Once Clive noticed that Thusiax was not in any real danger from this Drow, he figured this would be a good time to go through his office, what with him being distracted by Thusiax and all.
You dig through his supplies quickly, looking behind drawers, under the crawlspace access, etc. You find a few old letters mentioning his daughter, though your cursory investigation into his background showed he had no children, was never married. This might be useable, though the context of the letters doesn't give much information about the circumstances.
He discusses some details around preferred food and drink and then asks to get back to work. From your brief conversation at least, he seems to be sincere about serving the Aelfir, but there may be leverage that you've yet to find.
Thusiax takes his leave with a polite valediction, and begins making his way to the Torch. Damn. I was hoping he'd be somewhat sympathetic to our cause. Playing hardball is fraught with danger. Hopefully we can find some way to stir his sympathies rather than being forced to resort to tightening the screws.
Once he gets to the Torch, he heads to see the senior journalist, Habin Evenstar, a source occasionally used by Thusiax to send hidden messages within text.
Clive will make a mental note, then return everything to where it was and leave.
It was like Clive was never there at all.
Anything else you want to do for the party?
I don't think Velas needs any prep, per se. Just to wave his enormous fans and start things going. :)
Then it's time to begin. Velas...what is it like when you...summon a party? What happens?
Velas has prepared many things for this fête: great crystalline bowls that ring out different tones (filled with a heady punch at the moment); fire dancers, glittery and focused as they wait in the side corridors for a grand entrance; unusual and hard to identify seared meats and vegetables, dripping with braised sauces that excite the senses and tickle the nose; kohl-eyed jugglers and acrobats, and bobbing upside down in the most improbable way, a boat, high above the party, from which descend nets with gold-flecked oysters and little crunchy seaweed and rice snacks.
Prior to admittance of guests, the area is hushed and dark, the murky sounds of waves emanating from within Velas' party space. Diaphanous layers of curtains, purple and blue and black, block any view of his domain. Throngs of drow and other folk from every part of Spire wait at the ropes he has procured, overgrown Gutterkin manning two entrances at either side. Then, at a silent signal, the curtains are lifted, one by one. Party-goers are admitted as the ropes are removed and the gutterkin bouncers wordlessly, fearsomely cross their arms and watch the entrants. Light like that of phosphorescent creatures in the depths flickers down upon the floor.
A raised stage in the center back of the room is decorated with red coral, which strings out along the walls, and Velas makes his way onto it, regally. He is decorated like some sort of asymmetrical sea urchin-merfolk hybrid, spines and spray bursting out of one side of his outfit in an explosion of shards and reflections. He clasps some sort of human-made amplification device, spiralled and pearly, on a stand of some dark metal.
"Tonight," he intones, his voice hypnotic, rich, sexless. "Tonight, we celebrate the blood that joins us, that is spilled in birth and death. Tonight I welcome you to The Ocean Within."
Six utterly lovely midwives appear upon the stage, and music bursts from every corner from drummers and pipers previously hidden. The midwives bare their razors and begin to dance, cutting dangerously close to their bared skin, and the wild soiree has begun.
The guest of honor arrives fairly early. He’s a bit dazzled by all the commotion and spectacle.
Karkoush, maskless at this predominantly drow gathering, wanders through the throng, half-admiring, half-disgusted by Velas's show of indulgence and excess. Ostensibly a waiter for the evening, he is dressed in stylish yet simple black clothing, and sometimes carries a tray of drinks around, although these are always swiftly snatched up by excited party-goers.
None know his exposed face these days, and as he passes back and forth through the throng he revels in the feeling of freedom this anonymity this gives him - and also the feeling of freedom from his alter-ego, the blood traitor Thusiax, whipping boy and faithful servant of Lord Cornell. Though this event is all a sham, he knows on some level it is real to Velas, part of the art that the idol has made his life. He also knows that it is in some way more real to himself than the life he leads day by day. My people, celebrating together, enjoying our lives as we should always, but rarely can. This is life, this is being drow. This is what we fight for.
He holds off on approaching Pharldorl until the revelry has begun in earnest, but, tray in hand, moves to the ironmonger shortly after the midwives begin their performance. He offers the bewildered artisan a stout drink, then leans close.
"Master Velas sends his thanks for your acceptance of his invite," he say into Pharldorl's ear, in a deeper and more gravelly voice than that of Thusiax. "If it suits you at any point through the evening, he would be delighted to make your acquaintance." The message delivered, he nods with a smile, and continues on into the crowd with his drinks tray.
