Thorn smiles as Affyria asks her pair of questions and nods. "Let me answer the latter question first. Vetra-Kali is a tool. Nothing more, nothing less. Perhaves, if you are clever, once you have his gift you can figure out a way to send him back. That said, he is a powerful daemon prince. He would be a difficult adversary to combat directly. But, perhaps, if you find a weakness you could defeat him. Regardless, I care not. Slaying him is of no import. Retrieving the pestilence is all that matters."
He pauses a moment to consider the first question, then continues. "As for what happens when the tears are released... My plans for distributing the plague are my own, but I can tell you it will be concentrated in the southern cities. Some lucky few folk always survive plagues, and others will wait it out within fortified manors or flee to the countryside. Regardless, rest assured, I do not to rule a graveyard and Our Dark Father has little use for mindless undead."
"So we are to summon a daemon and bind it to our will? Sounds like fun. Under your guidance, master, might I be able to get some practice? If you have an extra scroll for the use of binding fiends, and the patience to teach me your secrets, I would humbly ask for aid in binding a feindish servant to myself in preparation of what is presumably to be a much larger ritual." Daidalos says, trying to hopefully gain a bit more assistance from the cardinal, "But I am sure we can be of use to you again, in this task for us."
Thorn smiles at Daedalos’s request and responds in nearly a purr, ”Did Tiadora not just give you only a few days ago a case filled with platinum? Tiadora, did you neglect this task?” From the corner of the cramped cabin she barely moves, only replying in a disinterested fashion, ”I did not, master.” Thorn chuckles softly then says, ”Nothing is free, Daedalos, particularly knowledge of fiends. Regardless, I don’t have any such scrolls on me at the moment, but I am sure my friend in Farholde will be able to procure one for you at a fair price.”
He looks over the rest of you and, noting Raven’s absence among the vertically-inclined, he asks, ”Where is the elf? Tiadora said something had befallen him but was vague on the details.”
"He seems to have contracted vampirism; he should be rising any time now; his time scale certainly seems unusual, though." Daidalos responds, brushing over Thorn's refusal and moving along before anything negative came out of it.
Thorn arches a brow in surprise at this news. "Interesting." He glances past you towards Tiadora, "When we are done here, visit the Baron. Tell him to make make suitable arrangements for Master Dwin'Alir's interment, temporary as it may be. And arrange for a safe way to transport him from the barge to the estate. We don't want anyone asking about corpses being carted about." The woman nods in reply but says nothing, which Thorne accepts.
"Alright then, if there's nothing else, please excuse me while I discuss a couple other matters with Tiadora."
As Tiadora comes out and mentions their master is here, Timo goes stiff. "He's here? He takes a breath to center himself, before entering the cabin. "Do not let him see your weakness." Timo thinks to himself.
As the cardinal goes over his plan, Timo finds a place near the back of the room. He can't help but think this is insane. "Summon a demon, convince it to give us a deadly plague, and then release it? Are we to rule the land or the ashes? Affriya then speaks up voicing the same concerns. "Interesting at least I'm not alone in thinking this is madness. Regardless, is this something we can even accomplish?" he thinks as he looks to Daidalos.
As if reading his mind, Daidalos then responds. "He obviously thinks he can do it, though whether this is hubris or actual ability remains to be seen." When Thorne then excuses them, Timo leaves the room quickly in order to be out of Thorne's presence
"Of course, I suppose we shall leave you to your work." Daidalos responds before exiting.
The rest of the night passes uneventfully, though Tiadora denies you access to the cabin once again, so it is cold and uncomfortable. After a few hours, the barge arrives on Lake Scardynn and, in the distance, you see a fortification on the north shore and the city of Farholde on the south, with an island in the middle.
The "island" in the middle is a large accumulation of pebbles and debris within the river delta. On the north shore is Hamarhall, a grim castle of grey stone.
The city is served on the lack by a series of docks that seem to protrude from an enormous slab of stone.
Farholde itself seems to have been built atop a series of hills. In the middle of them in a low-lying area likely prone to flooding is a ramshackle collection of dwellings likely no good for more than temporary shelter yet, judging by their age, clearly have been occupied for some time -- including through several floods.
