The Unsettled House

Game Master Aebliss

This evening, there is a cold wind blowing in from the Lake.
The air smells of dead fish and dark water, and who knows what may stir in its depths?

Clearvale-by-the-Lake is a misnamed city; this is something everyone can agree on.
When people first came to settle this spot by the lake, black-bellied clouds often rolled down from the mountains to deposit their cargo of rain, sleet and snow. Fogs rose every morning and evening, some diaphanous, others thick as pea soup.
Once the city stood, the smoke from a thousand hearths mixed with the low clouds and the rising fogs, scenting both with the perfume of burning wood and roasting dinners. Soot started to stain the walls and roads of the growing city, but in those days, the problem was still manageable.
Then Clearvale-by-the-Lake grew rich as a centre of trade -- and industry. The factories in the Heavy Industry-district belch out their black, polluted smokes day and night. From the Trades and Crafts-district, fumes rise, spawned by crucibles and mixing vats. Stenches rise from the revolutionary sewer system and the city's slaughterhouses.
The smell of wealth is a vile stench, carried on the fog. Depending on the prevailing wind, the whole city can reek like an alchemist's laboratory, or like an open midden. The layer of soot that descends from the thousands of chimneys has become a permanent coating on some areas of the city. In others, only tireless and backbreaking labour prevents every stone surface from becoming black and sticky.

The Nobles' District is one such area. After sundown, long after the government Alchemists have been about their duty of lighting the city's revolutionary streetlights, convicted criminals are driven through its streets in silence. These wretches scrub and polish every surface they are allowed to, and no one else is allowed out on the street while they labour under the unforgiving eyes of their overseers.
Private residences are kept scrupulously clean by its staff, or the unflagging attentions of house Mages, who are paid a small fortune every year to keep homes and gardens looking pristine and to ward the vile-smelling fogs away from noble noses.

Dulapont Manor apparently no longer has a House Mage, nor a staff capable of keeping its grounds looking pristine and elegant.

As you approach the Manor, you notice a pall upon the sidewalk. The granite walls look stained, with small pockmarks forming in its surface. Past the wrought-iron fence, you see a dying garden, the beautiful flower-beds and rose bushes wilting, the tree leafless and blackened, the ornamental fish pond empty of life.
Dulapont Manor itself reminds you of a dying warrior on the battlefield, continuing to stand through pure force of will. But the windows resemble blackened eyes, with their curtains drawn. The marble has turned grey, the slate tiles suffer from a patina that looks like mould.
Even though you know people still live here, the Manor looks like a haunted house.

The servant sitting in the little gatehouse seems surprised to see you. When you state the reason for your visit, he nervously licks his lips, starts to say something -- but in the end, he just ducks his head, opens the gate and waves you through.
"Go 'round back," he mutters. "Tradesman's entrance. The uh, the young -- Master Jeremy has ordered it. ... The front door's jammed, and the paneller won't be here until morning."

Dot

"I could unstick the door if you want." says a woman that stands at a little over five feet five inches. Her clothing is travel-worn, but serviceable. A chain shirt, belted at the waist hangs over her frame. She is stout, but still appealing. The weapons, though sheathed, on her back do look rather dangerous.

Still working on the drawing. All I have to say is I am rusty as all get out.

Dotting.

ETA: Sense Motive check: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (19) + 1 = 20

From somewhere below Garra's shoulder comes a rustle of cloth as a diminutive creature in a hooded robe shakes its head. In a squeaky voice, it says, "Don't bother. Not what they need help with today." The hood slips back as the creature looks up at Garra, revealing a decidedly nonhuman face. Not quite like the icon, though. They're kind of short of ratfolk icons at the moment. "I'm--" He emits a string of glottal stops and clicks. "--but humans might have trouble with that. Call me Tik, if it's easier."

Athalaric takes a deep breath as he leaves the trade district behind. Opportunities to visit the Nobles' District are rare and the sight of clean streets, carefully tended gardens and spotless manors is a welcome change from the rest of the city.

At first, Athalaric passes by Dulapont Manor, completely ignoring it while adjusting the package with the book that he is carrying. Only after reaching the end of the street, he scratches his head. "To Dulapont Manor?", he asks an elderly man that is hurrying past with a basket. "Right over there, ugly black ruin. You couldn't miss it, son." the old man replies while shuffling on.

As Athalaric approaches the house at last, he feels a shiver running down his spine. Must be the cold..., he thinks but secretly he isn't so sure.

The servant greets him and sends him round back.

