Riveh watches Grand Duke Avernathus leave with the same satisfaction that another man might have watched an unwholesome boil slowly fade and heal. The man had been the very worst that Taldor had to offer. Arrogant, rich and so sure of his idiocy he'd happily kill someone for having be born in the wrong country.
Still Riveh was surprised the man had given up so easily. It seemed obvious to the ifrit that the Vicountess wasn't after money. If she wanted to sell the diamond, there were auction houses and merchants (even in these troubled times). No, this was about the dinner...the game was the point. And Riveh couldn't help feel that Vitellia's counted the golden man's retreat as a victory.
One down...
That said, he didn't disagree with the duke's assessment. Considering her reaction to Kastner's questions about the corpse sitting at the table...she was quite mad.
Her sudden change of subject to his parentage was like the quick stab of a knife. Slice and then gone, so fast as to not even leave pain. Just blood.
The ifrit's hand trembled as he adjusted a napkin but he didn't quite lose control. Rallying himself he said, "My father was... overwhelmed by events here, yes. As you yourself have made plain, the Taldane nobility are not to be trifled with. He is hardly their first victim, brave or cowardly."
Despite her apparel, she really couldn't be likened to a spider, could she? No, the Viscountess was a cat, toying with her victims. Whatever her reasoning for doing so, the woman was deliberately prodding and slashing at her guests with sharpened claws, anticipating and drawing great pleasure from their discomfort and outrage. And now those talons were on him, suddenly and cruelly evoking his father's ghost to belittle his memory and himself with. That she did so with a polite little smirk, its edges teetering on the eager, only made it so much more galling.
Worst of all was that it worked. Why shouldn't it? While ably choosing his words carefully, Riveh's emotions nevertheless slipped into the simple affirmation to the lady's barb, lacing it with the quiet anger and sorrow that were the whole reason he was here in the capital. His voice did not quiver, his lip did not tremble, and yet the vulnerable cast overtaking his features made it plain that this was not fresh blood the woman was drawing, but rather an old wound she had unstitched.
And here was where the most welcome surprise yet in this strange, strange house revealed itself. For upon seeing his state the noblewoman reacted neither with thinly veiled gloating nor glee. Instead the keen eyes, hungry for his indignation, widened in dismay. Like a retreating army the green gaze averted itself from him with haste, long lashes collapsing before it like so many shamefully surrendering banners. "Yes, well... " she recovered. "What the brave may call cruelty, the coward will name sincerity. But then the one speared hardly cares whether the polearm be called guisarme or ranseur, do they?"
My, but this had been spoken with all the bitterness of snake venom. Perhaps realizing this herself, she quickly moved on, turning to a white clad servant with her earlier easy demeanor hastily reassembled. "Bring in the first course!" Her order was delayed by nothing more than a short bow; immediately the staff set to work, a small army of servants quickly arriving from one door, every one of them in their diaphanous white robes and wearing wraps of gauzy veils over their faces. Clearly the Viscountess believed that the help should be both faceless and voiceless. They all carried loaded plates, one for each remaining guest. Well then. Whatever was going on in their host's mind, the ifrit supposed that the dinner was now underway. It was only now that he could focus on the table setting before him and by Cayden's liver, what in the world was he looking at?
The implements fanning out on the table to both his left and right like two great silver wings could only be the cutlery, of course. But why was there so much of it?! Hells, in addition to the diverse array of spoons, knifes and forks - of which there was a dozen each! - there were also more exotic implements ending in scissor-like blades, corkscrews and the downright esoteric, much of which Riveh wasn't sure he'd ever seen before. Looking up at his fellow guests, he could at least take solace in the fact that he wasn't the only one bewildered at this array. The halfling Rosewinter in particular looked like she was going to cry, whereas the young Varima could not appear more dumbfounded if someone had set him to task before the accounting books of the entire Abadaran banking industry. Their confusion was interrupted by the arrival of the first course, however, the staff serving them individual plates. But with them that confusion was only amplified. What, the ifrit had to ask himself again, was he looking at?
Each had been given a gorgeous silver tureen of heady, boiling soup cradled atop a metal nest above five short candles. Said soup being too hot for consumption at the moment was the lesser of his concerns. The primary one lay with the clear glass bowl served to the side, in which swam five small fish. Five very live small fish. Were those minnows, he wondered in eyeing the colorful little creatures? Did it matter? The pressing issue at hand was that he didn't have the faintest idea as to how one tackled this dish, a sentiment he was - again - mercifully not alone in. "Uhm," Baron Clestris wondered aloud, looking to their host for guidance.
The response should have been predicable. "Something wrong, my good baron?" the supposed tiefling tittered. "No? Well, then please eat! Do not hesitate on my account. I so appreciate a healthy appetite in my guests. And there's no company like the learned aristocracy of Taldor, so sophisticated and refined. I know you shan't offend me with crude table manners, or even - perish the thought! - bore me with such cloddish requests as being guided through a meal. Will you?" The obese baron went white and stammered something into his chins. "No, I didn't think so."
Despite her words, she didn't touch her own steaming dish, instead turning a gleeful eye to how her guests progressed with their meal. Or what was more likely, fumbled through it.
IF YOU MANAGED THE NOBILITY CHECK, YOU GAIN +2 TO THESE CHECKS.
What was Vitella's game? Up until now Riveh had simply assumed she was a crazed eccentric, angry and bitter about her lot in life and the cruelty of the Taldane nobility. It was a stance Riveh could whole-heartily understand, even if he did not share it. The ifirt had assumed this entire diner had no purpose but to shame, humiliate and mock her supposed social betters. The entire affair with Grand Duke Avernathus seemed to bear that out.
And yet....as soon as Riveh revealed his weakness (and he knew he had revealed it, despite his best attempts) the silk-stockinged woman had seemed to back down, to retreat from truly thrusting the knife into vital spots. If she was playing at being a bully, she needed lessons. Maybe Trant could....
Riveh watched the tiny fish swim in the small glass bowl, his mind filling with fitting metaphors. 'All at sea', 'in over his head', and of course, 'a fish out of water'.
The ifrit heart sank (in water?) as he realized he had no idea how to eat these things. Another downside of his rural, backward upraising. Or was this a trick by the Viscountness and this was a creation of her own design with no established 'correct' method? Alas, unless he wished to make a fool of himself, he'd have to wait and watch, copying her movements.
Ah well, they did say 'Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery'.
Still, despite having no idea what he was doing, Riveh isn't an idiot. After watching Vitellia start her dish, he can see the technique quite clearly. Deciding there is no way to cover his ignorance he says, "What an ingenious idea."
And, with a flick of his wrist, catches five tiny fish in quick succession, and soon has them boiled in the soup. With considerable skill Riveh re-fishes them back out, fillets them and quickly has a plate full of fish flesh. It was cumbersome but noble eating habits often were.
Did it at least taste good?
It was, in point of fact, a pretty swell soup. Or at least it was so without bloodied fish entrails floating in it. While diffidence and nimble fingers had earned Riveh a delectable first course - strange as it felt to kill and fillet one's dinner at the silver bedecked table - his fellow guests fared less well. Out of the seven remaining, only Lady Deschamps seemed to recognize the dish, he thought, and then only with trepidation. For while she was spared the embarrassment of appearing entirely ignorant - it falling to the others to wear that particular dunce cap for now - this didn't aid her in completing the meal. In fact, whether it be because of a distinct lack of manual dexterity (the ifrit looked on as an increasingly anxious Baron Clestris fumbled in transporting the minnows with his fat, pale sausage fingers), or because of distaste for the task at hand (the Demibaroness's charms, much like her fish, did not survive the disgusted sneer she pulled in realizing the gory bit of gutting before her), none of the others guests got through this first course with their dignity intact.
None but that guest with the least dignity to lose, which was perhaps telling: the halfling. Rosewinter had if anything initially looked even more lost than anyone else, staring at her soup tureen with an almost despondent sheen to the large brown eyes. Looking to their host as the ifrit had done, however, she set to work without pretension, and managed to patiently & carefully complete her dish. The stories about the small folks' nimble fingers were hardly baseless. Still, if this was a competition - and he reminded himself that it absolutely was - then the ifrit could take solace in how he had his fish filleted and boiled considerably quicker. Actually, it did not seem too presumptuous to say that he had managed this little test the best out of everyone gathered. A good start, if he dared to blow his own proverbial horn. Who knew those halcyon days of rural camp fishing would come to use at a fancy capital dinner party?
Then again this was a dinner where he found himself seated scant feet from the skeletal remains of the host's husband, so maybe any and all expectations needed to be adjusted accordingly.
Really was a quite nice soup, though, a relief with such an esoteric dish. Riveh let the blundering comedy that was his fellow guests fade into the background in enjoying it, allowing the hearty soup to form the solid foundation in the pit of his stomach it was no doubt intended to be for the rest of the dinner. It tasted like something meant to be eaten to the howling of wind outside one's door, all warming and pungent, but with an added flair of exotic spices. The fresh as could be fish also lent it a certain something, he had to admit, being so very fine and delicate. It could have made a nice meal all on its own. But then 'nice' was evidently not what their host had in mind for the evening. And this was made abundantly clear by the oh-so innocent words slipping her painted lips.
"Do you know, given recent events one does wonder whether insanity is a requirement or merely a consequence to sitting on the Lion Throne."
Vitellia took another spoonful of soup with perfect poise as her guests - those who had gotten so far with the meal - choked and sputtered. Ah, so this was the 'lively and thought-provoking' conversation she had proclaimed her anticipation for earlier? Oh dear. It seemed that the Viscountess was not done torturing her audience. The prompt had its no doubt intended effect as well; to openly fault a Grand Prince was practically taboo for any patriotic Taldan, which was to say most all of them, and doubly so for any aristocrat, part of the ruling establishment as they were. And Riveh's fellow guests did indeed appear very uncomfortable at the topic, no doubt torn between appeasing their host and retaining their standing with each other.
"Ah, b-but hear now!" the rotund Clestris puffed after a few seconds silence, dabbing at his sweaty forehead. "That what happened at the Senate was, was, eh... uncalled for is obvious, that much we can all agree on. But it is so important to consider the strain good Emperor Stavian is, er, was under. Why, to be supreme leader of the most supreme nation beneath the sky! It is no wonder he, uhm, overextended himself. Perhaps he... got confused. It is such a burden for a single man. M-mayhap even our fault, really!"
Aroden's Ghost, was Riveh really hearing this? Was the Baron actually defending the madman who'd had at least half of the nation's ruling class massacred? Were they not all here, trying to appease this crazed tiefling, precisely because they'd all lost someone to that same madman? His thoughts drifted back to the orator he'd heard earlier in the day, that poorly disguised agent of the general's who now vied for the throne. How as it he'd described Stavian? 'Bastion of civilization, jewel of sophistication, heart of culture, soul of humanity, emperor of emperors'? Was Clestris merely trying to secure his position in the new nation that was to come, whoever its ruler, or did Taldan nationalism really run this deep?
The Viscountess simply answered his nervous blustering with a query. "My dear Clestris, could you remind me what your administrative position is exactly?" There was an obviously false naivety to the question, like a china doll with a knife.
"Me?" The considerable chest puffed with some slight pride. "Oh, I'm Acting Chief Deputy Chancellor of Athletic Relations to the Subcommittee for City Planning." He was what?
"Ah yes, thank you. And you know of course who first held your - very verbose - title?"
The flabby face sank like an inexpert souffle. "That, uh... Well, that would be Senator, eh, Starday Silence."
"Could you speak up, my dear Baron? It's a large table."
"Senator Starday Silence," he harrumphed.
"Who before his rise to political prominence was...?"
The defeated answer was very quiet. "His Majesty Hyrotte I's favorite horse."
The mention of the Grand Prince nearly makes Riveh drop his spoon. Unlike perhaps the rest of them, the monarch ruling Taldor is not merely an icon for the ifrit, a distant political figure. Stavian was the man who had slit Kalbio's throat and then ordered the Massacre. The images that welled up in his mind turned the fish to ash in his mouth.
Still...this was the first chance Riveh had had a chance to talk about the political angle of things. However much visceral blood had been spilled, it was still a political act. He certainly wasn't the only one thinking that.
"Perhaps Baron Clestris isn't entirely wrong." Riveh said lightly, dipping his oar into the conversation. Before he let this unlikely sentence linger, he went on, "Or perhaps I say, maybe he is on the edge of something."
Riveh dabbed his mouth with a napkin, "I was there, in the Senate, during the Massacre, as well as Lord Kastner. While many things happened very quickly, I have half a mind that perhaps the Grand Prince was neither mad nor evil. Perhaps, and this is just a pet theory, he was not acting entirely in his own wishes? There are ways to control others, to overthrow their minds, doubly those under great strain." Then he nodded toward the Vicountess, "Especially for those who, just maybe, have a predisposition to such....instability."
