In Riveh's defense, he was very tired, it was dark and the ifrit had had a very long day. Small excuses for confusing the would-be Empress with one of her courtiers. Thankfully Riveh had not compounded his blunder by bowing or saying anything out loud. No one need know he confused royalty with a singer (even if a talented one with a title).
Then his worries vanished as song filled the dark courtyard. The rising dulcet tones seemed to reach into his weary and battered soul and salve the many pains of the day. They, for a moment, washed away the horrors of violence and battle, the bitter taste of defeat and the heady confusion. For a single moment he was at peace, in comfort, wrapped in the gentle arms of song.
Then it faded, darkness returning but not without a trace. Indeed the many times kicked, stabbed, cursed ifrit takes a deep breath and is surprised to find it doesn't hurt. In fact, he doesn't hurt at all. His wounds are all healed, magically wiped away.
Not bad.
The other are healed as well, even the extremely injured Martella. It is good to see the young woman revitalized, the horrors of Wyssilka banished to mere memory.
Still, as the repartee of Martell and Morilla goes on, it becomes increasingly annoying.
Riveh coughs and says, mostly politely, "Might we all come inside, make-up or no? I thank you for the healing but it had been a very long day and a chair would be very nice. As well as some...information. We've been operating in the dark for a long time now, hoping it would all be worth it in the end." he glances at Martella as he says this, wondering if the woman would at least have the decency to blush.
It had indeed been a very long day of the sort that did not leave Riveh inclined to listen to any more ever-so-polite prevarication from evasive noblewomen, especially now that there were two of them. It had been hard enough to get a straight answer out of Martella even before he learned of her deception, and this Gloriana Morilla seemed every bit as fond of empty posturing judging by the deliberately muted, even catty, response to receiving a half-dead friend (acquaintance? associate?) on her doorstep. He wanted some answers. Nay, what he wanted was to get of his feet; answers were what he deserved, frankly. Some thanks wouldn't go amiss either.
Unfortunately, muted was also how their host's response to his interjection could be described. "This one speaks out of turn. You haven't house-broken him yet, Martella?" The insult wasn't just in being referred to as a house pet. It was in the aloof eyes that passed him over like a gnat before addressing Martella, as if she was his handler.
But if the Lady's retort was insulting, it was his employer's reaction that was all the more mystifying. Because while he had watched to see any sign of shame over how she had brazenly deceived him, it wasn't embarrassment he saw flutter over the newly repaired features. Instead the bronzed skin tightened in something akin to trepidation, as if massively uncomfortable with what his words hinted at. The curious expression lasted only a moment. What was that about?
"Please, Lady Morilla." The reply was at least mollifying, if a bit patronizingly good-humored. "They've all been through much today to save me, I'm sure. I owe them my gratitude and more. Let me introduce you. This is Sir Stig of Stillhall, landed knight." A grunt followed from the thug which went ignored by both Ladies. "The good Dame Trant I'm sure you already know of." Trant appeared unsure how to respond in this situation, especially given that Morilla's detached gaze cooled significantly in meeting hers; perhaps she really did know the young woman's reputation. "And this is..."
It was in introducing the ifrit that Martella was interrupted, however. "I know who the young man is, and his apparent habit of saving damsels in distress." Riveh assumed this was in reference to his quelling the swarm of bees intended to interrupt the Princess's speech, an event Morilla had of course witnessed. "Come along then. I can't keep you out here. But as for finding a chair, do try to avoid getting blood on my furniture. That's a dear." This said she turned, soft smoke wafting into a half circle from her long pipe, and made to go inside. She did not look over her shoulder in adding: "You may join the two of us upstairs, Trant." The omission of the title was notable. "I very much doubt I have much fitting your measurements, but I suppose it would be a poor host that left you looking such a mess."
The night air grew just a bit hotter as Riveh practically felt the Dame's temper bubble to the surface in standing there in her dirtied, torn and very bloodied dress. "No thank you, your Ladyship. I wouldn't want to get blood on any of your clothes."
Lady Morilla actually uttered a short laugh at this. Once inside, the two Ladies quickly disappeared in the supposed quest to get Martella 'decent' while Riveh & Co. were showed into a sitting room by a halfling maid in a spotless uniform. Here appearances held true to the exterior of the house: it was a comfortable space with tall windows looking out into the gardens and deep furniture to lose one's troubles in. Of note was the grand piano sitting in one corner, as was the enormous painting decorating a wall: it was a depiction of Lady Morilla herself. In it she was standing on a stage wearing an elaborate costume. "Can I offer you any refreshments, Sirs? Madam?"
The poor maid was probably justifiably confused when the Dame merely looked at her vaguely uncomfortably, no doubt due to their recent bloody disposal of a good dozen of the small folk. Stig on the other hand had no such concern. "Naw, but you can go ahead and empty the pantry, girl." He threw himself into a plush chair with no concern. "Could eat a f*ckin' horse." Hm. Come to think of it, how long had it been since Riveh had eaten? This carnal concern was somewhat blown away by Trant's great big sigh in getting seated.
"I shouldn't have said that," she muttered. "I shouldn't have... challenged her like that." Uncharacteristic as this concern over her conduct was, the ifrit remembered why the towering noblewoman was here; she was hoping that someone well-connected could help her procure a big hunk of diamond. Rebuffing anyone in power was not in her best interest at the moment.
Riveh collapses into a soft, leather-backed chair. He sighs deeply, nestling into the furniture with less grace then is typically suggested for guests of powerful nobles. Riveh didn't care. Lady Morilla might have healed his body but he was still as tired as he had ever been.
"You should have gone." Riveh said idly to Trant, "They at least owe you a new dress, after what you've done."
Hearing Stig ask for food makes the ifrit's stomach rumble in agreement, but he does add, "Um, food sounds good but leave out the horse."
Settling back down he hears Trant worry next to him, and chuckles, "I wouldn't worry too much. I guess that, right now, after a bit more verbal sparring, they are planning how best to use us again. The entire city is in turmoil, I bet there are plenty of tasks fitted to a trio of misfits who don't mind fighting. odds are, you'll be able to name your price shortly. Hopefully we can all get what we want."
Riveh slides his eyes over to Stig, "Which is what, in your case Stig. I know why I am doing this, and I know why Trant is doing this. But what about you? What's your stake? And if you say 'for the honor and glory of Taldor' I'll shove that credenza down your throat."
Mm. Crisp, flaky dough crunched satisfyingly between Riveh's teeth and he couldn't do anything but admit that whatever this Glorianna Morilla's faults, her pantry stock was pretty excellent, rich butter suffusing on his tongue. The tartlets the maid had prepared - small enough to fit in the hand and filled with such savories as shrimp, chicken, anchovy and mushroom sauces - were but one delectable choice in the near-literal smorgasbord the little woman had brought out for her mistress's guests, all chosen for their ease of eating by hand and having no need to be heated. Stig had quickly devoured half a plate of salmon rolls and was now eyeing the cold cuts. The entreaty on not getting any blood on the furniture was swiftly growing redundant in view of the thug's crumbs.
Trant on the contrary appeared to have no appetite. What was more, the ifrit's encouraging words did not have their intended effect. "Geminus, I do mind," she replied frustrated and vaguely saddened to then point at the knight. "Who but black-hearted barbarians such as that one could ever take to such savagery?" The eponymous barbarian only chuckled around a mouthful of serrano ham. The Dame still hadn't learned that the man's distaste for the aristocracy was such that he probably only regarded this barb as a compliment coming from a 'blue-blooded brat' such as herself.
"We all nearly died! Getting stabbed to death in the attempt to save my father would be rather counterproductive. 'Fighting' is not exactly what I was hoping for. And it's... it is also..." Also what? The noblewoman seemed to not be struggling to express herself as much as hoping that doing so was unnecessary, that Riveh would understand perfectly whatever misgivings it was she harbored. When he failed to voice anything less than complete comprehension, however, she huffed, again looking very unhappy. "Never mind."
Hold on, was this not the same woman he'd seen pummeling, if not outright torturing, a meek junior senator with positive glee just yesterday? For Trant to have any misgivings regarding violence was surely more than a little bit hypocritical. It almost made one appreciate Stig. Not disregarding his many, many faults, at least the man was honest in his vulgarity; he made no attempt at hiding his brutish self. If only he was as generous with his history and wants. Because when the ifrit asked him what exactly he was doing all of this for, the reply was customarily dismissive.
"I'd like to see you try, boy," he burpled offhandedly at the jocular threat, not even looking up from his food and only addressing the actual query with some insistence. "This is the third time you're askin' now. I asked you to drop it." The menace was not quite as overt as the other times Riveh had attempted the subject, but... Wait, Riveh had never asked the ruffian about his motivation before. He had only tried to pry loose how Stig had become a knight. What did this mean? Was the man just ornery and confrontational? Or did how Stig gained his title have some bearing on why he now served Martella?
"Oh, for f*ck's sake... T*ts and wine!" he exclaimed when it became clear that the younger man wasn't backing down, the crude sentiment clashing with their environment. "The hell more does a man need?" Trant huffed again and gave the supposed knight the sort of glare typically reserved something one found at the bottom of one's shoe.
Riveh on the other hand did not have to. Because he plainly didn't believe the assertion. Stig was lying. Even forgetting that as a landed member of the gentry he should already have all the mammaries and alcohol money could reasonably buy, something in evasive reply told him that it was plainly not true. Not only was the thug evading the question, however, he was also deflecting. "An' you brats call me rude... Lissen, do I ask about whatever orc had his way with yer gran?" Wait, what? "How soft in the head do you think I am?" he went on with the air of having revealed a great secret. "You think I don't see you skulkin' about in the dark, seein' things you shouldn't be able to? What, you thought me too simple to notice? I'd be insulted if I didn't already know how you silk-stockinged sh*ts think o' my kind. I've seen enough half-blooded bastards to raze this city, so why don't you think before you ask, golden boy? You don't want me to start diggin' in yer drawers, you just leave mine alone, yeah?"
Huh. Stig thought that Riveh's supernaturally keen eyes were the result of orc admixture in his lineage. While very incorrect, he supposed this wasn't the most illogical of leaps, the green-skins being the humanoid race most famed and feared for that ability excepting the dwarfs, the latter of which he clearly wasn't. No, what was surprising were the not so surreptitious glances thrown his way by the Dame, every one of them conflicted and even concerned. Wait, had she noticed too and made her own conclusions? It suddenly struck the ifrit that as curious as he was about his companions, they were at least as curious about him.
But these thoughts would have to wait; the crisp clacking of heeled shoes approaching told him that their little break was over. The Ladies Morilla and Martella entered the sitting room, the former now looking her normal, very attractive, self. Every sign of the horrors she had undergone just hours ago were gone, she now clad in a handsome dress with matching jacket, presumably borrowed from the mistress of the house. Or every superficial sign, at least. Riveh couldn't help but notice a certain haggard look in the usually so bright brown eyes. The body might have healed, but surely the mind required some time to recover from such an ordeal. Which was why his sudden realization that she was dressed to leave struck him. But before he could address this, the Lady stepped up to the now risen Trant of all people, a curious solemnity in her stride.
"My apologies for keeping you all waiting. Lady Morilla was so kind as to inform me of what has happened in my absence. Circumstances demand haste, but firstly: Dame Trant, I heard about your father. My deepest condolences." While the ifrit had gathered that his employer held no love for the Trants by how she had briefly spoken of them during the gala, she nevertheless delivered this expression of sympathy with all due gravity. The Dame herself appeared surprised. "I hope to thank you properly for your aid, but I am doubly in your debt now knowing what has befallen your house. Thank you for your help even in your mourning."
The taller woman was clearly unsure how to respond. "Yes, I... T-thank you for your sympathy." Seeing Trant tongue-tied was just plain strange; was she not used to receiving gratitude? "Actually, Lady C-Coufas," (ah, a slight uncertainty over what surname to use, Rived noted as she looked to him) "while I am glad to see you whole and unharmed, I had a hope th..."
But the stumbling request was interrupted. "Sir Geminus, Sir Stig, you two deserve thanks as well, but I'm afraid the night isn't over. Not even close. The massacre - it has set events into motion, manifold and wide reaching. I have much to see to. Sir Stig, if you'd come with me. I require a full report of facts since we were seperated."
"No rest for the wicked, huh?" the knight grumbled, nevertheless rising from his plush seat and walking past the ifrit.
"I apologize for leaving you so suddenly, but I assure you this cannot wait." Wait, what was happening? "Sir Geminus, I'll be in contact." And just like that she turned to leave, Stig in tow. What? All this work, all that worry, all that very literal sweat and blood and now she was just leaving? Riveh barely noticed Trant, looking like she'd just been slapped in the face. How dared she?!
"I'll be in contact?" Riveh's voice was soft, even quiet yet as cold as the northern Linnorm Kingdoms. Silence hung in the air for a moment and then Riveh exploded to his feet.
A dam the ifrit hadn't known existed suddenly gave way. Days worth of anger, confusion, frustration and utter contempt flooded into his mind. It felt hot, it felt strong. It felt good.
Riveh roars, pointing a finger at Martella.
"You apologize? Apologize for what, exactly?" Riveh goes on, a small part of his mind realizing he is raving, "Is it the part where I had to lie to the police in finding your safe-house? Or do you mean where I tramped through the thrice-damned sewers, thinking to save you? Perhaps you wish to say sorry for the pains I went through to save your pet colony of Sarenties."
"Or maybe you refer to the fact I had to work for the damned Brotherhood of Silence in order to get information?! I had to slay a demon, woman. Not to mention storming a hideout of insane, crazed halflings, killing half a dozen men and then smashing in the skull of your own personal torturer. And for all that, I get a pat on the head and few pastries?"
Riveh took a breath but didn't give Martella (or anyone else) a chance to say anything, "You are just like the rest of this city. You put on a good show, covered with fine silk and gold plating, but underneath you are rotten. Corrupted, so far gone you are not even able to tell that you use men's soul as playthings, toys to be dropped and picked up at a whim. Not even being held captive, utterly helpless is enough to crack through that conceited armor of privilege. I, we, gave our blood for you. We killed for you, and you treat us like a extra serving boy at dinner. I should have known better."
Riveh sniffed, "I should have expected this of a Lotheed." Riveh turned to Trant, "I am sorry Madame, apparently I overestimated the Lady Lotheed's soul. Forgive me. I, at least, will not forget your bravery and sacrifice in the face of danger."
And with that Riveh started to make for the door. Gods knew he was ready to be shut of all of them. Was this was Taldor had fallen to? Was this all that was left? Maybe the Massacre hadn't gone far enough.
Still as starlight after storm. Such was the state of the sitting room after the last Geminus's all too justified castigation had scorched its walls. Throughout his rightful indignation all eyes had been on him, naturally enough, each pair answering the reproach in turn: the Lady Morilla's smokey gaze proved as unknowable as always, elusive and ephemeral as the smoke wafting from her painted lips; Trant's eyes were twin conflicted pools of the sea in storm, her mind hesitant but her soul wholly endorsing the ifrit's outrage; Stig's squint only carried muted annoyance, age having rendered him immune and insensitive to the emotions that ruled the young.
And Martella... No, not all eyes were on the ifrit. Though she remained, allowing the whip lashes of the scolding to rain onto her, hers looked away, never wavering from the doorway she had hoped to flee through. Nothing in the noblewoman's demeanor betrayed whatever she felt at his condemnation, nothing but the slow and gradual sinking of the shoulders, as if every venomous word weighed onto them. And then: "Lotheed". Somehow this was it, the stone that proved too much for the bridge and saw it collapse. It was at this utterance from the young nobleman that her stolid mask fell. Now if only what was uncovered was regret. Instead it was a wan smile that twisted the full lips, light as a fading moonbeam and twice as melancholic. This was not the face of the shamed, not quite. This was the face of the guilt-ridden sinner caught in the act, relieved and even happy to be exposed - nay, freed - of their secret.
It was this sight that all eyes now rested on, their collective gazes travelling from Riveh to the Lady in search of her retort, if any. Glorianna Morilla's smoldering stare, patient and watchful, in particular was notable. And yet somehow it was Stig that broke the silence. "Still want that report?" he grumbled. 'Cause that just about covers it."
A tense laugh escaped the woman. "Thank you, Sir Stig. I may require some more detail." A guilty pause. "...Did you tell him of...?"
"Woman, I don't give a sh*t what your last name is. No." The brusque response carried every sign of the knight being insulted she would even consider him caring about the particulars of the noble houses, so long as they could give him what he wanted.
The colorless smile widened just a bit. "Of course. Then..." The Lady turned to face him. "I'm glad you puzzled out my identity, Sir Geminus, as I expected you would. Honestly, I would have been disappointed if you didn't."
That's it. No, he wasn't listening to this. Riveh was done, done with all these surreptitious games, done with being lied to, done with solving deliberate riddles, done with being used, done with worming information out of clandestine noblefolk for whom a straight answer seemed somehow gauche, done with it all. If Martella couldn't drop the charades even now, even when he had made his frustrations abundantly clear, he was leaving. And that was exactly what he intended to do, striding past the others in making for the door, when -
"Don't!" The noblewoman had anxiously gripped him by the hand, forcefully preventing him from leaving. "I'm sorry, Sir Geminus, I am. You are right to feel exasperated, of course you are, and I know that I haven't been fair to you. Yes, I admit it, I am a Lotheed and I lied to you. I asked you to come here under false pretenses and I deceived you. You're right. You're entirely right." The words were coming out quickly now, urgent and imploring. This was not an aspect of the woman he had seen before, she who had always appeared so cool, calculated and even mischievous in her superiority. Not even reduced to a cluster of bruises, burns and pain as he had found her at the cult had she dropped her playful composure.
"That's why... That's why I'm sorry, but I cannot tell you why. Please understand!" As if anticipating his indignation, the grip around his hand grew stronger. Looking down, the ifrit was once again struck by the likeness of those limbs. One was fine and feminine, the other broad and masculine, but their warm skin tones were near identical. "I know that's not what you want to hear, and I know I have given you no reason to trust me, but please understand that I cannot tell you. Not yet. There is... there is too much at stake and too many depend on me. I cannot do this now. But I promise - if that means anything at all to you - I promise that I will explain everything. Please. Just another day."
The brown eyes bored into him. The others were still.
The Boy Who Cried Wolf.
Riveh stared into Martella's face and found himself unable to tell if she was honest or not. Had the noblewoman removed the mask and become genuine or was this merely a another layer of deception, another round of the game?