Sense Motive check: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (2) + 1 = 3

Accepting the servant's explanation, he makes his way around the house. As he turns round the corner, he stops dead in his track though. A young woman is already standing at the door, obviously waiting to be let in. Athalaric steps back a few paces and looks the other way, his eyes on the withered garden, trying to appear as if he had not noticed her.

The armored knight rides up to the gates on his trusty mount. Pulling up at the gatehouse, Sir Gavin removes his greathelm to see a little better. Revealed is a good looking young man with chiseled features and sandy hair which he brushes back unconsciously.
By the Inheritor! He thought looking at the gloomy pile; It is worse than I had been told.
Glancing at the unusual collection of people here, he nods at them courteously. Looking down at the servant, he says; "Sir Gavin DeMonteforte. I am... expected."

"Go 'round back," he mutters. "Tradesman's entrance."

Sir Gavin's eyebrows climb with astonishment.

"The uh, the young -- Master Jeremy has ordered it. ... The front door's jammed, and the paneller won't be here until morning."

Sir Gavin sits back with a sigh. Jeremy. Of course. Well then, this will be a pleasant visit...

Garra nods the the strange man, even in the wild lands she called home, there were customs, and he had given his name.

"Well met, I am Garra, daughter of Thayrak."

Strange lands, these.

She notices the awkward boy go around back, but doesn't follow just yet. The warrior who has just ridden up to the front gate has caught her eye, until he begins speaking. She shakes her head and turns to Tik.

"Strange that so much fuss is made over which door to go in. A warm place to sleep is better than dying in the cold."

She makes her way around back and notices the boy from before trying to look inconspicuous and someone new.

"čuden zemljišča dejansko..."

"Garra daughter of Thayrak. Good to meet you too." Wonder how big her family is? R!Kktik shakes his head as well, a quick motion back and forth that makes his hunched posture apparent. "Status. I know a little about it. It's hiding weakness. But not weakness of the body. See? Still a stupid way to be."

At Garra's phrase in Hallit, R!Kktik leans forward. "What was that? I don't know that language."

Oh my. The flowers have all wilted... And are those stains on the granite? I'm going to have a word with the housekeeper. Is he trying to embarrass the Madam?

Astrea surveys the grounds as the carriage approaches the front gate of Dulapont Manor. "Heeeeeeel..." Bringing the carriage to a halt, the driver swiftly disembarks and opens the the side door while holding out an open hand.

"Thank you Albert. It was a very pleasant trip." A stunningly beautiful women emerges from the shadows within the carriage and, accepting Albert's hand, steps down onto the marble pathway. She approaches the group gathered at the gatehouse - her waist length, sky blue hair cascading playfully with each step.

"Good day sirs and madams." She greets everyone courtly and, noticing the markings of the DeMonteforte family upon Gavin's shield, bows reverently towards the young man. "It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance Master DeMonteforte. The generosities of the esteemed DeMonteforte family are well known even in distant Ustalav. My name is Astrea, a longtime servant of the Dulapont family." Turning to face the gatekeeper, her sapphire eyes becomes cold like diamonds: "Why are you delaying Sir DeMonteforte? Do not embarrass the Dulapont name any further. Open the gates at once." An otherworldly aura emanates from her lithe form as she makes her demand with surprising authority.

Diplomacy: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (18) + 10 = 28
Edit: Sense Motive: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (9) + 4 = 13

"Garra daughter of Thayrak. Good to meet you too." Wonder how big her family is? R!Kktik shakes his head as well, a quick motion back and forth that makes his hunched posture apparent. "Status. I know a little about it. It's hiding weakness. But not weakness of the body. See? Still a stupid way to be."

At Garra's phrase in Hallit, R!Kktik leans forward. "What was that? I don't know that language."

"Hmm. Oh, sorry. I was just thinking out loud. I have only spent two winters in these lands, and many things are still strange to me. I'm glad I'm not the only one who finds this rather silly." she explains, pointing to the "discussion" between the doorman and the knight.

The new arrival, a strange woman with blue hair, instantly sets Garra on edge.

A witch?! Why'd it have to be a witch.

She eyes both Astrea and Gavin with obvious suspicion.

Yes I know she's an oracle, but that may not be much better in Garra's mind.

"I could unstick the door if you want." says a woman that stands at a little over five feet five inches.

The footman turns a nasty shade of greenish-pale when Garra makes her offer, and he flutters his hands with some distress.

Sir Gavin's eyebrows climb with astonishment.