There was something almost endearing in how the cowed Baron's rotund face lit up at Riveh's apparent support, like seeing a browbeaten schoolboy find the unexpected aid of the class darling. Dared he hope? Alas, no, for the ifrit's theory was not received well at the table, and for more reason than one.
"Bite your tongue, boy!" a suddenly animated Lady Deschamps almost shouted, ire breaking her self-imposed worthier-than-thou silence. "Must you look for a manticore in the maw of a lion? Is the slaughter of friend and family not enough? Must you add baseless conspiracy to our suffering? This is shameful, sir! You belittle our dead and the reality that befell them with your fantasies, and I for one won't hear it." The fountain-headed woman gave him an almighty sneer. "But then you are a Geminus. You didn't have anyone to lose at the ball."
So the Lady did know who he was. She must to leave him this acrid sting. The others (excepting Vitellia) appeared merely confused as to the significance of his name, even if Clestris's glistening forehead folded itself in half-remembered thought. Ever the peace mediator that he was, the paladin tried to interject. "Come now, Lady Deschamps," he tried, tone firm yet gentle as a velveteen hand. "Whatever the young man's ideas it is hardly fair to decry his familial background."
"Yes, well, of course you would say so, Lord Kastner." The offhanded remark, slipped in quickly and quietly, came from the Demibaroness, she still looking into her inexpertly prepared soup with obviously feigned disinterest.
"...Whatever is that supposed to mean?"
Whereas Kastner's reply carried with it all the chill of an arctic north-wind. And with it was blown away every hint of the carefully fair-minded holy man, leaving behind something that looked nothing so much like the calm before the storm. He had gone rigid in his seat with a brow so tense it looked ready to crack at whatever was boiling beneath. Riveh could only recall with some realization what he had heard of the nobleman during the Gala, that the Kastners were divided into two branches, one Taldane and the other Chelish, the former fighting an uphill struggle of redeeming themselves in the eyes of others for the misdeeds of the latter. Oh dear. What was the Chelish ambassador playing at?
"Hm?" she replied innocently, as if no word had left her mouth at all. "Oh, nothing at all, your Lordship! Merely musing on one's motivation, that's all, as the good, ah - Sir Geminus was it? - theorized upon earlier. Just making conversation."
Smirking Catorax received no response from the paladin beyond an ice cold glare during which Baron Clestris broke in, awkwardly: "Y-yes, well, whatever one's feelings on the matter, the suggestion that the Grand Prince could be so, uhm, manipulated is highly inappropriate. Highly, highly inappropriate!" The look of a disapproving father he fixed onto the ifrit was faintly ridiculous. "Whatever the Grand Prince's faults - o-of which I hasten to add that there were not many! Eh, infinitesimal, really - he was... well... H-he was the Grand Prince! No ruler of Taldor would fall for such mean tricks! And the idea that anyone close to him would deceive him so is... why, that's... treasonous... monstrous..." The large man, of a clearly nervous disposition as he was, actually seemed to falter at his own words, not daring to speak aloud the true implications of Riveh's thoughts. He retreated rather pathetically with a weak excuse. "OoOoh, my bullywarts are flaring up..."
No one else appeared eager to pick up this particular thread. Of considerably more daring was the young Varima, however, who now flew up from his seat like a man no longer able to contain himself. "Cowards, the lot of you!" he yelled to the shock of all. "How can you sit here and defend that old maniac?! He's the reason my brother is dead! Stavian was a shame for Taldor and so is any supporter of his! I'm glad he's dead!"
The reproach for this bit of youthful stupidity was swift and harsh. But even as the table descended into chaos, Riveh was distracted by what was occurring to his immediate left, at the head of the table. Firstly, the scarred giant who up until now had simply elected to stand back stock-still at the wall behind his employer like some sort of gristly decoration had taken a single step forward at Varima's outburst, like a loyal dog guarding its mistress. Slightly intimidating as this was, it was the Vicountess who was more concerning. For while she had said nothing at all to the ifrit's theory or indeed responded to the other's tangents, she was wearing a serene little smile. While the supposed fiend-blooded woman showed no feeling one way or the other on his postulation, she was not at all displeased with the strife his words has sowed. Was he content with leaving the table in such disarray?
An angry flame erupts in Riveh's chest when Lady Deschamps uses his surname as a casual curse. Was he really going to sit here and take such insults from this over-dressed pompous idiot? Whose blood was probably as thin as the fish soup? Who was so blind that she was willing to 'overlook' a literal mass murder in the Senate?
The ifrit was about to rage when his anger was blown out by Lord Kastner's glacial coldness. It was like a cheap candle in the middle of a Ulfen winter, and for the first time, Riveh's young mind realized he was not the center of the universe when it came to family history and slights. It was clear Kasnter had been dealing with something much the same but for far longer and (just maybe) with more skill and tact.
The conversation quickly moves on before Riveh can reflect on this too much, but it remains in his mind, like a new bit of art to be considered later and at length.
Riveh actually finds himself agreeing with Varmia. It was sad how the Grand Prince (even if outside influenced) had been part of a literal and very blood coup and some nobles still defended him? is this what the proud aristocracy of Taldor had fallen to? The young Vurdan man, frankly, had more Taldane spirit then anyone else here.
Still, saying so out loud would probably make Baron Clestris's bullywarts erupts all over the table so the ifirt merely settled for catching Varmina's eye and nodding while slightly raises a glass in acknowledgment.
As for the Vicountess well....she seemed the type to enjoy picking at scabs. The pain was probably the point.
So caught up in things Riveh said, without much thought, "Assuming the Grand Prince is dead, of course."
Undeterred by his fellow guests' protestations, the ifrit, almost reflexively, added plague onto cholera in airing further pontification. The results were predictable. "Really now!" The fantastical scheme he hinted at was not well received, the Baron, Lady and even the Paladin decrying it disrespectful to wax fantasies about a national and no less personal tragedy. "Sir Geminus, such baseless ideas help no one." Accusations that the young man found some morbid enjoyment in making wild speculations on the deaths of others were both voiced and mulled on. That these aristocrats, some of which were evidently bereaved by the event themselves, should feel so was perhaps understandable.
What was harder to fathom was Rosewinter's reaction to this rhetoric. While she remained as silent as a timid child at the table with adults, Riveh saw her big bashful brown eyes grow increasingly wet. Curious. What did she have to be teary-eyed about? Did it even matter? All that mattered to him was surely the Viscountess; it was her favor he had come for. And the woman did indeed look appreciative at the discord he had sowed, if only vaguely so, like the polite recognition one gave a critically praised yet undeniably hideous art piece.
That enjoyment revealed itself for what it truly was the next second, however: a launching point from which to stoke more coals beneath her noble guests.
"And assuming he isn't dead as you allude to so bluntly?" she asked him with all the innocent interest of a true scholar in the purely hypothetical. "What then?"
Though directed at him, the ifrit could plainly see that the intended effect of the question was meant for the others as well. All were uncomfortable at the thought of having to validate his theory now that their vaunted host had legitimized it. Vitellia's intent was only made clearer by her subsequent query, directed at the table: "I understand that the two likeliest candidates to take the crown now are the Princess and High Strategos. But what if Stavian yet lives? As members of the aristocracy, you have all taken an oath to serve him till death, your own or his. Would you defy him now in supporting either of the two? Were I to produce Grand Prince Stavian III right now by a snap of my fingers -"
Adding some theatrical flair to her words by doing just that, the supposed tiefling snapped her gossamer gloved fingers and produced a sudden burst in doing so - as if a hidden slip of gunpowder had been sparked. Clestris and the halfling were terribly startled. The painted lips smirked. "- what then? Would you uphold your vows and accept this man as your emperor, this man you refuse to condemn? This man who slew your kin?"
"Of course not!" Beyond this stubborn dejection from the young Varima, none of the others could answer. Deadlocked as they were between the impossibility of refusing a Taldan emperor and hailing the murderer of their family and friends, they could say nothing - awkward eyes stared into the polished table. And before this total surrender, the Viscountess once again looked victorious. Her thoughts were obvious: that she believed her peers to have all the loyalty of a starving cat. That she could demonstrate so, even in this small capacity, brought her great vindication.
"...I believe it's time for our second course," she smiled, very satisfied, and then ordered a white robed attendant to let the dinner proceed. The staff worked with all the efficiency as displayed earlier, speedily taking away the silver tureens only for these to be replaced with the second course of the evening, a dish more ominous where the first had been mystifying. The ifrit had now been presented a fairly sizeable clay pot, well made but undeniably a far cry from its lavish surroundings. The top of it, as were all those served to the other guests, was covered by a blood-red cloth. A very pungent aroma, almost so peppery as to sting his nostrils wafted from beneath it. No live animals were served alongside this time. Instead a separate plate was given, holding only a tiny loaf of bread - freshly baked by its appetizing smell - little more than a bun. Strange, again. And a quick glance around the table confirmed that no one, once again, appeared to recognize the dish, much to everyone's poorly feigned discontent. And their host's converse pleasure.
Oh well. Nothing to do but take away the cloth and see what... Oh gods.
Half the gathering gasped. Lady Deschamps gave a choked shriek. And inside Riveh's chest an ice cold realization caused his heart to skip a beat as he now saw irrefutable evidence that the Viscountess's eccentricities only acted as a veil to violent insanity.
In the pot was a human head, obscenely bloated. Boiled, bald and covered in its own viscera, it stared at him with its emptied eye sockets, grotesque and terrible.
Oh, wait. No. No, it wasn't. What cruel tricks the eye could play on the mind, turning shadows into knife-wielding murderers at a quick glance. Such optical deception was crueler still in this case, designed as this dish apparently was to shock and appall. Riveh wasn't staring at a severed head. Rather, resting in the pot was some sort of pumpkin carved to resemble a severed head. What in the world? What was more, the blood covering this braised squash seemed to actually be some sort of sauce, very spicy by its smell. Around him his fellow guests were catching on to the stunt as well, with varying success. Poor Clestris looked like he was nursing a heart attack. Chelish Catorax on the other hand - her response was more worrying, feline features lighting up. Did she recognize the dish?
IF YOU MANAGED THE NOBILITY CHECK, YOU GAIN +2 TO THIS CHECK.
Riveh merely shrugged as nearly the entire table rebuffed him for the mere suggestion that the Grand Prince may be alive. The ifrit hadn't seen Stavian die and that could mean anything....Well, they would soon find out.
He was more interested in the political question asked after. What would happen if the Grand Prince suddenly re-appeared again, like a rabbit pulled out of a corner magician's hat? Would it stop the slow-motion civil war that was breaking out? Would he really be accepted by what remained of the nobility, of which he had killed so many? Fighting for his memeory, like the Strategoes was doing was one thing. But if the actually, flesh and blood Stavian showed up...well, that might be another matter.
Riveh was still pondering this when the second course came out. When the top of the jar was removed his stomach did a quick lurch, and his skin paled. For a wild moment, after spending so long in this madhouse, he really thought it was a head[/i]. But no, thank the Gods, it was just...well, what was it exactly? And how did one eat it?
Riveh had no idea but one thing wasn't in doubt. It would be very hot and unpleasant to eat. At least the fish had tasted good, in the end. This gourd was unlikely to call into that category. They had gone from a battle of wits to battle of wills.
Very well.
Riveh grabbed a fork and gingerly nibbled a bit of the squash, slathered in the piquant sauce. It felt like eating fire. His throat burned, his eyes filled with tears and his lungs heaved. Suddenly, appearing proper meant very little and Riveh's quaking hand reached for the water. he drank it with abandon, some of it running down his chin as he desperately tried to douse the flames that would surely crackling in his gullet.
What foul magic was this and why had it turned his gullet into a portal to the Elemental Plane of Fire? Decorum had to be mostly put aside as poor Riveh slung a crystal decanter's worth of water down his craw in order to douse the flames searing at him. And far from the blow to his dignity, the real concern was that this didn't work. His stomach continued to feel like a red-hot wood furnace, his throat the chimney through which cinders and acrid smoke belched. What was he to do?
Salvation was mercifully quick, if unfortunate. For the ifrit didn't have to wait on the madwoman Vitellia to show her torture victims how to earn relief; instead it was his fellow guest sitting directly opposite him. Demibaroness Catorax clearly had recognized the dish, as he had suspected earlier, eating the braised squash as speedily as good manners allowed and then - nearly dropping her spoon in her haste - devouring the accompanying little loaf of bread. Just the first bite had her looking content as a torpid cat on a sunlit windowsill. Riveh knew what he had to do and his teeth were tearing into the freshly baked bun in seconds. Although not his chief concern, the bread was lovely, as all newly baked goods tended to be, but it obviously housed some supplemental and ingenious extra ingredient; the heat died down immediately. O sweet, blessed relief.