As the anger seeped out of him, Riveh found himself wondering why he cared so much. Who was this woman to him? She was his patron, a means to an end. Isn't that how he had sold the mission to save her, to Trant and Stig. She was a meal ticket, a pathway to the important tables and councils. Why did it matter if she disliked him, tricked him, considered him a lowly servant? As long as he got what he wanted.
Riveh grunted, voice rough "I don't want your apologies. Frankly, it is good I realized you are a liar early on in our arrangement. No, I don't want your apologies. You know what I want. I want to be a part of this, to re-claim my family's honor and position. That is why I saved you, Lady Martella. Not because I am a naïve idiot and not because I am a trusted servant. I did all of those things because I desire to be your ally and to be a part of your successes, and receive a share of the spoils."
The ifrit raised an eyebrow, "Can you do that? Or should I look elsewhere?"
"Although, " he waved a hand to the still seated Trant, "Madame Trant has a more direct request, which you should at least hear out. She was as much part of the effort as I or Stig was. I'm sure you have a very busy night ahead, but you'd have be spending it with Wyssilka if it hadn't been for her. You owe it to her."
The ifrit raised an eyebrow, "Can you do that? Or should I look elsewhere?"
Relief washed over the anxious features, returning Martella Lotheed to something resembling her usual confident self. Except there was a shadow of something more still playing over the face, and Riveh couldn't tell if the woman was truly unstrung or whether the bowstring only appeared still because it was drawn taut.
"Yes." The uneasy voice carried all the gravity of a devil promising its petitioner the world. "Yes, I can do that."
Why did Riveh suddenly feel like a small cog neatly slotted into a mighty clockwork contraption, gears and pulleys clicking to life all about him? It was in the great brown eyes; he could see the quick mind at work there, his reluctant assent somehow prompting the postulation of a hundred branching ramifications. What in the world had he just agreed to?
All in due time. Hopefully. For now he brought the collective attention of the sitting room from himself to the Dame, encouraging her request. And while she managed to maintain her stately composure, Trant's gratitude for this positively glowed from her. For a brief moment prior to his outburst, she had clearly thought all their work wasted. Martella, for her part, now appeared eager to hear out the younger noblewoman, turning to face her with rapt attention. The ifrit was unsure whether this stemmed from genuine remorse for her behavior, or if she merely wished to appease him. Did it matter?
Regardless, the plea was met with confusion. "A diamond?" The Lady was not following. "Why should you not be able to...?" It was Morilla who cleared the air - somewhat ironically, she still puffing on her long-handled pipe - in speaking for the first time since entering.
"The market's been seized entirely. In the wake of the massacre, sellers can name their price in gold or whatever else they please. Forgive me, my dear - it slipped my mind earlier."
Once again Riveh thought he could practically hear the Lotheed's brain buzzing at this news, and he was reminded of how the house was famed for their academic inclinations. "Then someone knew. They knew about the attack beforehand. But that doesn't make sense." Words were only narrowly following thought. "That doesn't make sense. It's too brazen. It only makes the sellers seem culpable. And mad as Stavian was in enacting this, he wasn't motivated by profit. So..." The singer looked bemused to hear her think. "You said the assassins were made up of groups of mercenaries and foreign agents?"
Morilla affirmed that so she had heard and Trant even nodded along to this. "Geminus and I heard the same from that one Lion Blade who questioned us, didn't we?" This was apparently enough for the Lady to reach a conclusion. "Then the simplest explanation is that one of these groups couldn't keep their murderous traps shut. They saw the chance to earn some easy extra profit by selling the information that the demand for high-grade diamonds was about to explode, and the market seized on this." It sounded as reasonably an explanation as any other, even if it wasn't clear how this helped them.
"I'll have to investigate further to confirm this," Martella continued, "but you have my word that I will put every resource I can spare into tracking one such gemstone for your father, Dame Trant." She glanced at Riveh. "I owe it to you." Trant almost grew before their eyes, such was her relief. She too looked to him. Did Morilla the singer feel as hot beneath a spotlight as he did beneath that look?
"Now then." The Lady drew in a breath akin to a swimmer before a dive. "Now I really do need to go. Much has been put into motion, all of which I need to see to. Sir Stig, I'd like you to accompany me. Dame Trant, thank you once again. Lady Morilla, I am in your debt. And Sir Geminus - we will speak tomorrow, sooner rather than later." Was the earnest expression genuine? Who could say? He certainly couldn't. And honest or not the recently revealed Lotheed departed with a chaste kiss on cheek from the Lady of the house, she apparently borrowing a coach from the latter to drive into the night, spurred by whatever mysterious ends it was that drove her. For his part, Stig did not hesitate, following their employer and leaving Riveh with a drawling (and ironic?) "Nice workin' with you, golden boy," and - after a slight pause - a nod to the Dame. Morilla he ignored. The ifrit noted the slightest limp in one leg as the door closed behind him.
And then there were three. "Well," their host said, turning towards Trant and himself. "Can I offer the heroes a bed for the night, or do you have somewhere to be?"
The proposition seemed genuine enough. In fact, the woman's disposition appeared no lessened towards Riveh after shouting down Martella.
Riveh has to nod at Martella's brain in action. He, and Trant, had both assumed the diamond ploy had been part of the Massacre, a way to prevent unwelcome resurrections, part of an intricate conspiracy. But Lady Coufas (even now his mind insisted on that name) had instantly come up with another, more likely reason. That some group on the edge of the plan had seen a chance for some gold and jumped on it.
This revealed one thing. Riveh might be fairly intelligent, but Martella was brilliant political operative, with both the knowledge and contacts to be a real power in a city in chaos. Riveh needed her, if he was to have any part in the ongoing struggle. Whatever her honesty.
Riveh collapses back into a chair when the whirlwind that was Martella left the room. He waves Stig off, not bothering to respond. The ifrit had a feeling he'd be seeing the foul mouthed knight again. Riveh glanced toward Morilla when she asked about night arrangements, replying, "I'd like to stay the night, if I can. I do not want the Lady to give me the slip...again. "
Turning toward Trant, "And I have no idea what the Madame desires. Hopefully, she got what she wanted?"
The ifrit's assent to a bed for the night elicited no particular response from the smokey-eyed noblewoman, pleased or otherwise. Instead she merely turned, wordlessly, towards Trant to hear whether she intended to do the same. And there it was again - unspoken and subtle though it was, Riveh nevertheless felt his host's demeanor grow more cool in facing the younger woman. Perhaps sensing the same, the Dame chose to, after a slight hesitation, thank her for the hospitality and decline the offer. The Trant estate wasn't too far away after all, and she had a carriage waiting outside. Morilla merely nodded and sauntered towards the door.
"Daisy!" she called with her powerful voice, evidently in search of the halfling maid. "Daisy my dear, prepare a room. I have a guest tonight."
Her heeled steps faded in short order. Left in the quiet sitting room were now just Riveh and the Dame, that unlikely pair, so mismatched in everything but the tears, cuts and blood stains on their clothing. His query on whether she was satisfied with the day's toil provoked an unusually animated expression of deep thought. He quickly recognized it as facetious; clearly Trant felt more at ease with the singer gone. More obvious still was that, yes, she was pleased.
"Well, let's see. I've been chewed on, drooled on, and stabbed. I have wandered Crownsgate drunk and vomited in an alley - that was new. I've endured blood, sweat and the indignities of that oafish excuse for a knight. And most odious of all, I have queued. Seriously, that suggestion to visit the city hall was awful."
He was still pretty sure that had been her suggestion. But meant as it was in good humor, correcting this detail seemed almost petty. "All in all I'd say 'Madame' got more than she wanted, all of it unbidden. But yes. She also got everything she could hope for."
What was it that made Malphene Trant's smile - not screwed in mockery or twisted in malice but genuine and open - that made it so gratifying? Was it its rarity? Like rain in the desert or seeing a capercaillie in song, was it its scarcity that made it so much more special? Maybe. Perhaps it was just nice knowing that such a brusque bulwark of a person wasn't immune to grinning in joy, in simple relief that she could have her father back; it was humanizing. Perhaps it was good to see that, shaken as the day's events had left her, they hadn't broken her. Or perhaps, selfishly, it was damn rousing to see that gratitude directed towards oneself.
"Thanks for this, Geminus. I... really hope your Lotheed - Coufas, whatever her name is - manages this." The hood slipped onto the lantern, Trant seemingly catching herself and slipping into her more usual, if still light, bearing. "Still, right as you were in taking her to task, I can't help but be a bit worried about her. Kidnapped and tortured at the hands of that deranged little clown and now just... flying off to whatever work she needs to see to? Surely she can't keep going at that pace."
Was the Dame worried about anything more than her diamond? Who could say. Regardless, she herself went on to say: "...I should go. Even my mother will have noticed my absence by now." Bidding each other goodnight, the ifrit noted more awkwardness in Trant's departure than was merited by mere exhaustion. Though on that note, he was rather feeling the struggles of the day himself. Where had that maid gone off to?
----------
Was there anything more inherently comforting than fresh linen? If there was, Riveh couldn't think of it at the moment, the nice clean smell of the fabric beneath him being too pervasive. The guest room provided by Lady Morilla was a very comfortable space indeed. Not ostentatious, but more than accommodating to anyone that wasn't outright royalty.
Of course, given the day he'd had yesterday the ifrit could likely have fallen asleep on a bedding of cow patties. Morning had come once more, sunlight peeking at him through one of the windows. A new day loomed, and a very uncertain one at that. More so than the political turmoil threatening Oppara, Riveh... had nowhere to be or do, exactly. Unless Martella was downstairs waiting for him at this very moment, he had nothing on his hands but time. Hm. Was simply waiting his only option...?
What was that sound? From the bed the young man suddenly noted a clear clinking noise, one that repeated itself. Yup, there it was again. Whatever it was, it was very insistent. What...? He quickly located it; it was coming from the window. Which was vaguely concerning given that he was on the second floor. It sounded almost like someone throwing pebbles at the glass to get his attention. How strangely adolescent.
Time on his hands.
When was the last time that had happened? The last three days had been a whirl. A bloody whirl full of violence, death and treason. Of secret cults (both good and evil), of murderous tyrants, of damsels in distress. It was like something out of the stories Riveh used to read by the fireplace.
And yet...it wasn't. Everything had been far darker and traumatic then the stories ever said. The stories didn't talk about feeling a skull crack under your mace or the feeling of horror as something you thought was human revealed itself to be a demonic horror. No story described what had happened to Kalbio.
Or of having to work with Stig.
Riveh shook his head of both jokes and gloom. Maybe today would be a bit slower? Chance to sell some of his plunder? Get a feel for the city? Maybe even figure out what Martella was up to? The sound of rocks clattering interrupted his thoughts.
Rocks? Riveh snuck over tot he window and peeked out behind a curtain, trying not to expose himself too much. It had been a traumatic few days after all.
Was this what a heart attack felt like? The instant Riveh peered behind the curtain he flew back like a cat at thunder. What else could he do? What else would anyone do upon looking out a window only to find someone - something - already there on the other side staring at you? The shock would have struck a lesser man dead, even in the case of the offending party being a mere window gawker, as unfortunate as they were innocuous. But this was clearly not that. The singularly eerie gigantesque eye the ifrit had found himself face to face with, unblinking and unwholesome, couldn't possibly belong to anything even human adjacent. Hell's bells, it was aglow! What fresh terror had he woken up to?
It was then, in watching the nameless horror by the blue light visible through the lace curtain, that he realized. And with that realization his heart rate slowed from full gallop to gentle trot. He pulled back the curtain.
"Greeting: Good morning, Master."
Outside the window floated a masterfully crafted mechanized orb, sunlight gleaming in its bronze and copper plating. It regarded him with the great blue lens that was its eye, the only sure sign of its soul & spirit being this spark glowing behind the crystal. A small metal arm knocked on the glass again.
"It is good to see you whole," Factor-12 continued, tinny voice muffled by the pane. "Request: Would you open the window? I could simply break it, of course, but I suspect that the owner of this domicile would not appreciate this."
It was a sign of how strange the last few days had been that Riveh entirely forget he owned a floating, sentient and supercilious machine. The ifrit actually had to think a moment, recalling the floating orb and where he had left it.
He popped out the window, waving the metallic being inside the room.
"Yes, I am whole. I see the same is true for you." A pause and then, "Thanks for helping us fight that golem. It was merely one of many physical struggles of the last few days."
Riveh sank back down on the seductively soft bed, looking up at Factor-12. "I trust the Trant manor guards did not mis-treat you? You missed a great deal while....sleeping? Recovering?"
"How did you find me, actually?" Riveh added, suddenly curious, "Do you have some sort of magical bond with me?"
While it was largely impossible to read the inevitable's frame of mind by mere sight - it lacking anything in the way of facial features - Factor-12's mood was still fairly easily deciphered by its very expressive, if strangely metallic, voice. And considering that it answered his initial query in the tone of an peeved schoolmaster, the orb was apparently not best pleased.
The vaguely silly wobbling it did in the air was, beyond being unintentionally amusing, also an indicator.
"Chiding answer: You see the same? Master, unless my memory core has suffered some damage, you were supposed to see to my safety. You promised as much on the effluvia running through your meatbag tubing and 'the name of your house', whatever that accounts for. I was very disappointed to find you absent upon my reactivation."
Faint clicking noises emitted from behind the great blue lens that was the machine-creature's eye, it slowly rotating to seemingly take in the room. "Resigned conclusion: But I suppose you did safekeep and bring me with you in the so-called 'spirit' of our agreement. At least so those meatbag guards assured me. Regardless, my every circuit oscillates with joy at seeing you alive and well, Master." Once again Riveh found himself unsure whether the outsider was being sarcastic, or even if trying to understand its alien mindset was at all possible. "Losing my primary function twice within 24 of your hours would not just be regrettable, but frankly embarrassing. Taldan aphorism: All's well that ends well."
"How did you find me, actually?" Riveh added, suddenly curious, "Do you have some sort of magical bond with me?"
The glowing glass lens turned to the ifrit from examining the mechanism behind his bed's night lamp. "Regretful admission: Would that it were, Master. Would that it were. No, I had no option but to consult whoever I could find for your whereabouts, a humiliating task for a superior intellect such as I. I am not wont to rely on the limited intelligence of meatbags. When the 'manor guards' as you call them proved predictably ignorant, I took it upon myself to find alternative sources of information. Whereupon I infiltrated the nearest structure. Unfortunately, the meatbags took exception to this." Uh-oh. "Continuation: I shan't bore you with every tiresome detail, Master, but suffice to say that a ruckus was raised. There was a great deal of indecipherable screeching from the apparent residents, many more projectiles fired at my chassis by their servitors, I dutifully answered this offensive in kind, and a canine was badly frightened." Yeah, uh-oh indeed. "The situation concluded satisfactorily upon the emergence of your height deviating companion. Though she too initially answered my queries with unintelligible warblings, she eventually informed me where I could find you."
Such a sunny day. And yet a cloud was setting in on Riveh Geminus. He suspected that he was due an uncomfortable conversation with Trant soon enough. Factor-12, for his part, merely went on in same unconcerned tone others might use to describe an idle afternoon. "Conclusion: While it took me some time to navigate the city - the layout of which is terribly sub optimal - I thereafter managed to locate you. Loath as I was to disturb you in a rebooting sequence of your own as I found you, I simply waited by the window until you activated." A slight pause followed in which a soft hum could be heard beneath the brass plating. "I believe that covers the events since our departure from my own perspective."
Oh dear. Best as the ifrit was digesting the unfortunate tale of the inevitable, something distracted him. A sharp plinking noise, almost like... no, it couldn't be. He turned to the window. It was. Something was intermittently but insistingly clattering against the window pane, once again sounding nothing so much like pebbles thrown against glass. What in the world? Riveh had heard of the concept of déjà vu, but this was ridiculous.
"Query: Are you expecting visitors, Master?"
Riveh had been raised with the basic understanding that people would appreciate common decency. No, it wouldn't be magic but it would make people like him if he was sort of, generally nice. Oppara, so far, had blown a hole right through that. From Martella right on down, manners seemed to be entirely wasted on these people. Even this robot reacted with open contempt at even the barest hint of small talk.
Ah well, maybe he couldn't judge the thing. It wasn't exactly human after all, and besides, it had spent a long time in that basement safe room. That said, Trant was probably not happy that this thing had tormented her for Gods only knows how long this morning. Would Riveh be getting a visit from the noblewoman? Or just a servant with a cleaning bill?
Still laying on the bed, Riveh slid his hands behind his head, enjoying the soft mattress. 'Um, well, I'm glad you foundme." It wasn't a total lie...right?
Coughing, Riveh went on, 'We did not have much time before, so I'll ask you know. What exactly are your capabilities? I don't mean combat, more like your...mental abilities? What exactly can you do?' Riveh winced at how cold and calculating it sounded, but the ifrit did need to know. How could he use this strange floating orb to his advantage.
The rocks tossed at the windows made the ifrit sigh. He surely didn't have another machine following him around, did he?
To Factor-12's question Riveh replied, "Expecting? Not exactly, but I did make plenty of allies and enemies yesterday. Could be any of them, I suppose. I doubt most would waste time with rocks."
Well, except maybe Wyssilka. The insane halfling would probably have gotten a kick out of tossing rocks and then sending a ballista bolt through a window. Happily she was quite dead.
Riveh got up and peeked out the window, again.
The machine-creature lamp like eye began blinking rather distressingly at Riveh's query.
"Indignant answer: Master, are you questioning my capabilities? Please hold as I imitate the gasp I should like to make if I possessed the fleshy internals you call lungs: *GASP*."
Did such terms as irony and sincerity even hold weight to a being of supposed perfect law and order? Perhaps not, but Factor-12 seemed awfully fond of its sarcasm for a machine intelligence. Then again, was a creature willfully designed to behave in a certain way, such as an inevitable, responsible for its conduct? Could the gargoyle be called evil when it had purposefully been shaped so? Did the circumstances around one's birth exonerate you from guilt? Did they exonerate a person? No no, it was far too early in the morning for such existential quandaries.
Although this latter question was not unfamiliar to the infamous Geminus bastard. Whatever the case, the tinny voice continued proudly:
"Boast: I am an Axis forged inevitable of the Arbiter series designed for reconnaissance and interplanar diplomacy, since retrofitted for bookkeeping literal and figurative." Diplomacy? Now why did Riveh find this hard to believe? "My superior intelligence comprises a data processing system that can only be likened to any organic mind as a Movanic Deva might be likened to a good tipper. Where a meatbag's crude and ever decaying sponge of brain is at the mercy of humors and fancies over which you exercise not the least control, my processing unit is flawless as only the essence of Order can be. I can carry out arithmetic and logic problems at the power of over one million floating-point operations per second, and additionally possess what your natural philosophers would refer to as a 'photographic memory', that is to say I have perfect recall. While I admit that my behavior protocols have suffered some... corrosion, I hope to prove a great asset to you, Master. Prompt: Allow me to demonstrate."
