It is I, your Dandy King, Joachim Murat! I have finally decided to make -- what is this called again -- a blog for myself. Isn't it lovely? Lannes seemed to be having so much fun, I just couldn't sit by. Even Soult is enjoying this far more than he lets on. I think you call it FOMO, these days, right?
Anyhow, I've decided to change my mind and opened my inbox for your questions and queries. I was, I admit, a little uncertain of this place when I first arrived but, by the by, but I shall deal with it as it comes! Please drop your questions into "The Royal Inbox." I cannot guarantee I can or will answer everything, but I will try.
I will be making my appearances on the blogs of my friends and colleagues as well, so I shall be seeing you around. Ta!
Here's a handy guide to some of those friends, colleagues, and more.
@armagnac-army: Jean Lannes, Duke of Montebello, my buddy Gascon, the Greatest Gascon, that sheep guy
@askgeraudduroc: Geraud Christophe Michel Duroc, Grand Marshal of the Palace, beloved, Duke of Frioul, and Jean-Baptiste Bessières, also beloved, Duke of Istria, hunnybunkins
@le-brave-des-braves: Michel Ney, Duke of Elchingen, that ginger cannonball, do not taunt happy fun Ney
@murillo-enthusiast: Jean de Dieu Soult, Duke of Dalmatia, don't call him Nicolas, master of baked goods, has nothing to do with spotted dogs
@general-junot: Jean Andoche Junot, Duke of Abrantes, unhinged homewrecker
@chicksncash: André Masséna, Duke of Rivoli, Dear Child of Five-Fingered Discounts
@your-staff-wizard: Louis-Alexandre Berthier, Prince of Neuchatel, eternity's paper pusher
@trauma-and-truffles: Dominique-Jean Larrey, who knew that a doctor is still useful when you're dead
@askjackiedavid: Jacques Louis David, painter, mostly harmless
@carolinemurat: Caroline Murat, loving wife and beloved partner, the Queen of Naples
@generaldesaix: Louis Desaix, the prankster of the Grand Armée
@messenger-of-the-battlefield: Marceillin Marbot, one of Lannes' ADCs with uh, interesting perspectives
@perdicinae-observer: Louis-Nicolas Davout, Duke of Auerstadt, the Iron Marshal
@frencheaglet: Napoleon II, the boy!
@alexanderfanboy: 🤨
Jean-Baptiste Bessières occasionally wanders over from @askgeraudduroc, and his text will appear in green. Like this!
This is a joke RP account run by @phatburd for one of Napoleon's marshals and brother-in-law, Joachim Murat. He's not the only Murat out there in Tumblr RP land, and (I think) he peacefully co-exists with them all. All of them are simply facets and mirrors of Joachim Murat, and he loves nothing better to have more of himself around. We are all Murat.
This blog should be considered a 0% source of historical accuracy.
OOC Ramble 30 April 2024: On our Discord server @askgeraudduroc brought up voice claims for our RPs of various Napoleonic figures. Tiny Media's take on Murat earwormed me awhile back, probably due to having grown up in the American South. So in my head, Murat's been speaking with a Texan drawl this whole time.
Historically, Bessières had the same accent as Murat, just not quite as thick, so I've been hearing Bessie in my head with a not-as-thick Texas accent. 👀
I don't like writing in dialect, however, and I've been avoiding it due to not wanting to break immersion but with @askgeraudduroc's blessing, I'm going to drop in a few more Texan-isms into their dialogue. And "Hunnybunnkins." That's my Murat's pet name for Bessie. Is he going to Calle Bessie "Hunnybunnkins"? You betcha!
User icon art by @cadmusfly: Murat striking a Barbie pose on his trusty horse!
Bonjour, Maréchal Soult! Comment allez-vous? Je suis… Goodsir… un homme… un chirurgien, vous savez… qui vient avec un message très important de la part de Maréchal Bessières. Je suis vraiment désolé pour toute confusion précédente et… je ne veux pas déranger… juste, vous savoir si je peux vous parler un instant?
(Hello, Marshal Soult! How are you? I am… Goodsir… a man… a surgeon, you know… who comes with a very important message from Marshal Bessières. I am really sorry for any previous confusion and… I don’t want to disturb… just wondering if I can speak with you for a moment?)
(from @your-dandy-king, but not really)
In French, Soult icily tells his ADC,
... Brun, take this man and find out what he wants. Throw him out if he can't come up with a decent explanation in less than five minutes.
Brun: Entendu, Monsieur le Maréchal.
... Bonjour, Monsieur Goodsir.
Brun is going to speak his French very slowly.
Brun: You look... like you need a blanket. You claim to have a message from Marshal Bessières? What message does he bring, and... what did he look like, exactly?