Around the table the other guests were - with these examples - catching on as well, wolfing down their loafs. For the ifrit could at least take some solace in the fact that he hadn't been the only one to bungle this meal. Neither of the two senior noblefolk, Deschamps or Clestris, had a taste for the spicy it seemed, the Baron in particular wheezing something like: "Ooh, my poor inflamed Gauss pocket... My physicians tell me to avoid anything racy..." Varima and Kastner on the other hand had apparently withstood the heat of the second course, whether through acclimation or sheer fortitude. Granted, both had completely botched course etiquette, sawing at the pumpkin with knives and experimenting with their cutlery before realizing how it was to be eaten, but now nibbled at their respective breads patiently and methodically, some measure of their dignity intact. As for Rosewinter, well... The halfling was obviously not accustomed to spice, nearly springing from her seat in a panic. She was the only one Riveh could say had done worse than himself with certainty. Goodness's sake, the woman was almost crying.
There could be no doubt as to the winner, however. Catorax stood victorious in this second round of the trial this bizarre dinner had turned into, and my, did she know it. Far from a gracious winner, the coy Chelishwoman grinned at her fellow guests before turning a beaming smile, false as her Archfiend's, onto their host. "That was absolutely lovely, Viscountess, and might I add that you honor me by including a dish from my beloved home country. My compliments to the chef!"
"You are most welcome, my good Demibaroness," Vitellia replied, friendly and beauteous as a carnivorous flower drawing in its prey. "Perhaps you might, in your privileged position, in turn regale us with mighty Cheliax's stance on Taldor's coming... administrative transition?"
And so the jaws shut around its unsuspecting prey, as did Catorax's in the more literal sense. The entire table turned uncomfortable as its occupants sensed a shift in conversation topic as others might watch for an oncoming storm. "Branching from our very stimulating talk about the late Stavian III - with apologies to Sir Geminus's conspiracies," she went on, nodding to the ifrit in mentioning his contribution, "I am simply dying to hear my dear guests thoughts on our next Grand Prince. Or should that be Grand Princess? My, could you imagine?"
Another sensitive topic rife with pitfalls, political and private, and no doubt intentionally so. It was no wonder that Riveh's supposed peers were hesitant to speak up, fresh as the divide set to split the nation still was. The general or the princess - siding with whoever ultimately failed to take the crown spelled disaster. And what of the Viscountess? Did she have a preference? Would she take offence at those she viewed as opponents? "Come now, my friends. We have spoken so eagerly of what your friends and family died for. What will you die for?"
For that matter, was Riveh ready to show his colors in public?
It would be a Chelish dish, Riveh thought savagely as the inferno in his throat subsided with mere hot ash. Who else would come up with a food designed to impair and injure the consumer? Probably some devil put them onto the recipe.
So it was with more then a bit of schadenfreude when the Vicountess ensnared Catorax is yet another political landmine. Watching the diplomat's mouth clamp shut isn't worth another fiery swallow, but it helps salve the pain a bit. As he expected the Demibaorness is shaping up to be his main rival in tonight's affair.
But then the silence grows and Riveh feels obligated to step into the breach, Clearly the whiplash between dangerous foods and dangerous topics is part of the meal. But this...well, this was a truly deadly question. As Vitellia so bluntly puts it, men and women will quite literally live and die over this issue.
Riveh coughs, half-surprised he does not seem charred bits of his uvula fly onto his plate.
The ifrit says, "I will die for Taldor." This statement is so bland and empty a few of the guests smirk but before anyone has time to interject, Riveh goes on, "I will die for the true Taldor. The Taldor of justice, of honor, of order. It is these principles that bind us as a people, not a blood-line or set of nobles. Our nation transcends such petty considerations."
Riveh takes to his feet, "And these things are discovered not when things are easy, but when they are hard. Just as a tree with deep roots survives the frost when grass died, our nation will endure the current storm-winds, by reclaiming that heritage. Whichever side, or whichever people recover and found themselves on Taldor, on the [b]real Taldor, that is who I will die for!"[/b]
Had rising to his feet been a bit much? Riveh had to wonder as his spiel - delivered with all the grandeur of a field commander promising to join his men in glorious death, and this despite a raw throat - drew uncomfortable eyes and aggrieved glares both. Admittedly, any appeal to patriotism in Taldor couldn't help but feel hackneyed, and his was bombastic enough to warrant accompaniment by the national anthem. And yet devotion to the fatherland was not only encouraged but expected, and the notion of a national spirit separate from Taldan blood was... novel, to be sure. The idea that they had lost sight of said spirit, however; that was almost heretical. Though few realized it, there was nothing that defined the Taldan, high and low, like the denial of their own diminishing relevance in the wider world.
This of course explained the lukewarm reception to the ifrit's seemingly so patriotic address. But did it matter? For the only audience member he had to impress was the one sitting to his left, after all, and she, as expected, did not appear at all perturbed: Vitellia's half-veiled face, narrow and pale, betrayed nothing but polite interest. This was good. Probably. The laughter threatening to undercut his performance was definitely not good, though.
The giggling, girlish and restrained, came from directly opposite him where the Demibaroness - who else? - was putting on quite the performance of her own, playing at holding back her mirth with a silk gloved hand. She was so very gracious, you see. The good diplomat Catorax would never intentionally laugh at anyone, oh no no no, perish the thought! It was just that her simple table companion was so overwhelmingly silly that she couldn't contain herself. Really, she was the victim here.
"Oh, I do apologize, Sir Geminus, she simpered at last, the remorse as false as her innocent mien. "It's just that an ambassador in my position quite forgets such, well... endearing naivete as yours. Alas, the harsh realities of politics do not allow for these jejune sentiments. Bless your heart!"
The badinage was as condescending as it was tactical. And swift too. For surely the woman had jumped onto the offensive, ridiculing him, as a means of diverting the Viscountess's attention away from herself. How devious these Chelish were.
It was obvious Riveh had to address the Chelish ambassador directly here. Her remark had been too insulting, to blunt and frankly, too direct to ignore. In other times and places such words would have called for a duel or maybe just a old-fashioned brawl. Riveh didn't really consider that because, for one thing, it was his style but also...who knew what evil tricks Catorax had up her sleeve? He would stick to words, if everyone else did.
Still standing, Riveh looked down at the Chelish ambassador with a slight dismissive sneer. "Well, perhaps next time I can throw in some devils and dancing girls, that might make it more your speed."
Then, shrugging, Riveh turned to Vicountess Vitella. He looked the woman over carefully trying to peer through her cold mask of disdain and eccentricity. What was under there, past the snide remarks and joy in throwing cats among pigeons. Was there a kernel of Taldane pride there? She was an outside but so was Riveh....
The ifrit gambled and threw the dice.
"Frankly, I'm surprised she is here." Riveh went on, looking at his host, "In questions of politics, the Chelish have always been quite obvious. What was it that one of your statesmen said?"
"Political power grows out of hilt of a sword."Riveh quoted and then added, "It is a bit silly to ask the esteemed ambassador who she'd side with in a civil war. The answer is obvious. Neither, just enjoy watching good Taldane blood being spilt while she watches. That tends to be how Cheliax does things. Reveling in violence while calculating how they can personally gain."
The ifrit sat back down, his face growing hot from the exchange, not being quite used to calling out such people to their faces. Honestly it probably wouldn't fluster an experienced diplomat but Riveh felt the sparks would please their host.
Riveh turned to Vicountess Vitella. He looked the woman over carefully trying to peer through her cold mask of disdain and eccentricity. What was under there, past the snide remarks and joy in throwing cats among pigeons?
Tit for tat, Riveh swiftly countered the Demibaroness's oh-so innocent chide with a considerably more direct rebuff of his own. Openly insulting a peer's nationality was mayhap not so oblique or clever, though it was inarguably more honest. Faced with such a blunt attack, the Chelishwoman could only retaliate. Although her impish face lighting up with both surprise and pleasure at his words, like a falcon who'd managed to provoke a rodent out of its burrow, was concerning. Had he trodden into a trap? Alas, this worry was supplanted by a greater one still. For when the counterattack to him struck, it didn't come from Catorax; the Viscountess herself was swifter.
"Once again you prove yourself bold, Sir Geminus" the supposed tiefling smiled, pearly white teeth glinting at him beneath the black-painted lips like a dagger in a dark alley. "I see that years of the persistent persecution I imagine a half-Qadiran must suffer does not impair you from to harassing others for their background. Very bold."
The Demibaroness could not have looked more pleased if the woman had simply thrown her the much vaunted gemstone. A heavy air of disapproval came over the table as their host, in so many words, flatly proclaimed him a hypocrite. Well, this was less than good. He had gambled on Vitellia harboring some anti-Chelish sentiments, as any proper Taldane should, and appealing to said animosity in dismantling an opponent. Perhaps he should avoid cards because that gamble had failed, merely turning the aristocrat's venomous green eye onto his own faults. The mask-cover of civility never fell for a second, and yet he could practically smell what was brewing beneath: these twin odors, the stink of rancor against just the sort of noblefolk he had revelated himself to be, the entire reasoning behind this bizarre dinner. And with it the sickly sweet smell of righteous indignation, the knowledge that she was justified in inflicting whatever little torture she wished on these blue bloods.
"Thank you, Viscountess," Catorax added gracefully, apparently not able to help herself, her vanity demanding that she get a barb in of her own even when entirely unnecessary. "The Qadirans are so well known for their aggression, the warmongers. Whereas the nation you so unfairly judge, Sir, I hasten to add was conceived in a famously bloodless rebellion. I dare say we should all wish that the instigator of our recent troubles - whoever they may be - had learned from that Chelish example."
A meaningful and far too pleased look followed from the Demibaroness at the bereaved across the table. One of which was not inclined to play along. "Rubbish, you devil worshipping witch!" The young Varima, proving himself either too young, hot tempered or plain stupid to follow the polite etiquette shackling the others, yelled from his seat. "You and yours are nothing but a lesson in everything vile! And your degenerate hellhole will be the first to fall when the High Strategos takes power!"
If nothing else, Riveh's gaffe was swiftly made the lesser to this outburst. Promising war against another nation was one thing; revealing his family's allegiance in the succession now was another. "Be still, boy!" Deschamps admonished the Varima. "You do your house more harm than good being here."
"Oh?" Sir Adhi countered, setting his face in a grimace no doubt intended to convey dauntless conviction, but sadly settled in a toddler's tantrum. "You would say that, wouldn't you, Madam Deschamps? You support the Princess, don't you! Well, I don't think we'll have to listen to worrywarts such as you anymore as the General has the loyalty of the army, and has promised to retake the colonies! And about time too!"
These were statements hardly worthy of a house of ambassadors, as the Varimas indeed were to distant Vudra, and the good junior ambassador herself, Demibaroness Catarox, appeared - perhaps justly so - a mite miffed at the young man's talk of global war. There was no stopping him, however. "Lord Kastner!" he said, turning to the paladin. "You support the High Strategos, don't you? Why, you're a paladin! I'm guessing you can't wait to show those Asmodeans what for! You'll be on the front lines!"
The ifrit detected a hint of boyish admiration from Varima towards Kastner, like that of a younger brother to an accomplished sibling. Sadly, he was to be disappointed. "I..." The Lord's square face was lined with apprehension, pained even. It seemed as if the subject of his succession loyalty was not one he looked forward to. A conflicted paladin? What was the world coming to? And yet he resolutely went on, holy warrior that he was, perhaps acknowledging that he could not avoid an answer. "Much like Sir Geminus, I am loyal to the country and my principles, principles I believe to be shared between my nation and my faith. Sworn as I am to protect and uphold the laws of our land, I acknowledge that the legislation championed by Princess Eutropia and voted on by the senate during the Gala favors her. That alteration of how our titles are passed lawfully made her our next sovereign." Varima was aghast. But then the paladin himself didn't particularly like what passed his mouth next. "However... I also acknowledge that the senate that voted her enthronement is effectively and literally dead. This makes the question of whether she should rule not an invalid one. It is... complicated."
No one appeared particularly content with this answer, noncommital as it was, least of all the man himself. He directed his blue gaze towards the end of the table to ask, with as little scorn as he could manage: "Will that suffice for an answer, Viscountess Vitellia?"
"It was a perfectly innocent question, my good Lord," she lied.
Well, that could have gone better. Riveh felt like a fool, stewing in his chair. Obviously his appeal to national pride had gone wide of the mark, and indeed had missed to badly it had reflected back on himself. Just what did this Vicountess want? She seemed to want her guests to bad-mouth the government and not criticize their fellow guests? She was crazy.
Only Varima's outburst had saved Riveh from total disaster, that and Kastner's quiet support of his point of view. Still, his lead in the race for the diamond had just hit a snag. How to save it.
