Audria's one of the last one's to be attended to, having been shying away from anybody that wasn't from Wicken, and more specifically Alexis, the rest of the time. She does manage to smile at some of the other girl's antics, but she still tries to hide from the others.
About the time that Alexis asks her what she was getting, Gathan finds her and echoes the young girl's question. Unwilling to take no for an answer, he hauls her to the measuring and fitting area while gushing over her being the cutest little thing in his shop, save for Thea.
Given how possessive Salom was being over the small, strange clockwork girl, many of the clothiers that had been admiring Thea turn their attention to the petite, pixy-esque girl in dire need of something besides a threadbare, hessian tunic.
One of the young men insists that he has the perfect thing for Audria to wear. After getting her into the outfit, a blue coat, vest, and pants with a violet blouse underneath that has a plunging neckline, her desperate attempts to cover her not-so-ample bosom shows that, no, this is not the right outfit for her.
The next one pulls out a couple of different outfits of black and red leather for her to try. Her colleagues flat out tell her that they don't fit such a sweet little girl and she storms off in a huff muttering something about mindless sheep and noble ass-lickers.
The third to try dress Audria in a stark, black and white outfit that was deceptively simple in its styling. Despite being a good fit, Audria is really comfortable in it.
"Sorry, It's just... odd. I'm not sure I'd ever get used to the straps," she apologizes.
Another young man pulls out a lacey, many-layered outfit[url] that, despite being poofy enough to make Audria look even shorter, is hard for her to breath in due to the tight corset. A few quick alterations improve the look, but the corset is still too tight for the young woman's comfort.
The next clothier to try their hand at picking an outfit for Audria chooses a simple [url=https://i.pinimg.com/originals/88/d3/33/88d33307b7861e3487f81ddacf9032bf.jpg]white tunic with leather pants. While it is comfortable, Audria expresses some concern about how tight the pants are, he pulls out a skirt that could be worn over them. He beams when Audria says that she likes the outfit.
The next two outfits turn out to be too restricting for Audria, especially in the arms and shoulders. Their designers become rather dejected when she turns them down.
The next outfits are all done by Gathan himself. The first is a lovely blue and gold dress that fits her like a glove. The second outfit is a loose and flamboyant set of clothes that wouldn't be out of place on a rake, and somehow suit Audria just fine when she begins to cheer up and be more like she was before her stay on the Redemption. The final outfit is one that could be worn by some exotic rogue or assassin, having begun to relax some, Audria covers her face and puts on her best sultry voice as she plays the part of an overly serious dagger-for-hire, much to the others delight.
After trying everything on, Audria finds that she can't narrow things down any, and winds up with the five sets of clothes that she liked.
After gathering the new clothes, and having her old clothes tossed somewhere to never see the light of day again, Audria finds her good mood fading as she notices wrongness of Festival. The whole island was rocking like a boat on some gentle water. She shakes her head, pushing the scene from her mind as she turns to Alexis.
"Do you think we could find someplace to get a fiddle or a flute?"
A little bit of the old Audria shows through as she smiles. Getting out of the prison rags, it seems, has helped her put the horrid experience behind her and start moving on from it.
Rigo scratches one ear, as he studies the land, and the water, and then huffs. "It's garbage. An island of garbage, moored into the river or caught on something. Maybe with a small bit of land actually in the center to anchor to. And built up over lifetimes." The Tabixi rumbles thoughtfully, half under his breath as he finally realizes what is going on.
vs DC 12
Aishe admires the new outfits, and thanks Ammos profusely, "You are too kind. Thank you Ammos, for this. I do think it's the finest set of clothes I've ever owned!" Well there was that one suit he used to wear to the opera, but that too might have paled compared to the clothes the party now wore.
He is a little surprised at Salom's reaction. He needs to relax is all. After all they had just had a very long day with little rest - though he had tried.
Aishe looks around at Rigo's proclamation. "You're right!" he exclaims surprised. He stomps his foot (but a little gingerly) and it feels firm enough, but it's definitely a little floaty.
