Maximus Goratia Cartamandua-Celestine (maximusgoratia) wrote in madisonvalley, @ 2013-10-25 13:01:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, !open, ~2013 october, ~~!35 points, ~~cassiopeia black (cassiopeiablack), ~~max (maximusgoratia) |
WHO: Max and OPEN
WHAT: Finishing his map and thinking about family
WHERE: The Coffee Shop
WHEN: Friday afternoon
WARNINGS: TBD
STATUS: Open/Ongoing!
Max was quite done with this place. He'd had to go against custom again and again simply to live in this place, this place that had no respect for purebloods. It disgusted him, really, how the people in this place had seemed to take Valen under their wing - Valen! with all of his faults and failings - while looking at him as if he were, well, less. It infuriated him, and it was all he could do to keep his composure on some of these occasions.
Of course, they didn't know Valen like he did. They didn't know what he'd cost their family, the embarrassment he'd brought on them. But even more than that, they fell for his lies, the construction that he made of himself which made him look like the poor victimized one, and Max himself the villain.
In truth, Max had never approved of the way his father had treated Valen. He'd understood that he needed to be punished, that he needed control; discipline. But the beatings had made him sick. If he was ever permitted to marry and have a child, he was certain that he'd find better ways than that to instill a sense of family duty in his child. In fact, he was pretty sure that his father's cruelty hadn't done anything except make Valen turn further away from them.
Of course, he'd not made these feelings known to Valen. How could he? He was his father's heir, and he couldn't outwardly oppose him, not in that. So he'd laughed, and tried to force himself to forget what he'd seen. But it simply wasn't that easy. There was more to it. His father could have sold him to someone like Osriel if he'd displeased him. He'd have had no say in it, although he certainly would have had far more protections than Valen had.
He sighed, running his hand through his hair as he put the finishing touches on his map. It was nearly done, this one, anyway. He was proud of it; it was far more than a map - it was a work of art, and it would earn him another ten thousand dollars. The city seemed fascinated in his work, and willing to pay well for it. He grabbed his coffee and took a long drink of it, then dipped his quill in the liquid to make a fine brown line on the map, which he then laid a spell onto, smiling slightly.
"Ah, perfect. Of course." What else would a Cartamandua map be?