Tiadora emerges from her cabin and leans against a railing as the captain and his crew maneuver the barge closer towards the city. "I've met with Baron Vandermir and you'll have dinner with him in three night's at his manor in Calliver's Green. That evening, I'll meet you at a tavern called The Laughing Bull in Estell at 5 bells, and we will go to the Baron's place from there. The Green is gated, so don't expect to enter without me. Take the time to explore Farholde, buy any supplies you need, and..." She glances at you from the corner of her eye, a slight smirk on her lips, "And, for gods' sake, get yourselves some baths and dress appropriately."
"As for him," she gestures towards Raven, "get him wrapped in the rug I have in the cabin. I'll take care of his needs from there and he will meet us at the Baron's."
The ogre, who has been rather resilient during the journey and didn't seem to mind the cold at all, looks towards the approaching town and chews his lip. "Mmm. Grumblejack not sure how town of little 'uns react to seeing ogre in town."
Tiadora glances at him and sighs. "Just go to Drowington, find Lord Drownington. He has a place, equal parts brothel, bar and fight-club. The guard never goes there and you'll fit in just fine for a few days."
Grumblejack grins at this, "Fight... club? Heh. Grumblejack win lots to drink. Sound good to Grumblejack, if okay to other boss little 'uns." He looks at you, questioningly.
Morthos looks to the ogre through narrowed eyes, curious as to how this creature has survived for so long. "You know, Grumblejack, I would gather that it is 'okay'." he says as if talking to a child. "Now, off you go. You don't want to keep the spoils of victory awaiting. 'Lots to drink' and all that," he says with a roll of his eyes.
Daidalos nods, in response to Tiadora's instructions, "Very well. We'll meet you there. Enjoy yourself, Grumble. We'll get you when we need you."
After saying farewell, and taking slight offense at the idea he needed a bath (like any self-respecting mage, he kept himself sparkling clean through liberal use of prestidigitation), but did enjoy the prospect of having a warm tub to relax in for a bit. Still, he went shopping for non-magical clothing, and found quite the tidy wizard outfit, that only required a couple minor modifications to make perfect on himself (using, of course, soul gems as jewelry- but with a minor use of illusions to disguise them). Before meeting with Tiadora, though, he casts a few spells in preparation for official meetings.
Your next sensation is of a great pressure upon you. It is once more cold and damp, but not uncomfortably so. You imagine it might be like a womb, but cooler. Feeling gradually comes back to your limbs. You can twitch a finger. A toe. But nothing more. Exhaustion. Rest. Hunger...
NOOOOO! You awaken with you mind in a roar. Flashing strobes within your vision frustrate your ability to understand where you are. It is hard to move. So much is pressing on you. Wiggling turns to thrashing. Thrashing to shoving. Shoving to digging. You begin to sense open space on the other side. Air. Not fresh, no, but air. You breath deep... yet it makes no difference. It is not a lack of air that drives you. But a deep, raging hunger that resonates through your soul.
Clawing, climbing, digging, screaming, you may your way into a space where you can actually stand and move. It's a room of some sort, with no windows. A furnace in the corner radiates heat from a fire burning within. In another corner, wooden stairs lead up to a heavy door, closed and latched. In another corner, secured by a metal chain, is a young woman, bound by manacles. Her eyes are wide with terror as she stares at you uncomprehendingly.
@ Everyone Else
Timo takes the brief time of respite to enjoy himself. He starts with a hot bath. Enjoying the feel of the warm waters loosen his muscles. As he finishes he glances at his clothes. "These won't do, I'll have to get something nicer to meet with the baron." Timo then lets out a sigh. "At least this will be a dinner where I can be one of the guests and not something to be despised.
With that thought he got dressed in his simple clothes. Before leaving, his eyes fell upon his blade. "Perhaps I should see if this backwater town has a proper blade."
