Astraden raises her glass and nods to Zeech. "Back where I'm from, a little old town with kinda less fancy drinks served in way less fancy places, we typically begin each night of drinking with a toast to the person paying. So, to the Prince!" She downs the contents of the fluted glass, grinning afterwards from the burn going down. Only Montague, Lashonna, and perhaps Cuetzpalli notice her other hand tightening under the table as she says that last sentence.
When Astraden raises her glass, the mirth pauses.
Everyone is quite frantic to toast to the good health of the Prince—in fact, several look rather sour that Astraden of all people beat them to it.
Lashonna follows with one of her own. "Well said, Lady Limhaare," she says, raising her glass. "And let me add, to the people of Redhand! Never was there a people more resilient, and worse-afflicted. They learned to survive under Old Wicked, and now, gods willing, they may thrive."
Everyone is willing to toast that, though a bit less frantically.
Montague Marat raises his glass. "To—"
"To endings," the Ominous Fabler declares grandly, swinging his oversized goblet recklessly. Marat is splashed with c'rosch and falls back. "What a lovely day, to have lasted so very long! Let's be done with toasts already!"
Prince Zeech yanks the Fabler off the table by the collar and tosses him on the ground, sighing. "My apologies, Mr. Marat. You know how fools can be."
Marat sputters and scowls.
The fourth course passes quickly—though perhaps less so for those who manage to stay sober, as they have to sit through Eben's wild tale. Lashonna rests her chin on her steepled fingers and asks leading questions, clearly greatly enjoying his somewhat slurred delivery. His tale starts a round of boasting contests, with Captain Vulras sharing the time he actually fought a purple worm (to a draw) and Miszen sharing the time she destroyed a competitor's entire shipment of spices with a single cantrip.
The atmosphere around the table is warmer now, as the banquet winds to a close, and the more alert members of the party notice that other guests are making more of an effort to include Spiny's Six, to position themselves as amiable and friendly. It seems that the adventurers have become rather popular—and not just with the more unpleasant guests. Captain Vulras seems keenly interested in Farrukh's and Cuetzpalli's weapons, while and Lady Kilraven keeps glancing toward Tanith and Carina with guarded looks, as if there's something she wants to ask them.
"Didn't you fight a mind flayer once?" cuts in an unpleasant, oily voice. All eyes turn to Balabar Smenk as the fourth course winds to a close. He's leaning back, hands clasped over his belly, eyebrows raised quizzically. "One who employed a bunch of doppelgangers. What was his name, again?"
"A mind flayer!" Mahuudril looks between Balabar and the party, her eyes lighting up with sudden interest. "Goodness, now that must have been exciting!"
Smenk isn't Zeech and Eben feels no obligation to pander."Did we fight a min' flayer? Huh, tha's funny. Cleary our reputation precceds us. or, y'know, maybe I just told a story that started with 'there was a mind flayer we foguht down in the Greyhawk sewers'." He smiles at the talking pustule, though. "Funny thing, tho'. The mind flayer? It asn't just eatin' people's brains. No. There was one person it picked out to..." He lowers his voice. "Carry its babies." He looks around apologetically. "Sorry to get graf... graph.. gross. I know I already talked about brothels, so birds anna bees aren't off the table, buit this was nasty." He looks right over at Smenk again. "Can you jus' imagine. How awful it must be t'die by becoming a mind flayer's baby daddy?"
Astraden raises her glass to Lashonna's toast, nodding. "Well put."
"What was worse, though? The mind flayer or the mine flayer?" Astraden cuts in before Smenk can answer. "One of them was a slippery, evil monster who deserved death... and one of them ate brains."
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"Yeah, you suck and nobody likes you, and we were all glad when you died. Cheers. Farrukh adds, raising his glass.
Cuetzpalli laughs aloud at Farrukh's comment.
"Hey, I was bein' all suttle and clever with wordplay, here!" Eben protests the blunt insults that follow his own, waving his now-empty glass of c'rosch around.
While Eben charmingly slurs his way through retelling the party's encounter with mindflayer, Tanith catches sight of Lady Kilraven glancing at Carina and himself. His immediate thought is that she is another one of Zeech's sycophants but the woman's visible discomfort reminds him of the truth. Not everyone in Alhaster shared the Prince's tyrannical leanings.