The orb floated over to where the ifrit had discarded his clothes for the night and directed its great lens towards them. A hum, deeper than those he had heard earlier, escaped its metal chassis, and he was quite sure that if he were to place his hand onto it, he would even feel it vibrate strongly. While the exact 'how' remained unclear, the 'why' was less so: Riveh's clothes were repairing themselves. All the cuts, nicks and tears inflicted by spider talon, cultist dagger, vagrants' broken bottles and more simply stitched themselves together, disappearing in the exact order they were delivered, and leaving the cloth whole. It looked better than new.
"Disclosure: In addition to the ability to restore things to their proper order, I am also fitted with the capacity to compel simple creatures to act in accordance with the greater good, and even to protect you from the forces of Chaos." Somehow the inevitable's vocabulator rendered the capitalization in 'Chaos' audible. And on the topic of that vocabulator: "Addendum: While I command the crude cipher you call Taldane, my speech generator additionally allows me to be understood by all sentients. Finally..."
Click. A brief hum. Click. Another brief hum. For a moment it sounded as if a gear was stuck somewhere inside the mechanized orb. "Observation: Most curious. Master, in attempting to establish contact with the Axiomite nexus, I've just noticed that I cannot do so. How strange." The what now? Whatever it was, Factor-12 seemed just a bit puzzled at this realization. "The Transcendental Entity of the Defined Infinite - what some refer to as our God-Mind - provides a network through which all of my kind can be accessed and directed. I would be able to provide you much information through this nexus, but I find I cannot access it."
Huh. Well, that was... strange, Riveh supposed? Factor-12 appeared nothing more than moderately discombobulated at this fact, so perhaps it didn't mean much. Regardless, it quickly went on: "Assurance: Beyond these capabilities, however, I aim to be of whatever use you find for me, Master. You are my primary function, after all. Please do not hesitate to order me to complete whatever task you set fit."
And then - what were the odds? Surely any of the nation's mathematicians would have a field day with this one. Another knock at the window? No, in rising and once again drawing away the curtain, the ifrit found that it was much more improbable still.
He surely didn't have another machine following him around, did he?
He had another machine following him. Sitting outside the window was what would no doubt at a distance appear to be a small bird - a swallow perhaps. Woe be to whatever cat tried to bite into it, however, for closer inspection revealed the avian's body to be smoothly polished wood and its wings fine, elaborately designed brass. Its little metal beak clattered against the glass again. This was proving to be a weird day.
The tiny feet held an rolled up note.
Riveh has expected the odd machine to wax poetic about its many gifts and abilities to him, and even to denigrate the 'organics'. What he hadn't expected was the actual list of concrete and useful aptitudes. The ifirt had honestly expected a handful of scholarship accomplishments and maybe a few esoteric diplomatic functions. But all of this? Even though he barely understood some of it (Riveh had no idea what 'floating-point operations per second' meant), some of it was very obviously useful. There was a keen brain behind that strange, unsettling eye. Maybe not a tactful one, but a useful one if he could find the right task.
Then something occurred to him.
"Thanks for fixing my clothes." Riveh said, honestly enough. He could probably get a new set easily enough, but it seemed polite to say. "You mention bookkeeping and...well, what I guess is math. Do you know much of markets? Human commerce?"
"Over the last few weeks, someone has cornered the market is diamonds here in this city. If I could give you the data, could you perhaps gain insight into who and how they did it?" Riveh sat up, rubbing his chin. Maybe he could prove Martella's theory about the mercenaries. It might yield nothing but on the other hand....but how to get Factor-12 the data? The city's jewelers were unlikely to simply hand over manifests.
He was distracted from this chain of thought by the second machine to enter his room. At the very least, this one was less otherworldly then the floating eye that was Factor-12. A graceful and elegant bird....
Riveh watched it gingerly and then, carefully, reached for the note.
Factor-12 couldn't 'roll' his singular eye. But the ifrit was fairly sure that it would have if it could. "Chiding assurance: Please, Master. While I admit some ignorance of your quaint society beyond the theoretical, I could comfortably process the dealings of a mercane." A what now? "If provided the data, I'm convinced dissecting your meatbag market would prove no challenge. Frankly, I should be insulted. Aside: But then that is your privilege as my master."
Despite the spoken grievance, the orb didn't actually sound in the least miffed which only added to the muddled mess that was understanding its state of mind. The confident assurance presented a tantalizing option, however; was there any way for him to acquire price and trade data for Oppara's - really all of Taldor's - markets? Feeding this to the inevitable could produce tantalizing results. Hm. While interesting, perhaps he should focus on something more immediate - such as opening the window for yet another machine-creature. This really was a very strange day. And he was barely out of bed yet too.
In latching the window open just a bit and letting in the sweet morning air, the small mechanized bird hopped in onto the window sill immediately. It really was a beautiful little contraption, only enhanced by its ingenious locomotion. Intricate (and no doubt painstakingly assembled) metal wings folded into a polished wood body whilst what appeared to be a single topaz gemstone acted as an eye; it all even added to an attractive color coordination of browns, brass and golds. Unlike Factor-12's lens though, this eye held no spark of life, no intelligence - artificial or otherwise. Still, it was an impressive little work of art in addition to...
"Assessment: What crude construction is this?!" Except the outsider clearly didn't think so by the static-filled exclamation it let out floating over Riveh's shoulder. "Master, I was under the impression that the embarrassment that was archives' custodian was a singular occurrence. Don't tell me that this world is filled with substandard imitations of my Axis-forged perfection? These contraptions - nay, appliances - make a mockery of the Axiomatic ideal. Master, it doesn't even have a behavior core!"
Yes, well, these grievances aside, there was something about the clockwork bird that bothered Riveh as well. While he had trouble finding any flaw in its construction, something about it was strangely familiar to him. This was of course doubly strange considering his decided unfamiliarity with the wondrous feats of engineering that were such clockwork creatures. So why did he feel as if he'd seen...? Ah. He suddenly realized. No, he hadn't seen this particular contraption before. But he had seen one extremely similar to it, in both design and material. In fact, that gizmo rested in a pocket of his right now. It was suspiciously like the clockwork cricket Martella had utilized and since gifted him.
This suspicion immediately went on to confirm itself, for just as the ifrit's fingers brushed against the bird in retrieving its note...
"Good morning, Sir Geminus!"
A clear and crisp voice emanated from the thing. What's more, it was a voice he recognized. He'd know that chipper tone anywhere by now. The bird was speaking with Martella's voice.
"I hope this message finds you well," it went on, the woman sounding in good spirits. "Do note that this is in fact a message, a so-called 'recording'. It means that... well, in practice it means that I can't hear you, so if you're speaking at the moment - or indeed yelling at me again - I fear it is in vain. Honestly, I should use this mode of communication more often. So much simpler not to have people talk back." A satisfied little giggle escaped the bird. "Anyway, I'm sending this to keep you informed, specifically vis-a-vis that little matter mentioned yesterday: Dame Trant's diamond. As promised I've found one."
While this wasn't how Riveh had hoped to hear from his employer again, this was at least good news. "There is a problem, however." Oh. Of course there was. "You're going to have to procure it. Let me explain: you recall those social gatherings Oppara's upper crust hold during Exaltation Week, everyone having gathered in the capital as is? Of course you do. Well, you won't be surprised to hear that all of these after parties have been cancelled given recent events. All except one. A certain Viscountess Ala Vitellia is hosting a dinner this evening. Guess what she's promised a favored guest at the end of it? Yes, I can't actually see your face right now, but I'm confident you're following. You're clever like that."
What? Some noblewoman would give a guest a diamond for attending her dinner party? The details around this demanded some explanation. And what Martella went on to provide wasn't promising. "Understand that the good Vitellia is... somewhat of an outsider to Oppara's aristocracy. She was not in attendance at the Exaltation Gala. In fact, she would never be invited to such a prestigious event. She's fiend-blooded you see." A tiefling aristocrat? "She married into the Vitellia house under scandalous circumstances some years ago, and her marriage to the far older Lord Vitellia was short-lived: he perished quickly afterward. This coupled with her heritage led her to be shunned by her peers which in turn makes her feast now... suspect." Martella seemed to choose her words carefully now. "Sir Geminus, I believe that Viscountess Vitellia is hosting this dinner to... get back at the nobility that rejected her with the much vaunted diamond acting as bait, almost like some sort of revenge. It may sound bizarre, but she's known to be an eccentric. I'm sorry, but this is the only concrete lead to a revivifying diamond I've found for now. If you are willing, I would have you attend the dinner. Impress the Viscountess and she will give you the diamond. I have attached an invitation to this messenger's leg."
The construct bird lifted a brass leg, offering the rolled up piece of paper there. "Sir Geminus..." Now what? Martella's voice was growing steadily more hesitant and uncertain. "I have full faith in your abilities. You tamed the good Dame after all." A wistful laugh. "That is far more than I anticipated when I bought your services. I'm sure charming a tiefling will be comparatively simple for you. But should you decide to go, be careful. You won't be the only guest in attendance. Everyone there will likely have similar goals in mind. They too will have someone they want raised from the dead. They will be desperate. And people do awful things when desperate. Please be careful."
Having delivered this warning, the bird went mute. It said nothing for so long that Riveh assumed its message to be over. But this was not the case as the now sheepish voice went on. "I realize you may be disappointed I am not here speaking with you in person. If so, that feeling is perfectly justified. Just know that I intend to keep my promise. I will answer every question you may have for me. Just give me a little more time. There are still... affairs that require my attention." Another pause followed in which the ifrit thought he heard distant voices in the background of the recording, voices other than his employer's. "I must go. We will speak, Sir Geminus, and soon. Again, please take care of yourself."
And with that the construct had nothing more to say.
No, wait, yes it did. "Oh! Right! And whatever you do, don't comment on her husband. Just ignore him, okay? Alright, now I really have to go. Good luck!"
Riveh waited. He waited a bit more. Yeah, now the bird was done.
Riveh had to agree with his distant and unseen patron, this type of communication suited her well. It allowed her to wax eloquent, issuing a stream of commands and suggestions without the barest opportunity for him to interrupt or ask questions. That said, Riveh couldn't really complain. Martella had, after all, done what he asked and located a diamond (and much faster then he had expected). Granted, it might not be easy to get to but that wasn't her fault. Diamonds were obviously in short supply in the city, for nefarious reason.
Actually, Riveh found himself relaxing a bit as he considered the task. It was this type of thing that he had expected to do, when Riveh set out from his home. Social parties and political maneuvers among the elites. Petty games with honor and prestige as the prizes and not storming warehouses or tromping through sewers. Yes, this was far better then facing down unholy demons in the slums.
Still, he wished he had more information about this Lady Vitellia. A teifling noblewoman, here in Oppara? She was remarkably resilient if she could withstand the discrimination...Riveh's own family was proof of how badly it could go. Still, her idea of holding a public event with a family member's resurrection as a party favor was very Taldane.
Did he know anything about the family?
Even as he thought about it, Riveh had a very strange thought intrude. He glanced up,s taring right through the floating orb that was Factor-12. What would Trant think, if he was off winign and dining with a noblewoman? Would she be jealous?
And why did Riveh care?
That thought alone made him sit down on the bed again, concerned. Why on Golarion should he worry about her? This entire thing with the diamond was to help her! Well, only as a political maneuver, to keep the Trant family on his side. Of course, of course. He would go to this party, win a diamond and impress her with it. That would forgive any social faux pas. Yes.
'Factor-12' Riveh said, standing back up and grabbing his newly repaired, 'What would you say to a bit of shopping and sight-seeing?"
Riveh unfurled the piece of paper retrieved from the ersatz bird's outstretched leg - it being patient as only an automaton could be - revealing intricate calligraphy complete with family seal. Yup, it was an invitation detailing all he needed to know about the dinner, including location and time, the latter specifying that the holder was expected at 7 pm sharp. Probably also sharply dressed, he reflected, although nothing so obvious was stated. Perhaps he should consider how to best present himself.
Actually, he noted as the tiny construct flew back out the window to regions unknown, the address given was here in the district of Westpark. This made some sense as the ifrit thought over it, because he was fairly sure the Vitellias were filthy rich. Well, Vitellia in the singular - there was only the one left. Or so he thought. House Vitellia lorded over some humble land, wholly insignificant if not for the very profitable silver mines since established there. In fact, he probably had more than a few silver coins in a pocket somewhere carved out of Vitellia bedrock. This wealth had not translated to prosperity for the family, however. Riveh wasn't sure why exactly, but some major flaw plagued the house. A penchant for gambling maybe? Some hereditary madness? No, he couldn't recall. Probably not important. What mattered was that the family floundered despite its riches, all culminating in the last Lord Vitellia. A lifelong bachelor, he finally married at a scandalously advanced age. Oh, and what a bride. A tiefling. The ifrit really didn't remember hearing any definite details about the good Ala, now Viscountess Vitellia, but certainly she had been much younger than her husband. This only added to the outrage, of course, as if her fiendish heritage hadn't been bad enough. The result was inevitable: Ala was ostracized as a monstrous bloodsucker, a fortune hunter who had bewitched a confused old man for his money. Some had even suspected her of murdering her husband, given how quickly he perished after the wedding, though Riveh was fairly sure that nothing such was ever proven.
Hm. Try as he might, he couldn't recall any more gossip than that. Maybe asking about would be an idea. Also a good idea was acquiring some quick cash. If there was one thing he'd learned in the last few days, it was that impressing the aristocracy did not come cheap. And on that note, it was time to leave. Right after he got out of bed.
"Answer: I would say lead on, Master," the inevitable replied. "Though I would be remiss in my duties if I did not urge you to put on some trousers first. Your quint social norms seem to consider them essential to facilitating communications." By the scurry in the tinny voice, Factor-12 clearly thought this tribal behavior ridiculous.
----------
"Oh my stars and garters. If it isn't the good Sir Geminus." Inside the refurbished library that was Thread Rare, the ifrit quickly came upon the very same dapper tailor who had serviced him what seemed so long ago. The thin man rose from his counter where he had apparently been doing some bookkeeping. "Please, come in, take a pew. You must excuse me some excitement. Given the tragedy, I wasn't sure I would see Sir again."
And given the look of the shop outside, Riveh had feared the shop closed. He'd been somewhat surprised to find the door open. The place was awfully quiet. Was there no one else on duty? "But where are my manners? Sir is looking even more distinguished than last. Can I fetch you anything to drink?"
'Distinguished'. There was that professional courtesy he'd come to expect from the man, his choice of word very diplomatic considering the ifrit's attire.
EDIT: It was certainly more courtesy than he had received at Wisteria Walk this morning. While Daisy the wonder maid had prepared him a very nice breakfast, Lady Morilla was nowhere to be seen.
Riveh is relived to see the tailor is not only well but open. The walk over here was uneventful but tense, with the streets feeling like the uneasy calm before a thunderstorm. The city seemed to slowly be realizing that nothing would remain as it once had. Still, the tailor seemed unfazed or at least was capable of putting on a brave face.
"Thank you. It is nice to know someone was worried about me." Riveh said before adding, more somberly, "Many will not be seen again."
Shaking his head free of the thoughts of the Massacre, Riveh waves in Factor-12. "I hope you don't mind that I brought a servant? I promise he won't break anything."
The ifrit waved away a drink before going on, "I am once again in need of your services, which I am glad are still being offered. Even in this trying times, my social presence is paramount. I have an event at Lady Vitellia's this evening and I wish to...stand out." Riveh touched his at least repaired clothes, "Do you have any ideas? Do you know anything of the Lady? I admit, any information would give me a leg up at the party. You know how cutthroat-"[/n] He stopped mid-sentence, the massacre still fresh in his mind. Cutthroat indeed.
[b]"How exacting such events can be." Riveh finished lamely.
But then what did that say about his last, announced visit?
"Martyrs to the nation, all of them." The mention of the Exaltation Massacre elicited a stiff upper lip and the solemn dignity required of a proper Taldan. Were they not the bedrock of the civilized world? Of course they were; they could not lose face now when tested and the tailor displayed all due decency at the loss of what were not just his patrons, but his countrymen. "As it happens, I was just writing some letters of condolences to those families of our clientele. I was very gratified to not include your own honorable name."
Perhaps he wasn't quite the salt of the earth, but the dapper professional was at the very least the sheen on the granite.
And as for the inclusion of the floating orb: "Of course not, Sir. We at Thread Rare cater to all of our customers' needs, however unusual. I assure you that this establishment has played host to more... obstreperous familiars to arcane practitioners than your own."
"Assessment: This one has a careful choice of modulation." Factor-12's metallic voice sounded singularly out of place in the distinguished quarters. "Master, would it please you if I temporarily limited the resources of my central processing unit so that its droning - otherwise so soothing and reassuring - might lessen?"
The proprietor smiled mildly. "There we are. A credit to its master." Huh. Who would have thought these two would get along on the common ground of pleasing 'master'?
His request did, however, provoke a raising of pale eyebrows even from the consummate professional. "Another social event?" Ah. Yes, the ifrit supposed that going out partying after the recent calamity did sound rather callous. But true to his businesslike self the tailor moved along swiftly. "With the Viscountess Vitellia hosting? Oh my. Sir is rather in demand, isn't he? But then why shouldn't you be?" Aaand there was that playful coquettishness he'd almost missed from the man. Nice to know that some things remained the same, no matter what tragedies. "Something to impress, you say? Well, as it happens - Sir must forgive me, but we pride ourselves of our discretion here at Thread Rare. Given the nature of Sir's request and Sir himself I am inclined to grant it, but you understand that I am not wont to air our customers' intimates to just anyone?"
Riveh of course promised that he understood entirely and that his lips were sealed tighter than Rovagug's Dead Vault. "Very good, Sir. This will take but a moment. Are you sure I can't get you that drink?"
There was something oddly soothing in just sitting back and letting the capable hands of this fashion connoisseur take care of you. In this instance the ifrit was led to a nearby wing of the library where the tailor set to work rifling through some small marked boxes, of which there were dozens. "Ah, here we are."
What he retrieved was a smaller box still, almost of the sort often used for eyeglasses. He held it out to Riveh and opened it. Inside was... nothing that the young man had expected. It was a pair of cufflinks. In the shape of black spiders. "You don't have to say a word, Sir, I understand entirely. Not the sort of thing I recommend often, if at all, but you see - the Viscountess Vitellia happens to have a particular liking for arachnid motifs in her attire inner as well as outer. A singular fancy, but nothing that we can't cater to here."