The barge docks in the shadow of Farholde while townsfolk mix with guards and merchants, going about their business. With Raven having been wrapped in a rug, Tiadora retires to her cabin without another word. You all make your way off the barge whereupon you are confronted by the assistant harbor master. ”’Allo now, what’s this. It’ll be a silver for....” his voice trails off and eyes begin to drift up... and up... as he takes in the sight of the ogre. ”’Ey now, he can’t be bringin’ no such beasts into Farholde....”
Before you can say anything, Grumblejack just laughs and shoves a small purse of coins into the man’s chest. ”Now now, little ‘un. Grumblejack may be ogre, but Grumblejack break no laws. Grumblejack no eat you. No kill you. No rape you. No steal from you. Grumblejack here to spend money and drink. You law man, yes? You follow law. Grumblejack break no law. You not racist, are you, law man?” The ogre leers at the man with an enormous grin. ”No! Grumblejack not stupid bugbear, is he? Ha ha!” With a quick wink to you, Grumblejack pushes past the befuddled bureaucrat and makes his way to Drownington.
During the next few days, you are able to find a variety of accommodations to suit your tastes and preferences. For his part, Timo hears a few whispers of note.
There is a nun named Sister Marta who is held in wide regard as a life saver and powerful priestess of Mitra.
There is a half-tiger, half-demon named One Eye that dwells in the Caer Bryr.
Timo also hears a pair of hens bickering. One says, “The Baron Vandermir is the most generous man I’ve ever met. It’s because of him this town has an orphanage.” While the other snipes back, “The kids at the Vandermir Orphanage are little more than thugs! I hear the corrupt old baron sometimes uses them for muscle.”
Affyria wanders around Farholde an afternoon, in the guise of a non-descript redheaded human priest. She regards the occasional nuns of the abbey with suspicion.
Visiting the Mitran church at Newchurch, Affyria always had a weak spot for the baroque branch of architecture, although she can't help but feel it could be a hundred times more impressive if it was dedicated to her patron Asmodeus.
She also visits the trade district in Templeton Rise, spending some of her newfound wealth on a few splendid items for their meeting with the baron.
In the evening Affyria visits some of the popular pubs, being positively charming and extraverted in order to glean some information out of the locals.
Raevanis feels not quite all there. But he has little time to make sense of that first sensation once the second one is felt all too keenly. Hunger. Thirst. One and the same. His stomach feels so empty and his mouth so dry. And something else. His canine teeth, somewhat longer and so much sharper than before. He wonders briefly how vampires do not cut the inside of their mouths all the time.
He smiles at his own jest, even chuckles softly. Ah, yes. Now his remembers. Bits and pieces of some things and wholes of others. A vampire. That is what he has become.
And then he sees her. A human girl. Or possibly woman? Always a little difficult to tell with the shorter-lived races. And his hunger and thirst rise like a wave at the sight of her. He instinctively knows what to do and how to go about doing it. And he must admit, he finds it... odd that the thought does not repulse him. He sighs and takes a deep breath, though he knows he no longer needs to. And the young woman's scent, her aroma, fills his nostrils. She smells... delectable. And the beating of her heart. So fast, so frantic. She is terrified.
"Shh," the pale elf says softly, comfortingly, even if he knows he can do little to ease her fear. He approaches her, neither too fast, nor too slowly. He chooses to do this, he tells himself. He is in control and not the other way around. He will satiate his hunger, yes, but he will not kill. Not this time at the very least. If for no other reason than to test himself.
"To endings and beginnings," he says simply as sharp teeth pierce soft flesh.
When the deed is done, she shrinks into the corner, pulling her chains tightly around her like a blanket, and begins to rock herself back and forth. You've seen this often enough. You may not have killed her, but she's definitely in shock and her mind is shutting down from the horror she just experienced.
Over the next few minutes, you reassess the situation you find yourself in. It would seem to be a basement of some sort with heavy masonry walls but a packed dirt floor. A coal-burning furnace in the corner has a number of iron pipes extended from it and leading through the ceiling above. There is a pile of coal nearby and a small, 1'x1' chute that is latched and secured but like leads outside. Through a tiny gap, there is a sliver of sunlight and, when your flesh passes through it, you can feel a searing burning sensation that seems to go to the very core of your being. With that method of egress ruled out, you turn your attention to the door.