“Ah, vous voyez, le Maréchal Bessières… il était… comment dire… très… venté, oui. Très venté, mais aussi… assez fort, vous savez? Un peu comme… comme une grande brise, oui? Peut-être qu’il était un peu… comme un pet, vous savez, mais plus… puissant, si vous voyez ce que je veux dire. Très venté, oui… Il soufflait beaucoup, comme ça…”
(Translation: “Ah, you see, Marshal Bessières… he was… how to say… very… windy, yes. Very windy, but also… rather strong, you know? A bit like… like a strong breeze, yes? Perhaps he was a bit… like a fart, you know, but more… powerful, if you see what I mean. Very windy, yes… He blew a lot, like that…”)
Moi? Je suis, euh… de l’eau, monsieur. Pas un pet, pas du tout! Je suis un… un… un homme d’eau! Oui, un homme d’eau, avec… euh… le travail scientifique.
(Me? I am, uh… water, sir. Not a fart, not at all! I am a… a man of water! Yes, a man of water, with… uh… scientific work.)
Quant au message… eh bien, Bessières dit que c’est très important! Je dois parler avec Soult directement, mais je ne sais pas tous les détails… Il a dit que c’est urgent, oui.
(As for the message… well, Bessières said it is very important! I must speak with Soult directly, but I don’t know all the details… He said it is urgent, yes.)
Goodsir takes an envelope out of his coat pocket and holds it up just out of Brun's reach.
Mais vraiment, je ne suis pas un pet. C’est important de comprendre ça, monsieur.
(But really, I am not a fart. It is important to understand that, sir.)
Bonjour, Maréchal Soult! Comment allez-vous? Je suis… Goodsir… un homme… un chirurgien, vous savez… qui vient avec un message très important de la part de Maréchal Bessières. Je suis vraiment désolé pour toute confusion précédente et… je ne veux pas déranger… juste, vous savoir si je peux vous parler un instant?
(Hello, Marshal Soult! How are you? I am… Goodsir… a man… a surgeon, you know… who comes with a very important message from Marshal Bessières. I am really sorry for any previous confusion and… I don’t want to disturb… just wondering if I can speak with you for a moment?)
(from @your-dandy-king, but not really)
In French, Soult icily tells his ADC,
... Brun, take this man and find out what he wants. Throw him out if he can't come up with a decent explanation in less than five minutes.
Brun: Entendu, Monsieur le Maréchal.
... Bonjour, Monsieur Goodsir.
Brun is going to speak his French very slowly.
Brun: You look... like you need a blanket. You claim to have a message from Marshal Bessières? What message does he bring, and... what did he look like, exactly?
“Ah, vous voyez, le Maréchal Bessières… il était… comment dire… très… venté, oui. Très venté, mais aussi… assez fort, vous savez? Un peu comme… comme une grande brise, oui? Peut-être qu’il était un peu… comme un pet, vous savez, mais plus… puissant, si vous voyez ce que je veux dire. Très venté, oui… Il soufflait beaucoup, comme ça…”
(Translation: “Ah, you see, Marshal Bessières… he was… how to say… very… windy, yes. Very windy, but also… rather strong, you know? A bit like… like a strong breeze, yes? Perhaps he was a bit… like a fart, you know, but more… powerful, if you see what I mean. Very windy, yes… He blew a lot, like that…”)
Damas Cadet: Really, bro? You couldn't just draw this?
Damas: I mean, I could but... I thought it was hilarious. Wasn't this Jeannot and Madame this Christmas?
Damas Cadet: Hell, we could use it for the wedding invites.
Damas: Shit, thanks for reminding me, I need to get hold of one of the 3 Bessieres; which one is the wedding planner?
Damas Cadet: Check with @your-dandy-king, or @bayard-de-la-garde or @askgeraudduroc or... @armagnac-army - I am not sure if it is Fire Bessie, Air (hole) Bessie or Egg Bessie.
Ahem, “Egg Bessie” isn’t in right now, but I’m sure any Bessie is adept as any other Bessie when it comes to planning a wedding. Who’s the lucky couple?
(Where is Bessie anyway? Shouldn’t he be home by now?)
Ah… I must confess, I am once again perplexed by the passage of time, if indeed there is any passage of time at all. How long has it been since I was found on that desolate Arctic shore? I still cannot remember what happened before that moment, nor where the rest of the crew went. One minute, I was struggling to survive the bitter cold, the next, a figure appeared before me—Marshal Jean-Baptiste Bessières, of all people! But how? He was dead long before I was even born. A man who should not have existed in my time… and yet there he was, before me, as real as any living man.
The first words he spoke were of miscommunication—he seemed as confused by my presence as I was by his. But, in time, I gathered that he needed my help. Perhaps he, too, had not quite grasped the situation. His form, shifting with a strange, ethereal quality, told me that he was no longer of flesh but of air. Air, he said… I scarcely know what to make of it. My mind rebels at the thought. How can a man become the very wind itself? But, if I am honest, my thoughts seem far less rebelious now that I have come to terms with this strange place. There is no sense in denying what I cannot understand.