Surely not by loudly declaring his support for Princess Eutropia...which was good since Riveh couldn't really express his politics about her anyway. It was more he was against the Grand Prince then for the Princess. Was that enough to join a war?
Probably.
Hoping to steer the conversation to safer waters Riveh asked, and was mostly honest (if desperate), "I must say Vicountess, I didn't know what to expect tonight, but I hadn't expected such a wide...range of dishes. Just where did you find your chef? They must have been quite the find. Are they a special servant for the evening or a regular member of your staff?"
"Ah, w-well..."
In the silence that followed Lord Kastner's disclosure, the obese Clestris clumsily - and perhaps benignly - attempted to move the conversation along, clearing his throat and producing a sound like a phlegm coated tin chimney. "W-well, I for one am relieved to see that even the much vaunted paladins - duly so, duly so! - may suffer the occasional, um... crisis of conscience. Only mortal after all, eh? Quite alright, my boy, quite alright! 'To err is human' as I believe, uhm... who was that said that...? Er, the poet. Yes, I believe the poet said that."
His sagacious nod only added to his absurdity, chin sinking in and out of the fleshy folds layered about the neck. Still, even if only to be polite the younger nobleman looked to him with dutiful appreciation and raised his glass. "To humanity then."
"Y-yes, indeed! Cheers!" Whether in toasting the frailties of the race, or peaceably agreeing that whatever their differing political inclinations, whatever their backgrounds, their loyalty was ultimately with humanity, the gathered aristocracy amicably if not enthusiastically joined in the toast. All but their host. She remained as she was, reclined in her comfortable chair with an easy smile on her lips, a spider bedecked picture of everything polite and convivial. It was an image that only made Riveh wary by now, convinced as he was that said smile was very much like the cosmetic worn on those same lips: artificial and entirely for show. The next sortie of the dinner came not from her, however, but from the Demibaroness. How predictable. But mercifully, he was not the woman's target this time.
"How terribly exclusionary of you, Lord Kastner!" Catorax sang, her tone jovial and teasing. "The evening's gathering isn't entirely human after all. Or what do you say? Isn't he an awful boor, Madam Halfling?"
The sharp eyes, so like that of a cat toying with its food, landed on the tiny Rosewinter. And the poor woman in turn couldn't have looked more startled if Catorax had lashed her with a whip. "You've been very quiet so far," the Chelishwoman went on. "Hardly seems fair, does it? Won't you regale us with your take on the Viscountess's question? Which of your betters would you prefer end on a stake?"
No rabbit had ever looked more terrified at hearing the howling of a wolf. Though phrased in a deliberately provocative manner and intentionally so, the ifrit got the impression that the halfling would balk at the subject no matter what shape it took. She looked to and fro in a near panic, as if hoping for someone to rescue her from saying a word. Whatever circumstances had led to her being here tonight, it seemed as if Rosewinter was as thoroughly a domesticated halfling as they came, keenly aware of her minuscule role in Taldan society and very apprehensive at voicing anything controversial in a room full of noblefolk. Finding no escape from the spotlight, however, she finally said, in a pitiful murmur: "Please... please, your grace... I'm just a simple weaver, I don't know anything at all about... governance or the like. It is not my place to speak on. I trust such matters to wise and kind Lords and Ladies as yourself... Please don't make me say any more..."
It was a rather sad display of deeply ingrained subservience, though one that obviously pleased the Demibaroness. Taldor was not exactly kind to the small folk, treating them with the casual disregard only afforded the apathetic, but Cheliax was willfully cruel. Perhaps it was good then that Riveh changed the topic to that of their meals.
"As I said before, Sir Geminus," Vitellia explained to him with the air of a patient parent addressing a particularly thick child, "Tonight’s banquet is brought to us by master chef Annatolintis Tasetas, all the way from Katapesh. I chartered him for the evening at no small cost. The man is supremely sought after, but I only serve the best for my dear guests. It is what you deserve!" There it was again, that edge of irony in her voice, cutting and biting with every syllable. "The staff is also his own, a part of his services."
Oh? Had what the ifrit dredged up about the Viscountess earlier today been true then? Did she not have any servants of her own? How did that fit with the scarred giant still standing by the wall behind her, more so supporting it than it him? That speculation would have to wait as the noblewoman quickly - almost suspiciously quickly - went on. "But I think it time for Chef Tasetas to regale us with another masterpiece."
The white clad staff, faceless and efficient, sprang into action immediately. No more than a minute passed before they carried in the third dish of the evening, and Riveh could console himself with the fact that this meant the halfway point of this nightmarish dinner had at least been crossed. "Ah yes, the meat course!" his host exclaimed with theatrical delight. It certainly smelled savory, though somewhat less so than could be expected. Somehow the aroma was lighter, flightier than, say, a roasted leg of lamb. But then the dish wasn't anything so substantive. Laid out before him by a servant was a modestly sized pie, freshly baked and steaming. The crust was golden, flaky and artfully etched with images of roses. Some sort of meat pie then? Whatever it was, it was very inviting. Now came the problem, of course: what sort of hellish obstacle was it he had been served?
The other guests were just as wary as the ifrit by now, obviously, having caught on to the nature of the dinner. They looked at their plates with barely disguised suspicion. The pies being entirely enclosed by their flaky shell only made them more worrisome, if anything. What should he be expecting? A bear-trap baked inside them perhaps? Before he could think on whether he recognized the dish, however, something rather extraordinary happened: the Viscountess simply dug in. Instead of waiting on her guests, torturing them by forcing them to showcase their ignorance of basic dinner etiquette, Vitellia grabbed the nearest fork and knife and cut into her pie with perfect poise. The satisfying crunch of the pastry rang out through the room. Hold on, was there not a trick with this meal then? That appeared to be the case, and several of the guests set to carving their own pies, clear relief on their faces. How strange. Riveh himself couldn't see what else to do, and cut into his pie.
And right away found a problem. It was empty. There was nothing at all inside the pie. What in the world? Confusion (disappointment in Clestris's case) was heard about the table. Clearly his was not the only one to be devoid of any filling; they all were. Was this some sort of practical joke? He wasn't alone in looking up to the Viscountess for an explanation, but there the meal only got stranger. For Vitellia was eating. The supposed tiefling was forking up and swallowing great heaping mouthfuls of... nothing. With great relish, at that. Once again the ifrit had to wonder whether the woman was mad. What was she doing? Was she just playing pretend? And if so, why? "Is there a problem?" she asked innocently at seeing the blank faces turned her way.
"Oh!" The exclamation had come from Rosewinter, she suddenly being inordinately absorbed in playing with her own pie, prodding at it experimentally with a fork. Seriously now, what was going on? The pies were em... No, hold on. Grabbed by an inclination and aping the halfling, Riveh had touched a silver utensil to the empty innards of his pie. And there he met resistance. Huh? He tried again. Yup, he wasn't imagining it. There actually was something inside the baked crust. It simply appeared to be invisible. Goodness' sake.
IF YOU MANAGED THE NOBILITY CHECK, YOU GAIN +2 TO THIS CHECK.
Riveh knew from stories that the rich in Taldor enjoyed decadent feasts, to show their wealth and power, often treated foreign dishes as trophies of conquest. The more exotic and outrageous the better, or so the vagrant story-tellers had claimed.
But invisible food? That seemed outrageous to the point of parody. Not in his wildest dreams had Riveh thought someone would waste time with such fare. His curiosity was piqued though. Was it an invisible animal, grilled and cooked? Or was it normal meat overlaid with an enchantment?
Who could say? Still, it struck him as extravagant. How many normal meals would this invisible meat pie have paid for? How many servant wages? How many clean streets? Gods knew Oppara could have used some investment. How much was being wasted on gilded plates and unseen food?
Riveh's train of thought was broken when the halfling drew attention to herself. The ifrit's mind was still undecided on his feelings toward Taldor's most mistreated race (except, perhaps, Quadirans). It was hard for Riveh to muster the condescending disdain most Taldane's felt for halflings, the easy dismissal. His family simply hadn't been rich enough to inculcate him so.
And yet, looking at the inoffensive Rosewinter, Riveh couldn't help but see Filibert's savage grin and razor-knife. What did she really think or how did she really feel? Perhaps it was unlikely was another assiassan but would she think the Silent Circle beyond the pale? Or would she have rooted for the nasty little sneak, when they had grappled in the dark?
Anyway, Riveh turned back to the 'food' in front of him. He poked it with a fork, tentatively.
This wasn't working, Riveh had to concede as he jabbed his fork at nothing at all. He was very literally plucking at thin air. Eating an invisible meal turned out every bit as difficult as could have been imagined. Having to rely merely on sense of touch, and that at the end of a metal utensil at that, led to a whole lot of awkward stabbing and screeching against the fine porcelain plate, an experience he at the very least wasn't alone in; even those guests who had recognized the obscure dish weren't having much luck. Misery did so love company. The only one working her way through her pie with any modicum of success was the halfling, and this only with great concentration. Rosewinter looked just a bit silly, granted, anxiously staring into the platter like a newly minted student trying to decipher some esoteric text, but the relief on her simple, round face in managing a mouthful was unashamed and earnest. Those small fingers were proving their dexterity today. Perhaps it came with being a weaver.
On the topic of that mouthful, the ifrit did finagle one or two of his own. The results were disappointingly mediocre. Well, that wasn't entirely fair. The scoop of pie that made its way home, almost accidentally, certainly tasted unique, having the fluffy texture of cotton candy and leading him to ponder whether the invisibility was no enchantment but rather somehow a property of the meat itself. It was just not worth the sheer hassle, being relatively flavorless. But then he supposed that taste wasn't the point. Showmanship and the opportunity to showcase one's culinary etiquette was. A dish dreamt up by and intended for that most idle of the idle rich. Sigh. The clear sauce used in it was quite savory, though.
Or at least it was. Because strangely the pies' innards became more visible over time, only gradually worsening in flavor. Within only a few minutes Riveh could see the filling as a cloudy, wispy mass, far more easily won. And yet now the taste was bitter, like chowing down on the acrid smoke from a chimney. What a bizarre dish. "Ack!" Young Varima clearly wasn't too fond of it either. No one at the table was best pleased. No one but the host, Vitellia beaming at her honored guests over a clean plate. "Oh?" she inquired, falsely innocent as an Asmodean afforded a trial. "You haven't finished your pies. While I applaud a refined palate, I didn't realize I had invited such picky eaters. Chef Tasetas will be much disheartened. He does put such care into his craft."
The glee at toying with their supposed ignorance and ineptitude was practically indecent, the pale cheeks lighting with verve. Said aristocrats' inability to protest for fear of being denied the much vaunted diamond only added to that pleasure, clearly. "Only the best for us true Taldans, after all. No simple fare for us. For we aren't like the riff-raff, are we, subsisting on - oh, I don't know - moldy tubers and sawdust enriched biscuits? No, the lion wasn't meant for the savannah's grass. Only the best for us." Oh dear. Was the supposed tiefling rambling in her sadistic elation? If so, she caught herself in it, the sheen in her one uncovered eye dampening from the rapturous to the merely giddy. A sip from her crystal glass gave her a none too surreptitious pause in which to collect herself. The guests looked to each other nervously.
"Do you know," she went on anew, ignoring her own excursion into the neurotic, while the white clad staff moved to clear the table, "on the subject of 'true Taldans', I am curious. My good Demibaroness, you have highlighted Ms Rosewinter's unfortunate parentage whilst young Sir Geminus here champions the idea of the Taldan as defined by ideals rather than blood. All the while disparaging the entire Chelish race." Ouch. "It sets the mind to wondering: how would you define the true Taldan?"
A true Taldan.....hopefully it didn't involve eating invisible food because apparently it wasn't one of Riveh's talents. Happily, it was unlikely to come up very often, since the meal he just botched probably cost more then a month's income for his family's landed estate. Not that eh knew and he couldn't ask. if you had to ask how much such things cost, you couldn't afford it.
Riveh had intrigued however to hear Vitellia use the term 'us' when, apprently, describing Taldane nobility. In such varied company, it was hardly accurate. Riveh made the cut, of course, and maybe Varima in a pinch. The Chelish on account of her title but...what about Rosewinter? Taldor didn't have any halfling nobles, or even halfling notables. What exactly was Vitella playing at?
He winced as their host brought up his faux pas again. Apparently trying to slur the Cheliax empire and people had been a mistake. Would it cost him a diamond? It would be extremely...disappointing if he did all of this and earned nothing but a snide remark and probably a magical stomachache.
This time, he kept his mouth shut.
You know, impressive display of contortionism as it would no doubt be, perhaps it would be best not to shove another foot into his mouth. This was Riveh's line of thought as he, wary and dismayed, decided upon the waiting approach; let the others be first to walk into the Viscountess's trap as this no doubt was, yet again. Besides, he had practically already answered this latest topic of hers, vouching for a certain national spirit as the true mark of the Taldane over any bloodline.