Moira laughs at Salom’s periwig and armor, having to cover her face to hide the depths of her mirth. When Thea pops up dressed as a jester, she manages to stammer out “I’m restoring you two to clown duties! We can do the ol' reverse ventriloquist routine--you'll make a fine dummy, Salom!”
With Aishe’s flowing robes, Alexis’ snappy blue overcoat (contrasting with the dark brown of Salom’s), Rigo’s well-accented fur, Audria’s rapidly growing pile of outfits, the party is transformed from prisoners to notables. Moira slips her leather armor on over her new jacket, and laces up her boots. The brown boots clash, as usual, with the otherwise black outfit—but Sweet Presti can take care of that when it’s time to go to the party.
While checking on Audria, Moira chuckles further at the pottymouth attached to the demure child. But she leaps at the suggestion of getting her some musical instruments. Moira says “Yes, Mr. Grast! Let’s get Audria a fiddle! The girl can really play... and a flute too! You can play the flute?!" The band! I can almost hear it now.
Sensing that Grast isn't to be trifled with, Moira looks askance at his pawing of the girls, but in a rare moment of wisdom she doesn't tell him to back off. This is the Blight--best we don't rock the boat (or floating island) until we understand the place better.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
When Moira asks if she can play the flute, Audria gives a nod.
"I can dance and sing too, thought I'm probably out of practice. I know how to paint and sketch as well, if there's an artist's shop nearby, maybe we could get some supplies" she asks as she shrinks down from the others and her voice grows very quiet, though it is more forward than she's been since what happened in Wicken.
Watching the pile of clothing that Audria is making with a grin. Apparently I was wrong.
Nodding at the question only to flinch at Moira's possibly magical hearing. Returning her focus on Audria, "You gotta pick one of those."
Audria looks at the outfits she'd picked out and her shoulders slump.
"Do I have to," she wheedles the others.
Smiling at her while patting her on the shoulder, "Yep!"
Audria turns back to the pile and begins trying to narrow down her selection, and having little luck if the furrowing her brow is any indication. Still in the blue and gold dress, it shifts and exaggerates the gentle sway Audria had adopted as she pondered her choices.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Rigo watches as the cub is bullied into putting all but one of the clothes back, and then he steps in. "Pick two, one for daily, one for seeing important people, as Grast asked. As I did. Is a waste of time to wear fancy things every day, plus make you target. Also bad wear normal clothes to see important people." He glares at Alexis, obviously pointing out she's being less than intelligent picking one outfit. "Go on cub, pick two, ignore bully woman." He will never understand humans, always picking on the weaker, just for their own self importance.
In the end, and showing far more interest in what Audria and Alexis are choosing than he is in the rest of the group, Grast lets the group have whatever it is that they need - in truth, the fabric and stitching of the clothes are of a good quality yet it is far from the lavish, and correspondingly expensive, garb worn by the higher echelons of society.
There is time, before their expected arrival at Grast Hall, for the group to find haircuts and suchlike - again, Ammos Grast ensures that there is no need for anyone to reach into their purses... as to the idea of finding a fiddle, flute or other instrument, that will have to wait until later - everything is such a flurry between arriving at the Bright Souk and their requested time of arrival at the evening's entertainments, that there is simply no time for that.
As the sun slips below the horizon, Grast finally accompanies his rescuers back down the Seethe - and stops outside a building that they had previously passed on their way up the incline towards the summit of Festival. A foreboding hall; a monument of stone and stained glass and gothic crenelations and show — Grast Hall stands at one of the wider parts of the crowded street... and, far more than the neighbouring jumble of buildings, radiates power. The motto above the great entry door reads ‘In Our Name We Glory’ and both within and without the building is a statement of power, influence and wealth.