"Hey Red", he says in a whisper. "Do you know much about the woman sitting next to me? She keeps looking at us."
"Lady Kilraven?" Carina whispers back, looking a little wobbly. "She's a nice lady--doesn't really wanna be here. Pretty understandable."
Though the mood at the table remains fairly light as Astraden makes her transparent taunt, the mirth fades at Farrukh's blunt statement.
Balabar Smenk makes an exagerated show of yawning. "You know, I think sooner or later you're gonna wish you all let him eat your brains. Not like you were usin' them, am I right? All you've all done is talk all day about your heroics, talk, talk, talk—well, ladies and gentlemonsters—" he gestures casually at Solomon, who seems affronted, "let's ask 'em about how their own hometown looks after they got through with it, eh?" He claps his hand together and steeples his fingers, grinning dead at Astraden. "And how is Diamond Lake doin', heroes?"
After barely a pause, the ex-coal boss throws his hands up in the air. "Hell! Screw it! How are the nice fellows you went to save at Sinner's Sanctum, eh, Limhaare? Red?" His eyes glance to Carina, and his voice takes on a simpering mock-sympathy. "Did you do all you could for them? Do you think they appreciated your visit?"
All of the night's pretense seems to be melting away like snow on a spring afternoon, and for a moment, the mud and muck and debris beneath seems a bit more evident, the sallow fear and cruelty that has pervaded the undercurrent of the dinner now evident in every guest's eyes and posture as they look between Spiny's Six and the unruly attendant. Lowri's eyes are wide as she visibly leans away from Smenk, looking first to Eben, then to her current associates. Even Lashonna and Zeech are watching closely now, though both are perfect masks.
Only Mahuudril seems unmoved, focusing instead on her aspic. She eats rapidly, cutting up her meat with great precision and speed. She seems quite delighted by this course—but then, she seemed delighted with the horrible meat abomination from earlier, too.
Farrukh gives Smenk a genuinely confused look.
"who cares how Diamond Lake is doing? None of us were there because we really wanted to be, and it's barely a town to begin with. I really have no idea what you're trying to accomplish here, besides stir up trouble like you always do."
Farrukh gives Smenk a genuinely confused look.
"who cares how Diamond Lake is doing?"
Astraden visibly bites her tongue.
Farrukh gives Smenk a genuinely confused look.
"who cares how Diamond Lake is doing? None of us were there because we really wanted to be, and it's barely a town to begin with. I really have no idea what you're trying to accomplish here, besides stir up trouble like you always do."
"It's barely a town," Smenk drawls, "'cause you lot saw it torn apart by dragons with grudges and mobs with torches. But I guess that's nothin' so sad to you. Just another ugly town fulla ugly people what deserve what comes to them, right? That's how it all works?"
He leans against B'Kruss's chair, heedless of the hobgoblin's slight growl. "See, I'd love to understand the lot of you. Call it a permanent tic, Al'Khattel. Is that all it comes down to? Rotten town, rotten people, let it all burn, move on to the next?" He huffs. "Not very heroic. We've heard you b@#%#~@@ your way through this philosophy all night—dealing justice where you can, sure, right—but now I'm askin' you lot for the honest bones and grit of it, and you're givin' me a look like I'm asking you to wear your klar for a condom. So I didn't pay some of your parents well enough or whatever, you bashed my f%%@in' head into the floor, but I was always straight with you about who I was and what I did, wasn't I? And Vecna knows you sure never kissed my ass the way half of you kiss His Highness's—no offense, Your Greatness. I feel like we've always been up-front, and that's why we been such good friends.
"So, if I understand you, Al—Diamond Lake in ruins, barely a town to begin with, hell to the people that died. Same goes for any town or city with that kind of ugly? World's sick, nobody cares, take what you can? Great. If that's how you always saw it, then I guess we should've got on better than we did." He waves a hand. "I mean, except that I built that town up and gave everyone work... and you got it burned to the ground or whatever. I guess that's a difference. Do I get a dead dinosaur mascot, too?"
There's hatred in his eyes, though, and he definitely wants to hurt you, or shame you, or in some other way hamper you. It's just hard to tell right now just how he plans to do that, unless he thinks that this outburst reflects worse on you than on him.
