The year is Alternative History (AH) 1825; the Emperor of the French and of Europe and of All Men Who Count is Napoleon Bonaparte, coronated Napoleon I. After thwarting the so called Seventh Coalition and mercilessly subjecting the British and the Prussians under his heel of French Imperial rule, Napoleonic law swarthed the land like a plague, without one single renegade. Even the British, once their fearless and beloved Duke of Wellington was shortened by a head, raised no words to express their meager objections.
Now ten years into his undaunted Empire, Napoleon finds the peace to be suffocating. His eccentricity spreads unchecked across his vitals as his mood for peaceful governance becomes increasingly embittered and all but impossible to conceal from public view. Among wild and wildly expensive parties of unparalleled extravagance (a habit which he continued even in his morbid seasons), the Emperor might adorn a pearl and opal-emblazoned evening gown of rich blue velvet or burgundy, or a floor length cape of priceless and impeccable ermine, as white as untouched snow. In his letters Napoleon became an increasingly outspoken critic of the philosophic ideas of his age; as he was the "Enlightened Emperor", who better to speak on such subjects than he? He wrote treatises on men, and God, and the eternal causality of all objects and subjects.
His works, widely read and guffawed, influenced little. What was worse: Europe no longer possessed either her economic or military might to oppose his empire, making his rule unstained, unchallenged, and a perpetual flow of ennui. He paces uneasily in his stainless comfort. He longs for an adversary to slaughter at the bequest of French nationalism, but alack! There are none yet standing who possess the might enough to for him to notice. Restless, he throws himself completely into his philosophic pursuits; also studying the fundamentals of modern chemistry and becomes fascinated on a scientific article describing certain kinds of plants that could be boiled or grinded down, and send men into states of euphoric bedlam, the kind of madness that would put you in the dungeon of any civilized society.
But when the blood lust daunted, Napoleon sat, enthroned, and waited, impatient.
Waits, for what? For the first lightening to come and destroy him.