After moving into the crowd a little way, Karkoush locates Pharldorl once more, keeping a close but unobtrusive eye on him, watching for his reactions, trying his best to gauge the man.
For his part, Clive did not join the rather....lively spectacle below. Instead, he sat hidden in the suspended ship above, ready to fling himself into the fray at a moment's notice.
As he watched the revelers below, an idea began to form about a great way for grabbing someone at a party like this: watch the surroundings, wait for the person to not be paying attention, then fly down, snatch them up, and rebound up into the aerie from which he bounded.
While keeping his eye on things where was Thusiax, anyway? Clive would work on what scenarios this would be useful in and what modifications to his gear he would need.
Thusiax, it's hard to get a surface level read of him causally. Do you want to make a roll to really try to figure out what makes him tick? It's 1d automatically and you may have some skills or domains that contribute?
While Karkoush is observing Phardorl, Velas is busy being the life of the party. He actually joins in with the fire dancers, twirling a small poi cup while singing out what appears to be a list of mechanical parts for airships. It's quite the display, although no one is certain as to its significance. The singing bowls ring out as cups of punch are filled and re-filled, and Velas flits this way and that, an undersea butterfly. "Yes, I had heard the last Heart expedition went awry--well, such is the price of curiosity, eh? Oh yes, those are goat cheeses made by humans--aren't they exotic? Note the smoky flavor. Let it roll around in your mouth. The fire dancers will return with a pyrophone on the stage--please don't miss it," and so forth, and indeed, a bunch of tubes spouting both music and fire is wheeled onto the stage for a literally incendiary performance (some magic is employed by a few careful observers to suck up smoke and keep the curtains near the ceiling from igniting).
Thuisax: Phardorl seems nervous and out of place. This isn't really his "scene." The whispering servant startles him, but he nods quickly and waits for Velas to stop dancing before he nervously approaches.
You...you wanted to meet with me?
Velas places a warm hand on Phardorl's shoulder. "Oh yes. May we chat for a moment? Here, try these. I call them 'cloud parfaits'. Do you detect the notes? Dragonfruit, grown here in the Works! Phardorl, darling, I've heard tantalizing tidbits about your story--the only drow forgemaster in these parts--and I was hoping I could introduce you to Havin Ebenstar. May we chat? I think your story is one worth recording for the ages! Come, come!"
Velas takes Phardorl by the arm as if they were long fast friends, waving to Havin at a table with a good view of the stage. Muscled dancers wearing overalls, with artistic swipes of grease, are climbing onto the stage, complete with geared hoops they will spin about their bodies and extremities.
Karkoush shadows Velas as he leads Phardorl, ignoring the ostentatiously garbed entertainers who seem to be everywhere.
Velas, Phardorl seems quite taken by all this attention and spectacle. He's as pliant as he's going to get.
From the ship above, Clive is roused from his thoughts about this new intimidation technique when he sees Velas and Thusiax walking with their target. Waiting for a good moment, he slides down his rope and begins shadowing them.
Velas sits Phardorl by the hand and introduces him to Havin. They chat about his art and his forges. Velas obtains some lovely mulberry wine to pair with the dragonfruit parfaits. Onstage, the muscled men and women gyrate to an angular, harsh beat full of blasts and blares. Drow sweat glistens on their forms. Velas gestures behind him, not looking, with a smile.
"Not bad, aren't they? All hard working drow. They haven't risen as far as you, of course--they have their durance and day jobs, but they dream of being artists full time." He luxuriates for a moment. "I consider myself blessed to be so." He sits up again, his eyes growing keener, their pupils drawing Phardorl in. "But it wasn't always that way, dear Phardorl. I was once a mere slave to...the rulers of this place. Now, I bear them no ill will. It is a system that serves them, and far be it from me to think that we would do otherwise. And yet...I can't help but want to rectify it. Don't you agree? Wouldn't it be a better world if we drow used our birth-given talents and hard-earned skills to...improve our place...within the Spire? A little help goes a long way."
Velas toasts to Phardorl. "To helping the downtrodden," he says.
Phardorl nods nervously. I mean...yes, I do feel...unbalanced sometimes. I lead a life of luxury, like yourself, but others still suffer. Still, what can someone like me do?