One thing's for sure: Your stories and boasting at the party, and subsequent popularity, have seriously pissed Balabar Smenk off.
Carina blinks several times, staring at the fat ex-mine manager as he rants at the party.
"...wait, what?"
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Farrukh gives Smenk a genuinely confused look.
"who cares how Diamond Lake is doing? None of us were there because we really wanted to be, and it's barely a town to begin with. I really have no idea what you're trying to accomplish here, besides stir up trouble like you always do."
"It's barely a town," Smenk drawls, "'cause you lot saw it torn apart by dragons with grudges and mobs with torches. But I guess that's nothin' so sad to you. Just another ugly town fulla ugly people what deserve what comes to them, right? That's how it all works?"
He leans against B'Kruss's chair, heedless of the hobgoblin's slight growl. "See, I'd love to understand the lot of you. Call it a permanent tic, Al'Khattel. Is that all it comes down to? Rotten town, rotten people, let it all burn, move on to the next?" He huffs. "Not very heroic. We've heard you b*~#$@~@ your way through this philosophy all night—dealing justice where you can, sure, right—but now I'm askin' you lot for the honest bones and grit of it, and you're givin' me a look like I'm asking you to wear your klar for a condom. So I didn't pay some of your parents well enough or whatever, you bashed my f#~!in' head into the floor, but I was always straight with you about who I was and what I did, wasn't I? And Vecna knows you sure never kissed my ass the way half of you kiss His Highness's—no offense, Your Greatness. I feel like we've always been up-front, and that's why we been such good friends.
"So, if I understand you, Al—Diamond Lake in ruins, barely a town to begin with, hell to the people that died. Same goes for any town or city with that kind of ugly? World's sick, nobody cares, take what you can? Great. If that's how you always saw it, then I guess we should've got on better than we did." He waves a hand. "I mean, except that I built that town up and gave everyone work... and you got it burned to the ground or whatever. I...
"It's not really that complicated, man." Farrukh says, getting a good read on the former mine boss. "We travel around doing the best we can to help people. Sometimes it doesn't work out. Sometimes s+!! happens as a result of that."
"It's not my job to personally fix every problem in the world that springs up after I roll through, and I'm sure not responsible for whatever people decide to do to muck things up afterward. I can't be everywhere at once, and sometimes people are going to have to solve their own issues without me. And sometimes, sure, some innocent people are going to get caught in the crossfire of some revenge plot. That's on the one plotting revenge, not me. It sucks, but not much I could have done about that except never leave my bed in the morning."
"Maybe the others in the group feel differently but I've always been up front about it. I got into this for the money. I was a treasure hunter. Helping people along the way has been a nice plus, and I go out of my way to do it when I can, but it's not my reason for existing."
"Some of the others had a more personal beef with you, but honestly the biggest reason I went along with taking you out was because you were in the way. Not much more to it than that. That you were enough of an a$~~#*# that we could take you out by force instead of having to go by the law, or worry about making a deal was on you and your choices." Farrukh feigns thinking for a moment.
"But I guess that's kind of the conundrum, right? If you'd been a better person you probably wouldn't have been in our way to begin with. You and everyone else we've chewed through have been so easy to deal with because you're acceptable targets. Nobody's bothered if someone beats down a Smenk. You've got no friends to protest it, and you've got no power to stop it, and you're not on the right side of any law or moral good to get people you don't even know on your side either."
"Zeech here has most of that, so he gets the nice treatment. Zyrxog had no friends and a lot of power, but not enough, so he had to run away with his tentacles between his legs. Raknian had friends but no power, so once his friends abandoned him he was just like you, but more in shape. I could go down the list but you get my point."
"Life is pretty simple like that. Just don't be an a%$~@*% and you can go a long way. Don't actively go out of your way to ruin people's lives and you can live yours happily doing pretty much whatever you want. Just don't break any laws, don't hurt people, and try to do good where you can and there's zero chance of people like us busting into your house at night to overturn your life. Hells, the third one is optional for most people, that's how easy this is."
"I don't know how so many people mess that up, but here we are."
Edit:
Just like drugs, alcohol can be abused and have significant negative effects. In general, a character can consume a number of alcoholic beverages equal to 1 plus double his Constitution modifier before being sickened for 1 hour equal to the number of drinks above this maximum. Particularly exotic or strong forms of alcohol might be treated as normal drugs. Those who regularly abuse alcohol might eventually develop a moderate addiction.