And as it turned out, the first to throw her hat in the arena that was conversing with Vitellia could just as well have been addressing this claim of his. Although her crystalline fountain of a headdress would have made an awful mess if thrown, of course. "Justice, honor and order. Do I recall those as the principles Sir Geminus so pompously preached earlier as defining the Taldan?"
Lady Deschamps had been fairly terse throughout the dinner so far, the image of a noblewoman whose very words were too precious to offer just anyone. For pride it surely was that rendered her mute, as she clearly had a lot to say; not looking to him even once, even in referring to him directly, the older woman answered their host's query with the eloquence and dignity of a practiced statesman. "He speaks of these qualities with the ignorance of children, though that makes them no less valid. For he is quite right. These are aspects endemic to the Taldan character. His naivety is in believing them to be learned behavior." A superior sneer deepened the lines on the aging face. "Fools such as him would try to rear a lamb into a lion, their fatuity blinding them to the obvious: that these qualities are in the blood. The true Taldan is not just raised to his station; he is born into it."
The heavily hooded eyes, haughty as only a queen on her throne could be, landed now on the Demibaroness and they were not kind. "Foreigners love to portray us as buffoons, fops slowly growing irrelevant in the wider world, but even if we accept this as true, they forget who we are. They forget what we have done. We are the nation that dominated a continent and forged the greatest empire in Golarion's history. Our tongue is the common parlance. Our culture is the foundation other nations have built upon. The blood of conquerors, explorers, and heroes runs through our veins. We've been forged by the greatness of our past, and while some might say we're now just ghosts of that past, I know the truth: that greatness is within us still. Within our blood. They might mock the pride we take in our heritage, but it's easy to deride what you can never understand. No commoner can know us because we are so far from common. To be a Taldan noble means to be triumphant, and I see no fault in taking pride in that."
A rousing vindication of the noble class, a tactical humbling of both Riveh and Catorax, her two seemingly most prominent rivals, and an appeal to the Viscountess's vanity. My, Deschamps had rather thought this through. Far from an idle aristocrat, languishing in her superiority, she had apparently waited for the right moment to strike. And struck she had like a great horned owl swooping down from its perch onto the unsuspecting rodent. "Er, quite, quite!" poor, neurotic Clestris adjoined, likely hoping to siphon some of his peer's duly won adoration by loudly agreeing with her. Not all were so enthusiastic, however, least of all the Demibaroness, unsurprisingly.
But what of the only opinion that mattered? "Well spoken, Lady Deschamps." Spider bedecked Vitellia, smiling and to all appearances pleasantly surprised, raised her glass for the older woman. "While I will not speak ill of your recently departed husband - Gray Lady guide his soul - you lend credence to the common theory of his pen having been led by your hand. Bravo."
Deschamps's spouse had died in the massacre? That would explain why she was here, Riveh supposed. Their host's compliments also lent her an aggravatingly assured cast, as if she fully expected to be reunited with him soon enough using the supposed tiefling's diamond. "Of course," said tiefling went on, a teasing edge slipping into her oh-so innocent voice like a slow violin note, "you don't consider myself a true Taldan then. On account of my, ah... less than pure blood."
And another one fell into the Viscountess's rose scented traps. Really, Deschamps's expression couldn't have turned to the dismayed any quicker if the floor had fallen out from under her. But before she could rectify a thing: "No, no, no, my dear!" Vitellia laughed, pearly white teeth all the more radiant peering out from behind the black-painted lips. "I won't have you take back a word. It is so refreshing to hear what you truly think of me spoken plainly rather than in conspiratorial jeers and mocking whispers. So much more honest!"
"Viscountess Vitellia, I assure you..."
Half of the gathered cutlery jumped - along with their users - as a gossamer gloved fist suddenly slammed into the table with surprising force. "What did I just say?" The smile was gone. Replacing it was what was perhaps the frostiest glower the ifrit had ever seen. In an instant the woman had shifted from the effortlessly convivial to the cold, and what cold - cold as the dark side of a tombstone in winter. Riveh could practically feel the chill coming off her, sitting as he was right beside her. And it was made all the worse by the fact that he suspected even this cold menace not to be the true extent of the bizarre woman's feelings, that it was a veil she wore just as she had donned the now obviously false veil of everything sociable and polite. Here was a glacier, yes - but there was something molten and burning at its core. "Don't. Deny. It." And just like that the mask came into place again and the eccentric noblewoman, smiling and coy, returned. "After all, was honesty not among the virtues you mentioned for the true Taldan? If not, it should be. Lead by example, your Ladyship!"
To say that the assembled aristocrats were uncomfortable at their host's behavior would be an understatement. Even her return to form did not assuage their fears, plainly obvious as it now was as wholly hollow. And she wasn't done yet. "Not that you would be alone in your hypocrisy, my dear." The grin did not reach her eyes. "Oh no, you wouldn't want for good company. Some of which is here tonight. Ah, the epithets these ears have had to endure. Not all of which were spoken softly either. 'Hell spawn'. 'Hornhead'. 'Half-breed'. 'Succubus'. 'Whore', of course. 'Gold digger' is one I found particularly amusing! And yet the one I recall with most feeling is plain old 'murderer'. So much portent in those three syllables. 'Black widow'! There's another good one. Can you imagine, dear husband?" She looked to the smartly dressed skeleton staring back at her with its empty eye sockets from the other end of the table. "Mariticide! The imagination of our peers! Why, I fancy that some of my precious guests wondered whether I intended to poison them tonight! Ah ha ha ha!"
It was a perfectly civilized laugh that rang out in the dining room, the sort shared with and joined in by friends. But no one did so, of course. Laced as it was with something shrill and sharp, it was impossible to join in with good conscience, even hadn't the context behind it been so adversarial. Some looked to their plates. Oh, hells. What had Riveh gotten himself into?
He had every right to be worried. For what his fellow guests couldn't see, they not sitting so close to the woman, was that her return to pseudo-convivial hostess was not complete. The nostrils on the sharp nose - they were flaring. Vitellia hadn't calmed down. Not really. Nor had she gotten some clearly deep-seated resentment out of her system. No, not by a long shot. She was only growing more erratic.
She had poisoned them. Riveh was suddenly as sure of that as his own name. The old Vicountess was as crazy as a loon and had poisoned them all. The young ifrit's gaze shifted from the laughing woman to the very literal and very dusty skeleton propped up next to her.
How had he doubted it?
The only reason question was it part of the game? Would the final course be some sort of antidote, perhaps? Some way to add a cruel finale to the evening? A final flourish when she informed them they would die unless they ate some disgusting pudding?
Or would it merely be another (much smaller) massacre and they'd all keel over while Vitella looked on, simpering? A final attack against a nobility too disjointed and divided to defend itself? With the city and Taldor in chaos, she might just get away with it, too.
For a moment Riveh considered taking direct, magical action. he had an ability that would let him sift through her thoughts. It would be an attack, and nothing else but it would probably work. A few things stopped him.
One- Odds are she would notice and, regardless of what he learned, Lugg would probably pound him into paste, poison or no.
Two- Even if he did learn the truth, would it save him? He doubted he could get a perfect chemical make-up of any antidote from her brain. Odds are she just bought some horrible killer at the market anyway.
Three- Did she really have the gall to kill them all? Honestly the woman seemed to enjoy pushing the edges and insulting them, more then outright murder. Maybe this was just another stage of the game.
For the moment Riveh held back and waited to see what happened next at this carnival of horror.
It was a less than pleasant sensation that followed this thought, wondering whether one had been poisoned. Every little ache and sore was magnified, heightened in the lens of paranoia. And when you had recently fought through crazed cultists, sewer monsters and mad automatons, as Riveh had, that someone had quite a lot of aches to ponder. Was that dull thud beneath his ribs the first sign of some toxin eating its way through his innards? Or was it merely the slowly fading reminder of the knife that had slipped its way inside there just yesterday? Who could say? He certainly couldn't, not without violently - and very rudely - yanking any such conspiracy right out of their architect's mind, that was.
Whether true or simply another mean-spirited jostle from the Viscountess, something to make her hated guests fret, the idea certainly had more than just the ifrit stirred. Several guests looked nervously from their empty plates to their host and back all the while attempting to uphold their polite façade, to pretend that Vitellia was perfectly charming, her outburst, veiled threat and not so veiled resentment all just symptoms of an avant-garde - and very charming, mind you! - humor. None managed this with any particular success. But then Lord Kastner wasn't even trying. The square-jawed man was eyeing the supposed tiefling with considerable thought, an aspect that seemed almost foreign on the honest face. Nevertheless, he reached a decision in seconds and spoke up.
"My lady Viscountess, I cannot say whether justice, honor and order are marks of the true Taldan," he said, voice measured but determined like a tortoise on a mission, "but I can say that these are all ideals I am sworn to. If you feel you have been wronged by our society - whether by slander or unjust accusations - then I would hear it. My holy vows require me to..."
"Your holy vows would see me and all other 'Hell spawn' dead and slaughtered."
It might have been an admirable, even noble, attempt. Kastner choosing to do away with the pretensions and attempt to address the grievances that by now were obviously the raison d'être behind the entire dinner was fitting of his genuine nature, paladin that he was. It might even have been a clever social maneuver, outplaying his rivals with honesty where they piled on the empty compliments. Sadly, it met no success. Vitellia's reply could not have been any more disdainful had she shouted him down. Instead she had done what was worse, adopting a tone so sickly sweet as to be toxic, dismissing him with the air of a loving mother correcting a particularly thick child. It was humiliating and intentionally so. The chilling fury from earlier might have been preferable.
"You, young lord Remiliard Kastner, have strived to prove your righteousness since before you were a man, always trying to escape the devil worshipping shadow of your Chelish cousins. It's so very difficult, isn't it? To win the respect of an aristocracy with such a long memory, who never forget the slightest blemish to a peer? Oh trust me, I know. I know. But you've done well for yourself, haven't you? The head of your house and an ordained paladin! Well done. You made it! After all, no one would question the character of a holy warrior sworn to such sacred vows as 'vanquishing evil' and 'upholding justice'. Because that is why you took the vows, isn't it? So that you might shield yourself in them. Not for ideals, but for the sake of politics."
The cold glare returned to the one eye peeking out from beneath the coquettish half-veil. "And here you are dining with fiend-spawn, the very evil you're sworn to vanquish. You'll hear my grievances? You'll give me justice? You'll be my knight in shining armor?" That most perverse of pleasures, the justification of one's own hatred, had returned to the black-painted lips. "Do you know, you truly might be the worst hypocrite here, if only because your station leaves you so far to fall. Just as false as the rest, for the truth is that your strong hand has been itching to drive your sword into my sinful heart since we first met. To rid the nation of the taint that is little old me. Your oh-so unassailable morals command you to. But you haven't. Instead you have sat at the table with a monster, indulged me my whims, and why? Because you need something from me. That is how far your precious vows reach. They stop where profit begins."
Silence. Only the tasteful violin was heard in the aftermath of the Viscountess's evisceration of the paladin, her bitter opinion on even that most righteous among them laid bare. None seemed to know what to say although Kaster, perhaps to his credit, appeared neither shocked or angry. Instead he just looked a bit melancholy, like a man acknowledging that his efforts could never amount to anything. This was the aspect he wore as he leaned back in his chair, retreating from the field of battle. The holy warrior had not so much given up as decided the battle not being worth fighting.
This was not the case for Catorax. "You are of course right, my dear Viscountess." Of note was that her simpering falsetto wasn't as effortless nor confident as before. "It heartens me to see that not all in Taldor are blind to the sanctimonious self-righteousness that is the paladin's creed. You are wise. In glorious Cheliax, we have long..."
"Do you know, Demibaroness," the noblewoman interrupted in her most conversational tone which by now all had learned denoted her at her most dangerous, "how many public executions your government carried out last year? It is a readily available number, Cheliax being so very fond of their bureaucratic ways and capital punishment both. They boast it, proudly. Your clerks are to be commended for even specifying the ethnicity of said offenders. A devious means of highlighting the faults of your half-orcs, foreigners and other undesirable elements as opposed to the pure Chelish race, I'm sure. Very clever. And yet those numbers are notably absent of one such undesirable." Catorax practically wilted in her seat as she understood what their host was getting at. "Tieflings, so comparatively numerous in your nation, are not accounted for. And this while we know that they are widely - and ruthlessly - persecuted. Would you like to explain this curious discrepancy?"
No, she clearly would not. The Chelishwoman was not eager to explain to her supposedly fiend-blooded host that Cheliax did not just hate her kind, but was so ashamed of them as to not even include them in official figures; that Cheliax did not just want tieflings dead, they wanted them deleted, proof of the Thrunes' less than perfect control over Hell as they were. Vitellia was obviously pleased at rendering Catorax mute, this upstart who had attempted to profit from the paladin's upbraiding when she was just as eager to see all those fiend-blooded gone herself.