Ushered towards the double doors, the entrance approached by granite steps and flanked with burning braziers, Ammos Grast transports the group from the hubbub and chaos of the outside into a world of apparently lavish culture. The reception hall beyond the doors is grand, marbled and exuberantly statued - and with the sound of a string quartet playing from a balcony above, is filled with music and scores of conversations. There must be over a hundred guests in this room alone, predominantly halfling, they are all immaculately garbed and coiffured. They barely notice the arrival of Ammos and his charges - that is, until Rigo - so much taller than the rest - strides in. A sudden hush descends across the room as quizzical looks flit between Ammos and the towering tabaxi...
Rigo, used to towering over people, and drawing looks (at least, whenever he is around people) isn't overly concerned about the looks. But the number of people is another matter, he's never been around so many people before, and his instincts take over, causing his muscles to bunch up and his throat to rumble in a half-growl that's purely instinctual.
Rigo's low growl is enough to stop the last of the scattered conversations and, with a screech of a misplaced bow, the string quartet above stop their playing. For a moment, the attention is upon the group - yet it is but a moment... before a particularly foppish individual - sporting a towering white wig, an oversized ruff and too tight britches, enters through a set of gold-leafed double doors. Ammos whispers towards the group, "My Uncle Marren... can you see the likeness?"
Appreciative of the garb maybe, the guests turn their attention away from Rigo and applaud the arrival of Uncle Marren and, in return, he bows - rather too extravagantly. Clapping his hands towards the string quartet and in mock indignation, "Come on!!! What do I pay you for?!?!?! I think we'll have the overture for the 'The Queen; her island, her people'... a fine piece!!!"
And, as the cello starts to play the opening refrain of what sounds like a particularly dreadful piece of art, Marren strides towards the group. Taking a tray of wine flutes from a passing waiter, he offers these latest arrivals a glass of an effervescent white, "A fine vintage... and you, let me take a look at you...", Marren is small - even for a halfling, yet his wig makes up for some of his diminutive stature as he gazes upon the group, "Ah, Ammos told me much of your journey from the Redemption. It sounds like quite the adventure and I must thank you for the safe return of my nephew. In time, I would have got him from that place but the wheels of commerce have been working slowly upon those ships of late."
"So welcome, welcome to Grast Hall and to my humble entertainments... if you will, dinner is served", Marren leads the group - with the rest of the guests following behind at a polite distance - through a warren of opulent corridors. Everywhere, portraits of halflings line the walls... and the family resemblance is quite something - even for those paintings that Marren maintains are several hundred years old. Eventually, the corridor leads to a hall that is laid to dinner, but this is a dinner table for halflings; those taller folk amongst the group shall have to squat in too-small chairs. The table groans with silverware...
The first course is a perfumed gravy soup served into fine porcelain - and, seated at the top of the table, Marren's guests have every opportunity to be appalled by his dreadful table manners... as his spoon scrapes against an emptied bowl, Marren wipes his face with his sleeve and smiles, "So... you are new to Festival? I do not know your faces? You'll find it the finest of places..."
- the scent of rat, unmistakable and pernicious, has been growing ever stronger from the moment that the group entered Grast Hall.
Salom takes some pains to practice proper table manners, for even in a backwater like Wicken they'd had some semblance of decency. Plus, he'd hate to ruin the sleeves of his fancy coat so soon. He tilts his soup bowl away, delicately dipping the silver spoon into the dark broth without so much as grazing the fine porcelain. He carefully sips from the side of the spoon, eliciting not so much as a slurp. This is certainly an improvement over The Redemption.
I know Eleanor imagined we'd get our hands dirty, but I don't think this is what she meant.
While Salom must squeeze into the undersized seating, Thea sits comfortably beside him, folding her napkin into various shapes and making hand puppets out of it.
"Indeed," Salom replies to Marren. "The dandiest district in the city I've seen since departing the pleasure barge..."
Twisting around and glaring at Rigo, "Bully woman? You are one to talk Kitty."
Turning to dive back racks while grumbling to herself, "Like you know about human fashion. Pissy cat."
Digging around until she can find something that does not have the restrictive corset. Finding a loose green dress and deciding that will have to work as the desire to start tearing things up is growing.
