Lucille blinks, but quickly catches your meaning, with a smile: "Oh, good thought! Hang on, let me find some maps of the whole region - here we go, yes, take this - oh, sorry!" She blushes as you get in one another's way and she bumps into you.
"Here, you take that end and unroll it towards me; it's brittle, but... there we go." She kneels down, peering closely at the old parchment. "Okay, the Little Sellen, the Gudrin, the East Sellen, the Rushlight... yes. All of the rivers on the Southern edge, that run between the Stolen Lands and Pitax and the River Kingdoms, look like they're going the right way once they're out of the Stolen Lands..."
She gives you a glance from behind the bangs of hair that have once again fallen in front of her face. "Honestly, I thought you were about to tell me not to be stupid. But it doesn't seem to have caught you by surprise at all."
She makes a face. "Either that or we've both gone mad. I mean, this is crazy, right, this discussion? Rivers don't flow uphill. They shouldn't." She sighs. "All the same, I should like to see it... oh! Crumbs." She looks out the window. "It's late, I've kept you for ages. Do you need to be somewhere else? I'm sure you've got lots to do now you're serving a Graf and founding a Mark. I was planning on making a better version of this map for you, I've got the inks and paper, after all - but I could just as easily deliver it to you if there's somewhere else you need to be."
Inuviel gives you a concerned smile: "I fear that this is my fault, in moving too fast before you were ready to hear what I have to say - excessive haste is a fault of the very young, who have not yet learned patience, and of the very old, who feel the weight of uncompleted tasks pressing down on them. But it was never my intention to unsettle you."
"Firstly, let me reassure you by saying that you are absolutely safe: neither I, nor any of my associates, would ever harm another Eladrin, either directly or indirectly. Whatever fear you may hold towards me is completely unjustified. I would hope that did not need saying, but it appears that you are not at ease."
(Eladrin is a very archaic Elven word: it means something like "True Human Beings" or "Real People" - with the inference that non-Eladrin are not real people.)
"Now, as for our Queen - yes, I would shed no tears if she were quietly deposed (unharmed, of course!) in favour of someone who sees things our way, but she is young and may yet come around to our point of view. For the time being, we can work around her."
He gives you an indulgent smile: "And believe it or not, I sympathise with your suggestion that my views are too... harsh, was the word you used, I think? I, too, once thought as you did. Perhaps if I explain my changes in thinking you will find it easier to see me as someone who has your good in mind."
He sighs. "Humans are, as you know, short-lived; but I do not hold that against them. They are capable, within that brief span, of learning much and growing at astounding pace, and I have been pleased to call many of them my friends. Nearly all are long-dead, now, of course, but still. The friendships and bonds we forged were real." He shakes his head. "No, the true problem, which I honestly believe you will come to appreciate in another century or so, is that they are so short-sighted! They may live for seventy years, but they behave as if they will be gone in seven - and I'm not referring merely to their notorious propensity for near-suicidal so-called "heroics." No, the problem goes much deeper than that. They simply will not apply themselves in a rational manner - but instead, they seek preposterous means of obtaining a temporal power that will endure, what, perhaps a decade, if that? Even in human terms, a decade is brief."
"Let me give you two examples of what I mean. To the North of here lies the gaping Abyssal realm known as the Worldwound. Yes, it is true that many humans are performing valiant acts to hold the line and prevent the demons from gaining a foothold. But equally, a significant number of humans seem to see the demons as a way of establishing themselves, of making a mark on this world, and form cults aimed at spreading their patrons' horrors upon this world." He shakes his head in bafflement. "These are not isolated madmen, you understand: cults of the various horrific deities can be found in almost any human town or city you care to name."
He frowns. "And then, in the other direction, we have Cheliax: a nation where the ruling House came to power in a literal deal with the Prince of Hell itself! And again, for what? Do you see the House of Thrune still being in power a century or two from now? And even if it is, at what price to the present rulers, who will be long-dead by then and - worse - damned?"
He looks up to the heavens in exasperation. "Really, these people are not to be trusted. And please do not misunderstand me: I like many of them on an individual level. But as a group, they make the most... irrational and short-sighted decisions. To rely on them to any extent, to entrust the care of our world to them, to see them in any way as equal partners - would be folly on a monumental level." He looks at you: "Will you honestly tell me that, even in the short space of time you have been with your companions, you have had no disagreements with them? I do not mean on trivial matters - I mean conversations that have left you shaking your head and wondering 'what are these people THINKING?!'"
He gives a rueful sigh. "It is hard for you, I know. You are young, and you want to believe in them - and that does you great credit. Let us not be like those of our kindred who sour, who become bitter and join the ranks of the Forlorn, those poor lost souls. But equally... let us try an analogy. I hunt. I have a vast menagerie of hunting birds, some of whose descendants I hatched from their eggs centuries ago. They mean a great deal to me, and the loss of any one of them is a source of grief. And yet - I do not invite them into my home; I do not ask their advice on the running of my household." He gives you a penetrating look. "You understand my meaning, I think."
His tone is mild: these are not the ravings of a megalomaniac. No, this is the patient voice of a teacher with a stubborn pupil, trying to explain that, in fact, two plus two equals four; it has always equalled four; and it always will equal four; regardless of what opinions or wishes anyone may have about the matter.
Lady Kreegh looks pleased. "Yes, as it happens, I have one particular protege in mind - I think you will like him, bright, ambitious, gifted, a highly able architect among his other qualities - you should see the drawings he has made of his plans for the Temple of the Elk! - And allow me, once again, to thank you for finding that place of legend... Yes, I think you will find Izaak Lodovka to be greatly to your liking. With his guidance, I have no doubt you will swiftly make your Mark, if you will pardon the pun, and quickly be elevated to the rank of Baron - and who knows, thereafter? I shall arrange an introduction as soon as-"
She is interrupted in her perorations by a knock at the door, which opens without waiting for an answer. One of her acolytes peers through, looking somewhat bewildered. "Begging your pardon, Lady Hearth-Bishop, but, uh, but... Jhod is here and he, well, he wants to speak with you." He winces at being the bearer of what are obviously not welcome tidings.
Lady Ezvanka pinches the bridge of her nose, and sighs. "There's a reason I sent him off to New Stetven," she mutters, apparently to herself.
Opening her eyes again, she gives the luckless acolyte a bright smile: "Thank you for letting me know, Aidan, please look after our guests here in my absence."
She looks at the two of you apologetically: "Please do excuse me for a few minutes. Aidan will look after you. I will be back very soon."
With that, she strides away to deal with her apparently unwelcome interruption.
While she was still uneasy with Inuviel's overall premise, her sense of kinship was partially restored. That said, Nariel knew well enough to still guard her suspicions closely. After all, Nariel supported her liberal and forward thinking Queen Edasseril, whereas Inuviel clearly did not. That said, Nariel might just chalk that up to a difference of politics. While she was still curious about his possible connections to those in the Winter Council, Nariel thought well enough to let the sleeping dog lay for now.
Breathing a clear sigh of relief, Nariel smiled broady "It brings me great relieft to hear your words Master Aladwhon. I had thought for certain you might be cross about my feelings on the matter. While I disagree with some (not all) of your assessments of humanity, I do have to give you the benefit of perspective and wisdom."