Drunk actually applies the Sickened status effect, which is a -2 penalty to all rolls anyway.
Alcohol wrote:Just like drugs, alcohol can be abused and have significant negative effects. In general, a character can consume a number of alcoholic beverages equal to 1 plus double his Constitution modifier before being sickened for 1 hour equal to the number of drinks above this maximum. Particularly exotic or strong forms of alcohol might be treated as normal drugs. Those who regularly abuse alcohol might eventually develop a moderate addiction.
"Hrm."
His curiosity getting the better of him, Tanith reaches out to his neighbor. "Was something on your mind Lady Kilraven?", the big man asks. "Or were you just considering the best way to get the taste of the tojbasarrirge out of your mouth?" he adds with a smirk.
***
Witnessing the 'polite' conversation rapidly spinning out of control, Tanith breathes a sigh of relief. At least he hadn't been the one to do it.
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"Wait, what did he say about Spiny?" Astraden murmurs to Cuetzpalli (and Montague). She at several moments looks ready to break in as Farrukh is talking, but each time realizes he's not done with his wildly misrepresentative monologue. She looks to Smenk at the end of it. "Also, you did kill our parents and take advantage of the people of Diamond Lake for decades. Running you out of town was one of the best things we ever did for folks there, even if it meant some additional violence. Even a foot won't heal if you don't take the thorn out of it. And the whole Ilthane thing? That was on her. And a repercussion of our helping yet another beleaguered community."
Lady Kilraven smiles thinly. "You must excuse me, Mr. Creed, my mind does wander. I was only thinking about which of you I'd ask for the first dance when dessert is finished."
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Eben's lips purse at being reprimanded by Smenk, of all people. And, even with the c'rosch creating a few lapses in his social awareness, he still picks up on the mood of the room. Smenk and the Prince's especially. "I don't think I owe your curiosity much consideration, Smenk..." he says, taking the time to slowly enunciate each word. "But for the record... you talk about hometowns. My hometown is the free city. And it's currently not a mass of nec... crom... undead-crawling rubble because of what we did. Diamond Lake... was a place I came to and lived in, and as an outsider to the place... it was awful. Because your boot was on the neck of the town. Hell, your control of the town was so corrupt, you let a cell of the Ebon Triad..." he turns aside to the Prince during this last phrase and raises an eyebrow, as in can you believe this?, before turning back to Smenk and continuing, "...flourish underneath it. Literally, underneath it. An' guess who you had to turn to to get rid of it when it became more of a problem for you than even you could ignore? Yeah, us. So we made it better by gettin' rid of the cult you let grow there. And then we made it better for all by getting rid of the canker sore on the town's collective ass...sets. An the fact that you can't see it that' way? The fact that you think it was better overall with an entire town living in fear of your thugs, an' paying nine coppers out of every silver to you, jus' for some farc... illus... fake safety? Shows exactly why you weren't fit t' rule it in the first place."
He pauses, considers the Prince's irritation, and what he judges to be the real source of it, and then says, in an aside to Mahuudril, "Sorry, I know I shouldn't engage an' let you... y'know, discipline y'r own servant's innaproriate behaviour during a formal banquet. Just hard not[ to wan' to slap this one in the face. I'm sure you're familiar with the issue." Then he brightens up. "So did someone say there's dancing after dinner?"
"You must excuse me, Mr. Creed, my mind does wander. I was only thinking about which of you I'd ask for the first dance when dessert is finished."
The lady's reply catches Carina's attention more than the castigation Smenk is currently undergoing.
...wait. Is she really thinking that?
...I mean, she's pretty. I wouldn't say 'no', to either of us dancing with her.
Smenk's eyes narrow as Farrukh delivers his answer. The mine manager is uncharacteristically quiet—fury boiling in his gaze alone. At the end, he gives a very un-Smenklike short, harsh laugh—
Only to be interrupted by Prince Toris, who hurriedly raises his glass. "I'll drink to that!" the gnome cries, seeming almost wretchedly earnest.