He told me, in his otherworldly way, to seek out the Army of the Beyond, led by none other than Marshal Jean-de-Dieu Soult and Marshal Lannes. His touch upon my hand—so brief, so fleeting—sent a whirlwind of images and sensations through me. I saw him—no, felt him—shift into something beyond human comprehension, and in the next instant, I felt a tug in my very essence. I am air, Bessières had said. You are water. The meaning of his words still clings to my thoughts. I am no longer what I was. How is it that a man born of flesh and bone is now as much an elemental as the very seas I once studied?
Absurd, you say? Yes, I agree. But I find that I can no longer question it with the same fervor as before. There is something liberating about this understanding, strange as it is. I am water. Perhaps I am even the tide itself, lapping upon this endless shore of the afterlife, adrift with no real destination in sight.
Now, Marshal Soult awaits my arrival. And with it, my task to deliver a message on behalf of Marshal Bessières. Quel message? (What message?) I hardly know, for Bessières only told me that it was urgent. He also inquired whether I had seen an armored knight with a helmet shaped like a dog’s head—what a peculiar thing to ask—but I must say, I have not. Nor have I encountered any other water elementals, particularly those who tell foolish jokes.
But I digress. I must press on. Marshal Soult is a man of great renown, I understand, and the very thought of delivering a message to him fills me with uncertainty. How will he receive me? Will he recognize me for what I am? Will he listen to this strange tale I bring from the beyond?
In any case, I have been charged with this task, and I shall carry it out as best I can. Après tout… (After all…) What else can one do in this realm but move forward, even when it seems there is no clear path ahead?
"Ah Laselle, still gallivanting around even in the afterlife i see." The hussar spoke looking up at him from where he was sitting "So what brings you here into my humble abode?"
I’m not certain if I should be flattered or mildly insulted I’ve been mistaken for Lasalle, so I’ll just settle on mostly amused. For once in your afterlife, my dear man, you don’t need to look in a mirror to see yourself, hmm?
Oh no, it’s no insult to you at all, Lasalle. Although I’d like your opinion. Do you think perhaps if I had spent less time in front of mirrors he’d recognize me for himself?
Well, I suppose the time one spends in front of mirrors is time in which one cannot be seen by others, and thus less time to allow one's image to be remembered. But conversely, time spent before a mirror is used to ensure that one can be memorably dressed and presented in public.
I suppose it must be rather odd seeing another of yourself, perhaps it is simply some sort of reaction to the shock? That is not my expertise, however; at present I am only aware of one of me. Well, if we don't count that one... Maybe you ought to ask one of the Marshals Bessières about that.
"Ah well..." Murat paused trying to save the situation "Ahhh i was just pulling your leg other me; i surely didn't mess up no sir." The man gave a hardy laugh hoping the other's wouldn't notice his fibbing
"...So anyways; while we all are here shall we go do something entertaining?" The marshal hoped they'd not notice how much he was blushing out of embarrassment alone
"Ah Laselle, still gallivanting around even in the afterlife i see." The hussar spoke looking up at him from where he was sitting "So what brings you here into my humble abode?"
I’m not certain if I should be flattered or mildly insulted I’ve been mistaken for Lasalle, so I’ll just settle on mostly amused. For once in your afterlife, my dear man, you don’t need to look in a mirror to see yourself, hmm?
Oh no, it’s no insult to you at all, Lasalle. Although I’d like your opinion. Do you think perhaps if I had spent less time in front of mirrors he’d recognize me for himself?
"Ah Laselle, still gallivanting around even in the afterlife i see." The hussar spoke looking up at him from where he was sitting "So what brings you here into my humble abode?"
I’m not certain if I should be flattered or mildly insulted I’ve been mistaken for Lasalle, so I’ll just settle on mostly amused. For once in your afterlife, my dear man, you don’t need to look in a mirror to see yourself, hmm?
Omigush, I forgot to answer your letter earlier. i swear, I was interrupted by an angel named Aziraphale and a demon named Crawley. Or Crowley. I’m not sure which. Hm. Either way, they’re gone now, shooed out of my house.
I hope you will forgive me, my old friend, for being nearly as terrible as my dear Bessiéres is with answering his letters.
In life I was never quite able to express my gratitude to you but in letters, and while at present I have not had an opportunity to rectify that misfortune, I hope to reiterate my appreciation for all you did for me, and perhaps at some time be able to come close to repaying the debt I owe to you.
I wish Your Highness a happy Christmas and all the best for the new year, assuming years still work in the afterlife as they did in life, and hope that it is not too bold of me to offer some (slightly early, on account of this strange new postal service) gifts.