Taking another bite of the biscuit, Nariel appeared more reflective "I have been tasked to help build the new Mark as you know. I want to see this through. I know you think humans short sighted and brash, but I have some faith in Aivar Kurisyl. He seems to me, at least, to be the very best of what humanity has to offer. If he cannot build a something of lasting importance and legacy, than perhaps your assessment is correct." Nodding at Inuviel, she gave the look belayed her conflicted feelings at the moment. "My heart and my mind are at war with one another at this moment. Does that make sense?"
Listening to Arianna, Nariel grinned slightly "Bait? Nethys no, I do not want it to devolve to that. In any event, I can handle myself capably in situations like this." Picking up her new clothes, Nariel paused and turned at the door "I will find out what I can. Wish me luck." With that, Nariel headed home to prepare for the evening out with the Lodovka noblemen.
The Presentiment of Fennel is, by some distance, the most expensive restaurant in Restov. Its owner, the famed Taldan chef Garth Broadstar, ended up in Brevoy some years ago following a rumoured scandal in Oppara; and he cooks the food of his homeland in its most luxurious, opulent form.
Today, however, it is closed; at least that is how it appears on first arriving - the doors are shut, the signs are down and the fabled queue is nowhere in sight. On seeing you, the headwaiter (clearly forewarned of who to look out for) opens the door and ushers you inside with a maximum of polite deference combined with a maximum of haste. Inside, the room is decorated in various muted shades of wealth and taste - but the place is empty (even the thought of what it must cost to book the entire restaurant is eye-watering): the tables, adorned with white cloths and laden with crystal goblets and silver place-settings, are deserted; except for one at the back.
There, Tommaso Dottori sits, although even as you enter he is standing, welcoming you to join him and his three colleagues: two gentlemen (one tubby, puglike, with beady eyes; and one with a lugubrious air that puts you in mind of a basset-hound) and a lady (younger than the men, perhaps late thirties, with reddish hair which accentuates her foxlike appearance). Dottori, of course, appears as predatory as ever, although his smile of greeting seems to be genuine and (as ever) wolfish.
"You made it! I'm so pleased. This is Sasha - just Sasha - and these are... well, perhaps names for now are superfluous. They are like-minded associates of many years' standing and perhaps that will do for the time being." He pours out the wine (white, chilled, exquisite) as the waiters bring the first course (scallops with ollondaise sauce on a bed of truffles) and raises his glass in a toast: "To business."
He drinks the wine thoughtfully, swirling his glass as he does so, and looks at you directly. "We find ourselves in interesting times - and you are at the epicentre, or near enough as makes no difference. Your work in ridding the Northern Greenbelt of bandits was notable, and a valuable service for which we all thank you. Keeping the South Rostland Road open for trade makes my investment in you worthwhile.”
He samples the wine again, before setting the glass down. “Our next investment is going to-” but he is interrupted by Fox-lady, who leans forward to fix you with a penetrating stare.
“A moment, Dottori, if you please. This... this lady – young woman – looks barely old enough to be out on her own; are you sure she has got what it takes to do business with us?” (Pug-face chuckles and mutters something to the effect that “Ha, she looks old enough to-” before wincing as someone kicks him under the table)
Undeterred, Fox-lady continues. “I should like to hear from her myself in order to have any confidence that she can deliver. I would like to avoid any unpleasant surprises or embarrassments this time.”
Unseen by anybody else but you, Dottori gives her a fleeting sideways glance which seems to suggest that she will, in some unspecified way, at some unspecified future time, come to regret having interrupted him; but for now, he simply looks at you, as if to indicate that you should answer.
Once they're alone, Aivar shifts in his seat and throws Raquel an incredulous look. "So, that just happened. A Lodovka! As if fate would have it no other way. I do not feel at ease questioning the motives of a man of the cloth, but isn't it just a little warranted by now? What do you think of all this? It is becoming more and more apparent that with our success in the Stolen Lands, everyone is wanting a piece of our yet-to-be-baked pie. Maybe we should reconvene with the others right after and together, make a proper estimation of the value of our favors and yet-to-be-filled positions."
"Nowhere to be until morning, really," Arianna says. "I'd love to watch you work--if that's alright with you, of course?"
Lucille glows in reply: "Of course! It's nice to have someone to talk to. I mean, Mouser is a great listener, but he doesn't have much to say in return, you know?" She gestures towards the large grey cat, which continues to stare at you from atop one of the many bookshelves in the place.
"Alright, let's get to work! If you don't mind being my pot-holder and ink-mixer, then this will go a lot faster..."
"Faster" in this case is a relative term: you can't hurry the process, but in the end the two sheets of parchment your group have been relying on are combined into a single whole. Lucille hums as she works, in between peppering you with questions about the precise placement of things and your wider experiences in general; so in another sense the time zips along.
Finally, it is complete, and the parchment is pinned up on the wall to give time for the still-glistening inks to dry out. "Shouldn't take too long." Lucille looks somewhat ruefully at her own ink-stained fingers and sleeves. "I'm sure I rolled these up. Oh well. Actually, before I wash up..."
She takes the brush and the red ink, and spends a few moments annotating the bottom-right corner:
To A, from L
X
Ever the scholar, she feels she has to elaborate: "That's not an 'x marks the spot' type x, it's you know, a..." She trails off. "I hope it's not too presumptuous."
"My heart and my mind are at war with one another at this moment. Does that make sense?"
Inuviel gives you a weary smile: "I understood that feeling long, long before you were born, Nariel Laeric. My advice to you is follow your mind: your heart will want different things from week to week, year to year, but the well-disciplined mind will not waver from its goal."
He bows. "Fare you well, and I wish you success in your endeavours, although you are setting yourself up for nothing but disappointment. But all young people need to make mistakes in order to grow up. It is the nature of things."
It is some time before the Hearth-Bishop returns, and when she does, her disposition is somewhat soured. Settling herself back into her previous position, leaning against the desk, she looks at you both.
"I have been, hm, let us say reminded, that there is another potentially suitable candidate for your consideration. In my view, Izaak is more suitable for your requirements: in good favour with an Issian House, bright, careful not to offend his superiors, generally more, hm, let us say, in tune politically. I am sure that his advice will assist you in moving swiftly up the ranks of the nobility."
"Jhod, on the other hand, is - well, to be quite honest I am surprised that he has raised the matter at all. He has generally taken considerable pains not to involve himself in matters of state or church politics and this is a new development... although not entirely unwelcome. Hm, yes, perhaps this is a sign of maturity on his part, a recognition that the church - and Erastil - requires something more from him. In which case, I might add, it would be long overdue. But I suppose it is better late than never. Yes, if that is the case, then perhaps I should be more encouraging."
Her tone is of one who, having been handed a bushel of lemons, is trying to persuade herself that making lemonade was her idea.
She looks back up at you. "But be that as it may, the choice is yours, as I previously said." Is that a note of regret at having been so free with her offer?
"There is no need for an immediate decision - I am aware that you have an evening with the Mayor ahead of you and even a Caydenite will need all her strength for that endeavour!" A flash of good humour to conclude the interview.
"Aidan will show you out. If I can be of any further help, then please do let me know. May Erastil's blessings follow you."
Once outside the temple, she looks at Aivar. "I'm biased towards Jhod since we already know him. In my eyes, having no connection with the Brevic nobility is a plus. But I'll reserve judgment until after we've met Izaak, and even then, we should put the matter before the others before making a final decision."