A solid knock on the door elicits a response, a male voice from the other side replies, "Aaah! I, uh... Beg your pardon, mi'lord. Please wait a few moments, the master of the house asked to be told as soon as you were, uh, awake."
A few moments later, you hear the sound of a bar being lifted from the other side of the door and the lock being disengaged. On the other side of the door are a pair of guards equipped with finely wrought chain shirts and longswords. They appear quite nervous and on edge while the third person -- their apparent master -- is wholly at ease and, if anything, curious. A handsome half-elf dressed in burgundy slacks and crushed velvet vest over a white blouse, his shoulder length hair is perfectly clean and brushed, pulled back behind the ears that betray the elven side of his heritage. He wears no armor, though a rapier is sheathed at his side along with a few pouches, and your experienced eye identifies what are likely magical bits of jewelry about his fingers and neck.
"And you are Raevanis Dwin'Alir, I presume. Or is it Raven? I mean no disrespect. Our mutual friend was vague on the details. I am Baron Arkov Vandermir. I apologize for the conditions in which you found yourself but I couldn't risk having you make a meal of my household, nor have you awaken someplace outside where the timing might lead to an all too brief return to consciousness."
He doesn't so much glance over his shoulder though from the change in inflection it's clear he's now addressing the guards, "Take my guest to a changing room. Have a servant bathe him and see to an outfit befitting his station." His gaze flicks past you, through the door, down the stairs, and into the corner of the basement. "And deal with her. No witnesses."
Glancing back at you, his brow furrows slightly, he's clearly puzzling through why you would leave her alive. Instead of asking the question, he instead says, "The rest of your party will be arriving later this evening. I'll see more of you then. If there's anything else you require, ask one of the servants. One last thing, take care with what you say and reveal here. My household is discreet and loyal but they don't necessarily all share our common bond, if you take my meaning."
He waits a moment to see if there's anything you wish to say or ask, then departs. His guards and servants see to his commands and your wishes flawlessly.
The appointed hour eventually arrives and Tiadora meets you at the Laughing Bull. Like many of the businesses in Estell, the establishment is relatively upscale with a well-heeled clientele. Tiadora is bedecked brilliantly in a fully white outfit, appearing as a traveling noble on the way to her wedding, platinum blonde hair cascading over her shoulders.
She guides you to Calliver's Green and a half dozen guards wait at the gate, ensuring the residents' privacy. Tiadora is as confident -- nigh brazen -- as ever, walking directly to the gate where she pauses but does not so much as deign to even look at the guards. "Baron Vandermir is expecting us," she says.
A guard consults a list of visitors, then nervously replies, "Uh, yes, of course, my lady. This way, please."
The gate is opened and you are escorted in. There are only six manors in the Green, and you are led to what is arguably the most impressive and opulent of them. The front door is secured by two guards wearing armor and livery.
When you approach, the guards are polite but firm. "No stranger may go before the Baron so armed," one of them says as he eyes the weapons most of you carry. Tiadora, unarmed, merely sighs and rolls her eyes, yet she does not object as she glances at the lot of you, waiting.
Daidalos, while curious as to what the man's note says, can't quite catch a glimpse of what it says.
In contrast, he easily recalls every bit of trivia regarding the nobility surrounding them.
"So be it. You place too much faith in steel, though." he replies, sliding his sheathed daggers out of their holsters and handing them over
Affyria arrives at the mansion all gussied up, wearing a laced up leather corset, a heavy split skirt, black slashed through with burgundy, knee high leather boots. Her hair is done up, and tied together with a silk ribbon, showing off her black horns poking through. Around her neck she wears a silver chain, and hanging from it, a pentagram inset with several onyxes and rubies.
She grins her needle-like teeth bare as the guard tells them to disarm. She holds out her hands and mewls, "I'm unarmed and harmless, good sir. Would you care to check?" For a second, you believe you hear a chuckle coming from nearby, but you're not sure if you imagined it.
The guards exchange glances before one of them takes Daidalos's weapons. When he's done, the other says, "And your pouch of reagents, sir, if you please."