"The Tradesman's entrance? Are you joking? I am..."
Sir Gavin sits back with a sigh. Jeremy. Of course. Well then, this will be a pleasant visit...
Idly he studies the footman, and his eyes narrow dangerously.
"Jammed? Are you..." He leans down to him. "Very sure? Perhaps I can help unstick them."

The footman quails, trembling.

Turning to face the gatekeeper, her sapphire eyes becomes cold like diamonds: "Why are you delaying Sir DeMonteforte? Do not embarrass the Dulapont name any further. Open the gates at once." An otherworldly aura emanates from her lithe form as she makes her demand with surprising authority.

The footman turns a miserable look on Astrea and shakes his head.

The footman casts another terrified look at Gavin. "I c'n stable m'lud's 'orse, though, if he wants? I c'n do that. The stable's alrigh'. We kept it in fair repair. The young - Master Jeremy keeps 'is 'orses there. It'd be my hide if the stables weren't kept nice."

As more and more people start gathering at the entrance, Athalaric breifly closes his eyes and sighs. Had he known that he would arrive in the middle of a reception (or whatever this might be...), he would have taken the longer way along the lake side to delay his arrival a bit.

It was not so much that he did not like people per se. But ever since his childhood, he felt very uneasy around people he did not know. Especially women...

However, seeing that standing there for himself any longer would be considered incredibly impolite, he hesitantly walks over to the group and mumbles "Athalaric's my name.... It is a pleasure to meet you, good sers. Mylady..." He gives an awkward not to the young woman before he seems to find a sudden interest in the mud at his feet.

Sir Gavin finds himself fascinated by this unearthly beauty, and he quickly slides from his saddle to bow politely.
"Really Miss Astrea, you flatter me greatly. I am but a poor knight..." And distracted, his mouth rambles on in polite nothings which he cannot quite remember afterwords.
When the servant mumbles something about stabling his horse, he stops talking finally and looks at the man as if he had never seen him before.
"Ah, yes. I should stable Sovereign; thank you."
He looks around at the people assembled to enter.
"Well then. It seems we must go around back. Shall we?" He offers his arm to Astrea politely.

Black stands a bit back from the others as the crowd begins to gather. He keeps his big black hat pulled down over his eyes, and shuffles forwards, handing the Reins to his stubborn mule to the footman. Without really acknowledging anyone he steps towards the back door.

As he walks that way, he pauses to spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the ground, rubbing it in with his worn boot as he passes.

Whiskers twitching, the ratfolk looks around at the gathering crowd. Hmm, couple of combat types, one noble; arcanist of some kind; I don't know what she is; and the stranger back there. Might be able to get something going with the noble, but Art first. "Athalric. Good to meet you." The creature gives another quick bow. "You a wizard? Maybe we can do business later."

"Sir Gavin. An honor. Your family from around here? Sorry I don't know the City Above families well. Astrea." He looks back at the stranger in the black hat. "I didn't get your name. You here to help the Dulaponts too?"

"Of course, Sir DeMonteforte." Astrea answers in a celestial voice as she takes his arm, her cheeks flash a slight shade of pink as they make their way towards the tradesman's entrance. The pleasant feeling was fleeting, however, as she realizes their destination.

Oh Master Jeremy. It seems the rumors are true. To make someone of Sir DeMonteforte's stature use the tradesman's entrance...

A profound sense of embarrassment washes over Astrea as she gently leans into Gavin's arm and whispers: "Please forgive Master Jeremy's antics Sir DeMonteforte. I'm sure the Young Master has done this in jest..." Unable to find the appropriate words, she trails off and casts her gaze down into the stained granite.

Snapping out of her revere, Astrea startles a little as Athalaric and R!Kktik introduce themselves. Oh my. Master Jeremy sure likes to keep diverse company.

"Master Athalaric. It is a pleasure." Noticing that Athalaric seems to be uncomfortable around her, she casts her eyes downward and speaks apologetically: "My sincerest apologies for acting out of propriety Master Athalaric. I have just arrived from the Dulapont family branch in Ustalav, and am unfamiliar with the finer etiquettes of this great city. If I have done anything to offend you, please do speak your mind."

She then turns to R!Kktik and smiles: "Forgive me Master Alchemist but I did not catch your name?" Oh I hope he says it slowly this time...

