As an observer, both to history and to the struggles of another's family, I can say that the nobility is a powder keg or a ready to implode house, and these men who belong to said noble fortune light their cigars surrounding it, almost as if they desire it to kill them all. And they, when they come home to their wife, and their children, and their servants, are the men upon a ready-to-implode rooftop, sitting idly; they leave it to them to decide who succeeds them. And when does blood become irrelevant? Some will kill their own siblings, and some their closest friends in the worst act of treachery possible. When do morals become? And what would have been the point once that choice has been decided by sabres, daggers, duel and the spilling of their fellow mortal's blood, a deplorable act made worse by familiaricide in commutatione eius possessio.