One shakes his head in response to Affyria, "If mi'lady says on her honor that she is unarmed, a search is unnecessary."
Tiadora glowers at the "unseen" imp...
...then affects a deep sigh and crosses her arms impatiently, a staccato wrap of elegantly finished nails against marble-like skin. All of you (but for Raven) 'hear' Tiadora's voice in your minds, "Must the cat always play with the mouse? Do as you're bid, please. We are still in public, after all."
Daidalos fights back a smile, "Not bad at all. Well spotted." he says, unclipping his pouch from the back of his belt and tossing it to the guard.
As he starts following the Baron's servants to the changing room, he pauses and turns to the half-elf. "This new state of being should not be an excuse for lack of manners, yes?" Another smile, close-lipped of course. "We thank you for your hospitality, Cousin."
It is only later, in the room provided by the Baron and while examining his sword -a weapon he has used, expertly if he might say so himself, for years upon years and the one he killed his own father with- and finding it strangely foreign, even unwieldy, that he realizes it. He said "we" instead of "I".
At the market, Affyria hears rumors of war. "My poor Geoffy, he's gone off to war. I hope he's alright."
Near the temple, she hears, "'Afore Lord Welshire left, I 'ear he 'ad a priest of the Sun conjure up an angel to guard the town. If anyone gives us trouble, that angel 'l show 'em what for!"
And near a streetcorner, "Did you hear Hallack Amon paid off his father's debts? It almost broke the poor lad. What will he do for money now that he's left the Watch?
After collecting the assortment of weapons, one of the guards uses the knocker on the door to give a quick double-tap. A moment later, the doors open simultaneously under the practiced motion of a formal butler. He takes a step back as the doors finish opening and offers a slight bow of his head... to Tiadora. "My lady, it is good to see you again. His Grace looks forward to your company." He then turns his head towards you and adds, "And my lords and ladies, welcome. His Grace, Baron Arkov Vandermir of House Barca, Lord of Westell and Mir, extends his hospitality, however humble it may be. Please, enter and let me show you to the parlor. Wine, brandy and hors d’oeuvres are prepared for you while His Grace finishes attending to other matters."
With that, he steps to the side and waves his arm in a flourish towards the interior of the mansion. Gleaming marble floors and columns have their hardness softened by thick crimson rugs that practically hug your feet. Heavy doors crafted of rare hardwoods lead to other rooms while a squadron of well dressed servants wait in the wings.
Tiadora offers a perfunctory and largely disinterested, "The pleasure is mine," to the butler as she glides past him. He seems to take no offense.
Unlike the house on the moors where you met the cardinal, here none of the servants blanche or cower in your presence. Rather, there is an air of respect and dutiful attentiveness to detail. You are shown to a wood paneled parlor with chairs so comfortable you could fall asleep in them. Though the fireplace is still, there is a comfortable yet omnipresent warmth throughout the mansion, a stark contrast to the chill in the air outside. Heavy drapes are drawn shut over leaded windows, keeping the last of the evening sun's rays, though the crystal chandelier (already lit) provides ample light.
Brandy and wine, both in crystal decanters, are poured upon request into crystal goblets finished with golden stems, and silver trays filled with spiced beef skewers and spicy crayfish puffs are circulated.
Morthos hands over his weapon freely, taking in the place as they walk along. This should all be mine, the antipaladin thinks to himself.
Daidalos walks around the mansion, admiring the trappings and enjoying the appetizers. While they wait to be summoned for dinner, Daidalos reclines in one of the large chairs and peruses an interesting-looking book as he collects his thoughts, mentally preparing himself for another night spent ingratiating himself.
This baron would be quite the ally. We do need to be careful not to mess up this opportunity. The time will come when we can force people to kneel and grant us this kind of luxury, but for now, we must still entreat others. he takes a deep breath and breathes out to focus I hope he con connect me to a scroll- once the armies of Hell are on our side, we should be fine.
After helping herself to some wine and the crab puffs, Tiadora studies a black marble statuette over the mantle. "Just so you know, my role here is to make introductions, nothing more. It is up to you to negotiate and discuss matters pertaining to your task with the Baron. It is up to you to decide how much to divulge and when, and whether you want to approach him as a lord, peer or lesser being. Consider it all yet another test put before you by the Cardinal. He cares about the results, not holding your hands."
