spoke, her eyes focusing on the many armed guards scattered throughout. “Pollux has his own scattered around.”
The statement was not exactly false, but it was backed by little of the moose’s confidence. She had no idea exactly how strong the marquis’ best soldiers were—or if they were even present to begin with—but the common rabble polluting his ranks was practically worthless. His scouts, at least, encouraged career soldiers the world over to seek an untainted label. They were certainly resolved for death, but she had seen civilians that developed greater strength and speed after just a few week’s worth of training.
“Whatever the case, I believe it is time that I return to entertaining our guests, lest I am willing to risk a loss of confidence.” Arciel reached for her fan, only to frown when her fingers found it nonpresent. It too was sitting on the admiral’s coffee table.
“It’s hardly been five minutes. You could probably waste a few more without anyone complaining,” said Matthias.
“It is precisely that attitude that has prevented you from earning your promotions, rhiar.”
“Eh, don’t need ‘em. The higher up the ranks I go, the less I get to go in swinging.”
“Perhaps an evaluation of your priorities may be in order.”
The noble lady shook her head as she spun around and returned to the crowd where the hungry sharks awaited. It didn’t even take a second for one to take the bait; she was approached immediately by a portly scyph whose tentacles were covered in gold rings.
“How wonderful it is to meet you, Princess. I am Arde Larggen, scyph wallspawner and the proprietor of the Arde Company.”
“The pleasure is mine, Arde. I am Arciel Vel’khan, imperial bloodkraken, and heir to the Vel’khanese throne.” It was the very same line she had repeated over a dozen times already. She was sick of speaking it, but alas, she had yet to meet or greet all of the fifty-some participants.
“I have heard many great things from Lord Ray’esce, but I would like to confirm with you personally the details regarding our taxation policies going forward.”
“Of course, Mr. Larggen. The new administration shall endeavour to bring the taxation rate to a thirty-year low, with policies focused first and foremost on the growth of business. The flat rate tax per head is to be reduced to a single silver piece a year, while taxes pertaining to entrepreneurs and landowners is to be measured not as a percentage of revenue, but rather operating profits, the calculations of which may…”
Claire could feel herself zoning out. She kept her eyes from drooping, but they slowly lost their focus. She looked around for something to sharpen her hazy mind, but there was nothing. She half wished for an incident, just so there would be something to do, but alas, the party continued undisturbed, boring and tiresome as ever.