"Is it time for desert already?" she smiled.
Riveh shook his head and did his best to give Kastner a sympathetic look, although he doubted the stern paladin needed such emotional help. The ifrit knew all too well how such words would sting the upright holy warrior, who seemed to honestly believe in his code and oaths. Worse, Riveh could understand the weight of trying to carry a bad name on one's back. Of all the people Riveh had met in this tangled and bloody city, Kastner was probably the most honest and forthright so far. Vitella's sport was unworthy, even of her caustic tongue.
He felt quite differently seeing Catorax being put in her place however. The little minx had gotten off too lightly so far this meal, and had even won points off himself. It was good to know she had to scramble in the mud with the rest of them.
Riveh listened to the silence and then, perhaps against his better judgement assayed the following opinion, "Perhaps all of us as hypocrites, Vicountess. We are but all mortal flesh, tested and tried by the world around us." Then he gave a forced, casual shrug, "But as you say, dessert? What delight awaits our eyes and palate?"
Frozen monkey brains? Magically summoned ice from the depths of the Void? Or would they perhaps have to grapple with a ice golem and carve off the tastier morsels?
"Oh."
To hear the irony in this one utterance; it was thick enough to support his silver soup spoon. Vitellia did not look to the ifrit in replying, her ever so polite smile plastered on the pale face as assuredly as her makeup. Every bit as artful as well. And as deceiving. "Well, that makes it perfectly alright then, Sir Geminus. So long as we are all united in our wickedness."
Right, that hadn't exactly been what he had hoped to convey, speaking to a shared mortal failing rather than advocating the evils of complacency, but should he expect anything else from the woman? She seemed determined to twist every word from her guests to fit her hateful view of them. What could he say to convince her otherwise, or at least redeem himself in her spiteful eyes? Frankly, Riveh didn't know, and so hoped to hasten the onset of the last meal to this bizarre dinner. He didn't have to wait long.
At the mention of dessert from their employer, the white clad staff hurried into action, retrieving what remained of the invisible stalker pies and bringing in the last course. Said course was not immediately obvious, however, served as it was on small platters covered by silver lids. Riveh looked to the shining dome set before him, his own less than pleased expression staring back at him. Given how the rest of the evening had gone, he couldn't help but fear the worst hiding beneath this cover, perhaps a trained mongoose waiting at the ready to tear his throat out. Then again, even that would probably be too direct for Vitellia. No, she appeared hellbent on humiliating her peers at their own game, in this case overly elaborate aristocratic dinner etiquette. He supposed she had succeeded; looking to his fellow guests, the ifrit saw more than a few fretful faces staring nervously at their covered deserts. But adding to this anxiety were their attendants. Every one of them had a veiled member of the staff standing by them, merely waiting patiently, as if for some signal. Rive looked to his own, finding no answers in the ghostly servant. Said signal arrived soon enough, though. At a little pleased nod from the Viscountess, every lid was lifted from the platter by the staff simultaneously. A little flourish to add to the impact of what was revealed, Riveh immediately understood. They needn't have bothered. The dish was quite shocking enough on its own merit.
More than a few guests recoiled, including Catorax sitting before him, she nearly rising from her seat. Spiders. Of course. Given Vitellia's apparent fondness for the things, he really shouldn't be surprised. As soon as the cover was lifted they came tumbling off the platter: great, fat little arachnids roughly the size of gold pieces, bright red and... strangely languid? The creatures were alive, but the only reason they fell off the plate without their cover was due to their number; there were at least six, the ifrit thought after a quick count, trying to determine their number among the tangle of legs. Once settled they moved no further, merely wriggling about in a stupor like so many drunken vagrants in a ditch. They were rather funny looking things as well. Almost crab-like in their crimson carapace, their mid-section was bloated, each easily the size of a well grown grape. Were they actually drunk on something?
Maybe, but Riveh's attention was drawn elsewhere. For there was another item on the platter, a very curious item these spiders surrounded like a wyrm about its treasure. It was... well, it was a polygon. How else could it be described? The twelve sided box, seemingly made of some dark polished wood, rested on the platter, ominous and still. It was no smaller than his fist, and adding to its foreboding air were the symbols carved into its surface and then painted with red. He couldn't quite place any of them, but they were awfully complex. What was he supposed to do with that? Actually, what was he supposed to do with any part of what he only hesitantly described as a meal? Some drunken spiders and a mystery box? He looked to his peers. There he found only perplexation mirroring his own. He looked to his host. There, only smug satisfaction.
IF YOU MANAGED THE NOBILITY CHECK, YOU GAIN +2 TO THIS CHECK.
Riveh's expectations for the evening continued their sharp downhill slide. Before arriving the young ifrit had imagine dazzling both his host and fellow guests with his wit, grace and social skills. However, after three courses, Riveh had settled for escaping alive and unpoisoned. How quickly such things can change.
The slowly undulating mass of wriggling spiders made his stomach twist unwholesomely. The pile looked like something you'd find under a damp rock or perhaps in a very deep, dark cave. Was he supposed to eat them? How? Whole, legs and all? His already full stomach did another slow backflip.
His eyes went to the strange box and he puzzled over it for a moment. Did it contain the utensils, perhaps? Or, gods willing, the actual food? Perhaps the spiders were a disgusting ruse....
At the very least, he recognized the sigils inscribed on the strange container. Stylized version of the zodiac, the so-called Cosmic Caravan. Easy enough to decipher and if he traced them in order....
There was a soft click and the box clicked open. Riveh glanced about and saw, to his satisfaction, no one else had opened theirs first. Looking back to the box he saw a small tub of what appeared to be a fragrant sauce. For the spiders?
Stavian's Fire, was he supposed to dig a wriggling spider and eat it?
A great Taldane general had once said, Fortune favors the bold.
Riveh grabbed a sluggish arachnid, dunked it roughly into the sauce and then tossed the entire thing into his mouth, like a commoner eating a peanut.
So which was worse? The fact that he could now say he had eaten live spiders, or that doing so had proven not unenjoyable? Feeling eight spindly legs wriggling about in his mouth along with the knowledge of just what they belonged to came damnably close to sending him heaving, but braced for the sensation as he was, Riveh's chompers set to rendering the thing still immediately. Upon which his suspicion of the arachnids having been force-fed some substance was confirmed as a burst of flavor spread itself over his tongue. Was that some sort of cognac syrup? Whatever it was it was caramelly, vanilla-like, just a bit woodsy and really quite nice. It paired wonderfully with the sweetness of the honey sauce. Heck, even the carapace had a pleasantly crunchy texture almost akin to nuts. One wondered what this chef could accomplish when not directed by showmanship and madness.
The to appearances so off-putting dessert proving palatable was not only cause to celebrate, however. Just as enjoyable was the fact that he was getting through it with considerably more success than his fellow guests. While the ifrit had never heard of the dish before, his dabbling in magical theory came very handy with the puzzle box, this so-called conjurer's crux. Recognizing both it and the arcane variants of the astrological symbols it bore, solving that little riddle immediately marked him as the most capable contestant for this round. Vitellia even graced him with a congenial nod in acknowledgement while the others floundered. "Oh my!" Aaand there went the Baron's box clattering to the floor, falling from his unfortunately clumsy fingers to spill honey sauce all over. Clestris looked most embarrassed. "Eh, m-my phlegmatic paroxysm, you see. Misaligned humors my physicians tell me. Too much water in my plasma. C-causes spasms every now and again," he stammered.
His peers had more luck with the toy, eventually, though merely that they had to learn from Riveh's example was a victory in itself. Yup, the last Geminus could rightly be pretty pleased with himself for no... hm? Oh. Looking to his snidely smiling host spearing an arachnid of her own with all elegance, he saw that one was apparently not supposed to scarf down the spiders whole. Whoops. He supposed he shouldn't let this little win go to his head then. Oh well. Frankly, he reasoned in picking up the strange corkscrew-like utensil with which the dish was evidently to be eaten, he was still managing this pretty well. For while a look down the table revealed that such stout men as Lord Kastner were not above trying some spider, this was not the case with all. Several were battling their gag reflexes. Among them he noted, with some pleasure, the Demibaroness who simply could not bring herself to close her painted lips about the dessert. And her loss was very much his gain.
Any temporary comfort the ifrit might have felt was broken by the Viscountess, however. "I remind you, dear guests, that I will accept your gifts during dessert," she tittered, quite innocently.
Oh, right. His gift. Riveh was reminded of his shopping trip today, specifically instructed as he was to find the noblewoman some offering. Should he be first to present his gift?
Riveh had little experience with children, having grown up an only child in a remote estate. He had played with the other children, of course, and class barriers were far weaker out in the rural areas. But as an adult, he had never really done much with the youth. And yet, looking at the veiled countenance of his host and her talk of presents, he couldn't shake the feeling of being entertained by a very spoiled child.
After insulting, ridiculing and mocking them for hours, she now expected (nearly demanded) presents? The ifrit had half a mind to march over there and shove his silk gown down her throat. But of course, no. The fantasy faded like a poorly recalled dream. That wasn't how the game was played. Besides, he and Trant needed that diamond. Riveh still hoped he might be in the running, it would do no good tripping the finish line and to give into some fit of useless pique.
Then, much as he had faced the slowly crawling spiders, the ifrit decided he should bite the bullet and go first. "I fear any gift would pale in comparison with the attention you have lavished on us, Vicountess. I mean, the food alone is enough to enter the annals of social history, at the least. And the conversation...well, it was sparkling. Or would 'sparking' be a better term?" Best to be upfront about it.
Riveh pulled out the generic spider silk gown and draped it over one arm, "Spider silk, Vicountess. The cut is generic, but the man at the shop assured me it can be cut to fit any design you prefer. I assumed it was safer to give that choice to you, then to presume your tastes." A short bow and a smile. Maybe not the best, but still, she did seem to like spiders.
Sitting at her right hand, it wasn't wholly unnatural for Riveh to be the first to present his gift to the Viscountess despite being far from the most senior of aristocrats here by any measure. Even so he keenly felt six pair of eyes drilling at his back in rising before their host. No doubt they were all curious as to what he had brought and how it compared to their own offerings. Though perhaps this shouldn't be his concern. He should probably just be happy at Vitellia's response.
"How thoughtful, Sir Geminus," she smiled graciously at his confession of the generic cut, her thin fingers - quite spidery themselves he found himself thinking - playing at the cloth. "Unexpectedly so given your bold conduct. Your consideration is appreciated."
A moment passed in which nothing was said, the noblewoman seemingly just taken with the simple pleasure that was caressing the unnaturally sleek material. It was undeniably very pleasing to the touch, even Riveh had to admit. Mayhap more pleasing still was knowing that the eccentric woman was capable of enjoying something beyond torturing her peers. Although as the moment passed into something resembling a while, an air of awkwardness set in. Vitellia wasn't merely appreciating the cloth, she appeared lost in doing so, pale digits gliding along it. Which left him - standing before her, holding the stuff - in an awkward position. Should he, uh, just remain still? Whatever he did, it was strange; looking at her now a certain guardedness and artifice, convivial or otherwise, had left the sharp face. In their place was something like serenity. Was the touch of spider silk somehow... therapeutic for Vitellia?
Whatever the case it evaporated like so much morning dew the next second as her gaze suddenly traveled up to his arm. Specifically to his cuff. "My, what handsome cufflinks." The tranquil impression was immediately replaced with everything pointed and playful - though nothing displeased. "Those would compliment the dress rather well, wouldn't they? Perfectly so in fact." A flirtatious tone entered her voice, toying and coy. "Is that what you were hoping for? That you might lead me by the arm, me in my dress, you in your cufflinks, a fine spider bedecked pair? Sir Geminus, you cad."
Thankfully - hopefully? - Riveh was fairly sure this was merely the Viscountess's stab at humor. Her smile seemed to confirm as much. "There's that boldness again. Thank you, Sir Geminus. Your gift is much appreciated." And with that she turned to the eagerly observing Catorax at her other side, apparently done with him. Well then. Nothing more for him to do but return to his seat he supposed. Was this it then? All four courses of the dinner, all the conversation, the gift - were there no more opportunities for him to impress the woman? Had he run the gauntlet as it were, completed the course? Could he only await her verdict now? By Vitellia's abrupt dismissal of him, he guessed so, though if nothing else she had seemed genuinely pleased at his offering. Nothing to do now but take his seat, watch the others postulate themselves, and wait out this crazy evening.
Fortunately, his peers' gifts made for quite the show. The Demibaroness had brought a statuette in black marble fashioned as a outrageously provocative female fiend. What was more surprising was their host's positive reception, she showing not the least sign of bashfulness. By the junior diplomat's words, simpering as always, he understood that the Viscountess apparently had another fondness beyond everything arachnid, that being nude artwork. Catorax clearly intended to utilize this as he utilized the spider silk. Her too Vitellia thanked politely, though why Baron Clestris became so flustered at this gift only became obvious when he was asked to present his own offering.