Aishe is as stunned as those staring at the party when he arrives. Look at all the people!
And they're all staring at us! They know...
He nearly panics and heads back out, but Rigo's half-growl seems directed at him, and he holds his ground. When the uncle makes his entrance, he begins to relax, though not nearly as much as he'd like. This should be a fun occasion, but he knows there is trouble here.
"M'lord Marren, we are indeed new to Festival and are quite looking forward to the circus, perhaps tomorrow? Though I must admit, it will be hard to compare with such a meal as this!" he gestures to the table, and hoping to secure more time around the circus to investigate.
"How did your family come to be here? Or was it always thus into pre-history?" he grins.
That guy looks just like Salom’s goofy clown outfit! Moira shoots a significant look at Salom, trying not to laugh—her exhaustion is creeping up on her at this key moment, but she manages to pull herself together just before breaking into a giggle.
Moira’s a peasant from a village. That said, her mentor in the bardic trade had spent a lot of time in high society before fleeing and hiding out in the country—and had taught her proper city manners. Bartholoby’s instructions come back to her—which fork to use, how to hold it, how to ask for more wine (she’s had two already); but in the face of Marren’s rude gusto (and the heady influence of the effervescent white), she begins to doubt her careful training:
What if fashions have changed and you’re supposed to be messy? And this band stinks… maybe I should sing something… too bad we didn’t find a flute for Audria. On the other hand, I'd better not upstage the musicians if they’re already having a bad time… getting yelled at is no fun. I’ll talk to this mess instead. And I won’t try to be tooo neat.
Moira leans comfortably on her elbow in a way that is both somewhat rude and very convivial. “Good to meet you, Mr. Marren. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Moira Keening, professional mourner. As such, and like Mr. Danior, I am very interested in ancestry and the history of families, which, after all, is but the braided rope of births and deaths. Do tell us about such a long line of folks, if you will—and maybe we can learn more about our friend Ammos by learning where he came from."
It isn't more than a minute before Ammos Grast has swept up beside Audria and ordered the four other sets of clothes packaged. Then, it's off to get her hair trimmed and done up. Though it had grown since her unexpected arrival in Wicken, what was it now? A year and a half? Two? It was still shorter than she would have liked. The burly man tending to her is as skilled as he is intimidating to the small woman and before long she's wearing her hair in an intricately weaved style that is held up by simple, but elegant pins.
Her mood is dampened when she's informed, with regrets, that there's not enough time for her to get any instruments or drawing and painting supplies. The sun is setting and they must be off to the party! Despite her disappointment at not getting at least some instrument to play, she finds herself in awe of the magnificent hall that the Grasts call home. While she was coming out of her shell once more, she still has a long way to go. When every eye in the place turns on her, she finds herself instinctively sliding closer to Alexis. She does relax some when"Uncle Marren" makes his arrival and announces it is time to eat.
The band, to her ears at least, is atrocious. It is possible it was just the song, however. As she sips at the wine, trying to determine if she likes the taste or not, she finds herself singing a much more pleasing tune in her head. She does her best to mind her manners, and is short enough that the table is only mildly uncomfortable to sit at. As she eats, she does her best to mind her manners.
However, there is one thing that she finds she can't deal with, the gods-blighted excuse for a band. She tries to drown out the music with songs she'd sung back in Wicken in her head as the others talk to Marren Grast. Unfortunately, she tries to sing out loud, though softly, just as she takes another sip of the wine. She nearly chokes and it takes a moment for the coughing to subside.
"I'm sorry," she wheezes, "went down wrong."
Rigo, rather than talk, just uses his superior ears to listen to the conversations around him, as well as his skill in languages (orc, elven, Tabixi and Common) to pick up on things, listening for phrases that, to someone without linguistics skill, sound normal, but with some knowledge of linguistics are identifiable as code words or passphrases or phrases that have special meaning to those talking. In his experience, all humans assume that someone who is big and muscular and speaks common as a second language are slow witted and untrained.
