Farrukh tries to eat his meal in as much peace as he can eke out, not really interested in getting into a philosophical discussion with a psychopath.
Farrukh feels himself getting drunk, frowns, and resets his metabolism to before he drank it.
Cuetzpalli chooses not to drink at this time.
Tanith drinks liberally.
Eben quaffs his wine effortlessly, in true bardic fashion. And continues speaking to fill the awkward silence. "My sympathies on your losses, Captain Kilraven. It speaks highly of you that you have become more than the sum of your tragedies." He raises his glass as a salute. "We of Spiny's Six are, of course, but a small force in the world, not great heads of state, but crushing those who dole out misery and suffering is certainly something we have tried to play our part in as well. I like to think we've succeeded, in our small way, where we've traveled, in leaving things better behind us. And that, I think, is what everyone should aspire too. Deal justice where you can, but build something better in its wake. Maybe the six of us can't... break all the clocks, but maybe we can ensure that the ones within the reach of our arm tell the time more humanely."
"If one agrees with the premise of an all-powerful clockmaker, yeah." Astraden scoffs a little bit. "Personally, the only clockmaker I've met wasn't even some-powerful. Kind of a pastry sort of guy. Speaking of which, good food." She gulps down some wine.
Zalamandra falters slightly, but tries to cover when Hemriss again shuts her down. "Oh, I'm sure it was no one important. When one comes to a new city, one tries to catch up on the local gossip, but there's always a risk that the lower-class embellishes on the truth." She smiles her best smile, perturbed that the silence around her draws out so long.
Zalamandra eats of the main course, but only sips her wine - she's not looking to get drunk. She continues speaking with Shag, reminiscing about old times and the strange circumstances that brought them both here. It's not that she's giving Hemriss the cold shoulder, but she's not making any more efforts to appease her temper.
Eben quaffs his wine effortlessly, in true bardic fashion. And continues speaking to fill the awkward silence. "My sympathies on your losses, Captain Kilraven. It speaks highly of you that you have become more than the sum of your tragedies." He raises his glass as a salute. "We of Spiny's Six are, of course, but a small force in the world, not great heads of state, but crushing those who dole out misery and suffering is certainly something we have tried to play our part in as well. I like to think we've succeeded, in our small way, where we've traveled, in leaving things better behind us. And that, I think, is what everyone should aspire too. Deal justice where you can, but build something better in its wake. Maybe the six of us can't... break all the clocks, but maybe we can ensure that the ones within the reach of our arm tell the time more humanely."
Prince Zeech nods slightly. "It speaks well of you to believe in such things, Eben. You do credit to your five compatriots, I'm sure."
Everyone at the table seems to relax, and conversations all around resume. The dinner continues, with Prince Zeech clearly pensive. Hemriss is unmistakably displeased with Zalamandra, but the mood is otherwise considerably lighter—everyone is plainly eager to move off of philosophy and politics and towards the petty trivialities of the wealthy and powerful. Shag Solomon seems to be greatly enjoying the attention he receives from the aristocrats, happy to share braggadocios tales and somewhat pretentious anecdotes with Zalamandra and his other neighbors.
After the second course is complete, the Ominous Fabler clears his throat and rises up into the air, borne by some sort of magic. He flies above the table, flapping his arms and croaking in a remarkably apt impression of a raven. He cracks his knuckles loudly. "My Prince bids me to tell a tale!" he screeches out.
The gnomelike creature clears his throat, stretches as if readying for a race, and begins, delivering an amusing and morbid story of a dryad whose tree is unknowingly transplanted into a bitter noble's garden, and of the delightfully ironic fate she devises for the man.
When the tale is done, the Fabler bows and descends back to the ground.
"Would anyone else like to tell a story?" Prince Zeech asks the assembled guests. Prince Toris starts to raise his hand, then lowers it—the Fabler's tale seems to have left him a bit queasy.
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"One time I came to a town, and it was very dark and sad. I didn't like it very much, then I waited a long time to have dinner," Cuetzpalli mutters under his breath.