The ratfolk repeats the string of glottal stops and clicks that Garra heard before. "If it's easier call me Tik. I've not been here before. My family does business with the Dulaponts. Not as much as we used to." Perhaps it is his discomfiture at being surrounded by many people much taller than he is, but all notice that R!Kktik is clutching the tip of what you deduce to be his tail with both hands. When he notices he's doing it he lets go and twitches his tail back under his robe.

Garra watches, feeling more than a little out of her element.

Two wizards, a witch, a warrior that knows the witch, and some man that I don't have a clue what he is. Why do I feel like this is a trap?

Perception, looking for escape routes: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (14) + 5 = 19

As the chatting group approaches the tradesman's entrance, a few things become clear.

One: while the garden is slowly dying for lack of care, at least someone has taken the time to keep the path to and from various destinations on the ground clear and clean. If the colourful tiles broken and reassembled into a jigsaw pattern beneath your feet are not sparkling, then they do at least gleam.

Two: all the curtains in the house appear to be drawn. All of them. Barely a glimmer of light shines out of the house. You are left to navigate by the dull glow coming from the lanterns outside what you assume to be the stables. At least, it is the building that the hapless footman is leading Gavin and Alfred's mounts towards.

The scent of dying roses lingers on the air, mixing with the first faint wisps of fog rolling in through the gate and over the walls.

As you approach the tradesman's entrance - at least it is a proper double doorway, to accommodate the staff, rather than some horrible narrow crack in the wall as some noble families prefer - the fetid aroma on the wind is partially dispelled by more wholesome smells wafting out under the doorjamb: Roasting beef, stew on the boil, woodsmoke.

Barely has anyone raised a hand to knock on the door before it is opened, the hinges moving with the silence that comes with regular and conspicuous oiling. Standing in the doorway is a tall, white-haired man with a haughty face. Plump as an otter and dressed in the uniform of a head butler, the man fairly radiates arrogance. He somehow manages to give the impression that he is looking down his nose even at those people taller than him. His eyes widen slightly at the sight of Gavin, and his expression becomes just a hint more disdainful when he spots Astrea walking on the young nobleman's arm.

"Sir Gavin," the man says, inclining his head in a bow that is precisely deep enough to honour the Cavalier's station, and not an inch deeper. "Please forgive us for having to admit you by this entrance. The front door has... suffered a mishap and I am afraid I had not been notified of your visit. If you would prefer to make an appointment where you may be admitted in a manner more befitting your station, I am sure that can be arranged."

The man's fish-pale eyes sweep across the rest of the group before returning to Gavin. There is a subtle note of amusement in his voice: "Your entourage, sir Gavin? I was not aware the D'Monteforte family had such an... entertaining choice in servants."

"Athalric. Good to meet you." The creature gives another quick bow. "You a wizard? Maybe we can do business later."

Athalaric tries to make the best of the situation and gives the ratfolk what he thinks might pass as an amible smile. Returning the bow, he says "The name's AthAlaric, if you please. I would be glad to talk business with you, should the opportunity arise."

"My sincerest apologies for acting out of propriety Master Athalaric. I have just arrived from the Dulapont family branch in Ustalav, and am unfamiliar with the finer etiquettes of this great city. If I have done anything to offend you, please do speak your mind."

Being addressed by the beautiful woman, Athalaric is sure that his skin has just changed color to perfectly match the crimson of his robes. He tries to clear his voice and manages a reply. "No offense taken at all, my lady. And from you Lady Garra." He gives the other woman a nod. "It is I who seems to have forgotten his manners. I..." He searches for words, painfully aware of the pause as he cannot find them. Oh great, making a fool of yourself again, are you? The unexpected but welcome rescue comes from the butler who suddenly appears in the doorway. With an inner sigh, Athalaric turns his attention to the servant.

Garra quirks an eyebrow up when Athalric calls her "Lady Garra." Lady, to her, was the title obnoxious women who had never gutted a deer or tanned a hide gave themselves. She almost opens her mouth, but a growl from her stomach, and the smell of food, and fire, causes her to look at the door in awe.

Please let that be for us...

Her stomach rumbles again, but ceases as soon as the door is opened. She listened, which was hard with the smell of food beckoning to her like blood to a wolf.

"Your entourage, sir Gavin? I was not aware the D'Monteforte family had such an... entertaining choice in servants."

Her eyes go as hard as flint, and anger edges her voice in ice as cold as the lands she called home.

"I am no one's servant."