"Ehm, I, eh, I'm afraid I, uh," he stammered in trying to hide a well wrapped painting behind his considerable bulk. "I believe I have, uhm, misunderstood certain advice as to your, er, tastes, your Ladyship. Please understand that, ah..."
He would have gone on in this way for the rest of the evening if their host hadn't firmly insisted on seeing what he had brought. And because of his proximity, Riveh too was treated to the uncovered painting as Vitellia unpacked it. What a sight. Poor Clestris too had thought to impress the Viscountess with a more tasteful nude artwork of his own, specially commissioned for the evening. Sadly, however, he had indeed misunderstood something about the lady's tastes. The picture was of himself in all his pink glory. Lords above, a full moon like that could rouse a werewolf.
To her credit the bemused Vitellia merely thanked him, and promised that she would give it, "a place of honor." The rest of the gifts were not so notable, not all the guests having sussed out their host's inclinations. Even so Lady Deschamps's offering stood out, a gaudy tiara undoubtedly worth more than the diamond they all vied for. Here the ifrit learned that there was a line between 'gift' and 'bribe', and the woman had crossed it. The Viscountess was not pleased. And then - then there was the halfling.
Anxious as if she were approaching a dragon rather than a mortal woman, tiny Ella Rosewinter presented her host with... a scarf. A quite beautiful scarf to be sure, vivid red as it was and bedecked with minuscule copper ringlet forming an interlocked cascade that brought to mind fish scales. And yet the comparative smallness to the other gifts were obvious, and no one was more aware of this than herself. "Please... please accept my h-humble offering, your Ladyship," she said, a supplicant before her betters. "I know it is mean, but please know that it is all I can offer. I... I rejected paid work so that I could make this for you, so that... I do not mean to slight you, but it is all I..."
The voice that interrupted the pathetic appeal was blunt and concise, a hammer to the temple. "Go back to your seat."
Rosewinter looked like the Viscountess had slapped her. "P-please! Please, your Ladyship! Don't make me lo... Please don't tell me th..."
"Sit."
Like a beaten dog, the halfling - humiliated and dejected - had no recourse but to return to her chair, scarf in hand. Save for the music, the dining room was quiet, even spiteful Catorax recognizing it best not to acknowledge this miserable scene. Best to just let it pass. Cruelty such as this was best ignored. And yet - the curious thing was that in watching the Viscountess, it wasn't cruelty Riveh saw reflected in the pale face. Sitting at the head of the table with her presents surrounding her like a child on their birthday, Vitellia's guard had dropped again; if the eyes were the window to the soul, then they were - however momentarily - not clouded by the smug superiority nor false geniality projected earlier. Instead there was... a hesitation, he supposed? The green eye was downcast with a new uncertainty, even - fantastically - something approaching shame. What in the world was going on in the strange mind of his host?
Nothing that he could grasp for now, especially as that false conviviality returned with the force of an iron portcullis crashing into place. "Well then!" she said, voice just ever so slightly higher than before. "It has been a lovely - even edifying - evening, my dear guests, and I thank you for it. I propose that we end it with a toast." She raised a crystalline glass. "To Taldor and the noble spirit that we are assured shall save it."
All joined her in this seemingly benign toast. Of note was that she herself was last to finish it, however, draining her glass to the last rather forcefully. The supposed tiefling wasn't smiling anymore when her mouth reemerged. "Yes... I thank you for joining me for my humble dinner, but all things must end. As I said, I think I will retire."
No one moved from their seats. No one said a word. It was over then? The dinner had concluded? But then all that remained was - well, what they were all really here for. Who got the diamond? The guests looked to each other, uncertainly, before settling their gazes onto their host. Everyone was waiting on the Viscountess's verdict. And she clearly knew it. But contrary to her conduct throughout the evening, having them all waiting for her didn't seem to bring her any pleasure in this instance. On the contrary, she remained in her chair, staring into the table and not meeting anyone's eye. She looked for all the world like a general choosing between ignoble retreat or certain demise. Only after what seemed a laden eternity did she say, simply:
"Before leaving, I wonder if you could join me for a private chat, Sir Geminus?"
Riveh was just self aware enough to know that his sudden antipathy toward halflings was unfair and unjustified. growing up he had, quite frankly, never given the shorter race much thought, outside of the usual stories and folktales that place halflings as minor villains or fools. In fact, if anything, the young ifrit had considered himself above the usual disdain and automatic condescension toward them.
At least he had been, before Filibert, the dark and the glittering knife. Now, deep down, he felt a small ripple of fear every time he turned his back to Ella, and his eyes tightened when she picked up a knife. It wasn't really fair but he couldn't help it.
That said, even he felt disgusted at Vitella's treatment of the poor halfling and her gift. Whatever else, it was clear the halfling simply did not have the means to provide a gift on the same level as himself, let alone Lady Deschamps. What had Vitella expected? It was like dressing a dog in a dress and expecting to waltz. It wasn't the dog's fault when it failed, it was the masters.
But why was Ella Rosewinter here anyway? Was Vitella so cruel that she thought it a fun joke to force the nobles to confront their lesser beings on a level playing field? Was it like a dog in a dress? And yet...the Vicountess had, before this, treated the halfling with the same weird temperament she had treated all of them. Riveh wondered if he would ever know.
Then came the dismissal and his own special invitation. Riveh's hope suddenly jumped but he internally checked it. Vitella was obviously a complex person and Gods only knew what a 'private chat' might be. Would it be a reward? A scornful private dismissal? Another layer of the game? A request to wash the dishes?
Riveh told himself not to expect anything, but deep down, his heart burned with pride. Perhaps, despite all the blunders, missteps and failures, he had won this unfair contest.
"Of course, m'lady." Riveh said easily, although his eyes were wary. He rose and waited to see if the veiled lady would indicate a side room or other venue. "I am at your disposal."
The ornate chair nearly fell backward so suddenly did Lady Deschamps rise. At the mere mention of his name from their host, the grande dame left the table and - head held high and brow set in noble indignation - promptly stormed out of the room. She did not close the doors behind her, the dignified little click-clacks of her heels slowly fading down the hallway. What the heck was that?
Riveh wasn't the only one confused. "But, wait..." Both young Sir Varima and neurotic Baron Clestris looked up and down the table in trying to confirm the fear only slowly setting in. Others were more perceptive. An audible sigh escaped Lord Kastner, not wholly disappointed, not wholly relieved. Demibaroness Catorax meanwhile wore a face not unlike a cat finding spoilt milk where it had expected cream. They both realized what the ifrit in his humility - and wariness - did not dare hope. Wait, had he...?
"Y-you mean, ehm...?" the Baron asked their host, pointing a befuddled finger at the last Geminus. "Yes," she merely nodded, managing a slight smile after offering no reaction to the Lady's dramatic exit whatsoever. And yet it was wan and forced, not even a pale shadow to earlier glee. This response prompted another violent reaction. Much like the Lady, Varima rose from his seat in a huff, his pride apparently not tolerating such insults. He too beat a stomping and ill-tempered retreat, not offering anyone a second's glance. So hold on, did they all think that...?
"Congratulations, Sir Geminus." Riveh found his hand enveloped by the paladin's own, the holy warrior shaking it almost fatherly which felt just a bit strange; the young lord wasn't that much older than him. But this confirmed it then. He, despite all the blunders, missteps and failures, had apparently won this bizarre contest.
That realization barely had time to set in, Kastner giving him a comradely clap to the shoulder. "I trust you'll put it to good use." He was putting up a good face, but the holy warrior was clearly disappointed at losing out on the diamond himself. Still, it spoke well of him and all of his ilk that he was not such a sore loser that he couldn't feel happy for a junior nobleman. Even so, he appeared almost eager to leave Cobweb Manor and all that had transpired here behind. Walking from the ifrit to the Viscountess, he thanked for "the privilege of her company" with all the sincerity he could manage.
The Demibaroness by contrast was not so gracious in defeat. "Yes, congratulations," she simpered through a venomous smile, not offering Riveh her hand. "You have greater need of the trinket than I anyway." Hah. While the dinner had been quite palatable at its best, these sour grapes were far sweeter. More amicable was Clestris, however, and perhaps surprisingly so. Commandeering his considerable bulk the ifrit's way while Catorax too went to thank their host, he grasped his hand in a doughy grip.
"Congratulations, young man," he said, strangely morose. "I hope... I wish you and whatever loved one you brink back all the best." Oh? Was that a certain wetness he detected in the Lord's little eyes? Had Clestris hoped to...? Oh dear. Riveh was left to ruminate on the unhappy consequences of his victory as a white robed attendant offered to guide those guests that remained back to the front door. Adhering to the Viscountess's wishes to speak with him in private, the ifrit soon found himself alone in the dining room. Just him, Vitellia, her scarred giant facsimile of a butler and...
And Rosewinter. The halfling, whether through her tiny stature or equally low station, had been ignored by everyone present, leaving her free to address their noble host. Which she did, thanking her for "the opportunity", asking forgiveness for any slight she may have comitted, and then wishing the Viscountess a good night, all in a voice most befitting a dejected mouse. This done the thoroughly miserable woman passed Riveh, only stopping to wish him congratulation too before leaving as swiftly as her short legs allowed. As the doors closed behind him they were finally alone. The white robed staff had evaporated as silently and anonymously as they had arrived, violin player included. Silence - and the strange melancholy of a feast hall abandoned - ruled the dining room. Only himself, Vitellia and the aptly named Lugg remained.
Both only added to the silence. The giant, his deep-set eyes now on him, said nothing as usual, but Vitellia too was uncharacteristically quiet. While replying to her guests' farewells in kind, some taciturn air had undeniably fallen on her. Rosewinter she hadn't even looked at. Now she sat slumped to one side in her chair, a conqueror among her spoils, and appeared merely gloomy. This forlorn feeling from the pale woman was only enhanced by the contrasting extravagance about her, from the indulgent clothing to the fine presents to the grandiose room. Was something wrong? The ifrit wasn't sure, but he knew he didn't feel like much of a winner. At no point, from 'announcing' his victory to now, had his host so much as looked at him. Even now her face was turned away.
"Lugg," she finally said, voice laden and dour. "Give it to him."
Almost mechanically the scarred giant reached into a breast pocket. There he retrieved a velour box, almost like those Riveh has seen particularly fine jewelry presented in. This was no ring, however. Opening it with a stubby finger, Lugg held out the case to him. In it was the largest gemstone the ifrit had ever seen. Easily larger than his own fist, the diamond was cut in a several hundred-faceted oval, and every one of them was glittering with the warm light of the dining room. It was gorgeous, ludicrously, even terrifyingly so. It was an item so opulent as to be intimidating, the implication of its worth paralyzing.
And it was apparently his.
Knock and the door shall open, ask and you shall receive.
That was what some holy book said, although Riveh didn't know which. Clearly it was right however, as the glittering diamond sat right there, ready for him to take it. Seemingly of its own violation one hand reached out, ready to grasp the startling large jewel.
But then the ifrit checked himself, doubt growing in his mind. It had seemed too easy, too straight forward. Dismiss everyone else and then just hand him a treasure worth entire estates? Worse, Vitella didn't seem like a host giving out a rightfully won prize. She seemed like a disappointed lawyer, fulfilling a will she morally disagreed with.
Vitella had been cruel during their dinner, and had clearly delighted in making her guests uncomfortable. It had been a game to the woman, and clearly she had enjoyed twisting the knife within the bounds of the social world she lived in. But why had that feeling turned to ash in her mouth? Would she rather have had all of them lose?
So, despite his best judgement, Riveh spoke instead of grabbing and running, "Was it worth it, Vicountess?" The ifrit spoke quietly, voice barely audible. "Getting your own back, I mean. I have only been in the capital for a few days, but I can already see how they could engender such emotions."
His eyes drifted to the diamond, the faceted sides gleaming like liquid light.
"You didn't ask us who we intended to bring back. I had assumed you would, to be honest, Vicountess. It did not interest you?"
Was it worth it? Innocuous though they might seem - as words went - something in them resonated within the Viscountess and this more than Riveh could have anticipated. Not for the better, sadly. No medusa's glare, no lightning bolt from on high could have caused the woman to stiffen in her chair like so. Half-turned in her seat as she was, back still turned to him, he saw the thin shoulders freeze, the rise and fall of her very breath forgotten. Was it worth it? The ifrit had to ask himself the same. Should he just have taken the diamond and run? Had his curiosity gotten the better of him? For though the query had frozen her in place, the form was not still. No, figuratively and literally there was something roiling beneath the surface, every inch of exposed skin reddening from coursing blood set a-boil. Only too late did he recognize it for the fury it was.