Astraden gives Cuetzpalli a commiserating glance, slightly raising her speaking volume to distract the sharp-eared. "So, Lashonna, how long have you lived here in town? Have you ever been to Greyhawk? An artist of your stature . . ."
Eben stands, unable to resist the challenge, so to speak. "As it happens, your highness, the eminent Fabler's well-spun tale puts me in mind of another story about a fiercely independent woman not to be trifled with. However, I must apologize in advance to anyone of a more... delicate disposition..." Eben looks over the assembled diners, his eyes lingering pointedly upon on Prince Toris, before continuing. "Because this story isn't about anything of a high and lofty nature; it is, I'm afraid, the story of a brothel. But, just for the sake of discretion, we'll call it... oh, let's say, a dance hall. And the more sensitive among us can pretend that dancing is all that happens behind closed doors."
Eben then launches into an epic tale about a festhall of the Free City, one with a seedy history, newly purchased by a wealthy madam with ideas of how she would run things for the better. And she has many obstacles to overcome; the tale is peppered with amusing side-anecdotes that could surely be spun off into tales themselves, such as an attempt at a 'dancer' union forming, and an almost-certainly plagiarized allusion about the time a noble dwarf brought a donkey into the festhall. In time, though, the madam- a very competent, if strict leader- irons out the chaos and kinks, and has the business running the way she envisioned, although in so doing she imposes an almost draconian series of regulations upon her staff. Profits are up, the festhall's reputation has improved, and clients from both near and exotic locales are making the place a destination. But, what she begins to notice is that the 'dancers' are no longer as happy as before. True, they are experiencing safety and prosperity, but at a cost of independence and freedom, and nobody really likes dancing with an unhappy dancer. Ultimately, the madam dials back on the forcefulness of her house rules, and the result is a happy medium: a well-run dance hall with enough regulations in place to ensure the safety and well-being of the staff, but enough autonomy granted to the dancers that they can still find enjoyment in their work. In the end, profits drop marginally (even though more and more patrons come to the now well-loved festhall, keeping the staff in happy conditions does increase the overhead by a bit...) but everyone, including the madam, is happier overall.
Eben takes a seat, the smile on his face covering up any uncertainty he feels over his story.
A soft sport for the deformed doesn't neccesarily mean he's looking to make the world a better place, but I have to give it a try...
Zalamandra tenses up at Eben's choice of subject matter, but swiftly relaxes when she realizes he can't possibly be referring to her easygoing leadership style. She claps once he's finished.
Carina tilts her head and listens attentively to Eben's story.
"One time I came to a town, and it was very dark and sad. I didn't like it very much, then I waited a long time to have dinner," Cuetzpalli mutters under his breath.
Mahuudril is heard to snort.
Lashonna smiles thinly at Astraden. "I fear I've never had time to visit the Gem of the Flanaess. It's such a lively town, though—and it seems as though it grows livelier by the day."
Eben MacTeague delivers his story with characteristic panache and guile, and the entire table seems enrapt by the tale. Even Prince Zeech seems to be listening keenly, one eyebrow raised. Only the Ominous Fabler scowls darkly and makes a petulant show of checking his wrist repeatedly, as if the story has gone on too long. When the story is completed, the whole table erupts in applause—led by Lowri, whose brow is furrowed as she observes the guests from the background.
"Classic!" guffaws Montague Marat. "A real page-turner!"
Balabar Smenk's applause is sarcastically pronounced. Zeech's is polite but minimal. A ghost sound booing emanates from beneath the table as the Ominous Fabler appears to be coughing into a handkerchief.
Following Eben's story, Shag Solomon delivers a dour tale of a quaggoth hero's battle against a terrible fang dragon called "Xyzanth" who laid waste to the north. Mahuudril tells the humorous story of six incompetent adventurers she used to know, who spent hours crawling through the sewer only to find they'd ruined the treasure they'd retrieved. Nobody quite matches Eben's story, however, and few others seem eager to compete.
"It is quite full of life, yes. I think it might be the biggest city in the world?? Probably why like half our party is from there. Wait, Carina, where were you born, again?"