Balabar Smenk's arms cross, watching other patrons raise their glasses—most do, including Kilraven, a very enthusiastic Captain Vulras, and Lashonna. He makes a raspy sound in the back of his throat which might be a sigh, a laugh or a cough. "Well, that ain't nothing you just said. Might even mean something to someone. Very inspiring. But there comes a place, Al'Khattel—an' it's a tricky line to spot—where your power attracts you enemies, your friends make you enemies, and your principles... well, we all know how that works. And sooner or later, those enemies all catch up to you in one spot, whether it's a dark alleyway in the City, or a lawhouse by the Lake, or just a cancerous hole in the ground where souls go to die. You'll always have more enemies than friends out there in the world, and your problem is, you all keep lettin' the former find out you exist, don't you?" He straightens, releasing B'Kruss's chair. "You get what you pay for. You live as something better than me, you die as something worse... or even—"
"This really is excellent," Mahuudril says, her eyes crinkling in a bright smile as she gestures with her fork to the meat. "Is that lavender? Genius!"
Balabar Smenk seems to remember himself. He looks around, very briefly, before his cunning reasserts and his tone shifts almost instantaneously. He sketches a deep bow to Prince Zeech. "Forgive me, Your Grace, you must pardon my Mistress her servant's running mouth and over-zeal—for her sake, as she's done so much for this city, particular-wise of late. By the late hour, which my ill health doesn't do me any favors with, I reckoned their manner to be condescending to Your Grace, an' I've known these mercs long enough that it sets my blood boilin' to see 'em try to manipulate a man who has stood against evils that would boil their eyes to look at.
"Mr. MacTeague and I haven't got the subtle etiquette of Alhaster, nor the palette to handle our drink an' gauge truth from our own deranged fantasies," he levels a particularly reproachful stare at Eben as he mentions 'drink' and 'fantasies', "'an' we've both spoken out of turn. Of course, it is a Prince's role to judge his guests' intent, not that of some bumpkin adventurers and landlords who don't know the finer arts of nobility. If I could ask one thing, though, I'd ask you to let Spiny's Six discipline their herald, rather than embarrass 'em by settling it yourself. His ugly invocation of an organization that sought to tear Redhand to pieces shocks me, but I know bards often don't think 'bout how such careless stories cheapen an' diminish the lives of those who fell fightin' the real thing, an' it might be that right now he even half-believes it. 'S not all his fault. Bards rarely recognize the real ugliness of war."
Lashonna's eyes narrow slightly at the comments about 'bards'.
With a particularly 'patriotic' flourish, Smenk declares, "I was proud to do my part in recruitin' Spiny's Six to begin with and tellin' them to take the Ebon Triad down, an' I know that Spiny's Six knows as well as I that the Ebon Triad ain't some cheap device their bard can use to win arguments. The Triad has done things Mr. MacTeague can't begin to imagine, an' too many innocent people—soldiers, priests, tiefling alchemists, children, the troops—have fallen at their hands already! I've lost friends to 'em." He wipes a tear from his eye. "They left the head of my right-hand man, a good man, on my bed. That's when I contacted Spiny's Six and sent them off to wipe out the Triad, and they did a damn good job, beggin' your pardon, and I won't apologize for sending them down there! Hell, I'm proud of it!"
Of course, Smenk's only become a better liar with age—or with whatever has happened to him of late—and he has adopted the air of the slightly tipsy country bumpkin, masking his transparently oily words in a rustic charm that just might save his hide here. This is lucky for him, since Mahuudril currently seems more preoccupied with her aspic than coming to her servant's defense. In fact, not even Smenk himself seems particularly worried, which doesn't seem wise—Zeech is clearly displeased, and the mood of the table is transparently in the party's favor so far.
There is a long silence.
Prince Zeech looks between Eben and Balabar.
"Goodness," the Prince says, chuckling, "if I'd known that the guests would bring this much entertainment, we wouldn't have had to shoot corrollances! Just pit this lot against each other!"
He flashes Mahuudril an easy, likeable grin, as the rest of the table joins in his laughter. "Do please try to keep your servants in line, Mahuudril, my old friend. And Farrukh, you should speak with your bard about his drinking. Sometimes I think bards really do talk too much."
Prince Zeech saw through Eben's careful maneuvering and Smenk's outright lying like polished windowpanes. He knows the two were trying to play him against each other—and the Prince is very much displeased with both of them right now.