Intimidate (Driving the point home): 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (12) + 5 = 17

Sir Gavin's eyes narrow dangerously at being addressed so.
Then he smiles.
"Chalmers is it? Well the King..." Or rather his Privy Council, or perhaps just my father... He didn't add aloud. "...has heard of some travails of House Dulapont, and so I am sent."
He raises an eyebrow solicitously; clearly concerned for the disastrous path the Head Butler was on.
"Shall I inform His Majesty he must make... an Appointment?"
Diplomacy: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (10) + 5 = 15

"Your entourage, sir Gavin? I was not aware the D'Monteforte family had such an... entertaining choice in servants."

"Entourage?" Sir Gavin looks around at the others with some surprise.

"M-Master Chalmer!" Astrea stammers in surprise as the door swings open and the head butler reveals himself, his stern gaze scanning the group and, eye brow raising slightly, comes to a stop on Gavin's arm, where her hands are resting. Realizing his disapproval, she quickly withdraws her hand, bows, and informs respectfully:

"It is good to see that you are in good health sir. My name is Astrea, and I have come as requested by the Madam." She then turns and gestures politely towards Gavin: "Sir D'Monteforte is the scion of an esteemed family and a rising knight within the Kingdom. Now that he is here on royal orders, it means that he has the King's esteem as well. We should not deny the requests of a man of such caliber, lest people think that we've dishonored his majesty."

While facing away from Chalmer, Astrea takes the opportunity and gazes intently at Gavin, as if trying to conveying a silent message.

Secret Message: Bluff 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (18) + 4 = 22 See discussion post.

She then faces Chalmer and declares: "I believe everyone is here to answer the Madam's call sir. Perhaps we should show our guests the famed hospitality of the Dulapont family, sir."

This is Astrea TRIPLE SPEAKING. I'll make a discussion post to explain.

R!Kktik looks up his long nose at the officious butler and tsks. "I am here because your betters begged for help. You have a problem with me? Too bad. You couldn't help with their problems."

Sir Gavin is momentarily speechless at the multiplex subtleties of Astrea's speech. This girl is wasted as a servant. He thinks to himself. She should be at court, fleecing courtiers and diplomats of their secrets...
And, perhaps just a little disappointed at her taking her hand off of his arm.
"Ah. Yes." He said, coming back to himself. "I should add that Miss Astrea has graciously consented to assist me in my..." He leans closer to the Head Butler and almost whispers; "...inquiries." Hinting at a weight to the word it probably didn't deserve, but what the hell. That's what you get for sending me to the Tradesman's entrance.

Whiskers twitching, the ratfolk looks around at the gathering crowd. Hmm, couple of combat types, one noble; arcanist of some kind; I don't know what she is; and the stranger back there. Might be able to get something going with the noble, but Art first. "Athalric. Good to meet you." The creature gives another quick bow. "You a wizard? Maybe we can do business later."

"Sir Gavin. An honor. Your family from around here? Sorry I don't know the City Above families well. Astrea." He looks back at the stranger in the black hat. "I didn't get your name. You here to help the Dulaponts too?"

Alfred turns and with a raspy voice replies. "Some call me Al". "Some just call me Black". "Choose whichever you wish, names mean nothing".

He never makes eye contact.

"Chalmers is it? Well the King..." Or rather his Privy Council, or perhaps just my father... He didn't add aloud. "...has heard of some travails of House Dulapont, and so I am sent."

He raises an eyebrow solicitously; clearly concerned for the disastrous path the Head Butler was on.
"Shall I inform His Majesty he must make... an Appointment?"

"The King, sir, would never need to make an appointment," Chalmers says, his voice smooth and his face a mask that gives nothing away.

"I believe everyone is here to answer the Madam's call sir. Perhaps we should show our guests the famed hospitality of the Dulapont family, sir."

"You are, of course, quite right," Chalmers says. The Head Butler inclines his head just slightly, but his eyes linger on Astrea's for a moment. Not an indecently long one, certainly; it is barely an instant.

Chalmers throws wide the doors of the tradesman's entrance and executes a flawless bow, beckoning you all inside.

"I am sorry to say that you will have to take us as you find us, honoured guests," the Head Butler says. "As I said, the front door has suffered a mishap. I shall guide you through the servants' area to the lounge where Madame Dulapont is taking her ease before the serving of the evening's repast. I am sure she will be delighted to invite you all to dine with her and the young masters."

Chalmers proceeds to guide you all through a large kitchen area. It is a state-of-the-art kitchen, with one of the new alchemical ovens some of you may have heard about. A pot of stew is bubbling merrily away on top of it. Over one of the large fireplaces, a small section of beef is roasting, filling the air with its delectable scent.
A scrawny mockery of a man is tending the joint, basting it as he turns it around and around. The hunchbacked, grey-haired little man casts a fearful look at you all as you pass through, and tugs on his forelock with what looks almost like desperation as he bows his head.