Carina begins to respond before stopping and looking down at her meal in thought.
"...I don't remember, I'm afraid. Probably on the road somewhere--that's the faithful of Fharlanghn for you." She says, chuckling.
...except probably not. Sabir Sinfire.
"And now," the Fabler declares, loudly cutting off any lingering discussions, "the third course is a concoction of our brilliant Prince's own making—delectable tojbasarrirge for all!"
The massive dish is wheeled in, pulled by two manticores, and the lid is removed to reveal its contents: An entire tojanida, stuffed with numerous gritty basilisk steaks, which are in turn stuffed with tangy arrowhawk breasts, which are finally in turn stuffed with an entire boned stirge with three olives impaled on its proboscis. It is all held within a great halved tojanida shell.
It is truly a sight to behold.
Unfortunately, as the guests begin to dig in, they discover that this dish is absolutely foul.
Carina seems to be paying more attention to the baffling third course. She tilts her head in confusion before taking a bite of her serving...
Oh, Fharlanghn preserve me, this tastes...
She starts to cough violently, hacking up the revolting mass in her mouth into a napkin.
"...went down the wrong way. Excuse me."
...I suppose I should be happy my taste buds haven't been completely mutated and warped into non-functionality.
Farrukh doesn't even bother hiding his distaste, taking a bite of the food and immediately spitting it back onto the plate while scraping the rest off his tongue with a napkin.
I've choked down some nasty food in my time, but this is beyond the pale. I think I'd rather eat a Kyuss worm.
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Cuetzpalli tucks into the dish with relish. Finally, some bush meat!
"It's been ages since I've had anything this good," he comments around a mouthful.
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Eben basks in the overall praise from his tale, notwithstanding the naked jealousy of the Ominous Fabler's criticism. Because, after all, it's not like gnome opinions count for anything.
He covers his mouth with a napkin, as if to wipe a spot of grease from his lips, catches Zalamandra's eye, and subtly points towards the Prince and Hemriss as they whisper to one another.
Then the main course arrives.
"Oh, excellent, I've been waiting for a meat course..." he says happily as a healthy helping of many-layered stuffed turtle-thing is set down in front of him. Then the smell hits him. And the smile on his face struggles.
"Oh. My." He says, bravely holding back his gags. "This is... something else, your Highness. You can... really taste the basilisk, can't you? I admit, I've never had one before... I was wondering what they tasted like during the games before, in fact! But in spite of that, I can tell which part is basilisk, I... really, really can."
To complete the charade, he makes a point of rubbing his stomach, saying "mmmm", and smiling.
Tanith watches in confusion as the next course is rolled out. The merits of the whole spectacle are lost on him but at least it was clean protein.
The big man chokes down the foul course, more as an act of asserting dominance than an effort to find satisfaction in the meal itself.
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Astraden pretends to eat the hideous meat, instead pocketing it into her cheeks like a small rodent. She smiles towards Zeech. "Truly quipfe exfellenpff, your Highneff!"
Zalamandra tries to pick up on social clues, but is quite unaware despite Eben's attempt to help her.
She makes a show of enjoying Zeech's food.
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As it becomes clear to all just how awful the dish is, guests can be seen to glance toward Cuetzpalli, Eben and Zalamandra in amazement—and even some grudging respect for the adventurers' superior tact (or superior stomachs). Miszen eats daintily, showing no signs of disgust, while Mahuudril doesn't seem even slightly turned off by the flavor.
Prince Zeech is the last to take a bite, and he is eyeing those who cannot stomach the dish with growing anger. At Astraden's blatant display and Farrukh's shameless distaste, his rage seems to almost be at a boiling point. He takes a particularly large forkful, skewing some meat from each beast, and pointedly begins to eat.
He chews slowly, thoughtfully, then stops.
He lowers his fork. "The Third Course is complete," he declares calmly.
Servants bustle in to clear off the table, though they save Cuetzpalli for last—perhaps as a gesture of sympathy for the hungry bloodrager, perhaps reluctant to try to confiscate his meal. Prince Zeech can be heard saying in a low voice to one of the servants, "No, just throw the whole thing into the sea. The whole thing. Just vile. Terrible idea from the start."