The paladin turns around and takes in the sight of the temple one last time before turning his back to it. It's a shame they're in such a rush because Aivar would love nothing more than to visit the cathedral and soak up its architectural beauty. "On a personal level, the choice for Jhod is a clear and obvious one. He has shown bravery, I think I can call him a friend, and it is clear that he has Erastil's favor going by the powers he can channel. What more can one want from an advisor, right? However, Izaak is being suggested by Lady Kreegh for a reason. Heh, or should I say reasons? Let's take one step at a time and meet with Izaak, and then we can discuss the matter with the others. After all, if we immediately say yes to Jhod, Izaak and his family might be offended. No matter what we end up deciding, we should try to prevent that at all costs."
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After leaving her friends behind, Sasha hurried back to the inn to make sure that he make up and hair are touched up. She curses her lack of foresight for not having another outfit to wear when presenting herself to Dottori and his partners—all she had to wear was the red dress and vest from the New Year's Ball and the well-worn travelling clothes from her months out in the wilderness. A man like Dottori would not be caught wearing the same thing twice.
"Gods take him then," she mutters, adjusting her hair into the effortless looking bun she favored and pinning it in place with a long needle. "Let's see him tromp around the woods for as long as I did and look this good." She pauses for a moment to consider her reflection before grabbing her cloak. At least I've bathed...
---
Before entering the restaurant proper, Sasha takes a moment to compose herself. Closing down the restaurant was quite a display, and not something done for a matter less than deadly serious or very promising. Either prospect excited her though, so she waits to steady her breathing before walking towards the only occupied table.
"The pleasure is mine, Tomasso," she replies, giving the man a curtsy. Sipping the wine, Sasha takes a moment to observe the individuals sitting at the table. A pug, hound, wolf, and fox. It must have been Father's love of dogs, she thinks ruefully before the woman interjects.
Sasha laughs. "How can you expect me to impress you when I don't even know why I'm here?" Seeing that the woman still expects something from her however, she meets the gaze of the fox, unflinching. "My lady, I am a commoner. My father has money, yes, but I left that life behind to make something for myself. I have slept in the cold and dark and wet for months on end for that goal. I have almost fallen to my death and been mauled by an owlbear larger than whatever carriage drove you here for that goal. I have fought and killed hard men, the bandits of the Greenbelt, for that goal. And now I've been awarded a position inside of a new mark by command of the Lord Regent. I may have been young when I left, but do not question that I deserve a seat at this table."
Arianna's face goes as red as her hair as she sees the note Lucille writes. "Oh. Uh. No, I mean, yes, I mean--no, it isn't too, uh, presumptuous," she says, and while she's awkward she's smiling as she says it.
"No begging required, nor desired, my lady," Tristan says as he stands, resisting the nearly-overwhelming urge to make a ribald joke. "I will introduce you to Aivar at your earliest convenience, and we will make your case to him. And then, I have no doubt, you will officially be a part of our little venture. A wise man would probably pity you," Tristan says with a wink.
Arranging a carriage, she arrived ten to fifteen minutes late (purposefully it should be noted).
After several long moments, she disengages and steps back, waiting to see what the reaction is.
Pug-face gives a braying laugh at your boldness: "Oh, I like her, Dottori! She's got spirit!" Fox-lady herself is undaunted, meeting your stare, although there's perhaps the tiniest thaw in those ice-blue eyes as she grudgingly gives you a mark of respect.
Dottori himself gives a thin smile, before continuing as if no interruption had taken place: "-next investment is going to require a different sort of exertion from you. As you know, I follow the Lord of the First Vault." He places a hand on the platinum key that hangs around his neck. "My... business-partners here are much of the same mind. We favour trade, and stability. I'm well aware of the saying that 'peace is good for business, war is good for business' - but I can say for certain that stability is far better for long-term prosperity."
He considers for a moment how to proceed. "That brings me - us - into a certain amount of conflict with the local priests. Their value is, supposedly, community; but that just leads to endless division and instability: my family against your family, my village against your village, my House against your House, Issia against Rostland..." He shakes his head disapprovingly. "It will not do."
He smiles, and spreads his hands. "But that is a problem to be solved another day. For now, I seek to do business with whom I can, with the help of... let us say, associates such as yourself. People willing to rise above their backgrounds, turn aside from old failed habits, and looking to do business in a different way. Yes, I know of your family, Ms Yezhov; but do not worry - none of our backgrounds withstand much scrutiny. We did not inherit our wealth, after all, we acquired - or should I say, earned..."
This brings a wry chuckle from the Basset-Hound: "No, no, I think you had it right the first time, Tom!"
Undeterred, Dottori continues. "The point is, there is a wider family of like-minded interests, if you are willing to be a part of it. All it requires is a willingness to do business. On reasonable terms, of course."
He pauses for a moment, as the waiters retrieve the debris of the first course and bring the next: a rib of roast beef and Rostlandic pudding with gravy and vegetables, served with a red wine (Andoran, spicy, beguiling).
"Which brings me to the point." He deftly spears a roast potato on his fork. "I have some... business interests in the great cities of the South. A word or two to the right people, and your Graf's new province will be swimming in letters of credit from any number of banks. Of course, they would need to be sure of a return on any investment: that your province's law-courts will be honest, not greased by fear nor favour, nor of any foolish ideas of 'serving the community'. They would also want to be assured that your province will be solvent for the near to longer term - that you will be levying taxes, I should say."
Another pause, as he samples the wine, and watches you react. "There's no need for an immediate reply. Think it over. But I'm hoping it is an offer you will choose not to refuse."
He smiles. "Anyway, enough of business, for now, unless you have any questions. So tell me, what did you make of our esteemed Captain Garess?"
Karinna nods, and stands, extending one hand to clasp - briefly - with yours. "You have my gratitude, Master Aislin. And thank you for - for listening to me vent. I have few such outlets these days for my discontent." She smiles. "But I have a feeling that happier days lie ahead. So no, let them pity me. I would choose this adventure quite happily."
Don't know if you had intended to roleplay a scene with Aivar concerning this?
10 SARENITH (VI) 4719
Evening
It is a much less grand affair, this evening, than the ball at the Mayoral Dacha in New Year; but for all that, it is arguably more significant. The three leaders, and their assorted retinues (that's you), assemble in the main hall where the Mayor - absent her cigar and plus her robes of office, including a sword - sits in state, waiting for you.
Eventually, she gestures, and the three leaders step forward: Aivar, together with a Taldan man with artfully-arranged curly locks of brown hair; and a Brevan Swordlord, dark-haired and lean; hard-bitten and with marks on his face from the dueling blade.
(Arianna recognises them from her poker-game: the tousel-haired Taldan is "Stannis" and the hard-bitten Swordlord is the one the Mayor referred to as "Mags")
The three men kneel, and the Mayor draws her sword with a flourish. She looks surprisingly adept - but then, this is Restov. Nobody clueless with a sword would command the respect of the Swordlords for long. In a voice very different from her usual one, she bestows favour on the three of them.
"In capacity as Mayor of the Free City of Restov, in accordance with the Powers granted me by the Throne of Brevoy, I bestow upon you the rank of Nobleman of the Crown."
(No mention of the Regent, here.)
"Arise, Your Grace Stannis Drelev, Baron of Glenmere!"