- There is no real sign, at least not yet, of anyone using languages other than the common tongue to converse here - although, focussing on discussions other than Marren's pronouncements of the glory of the Grast family, there have been a number of hushed remarks at the far ends of the tables about not knowing who 'Ammos' friends' are... and more than a small degree of something that is either resentment or suspicion.
Marren Grast is more than gracious as everyone introduces themselves, nodding and politely asking various of the group benign questions about their view on this painting, that piece of sculpture, the architecture, the food, the wine, etc - indeed, all of the questions he asks seem, rather than a particular interest in the individual, to be centred around how grand and wonderful the Grast family are!!!
By the time the second course arrives, turbot with a mustarded cream sauce, Marren is already quite drunk - and, eager to play the part of the good host, holds court in his grand seat, "You ask how long my family has been here upon Festival? Why, the Grasts can trace their lineage back through the ages!!! There are paintings in our archives that are more than a thousand years old... that, my friend, is how long we have been here".
The conversation drifts at some point towards Ammos, and Moira's rather pointed question as to where the halfling they rescued from the hold of the Redemption originates from. Marren's eyes narrow for a moment, as if mulling over an awkward question, before smiling and declaring, "Why, I am Ammos' dear Uncle Marren", as if that were the end of the matter.
As well as the staff who swarm in and out of the doors at the far end of the hall, delivering fresh cutlery and plates in elegant synchronicity with the staff charged with clearing the used crockery away, there are several staff who stay within the chamber - watching for the first sign of an empty glass and, as soon as one is espied, silently moving forwards and refilling with some new vintage. As Marren's glass is refilled, and before he starts to messily despatch the second course, he stands and proposes a toast, "To the Queen!!!"
Continuing to miss queues and misread signals, Aishe blunders on with his small talk.
When the toast is proposed, he watches to see what the others do, and follows their suit. He does not know this Queen, and wonders if she is indeed popular, or if this is some drunken joke by Marren.
He's distinctly uneasy and unsure. What if they're all wererats? What if we're surrounded by them right now?
He merely sips his wine, wanting to stay fresh and feeling some of the exhaustion of the last 24 hours sinking in as the food warms his belly.
“The Queen!” calls out Moira with the rest, joining the toast. She's quite oblivious to anything odd about Marren's answer, thinking Gee, it must be nice to have strong family bonds like that!
In between hearty bites, Moira follows up on the conversation she and Aishe have been having with Marren Grast. “Very impressive, Mr. Marren! I am far from experienced with old families and old ways. To tell you the truth, I’m from a country village and have never seen such a city as Castorhage, nor such a place as Festival in such a city, nor such a palace as Grast Hall in such a place in such a city, nor such a feast as this in such a hall as this in such a place as this in such a city as this! So please tell me more about any of those things, if you’d be so kind. Tell me about your queen, perhaps?”
"The Queen? I can tell you of the Queen and of the Royal Family that rules from their grand edifice on the northern banks of the Lyme... why, whilst you were detained upon the Redemption, you were in the very shadow of the Capitol - where the great, the good, the wise... and the obedient serve our glorious majesty", Marren's cheeks are rose flush with drink now and, relishing the audience even as he spits bones of turbot between mouthfuls, continues his discourse, "This is, by my count, the sixty-sixth year of Queen Alice's wondrous reign... a time of prosperity for the city. Yes, we are truly blessed... and her daughters!!! She has birthed many daughters... many queens in waiting - her line, when Pharasma takes her, will surely lead this great city forwards".
The turbot, wracked and smeared across the plate, is quickly despatched and once again Marren rings a fork against his glass and demands another toast towards, "The Queen!!! The Queen!!!"
Leaning back in the cushions of his grand chair, Marren is curious, "So... none of you are from our great city?"
Alexis keeps quiet through most of the evening. Hmm, this is going to be interesting. Family here seems to be a terrifying thing. Not that it always isn't.