Eben gains an additional 1 point for topping the Fabler's tale.
Carina begins to respond before stopping and looking down at her meal in thought.
"...I don't remember, I'm afraid. Probably on the road somewhere--that's the faithful of Fharlanghn for you." She says, chuckling.
...except probably not. Sabir Sinfire.
"Fharlanghn, is it?" Captain Vulras remarks, clearly eager for a distraction. Sitting next to Farrukh, he very nearly kept the food down, but one look at Farrukh appeared to trigger his gag reflex. "I've known some Fharlanghn...ians, in my trips into the Empire. Hard to pin down, but, y'know, that works out well for them. They're the only welcome encounter on the Road of Skulls."
Sitting next to Farrukh, he very nearly kept the food down, but one look at Farrukh appeared to trigger his gag reflex.
Sitting next to Farrukh, he very nearly kept the food down, but one look at Farrukh appeared to trigger his gag reflex.
"I've known some Fharlanghn...ians, in my trips into the Empire. Hard to pin down, but, y'know, that works out well for them. They're the only welcome encounter on the Road of Skulls."
"Road of Skulls?"
Captain Vulras nods to Farrukh. "I mean, you run into all sorts on the nicest of roads, and the Road of Skulls isn't exactly nice. It cuts right through the Empire of Iuz. The only good thing you can say about it is that you're never starved for conversation!" He laughs.
Miszen gives a wry smile. "We're sure picking a lot of pleasant topics tonight."
"Hey, I'm just answering questions." Captain Vulras shrugs. "Our wise Prince may be the chief reason we don't have that road winding right up to our doorstep, and half our heads staked beside it."
The heads up above eagerly agree, babbling the Prince's praises.
As the fourth course begins, huge coverd tureens are brought out by the servants. Within shudders a strange purple jelly.
"A notorious menace in some parts of the world," the Fabler declares shrilly, in a mock-academic tone, "and the favored prey of stone giants, the purple worm's propensity for eating anything is known to adventurers far and wide. The Olman of the far south, though, learnt of a way of cooking the poisonous tail sections of the worm so that the poison is neutralized." The gnomelike creature grins widely and taps his nose. "But the recipe must be precise."
Korush, hovering over the trays as they are delivered, takes a surreptitious sniff. He blanches. His eyes shoot to those of the party, and he mouths the words: Strong stuff!
As the bowls of shuddering purple glop are placed before each of the guests, the Prince raises an eyebrow.
"Are any at the table," the Fabler wonders aloud, "brave enough to taste the dish before the Prince puts his own health at risk for deliciousness?"
There is a short silence. Several eyes drift to members of Spiny's Six—especially those who willingly consumed the previous item on the menu.
Farrukh shrugs and takes a bite. He fears no poison.
"Oh, look, more worm to eat!" Eben says loudly, feigning delight. "And an Olman recipe too, how exotic!" He digs a spoon into the quivering mass before him and raises a thumb-shaped plodge of it to his lips, then pauses and continue talking while the worm-goo jiggles before him like an overenthusiastic exotic dancer, "Is this something you've had before, then, Cuetzpalli? Are there any purple worms on the Isle of Dread, or have the dinosaurs eaten them all? Just think, we could be about to eat something that Spiny's ancestors hunted to extinction, how exciting! Not that it would be the first time we've had the same tastes as good ol' Spiny, he did like his beef. There was this one time we teleported an invisible cow out of the Greyhawk sewers into a crowded restaurant once, in fact..." He conveniently continues in this vein for a bit longer, until Farrukh has swallowed a bite and not immediately keeled over. "Well, down the hatch!" he says as he slowly (again, watching Farrukh for signs of sharp intestinal pain) brings the jelly to his lips and swallows.
Carina takes a taste of the aspic.
It cannot possibly be worse than the previous course.
Tanith gladly shoves a spoonful of the potential poison into his mouth in hopes that it will wash the awful taste of the tojbasarrirge from it.