A round of applause rings out from his followers, mostly men, and mostly grizzled Brevan warriors. Nariel recognises several Knights of House Lebeda among their number.
"Arise, Your Grace Maegar Varn, Baron of Kiravoy!"
A long series of cheers and raucous shouts as the local Swordlords acknowledge the ennoblement of one of their own.
"Arise, Ser Aivar, Graf of House Orlovsky!"
"Hear, hear!" Raquel cheers as Aivar is officially made a noble man. Though she applauds outwardly, inwardly she is rolling her eyes at the pomp and circumstance around the ceremony, as she's sure the mayor is doing, too. The real celebration will come afterwards when the spirits will flow freely.
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The event should be giving Aivar the jitters, but oddly enough the paladin isn't feeling anxious at all. In fact, he feels a little let down as he knows he'll be the one being awarded a title when what they had achieved was a group effort. Still, it is Brevan tradition to have power reside in the hands of one person and not in the hands of many - just look at the River Kingdoms if you want a taste of what that would bring! is an argument he has heard a thousand times before - and who is he to doubt the wisdom of the powers that be-and-have-been?
Donned in a new outfit in accordance with his new rank, Aivar inspects the man in the mirror one last time before heading out. Uneasily he weighs the golden chain necklace in a cupped hand. So much had changed in so little time for him that he had troubles accepting the man who studied him in return, dressed in clothes and accessories worth many times the yearly income of a Brevan commoner. The red military-style coat he had worn to the New Year festivities was nowhere to be seen. That outfit now rests inside a drawer at his room, a relic of their time spent reclaiming the Stolen Lands. Faded and dull as it might now be, it had soaked up more blood than he cared for. Perhaps it is for the better that he no longer has to wear it. For now. Don't be naive, Aivar. The itchy woolen coat and trousers, patched up a thousand times, would surely make a comeback one day.
But a sword awaits him and none of his thoughts and worries are valid excuses to be late for the ceremony. Was he ready to end this chapter of his life and have the sword cut open a new one? Does it matter? Life is a series of challenges and at some point, it ends. Stand tall, keep others out of the wind, and leave behind a better world if you can help it. Fear only keeps you from moving forward and time waits for no one. Those last words weren't his but from the last page of a famous swordlord's diary, and just like the swordlord had bravely stood and fought a battle he knew he could not win, Aivar leaves the room to go forth and embrace a new life that might swallow him whole.
What happens next all passes by him in a blur. He's aware that he rises when the sword has kissed his shoulders and the words of power are spoken. While his lips barely manage to move, he softly utters a vow to the mayor, "I won't let you down." The others might have been bestowed with a title greater than his, but the fact he is here only makes Aivar feels ever more gracious for what the mayor may or may not have done for him. The slightest of nods is then given before he finally turns his head around to beam a big smile at his companions, wanting nothing more than to run towards them and celebrate their mutual accomplishment with a group hug.
So we're not the only ones being rewarded. Are these others to settle a fief as well? That could go well, or ill, depending on how inclined to cooperation they are... or might this be another competition?
Tristan cheers loudly for Aivar, seeking to lead his fellows to outdo the retinues of the others.
Nariel observed the ceremony respectfully and graciously. Dressed again in a gown of light blue, but one that was decidedly simpler than the one she had worn to the previous ball. It was also lighter, as the weather in Sarenith was always warm. The one addition that was unexpected was a sword by her side. All elves were trained in the use of the longsword, and Nariel was aware of the importance of showing one's ability with the blade as a matter of pride and honor in Brevoy.
Glancing about the room, Nariel nodded with a light smile of acknowledgement towards the Knights from the Lebeda household. Though she had not been present at Silverhall for the past several months, she had spent several years there and knew most of the people serving Dame Sarona. Who they served though, Stannis Drevlan was unknown to her. Nariel made a point to catch up with them later, and perhaps find out more about the man they appeared to be allied with.
When Aivar was knighted, Nariel followed suit and clapped with a broad smile. She may have even risen her voice enough for some to hear around her "Tena alasse, Aivar!", though it was hardly enough to add to the cacophony of noise this event was encouraging.
Observing Aivar in a buoyant mood, Nariel returned a smile his way. Turning to Raquel, Nariel piped up "How wonderful for Aivar." Glancing back over her shoulder in his direct, Nariel added "How did your meeting with the Archbishop proceed?"
Raquel smiles back at the beautiful elf. "About as well as we expected it to go. The church of Erastil is willing to support us spiritually and financially if we place one of their priests on our council. We were given a choice between Father Jhod and the Hearth Bishop's protege, Izaak Lodovka. We were planning to put the matter before everybody and meet Izaak before we make a decision."
10 SARENITH (VI) 4719
Evening
The formalities now concluded, the celebrations begin: livery-clad servants begin circulating with trays of drinks, and in the other room a procession of musicians strike up a series of dancing melodies. The various groups mingle and split, spreading out as their design takes them...
The Mayor it seems has lost no time in dispensing with her formal robes and in acquiring another cigar, which she chomps on vigorously as she crosses the floor, exchanging brief conversations with people until she gets to you.
"OK, boy. You - and Red, here - are gonna meet me in my office in ten minutes. Anyone asks, I've invited you for a poker session." She grins at Arianna: "After last time, that's perfectly believable. Might even get a game in as well, who knows?"
Once you reach her office, however, she's all business: the cigar remains firmly in place, but the drinks decanters remain on the shelves and she looks at you with serious eyes.
"Grab a seat. This conversation is important, and it never happened, okay?" She gives Aivar a swift, appraising glance, trying to size up whether the Paladin will weather such terms. "It's okay, we're not discussing anything illegal or immoral, just politics." She grimaces.
"Okay, so the bastard Surtovas have ******* shafted us good and proper, haven't they? Gotta admit, I didn't see it coming, thought Howlan Garess was one of us, but a marriage to Natala Surtova, well..." She shakes her head. "Sometimes you just gotta take your hat off and say 'well played.' Bastards."
She gazes at you to see if you follow the significance of what she's saying. "Look. Rostland's built on plains, right? Lotta forest too. Can't build forts outta soil, can you? Or make swords outta grass. If Garess goes over to the Issians then we can forget about buying stone and iron ore from them - they'll just ship it by barge down to Pitax and sell it elsewhere, even if it means a lower price. Anything to **** us over."
Another grimace. "This means moving a lot faster than I'd hoped, but can't be helped, the ******s have forced my hand. If war is coming, and by all the Gods I hope not, I won't have Restov undefended."
She gives you another searching glance. "That's where you lot come in. Mags has got hisself a nice strategic position, and Stannis has got the trading routes, but you lot have got the resources. I like what I'm seeing in your reports. Lotta granite and hard rock in those hills, plus metal ores. Gold, too, if you like that sort of thing. It all helps."
She blows a thoughtful smoke ring as she stares at the ceiling. "They didn't make me Mayor just because I look good in a robe, you know what I'm saying? I have friends, I got contacts. I can get you construction experts, people who know how to build - and manage teams around them to get things built well and to last. All the raw materials in the world won't help you if all you got is a buncha peasants to put the houses together. No offence, Red."
"All I want in return is a commitment from you: in the next 12 months, you get me those materials."