"You must excuse me, Mr. Creed, my mind does wander. I was only thinking about which of you I'd ask for the first dance when dessert is finished."The lady's reply catches Carina's attention more than the castigation Smenk is currently undergoing.
...wait. Is she really thinking that?
[dice=Drunken Sense Motive (Lady Kilraven)]1d20+14
...I mean, she's pretty. I wouldn't say 'no', to either of us dancing with her.
That said, Kilraven clearly doesn't mind the flirtatious implications. Is that for Carina's and Tanith's benefit, though, or for that of anyone else who might be watching?
Something about the silence at the table actually pierces through Carina's drunken obliviousness, and she feels an unwelcome twist in her gut. Evidently, even she can't ignore just how angry the Prince really is--even if he's doing a good job of hiding it.
...I'm suddenly real glad I kept my mouth shut.
The realization is enough to put a damper on Carina's appetite. Geez, if he's mad with Eben...
She makes an effort to finish off her aspic in silence.
At Smenk's bard comment, Astraden leans in towards Lashonna. "Tough crowd, huh?"
She refrains from trying to get a last word in against Smenk, though she gives Eben a little nod of the head in encouragement. She opens her mouth again only to drink some more of the excellent liquor. "Seems like the meal's almost over," she says to Montague. "Do you live near the castle?"
Eben shuts up, for the time being.
Zalamandra's eyes keep flitting between Zeech and to the silverware arrayed around his plate as Smenk makes his tirade and the tyrant tries to smooth things over.
Balabar Smenk's arms cross, watching other patrons raise their glasses—most do, including Kilraven, a very enthusiastic Captain Vulras, and Lashonna. He makes a raspy sound in the back of his throat which might be a sigh, a laugh or a cough. "Well, that ain't nothing you just said. Might even mean something to someone. Very inspiring. But there comes a place, Al'Khattel—an' it's a tricky line to spot—where your power attracts you enemies, your friends make you enemies, and your principles... well, we all know how that works. And sooner or later, those enemies all catch up to you in one spot, whether it's a dark alleyway in the City, or a lawhouse by the Lake, or just a cancerous hole in the ground where souls go to die. You'll always have more enemies than friends out there in the world, and your problem is, you all keep lettin' the former find out you exist, don't you?" He straightens, releasing B'Kruss's chair. "You get what you pay for. You live as something better than me, you die as something worse... or even—"
Farrukh doesn't really know how to respond to his little speech being so flippantly brushed off, and senses he shouldn't push his luck any further by opening his mouth, so calms down and drinks some more of that blackberry stuff.
At Smenk's bard comment, Astraden leans in towards Lashonna. "Tough crowd, huh?"
Lashonna's lips tighten. "I've never heard anyone complain more than a martial adventurer who hasn't been draped in every last protective spell and weapon enchantment he can imagine, but certainly, bards talk too much."
She keeps her peace throughout the entire exchange, raising an eyebrow as Eben, Farrukh and Smenk trade barbs. She appears to be evaluating something.
Astraden refrains from trying to get a last word in against Smenk, though she gives Eben a little nod of the head in encouragement. She opens her mouth again only to drink some more of the excellent liquor. "Seems like the meal's almost over," she says to Montague. "Do you live near the castle?"
"Why, I'm flattered!" Marat gives a dry, cackling laugh. "But no, I'm staying in the Deluxury—the Platinum Treatment, of course. But I wouldn't say no to a nice little place right next door, am I right?" He nudges Astraden in the side and winks.
The fourth course continues on without further incident. Around some point, Mahuudril quietly encourages Balabar Smenk to join the other attendants, leaving only Lowri and Korush as the non-guests in the banquet room.
Korush seems to have finally embraced his role as cutlery expert, quietly hurrying to and fro to advise, and re-advise, the less socially apt characters. It's hard enough to eat the strange meat even if you know what you're doing, and the Fabler seems extra-eager for someone to mock to cheer the Prince up—particularly whenever a markedly intoxicated Eben seems poised to make an error.