For his part, Chalmers ignores the hunchback as he guides you out of the kitchen and into the dark, oak-panelled servant corridors that lead from the kitchen to the rest of the house.

"As I said," he says, "you shall have to take us as you find us. No insult is intended, I assure you. You need not worry that you will have to partake of the measly meal that Welles was preparing; that was the food for the servants. The family's dinner is being prepared in the quality kitchen."

Chalmers opens a door in the wall of the dark corridor - and a good thing , too, because you are not certain that you would have noticed the well-concealed portal without his help.

You pass from the dark, stuffy passage into a wide and airy corridor. Or at least it was designed to be wide and airy. The air is vaguely chilly here, and you find yourselves walking on a thick, Thuvian carpet that steals the sound of your footsteps. Silence reigns all around, save for the whisper of cloth and the chink of armour as you all move.

Chalmers leads you all to a large room that has been arranged to appear smaller than it is. Great curtains of red and black velvet hang down from the walls, and great bookcases of dark oak stand before them. In front of a small fireplace stands a semi-circle of elegant chairs and a small coffee table. The symbols of the city's five patron gods have been picket out on the curtains: Abadar. Asmodeus. Erastil. Brigh. Nethys. The thread-of-gold glitters in the glow from the fire, sparkling against the dark fabric.

Sitting in one of the chairs is an old, old woman. Her hair is long and full, but grey with streaks of white. Her skin looks like wrinkled parchment. Despite these signs of age, her back and shoulders are straight, and she looks well-groomed and elegant in a simple dress of white silk. Some tasteful gold jewellery sparkles at her throat, on her fingers and at the nape of her neck, where a golden comb keeps her hair in check. She turns her head towards you as you troop in, and her eyes look like opals. The woman must be completely blind...

"Madame Marite Dulapont," Chalmers announces in a formal tone, as he bows towards the old woman. "Matron of the House of Dulapont. Madame, I present to you Sir Gavin D'Monteforte, a group of people who have come in response to your... request, and the servant you requested from the Wodeville branch."

Mme. Dulapont rises, her every movement a study in subdued elegance. But it is the elegance of a dying leaf, tumbling in the wind. You do not need to be doctors to see that Mme. Dulapont is not in robust health, but rather, that she appears to be moving for a large part on pure willpower.

"Young sir Gavin," Mme. Dulapont says, her voice musical, soft, and somehow carrying. She extends her hands in your general direction. "Be welcome to my family home. It has been too long."

"Honoured guests," Mme. Dulapont continues, and her voice catches briefly. "I welcome you to my family home, also, and... thank you for coming in this, the time of our great need."

Finally, Mme. Dulapont's pale, sightless orbs seem to be trying to focus.

"Young Astrea. You are here, now?"

Sense Motive check: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (3) + 1 = 4

The ratfolk follows silently, whiskers twitching. Fool! Fool twice over! You let that human get to you! Do not let that happen again!

Garra's stomach rumbles again as they make their way through the kitchen. She didn't seem to hear Chalmers' statement about it being measly. Measly meals were a few berries and a small, half-starved deer split among a tribe, by comparison this was a feast.

A feast that took almost every once of willpower the young barbarian had to keep from plucking a sample off of the haunch of beef. Something told her that would not be the wisest thing to do.

When they move into the hallway, she notices the chill in the air and the silence in the hall. The chill she welcomed like the first days of spring. The silence, though, sends chills down her spine. The room that they stop at though has her looking around, her empty stomach temporarily forgotten as she takes in the lavish trappings.

This is supposed to be impressive?

However, when she is welcomed by the matron of the house, she sincerely gives her thanks.

"Thank you, may you tent be ever warm and game... ever... Kaj je beseda? Peel? Plan? Plentiful!"

Sense Motive: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (13) - 1 = 12
Sense Motive: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (20) - 1 = 19
Perception: 1d20 - 1 ⇒ (19) - 1 = 18

"The King, sir, would never need to make an appointment," Chalmers says, his voice smooth and his face a mask that gives nothing away.

"Magnificent!" Said Sir Gavin smiling, his eyes flinty as he straightened up again. "I am gladdened that we are in agreement."