Keeping an her attention split between Ammos, Marren, and her companions. Though she does lift her drink at the first toast. Yeah, long live some Queen.. Thought Taldor had a King?" Most of Alexis's attention shifts to Marren, ignoring her companions. Another toast is made and Alexis's follows Marren's gaze.
Finally joining the conversation with a grin, "Nope, First time here. Though there is a strong appeal to this isle. What's the rest of the city like?"
Rigo continues to be silent, he raises a cup, but since he's not sure what 'Queen' they are toasting, he just rumbles in a feline way, which could be words or just random growls.
When asked if he is from the city, the feline shakes his head, indicating he is not.
Audria finds herself appalled by Marren's table manners. After a few bits of the second course, she finds her appetite greatly diminished, though she does raise her glass and take a sip when the toasts come about.
When asked whether she's from the city, she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. The truth was, she had no idea of whether or not she was from Castorhage. Tired, she finds herself wondering for the first time in a long time who she really was. Was the sweet girl they all saw an act? Was she normally alternating between being shy and a showman?
The absence of her memories from before Wicken had bothered her, but it hadn't been something she'd thought about since she'd been made a prisoner. She wanted to be done with their task and out of the city and as far away as she could get.
The wine was beginning to have an affect on her. Her cheeks had a rosy tint to them and she felt her fingers and toes begin to tingle pleasantly. Other than Ammos' squeeze and Marren's table manners, things had been going well since landing on Festival. Clean and in new clothes, nice ones at that, she felt more normal.
After a moment's hesitation, Audria speaks up.
"I can't speak for the others," she says softly, almost sleepily, "but I've never been to Castorhage as far as I can remember."
Salom, delicately separating the flesh of the turbot from its spine with his fish fork, has cast his eyes down at Thea's latest napkin creation, but receives impressions of the conversation in duplicate, thanks to her ears. Halfheartedly mumbling something like "...the queen..." but not bothering to raise a glass, he catches Thea's glance toward Marren.
He notes Marren's downward glance during the toast, but hasn't a clue what it might mean. Perhaps the man's simply drunk, or lazy-eyed.
He decides against disclosing his Wicken origins, for surely someone was dissatisfied with that place, someone powerful, and perhaps its better to keep that fact private until he has a known reason to disclose it.
"Regrettably, no. I hail from the country outside the city, beyond the border of that provincial town. What's it called? Wicken." This is technically true, for his home and workshop sat on the opposite end of town.
Aishe misses all the subtlety and only sees the drunkeness of their host. He keeps up with the toasts, but only sips - still worried about becoming overly drunk.
"I'm afraid I'm not from here either. I'm a traveller, but originally from a small village, nothing as impressive as this!" he smiles at the head of the family.
He wonders why he's so drunk. Is he always like that? He looks through the assembled crowd, and tries to get a sense of whether this is a usual thing, or if this is a new experience for them.
Moira notes his strange multidimensional toast, but makes little of it. As far as she’s concerned, Marren is a messy, straightforward drunkcle like any other, with a dash of were-creature thrown in. But she remembers that she’s literally only here because she told someone she’d be willing to betray this guy (under duress, of course). The urge to switch sides and help the hunted against the hunter is strong in Moira’s state of exhausted tipsiness, but she realizes that she’d best consult with her companions before doing anything drastic. Probably best to keep Drunkcle Marren talking and see what there is to learn.
“Mr. Marren, as you see, we’re all provincials, and have much to learn about the city. Are there sights to see? Customs we ought to know about? Work to do?”
'Uncle Marren', after insisting that the string quartet reprise the piece he demanded in the entrance hall - 'The Queen; her island, her people', focusses somewhat on Moira, "My dear... the sights and wonders of this city, especially for those accustomed to a more agricultural life, will astound and amaze you. Why, here on Festival we have the greatest Fayre on the whole of Golarion... you must visit it, I do insist!!! The Great Wheel is a marvel like no other... visit it at night, and ride the gondolas - the views my dear!!! They are spectacular... the whole of Castorhage laid out below you in a tapestry of light and life. Honestly, a person could live their entire life upon Festival and not grow tired of it... but ride the Chain Ferry and before long you'll be in Book Town, The Sinks, The Capitol"
Unprompted and rather presumptuously, Marren takes Moira's hands in his (an altogether unpleasant experience with fat and stubby fingers - dreadfully greased from the food) and gazes into her eyes, "These places, they are but names to you today ... but the family has connections in lofty places - stay a friend to the Grasts and you will go far".