She sips from the wine glass and wipes away the smallest bit of the vintage from the corner of her lip before continuing. "My only bit of advice would be to continue to exercise restraint on what you disclose in public. The Baron shares our devotion to the Dark Father, but loyalties can be fluid, particularly among hirelings, and outside these walls it is still enemy territory."
"Of course he does. Do we suspect the baron knows of our involvement up north?" Daidalos asks, "Or is that not underground knowledge?" Daidalos asks, alread suspecting the answer but still interested in her response.
Timo arrives at the house dressed as one befitting a lord meeting with a baron. When asked for his weapon, he surrenders his dagger as he had left all other remaining weapons stored in his room. As they are welcomed into the room, Timo gives a perfunctory nod to the servant. He then takes a glass of wine as he peruses the rest of the parlor while listening to the conversations at hand.
"My only bit of advice would be to continue to exercise restraint on what you disclose in public. "
Affyria does not take a seat, but does help herself to some wine. She saunters calmly about the room, taking in her surroundings.
"Baron Vandermir of House Barca," she says, mulling the name over. "He sure seems rather wealthy, at least. Is there anything else you can tell us about him, anything that would be valuable to know?" she asks Tiadora.
“There is another who may be able to aid you. Once a thriving cult of Asmodeus existed in Farholde. It was led by a half-elvish noble – the Baron Arkov Vandermir. He is treacherous and decadent, but wealthy and well-connected. Tiadora will introduce you before she departs.
“I know not what aid the Baron can provide, but his family is old and long has dwelt in Farholde. Never trust him but know this – he’s afraid of me and with good reason. If he does try anything remind him that you are in Farholde on my behalf. That should keep him in line."
Tiadora looks at Daedalos over the rim of her glass, then slips her eyes towards Affyria in thought before responding to both. "He knows nothing, but likely suspects much. News of Balentyne reached here before our arrival, summoning the Duke and most of the troops he could muster to the east.
"Now, we arrive at his doorstep and the Cardinal demands his obeisance." Her smile takes a slightly sinister edge as she thinks back to a memory. "He hid it well, but he was decidedly displeased to see me." A throaty chuckle, and then, "He's more than a century old and survived the Purges, so he's no idiot and can play the game as well as any. "
"As for wealth... She looks back at the statuette a moment, clearly old and its edges worn by time, its hard to tell exactly what it is supposed to represent. "That is Vudrani, perhaps two millennia old, I believe one of the rajahs that was found to be a rakshasa. It's value is beyond measure. I don't know which is worse. That he displays it with all the honor of a simple trinket, or that most fail to realize it is so much more than that." She twirls the wine in her glass and takes another sip.
"The Barcans have more wealth than most realize, including the King. They rose from a tribe of half-breed merchants, tradesmen, and thieves to rule Talingarde for a time. Arkov is yet a young pup among their house, but when his father was murdered in the Purges, he inherited a vast fortune."
She finishes her glass and her explanation, "He will not put it at risk lightly."
"Well met again."
The voice belongs to the pale elf, now paler still but also looking quite a bit healthier as well despite his complexion. Dressed in elegant clothes of black and crimson, the former color matching his hair and the latter his eyes, Raevanis approaches his companions, the grace with which he moves seemingly even greater than before. There is a thin smile on his lips as he holds a glass of red wine in his hand, though it is obvious he has not partaken of a single sip.
"How does the evening find you?"
Tiadora nods in acknowledgment of Raven's arrival, "You're looking considerably more animated than the last time I saw you."
About a half-hour after being shown into the parlor, you hear the sound a chime somewhere deeper in the house. A single, clear note. A few seconds later, the door into the parlor is opened by the butler who greeted you earlier. He enters the room and stands to the side and, approaching through the great hall, you hear the sound of hard-heeled boots either clapping against the marble or being cushed by the rugs.