The noblewoman liked spiders? Well, Martella did describe her as an eccentric. And the cufflinks themselves weren't unattractive exactly beyond their imagery. "A tad ghoulish outside certain circles of Ustalav, Sir, but handcrafted artisanal work. Nothing but the best here. Durable, reliable and 100% onyx. And might I add that while only a certain few could pull these off, I believe Sir is up to the task."
Hm. Perhaps what the inevitable and tailor really shared was that he couldn't tell when they were being genuine. Still, the latter's compliments were always delivered masterfully, even if they perhaps were empty.
"Will Sir be needing a new wardrobe as well? I see that you've recently visited a barber - can I offer you a little finishing wax to it? Oh no no, you look immaculate, Sir, but a small touch-up can do wonders."
Then again, you couldn't fake that glint in the eye.
"I wouldn't dream of asking you break trust." Riveh says, meaning it. "I understand you do not just sell clothes here but also a certain...discretion and confidence. Trust me, I understand."
Riveh holds the cuff links up the light, moving them back and forth. Very nice.
"I merely asked in the general sense, you understand. A taste for the opera or horse-racing, for example. If someone asked about me, I am sure you'd say I was a pleasant enough fellow from the provinces." Riveh glanced at the tailor and smiled, "With excellent taste in clothes, or so I hope."
"Spiders, eh?" The ifrit muttered to himself, already thinking of ways to use that to impress the apparently unusual noblewoman. A gift of some kind would be customary but how to tailor it...
Riveh chuckled at the pun before saying, "The cuff links are excellent, my good man. Twenty gold pieces it is." A wink and then, he rubbed his chin, "If you think it'll help the effect. I notice scruffiness is not currently in fashion right now."
"Might I trouble you with two more requests? First, do you know of any exotic pet or animal emporiums? What district they are likely to be in would be quite helpful."
"Secondly, and I understand if you have no idea, would you hazard a guess where the Lady Vitellia's servants may go for a drink and a bit of song? " Riveh holds a hand up, "I vow that I mean no ill will or underhanded dealings. Just...let us save a great deal is riding on this social excursion and I wish to be prepared."
"With excellent taste in clothes, or so I hope."
"Well, I should think so, Sir." Another glint of humor in the grey eyes, cheeky as a touch of intimate lace peeking out from beneath a conservative skirt. "You're here, aren't you?"
The tailor was too well-mannered to make any mention of Riveh's generous tip on the other hand, merely pocketing the sparkling coins gratefully. Any money related topic was crass to a gentleman after all. The queries he was happy to answer, however. "I admit to some ignorance on the purveyance of animals, Sir, though I do have some contacts in the high-end pet grooming sector. I believe you will find an importer of exotic beasts in Westport by the name of Dunellus. An agreeable enough chap, or so I've been told."
A crease wrinkled the pale brow. "As for seeking the Viscountess's staff... Well, Sir understands that we do not deal in gossip here, but Jalrune's Last Drink here in Lionsgate is a charming public house that regularly plays host to better society's servants. That said, I cannot promise you will find it much populated with things being as they are. Will there be anything else?"
"Affirmation: Yes." Perhaps surprisingly it was the floating orb that answered. "Request: You indicated that you have my master's dimensions on file here. I would see these records."
"Certainly."
Factor-12 wanted the ifrit's measurements? The reason as to why it wanted this swiftly followed. "Explanation: Just as my function is serving you, Master, my processor is not so feeble that it cannot comprehend you having a function of your own. If that function includes adorning your meatbag chassis with metals and fabrics - the former of which I approve of, if only in spirit - then I must know all I can to aid you in that function."
"Thank you, for both the compliment and the information." Riveh said lightly, "I sincerely hope your business manages to ride these turbulent times, you are a credit to Taldor. Frankly, and I do mean this, you have been one of the few aspects of Oparra that have lived up to the vaunted reputation."
He frowned as Factor-12 took an interest in his measurements. Since when did the orb care to demean himself so? The ifrit shrugged it off, considering it was probably harmless.
"Just one last thing, Master Tailor." Riveh added, "You mentioned the Lady's tastes....would you happen to have anything along those lines in stock? A bolt of spider silk perhaps? Even if it is just a raw yard of stuff, it might be the talk of a party. I'd pay handsomely for it."
"Just one last thing, Master Tailor." Riveh added, "You mentioned the Lady's tastes....would you happen to have anything along those lines in stock? A bolt of spider silk perhaps? Even if it is just a raw yard of stuff, it might be the talk of a party. I'd pay handsomely for it."
Oh ye of little faith. Perfectly professional as he was, the assured glint in the tailor's eye - almost but not quite veering into the patronizing - at this humble request was fleeting. "Oh, I think we might have an item or two in stock, Sir."
As it turned out, Taldor had not seen a greater understatement since Grand-Prince Gennaris II labeled the 500-year war with Qadira 'a brief skirmish'. In catering to all of a gentleman's needs, Thread Rare apparently also included finding one such gifts for the discerning woman. A raw yard of the stuff? Please! It wasn't long before poor Riveh was sitting amidst veritable mountains of boxes, all full of items worked fully or in part out of the silken material. Elegant boots with straps fastening up the wearer's legs like webbing; silver shawls so light they seemed to float; night robes as dark and glistening as only a spider's carapace could be; entire dresses woven out of grey gossamer, arachnid motifs playing across them. There was even a chic little hat with a stuffed example of what looked nothing so much like those beasts the ifrit had fought in the sewer perched on top of it, its legs enchanted to move in disturbingly life-like fashion. And, of course, ladies' underthings. A frankly concerning amount of them. Was there something about the connotations of danger and the forbidden that made the material a popular choice for...? No, probably best not to think on it.
All of these items were accompanied by a comprehensive description from the tailor, he almost seeming to enjoy himself - lost in the splendor of his wares - while a little too helpfully Factor-12 flitted to and fro at the former's directive. The inevitable appeared rather content in the mechanical task of discerning the numbers and letters marking the library's products and retrieving these. Riveh meanwhile had to remind himself that he was in the fashion capital of the world and very much spoilt for choice. The dapper proprietor retrieved another box from the orb.
----------
Well, this was plainly bizarre. (Finally) Leaving Thread Rare with his prizes in tow, the ifrit had followed the thoughtfully provided directions to the aforementioned tavern, hoping to engage the Viscountess's staff. Jalrune's Last Drink had turned out to be a charming enough establishment catering to that lower-to-middle class who earned some prestige through direct service to their betters. Fiercely patriotic as the nation was, Riveh had found those few regulars there during the day mercifully talkative; whether chambermaids, valets or even stable boys, they were proud of their vocations. Serving Taldor's best - the world's best by extension! - was an honor.
Of course, given recent events the bar was naturally enough more muted. Even beyond this heinous attack which was all those within talked about, the Geminus noted a tip jar dedicated to those who now found themselves without work, their patron having perished. Needless to say, the place was somber as a cathedral. In fact, on the topic of funerals, a portrait of Grand Prince Stavian III had been given a place of honor before the bar. He looked considerably more handsome in this painting than Riveh had seen him in person, as one of Barley's drunks in a crown. More handsome still when compared to that bulging visage, the image of madness, he had worn in instigating the massacre. And now here he was, a martyr. People still didn't know the truth.
But the truth was what the ifrit was having trouble discerning in talking with the tavern's guests. Bizarre. According to the local rumor mill, Viscountess Vitellia did not have a staff. How this was even possible for a noblewoman with a not-inconsiderable manor to upkeep was unclear. Surely she couldn't maintain the place herself? No, the tavern-goers found the idea of a lady of quality - even one with a reputation as unsavory as hers - washing the floors herself patently ridiculous, even unsavory. It was unTaldan! And yet none of them could explain how she managed.
None beyond a thin man who suggested that she didn't. That the Viscountess was a recluse, an urban hermit living in a decaying house instead of a wilderness cave. That she was not well - "in the head" - and had rejected all mortal company. Others dismissed this view of the woman, citing the common knowledge that she was not just fiend-blooded but a witch as well, in league with dark powers. Perhaps she had enchanted a broom to sweep the floors? Whatever the case, Riveh understood that he wasn't learning anything definitive here, nothing more than the reasoning behind this theory of the noblewoman being some sort of lonely shut-in: while her abode had once gone by another name, all now referred to it as Cobweb Manor.
----------
"Observation: Master, I must express some distress at how information is shared among you meatbags. Your books, while crude, at least have some dignity to them, but this..."
Having exited the tavern to step out into the busy Lionsgate district once again, Factor-12's complaint drew some attention from pedestrians, naturally enough. Metropolis that it was, a floating metal orb chastising 'meatbags' in its tinny voice was not a common sight in Oppara. "Exclamation: Until 22 minutes and 12 seconds ago my vocabulator did not include the term 'hearsay'. And it is my distinct displeasure to inform you that its definition makes me wish I could press your crossbow to my behavior core and pull the trigger."
While a little dramatic (hold on, were inevitables capable of exaggeration?), it was perhaps only logical that a being of perfect order should find gossip hunting an exasperating experience. Surely information was a quite a bit more readily available and a whole lot more certain on the lawful plane of Axis. Oh well. Nothing much he could do about that. Then again, it wasn't like there were all that many of the aforementioned pedestrians for Factor-12 to offend. The mercantile district of Lionsgate was relatively quiet, a far cry from its usual busy self as the ifrit had seen it just a few days ago. While people walked its streets, it was clearly only as a means to get back home: still reeling from the massacre, most Opparans had apparently gone from mourning openly to staying within, sensing the unrest in the air. Anyone could tell that not all was right. An emperor had died. An attack had been launched at the heart of the nation. Why was there no official word? Where was the reaction that had to follow the action? Things were in an unnatural standstill, or, as Riveh recalled the agent Treister having described it, as if a great clockwork was grinding to a halt, only carried by inertia.
It was even visible on the cobblestones themselves, actually. No longer immaculate and clean, the straight roads were full of the revelry's litter: colored garlands and flags, street foods from vendors - everything that accompanied Exaltation Week now turned refuse bestrewed these venerable streets. Only a few civilians - patriots to the core - milled about to clean up this waste. Many of these wore black bands in remembrance.
These roads did not remain so deserted, however. Riveh heard it before he saw them. Building from a low rumble, like the whirring internals of the orb, it quickly grew into a loud din. Footsteps were approaching - a lot of them. Factor-12 grew silent as its great eye swiveled to look down the avenue, the clicking of lenses audible beneath the glass. Everywhere around him, people were as confused as the ifrit. Then he saw it: marching through the wide street to no fanfare but their own perfectly coordinated footsteps came an army. Heavenly Choir, what was going on? The regimented group slowly but surely striding his way like a great tide had to number a hundred if not more. True to their disciplined stance and grim faces, the vast majority of them wore uniform too, albeit of different makes. He easily recognized the blue-and-green tabard of the Taldan Phalanx, the army's infantry division and there at the front, sitting atop trusted warhorses were what had to be members of the Taldan Horse. But among them were the more subdued uniforms of Oppara's constabulary, the common watchman, and even the garishly extravagant attire of the palace guard. Where in all the gods' names were these people going?
That answer became clear as voices watching from the second floors, looking down into the street, began to alternately jeer and cheer, the onlookers themselves realizing. "Traitors!" said some. "Go! Fight the good fight!" cried others. "How can you abandon us now?" and "Take the fight to the Qadiran scum!"
Away. Wherever they were going, they were going away.
"You are being short-sighted, Factor-12." Riveh said lightly as the floating orb expressed his displeasure at the ramshackle information Riveh had acquired. "You act like half-truths or rumors have no value of their own. There is value in information that is not true. The type of lies or 'hearsay' that surrounds a person can tell you a great deal. It is like a story....do they have stories in Axis? A fiction can be useful of itself."
They are thoroughly interrupted by the marching men. Uniforms, marching, the cries of the public. What was happening? Yet all of these signs pointed to one thing....
War.
War? Now? In the middle of this upheaval? And yet, perhaps it made sense. It seemed natural to blame someone for the massarce and anyone who might have fingered Stavian was dead. Had the Grand Prince, or those who controlled him, made Qadira the villain? It was natural enough, the Gateway to the East had long been the rival and foe of Taldor and old hatred ran deep. His own family history was proof of that. What was happening?
But one thing was clear, Riveh himself couldn't linger. His skin alone might outrage the crowd.
"Time to go, Factor-12."
Whatever was going on, it wasn't good. And deciding that knowing this much was plenty enough, the Geminus moved to make himself scarce. People of his ilk, so to speak, might not be appreciated here. Fortunately, outpacing the procession wasn't overly difficult, slow as it was. Ceremonial, actually. Clearly this troop had intended to be seen, marching as they were in a group. If so, what was the message? The citizens were clearly making their own conclusions; the alternating jeers and cheers were one thing the ifrit could not outrun. Were the city watchmen in the group deserters? Maybe. They certainly couldn't have been ordered to abandon their posts here. Were the soldiers heroes for answering aggression with aggression - wherever the heck they were going? Some seemed to think so.
But why think on this at all when you could have someone tell you what to think? "Ho, good people of Oppara! Look upon these brave Taldans, our countrymen! I say to you, we would all weep at such courage - some from pride - and others in shame at their own cowardice!"
In escaping the grim parade, Riveh had trotted away from it as directly as possible, running ahead on the main street they followed. Clearly they were headed for the city gate the distract was named for, the Liongate, but it had been his intention to veer off to some side avenue as soon as the cobblestones allowed him to. Now he faced an intersection, however, one as grand as befitted this capital of capitals with a majestic fountain acting as its center. But here a man had climbed the edifice, straddling a marble dragon spewing water instead of the requisite fire. He was addressing, bellowing, at the public.
"My fellow Opparans, our Grand Prince is dead! The Lion Throne sits empty, its occupant - that personification of glory! - slain by gutless scoundrels cowering behind masks! The sun from which we draw our warmth, the star by which we guide ourselves is gone! Woe. Woe!" The man was stately and severe, much like his speech. Perhaps overly so. Standing as he did directly below some old hero or another, the marble slayer of the aforementioned marble dragon, his choice of podium lent him some added dignity, something further aided by his fine clothing and finer beard. And people did in fact stop to listen. The encroaching army did not.
"Dark skies above, my friends! And yet has it not always been in our darkest hours that the Taldan has proven himself? Have we not time and time again turned our darkest hour into our finest? Of course we have! We did not drive the Whispering Tyrant into his final grave by accident! And anyone who dares think they can strike at our senate - our Grand Prince - indeed, our father! - without repercussion does not know Taldor!" There were murmurs of assent from pedestrians, whoops of support from windows. "My countrymen, even in this, our darkest hour, there are still men ready to remind our enemies who we are, ready to set things right! And chief among is them is our beloved military commander himself, High Strategos Maxillar Pythareus!" Something sank within Riveh's stomach at hearing this name uttered, a name he recognized. "I happen to know that he is in Zimar now, gathering our mighty forces to strike back at every foreign barbarian who doesn't know the glory of Taldor! That! That is where these brave soldiers are heading now!"
The orator - for so he clearly was - swept an arm towards the silent parade which had by now reached him. They marched on, proud as only those justified in their cause could be, aiming for the city gate. "They have heard the call and join the High Strategos in saving Taldor from any enemy - yes, even from itself! For surely you have heard, my friends, that not only do we have beasts at our doorsteps, but also snakes in our midst. I speak of course of the Princess Eutropia." Another murmur, like wind through grass, passed through the crowd. "You have already heard how our Princess - she who should embody all womanly virtues - has instead for years conspired to steal her own father's crown! This girl, this shrew of a daughter, has long schemed and colluded with foreign agents to pervert our beautiful country! Not content with the traditions that have made us the greatest civilization on the globe, she would upend everything! And now - now she intends to utilize her own father's death for her sick ambition! Fie! Fie I say!"
The well dressed man spat into the fountain even as his eyes thundered. Regrettably, many of those listening appeared rather taken with him. "My fellow Taldans, join the High Strategos in restoring Taldor! Oppose the shrew princess! Darkest hour though it may be, it is always darkest before the light! And that light is, as it always was, Grand Prince Stavian III! For you see - before his assassination his majesty named High Strategos Pythareus his rightful successor!" A collective gasp. And a headache setting in for the ifrit. He did what? "Wise as he was - bastion of civilization, jewel of sophistication, heart of culture, soul of humanity, emperor of emperors - Grand Prince Stavian III adopted Maxillar Pythareus as his heir, suspecting his own untimely demise! None knew the dangers of the foreign hordes better than he, nor indeed the depravity of his daughter's black heart! So he meant to secure us, the citizens, his true children! So I say to you now, my friends: hail Stavian, the martyr! Hail Pythareus, the savior! We of Taldor do not deserve you!"
Cheers. Roaring cheers echoed across the stone buildings. Not all were convinced, clearly - some reticent stragglers slinking away from the crowd. But a sizable number had obviously been swayed by this rhetorician, or at least found good cause for already set convictions in his words. As for the ifrit, he now had a clearer idea of the war that was coming.
Riveh listens to the orator with rapidly rising emotion. The ifrit was, unusually for his race, generally a calm and collected type. He liked to consider his actions and often chose the reasonable course, even if it meant delayed gratification. However, standing here int he street and listening to this man lie to that crowd it was very hard to not speak out. To attack him. To do something.
Riveh had been there, when the Massacre had happened. Had seen Stavian personally kill Kalbio in cold blood, before ordering the deaths of hundreds of nobles and their attendants. Had stumbled through the Senate building after it was over, literally ankle-deep in blood. To see that and now to hear this stuffed shirt rant about the glory and honor of Taldor? Riveh's fists bunched at his side, and his mind began recalling words of arcane power. It was almost too much.
Almost.
Slowly he mastered himself. What would he gain? What could he even do? Speak out? Slander the man? Odds are he would barely get two words out before someone in the crowd turned on him, or the speaker's bully boys would find him. No, he had to keep his head down, at least for now. This was not a time for street brawls. Slowly, with great effort, he turned away and got back to his work.
"Assessment: These meatbags have an uncanny skill to extend simple directives into hour-long orations. 'Obey my claimant!' Really now, is that so difficult to say?"