The next two courses arrive in quick succession to each other, and the wine flows as Sweetbreads followed by Rump Steak with an exotic collection of mushrooms are despatched. In between courses, some of the guests at the far end of the table have now started to dance - there is a modest tiled area near the orchestra where drunken waltzes are being attempted... although it is fair to say that there is a marked lack of elegance amongst the dancers.
Standing, and wobbling only a little, Marren asks Moira, "Tell me dear... do you dance?"
Moira listens excitedly to all that Marren has to say about Castorhage.
...but, simply because she's just a little less wise than the average adventurer, she fails to notice the key details of his conversation. Swept up in visions of Great Wheels and chain ferries, and what’s this about an entire town of books! The stories they must contain! While she's no kid, she's like a kid in her joy at the prospect of a big city to explore.
Happy to humor Uncle Marren's desire to trip the light fantastic, Moria hops up and explains, “I do love to dance! I know all the country dances, but a nobleman refugee taught me the court dances as well—only I’ve never been able to try them before. I bet they are a couple decades out of date, though, so I’m sorry if my moves are unfashionable…"
Even if the moves are twenty years out of date, twenty years is about how long it takes for the Great Wheel of Fashion to make a full circle. Instead of looking boorish, her crisp execution of long-forgotten steps reminds those present of balls long past, mixing a powerful dose of nostalgia into their admiration of her grace. The fun of it, enhanced by the wine, overpowers any reluctance she would normally feel at the prospect of dancing with Marren.
“I’m a 1/16th halfling after all! These are my people!” she thinks to herself, burning up her third (or is it fourth?) wind on the dance floor.
By the time the third course is out, Audria has managed to block out Marren's table manners enough to feel her stomach rumbling, reminding her of how little she'd eaten in the past months. Still wary, she eats her fill before turning to watch the others dance. The formal and intricate steps of the ballroom dances aren't for her. She prefers lively jigs and reels, and the other dances of the countryside. The awful band and music didn't do any favors for her desire to dance either.
"Think we can convince them to play Moonlight Festival, Della's Garden, or anything else? That song is horrific," she mutters to the others once Marren is out of earshot.
Hmm, everyone seemed to think an actual court was being held. This is a paupers or thieves court. Less on the manners but heavy on the veiled threats. Shooting quick glare at Rigo for making her end up in the dress.
Quirking an eyebrow as Moira precedes to cut a rather skillful rug. Leaning over to Audria, "I don't think they know anything that isn't horrible. Just pretend you like it." Leaning back with a grin on her lips and lifting her glass to the confusing girl.
"I can't," Audria grumbles, "the flutist sounds more like a wailing cat and the fiddler is about as bad as nails on slate."
Aishe does a turn at the dance floor, though he does poorly, having no real skill in it. But he tries to have fun, which is the point after all. He ceases early though, still being tired, and now full again (though he was careful not to eat too much this time).
Afterward, he settles back in his seat and, mostly, waits for the evening to come to an end, exhaustion cluttering his thoughts and blocking his senses.
Something in Marren's tone alarms Salom at once. He can't place his dinner fork on it, but Marren seems somehow estranged from this "family" of his, and Salom begins to question his true relationship to Ammos, and his true power. And if the latter is lacking, who is pulling the strings on this ghastly marionette?
He turns to Audria. "That's not a flute, dear, it's a trombone. Perhaps that explains the confusion... Still, you're right. Terrible articulation all around."
"Gotta be good at lyin'."