I am, with respect, your most humble and most obedient servant,
C. Lasalle
[ @thehussargeneral ]
With the letter are some packages. They contain a small collection of objects, all decorated gaudily as appropriate for a gift to the fanciest man in the army, including a rather fancy painted wooden model of the recipient on horseback and an elaborately decorated notebook.
Oh, Lasalle, I’m sorry it’s taken me almost to the end of Christmas to answer you. I very much appreciate the gifts, my good man. And I hope you appreciate these in return.
(The note is nailed to a large crate filled with bottles of fine Gascony reds.)
Briel reads @britannias-god-of-war’s note, and his face twists into a scowl, his outrage practically simmering off him. With a growl, he grabs a quill and ink, slamming them down on the table as he starts to write his response, his words practically burning through the page:
Admiral Nelson,
Oh, so now you’re watching with ‘great anticipation,’ are you? You must be fucking thrilled, sitting back with your smug British grin, watching the mess you made of Le Bucentaure, like some twisted spectator at a gladiator fight. You think this is some kind of entertainment, don’t you? Watching me piece together the wreck of a ship you and your bloody Royal Navy tried to turn into fucking driftwood?
Let me tell you something, Nelson — you may have won the day at Trafalgar, and you may have dragged Le Bucentaure through the mud and blood, but don’t you dare think for a second that this is the end of him or me. Marseille doesn’t fucking surrender, not to you, not to your fleet, and sure as hell not to the idea that we were bested by the likes of you!
You call my speech emotional? I call it the truth. I’ll fix him up, stronger and meaner than before, and when he sails again, he’ll be coming straight for that fancy British fleet of yours, with every plank and every sail a big middle finger to you and everything you stand for. Because unlike you, we don’t hide behind words or titles or behind fucking tea and scones — we build, we fight, and we keep coming back no matter how many times you try to break us.
So you keep watching, Nelson. Keep your eyes on the horizon, because one day you’ll see Le Bucentaure cutting through the waves again, and I promise you, he won’t be coming to exchange pleasantries. He’ll be coming to settle the fucking score.
Enjoy your anticipation while it lasts. It won’t be long before your grin fades and you realize that some ghosts don’t stay dead — they come back for vengeance.
Sincerely,
Samson Briel, Master Carpenter of Marseille
With a final flourish, he slams the quill down, the ink splattering slightly, and seals the letter with a ferocity that matches his glare.
I see you are taking your duties seriously, which is an honourable trait, sir. I sense great pride in those big words and you might even truly believe in the strength of the French fleet.
But first, let me tell you a story of the great fire of Toulon.
Well, the fire of Toulon was not so great because Captain Sidney Smith failed to destroy the port. Years later, I encountered those ships on the Nile, and we all know how that ended. They were bigger, greater, stronger, meaner, etc. And after the encounter, all but two were gone. Destroyed.
Yes, you are free to make threats and use big words like cannonballs, but we all know those will cause no real damage. Words have very little meaning if they are not supported by appropriate actions.
Because at the end of the day, if we cross paths, your glorious ship shall perish in flames, like L'Orient did.
So, you’ve got time to write me a letter full of smug shit while sitting pretty in your British armchair, huh? Let me make something very fucking clear, Admiral. I don’t need your lectures about the “great fire of Toulon.” Your Captain Sidney Smith couldn’t even light a proper match, and if you think that story impresses me, you can shove it up your powdered British ass.
Oh, you beat us at the Nile? Congratulations! Do you want a fucking medal for sinking a fleet while you had the wind and the gods on your side? Good for you, but don’t you dare compare the fire of L’Orient to what’s going to happen if we ever cross paths again. You won’t just see flames, Nelson. You’ll see hell itself rising out of the sea when Le Bucentaure comes bearing down on you, rebuilt and meaner than ever.
You talk a big fucking game, writing letters like you’re some goddamn prophet of the seas. But let me remind you of something, Admiral: your precious Victory wouldn’t stand a fucking chance if it were my hands putting every plank and spar in order on the ships you love to sneer at. You’re right about one thing, though—words don’t win battles. But you know what does? Fucking determination and the kind of skill that comes from years of doing this shit with my bare hands.
So, you enjoy your boasting while you can, Nelson. Because one day, when the ghosts of Trafalgar and the Nile are finally put to rest, it won’t be your name they’re singing in the harbors. It’ll be mine, and it’ll be the names of the ships you thought you destroyed, sailing straight out of your nightmares.
With all the respect you deserve, which isn’t much,
Briel, Master Carpenter, Builder of Fucking Legends
Bonjour, Your Majesty, and all of your... Partners. I am delighted to see you seem well, even in somewhat different shape than in our living days. I notice some children running around this beautiful place, how lucky. They are the Duke of Istria's, I believe?