Finally, as the last bowls of purple worm aspic are cleared, the smell of cloves, honey and cinnamon wafts through as a single manticore enters with a nearly eight-foot tall cake. The cake itself is shaped like a mighty ziggurat—the ziggurat—but crowned with a marzipan figure of Prince Zeech himself, surrounded by light and with angels' wings. It is almost radiant, a promise to the future, a testament to the vision of the Great Project.
"Ah, yes," the prince says, straightening slightly, a rare glow of something like satisfaction alighting in his eyes. "A marvelous job. You must give my compliments to the chefs." He nods slightly, as though reassured. His gaze is faraway as he adds, softly, "It is... everything I'd expected."
The two servants smile as many guests ooh and ahh at the the gigantic—and decadent—cake, and it slowly descends down onto the table.
It's difficult to tell quite what happens next. Perhaps it would take one who was equally learned in the engineering of architecture, confection and the mortal psyche alike to be certain of who is to blame. Perhaps it is Lowri's sudden hiccup startling the servants into lowering too fast. Perhaps it is Prince Toris's beginning to applaud that rocks the table ever-so-slightly. Perhaps it is one of the servants tripping up on her apron. Perhaps the chefs mixed an ingredient wrong. Perhaps the cake's design was simply doomed from the start to its fate.
For as the cake descends, large rents appear on the side. The icing begins to split. The marzipan Zeech begins to list. The cake is unbalancing.
Suddenly, the marzipan Zeech topples, sliding down the side of the cake in an avalanche of delectable frosting to strike the table hard enough that the head snaps off—and bounce-rolls all the way off the table to land right in Eben MacTeague's lap.
The starry look in Prince Zeech's eyes rapidly crackles into an inferno.
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Eben's main reaction when the cake begins to fall apart is one of alarm. He'd been looking forward to dessert, after all, plus his cup of c'rosch was right in the way of the tumbling tower. He leans forward to grab his glass, and in doing so puts his lap a smidgen closer to the table, and thus makes it a more amenable target for the decapitated marzipan version of Zeech.
He looks down at the sculpted head and blinks once, his alarm changing targets from worrying about his food and drink to worrying about Zeech's servants. Can you really be sure he won't blame this on them and have them all baked into the next pie? So maybe it would be possible to shift the target of his ire from people he could effortlessly order killed to one that might be slightly more problematic. One he's already angry with, anyhow. One with a confectionery head in his lap.
"The lik'ness is... uncanny, your highness," he says, after the pause. He plucks it off his lap. "Your chefs really outdid themselves. Why, I bet it tastes as wonderful as it looks!"
And with that, he pops the head of Zeech, Prince of Redhand, into his mouth and begins chewing, making appreciative yummy sounds while so doing.
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Tanith stares in plain disbelief at the disaster. Would Zeech murder all of his staff in front of the guests? He doubted he could look the other way if it came to that but what would that mean for their quest? The big man's thoughts race as the scenario unfolds in his mind.
Carina watches, nonplussed, as the delicious-looking ziggurat cake lists to one side and causes the marzipan Zeech to fall down.
The fact that the marzipan Zeech is decapitated in the fall isn't lost on her, but the biggest reaction she gives is a widening of the eyes.
...izzat symbolism or foreshadowing? Are--
Her train of thought is promptly derailed by Eben popping the candied prince's decapitated head into his mouth and starting to chew. She starts becoming torn between two reactions--laughing uproariously and staring at her bard friend in disbelief.
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Cuetzpalli doesn't think to hide his reaction. His eyes go wide as the cake wobbles, and then falls. Both hands fly to his face as he drops a clearly audible "Oh, s+#&!"
He can't help but bray an uncouth laugh when Eben eats the Prince's head. Then he thinks better of it, and turns to see the fragile egod prince's reaction, trepidation clear on his face.
The guests are all staring at Eben in rapt shock, some barely containing their own petrified laughter behind their hands. Korush is standing behind the Prince, frantically waving his arms as if trying to redirect a barge on a collision course. Lowri is covering her eyes with a hand. Even Prince Zeech's fury seems briefly startled by Eben's flagrant behavior.
The Ominous Fabler clears his throat. "Well, of course Mr. MacTeague would beat me to the best part of the cake. Only the royal fool may sample the Prince's head, you royal clown!" He shakes his fist at Eben. This finally elicits a snort from B'kruss, and a few other guests laugh as well—they are all clearly desperate for something they can pretend to laugh at instead of the obvious irony. The Ominous Fabler's one-sided feud with Eben MacTeague has been a source of amusement for many throughout the night.