It had been some hours since the two had slinked away from the pundit obviously campaigning for the general, with some success at that, and yet Riveh and Factor-12 had not escaped the propaganda. Because in completing their errands of selling & buying what needed selling & buying, they were now running into advocates with alarming regularity, civilian or otherwise. The general populace was abuzz, the zeitgeist apparently having shifted from 'what in the world happened to the Grand Prince?' to 'who is going to be the next Grand Prince?'. Practically every street corner had been claimed by these... well, street-corner preachers, and they weren't just spreading the good word of the High Strategos either. It was in exiting a high-end restaurant (its owner thrilled to purchase the culinary implements the ifrit had stumbled upon, avowing that these would save him a fortune in man-hours) that the pair came across a young person proselytizing the Princess's cause. "The Princess is the rightful ruler by blood!" and "Eutropia has been a ceaseless champion of the people!" and "The senate vote ratified her as our Grand Princess, by blood and law!" were the primary arguments dissected from the spiel, by no means the lesser to the one first woven by the general's man.
"Reflection: Is there any greater taint upon the multiverse than your so-called rhetoric?" the flying orb queried, probably rhetorically. By its annoyed tone, it certainly wasn't looking for interjections. "Meatbag word-play would have dark be light, up be down, and flesh be metal. Any system of communication that would deny or undo what is empirically true is an affront to the Great Creation. Extrapolation: I sometimes wonder whether mass inoculating your kind, by whatever means necessary, against the Chaos they invite wouldn't be most efficient."
Having voiced this thought, the glowing lens immediately turned to Riveh. "Empty consolation: Except of course for yourself, Master. The Master is so very clever and correct in all that he does." Every tinny vocal was dripping with hollow appeasement.
What a contradictory creature this was, the ifrit had to conclude; dismissing social politics in favor of a binary understanding of right and wrong, and yet insincerely kowtowing to him. Oh well. At least it proved fairly beneficial in the temple to Abadar. Because while finding those items he was looking for required nothing more than a few hours' legwork, Oppara living up to its reputation as a very affluent metropolis indeed, the curative wand necessitated a church visit.
"Please fill in this form," the clerk behind the counter requested, maintaining a harried but nevertheless polite expression. The aptly named Cathedral of Coins was part temple, part bank and fully resplendent. Situated at the heart of the wealthy Canal Row district, Abadar’s ancient church in Oppara - supposedly the first of its kind in all of Taldor - was a gorgeous edifice to everything monetary, capped very appropriately with a dome of silver and gold. Enormous as it was, it still managed to seem small, however, with multitudes of scribes, priests, administrators liturgical and official, and civilians milling about. It had actually been difficult to even enter the building. Or at least so it had been until the staff took note of Factor-12. Recognizing it for what it was and mistaking him for someone worthy by proxy, the Geminus had been given blatant preferential treatment, leading him to this: being handed an exhaustive form prior to his purchase. Predictably, the Abadarans wanted to have everything on file, which in addition to the bare essentials such as his name included, he read...
What is your intention with said implement, professional and private?
Do you have any association with demons, demonic faith, demonic cults et al.?
Do you or have you suffered from Caster's Croak, Jatembe's Curse, localized areas of wild magic or other spellblights?
Do you have any association with any number of worker unions?
Stavian's Fire, this would take all day. "Recitation: Master, may I?" Then again, perhaps not. Riveh was left free to look about the magnificent cathedral in handing over the pen to the inevitable, and its many, many visitors. Surely this wasn't normal? The ifrit thought he'd seen beehives less busy. No doubt a result of the Massacre, just another reverberation of that event. It almost seemed sacrilegious not to slow down and appreciate the space. And on that note the ifrit's eye was taken by an enormous stained glass window depicting what he believed to be Abadar himself hard at work crafting a key. The animated crystal pieces flowed over and across one another in portraying the scene, shards of amber representing sparks from a forge continually gliding through the construction. Beautiful.
----------
Well. This was the address. Honestly, he was getting a fair bit of exercise in today just with all this walking, first to Lionsgate then to Canal Row and now back to Westpark. If only the sight greeting him here, his final destination later this evening, was a bit more cheery.
The house was at least halfway to what one might call a haunted mansion. It was a large home, more or less the midpoint between Trant's excessive estate and Lady Morilla's comfortable abode. It sat - no, hunched - in the center of an expansive lawn that hadn't so much grown wild with neglect as simply died. The grass was nearly as grey as the house itself which, Riveh guessed, had at one point been painted black. Negligence had left its surface pitted and cracked, however. Not a single light was visible in its many windows.
The place was eerie, especially so compared with the opulence of the district as a whole, the ruination made all the more palpable in comparison. It was only when the inevitable spoke, its vocabulator crackling and popping with caution, that he knew that something was well and truly wrong here. "Field assessment: Master, I would urge you not to attend the evening's event. My sensors detect faint traces of Chaos, infinitesimal but present."
What? Hold on, what did that even mean? Did he and Factor-12 have the same idea of capital C 'Chaos'?
Despite all the rumors and innuendos, Riveh's mother had not been a political radical or renegade. In fact she hadn't been very interested in the subject at all, not really. Her issues with Taldor had been deeply personal, not ideological. That said however, she had always been politically incorrect, by the measure of other Taldane political families. She had frequently flaunted the usual Taldane censorship laws (and custom) and often got away with it due to the estates remoteness and relative unimportance. The upside was that Riveh, unlike most noble scions, had been exposed to far more varieties of art and expression.
As the ifrit walked the streets, seeing demagogues on every corner, his mind went back to play he had seen in his youth. It had been a troupe of Andoran players that had somehow managed to get inside Taldor. Riveh had no idea what reception they expected to receive but his mother had taken them in and asked to see a show. The story had been about a number of idealistic revolutionaries who rise up, only to be crushed by a generally uncaring government. Looking back, it was radical republican propaganda, but at the time Riveh had merely enjoyed the songs. One rang in his mind now.
For the army we fight is a dangerous foe
With the men and the arms that we never can match
Oh, it's easy to sit here and swat 'em like flies
But the national guard will be harder to catch
We need a sign
To rally the people
To call them to arms
To bring them in line!
And what better sign had been given then the supposed murder of Grand Prince Stavian himself? The streets were alive with chaos, with anger...how long until they seethed with violence?
----
The church was something else, entirely. When Riveh had remarked at Thread Rare that only the tailor had live up to his expectations, that had been a bit of an exaggeration. Oparra itself was a grand city that , while corrupt and dirty, could be amazing and wonderful.
But this church...it lived up to the stories. The wild tales of exotic places and sights that had filled Riveh's mind as a child. It was places like this, of power and magic, that had so fired his imagination. It was stunning to imaging he was here, living it.
And also, a bit disappointing that so much of the place was dedicated to paperwork. Still, at the very least, the chaos outside seemed to have little effect here. Riveh assumed that no matter who took power outside they would need a nice, happy bank. Besides, attacking a temple was always dangerous. Abadar wasn't merely an abstract concept. The god might very well take a personal interest if a angry mob attacked his sanctum. Unlikely but possible.
------
Riveh gazed at the sad estate of the co-called Cobweb Manor. neglect was sometimes harder to see then mere mismanagement or even outright destruction. There was something melancholy about looking at a house, once proud and well-built, slowly decay due to lack of care. Even worse right in the middle of a busy city.
When Factor-12 speaks up though, the scene instantly takes on a more sinister aspect.
"Chaos? You mean like...demons?" Riveh did his best to recall the very little metaphysics he knew. 'What exactly is Chaos and how is it different then the usual disorder of this city. Didn't you say all humans are chaotic?"
"Answer: Master, it is the opposite of Order."
Was he supposed to feel dumb? Because the flying sphere had delivered this oh-so illuminating answer with all the disdain of an elder wyrm asked to explain lizards. It took a sterner reiteration of the perfectly reasonable question to draw anything vaguely satisfactory from Factor-12.
"Exasperated answer: Master, my unit was designed as an observer and warning system to Chaos. I was never meant to understand it." Wait, the inevitable didn't even really know what it was it so detested? "Clarification: Of course not. To conceptualize and study Chaos is to invite it. This is a task reserved for the higher echelons of Axiomite order, not for an Inevitable such as I. Nor indeed any meatbag. It was determined that knowledge of Chaos beyond the notional bore the risk of corrupting the perfect law by which we are designed. Why, it might even cause us to go rogue. Quick clarification: But the Chaos I speak of is not the petty infighting between meatbags, though they are two parts of the same circuit. It is a corruption of the very fundamentals of the multiverse, even the ground beneath your simple limbs if this helps you understand. Know that the only thing keeping this silly little globe together is the Order that binds its essence, its core matter. Chaos would rend it - and the plane on which it rests - asunder."
Well, that was certainly dramatic, if not much more clear. Riveh took another look at the house. Eerie as it was, it didn't exactly look like it would bring about the End Times. Mostly it just looked a bit sad, as beauty in ruin tended to. One had trouble imagining what death or disaster could occur here beyond an errant tile falling onto a trespasser's head.
"Conclusion: But yes, Master, the Chaos I speak of is the same the fiends you call demons are partially composed of. It is that same quintessence I detect here, albeit only traces of it. If only I wasn't curiously cut off from the Axiomite nexus, I would notify my superiors."
However he interpreted it, the ifrit couldn't imagine this boding well for tonight's dinner. But try as he might he wasn't learning anything more about the place by looking at it. It just looked dead, devoid of all life and activity. Like all the other mansions in the district, it was cordoned off from the street in a miniature park of its own, a high wrought iron fence adding to the privacy of...
Huh. The gates weren't locked.
"That was stunningly unhelp yet concerning, Factor-12." Riveh said, not taking his eyes off the now somewhat creepy mansion and surrounds. "Now I'm not sure if demons will rise through the floorboards tonight. Or if the Lady of the House is actually an evil ghost in disguise."
The unlocked from gate was a surprise but one that offered a choice. Should he explore further? Not only could it give him an edge but it almost might let him find this 'Chaos' Factor-12 mentioned. On the other hand, trespassing on the lawn of a lady he hoped to impress wouldn't do him any favors.
No, he wanted to get the lay of the land. That was enough. Time to retreat and prepare.
"Let's get back to our rooms, Factor-12. I need to get a bath and shave before the party." As they walk he adds, "What did you think of the price lists we saw? I was hoping a being of your intelligence might be able to make some sense of them, detect a pattern unknown to humans. You could probably make a great deal of money, if given data. Does that matter much to you?"
"Answer: The acquisition of your local currency is not my function, Master. You are."
It was a strange thing to hear spoken so plainly. Vows of fealty, whether to lord or lover, were usually accompanied with some pomp and circumstance, some passion and zeal. Not so with the inevitable; this was a flat statement of fact. Grass was green, fiends were mean, and the machine-creature served Riveh. Riches held no interest for it. "Extrapolation: Of course, it then follows that should you order me to, I would win you as much capital as my superior capabilities allow for. Assessment: Though on the topic of your markets..."
A hundred artfully designed mosaic patterns flowed them by as the pair walked and levitated the beautifully tiled streets of Westpark respectively. Faint clicks could occasionally be heard beneath the orb's copper plating. "Master, impressive as my processing unit is, it will take more than a few meager data points gathered during a walkabout to complete a full analysis of an entire economy. Even so, what little I saw today comfortably fit my projections." Projections? What projections? "Continuation: My 244 year suspension in the archive," (Factor-12's metallic voice audibly sizzled with annoyance, though it faded as quickly as it arrived) "allowed me to process the senate minutes, census reports, textbooks, academic journals, genealogies, autobiographies, historical texts and more located there. These have given me an adequate understanding of what elements may influence your economy. One of the greatest of these is the state your nation appears to be devolving into: war."
Another strange utterance when spoken by the inevitable; 'war' as voiced by the outsider's mechanical speech sounded as metallic as the swords employed in such conflicts, as hollow as the armors. And as dead as its victims. "Elucidation: the Galtan Red Revolution led to a monetary inflation throughout the empire of 117%; the Shining Crusade in turn brought a further inflation of 126%; and during the Even-Tongued Conquest prices rose by 108%. The damage done to your currency by that most odious expenditure dubbed the Grand Campaign, I admit with no shame to be beyond my processor. But my conclusion was this: that war is inflationary. It is always wasteful no matter how just the cause. It is cost without income, destruction financed more often than not by credit creation. It is the essence of monetary devastation. And it was the inception of another such mass economic inflation I detected within this city today."
Huh. While the dry term economic term that was monetary inflation wasn't the most stirring of anti-war sentiments, the orb's tone made it clear that it did not at all approve such hostilities. Factor-12, a pacifist? Who would have thought? "Clarification: Do understand, Master, that my kind are not opposed to conflict as such. Order, after all, must at times be enforced. Data simply shows that extended periods of price stability in meatbag societies are marked by faith in order, harmony, progress and reason. By contrast, periods of high inflation were both caused by and themselves cause a breakdown in order and a loss of faith in civil institutions, triggering political turmoil, social conflict and economic disruption. To summarize for your soft, squishy sponge-brain: war brings inflation, inflation brings disorder, and disorder serves Chaos."
The machine-being summed up its thoughts just as the two passed by a pair of downcast watchmen audibly speculating the state of the government and where their next paycheck was coming from. "Conclusion: I suggest you invest in tangible assets going forward, Master: gold, base commodities, and the chemical compound you call alcohol."
----------
The Morilla manor was much as Riveh had left it this morning, still an oasis of comfort, quiet and understated luxury. Getting through its guards had been a bit of a hassle, of course, even with the pass code; the new enchanted paraphernalia gathered during his shopping trip had to be momentarily discarded as a magically inclined member of the dutiful guards looked him over for any arcane trickery. Once inside, however, it was undeniably nice to be greeted by the halfling maid. If she was at all surprised at his return, nothing in her professional demeanor showed it. That said, there was one thing different at the house. It had a visitor, for one. This didn't surprise the ifrit. He had seen the coach outside bearing House Trant's emblem.
"Exclamation: Ah, the height-deviating one."
"Wh...! You! Come here! I'll turn you to scrap, you talking waffle iron!"
Seeing an attractive young woman's face light in genuine cheer at one's entrance was no small pleasure. Seeing that same face darken into a scowl furious enough to deter a charging bull the next second was less so. No sooner had the pair entered the living room before an incensed Malphene Trant rose from her seat to, well... turn the the inevitable to scrap. Fortunately - or unfortunately - Factor-12 had little trouble evading even the noblewoman's considerable reach by simply floating up to the ceiling.
"Geminus, do you have the faintest idea what this rust bucket did tonight?!" she whirled around on the ifrit, albeit only after visibly considering climbing the furniture. Because clearly her frustrations had to be targeted at someone.
"Correction: My chassis is composed of 39% copper, 39% bronze, 3% hafnium, 1.5%..."
"Shut up! The damn thing woke up the entire house in the middle of the night! Just flew around demanding to know where you where! Scared my mother half to death! AND it put some weird mental compulsion on my brother's valet! Poor man cried into a carpet all night! Couldn't get up from the floor. He resigned this morning!"
Right. Factor-12 had 'explained' that affair to Riveh already with a great deal less feeling. Figures that he should have to bear the consequences himself. Actually, assuming she hadn't come here to yell at him, what was Trant doing here anyway? "What?" she queried, distracted with wondering which of the knickknacks littering the room she could allow herself to turn into a projectile. "Oh, well, it was the strangest thing. I was visited by this odd clockwork bird this morning." Oh?
"Honestly, I initially thought it to be related to that one," she went on, glaring at the outsider above, "but it turned out to have a message from Lady Coufas. She said that you had a lead on a diamond, and to just wait. But, well..." The Dame crossed her arms. The fire left her demeanor. "I can't in good conscience have you run off into another warehouse full of maniacs alone, can I? I want to help. Besides, it's not right that you be the one to risk yourself. Not in helping me."
The young noblewoman appeared, for the briefest of moments, as if there was something more she wished to say. Whatever it was, however, she swallowed it. But a light went of behind the eyes the next moment. "Oh, and, um," she stuttered in turning around to bend down, picking up something that had fallen to the floor from her lap in rising so suddenly, "I had meant to give you this."
It was an old leather binder, thick with yellowed paper.
Getting a lecture on wartime economics from a floating orb was a novel experience. It was harder to describe the exchange with more precision. then that. The ifrit's mind swam with strange concepts like monetary inflation and tangible assets. It wasn't that Riveh had never used this words, but it had never been part of his understanding of war. War, to him, had been an issue of sword and men, blood and fighting. It was battles...right? For the first time, he began to consider things bit differently, as if the window of his mind's eye had been cocked ever so slightly
Was this how those who had planned the Massacre viewed the world? As a giant gameboard of causes and effects?
As for the final advice, invest in gold? Truly, Fator-12 was a revolutionary genius. Who could have even thought of such a thing? Useless.
-----
Riveh glanced to Factor-12 and said, quite firmly, "No more compulsions unless explicitly ordered to." A pause and then, "By me, personally."
"I am sorry Trant, I didn't know his...programming would push him so intently upon waking. I just figured I could go pick him up later. I didn't mean to cause your household such distress." It was honestly said and the idea of the floating calculator with mind-controlling powers was very...disconcerting.
"So, about the diamond." Riveh said, catching Trant's eye, "It might not be like it appears. This time I won't be storming an armed safehouse. Martella put me onto it....the diamond is a bit of a...door prize. For a party."
For some reason even we unsure of, the ifrit blushed slightly nd began to stammer, "At Lady Vitellia's manor. She is supposedly giving out a diamond as a social prize this evening. I just finished scoping the Manor out. Looks like a run down old haunt, honestly."
Eager to change the subject he grabbed the yellow ledger, looking at it closely. "What is this?" He grins, "A scrapbook of our adventures together? Don't tell me you have become that sentimental, Lady Trant."
"Yes, well... Find a leash for it or something!"
Though still mightily frustrated, Riveh's apology let out some of the steam in the pressure cooker that was the Dame's temper. Besides, she seemed determined in loathing the outsider, not him. The split in blame was 80/20, tops - probably. Factor-12 for its part didn't even acknowledge her, only adding a mechanical and very disengaged affirmation to the ifrit's order. This, of course, only annoyed Trant further.
But his revelation of his engagement this evening - this did in fact knock the wind out of the noblewoman's sails. "Oh. Oh." The proud galleon was tossed by a wave, confused and off course. "I assumed... But of course that was dumb of me to presume." A clearing of the throat. "Very well, then you'll be perfectly safe. Good. That's good. You won't... have need of me then. Then I'll wait. I'll just wait."
Oh gods, what was this? What in the Archfiend's accursed name was happening between them? Unsure as he was about his own feelings, Riveh had been doubly uncertain as to how the Dame would react to him going out to impress another woman, but this? Another furious berating might honestly be preferable; she looked every bit as awkward as he felt! Not meeting his eye, arms crossed defensively across her chest, Trant appeared more uncomfortable than he could remember seeing her before. No, more so than that, it was shame that was written across the typically so stately features. Shame? What did she have to be ashamed about? Whatever it was, it left both of them locked in an uncomfortable bind, the air between them thick with everything unsaid. He needed an exit, any exit, fast.