On meeting Mme Dulapont, he kneels gracefully and takes her hand.
"Milady Dulapont, I am Sir Gavin D'Monteforte. The Crown has heard of your distress, and I am sent to be of aid." He raises her hand to his lips and brushes it lightly.

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (17) + 1 = 18
Sense Motive: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (18) + 1 = 19
Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (6) + 5 = 11

Athalaric remains silent as the group is lead though the servant's area. However he tries to absorb as many details as possible and draw his conclusions from them. Already he has the strange feelings that there is a picture forming here, only he cannot quite recognize it as all the parts are in the wrong places...

In the hallway, a chill runs down his spine. He absently touches his pocket which holds the small cage with Prickles in it. As they enter the somewhat gloomy dining room he lingers at the back of the group, letting the others do the talking. At least, that he has in common with the mysterious silent stranger who had barely has said a dozen words by now. It seems that this shady character was equally content to stand by and watch how the events would unfold... for now.

1d20 ⇒ 4 Sense Motive
1d20 ⇒ 12 Sense Motive
1d20 + 4 ⇒ (16) + 4 = 20 Perception

Black stepped inside carefully wiping his boots off on the door jam, and then the small carpet placed inside for just that purpose. He removed his hat when entering the building...How did he know that was proper, and for the first time others could see his unusual hair. Jet Black with a white streak in the back as wide as a copper. And beside and around his right eye a vivid scar shaped like a question mark, it's dot beside his pale lips. He made sure to survey his surroundings carefully as he entered, looking closely at any portraits.

Does any of this look familiar? Had he been here before? It made his head hurt just to think about it. Wait what was that scratching sound behind the wall

Black stops his progress for a moment, and cocks his head towards the wall, seemingly listening to something...or for something.

"I sense and hear you, my guests," Mme. Dulapont says, "but you are as yet strangers to me. Please. Will you not come forth and introduce yourselves?"

Second Sense Motive check: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (6) + 1 = 7
Perception check: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (15) + 7 = 22

R!Kktik looks around the hallway with quick, darting glances, listening carefully, as the party is ushered into Mme. Dulaponte's presence. He starts to bow before remembering that the Mme. apparently cannot see him, and instead reaches to take her hand. "Madame Dulaponte. I am R!Kktik. My great-aunt Nehmkktirixl sends greetings. And best wishes for your health."

For a moment, Mme. Dulapont seems startled when she feels the Ratfolk's hand, but then she rallies, smiling politely.

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (20) + 4 = 24
Sense Motive: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (5) + 4 = 9
Perception: 1d20 ⇒ 14

The latest cooking ware; as befitting of the main estate.

Astrea smiles kindly at Welles as Chalmers leads the group past the state of the art kitchen and into the servants' corridor, the scent of delectable cooking and aged wood bringing up fond memories of the time when she used to work here under the guidance of the Madam. A tightness grips her chest at the thought of Madam Dulapont, however, as Astrea recalls the rumors of her deteriorating health. Despite knowing quite well the fickle nature of the rumor mill, she could not shake the foreboding feeling that is building within her heart.

The girl's eyes widen in shock at the Madam's condition as Chalmers shows the party into the inner sanctum and introduces the Lady of the house. Trying to calm a frantically beating heart and swallow the lump in her throat, Astrea steps forward at the head butler's mention, bows gracefully, and attempts to articulate a proper greeting. Despite her best effort, however, she only succeeds in making herself cry as the Madam greets each of the guests in turn.

"Young Astrea. You are here, now?"

At the Madam's beckon, Astrea rushes over to her side and receives her outstretched hand. Trying to overcome her emotions, the girl forces a whisper:

"A... Astrea is here... Madam Dulapont..."

"Thank you. I hope we can help you. And yours."

Mme. Dulapont bestows a sad smile on R!Kktik.

The sad smile becomes simply an expression of sadness when Astrea takes Mme. Dulapont's hand. The lady gently pats the Aasimar's hand, and sighs a little.

"Yes. So you are. I wish I could see your face one last time, my dear, but alas..." Mme. Dulapont briefly gestures at her blind orbs. "Time and age make fools of us all, child. Well. I am fairly certain that Chalmers would have a seizure if I invited you to join us at the big table, but perhaps you would do me the honour of sitting behind me?"

Astrea wipes away her tears and recollects herself:

"I would be honored, Madam Dulapont."

She bows reverently and answers.