Your attempt at catching-up with your former colleagues in House Lebeda does not go so well. Everyone is polite, and greets you with a bow and the occasional smile "Hello, Lady Nariel, well-met"; but it doesn't go beyond that. The conversation is focused on the encounters and events of the past six months, which necessarily excludes you.
It's perhaps only natural that their focus this evening would be on celebrating and reminiscing about what they have done, but none of them particularly enquires after you and your group, or what you have achieved.
It's not done in any manner that could cause open offence, but the message is clear: you are not one of us.
The servants (and their drink trays) process swiftly into the ball-room, so it seems only natural to follow them. You are not the only one with this thought, and in a short space of time the room is busy with people dancing to the various melodies of the musicians.
Among the crowd, you spot Greta Leroung, the Chelaxian noblewoman you trysted with some months ago: she is dancing very closely with the newly-ennobled Baron Drelev. From over his shoulder, she catches sight of you and shoots you a smouldering look - part amused reminiscence, part warning: Stay away, Little Girl. I am frying bigger fish tonight.
There are a few dances, and some polite conversation, but nothing of great significance happens until a relative late-comer enters the room. Taller than you, wearing a fashionable dress that contrasts with her almost blue-black hair, she is (and looks) effortlessly aristocratic; despite her youthful looks, there is a certain wary expression in her gaze. She catches your eye, and then looks away again almost immediately, circling the room and making idle conversation with people until she 'just happens' to end up next to you.
"Good evening to you. It seems that all of the noblemen are occupied with partners already. Would you care to join me in a dance while we wait for one of them to become available?"
As the formal occasion breaks up into a more relaxed celebration, one of the members from Baron Varn's delegation peels away and approaches you with a smile: it's Yuri.
He gives you a gracious, fluid bow: "My Lady Sasha. It is good to see you away from the battlefield. Since I believe I owe you my life, might I have the first dance, if you are not already spoken for?"
During the course of the dance, you exchange news and conversation; he is eager to hear of what you have been up to.
It turns out, unfortunately, that his news is not especially good. After the battle and your rescue, he returned to Fort Serenko with the body of his late commander and there was a formal inquest. He grimaces. "It wasn't exactly a court-martial, but..."
The inquest held that the late Baron Kaschle of House Garess, while ultimately responsible for proceeding further into the hills than was advisable, had been 'unduly influenced' by the youthful enthusiasm of his second-in-command, who had urged him to seek combat under inadvisable circumstances.
Yuri scowls. "It's all a nonsense of course, but we can't afford to offend House Garess right now by suggesting that one of their own was an idiot who got himself and a lot of his men killed. I'm the convenient patsy. I still have my commission, but my career is basically over. I thought of leaving Restov and joining Baron Varn's company, but they don't want me. Not that they've said so directly, of course. Telling me the truth directly would be terribly impolite. Not the done thing at all."
He realises his mood, and smiles. "Forgive me. This is a very pleasant evening and you didn't put on all that finery to listen to my troubles. On the topic of finery, I have something for you and your companions - I rather thought you would be here this evening."
The dance concluded, he leads you out of the ballroom and back to the main hall. "Hold here a moment while I fetch it."
He returns some moments later with a series of parcels, expensively wrapped in paper crepe. Unwrapping one of them, you find it to be a ravishingly fine cloak, in green silk and black sable, with the crest of House Wenislaus embroidered at the hem. Yuri smiles. "My family believes in acknowledging its debts. There is one for each of your companions. They are enchanted with warding magic - they won't turn aside a blade, but they should help keep you from subtler harms."
As the formal occasion breaks up, one of the delegation from the newly-ennobled Baron Drelev walks over to you: a young woman with blue-black hair and a fine dress that marks her out as a noblewoman. She gives you a formal curtsey. "I believe you to be Master Aislin, who was present at the battle which routed the bandits at the trading post. Might I introduce you to my father? He is very keen to hear about such things."
Her father turns out to be Baron Terrion Numesti, of House Garess but now in service to Baron Drelev. He has the look of a warrior, and wears his Swordlord rank (and duelling scars) proudly. "Ah, my boy! It's good to meet a proper warrior. Let us find a drink and reminisce like men, shall we?"
His daughter politely excuses herself in search of the ballroom.
The newcomer is intriguing, and her roundabout approach tickles the cleric. So when she finally asks Raquel to dance, Raquel offers her hand. "That sounds delightful, milady. I would be honored."
As they take to the dance floor, she looks up at the taller woman. "My name is Raquel Cailean. Who do I have the pleasure of dancing with this evening?"
When the mayor starts spilling the beans, Aivar feels the need to groan grow stronger by the second. Couldn't anything be pure and simple for once? Apparently not. He had approached this evening with the idea that he'd have to talk to a whole lot of people to make sure his Mark's activities would not be stepping on anyone's toes, and here he is, being asked to tie the fate of the Mark to that of Restov. Restov, a free city, home of the swordlords - it should be no wonder that a troubled regime feels threatened by it.
"All I know about the Garess family is that they've been knee-deep in all kinds of trouble for some time now. Perhaps this marriage was their only way out of that mess. Necessity can put us on roads we never thought we'd traverse."
But the mayor's request is more than just a show of allegiance and intent. Aivar had carefully formulated some thoughts and ideas on how to put together his Mark, but this request, it is like the Gods shrugged and buried him in his own hubris. How dare he have dreams and aspirations?! The paladin rubs his forehead with the flat of his thumb as he stares at the floor, pondering the woman's request. At least she's being rather frank, but I suppose that for her, being frank is more a thing done out of necessity, rather than desired regularity.
He scrapes his throat and raises himself in his chair, eyeing Arianna before focusing his gaze on the mayor. "What you are asking is that we focus half of our available resources and labor efforts in the coming year into setting up an industrial effort that will paint a target on my Mark. There is no way that the powers that be won't take notice and honestly, even if I were to hide behind such flimsy excuses as 'but these investors are promising me great returns and ya-di-ya, population growth and gold', they will still seek to punish me for helping you so."
He knows that if Restov is to somehow fall, he might be next. In the name of the Crown ... Yes, his title had come from the crown, but unlike the two barons, he wasn't blessed by the regent. Aivar sighs the letter f through his teeth and bites on his lower lip. He knows he's caught behind a rock and a hard place. "What do you think, Arianna?"
The Mayor snorts. "Boy, you got a target on your back already. And not just from Issia - House Lebeda got no use for you, damned if I know why. This is about deciding who your friends are. Believe me, your enemies have chosen you already."
She sighs, and takes a deep breath. "This isn't easy for you, I know. I hoped to break it to you gently. Well, gentle-er. But there's no time, you get that? At the start of next year, House Garess allies to House Surtova by marriage. If we haven't got something up and running by then, we might as well take our clothes off, bend down and grab our ankles."
She takes a long pull on her cigar, giving you some space to think. "If you decide no, then that's your right, I get that. But don't kid yourself it will make you any friends, boy."
The young woman takes your hand and quickly pulls you onto the dance-floor, pressing herself against you much more firmly than is strictly necessary during the dance. "Pleased to meet you. I am Kisandra Numesti, daughter of Baron Numesti, who is in the service of Baron Drelev." She makes a face. "My father has spent most of the last six months trying to throw me at Stannis - His Grace, I mean - but my tastes are... are not his." She trails off, biting her lip; you can feel the heat radiating off her.
