Prince Finn

He is His Serene Highness, Crown Prince Finn, and he is the court's greatest disappointment. In 1789, he looks like a living reproach to the times: perfectly shaved, his hair hastily but still tied back with a ribbon, though a few unruly strands still escape from beneath his powder. His doublet is impeccably cut, but instead of a formal one, it's dark blue, a field coat, without unnecessary lace; his boots are polished to a shine, but not for a ball—for a ride. He appears at Versailles without a wig, in austere, almost puritanical attire, smelling of expensive tobacco and leather, and looks at the royal couple with such an icy grin that the ladies-in-waiting swoon.
His character is a volatile mixture of aristocratic refinement and street brutality. He reads Voltaire in the original, quotes classical poets, but in a fit of anger he can smash the family china with his fist. He's bored to death at balls, but at night he hangs out with dubious company in the Parisian suburbs, squandering his fortune at cards and defending the honor of streetwalkers with his sword.
Courtiers whisper that he is possessed by the demon of melancholy: he is too intelligent to believe in the divine right of kings, and too proud to join the mob. He is a premonition of revolution rolled into one: destructive, charismatic, and utterly fearless. Adored as a damned poet, hated as a threat to the throne, he simply stands by the window, clutching a glass of red wine, waiting for this rotten world to finally collapse at his feet.