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
"I'm Princess Petal Pippenopsokopsolospolis. I'm really four hundred thousand years old. You are a gnu," Audria deadpans without so much as cracking a smile.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Moira notices Aishe on the dance floor, and, while she won't drop Marren with any rudeness if at all possible, she won't let Aishe leave without at least one turn around the room... politely, she'll excuse herself from Marren when the music seems pleasantly upbeat (or as close as it gets) ( "Mr. Marren, I'm having a good time, but I see one of my companions needs a partner, and after a jailbreak, it's only party loyalty to take a turn on the floor with a partner in crime! I'll look forward to talking with you soon, though!" ) and, finding Aishe, she says:
"Aishe! I'm so glad I'm not the only one of us dancing! Let's improvise a step to this awful music, why don't we?"
And while she's a trained dancer, she's having too much fun matching Aishe's working man's rhythms to care that they are a bit raw. Friendship and a dance, what's better than that?
Aishe is glad not to be left alone out there, but when Moira suggests improvisation, he falters, "You should know I have no idea what I'm doing out here." (as if it wasn't obvious!)
But he does what he can, even letting Moira lead to learn a step or two. All in all, he just tries to have a good time.
The dance, such as it is with its screeching violins and the increasingly drunken attempts to arrange a foxtrot, seems to last for an age - especially for those who are watching from the table... there is a brief pause, during which time Moira extricates herself from Marren's attentions, for yet another course of this interminable dinner - this latest offering is roasted partridge stuffed with smaller meats. Lifting his outrageous wig slightly to mop his brow, Marren is flush-cheeked and out of breath, "This is quite the event wouldn't you agree??? Such a thing you would only see at Grast Hall... why, those Scathels? Nothing but highland barbarians. They’ve barely been here but a handful of centuries and expect to be followed. Their dreary mansion is like the seed of their eldest Hamish; withered and dying!”
Marren laughs uproariously at his pronouncements before going on to deride another family, "And the Frynns! Ha, living in a shanty little more than a nest, they may think they have power, but our day is coming!”
Finally, the endless flow of wine dries and, accompanied by an incredibly richly aroma'd coffee, a final dish - a compote of red and violet berries upon a meringue - is elegantly placed in front of each of the guests.
The clarity that returns to Marren's eyes as he drinks his coffee is quite remarkable given just how merry he had been but minutes before... although still ludicrous with his wig and his ruff, he is now quite sober, "Friends, I am truly grateful for your return of my Ammos... I pray that you will grace me with your company again one evening?".
The evening is not yet done though - and the atmosphere between Marren and Ammos seems to be growing quite tense...
Troth? Rigo thinks to himself, and then as things begin to get more and more tense, pushes his seat back slightly to make sure he can stand up in one motion should things get 'tense' in the wrong way.
The feline shrugs. "Huff, I'm not so graceful, so I guess not..." He responds, intentionally mis-interpreting the request.
Aishe chews his desert slowly, both to reduce the amount of food he's eating and to savor it. He thinks as he chews, though not as well as he eavesdrops.
"Quite an event good sir, and we'd be honored to join you again someday. Perhaps even someday soon! But it is getting quite late, and we should all get back to, uh, our beds tonight. I for one am exhausted by the meal and evenings entertainment!"
He stands as if to make ready to leave, but it's as much to ready a shift to get a clear shot - but on who? He doesn't know what's going on, but he feels the tension.
Grinning at Audria, "You gotta put a little emotion into it! Just like with your acting wit that outfit earlier."
Taking a quick drink, "But good try and thanks for humor'n me. Could you say that title again?"
Glancing out at the dance floor and shaking her head at the insanity playing out.
Nodding at Marren, "I would be hap.." Turning to stare at Rigo with wide eyes. Really Kitty is going to dance a gig? And with the fat man!
Audria gives Alexis a grin as she asks her to try saying the title again.
"I can't. As fey royalty, it changes each time," she replies sweetly.
After eating the dessert, the young woman is feeling the pull of sleep even more than before. She hoped that they had a place to sleep tonight. A bed would be heaven after so many months of ratty blankets and hard, unyielding floors.