"The Mayor gave our group some state-rooms upstairs. If you're not interested, let me know and I'll find another... dance-partner."
She looks away, shamefaced, avoiding your gaze. "I'm not usually so - so - forward, but it's been months. My father does not approve of dancing with... well, he wouldn't approve. But he's busy tonight with politics, so I'm off the leash for now."
"Sweet barleybrew! Oh, Lady Kisandra, I am quite interested in punching your dance card. This party is too stuffy for my tastes. Let us adjourn to your state rooms. And perhaps you can put me on the leash tonight if you're so inclined..."
With an amorous smile, Raquel follows the noblewoman to her chambers.
Le sigh
Kisandra doesn't crack a smile at Raquel's joke. "When the dance ends, I'll circle round the room a few times before I leave. After I've left, count to twenty before you follow. Make sure nobody sees you!" Her voice hisses low, urgent.
Once you are inside her bedchamber, that same fierce urgency continues: it's immediately clear that she is only interested in the destination, not the journey itself, and you are simply a means to that end.
...
Afterwards, she falls heavily to the mattress, breathing hard. "I... gods, I needed that." And then she scrambles up, hastily picking up and sorting through the scattered clothes, passing you the ones she doesn't recognise, pressing them into your hands while she bundles you out the door. "Go, go, for god's sake, go! If my father finds out you were ever here..."
The door closes firmly behind you.
From inside the room, you hear the sound of Kisandra sobbing.
Aivar happily plays the role of the new and naïve ruler and doesn't bite back whenever the mayor schools him in this or that. "I would like to think that even in the best of circumstances, we would have a good relationship and rapport, but given the reality of things, our fates seem strung together. I won't give you a yes or no right now, for I want to discuss this with my companions first, but I can tell you this: Restov has given me much. Restov has funded and made possible our foray into the Stolen Lands. In return, the Mark has to provide for Restov, for the Mark would not and could not be without Restov. As such, Restov is one of the pillars that hold up the Mark."
He then, blessedly so, shuts up for a second to prevent his somewhat melodramatic and pompous words from making all those present in the room gag. "I see duty and responsibility as the pillars of good rulership, and I intend to rule as such. Even if we conclude that I cannot give you a full yes, I will nonetheless do what I can to help and aid Restov with what materials we can gather and provide. Can we agree that I will give you my answer within the next forty-eight hours, mayor?"
The time between Lucille backing off and Arianna advancing is very brief; eager, if rather clumsy about it.
"All the raw materials in the world won't help you if all you got is a buncha peasants to put the houses together. No offence, Red."
"None taken." Arianna considers everything the mayor has to say. Her thoughts, mainly, were that she was in way over her head. "To be quite honest, I was wondering if there was more to your reasons for pushing for Aivar's ennobling than you initially let on, and knowing that it's for the sake of Restov is a great comfort to me. But, I'm something of a bleeding heart, I suppose.
"Aivar, it's up to you, but if we do accept the mayor's offer and it turns out unnecessary, then the Mark will have a stronger infrastructure and better connections. And, we already have reason to believe that there are houses that are against us."
Before leaving the company of the Knights of house Lebeda, Nariel made a point to seek out their commander, Baron Stannis Drelev. With a respectful curtsey, Nariel met his gaze with confidence "Your Grace, allow me to extend my congratulations on your elevation. Your men speak highly of your grand venture." It was meant sincerely, but also as one last attempt to salvage an otherwise disparaging interaction for the elven girl, who ever felt the stranger in a strange land. Nariel was not sure what would come of this her introduction, but oddly enough, she had to admit that she really no longer cared either. If the last few months had taught her anything, it was that outside of the bond she had formed over the past several months with her companions, she would likely never be trusted or truly welcome here. So be it then.
Listening intently to Raquel with the occasional nod, Nariel responds curiously "Father Jhod, really? I rather like him, though I suspect he harbors some weariness towards me," pausing a moment, Nariel laughed lightly "I think he perhaps found our debate somewhat… quarrelsome." Shrugging, Nariel added "As for the Lodovka lad, as it turns out, I am to have dinner with one of their clan tomorrow. If it might help, I could inquire of Izaak."
Lucille grins impishly as your inexperience shows itself: "So, you haven't picked up bad habits from anyone else, that's good to know." She tenderly runs one hand through your hair, making it clear that she's being affectionate in her teasing. "I could do that all day, you have the most gorgeous red hair..." She sighs, nestling her head against you. "You walked into that library at New Year like a flame - I can still remember the butterflies in my tummy when I saw you, and then you turned out to be into books as well... Cleverness is sexy, you know?" She nuzzles at your neck. "I never stood a chance."
That said, she takes a deep breath, and steps away; although still holding your hands. "Would it be, um, OK if we, you know, took it a bit slowly?"
Her eyes dart around, looking at you and not looking at you at the same time. "It's just that I think I might, um, really like you, and everything I've really liked I've always ended up losing, so I just want to, you know, be careful this time. I mean, I don't know where I'll be in a few weeks, and you're not here for long, so I don't want to, you know, get my hopes up and then end up heartbroken."
The Mayor shrugs. "Take as long as you need. I won't be able to get everything together straight away, anyway."
The newly-ennobled Baron looks at you curiously for a moment, taking in your elven features, before smiling warmly and taking your offered hand. "Why thank you, My Lady." His accent is different, even to your ears - he speaks the Taldan of Taldor, rather than of Brevoy. "It's exciting times we live in, for sure. I should congratulate you in turn: it's my understanding that your mastery of the arcane arts helped turn the tide against the bandits. Is it really true that you summoned the Hounds of Heaven themselves against the Stag Lord?"
He gives a boyish smile, disarming. "I was never a particularly good student, I regret to say, but those who master such things are worthy of respect."
Between sobs, Kisandra is struggling feebly with her dress, which is clearly designed to be put on by a maid - all of the buttons and lacy straps are in hard-to-reach places.
She turns her angry, helplessly furious look from the dress towards you as you enter: "I s-said g-go away! Oh, what's the use..." She sprawls back on to the bed, shoulders heaving as she sobs like she's dying of heartbreak. "WHY?! W-w-w-whyyy..."
"You don't have to be ashamed of what we did. Whatever's going through your mind, you can talk to me about it. In Cayden's name, I promise I won't judge you. This is a safe space."
Kisandra sniffles, but the sobs die down - slightly. "I'm n-not ash...ashamed. I just duh-don't understand..." Tears leak from her eyes. "I've known that I luh-liked girls since I wuh-was fifteen or so, b-but I'm not allowed to: I cuh-can't tell my fuh-father that, he's a Ranaldin, he'd say it was... that I was..."
She shakes her head, unable to say it, and gives herself over to more sobbing.
The cleric takes a few deep breaths to calm herself. "You can't go on living your life like this, Kisandra. You have to tell him. And if he can't accept it, if he has to put conditions on his love for his own daughter, well, then you're better off without him. My friends and I are forming our own province in the lands south of Brevoy. It will be founded on tolerance, on mutual respect, on love. There will be a place for you there, always. And I promise you that nobody will persecute you for being who you are. You will be loved. As you deserve to be."
She kisses Kisandra on the forehead.
Tristan answers the woman's curtsy with a bow, and offers another to her father. "An honor, Baron Numesti. Graf Aivar is the real warrior among us, but if you're after a good tale I think I can serve well," he says with a smile.