Cuetzpalli shrugs. "They must have invented it after I was enslaved. Never heard of it," Cuetzpalli answers Eben before excitedly tucking in to the worm.
Astraden takes the moment of focus on her companions to pocket the hideous meat of the previous course. She waits for Cuetzpalli to try the worm before tasting it herself.
Farrukh notices his other companions are crazy and shoots them an incredulous look as he kicks into maximum overdrive to eat the worm first, nearly choking on it in the process.
I'm the only one here who's actually IMMUNE...sort of, to poison. These guys are nuts.
Eben, not realizing (or not recalling) Farrukh's ability to literally turn back time if poisoned, fails to realize that waiting for Farrukh to eat a bite first and waiting just long enough to see the results (sort of like having a canary in a coal mine) is a futile activity, finally plunges his bite down with relish. Or maybe gusto is a better term, since the worm basically is relish in itself.
In a surprising burst of heroism, Carina takes the initiative, followed shortly by the rest of Spiny's Six. All the while, Montague Marat is watching Farrukh intently, slow, slowly raising his spoon to his lips—then, almost in perfect tandem with Eben, beginning to eat normally.
The jellied "meat" is actually surprisingly tasty, and for those who need something to wash it down, it's served with an iced spiced blackberry liqueur. Korush quietly identifies the latter as "C'rosch. It's a local spirit. It is incredibly strong. I wouldn't."
As the guests enjoy the second-to-last course of the banquet, Lashonna leans back casually. "An invisible cow, Mr. MacTeague?" Though her tone is mild, she watches him—and the rest of the party, over the course of the discussion—through narrowed eyes, almost catlike. There is an sense of measuring-up. "How did that come to pass?"
"Eh, it's fine. it looks tasty and this is the only really good course so far." Farrukh whispers back to Korush.
Then, for the second time tonight, Farrukh drinks incredibly strong booze out of curiosity.
He smacks his lips a bit appreciatively.
Good stuff.
Zalamandra eats the jelly, though she also delays until the other guests have started eating. "I wonder, which brave souls killed this particular worm? They are not the most docile of prey." She smiles at the offered drink but does not partake.
Cuetzpalli shrugs and drinks the distilled berry wine.
Carina takes a drink of the C'rosch to wash the aspic down...
...and it goes straight to her head. She lets out a silly giggle.
"This tastes quite lovely."
Eben waves away Korush's quiet warning and quaffs a good long pull of the purple stuff.
Shtupid juh...juh... genie. Doesn't he know birds can drink till their livers fall out? Bards. Bards can drink...
"Mm. Yeah, th'invisble cow..." He replies, happy to have another chance to tell a story. "So there was this... illuth...illu... mind flyer!" He raises a finger triumphantly, having overcome the difficulty of recalling specific species names. "Lived down in the suhwers of Greyhawk. We went down there t'kill him. Anyhow, he kept a buncha livestuck down there. He also kept a buncha people there too..." (He shoots a not-even remotely subtle conspiratorial wink at Lowri) " I gueess the pigs and cows were there for them to eat, and the people where there for him... anyway. But, y'know, we resuced them. And then we chased him off and the livestock was still all there, except the one pig we kinda melted, and we went home and I felt bad about them being stuck down there still, 'cause they'd just starve. So me an' Farrukh an' this other guy Rodrigo... he retired from adventuring to become a slumlord, s'why he's not here... went back down. Another pig had been eaten by a naga, but the cow was still there, so Rodrigo teluported us all back up. But like I said, sewer, so we didn't know exactly where we were in the city, and we just went straight up, so we wound up in this restaurant. An' y'know, y'can't bring a cow into a rest'rant, at least not alive, I mean, steaks are okay, so I turned it invi'ble to make things less awkward. Of course, then the invis'ble cow started knowking over tables and plates and waiters an' stuff, but still. Fun day." He takes another appreciative swig of his blackberry booze. The tale is nowhere near as polished and refined ald layered with metaphor as his previous one, but goshdarn if it somehow isn't more charming for being a bit slurred.