The binder would suffice. The leather bound pages rustled in picking the folder from the young woman, she clearly grateful for the shift in topic herself. "Oh, shush. If I want you to remember last night's 'adventure', I'll send you the invoice for my dress." Ah, there was that wry sense of humor. That was more like it. He would just ignore that the Dame had jumped onto that comment like a drowning woman to a raft.
Even so, she still seemed a bit apprehensive. And the reason why became clear as only ink on paper could be upon Riveh opening the binder. Not even the towering noblewoman's fist could have struck him harder. There it was, black on white: the emblem of House Geminus.
"You recall when I went to the municipal records while you were - I don't know - cavorting with that oaf Stig? And I told you that I couldn't find anything on your Lotheed - or Coufas? Whatever - there? Well... That was all true, but... When I came up empty, I tried... looking up you instead."
Ill at ease as she clearly was admitting this, Trant still flew into a defense for herself. "Don't you dare fault me! What was I supposed to do?! I mean, initially I just thought it was due to your... ethnicity or what have you, but everyone else acted as if you were made out of manure as soon as they heard your name, and no one would tell me what that was about! That old fool Wilfen nearly croaked when you introduced yourself! So I just... took the chance to find out myself, but..." A defeated sigh. "When I asked, a record keeper there told me. About your family. In brief."
The gaze managed to meet his again. Tension and sympathy mixed in the twin blue pools. "He said that your house was practically excommunicated. And that the last proper Lord Geminus was dead." And so here they were, two fatherless bluebloods. This commonality was obviously not lost on Trant. Though only one of them stood a chance to rectify that loss. "He also said that those files relating to your family kept in the records were due to be expunged for that same reason. 'Irrelevant' he called them. Apparently the stories about the bureaucracy working at a snail's pace hold true. So I just... took them. I didn't read them!" she added with some anxious insistence. "I decided against it given... Well, it just seemed wrong. I thought... maybe you would want them."
The vast majority of the pages fluttering beneath the ifrit's fingers were, clearly and obviously, administrative busywork. Building permits from a county to be handed the capital; annual reports on income, grain, herds and more; census reports. Hidden amongst this bureaucratic paperwork, however, were traces of Riveh's father, genuine traces. It wasn't just his signature; letters on some matters that required a Lord to argue his case immortalized his reasoning, his priorities, his prose even - a small glimpse into the man's mind. And not just his either. Further back in the folder were documents dating back to the previous Lord Geminus, Riveh's grandfather, even his great-grandfather too. Some small snippets of their voices were preserved here.
Riveh's fingers traced the seal, skin just able to make out the smooth ink versus the rough paper. Like a sculptor feeling his masterpiece, or a man feeling his lover in the dark, the ifrit knew these lines like it was part of himself, like an old scar or the shape of his chin. How many hours had he spent in the sad remains of his family archives, pouring over moldy scrolls and books? His mother had saved what she could during the family's exile but it had been precious little. She had lacked the knowledge or connections to save much.
But he knew the family crest. Indeed, it was all over the manor home he grew up. Carved above fireplaces, into lintels, windowsills and even one unlikely version above the privy. It wasn't the most complex crest. A basic shield, bisected. The top half dominated by a leafy oak tree, with diving roots. Below, three sheaves of wheat, bundled and packed for harvest. Symbols of wealth and power, for Meratt. Signs of where the Geminus wealth had grown from, pardon the pun.
Below were the family words, in old Azlanti. Even now Riveh could feel it under his fingertips, as well as see it in mind's eye."Factam a radicibus" Up from the roots. Clearly a reference to the agricultural wealth of the region and yet...speaking as the last acorn from the tree, Riveh had always seen it differently. He was the last hope, the last root. From him would any further glory would flower.
A tear rose in his eye as he held the tattered documents. To an outsider it might not appear much. Some dry official notes? The usual beucractic residue that filled countless offices across Taldor? But to Riveh it was priceless. He had thought he had read everything left about his family, had poured over every last tome. Made peace with the vast gaps left in the history, closed the door on every knowing more about his heritage. And now, almost as an after thought, he was handed a treasure trove.
It was like a aged blind man being given another day of sight.
Riveh turned away, wiped his eye and then shook himself. he closed the binder, carefully shuffling the pages in order. He looked to Trant and, voice steady said, "Thank you. More then you can know." He glanced toward Factor-12, "Can you commit these records to your memory? Some day maybe I will take you home and you can record those few books too." A glimpse at Trant and Riveh almost offered to bring her along too. But something stopped him.
What was it? Was it too much, too soon? Or was it the memory of the towering woman bullying a poor nobleman into tears? Or was it simply too hard to speak of home?
"Thank you." Riveh said again, unsure of where to go from here.
"Thank you." Riveh said again, unsure of where to go from here.
As was the poor noblewoman, clearly. 'Flustered' was a paltry word at her aspect upon seeing the emotional state elicited by the binder; even the inevitable, whose machine mind could sometimes audibly clatter with fine gears and electrified hums when at its most ponderous, could never be so obviously bewildered as Trant was at this moment. Eyes flung open, aghast and horrified, her hands too were reflexively brought up, as if on some inkling to comfort him she dared not follow. Or to strangle this dangerous sentimentality out of him. Or even to shield her proud self from these mawkish emotions. Who could say? She certainly couldn't and indeed didn't, thunderstruck as she was.
Thank the Gods they had someone both oblivious and uncaring enough to trample all over the laden moment.
"Alarmed query: Master, are your photo receptors leaking?"
Factor-12's tinny voice cut through the heady mood like a run-away golem through a fairground, which was to say that it rather spoiled the moment. The troubled Dame was only grateful for the opportunity to leap back into the comfortable arms of berating, however. "W-will you shut up, you ridiculous thing?! No, he's not leaking! Gods!"
The outburst seemed to at least have helped her regain her footing somewhat. Riveh had gathered that anger was familiar territory to the young woman; sympathy and gratitude, for herself or others, were clearly not. She swallowed. "You... you're very welcome, Geminus." The gaze landed somewhere near his ear. She wasn't able to look him in the eye. "I wasn't sure whether these would mean anything to you, so... But I'm glad. I'm glad that I could do this for you, however insignificant. Uhm... My condolences for your..."
No, this wasn't working. Considerable as her reach was, this didn't aid Trant in grasping for words. Whatever it was she wanted to say, the noblewoman didn't know how to formulate it, and with every syllable pride stoked awkwardness and awkwardness inflamed pride. The high cheekbones were growing red. "I-I should go. You need to get ready for your... party. I'm keeping you. Thank you, again." This hurriedly said, she practically fled the room, a last "Good luck" marking her exit.
----------
Mercifully the ifrit's managed to leave the house without further incident. Daisy the wonder maid was perfectly helpful in getting him prepared, drawing a bath and giving his clothes a quick cleaning, and even Factor-12 assisted. The floating orb had his finery methodically laid out and ready without a word of prompting, and even insisted on doing up those tricky buttoned sleeves for him. Actually, it occurred to Riveh, the machine-creature was acting rather like a valet, that essential personal attendant so endemic to any young man of standing. Not being used to such luxuries, the attention was at the very least flattering.
Now if only he could dissuade the damn thing from remarking on his 'structural weaknesses and inefficient squishy design' on emerging from the bath.
Leaving the mansion with a bow from the halfling (and an errant thought on where in the world the missing mistress of the house was), the ifrit set out for the unfortunately, if accurately, named Cobweb Manor. The charming streets of Westpark were quiet and nearly deserted save for the ever present guards. But lo and behold such was not the case at his destination. Far from being lifeless as a mausoleum, the street outside the estate was now crowded by horses with carriages, each more ostentatious than the last. Did these belong to his fellow guests for the evening? Ah, but Riveh corrected himself; they weren't just his fellow guests, were they? They were his competitors for the much sought jewel. Oh dear, he wondered in passing the waiting coach drivers and assorted personal retinue, drawing a fair amount of suspicious eyes: whatever was he in for?
The house, for its part, appeared as gloomy as he had seen it last. Riveh's walk along the simple gravel path to the decaying mansion was a lonely one. As per the instructions in the invitation, none but the guests were allowed on the grounds. The staff had to wait outside the gate. This circumstance led to a curious otherworldly sensation for the young man in approaching the house. With these onlookers at the back and the great grey corpse of an manor before him, it felt almost as if he was leaving the world of the living to enter some manner of afterlife, the scabbed doors of the house a portal to something beyond this world. Gravel crunched beneath his feet. It shouldn't bring to mind the imagery of splintered bone, and yet. Damn that ability of nightfall to make everything spooky, as indisputable as it was illogical. But like the inevitable march of death, the ifrit eventually reached the main doors. Well, nothing to do but enter, he reasoned.
And so he did. And nearly turned around. This had to be a mistake. Surely this couldn't be right?
The foyer was a ruin. Far from being a neglected home, this reception area - once grand and no doubt beautiful - spoke to the outright inhospitable. The Viscountess lived here? Everywhere the ifrit's supernatural eyes rowed, for the lobby was almost completely dark, he saw only devastation. Wallpaper hung down in great gouged wounds. Pieces of the collapsed ceiling littered the potholed floor. A stairway ahead looked like a deathtrap. And the dust. Hells below, the dust. It coated everything, decaying furniture and floor alike. It was not a dusting, nor even a veneer, but a thick morose snowfall the like that should only have accumulated over centuries. It was unnatural, and it colored everything inside the dullest grey. It was in the heavy air, and within seconds inside Riveh's lungs.
Furthermore, the footprints littering it lead his eye straight to the room's occupants. There were six of them, all standing about a small table with a single burning candle, the only source of light in the room. My, but they looked staggeringly out of place in their colorful finery. His fellow guests, both men and women, cast anxious - not to mention challenging - gazes his way upon entering. Every one of them appeared very uncomfortable with the situation indeed. Even so one of them stepped forward to greet him.
"Good evening, young Sir," he said, a mild smile on his clean-shaven face. "We are all still waiting for our good host to introduce herself, so I fear we must exercise some patience. But please, come out of the dark and join our little circle... oh?"
The well-shaped man cocked his head to one side in considering Riveh, as if momentarily confused, unfurling a tuft of sandy-blond hair tied back in the process. "Ah, but we've met before. Sir Geminus was it?" Eh? Riveh knew this man? Given the turbulence of the last few days, surely he could be excused for not recognizing him, but the ifrit's recollection kicked in as soon as he noted the curious symbol embroidered onto the young-ish man's clothes: a large sword overlaid a scarlet wing. This man was Lord Remiliard Kastner, the paladin.
Riveh looked around in shock and surprise. From outside the house had only look neglected and run down, perhaps just a lack of basic maintenance but from inside....the place was falling apart. No holes in the roof yet, but it was getting close. A certain haunted neglect might be what the Lady of the House was going for, but if Viscountess Vitellia wasn't careful she would soon have a literal ruin on her hands, open to the sky. Hard to hold parties then.
At the moment however, it was a powerful scene. The choking dust, the crumbling walls, the single light source. The gathered guests threw huge, dim shadows on the uneven walls which danced and flickered like nightmares on the edge of sight. It was creepy...and probably more so for the humans whose eyes could not pierce the stygian gloom.
Riveh was surprised though to see someone he knew...or at least recognized. Lord Kastner, the paladin. Right, of course. The man who had he tried to recruit to foil Martella's other agents. Had that really only been a few days ago? It seemed like several lifetimes when the ifrit had worried about such petty things.
"Ah, Sir Kastner. Yes, that is right." He glanced to see if any of the other assembled nobles noted his last name. "We met in the Senate on that...bloody day." Without any affection Riveh shook his head, the vision of Kalbio being killed flashing in front of his eyes.
Riveh shook himself and went on, "I am glad to see you also managed to get out of that alive. " he lowered his voice to a bare whisper, "Perhaps we can talk alone about what either of us might have seen?" Then, smiling he went on at a louder voice, "I do have to admit, this isn't how I imagined Taldane parties. I imagined....less dust." he stomped on the moldering floor and set up a small cloud of gray particles, which swooped in the dim light. "Do you know Viscountess Vitellia at all, Lord Kastner? I only have vague hints and reputation."
"I will listen to whatever you have to say, of course." The paladin nodded his sandy-blond head in a most equitable manner at Riveh's whispered request, although something in his demeanor immediately told him that the man might only be humoring him. He neglected to murmur in return for one, speaking in the same clear tone the nobleman had greeted him in. "And thank you. I too am gladdened to see you well. The cowardly attack claimed far too many, and I would surely be counted among them if not for the grace of my heavenly commander. They will be avenged."
This sentiment seemed entirely genuine, however - or so the ifrit thought - both the pleasure at seeing him alive and the strangely quiet force behind the latter assertion: they will be avenged. "But no," he went on, mild - and ever so slightly affected - smile returning, "I fear I've never had the... pleasure of the Viscountess's company. I take it you too...?"
A scoff, dry and shrill - like the squeak of an elderly church mouse - interrupted them. The injuring party did not appear at all injurious: standing by the small table and lit only by the candle was a woman, in age slipping from autumn to the winter of her life. Excepting her superior sneer, she was if anything wholly average for a Taldan matron in build, height and shape. It was then good that her apparel was anything but ordinary. Riveh had seen a fair number of ostentatious dresses at the Gala, and just as much gaudy jewelry too. What this noblewoman wore was in no way the lesser to anything seen on that occasion, but her headdress - Good Lord. The graying hair had been done up in a fashion almost similar to that the good Trant seemed to like hers. But where the Dame was content to keep her tresses suspended via some ribbons and perhaps a diadem, this woman wore the most bizarre crystal framework upon the head, practically a scaffolding through which her lofty hair was held.
And then there was the fountain. Part of the crystal headgear and artfully hung in the middle of her hair was an honest to goodness miniature waterfall, cascading down her locks only to be caught in a little pool resting on the head and then - so Riveh presumed - somehow filtered back up to run down in a continual stream. It was as impressive as it was ludicrous. Truly this was the fashion capital of the world.
"Do you have an observation to share, Lady Deschamps?" Lord Kastner inquired, so politely that the ifrit wasn't sure whether he was being genuine or putting her on the spot. The Lady Deschamps merely shook her head regally, as if they weren't worthy of her obviously negative opinion of their host. Water threatened to spill out at the motion. But this wasn't the only violent motion about the table.
"*COUGH COUGH* OooOooh..." a heavyset man complained, coughing into an embroidered handkerchief. "You're quite right, my Lady Deschamps, quite right. This dust in entirely intolerable! And with my pleuritis... *COUGH*"
Hairless pink chins, at least three of them, set to wobbling like so much jelly at every dramatic hack. No, 'heavyset' was too generous a term. The man was plainly fat. Hell, unless Riveh's supernaturally keen eyes failed him in the dark - and they really shouldn't - he was nearly as wide as he was tall. And he wasn't particularly short either. The nobleman was every bit as well dressed as the woman who by appearances shared his age, if not as extravagantly and thank the gods for that. He almost looked like he'd been standing beneath a waterfall of his own, however. Drenched in sweat, he dabbed at his forehead and beneath his chins with a second kerchief incessantly, a very nervous look dominating his small eyes. "Ooh, and just on the very night my hemorrhoids chose to flare up..." A sticky hand reached out to Riveh absentmindedly. "Verynicetomeetyou, young man. What did you say your name was again?"
"This would be the honorable Baron Clestris," the paladin helpfully added beside the ifrit. "And this..."
"Demibaroness Strephianna Catorax," a younger woman interrupted her own introduction, flying forward in a small storm of red and black silks to snatch Riveh's hand with vigor, a confident smile on her painted lips. "Diplomat from her Infernal Majestrix to Taldor. You're charmed, I'm sure."
Hold on, a Chelish ambassador? What was... "Junior diplomat." The dry interjection had once again come from the older noblewoman, and said correction elicited the slightest of twitches in the young emissary's sharp eyes. "Yes, thank you, Lady Deschamps." The false mask of bold conviviality - for false it clearly was - only pieced itself together with some effort. The young woman - dark haired and pale like so many of her countrymen - had some of the unfortunate predatory aspect of a cat to her, rather ruining her attempt at geniality if not her charm as such. For much like a cat she was sleek and well shaped, a fact her flimsy dress did little to hide. If anything, judging by the twin mounds nearly pressing up against Riveh, trussed tight and high, it had been designed to utilize her every asset.
"Harrumph. And this young man would be Sir Adhi Varima." Mercifully Lord Remiliard took him right around the table to greet the last member of the little group, a well dressed man... well, almost boy of roughly Riveh's age. He was a slight creature with a juvenile build, though of greater interest was his ethnicity for he was clearly something more - or indeed less - than just Taldane. Thick, sleek, shiny black hair adorned the head which was of a soft caramel color. Curious. He had no word of greeting, however, merely nodding to the ifrit, thick eyebrows furrowed in displeasure. "I hope you'll get along," the paladin added very paternally, and more than a little bit condescendingly. "And finally..."
What? There was more? Riveh looked about the little gathering. Dour Deschamps, neurotic Clestris, vivacious Catorax and sullen Varima. No, he'd greeted them all in quick succession. Unless a ghost or two floated about in this ruin of a foyer (entirely possible) there wasn't anyone else here to see. It was only at this point he became aware of a creature somewhere near his knees, something small and timid enough to be lost beneath the table. "Uhm... G-good evening, milord," she curtsied to him. A halfling? What was a halfling doing here? The tiny woman looking up at him with anxious eyes was... utterly unremarkable in every way. Wide, simple face. Brown hair. A simple dress of a sort Riveh thought he had seen before in some local dance during his rural childhood. This certainly wasn't a noblewoman. This wasn't even a lady-in-waiting. Who was she?
"My-my name is Ella Rosewinter, Sir. I'm... I'm no one at all. But!" she added hastily, even fearfully, "I have an invitation!" True enough, the lavishly written note she held out was seemingly identical to the ifrit's own.
"I still say the fur-toed wretch stole the letter," the Demibaroness added, eagerly and venomously.
"Now now," Kastner mediated. "She has just as much right to be here as anyone of us. We should merely reflect on the Viscountess's... generosity."
It was clear that none of the others were convinced. Chelish Catorax let a malicious gaze linger on the hafling. Well, this was quite the colorful ensemble of guests, Riveh could only conclude. Gods only knew what Vitellia had in mind with this ragtag group specifically. Hopefully such a disparate bunch didn't foretell too volatile a dinner. But it was strange, wasn't it? He took a moment to count the guests, confirming his misgiving. Yes, six guests. And with him that made seven. An odd number. Outsider to Taldor's aristocracy that he was, the ifrit still knew that one typically invited an even amount of guests to a dinner party. That wasn't just tradition, it was practical. Was there someone still missing?