”Why Tom,” she replies, adopting for the informal tone that the Basset had used. ”I’m afraid you have put me at a disadvantage. I am no longer ‘just Sasha’ to your fine friends. Perhaps now that we are all in agreement of me being here, I might learn who it is I’m sitting with.”
Sasha cheers and claps with the rest of her friends for Aivar’s ascension. She still wears the red velvet dress and vest that she wore to her encounter with Dottori and his curiously canine friends. Her hair is put up, pinned in place by a pair of decorative needles. Steel and sharpened to a point, the needles maintained a constant place in her wardrobe where custom frowned on wearing her rapier.
Setting the parcels aside, she takes Yuri’s hands into her own and squeezes them lightly. ”You shouldn’t worry about bringing down my mood with your troubles. We’re friends. We should be able to speak openly about these things.”
Dottori gives you a thin smile. "If you so wish, but my associates' names are not of consequence in the world out there. You may shout them from the rooftops and not even the Mayor of Restov herself would know who they are, or care. But, since it seems to matter to you, I present Violetta Drax of Westcrown; Pinto Lansing of Oppara; and Daffyd Soor of Korvosa. But it is who - or perhaps I should say what - we represent that matters."
Dottori pauses for a moment, refilling everyone's glasses with the excellent red wine, before resuming; and when he does, he is picking his words with even more care than usual. "The world does not run from the places you might think it does. The decisions that shape it are generally made by people like ourselves - although we draw little attention, and no bard will ever sing of our deeds."
"But you may be sure that the scratchings in a ledger-book by some anonymous clerk in some dusty counting-house are of great consequence. Perhaps a decision is made to run the numbers in a particular direction, and suddenly a great lord finds he is no longer able to draw upon credit as he once did; his army goes without pay - or worse, without food. Its recruits desert, and those who remain do not have the stomach for fighting that they did when they were well-paid and well-fed."
"No bard will tell that story. No, instead, they will tell you - or sing to you - of the fall of the Swordlords of Restov at the hands of Choral the Conqueror and his two great dragons. Nobody seems to question why they made their stand where they did, or why they were not able to afford assistance - dragons are mighty indeed, but even they can be defeated." Another thin smile. "For the right price."
"I was not there, of course, but I would wager that - over a lunch such as this one - someone very much like my associates here made the decision that the interminable hostilities between Issia and Rostland were undesirable and unprofitable. That, if the region could be stabilised, there was a legitimate opportunity for business interests to flourish. They, in short, made the decision to invest in the Rogarvias - a wise investment, I might add - and somehow the Swordlords found that they were not able to command the wealth that they once did. That their overtures to mercenary captains were rejected; that no adventuring heroes were interested in aiding them."
"I have not the faintest doubt that in some ledger-room, somewhere, if one could find it, one would be able to see that story played out in the numbers going across a page."
Dottori looks at you and smiles, as dessert arrives: xocolatl from Arcadia, served in the Azlanti style; with a Korvosan dessert wine (ice-cold, sweet as temptation).
"As I said, I hope that our offer of investment is not one you will refuse, although of course you will want to think it over and discuss it with your companions."
"But in the meantime, my own question is unanswered: what did you make of our Captain Garess?"
Kisandra listens, with the occasional sniff, and gives you a watery smile. "Th-thank you. That's nice to hear. But... I can't just run away. I have responsibilities, as the eldest child and as my father's heir. He does love me, I know that. And I - I love him. I can't just run away."
She nods. "But you're right, I do have to do something. I can't just keep going like this, it'll turn me into a complete cow - I'm sorry, by the way. For... well, for ****ing you and then throwing you out. That was... I'm not like that."
She squeezes your hand in reply, and wipes the last of the tears from her face. "Thank you. Truly. Maybe we can meet again - I'll see if my father would weather a 'diplomatic visit' to our new neighbours. Although, is it really true that you don't have a town set up yet? How did you get through the Winter without a proper place to stay?" Her tone is a mixture of curiosity and a polite degree of disbelief/scorn.
Yuri smiles at your delight with his presents. "I am glad they find favour with you. Although I remain in your debt, and my sword is yours should you have need of it." He grimaces. "It's not as if it is greatly in demand by anyone else."
He forces a smile: "Perhaps we might resume our dance, and you can tell me of your troubles? Or, better yet, of your triumphs?"
Baron Numesti is a keen listener when it comes to stories of valour and combat, and his companions gather around, eager to hear the tale that Tristan is offering.
Raquel smiles and caresses Kisandra's cheek. "I would love to see you again. Don't worry, we'll have a town built soon enough. Perhaps next time, we won't have to rush through things. And in the meantime, if you ever need anything, you are welcome to call on me."
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”I happen to be composing a tune in ode to that very event. Will you hear it?”
"At first I was afraid, I was petrified -
Thinking we all would surely fall come that eventide.
The monsters of the wild had brought another still more vile,
so strong it shattered stone,
yet still only flesh and bone!
Then our Graf -
You know his face -
Strode upon the field and declared 'You shall not conquer this place!'
We are the warriors of Restov, sons and daughters of Brevoy,
Then he took up his mighty weapon, his face lit with feral joy...”
Tristan continues the energetic tune, telling a somewhat-embellished version of events at the Battle of the Post. Each of his companions features in turn, including himself and his felling of the dark wizard through a striving of songs of power. He improvises in places where he had not yet finalized the lyrics, but feels overall that the song had merit.
Turning his self-depreciating manner back at him, Nariel responded "It is true that I have a talent for research and all things arcane, but in like turn I am hopeless with the sword," pausing to deliver her own disarming smile, she adds playfully "I have always admired those who excelled in all things martial and athletic. Is it not curious that we respect those who possess the talents we long for?"
Casually taking a couple of drinks from a nearby server, she offers one to the Baron and returns to his original inquiry "Being hopeless in hand-to-hand combat, I do my best to tip the scales towards my more physically abled companions. I did summon celestial hounds, elementals and just about anything I could muster to slow down the bandits… but it was Ser Kurisyl, Arianna, well, everyone else really who did the heavy lifting in the battle for the Outpost." Laughing as she looked toward her lithe waist where her sword hung, Nariel added "All elves are trained with the sword from childhood, but if I am being entirely honest, the battle is truly lost if we are in a situation where I need to draw it."
Changing the subject, Nariel turned her head askew inquisitively "Baron Drevlev, forgive my impertinence, but languages is one of my academic pursuits; as such, I could not help but notice your accent is one of proper Taldan? As someone who hails from outside of Brevoy myself, it is a small comfort to engage with others who hail from afar." Taking a sip of her, Nariel appeared genuinely interested as she inquired "What brought you to Brevoy?"
Suddenly hearing the ballad during her conversation with the Baron, Nariel glanced up with an amused smile "Well, that is a new song. I have to admit, it is very entertaining... and more importantly, it is mostly accurate historically. When the song finished, Nariel raises her hands and applauds politely.
"Take it slow, uh, yeah, that's fine," Arianna says. She laughs awkwardly. "Probably for the best, actually, yeah. Still a lot to do, yeah? Maybe when things aren't quite so...up in the air, yeah? Yeah, uh, you know, it was...nice to see you. Whatever else may come of it."
"So, real talk," Arianna says to Aivar after getting out of the meeting with the mayor. "Whatcha thinking? No judgement."