The gnomelike creature huffs at this laughter, folding his arms. "Anyways, the cake is not made out of stone and iron, is it, now? I'll eat it all if no one else will!"
The tension from the scene seems to release. Prince Zeech nods, very slightly, almost to himself—though his eyes do dart towards those who were less adept at concealing their initial reactions. The servants begin slicing out the cake for the guests, which is still quite delicious, in spite of its unfortunate slump.
Farrukh does an admirable job, for himself, at hiding the grin spreading across his face, though suspects Zeech probably sees right through his clever facade.
On the bright side, it doesn't seem like anyone is going to die at this exact moment, and it's hard to be mad while you're eating cake. At least for normal people.
Cuetzpalli shrugs, before scooping a handful of cake for himself. He licks the sticky concoction delicately from his palm, clearly enjoying it. "Delicious!"
"Dessert fork," Korush is hissing in Cuetzpalli's ear, like the world's antsiest and least subtle shoulder angel, "dessert fork! The smaller one!"
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Cuetzpalli narrows his eyes at Korush before picking up the tiny fork, and using it to take bites out of the mound of cake held in his palm.
Eben swallows, then blinks innocently at the Fabler. "Why, I was told I should keep my mouth shut, and I simply used the tools I had at hand! Or lap, as it were. Else Farrukh might have boxed my ears like his Highness does yours, Sir Fabler!' He toasts the gnome with the last of his c'rosch before tucking into the (now rather untidy) pile of spiced cake and cream set in front of him.
Hopefully all this will keep the Prince's mind off executing half his staff. Or me, for that matter, I suppose that's worth worrying about too, now...
"Even better than the topper!" He says after the first forkful. "Though it's hard to beat a good piece of marzipan, I admit. I really can't respect the culinary tastes of anyone who doesn't enjoy a well-made bit of sculpted almond-flavored fruit!"
Eben swallows, then blinks innocently at the Fabler. "Why, I was told I should keep my mouth shut, and I simply used the tools I had at hand! Or lap, as it were. Else Farrukh might have boxed my ears like his Highness does yours, Sir Fabler!' He toasts the gnome with the last of his c'rosch before tucking into the (now rather untidy) pile of spiced cake and cream set in front of him.
"Ha, shows what you know!" The Ominous Fabler sneers as he waves his hands in needlessly (as any caster can tell) elaborate motions, and a second Ominous Fabler rises into being—this one the size of an ogre. "Only the royal fool may box the ears of the royal fool!"
His larger illusory self "tackles" him, and there is a short, rather one-sided scuffle.
The brief slapstick show provides a chance for Captain Vulras to lean over, very slightly, towards Farrukh. "For all that craftsmanship, sad to see how easily the neck snapped, wasn't it?" he says quietly, fiddling with his fork.
"Yeah, sad." Farrukh says noncommittally between bites of cake.
"Is that marzipan stuff hard to work with or something?"
Carina only takes one slice of cake to dine on. She lacks the bravado Eben possesses in the throes of intoxication--or, at the very least, knows not to get under the prince's thin skin.
She spares a glance over at Lady Kilraven before taking a forkful of cake. Haven't forgotten about ya. We can have a chat later, right?
"Yeah, sad." Farrukh says noncommittally between bites of cake.
"Is that marzipan stuff hard to work with or something?"
"Well, I'm no, uh, what's the word? Confectamancer, or what-have you. But it's sure a lot less solid than it looks. All it took was for part of the cake to stop holding it up quite so high, and down it came. Speaking as someone who hasn't had cake in a while—" He takes a bite, nodding thoughtfully, and washes it down with the rest of his own c'rosch. "It's funny to come back to it like this."
Astraden quells an elated grin as she sees the Prince's head go off. She makes a good effort at keeping her cool as Eben "reacts" to the situation.
She waves Korush over. "Uh, what's marzipan? Is that like a deli meat?"
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"It's a sort of paste made of almonds, sugar and egg whites," Korush says, looking away briefly from Cuetzpalli. "People use it because it's visually appealing and holds its original shape consistently, despite its unpleasant flavor, like meringue, or monarchy."