After Tik and Astrea have introduced themselves, Athalaric nervously steps forward. "I ... I am Altha... Athalaric. I bring you the greetings and best wishes of my master, Golgrafom, proprietor of the Bookwyrm." He lets that linger for a second, unsure how to continue before he notices the questioning glances from the others. "Oh.. the Bookwyrm, that is a rather well-known shop for books, maps, scrolls, and the like. Although you certainly have no use for such a..."

He breaks of and nearly bites his tongue when he notices his horrible misstep and then continues to finish his speech, trying to get out of the center of attention as quickly as possible.

"Anyway, my master was acquainted with Master Traven of your House and he sends him his greetings and wishes to impart this gift..." He waves the wrapped up tome about before noting that this could be seen as yet another impoliteness in front of a blind woman. "Forgive me, I... I am just not used to... Well, in any case, I would be honored if Master Traven chose to receive me..."

Slumping, Athalaric retreats back into the shadowy corner where stood before and wishes for a hole to hide in.

Garra watches and tries to wrap her head around the strange customs she was seeing.

Unfortunately for her, she can't and can't see the difference eating beside or behind the matron of the household made. Her stomach was quietly rumbling though, threatening to growl again.

Why all of this? What is it you need our help with, already?

She half-listens to Athalaric stumbling over his words, but she still feels sympathy for the poor man. She looks to the other two, the warrior who had already introduced himself, and the other, stranger, man. Feeling that it'd be a long wait if she decided to go last, she stepped forward, her boots and clothing still covered in the dust of travel.

"I am Garra, daughter of Thayrak. I heard that you were in need of aid, so I came."

She doesn't bow, or curtsy, but she does give a warriors salute, her right hand balled into a fist above her heart.

Black makes to doff his hat with a bow, then realizes he had already removed it. Hmmm. Such strange habits keep surfacing..

Then in a low raspy mumble. "I am called Black".

Mme. Dulapont's eyes widen slightly at Athalaric's words.

"You... wish to see my Traven. Well... yes. He should be at dinner. If you do not mind making your presentation over the meal, that will be fine."

The old, blind woman turns to Garra and inclines her head; she seems puzzled for a moment. "Perhaps I mishear, but...?

Mme. Dulapont's blind eyes turn to Alfred, and she seems to be momentarily lost in thought.
"Your name is unfamiliar, but I could swear... No matter.
Chalmers? Would you please present our guests with appropriate clothing for the evening meal? And assign them rooms? I can hear thunder in the distance; it would be amiss of me to send you young people out into the bad weather that is coming."

"Thank you, Mme. Dulapont. For your hospitality."

Garra is a little shocked to hear her native tongue, but not so much that she fails to respond.

"Ja, ampak kako ste spoznali jezik mojih ljudi?"

The surprise lasts long enough for her to not even notice the command to Chalmers about getting them appropriate clothing.

Mme. Dulapont just smiles at Garra.

"My dear, I am the leader of an important family which has business interests in a cosmopolitan city. All sorts of people come to Clearvale-by-the-Lake, and it behooves me to be able to address them in their own language. It is only polite."

Unless anyone else has anything to say to Mme. Dulapont, Chalmers clears his throat and extends an arm to the open door.

"Honoured guests, if you would follow me to the changing rooms on the first floor, it would also be my pleasure to show to you your guest rooms."

"Of course milady; until we meet again." Replied Sir Gavin, bowing courteously over her hand before rising again.

He follows Chalmers placidly to the guest quarters, where he ignores the clothing laid out for him in favor of his own Nobles outfit.

Athalaric quietly follows as Chalmers leads them to their chambers. His master would not expect him back in the store anytime soon, so he would wait and see what all this was about.

The others are obviously here to answer some kind of call for help... Strange that I haven't heard anything about it.

Then again Athalaric has to admit that he generally takes more interest in matters of ancient history than in the day-to-day dealings of those around him.

I can just stick around for dinner, talk to Master Traven and then be off to talk to Master Golgrafom about it...

Alfred detected some hesitation and thought in the old womans comment. Maybe she did know something about his past. He'd better stick around and find out.

When he gets to the room he sits on the edge of the bed and takes an experimental bounce or two. Door might be stuck, but this bed is sure comfortable.

When it came time to dress for dinner, he was surprised how easily he seemed to know how to assemble the fancy outfits. Another clue?

Gara nods to the woman, realizing that she was far wiser than she had assumed her to be.

Already caught off-balance by hearing her tongue spoken by a noble woman, the clothing laid out for her made her feel more out of her element.

Why so many layers? It's not even cold out!

After a few minutes looking at the dress and assorted trappings, she finally steps out into the hall and tries to get someone's attention.