Aivar sucks in his lower lip and stares at no point in particular. This somehow helps him to sort his thoughts. He considers Arianna's question for a couple of seconds before answering. "Considering the political landscape, the Mark will be swept away if House Surtova is considering going on the warpath and they manage to beat Restov. That's a pretty big if, but I honestly feel there's a truth to it. I can't shake the feeling that something awful is going on. We'll need to pick a side and it is clear that the other side doesn't care for us. In the name of the regent, heh, how funny that was said to the two new barons but not to me."
He then sighs, eyes dropping to the ground before popping back up. "But by agreeing with the mayor's proposal, the Mark basically becomes a Restov colony in all but name. Unless we generate enough wealth on our own, we will have to keep on relying on Restov expertise and demand to make sure we don't collapse under the weight of our investments. I'm not an accountant, let alone a businessman, but the years I've spent aiding my father as he made sure the Lord's taxes were collected have taught me a thing or two about money. The exchange and investment of great wealth create dependencies. I might become an indebted Graf if we don't watch it." The sour topic causes Aivar to wrinkle his nose. "We should run this by Narièl and Sasha, they seem good with numbers. The four of us should be able to figure out the financial ramifications. Heh, or three of you," he says with a wry smile.
Taking his hand, she guides Yuri back to the dance floor and takes her position. ”I might have an opportunity for you.” She waits for the dance to begin before continuing, speaking to Yuri softly when they grow close during the steps. “It won’t be easy and I’ll have to speak with my partners, but they’ve seen you in action. Aivar has been granted the title of graf and received an area of land in the Greenbelt. I mean to turn it into something grand and we need people we can trust. Men and women of honor and skill. Men like yourself.”[/b]
She waits for his reaction.
Taking his hand, she guides Yuri back to the dance floor and takes her position. "I might have an opportunity for you." She waits for the dance to begin before continuing, speaking to Yuri softly when they grow close during the steps. "It won’t be easy and I’ll have to speak with my partners, but they’ve seen you in action. Aivar has been granted the title of graf and received an area of land in the Greenbelt to start his own Mark. I mean to turn it into something grand and we need people we can trust. I think I can trust you, Yuri."
She waits for his reaction.
Tristan finishes the song, part of his mind already reviewing how it could have been improved even as he admit to himself it's a decent piece of work. Battles did make for splendid topics, and he'd had the benefit of first-hand experience for this one.
Tristan acknowledges any applause or cheers with a wide grin, and then bows again to the Baron. "I hope that was enough of a tale for you! As you can tell, we were all lucky to have Aiv-er, the Graf along when that beast broke down the gates. My rapier would have done little more than tickle such a giant! I tell you, I was downright happy when the rest of them showed up."
Lucille gives you a warm smile: "I'm really glad you came to see me, it means... well, it means a lot to me. Especially when I'm sure you have so much to do! And if you want, you can always, you know," she looks down at the floor, awkwardly "ask me out to dinner, or something?"
She gives you another impish smile: "And you certainly don't get to leave here without giving me another kiss... if you want to, I mean."
Dottori gives a small, wry smile, in reply to your story; very unlike the ones he has previously given. "Yes, well. If there is a universe in which Kesten Garess does the wrong thing, you may be sure it is not this one!"
He gives an amused/exasperated shake of his head. "With all the experiences he has had, he somehow still believes in the power of virtue. It is more than I can do, and anyone who can do something I cannot is either useful, admirable, or dangerous." Another nod. "Your captain somehow manages to be all three. It is a wonder he has survived as long as he has. Perhaps his goddess does protect him after all, although The Inheritor is a harsher mistress than I would choose for myself."
Drax, the Fox-lady, scowls. "As fascinating as all this reminiscence is, Dottori, we do have other places to be." Lansing, the pug, looks dismayed: "But not before we've finished this most excellent dessert, I trust!"
Dottori nods, decisively. "We must take our leave. I'm sure they'll put it in a box for you to finish later, Pinto."
He rises from the table, and bows, smoothly. "We have this place until the evening, Ms ... Sasha. Feel free to stay and enjoy a coffee or another drink. But we have other - business interests - to take care of for now. Until next time. I look forward to receiving your acceptance of our offer."
Still faintly bickering, Drax and Lansing head off without paying you much attention. Only Soor, the basset-hound, gives you a lugubrious nod, his loose jowls swaying as he does so.
And then you are alone, save for the head-waiter hurrying up to you. "He said you were to be provided for, My Lady, so please let me know what else I can get for you."
"Ah, Ser Aivar." The voice is the mellifluous drawl of one who is accustomed to public speaking and has long since got used to making introductions. The man the voice belongs to further confirms that impression, with everything from his neatly-arranged dark hair to his carefully-groomed mustache to his finely-tailored attire, distinguished only by the plain wooden symbol of Erastil around his neck, giving an artful counterpoint with its hint of humility. "I was hoping to find you here. Izaak Lodovka, at your service. I understand that the Lady Ezvanka has already mentioned me to you. Is this a convenient moment to have a conversation? I am sure that I can procure a quiet room for us to talk."
The Baron gives you an easy smile, in the manner of one who is accustomed to all things coming easily to him. "Ah, well, that is something of a story in itself. The short version is that I am a merchant-venturer - a rather successful one, if I say so myself - and that Taldor has little use for self-made men. If you are not of the aristocracy already, there is no place for you."
"So, I used my funds to acquire one of the Charters and to buy the force of arms I would need to pacify the lands to the West of your own position." He bows his head in acknowledgement. "Some six months later and we have the beginnings of a bustling town, together with some industry, and are working on clearing the fens of some of its more hostile residents." He shudders somewhat theatrically. "Although I shall be happy never to see another hydra again for as long as I live."
Kisandra looks dubious: "A trading post? Oh well, better than a tent, I suppose. And at least you're on solid ground. I've spent the better part of the last few months trudging around my father and his men as they try to civilise a swamp." She shudders. "When we got back here last week I honestly thought I would never get my hair smelling good again, it took two baths just to get clean." A sigh. "And I get to go back to it, a castle on a swamp. Fort Drelev, he calls it. Ugh."
"But thank you for your offer." She bites her lip. "Were your parents understanding with you, then? That must have been nice."
Yuri is an excellent dancer, light on his feet and almost as nimble as you are; but he nearly misses a step as he listens to your offer, his eyes lighting up. "That would be ... I would ... yes." He laughs. "Yes, Lady Sasha, I would gladly pledge my sword to your Graf's service if he will have it. That is the best news I have had in many an evening."
With a grin, he sweeps you up as the next dance begins, ignoring the various hopefuls crowding around in search of their next partner. "Strictly speaking, that's a terrible breach of protocol, monopolising you for the evening, but I survived the bandits, I survived a court-martial, I'm sure I can survive a little light social disgrace. Particularly when the reward is as dazzling as you are ... is that too obvious a piece of flattery? I'm afraid that my talent is in my sword-arm rather than in my words. But it is no flattery to say that I should be very glad to spend more time in your company, if that is agreeable to you as well."
Your performance is rapturously received, with an expansive and long-lasting applause once you have finished. For some moments you are the center of attention, while the other bards present feverishly purse their lips and take note of your composition while it is still fresh in their minds.
You get the feeling that you have produced a hit, a palpable hit.