A moment after that, a handsome half-elf steps through the threshold dressed in burgandy and white while raven-black hair is pulled back behind the ears the betray his heritage. If Tiadora is correct in her assessment of his age, he's the youngest looked centenarian you've ever seen other than a pure-blooded elf. His features are almost boyish, though his eyes betray a calculating -- even wicked -- soul.
Those same eyes flash across your assembled persons then rest on Tiadora. A smile -- tight and formal but not altogether unpleasant -- comes to his lips, "Ah, my Lady. So good to see you again, welcome." He steps over to her and it seems for a moment unclear who is to kiss the other's hand, each of which is outstretched to the other. End the end, it is a graceful double-clasp and a mutual bow of the head.
"My pleasure, as always, your grace," replies the woman in white, taking back her hands. "Please, allow me the honor of introducing my escorts for the evening and confidants of the Cardinal's. I believe you've already met Lord Dwin'Alir. We also have Lady Strex, a priestess of the faith. Lord Icarum, an accomplished arcanist. Lord Morthos and Lord Zoci, soldiers of the faith. My lords and ladies, as you've surmised, this is Baron Arkov Vandermir, our host and friend of the Cardinal's."
Vandermir takes a polite step back from Tiadora and reconsiders your group. "Well met, lords and lady. You do me a great honor by visiting my humble home. Please, if you would join me in the dining room, my house has prepared a feast in your honor and I'd hate to see it grow cold."
He leads you through the house to the dining room where you are seated, offered fine wine or chilled water. Attempts to bring up matters related to your mission, the faith, or anything else are smoothly yet firmly brushed aside with a pointed glance towards his staff. A five course meal follows with regional delicacies with an emphasis on seafood, including the giant crayfish from Lake Scardynn, but also roasted vegetables and a beef carpaccio. The Baron is a flawless conversationalist, an incisive questioner, attentive listener, complimentary without being unctuous. Yet his mood is always just a bit guarded, reserved, distant.
When the meal is finished, Tiadora excuses herself -- "Your Grace, a pleasure, as always, but I've other business to attend to and the night is still young." -- as the servants come about offering port or cognac before the Baron dismisses them with a glance to the butler. Smoothly and seamlessly, they have all disappeared within a few heartbeats, doors closed quietly behind them.
Left in the room is just you and the Baron. "So... while I do not begrudge the pleasant distraction afforded by such fine company, I must wonder, why are you here? Why does he have you brought to my door?"
Daidalos gives a polite half-bow as Tiadora introduces him, and enjoys the meal as he watches the servants bustle around.
After the meal, he speaks up to respond to the baron, "I'll cut through all the formalities. As you may be aware, he is finally acting. We are here as the extension of the plan, to finish a mission which some of our less accomplished predecessors failed at- to find a powerful tool for our future use. What we hope to gain is your patronage- a contact in Farholde, someone who knows the area and whom we can count on as we work on our mission. Having a secure place to stay, somewhere we can resupply, somewhere that we have connections that we might otherwise lack, that is what we seek. Naturally, we aren't able to share specifics yet, but rest assured that we do not seek too much, just what is needed for our mission." Daidalos pauses to take a sip of wine, "In return, naturally, you will be favored in the coming days, spared from the tribulations our master will bring upon this land, and given favorable treatment even among those."
As Raven finally rejoins them, Affyria gives him a pointed glance. "Good to see you up and about, Raven. You're looking... well. How do you feel now?"
After the meal, and in response to the baron's question, Affyria adds, "The mission that my compatriot refers to will probably see us spending at least some amount of time in Farholde, which is why we could certainly benefit from your assistance, and your connections. The actual details of said mission are confidential for the time being, and is only marginally related with our presence here. Rest assured that we will do our utmost to avoid drawing attention to ourselves, and to you."
Affyria pauses to take a sip of her wine before continuing, "Our ultimate goal in Talingarde is bringing about an end to the reign of Mitra and the Markadians, and with it, the House of Darius. I've come to understand there's no love lost between your two houses, and I'm sure the power vacuum that will be created when they fall, could prove very beneficial to a man of your standing."