The main doors flew open. In strode the final guest, the last rays of sunlight accompanying him inside. And with him the evening just got a whole lot weirder. He was made out of gold.
"Gods, what a pigsty!" the golden idol grumbled, dusting off his immaculate suit with a golden hand, then brushing back a lock of spun gold from his gilded face. He was in his late 40s by Riveh's estimate, a tall and strongly built man. And he was made out of gold.
"Grand Duke Avernathus... Is that you?" The paladin, clearly at a loss for words, nevertheless managed to croak. He wasn't the only one stunned at the sudden arrival.
"Of course it's me, Kastner! So you survived the Massacre as well, eh? Good man!"
This was going to be a strange dinner, wasn't it?
Paladins had a good reputation. They were considered honorable and trustworthy, people liked them. In stories, if not the main character, they were loyal guides or brothers in arms, brave and capable fighters that never gave up. Riveh had to agree with this assessment but it wasn't Kastner's supposed bravery or prowess with a blade that he found useful right now, but his helpful habit of introducing people by name.
Riveh would have been even more lost without the helpful Lord name-dropping every dinner gest. And what a guest list it was. Riveh had always imagined the Taldane upper-crust as being a very... 'un-diverse'. His own family history seemed to prove his point. His father had dared marry a non-human and for that, his rivals had virtually extinguished the family and dismantled all of its hard won power.
And yet now, at a noble party in the heart of Oppara itself, Riveh found this. A Chelishwoman, a dark-skinned man of unknown but surely not Taldane heritage, a halfling and some man made out of literal gold? What on Golarion was going on? Had things changed in Taldor? Was the Viscountess Vitellia just eccentric? Or had the Massacre so thoroughly drained the available pool of party goers?
Automatically though Riveh began sizing them as potential rivals for his prize. The diamond. Riveh had no idea what the Lady Vitellia would be looking for. Gods only knew what she expected from her guests, but on the surface Riveh thought Catorax might be his most formidable obstacle. She was vigorous, trained and....attractive.
Riveh closed his eyes and sighed to himself. After this whole issue with Trant, he was starting to question his own taste in women.
Back to the matter at hand. Lady Deschamps seemed the epitome of the old guard that Vitellia apparently despised, with Baron Clestris being much the same. Not very impressive anyway. Sir Adhi Varima was obviously a foreigner of some type...Vudra perhaps? In any case, he seemed dour enough to hurt his chances.
Riveh could probably safely dismiss the simple halfling girl as a social rival (although his back itched whenever he turned away from her). Memories of Filibert died hard.
And Grand Duke Avernathus was a giant, glittering enigma. What even was he? A construct? No, surely not. Someone cursed with a strange aliment? Or just a wizard showing off? He seemed lively enough, but not very circumspect, insulting the house right off the bat.
What a meal this would be.
What did one say when in a position such as this? Why say anything at all? Little could have prepared poor belabored Riveh Geminus for the situation he found himself in, certainly, and so he chose - perhaps wisely - to say nothing. Simply keeping one's head down was rarely the most glorious option, but it was often the prudent one. His fellow guests were not so cautious, however.
"But my lord Avernathus," Kastner went on, recovering somewhat from his earlier shock at the golden idol's entrance. "How can this be?" The barefaced astonishment had retreated into a benign bewilderment, albeit with a wary edge at the corner of the eye. Riveh had to momentarily wonder how much of the paladin's demeanor - wholesome and inoffensive as a choirboy - was genuine or an affectation at this undeniably skeptical edge. But then he supposed one couldn't remain wholly innocent as an ordained vanquisher of evil. The nobleman had looked as if he'd seen a ghost earlier. And the reason why immediately became clear. "Forgive me, but I heard you died in the attack."
Triple chins, soggy with sweat, audibly clapped as obese Baron Clestris nodded to this assertion, still bug-eyed and astonished. Most of the gathering still appeared mightily disturbed at Avernathus's resplendent image, in fact. Hold on, what? Were they all talking to a dead man? For his part, the spun gold decorating the Grand Duke's heavy brow merely lowered in discontent, the featureless gilded orbs that were his eyes scrutinizing all gathered. A dusty moment passed in the dilapidated foyer, uncomfortable silence adding weight to its already ghost-laden air - only for the tension to be broken by his booming laughter. "Well, you're misinformed, my friends! Gravely misinformed! Ha hah! For as it turns out, all the poets and priests - those miserable spoilsports - were talking a load of rubbish. Gentlemen and ladies, we are not in fact all equal in the grave, whether king or pauper! I paid my way out of the Gray Lady's Boneyard! Hah!"
He'd done what now? Somewhere below the ifrit the anxious halfling signed Pharasma's spiral before her chest, as if to ward herself from this blasphemy. Before Lord Remilliard could ask him to elaborate, the Grand Duke went on, striding into the room with confidence. "It's all perfectly simple. Well, it's all ancient foreign magic, so perhaps not that simple, but in essence: some years ago I bought this hideous trinket from Osirion. You know my youngest, Lady Deschamps? He does some business there, digs up their mummies and whatnot. He found me an ugly old statue, something their sorcerer kings supposedly had made, and tells me it was meant to ward them from their nonsense afterlife. A 'shabti' I think he called it although he'd probably tell me I'm not pronouncing that right. Hideous language. Regardless, the thing was solid gold so I took it in, put it inside a closet and forgot about it. But then!" He gestured with a golden hand like an experienced storyteller. "Then some black-clad whoreson at the Gala took my head off! Only for me to wake up inside that very closet! I tell you, I scared the help half to death in banging on the door, ha ha hah!"
Everyone present (save the halfling) was visibly impressed at this tale, the Demibaroness perhaps a little excessively so. She looked ready to clap her little silk enveloped hands. "Damned if I know how it all works, but that awful bauble somehow grew into me. Or I grew into it. Hardly matters. All that matters is that I'm alive and now have a shot at reviving myself! Can't walk about all glittering like this forever, can I? My horses don't even recognize me anymore."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that too soon, Grand Duke," Catorax replied, flattery hanging off her every syllable like syrup. "Your new aspect is quite impressive. Once the nation gets some respite you may very well see yourself inspire a new fashion." The golden idol smiled at this, reluctantly. At least Riveh wasn't alone in his weakness for beautiful women.
"Don't flatter me, young woman. I know you Chelishmen too well for that. I'm here for one thing alone. And on that point: where is that witch Vitellia?" While the appellation might be unfair, the question was not. Where was their host? The group, almost on reflex, looked about the ruined foyer upon the Grand Duke doing so, as if expecting the woman to jump out from behind a dusty divan. They were all reminded of their eerie position that this walking gold ingot had distracted them from: huddled among a tiny island of light amidst a black sea of darkness. An unearthly stillness dominated the house.
"Well..." Kastner had only just opened his mouth, no doubt to helpfully explain events as he had done for the ifrit, when Avernathus's golden gaze happened upon Riveh. The features shifted immediately from pompous ease to disbelief to affront. Sensing this the paladin queried: "Grand Duke? Something the matter?"
Avernathus sputtered. "'Something the matter'?! Are you blind, man?! Who let in the bleeding Qadiran?!" Ah, bless the saintly Kastner for even now he stood ready to defend him as he had done the halfling, raising a mollifying hand to the Grand Duke. But a hand could not stop a torrent. "No, don't bother, I know a Qadiran when I see one! Haggled with enough of them by now, the thieving bastards. I can smell the sand and blood on this one too! Why is he here?!"
Of course, the Grand Prince had rather lost his appetite for anything equestrian after his son - Princess Eutropia's younger brother - had fallen from his saddle to his death as a young boy.
What threatened to be an unfortunate altercation was mercifully stopped short. What brought about this cessation was only arguably preferable, however. A door opened. All eyes turned towards the eastern wing of the foyer where a creaking door - its lamentation screeching into the vaulted darkness - slowly swung open. Images of hauntings could not help but be evoked in the ifrit's mind. But it did not swing on its old hinges of its own accord. No, there was someone behind it who now entered the room. And although once grand and still large, the foyer felt small with the entrance of its newest occupant.
Stavian's Fire, the man was a giant. Riveh had almost gotten used to bending his head back somewhat with Trant, but this man - creature? - was taller than her by far. A great big block of a person, a veritable barn door, lurched his way through the portal, only rising to his full height of some eight feet once inside. Eight feet? Was that even possible without a healthy dose of giant blood? Perhaps he wasn't wholly human, despite the perfectly civilized garb. For he wore - nay, was stuffed into - a smart uniform that beyond its size would not have looked out of place on any of the nation's respected butlers. Of course, this only made the visage poking out of that polished garb all the more monstrous by contrast. To say that he was scarred was an understatement. The giant looked like he'd been torn apart and stitched back together. The ifrit's imagination boggled at conjuring any injury extensive enough for the crosshatch of scarring that ran across the square head perched atop the wide shoulders - certainly none that a person might survive. For a moment he merely regarded them with eyes so deep-set as to not be visible, not even with the lantern he carried.
Then he took a step into the room, shoe as big as a shovel. This elicited a jump from most of the transfixed guests as they were scared out of their stupor. With the floorboards complaining beneath the giant's sheer weight, he shuffled his way over to them, reaching the halfling first by virtue of everyone else retreating behind the table. The halfling by constrant - this Ella Rosewinter - looked so utterly terrified as to not even be able to do that. The scene before Riveh was now utterly ridiculous: this titan standing before a tiny woman was like something only seen in fables, in the imagery of preachers in warning of the predation of Evil. But it was neither massacre or temptation that followed. The man merely pointed a thick, stubby finger - twice the size of Riveh's thumb - to the invitation still clutched in the halfling's fist. She held it out in response, no doubt more so reflexively than out of any conscious thought.
The giant looked. And then nodded. No word was said, the mouth merely set in an dispassionate grimace. He then turned to Riveh.
Well that was one mystery solved, Riveh thought as the blustering Duke Avernathus explained his rather mellitic condition. The man hadn't always been a golden idol but had been magically transformed...or transferred to it. Riveh knew, vaguely, of such magical barriers to death. Phylactery, right? They had a rather sinister reputation however and Riveh wondered, if these had been normal times, how the grand élite of Taldor might have taken such a re-birth? Did this man count, in a legal sense, as a successor of the former Duke? At least according to the assembly here though, it seemed a minor matter. One thing, seeing Catorax lay on the flattery with a trowel helped break her spell on him, at least. It was like seeing through a conjurerers trick when he performed for someone else. perspective was everything.
That was quickly forgotten when the pompous man rounded on Riveh and let loose a stream of casual but hateful invective. Blood and sand? When setting out for high society, Riveh knew this would be an obstacle. In one sense, these views were the reason he had to do this at all. But the last few days had driven such thoughts from his mind and besides, he expected such insults to be whispered behind his back, not announced to his face!
Riveh's hands balled into fists and he almost said something very hot and very foolish when a new door opened. And through it marched the largest human Riveh had ever seen. It was that simple. Riveh had never encountered anyone as large as the lurching giant that stepped into the decaying and over crowded foyer. Everyone was clearly stunned to silence as the man's size seemed to only increase as he loomed over the tiny halfling. And yet, in some deep part of Riveh's mind, he still felt more afraid of the halfing (and a knife in the back) then the scarred colossus.
Then he was next and Riveh offered his invitation up as politely as he could. The ifrit wondered if the order meant anything or was the giant just going at random?
In any case, Riveh was here to win a diamond. And to do that, he needed to sound out his possible rivals. Picking a bit at random he walked over to Sir Adhi Varima, and nodded politely. 'I believe I met a relative of yours a few days ago. Earl Gahez Varima. Can I hope he survived the Massacre? He gave me information that was very valuable to me and seemed and honorable man." To be honest Riveh had entirely forgot about the Earl but what he said was true enough. It had been the ambassador that had revealed Martella's cruel double game.
More scars. It was difficult not to stare at the spade of a palm reaching out for Riveh's invitation. Beyond its sheer size, the hand too was inordinately scarred and the common comparison to shoe-leather leapt to mind. No dock worker, nor lumberjack or indeed mountaineer ever enjoyed as tough a pair of mitts as these, surely. The ifrit's own almost disappeared in it as he handed over the note. Thankfully the giant did not suddenly and cruelly decide to snap about his arm like a beartrap, instead merely slowly bringing the invitation the long way up to his eyes for inspection. A moment passed in complete silence.
And then - a barely audible murmur of approval, like the rumbling of an unseen dragon from deep within its cave lair. Without a word the giant stepped to Baron Clestris and repeated the process. The poor man was sweating more profusely still in fumbling through some pockets for the slip of paper. Well then. Should he just take this for a positive sign, Riveh wondered? After all, the presence of a manservant, even one as unusual as this, did infer a functioning household, didn't it? Perhaps Cobweb Manor wasn't the ruin it seemed. Perhaps the Viscountess wasn't quite - dared he hope? - as eccentric as the stories claimed. Hope sprang eternal.
Whatever the case, he found himself with a few free minutes as the giant inspected the guests' 'passes'. Time enough to sound out a potential rival. So it was that the ifrit approached the young man arguably as out of place by virtue of his skin tone as himself, even in the midst of golden men, giants, devil worshippers and old ladies with waterfalls on their heads. What a world. At his polite nod, the stranger returned the gesture, though only after some obvious thought.
"Good evening," he said simply before looking away, clearly intending for the interaction to stretch no further than that. How amicable.
Even so Riveh had trouble discerning whether the young man was genuinely unsociable, or if he was just being careful. As he himself was so perfectly aware, the guests were all rivals. Heck, perhaps this Sir Varima was just hiding some shy streak; he was after all quite young. Maybe a year or two younger than himself in fact, the ifrit noted upon now seeing him up close. More notable, however, was the resemblance to the Earl Varima whom he'd met at the gala. Same skin tone, same thick black hair worn long. Even the clothes of brightly colored exotic silk was similar. But as in all comparisons it were the differences that stood out, chiefly and foremost their demeanor. Where the Earl had been meek, prone to stammers and eager to please, this Adhi Varima was as unwelcoming as a Lastwall border watchman eyeing an orc. Everything from his tightly knit thick eyebrows to the closed posture spoke to the confrontational, and this impression held true upon Riveh mentioning Gahez Varima
"You met him?" New acknowledgement passed over the young man, he regarding the ifrit from top to bottom, before darkening into anger. "Well, if you found him so 'honorable', why didn't you help him, huh? Get away from me, coward!"
Unfair and unfounded as this denunciation was, the ifrit found good cause to do as commanded and walk away. For at just this moment the giant finished looking over every invitation present, and - apparently satisfied - silently turned to shuffle back towards the door he had come from. Looking back over one mountainous shoulder, he beckoned the guests to follow dispassionately. Was the giant leading them to the Viscountess? This was clearly the assumption among the group as they hesitantly left the perceived safety of the lone candlestick to follow the giant's lantern. Riveh too saw little option but to do the same.
Except when he moved to do so he felt a hand land lightly at his back. Lord Kastner had, very deliberately, walked to his side and now gently - surreptitiously - slowed his step. What in the world was he doing? An inquiring gaze was merely met with a near-imperceptible shake of the head, as if he didn't want any of the others to see. Only when the two of them formed the end of the small procession following the butler did the paladin speak in a whisper.
"I must say, I was very heartened to see you here, Sir Geminus." A little smile lit up the darkness, the man not even looking at Riveh to further obscure the fact that they were speaking. "This is a stratagem from my heavenly commander, I know it. He led you here so that our odds at victory might be that much higher." Hold on, what? "It is good to know that even should I fail to impress the Viscountess, you might still succeed in our shared mission."
Shared mission? What shared mission? The ifrit's confusion must have been momentarily visible as a small wrinkle formed at the paladin's forehead. "Why, our mission to revive your friend Kalbio of Breezy Creek. That is why you are here, is it not?"
Riveh recoiled in shock and surprise as Adhi let loose some rather stinging venom. The ifrit had not pegged the young Vudran as very social but hadn't expected that level of animosity in what, at least to Riveh, seemed a polite line of inquiry. For a moment though his anger and annoyance melted away as the young man's words swirled in his mind.
'Why didn't you help him?'
How could he explain what the Massacre had been like? The shock, the fear, the sheer terror? The confusion as he watched black clad figures rush into the Senate, the heart of Taldor itself, and cut men and women down with abandon. How helpless he had felt, suddenly ankle deep in blood? Help someone? It was like asking a sailor why he had not stilled a hurricane.
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It was a common trope in stories to compare sudden shock and surprise with the stab of a dagger, as if to equate the bite of silvered steel and emotion. Having experienced both in the course of a few days, Riveh could now say, with great authority, this was the usual exaggeration.
The shock hurt much worse.
Kastner's words stopped Riveh as surely as if the looming bodyguard had punched him. He froze in place, one foot off the ground. Breath escaped as the paladin mentioned a name that, shamefully, Riveh had not thought of in...days? Again the ifirt's vision swam with views of the Massacre but this time focusing on the nightmarish opening sequence. Grand Prince Stvian himself, without warning, slicing open Kalbio's throat. Bright red blood bursting out, staining the white marble floor....
Slowly Riveh shakes his head, taking a shuddering breath, "No...that is not why I am here." Then, shamefully Riveh added in a quiet voice suitable for a child admitting a sin to his parent, "I had not even considered it. I am here on behalf of a...."[/]b Of a what, exactly? Who was Trant? Political ally? Comrade-in-arms? Possible lover?
[b]"On behalf of a friend, who also lost a loved on the Senate floor that day. A father." A short pause, "Your heavenly commander apparently thinks I am a better man then I am. Poor Kalbio....he never...I mean, I barely..." Excuses dripped off of him like a icicle melting in springtime. Finally, "Would he even want to live in a city, in a country like this?" It was trite but the simple, simply good-natured weaver seemed too....whole a soul for the decaying morass Taldor had become.
"I... I see."
Oh, but these poor abused men. For if Riveh felt as if he'd taken a dagger to the gut, then Remilliard looked like he'd suffered a smack to the face. Befuddled and staring into the dusty floor, the paladin very literally resembled someone who'd lost their thread. Clearly he had been certain in his assumption. "Then I apologize, Sir Geminus. It was wrong - foolhardy of me to presume your... It's just that..." Regret and righteousness waged war over the earnest features, as if he wanted to ask the ifrit whether he was quite sure of his answer. "When I saw you come through those doors, I couldn't imagine who else you would wish to revive. But I shall bite my tongue! Your cause is your own and not mine to question. If you say that you are here on behalf of a friend then I wish you every luck. Even if we contend against one another this evening."