The Baron tips his head to acknowledge the frankness and replies in kind. “Formalities tend to keep things pleasant but if you prefer direct, forgive me for being equally so with you. It’s true; I have no love for the House of Darius. But I’ve survived by not throwing myself at the juggernaut. You come to me as beggars, the last remnants of a forbidden faith. You make vague promises of the good favor I’ll receive if I help you. But all that I am likely to earn from helping you is the inquisitor’s pyre. You acknowledge one group of his agents has already failed. Clearly, his judgment is not unassailable and his plan not perfect. Tell me, how are you different? Why should I help the likes of you?”
Daidalos returns a sly grin, "Ah, but you see, this isn't our first mission. We are his greatest servants. As you see from one of our number, not even death is capable of stopping us. It is no coincidence we come to you now, as the country descends into war with monsters. We came here directly from our last mission, a rousing success. I trust you are intelligent enough to fill in the gaps there."
"Disoriented," is Raven's reply to Affyria after thinking about it for a few moments. He seems as if he is about to elaborate on it, but then reconsiders, at least for now.
"The... juggernaut in this particular case is us," the elven vampire says softly. "As Daidalos has so eloquently put it, Cousin, we have not only not been stopped but we have triumphed. We have not fallen, but risen. In more ways than one. And we will continue to do so. This is not a boast. It is merely a statement of fact. And I am not being arrogant." He smiles thinly. "There is no reason for that when all one has to be is simply realistic."
Arkov rests his elbows on his armchair and steeples his fingers in front of him while he considers Daidalos and Raven's words. His expression is flat and impassive.
Morthos looks to the man intently, getting absolutely no read upon him and mentally shrugging it away. "They are both correct but I must sway a little from Raven's statement. Because I am boasting and am fantastically arrogant. With Asmodeus behind us... we are unstoppable," he states with absolute conviction.
The Baron looks about the table with a brow arched as if to invite further arguments in favor of the endeavor. When none are forthcoming, he lowers his hands to his lap and replies, ”If the rumors are to be believed, you brought down an entire Watchtower — or weakened it enough that a horde did what no other has done before it. Quite the accomplishment, t’is true. Yet you are to have me aid and abet a mad plan to depose the king — that is the ultimate goal, yes — on, what? Faith? You certainly give me no details in which to place my trust that this plan, whatever it is, shall succeed. Or maybe he doesn’t even share his plan with you, hmm?”
He looks at Affyria and then Morthos and Timo — the sworn of His faith — and reverts to a diplomatic tone. ”My faith is lapsed. I will confess it. I do not and have not renounced Him in my heart, but those who refused to renounce Him in word were all put to the stake or worse 80 years ago. What you suggest has a history on this island of being the nearest thing to a 100% suicide rate. And so, as much as I want to throw down the House of Darius...” He lifts his hands in a helpless gesture, but is not finished.
”Still... I’ve survived by keeping my options open. I’ll not turn you away. I have a smaller manor in Estell that you may use. I’ve used it for smuggling and it even has a passage that will carry you into the forest east of town and away from prying eyes. If you need things sold or procured, let me know. I will see what I can do, within reason and at cost. Perhaps I can help you more in the future. We will see.”
He lifts his glass of wine and asks, ”Have we an accord?”
"If you wish to know more details, we most certainly can share them- within reason, of course. And yes, the watchtower was felled at our own hands. The horde wasn't terribly happy with how we didn't leave them any sort of battle. Thank you for your aid, and I do believe we have an accord. For Talingarde." Diadalos responds, raising his glass in the air to join the Baron.
Affyria offers a thin smile to the baron. "It is true, and I can certainly understand your reluctance into tying your horse to our wagon, so to speak. But remember, that our Lord, among other things, is also sometimes called the god of trickery. Secrecy is our greatest weapon, and rest assured that we will keep Talingarde and the house of Darius in the dark of our true intentions for as long as possible. No one is aware of the part we've played in the fall of Balentyne. No one will be aware of the part you will play in aiding us. I'm sure that our Prince of Darkness will smile upon you once more, in time, and count you among his flock."
Nodding an raising his glass as well, "An accord it is," he says with a wry smile as he takes a mere sip, pondering his future of glorious victory.