Champions of justice though they might be, the holy warriors known as paladins were not necessarily renowned for being fair-minded. Mired in doctrine and dogma - of differing beliefs at that - the stories of these warrior monks' zeal carrying them into fanaticism were as numerous as they were arguably unfair. True or not, this was obviously not the case with Lord Kastner. The man was clearly - visibly so - restraining himself to allow Riveh to follow his own path. It was laudable, to be sure. And just a bit concerning. For some sort of internal conflict was plain to see on the usually so assured brow, coming to a head with the ifrit's woeful query: was it right to bring Kalbio back to this sinful earth from the rightful paradise he no doubt resided in now? "I shall have to ask him."
The reply - more so a light jest predicting the paladin's victory - was spoken across a wan smile and easily recognizable for the evasion that it really was. Somehow Riveh's admission had given the man something to think on. Furthermore, he didn't want to discuss the matter with anyone but his own conscience. "Let us speak of this no further." The request did not rely on the ifrit's cooperation, the man breaking away from their shared place at the tail of the group by simply picking up the pace slightly. Riveh was left following Baron Clestris's enormous - and supposedly hemorrhoid ridden - hindquarters before him. At least he wasn't likely to lose that target in the dark. The giant was leading the procession down dim hallways flanked by grimy portraits that looked to not have been touched in a man's age. This coating of dirt rendered all those pictured indistinct, not to mention lending them an unfortunately sinister aspect as the mind is wont to read all features obscured. Smiles turned into malevolent grins; painted shade turned into blood spatter; eyes turned into black - and pursuing - pits. These were the spectators following the guests' journey further into this dead world that was the mansion, itself a ghost of a something grand and vibrant if not housing any specters as such. With every screech from the complaining floorboards the ifrit was reminded of his earlier sensation here, that of venturing into some ghoulish afterlife. Grey with age, dusty with neglect, full of the wails of its own decrepitness and the twisted dead on its walls - what was this if not a necropolis? They even had their very own ferryman on this River Styx - this winding hallway - in the form of the inhuman giant.
What did that make the guests if not the damned? Though on the topic of everything grim, that was actually fading. Riveh first noticed it in the dust which after another doorway was not as all-pervasive and thick as elsewhere. Then upon another corner there were the wall mounted lanterns, actually lit and burning bright. Rather than sinking deeper into some hellscape, the estate was actually coming more alive the further into it they were led. Soon its dreary walls and darkened corners had graduated from the abandoned to the merely neglected and with it came a lightening of spirit within all the guests, albeit one marred by confusion. What was going on in this strange house? Finally their silent shepherd grasped another door handle in his enormous fist, pulled it open, and...
Was this what stepping through a planar portal was like? The ifrit had to wonder as stepping through this last door was little different from crossing one reality into another. They had entered a dining room. And what a room. Pristine white walls painted with leaf gold in intricate patterns formed the four borders of the large space. Dominating it in its middle was a long table - fit to seat a dozen if not more - of pale wood, lacquered and polished to a mirror shine, a purpose it was fulfilling admirably as it was indeed reflecting the two golden chandeliers hanging high above. High-backed chairs, ten in total, flanked the table, every one of them exquisitely crafted with geometric imagery. And then, just to complete the picture - Demibaroness Catorax jumped beside him as a violin struck a fervent tune; a hitherto unnoticed attendant, clad in an all-white robe complete with face veil and rather blending into the environment, began playing his instrument in one corner. Right. What was a meal without some dinner music to aid one's digestion?
"What the hell?" Grand Duke Avernathus commented simply. Most of the others appeared similarly baffled.
For the first time she he has entered this bizarre event, Riveh actually feels like laughing. While everyone else is gobsmacked at the strange and pristine room, hidden like a pearl in a rotting clam, Riveh takes it in stride. It was no surprise to him. He knew his mother always made special effort when, in the rare event of having guests, of cleaning and repairing the rooms they would see. Keeping up the entire rambling Geminus estate in good shape was beyond their means, but by the Gods they would never let anyone know that. The effect here might be the same. Perhaps the Mistress of the House lacked the resources to prepare more then this one festive space.
Riveh laughed out loud and, with malicious aforethought, slapped Grand Duke Avernathus on his auriferous back. "It is called a party, my Lord. You know, the thing they invited us for?"
"Well done, Head Butler." Riveh says lightly to the looming scarred figure, who seemed far more suited to the crumbling hallways above then this bright, clean room. "You have led us from the wilds to the promise land, without the loss of a single man. You are a credit to your employer."
Deciding to be bold, Riveh strides past him, into the room. He politely bows to the veiled musician in thanks, although he didn't expect anything in return. Taldane servants were meant to be seen, not noticed.
"Do we have assigned seats, my good man?" the ifrit asks, glancing at the arranged place settings, then adds in a mockery of Taldane 'old boy' pompousness. "Or is it a good old fashioned scramble?"
Whosoever this anonymous violin player was, they were clearly only human. For suddenly the bow skidded along its strings creating a wail as that of an amorous cat abruptly and tragically shot dead. The cause for this misplay of an otherwise enjoyable tune was simple enough: an out of the blue racket had startled and interrupted the recital. More specifically, Riveh had done so. While not intended as a wholly harmless gesture, the young man had not intended this upon slapping the Grand Duke's back. A cacophonous, metallic clang of the harshest sort rang out to scurry its way painfully into the ears of everyone present. Stavian's fire, it was like striking an empty suit of plate armor. Was the man... hollow?
Mystifying as the inner workings of his new body doubtlessly were, Avernathus showcased one curiously biological function as he wheeled around to face the ifrit with indignation: his golden cheeks were turning red-hot, as if twin little furnaces were stored there. He was furious. Clearly Riveh had embarrassed him more deeply than even he had intended, all eyes now on him and the strangeness of his form. "It will be a very dark day indeed, sir" he said, voice oscillating in anger, "when a Qadiran is invited into the nation instead of slain beneath a border fort's walls."
Perhaps the prudent course lay in deescalating the situation. The violin player clearly thought so, hurriedly resuming their recital with a soothing diapson. Addressing the tall, dark and not-so-handsome butler did not result in much of a distraction, predictably, though neither did this one appear the least bothered by the scene. Riveh's praise to the scarred giant elicited nothing more than another low-pitched grumble, neither pleased nor peeved, though at least acknowledging. One had to wonder whether famously deep voiced diva Lady Morilla's contralto could go so low. The giant's bass could almost be felt in the floor. As did his heavy steps no doubt, even if these cleanly washed floorboards did not complain beneath his soles; seemingly unprovoked the colossus abruptly left. Riveh watched the massive square of a man shuffle for another door, enter it, and disappear. Where was he off to? Left with a slight feeling of abandonment, the ifrit and the others could only speculate what came next. His query on seating had gone entirely unanswered.
However, no worry was warranted. In the very moment one door closed, the last door of the dining room - in the opposite end of the chamber - opened. Out stepped three figures though the two were scarcely noticeable compared to the woman they flanked. Riveh reflected that not only were these servants not meant to be noticed, as all good Taldan servants, their white, veiled uniforms were likely intended for them to go unseen as well, blending with the bright surroundings. Whether the effect of making the extravagant noblewoman stand out that much stronger in comparison was intentional or not was unclear, but such was certainly the effect. Well. This was her then. The Viscountess Ala Vitellia. Having never met her before, the ifrit did not recognize her as such. Nevertheless there was a certain feature about her that rendered the woman unmistakable: the spiders.
From the tip of her high heels to the top of her artfully done hair the lady was bedecked in arachnid imagery. Elegant shoes with straps fashioned like spindly spider legs wrapped themselves up shapely legs clad in grey gossamer stockings, left bare for a viewer's delectation by a hemline that straddled the line between tasteful eroticism and the outright provocative. Actually, Riveh was pretty sure he'd seen that same footwear during his last visit at Thread Rare. Considering the gift he'd brought this was fortunately not the case with the dress, a tight-fitting affair in royal purple, flaunting the wearer's slim form - almost concerningly skinny in fact - with an almost robe-like trail of silken webbing trailing behind her. The thin arms were bare save for gloves of silver silk, and the midnight black hair adorned with a little veil coquettishly set askew; the web shroud - set with black pearls forming the bodies of little spiders - covered only half her face. As for that much vaunted face... The ifrit could not help but be surprised. The Viscountess was a tiefling, wasn't she? Wasn't her fiend blood the whole reason behind the hullaballoo with House Vitellia? So he had heard and yet the visage peering out at her guests was perfectly normal. Lovely even. Thin as she was, the woman's pale face teetered on the edge of the gaunt, and even so she was quite beautiful. Full lips, painted dark and contrasting with the porcelain of her skin, smiled confidently - perhaps even a little sultrily. A strong, straight nose peered out from behind the veil, as did one emerald eye, almond shaped and playful. Excepting a unnaturally sharp cheekbone she appeared wholly human. Strange.
These considerations would have to wait, however. Riveh's observations were interrupted by excited clapping; Demibaroness Catorax had broken out into applause at their host's entrance, something a nervous Baron Clestris had joined her in with the others following, some with clear reluctance. Right, the ifrit thought he'd heard of this. Applauding the entrance of their host was a somewhat antiquated social more of the Taldan aristocracy, to some even considered a bit gauche, but Catorax had gone for it regardless, evidently eager to please. The Viscountess didn't seem to mind for that matter, putting on a feigned little show of embarrassment. Right up until she didn't, suddenly holding out a hand for silence. She did not have to wait long.
"Good evening, honorable peers, new and old, and welcome to my home." She had a pleasant enough voice, this noblewoman. So why did the ifrit feel an edge of irony in her pronunciation of 'peers'? "I see some familiar faces here, and some delightfully unfamiliar ones as well. It is always a pleasure to serve new tongues the delectable offerings of House Vitellia, and I trust you shall remember the meal to come... for the rest of your lives." Oh dear. There it was again. "But of course I haven't had the opportunity to entertain guests for some time now. My invitations to your own feasts have been curiously waylaid - over years - just as my own social calls to you have received no reply. A misunderstanding, I'm sure! You will have to attribute any faux pas of mine tonight to lack of practice. But no matter! We are all here now. Tonight’s banquet is brought to us by master chef Annatolintis Tasetas, all the way from Katapesh, and consists of four expertly prepared courses. I expect the conversation to be lively and thought-provoking, and I shall accept your gifts during the serving of dessert. Without further ado, let us begin!"
The said the noblewoman moved to take her seat at the head of the table. Well then. Apparently the guests were free to choose among those chairs remaining as the ifrit had speculated upon. Before any bottoms could meet any seats, however, the opposite door opened again. The giant was back. And he wasn't alone. He was carting a wheelchair.
"Oh, but as I said - you will have to forgive me!" Vitellia thrilled. "No formal dinner is complete without the lord of the house. Lady Deschamps, Baron Clestris, you two of course know my husband? Seat him by the end, Lugg my dear, thank you."
"Oh! Right! And whatever you do, don't comment on her husband. Just ignore him, okay? Alright, now I really have to go. Good luck!"
Ah. So that's what Martella had meant in her mechanized missive this morning. Wheeled into position by the scarred giant was a skeleton. Just a dusty skeleton in a suit.
Well, two things were very clear. One, Duke Avernathus was a bigot who made Riveh's blood boil. Second, Viscountess Vitellia was entirely mad. That seemed beyond doubt, judging from the eccentric attire, weird mannerisms and, of course, the skeleton of her(very) late husband. The real question was...what sort of madness gripped her? Was it just random insanity revealing itself via a distortion of Taldane custom or did the woman have some deeper game? Was she, as the old huntsman on the Geminus estate used to say, crazy like a fox?
Or just out of her mind?
If the former then this might very well be pointless. Did the diamond even exist? And if did, who knows how a veritable disturbed lady might decide to hand it out. However, if she was merely eccentric, then there might be rules to her game, something Riveh could play and win. He needed to discover this...but how?
Only one way. By talking to her.
As the lumbering Lugg wheeled up the desiccated remains, Riveh nimbly stepped forward and bowed low saying directly to the Vicsountess, "If I may have the honor of seating you, Lady Vicountess?"
He of course used that opening to grab himself a seat next to the spider-webbed woman. Or at least tried to.
Right. With the introduction of their host (with spouse), the mansion might have transformed from dilapidated ruin to madhouse, but Riveh kept his wits about him. He was a man on a mission; best to just keep cool and get on with it, 'it' being ingratiating himself to this strange, strange woman. Gods help him. Darting right up to her with daring driving every light step, he reached the Viscountess's chair before her - and indeed before a white-clad servant who had moved in to do the same, but backed away respectfully at his motion.
"My!" she exclaimed at his offer, smile not deviating from the theatrical demeanor yet nevertheless lit by something seemingly genuine. "You're awfully eager to prove yourself gallant, aren't you? But I do so appreciate gentlemen and toadies both, so of course you may."
Hm. While mayhap not exactly the response he had been hoping for, the noblewoman appeared perfectly pleased so that was something. Perhaps he should just count his blessings, actually. There was something undeniably... unnerving about his host. In meeting with her up close, the ifrit felt his muscles tense as they might do with a supposedly trained and neutered lion: the mind might accept the civility of the creature before him, but the body merely registered a predator in disguise. Only barely hidden, there was an eagerness in the slim frame in seeing it near, an animal hunger. Not knowing what for only made it that much more disconcerting.
The way she very pointedly put her own thin hand onto his holding the chair in being seated was also rather suspect. But before the dinner could get underway... "Alright, I'm ending his charade right now!"
Who but the Grand Duke? All the others guests appeared deeply affected at the introduction of the bones of the departed Lord Vitellia to the table, some more so than others. In particular, poor Baron Clestris's eyes looked ready to roll down his mighty chin. Avernathus, however, was a man affronted. "If you have invited us here only to mock and taunt, profaning the remains of your honorable husband, then I'll have no part of it. Let's skip whatever farce of a dinner you have planned, and get to what this is really about, shall we?" He crossed his gold plated hands. "I'm offering 25,000 for the diamond."
To say that this caused a stir among the others would be an understatement. All eyes turned from the dusty skeleton to the golden idol, newly unveiled as the true threat before them. "But that's unfair!" Sir Varima complained, childishly. "Grand Duke Avernathus, this is hardly decent of you!" a more mature Lady Deschamps interjected, going on: "We were lead here under pretense of a contest, not a bidding war."
"Oh shush, woman!" Just as gold did not tarnish, the protests had no effect on the nobleman. "Naivety is not attractive in a lady your age, Deschamps. We all know how the world works by now: money rules! Money is what nations are built on or indeed ended by as we all saw just a few nights ago. Hell, money bought me out of the Great Beyond once and they'll do so again now! Besides, I refuse to play this witch's games. 25,000, Vitellia. You won't get a better offer. C'mon, hand it over."
"Tw-tw-tw-27,000!" Clestris stammered.
And with that the dining room turned into an auction hall, Avernathus, Deschamps and Clestris all loudly outbidding each other by the second. Catorax and Varima could only look on, indignant and evidently hopelessly outmatched where riches were concerned. And as for Riveh: he could only stand by the Viscountess and watch her smile grow with concern. It was only when that grin could no longer contain the emotions behind it, when it threatened to destroy the woman's sophisticated veneer with the gloating and nastiness contained within it, that she spoke:
"The diamond is not for sale." The voice nearly quivered with delight.
The three senior noblefolk all stared back with the glassy look of shock of a gazelle feeling the lion's maw close about it. Though in the Grand Duke's case, it quickly made way for anger. "What are you playing at, Vitellia?! Do you expect us to take your claim seriously? That you'll gust give the diamond away? With the whole capital clamoring for the damn things?"
"Yes."
"Damn you, woman, just tell me what you want!"
"I want," she replied, smile like a sugar coated dagger, "to have a nice dinner with my peers."
Nothing more could be said for no one knew what to say. For a moment only the sound of violin strings could be heard in the room, even though the Grand Duke's mouth was still moving, opening and closing in halted outrage. Right until a chair gave a choked screech as the halfling, ignored and forgotten, pulled it out to seat herself, a task made difficult by the fact that she could barely see up over it. "Uhm... I-if it's not too much trouble... could I perhaps...?"
"Lugg, fetch the good woman some pillows," the Viscountess said offhandedly, ignoring the gasping nobleman.
But he would not be ignored. "Madness!" he shouted. "The witch is mad and madder still are all of you if you go along with this! This is a madhouse and-and... and as if I would ever dine with halflings and Qadirans anyway! Pah!" And with this the gold plated Grand Duke left, flinging open the doors behind him to disappear into the dark hallway, mutterings of madness lingering far after his auriferous back had gone from sight.
"Well." My, but she looked pleased as punch. "I hate to repeat myself, but, once more, let us begin." Using this as his starting whistle and acting quickly, Riveh picked himself the prime seat at the table, right by the right hand of their host, a choice that visibly annoyed the Demibaroness. Silken dress rustling in her haste, the Chelishwoman took her seat opposite him and driven by the swift exit of one of their companions, the other guests were not far behind. In the end it was actually only Lord Remilliard that remained, his eyes never having left the desecrated bones of the former master of the house. He had been conspicuously quiet as well, only now speaking up in a hesitant, even pained, tone.
"My lady Viscountess... Far be it from me to reprimand you in your own home, but... Your husband's remains... Is this really..."
"Yes?"
"Is it really right to...? Some would call this defilement. Would it not be more honorable to...?"
"Yes?" Stavian's fire, what was going on in this woman's mind, the ifrit had to wonder? It seemed as if the paladin, holy man that he was, had some moral qualms with dining next to a desecrated corpse, but the noblewoman's reaction in turn was singularly bizarre, leaning forward in her seat with eyes practically aglow as if anticipating - nay, looking forward to - his outrage with perverse glee.
Kastner sighed. "Nothing, my lady. Forgive me. I speak out of turn." The earnest face sank in shame, and Riveh knew that the man had chosen to swallow his principles to not jeopardize his chances at the diamond. He looked like a soldier slinking away from the battlefield after a great loss.
Vitellia's demeanor on the other hand was that of a conqueror. Sitting next to her, the ifrit saw how she shook - actually shook - with excitement at winning one over the paladin. It was only with some effort that she regained the confident and easy mien of earlier. "Oh?" she pretended innocently. "Really, Lord Kastner, you may wish to learn how to speak up. Demureness does not suit holy men. Be like good Sir Geminus here." The Viscountess looked to him. "He is showing himself to be quite bold, and this despite his family history. I understand his father committed suicide, the coward's way out."
The emerald green eye was fixed on him.