"Get out."
Two words barely intelligible so choked were they with anger and frustration, and with them returned the imagery of the Viscountess as a great glacier, a cool sheet of artifice over something molten and dangerous, a not so sleeping volcano. That was what he was hearing now: the groaning of ice as it cracked before fiery furor. She was breathing again, heavily. A flushed hand balled into a trembling fist, knuckles white against red. Then - eruption.
Vitellia was on her feet quick as that volcanic explosion, turning on him, her hatred acrid as its smoke, anger glowing as its flames. Gone was the snidely convivial hostess, superior and perfect. Riveh could not help but think back to Factor-12's warning about Cobweb Manor, that here resided some unholy power, abyssal power. For such was the transformation overtaking the woman's sharp face in her anger: demonic. The strong nose turned hawkish, a bird of prey, while screaming hostility elongated the already gaunt features into the ghoulish. There was nothing so ugly as hatred. The ifrit could confirm as much now.
"Get out! " Maddening ire oscillated in the voice, too much so, threatening to crack. "You think I care about what pampered little fat cat you raise out of their well deserved grave?! You're all the same! You're all the damn same! Elitist, heartless bastards who'd sooner dine with their own horses than spare a thought for the starving masses, all of you! So what does it matter who you bring back?! Vicious, entitled blowhards, nothing in your heads but money, titles and the latest porcelain collection! Leeches, that's all you are! Leeches in silk! Self-aggrandizing peacocks strutting before each other while the world burns! Evil, vindictive monsters who never think of..."
Somehow she trailed off. Somehow the anger, while not diminishing, was... diverted. He could see it in her eye, her one uncovered eye which had regarded him with the frenzy of a rabid dog only for it to dim with every sputtering invective. It was still there, that indignant frustration, gleaming on the orb like a sheen of water on a marble. But it wasn't directed at him. In fact, in falling silent and crinkling her brow, Riveh wasn't entirely sure whether Vitellia was even seeing him. Another few labored breaths escaped the painted mouth. Only for the teeth to suddenly lock in a snarl.
With renewed vigor and seemingly doubled vexation the noblewoman wheeled back towards the table. There her hands grabbed at her noble offerings, grasping insensibly and at random. They landed on Catorax's statuette. This she lifted high only to smash it against the fine, white wood, denting it and decapitating's the Demibaroness's fiend with a mighty groan. The black marble was then flung halfway across the dining room. Only then did Vitellia slump back into her seat, something within her spent yet her frustrations unfulfilled. Turning away from him again, Riveh saw the hands grasp at her own head, and a single dry sob followed. But only the one.
"I'm such a fool."
Vexed like a morning eagle lost amid foggy midnight worlds, the voice was small and reproachful. Though only at herself. Beside him the scarred giant still remained, stolid and reliable as the rock. At no point had he moved a muscle. He still held out the diamond. It was still Riveh's to take. And yet - the shadow of the deep-set eyes was still such that he couldn't even see them. And yet Riveh thought he detected an impotent sadness there. A smaller voice still drifted his way from the chair.
"I'm sorry. Take your gem and go."
It was almost a plea.
Riveh was not a paladin, thankfully. He did not need to pry into odd corners and right old wrongs. Frankly, he had already done more then social obligations demanded...right?
"Very well, Vicountess." Riveh said simply and reached out and took the offered gem from the hand of the looming Lugg. "With that, I shall take your leave." A bow and then Riveh turned and left the room.
From haunting echoes down empty halls into muffled clatter, the sound of Riveh's footsteps transformed according to the rapidly changing environment. It was the strangest thing, leaving the opulent dinging room for darkened corridors and finally dust and debris littered ruin. It was like walking through time, the house decomposing around him. Unnerving as the effect was, it was only another reason to leave this place. Thankfully nothing seemed intent on preventing him from doing just that. The ifrit strode steadily on to through dim hallways to where he thought - hoped - the foyer he had entered through lay. The darkness was no obstacle for his supernatural sight, of course. No, only the slight added weight of the diamond was any obstruction.
The scarred giant had hardly even reacted upon Riveh taking the thing, and he had left the two - servant and mistress (and late master's corpse) - behind as they were. No word of farewell had followed his departure. A singularly strange evening to be sure. All the better that it was now over, and successfully so at that. And on the topic of success: aha, there it was. He recognized the grand entrance hall he had just stepped into, enormous and all the sadder in its dilapidated state. This was where they, all the guests had initially waited. Then those double doors over there could only...
Ah, feeling the night sky over him again was honestly a relief after this ordeal. Riveh stepped onto the gravel driveway of Cobweb Manor, grey and sallow beneath the moonlight. He looked to the stars above, even these celestial objects more familiar to him than whatever the heck he had just gone through. He did not linger. All other considerations aside, it was late. Best to just leave. And so he did, walking his way to the manor gate. There all the carriages and staff waiting for their lords and ladies inside had left, the other guests departing before himself. That was no surprise.
What was a surprise was seeing someone waiting for himself. Even more surprising was recognizing that someone.
"Evenin', golden boy. Fire witch's burning bush, look at you all dolled up. You had fun winin' and dinin' with the blue-bloods?"
Leaning against a fenced garden like a particularly gnarled and ugly log of wood was Sir Stig of Stillhall, looking much like himself and dressed in inconspicuous leathers. What was he doing here?
No, seriously, what was he doing here? For surely this was neither coincidence nor a social call.
Riveh's eyebrows rose when he recognized the unlovely knight in the night gloom. Not that the man was easy to confuse with anyone else. Still, it would not do to give Stig the satisfaction of knowing he surprised him.
As nonchalant as possible Riveh fired back, "Beats spending time with your old friends Stig. At least no one here made me wrestle a rum demon or whatever the hells barley was." Riveh shrugged and took a few steps closer to the Knight.
"But you are late. We already ate all the spiders." The ifrit added, "Although maybe the kitchen has a few leftover ones. Should I go back and ask?"
After a moment he shrugs, "So, what are you and Martella up to? Other the haunting doorways after parties, I mean."
"You whot?"
Riveh's comment on eating spiders drew a raised - not to mention unkempt - eyebrow from the weathered knight. Ignoring it for the tomfoolery it clearly was, however, Stig just grimaced and stepped forward into the warm light of an ornate streetlamp. Damn kids. "Not here on order from the little lady. This is... sumthin' else."
Oh? "Listen, I heard about this whole diamond chase yer on." The older man crossed his arms across the slight chest, black bow over the shoulders shifting at the motion. "Yer doin' this for that girlie, Fee-fi-fo-n'-fair, aren't you? Hopin' to revive her dad and get her plentiful knickers off in the process? Look, I'm not one to stop a boy from dippin' his wick - even if gods only know what the hell you see in that one - but I'm here tellin' you not to. Don't bring back Senator Trant."
What? The ifrit had to take a moment to process this demand. What possible interest could Stig of all people have in preventing the senator's resurrection? As it happened, the thug went on to answer just that question. Sort of. "As I said, Coufas didn't send me here. I don't think she even meant for me to know about this little bus'ness of yers. Haven't gone deaf just yet, though, so when I heard, I decided to talk to you. O' my own initiative. Thing is..." The brow furrowed, obviously hard at work finding some damnably elusive words, this search ending in an annoyed sigh. "Thing is that revivin' Trant'd be... Dammit, I hate this secretive sh*t... It'd be bad for the plans that be, alright?"
Well, that was less than edifying. "Shut up and lissen'. Coufas would never tell ya this. Too soft for her own good. Thinks you've earned this one or whatever, but you bringing that senator to life goes against our purposes, yeah? Not conducive and sh*t. The little lady wants you to go yer own way on this anyway, but my job ain't just doin' as she says. I'm no bleedin' dog. I see her make a mistake, I fix it. So now I'm tellin' you: don't revive the old bastard. If yer part of us, this is in yer interest too."
Reviving Senator Trant went against Martella's plans? But she was prepared to let him do so anyway? Whatever all of this was supposed to mean, the knight's deliberate vagueness certainly didn't help. Now what?
Riveh raised a orange eyebrow, although Stig probably couldn't see it in the dark of the night street. The ifrit ignored the rather crass opening phrases from the crude knight and focused on the bit about Martella's plans.
"This advice would mean more if I had any hint of what Martella's plans were, Stig." Riveh said bluntly, "If I was
part of this', we wouldn't need clandestine meetings on street corners full of vague fears and threats."
Riveh sighed and squeezes the diamond tightly, feeling the many faceted sides press against his skin. Was this how heavy a soul was?
"Frankly, I'm not even sure if Martella's and my interest match here. In what way is Trant senior a problem? Is he likely to be a renegade supporter of High Strategos Maxilllar Pythareus? Or does Martella have designs on House Trant as a financial entity, and wishes it to remain more compliant?" Riveh snorted, "Or did the old man just slight her at a party once? I need something a bit more firm then 'not conducive', Stig. What am I going to tell Trant? I changed my mind and her father can rot? "
"I need more, Stig and you know it."
Bushy and black as mangy dogs, the older man's eyebrows came down in a great big scowl at Riveh's demand for clarification. Clearly the Geminus bastard was being completely unreasonable. "Dammit, boy, do you think I'm speakin' in riddles for fun? What you don't know is for Coufas to tell you, and given how she hasn't seen fit to fackin' enlighten you as of yet, I'm not tellin' you squat."
He spat, exasperated, the vile substance no doubt the worst the beautiful mosaic tile below had ever encountered. Just as it seemed that was that, however, that they had reached an impasse, anger flared in the knavish knight. "No, f*ck you. Who the f*uck do you think you are? I'll tell you what you are, you're a f*ckin' rat. A professional rat at that! Nine hells, we're in the dirty deeds business, you stupid pissant. We know what our employer wants us to know, no more! So when a fellow rat tells you somethin' worth knowin', you listen! Dumb sh*t."
The ifrit could smell the stink in the almighty sigh that followed. No amount of fresh night air could ward against that. The curse laden critique had apparently been an effective outlet for Stig's annoyance, though. "It's a hunk of diamond," he tried, one last attempt without much heart in it. "You can do whatever you want with it. Buy a girl with it if that's what you want. Hell, you can buy more than one with a hunk like that, none of which have to require you bringing a ladder to bed. Trant really mean that much to you?"
Was this a question warranting an answer? Did any of the man's warblings warrant an answer? Maybe so, maybe not, but whichever the case Riveh's attention was courted by another matter entirely, something more urgent than Stig's profanities. It had been nibbling at his conscious thought for a bit, the realization only truly striking him now: wasn't the street awfully quiet? Westpark, Aroden's View, Senate Hill - these richer districts had been chockfull of guards, private and public, whenever he had walked them, and yet now... He looked down the attractive street. Empty. The wide mosaic tiled avenue was devoid of all traffic. Where had the security suddenly gone?
This was a question that answered itself. "So the witch really decided to give you the gem, eh Qadiran? I shouldn't be surpried. Fiend-bloods and Keleshite bastards; tarred with the same brush."
Riveh turned. From the other end of the avenue a figure walked into the warm light of an ornate streetlamp. And immediately glittered like burnished gold. Grand Duke Avernathus's scornful features were much the same as when they had spoken, briefly, in Cobweb Manor: contemptuous and gilded, although now accompanied by an uncomfortable malice, and a confident one at that. This assurance was likely due to his company. Five men attended the lord, all armed. A row of little gold ingots shone at the ifrit through a superior grin. "The others - may their horses piss on their shoes for their incompetence - told me you had won Vitellia's little game, and I must say: I'm rather pleased. No social aftermath to taking the damn thing from you." Resting his hands behind his powerful frame, he laughed, a clatter edging on the hollow and metallic. "You shouldn't have crossed me, Qadiran. And you." The sovereign orbs that were the man's featureless eyes landed on the thug, vague curiosity sneaking into his voice. "Who are you that deigns to associate with t...?"
"Geminus, who's the walking brass section?"
Stig, clearly more so incredulous than impressed at the introduction of the golden idol, didn't even look to the Lord, instead addressing Riveh. "The ponce looks like an Abadaran's watery nightmare". Be that as it may, he also had quite the well armed entourage with him. While Avernathus himself carried a sword, he obviously didn't intend to get his own hands dirty here. No, that was probably beneath him whereas... Hold on, were those three city guardsmen he had with him? Well, yes, the slightly ridiculous plumed helmets and uniform were hard to mistake. The Grand Duke had the city guard in his pocket?
Riveh couldn't help but smile, despite Stig's spitting and cursing. "You are getting awfully free with the 'we' there, Sir Stig." The ifrit said, using the knight's title casually, "Fellow rats are we?"
But then he shrugged, "I actually do believe you Stig. In your own, unwholesome way, you are trying to do what is best. I will take what you say under strict advisement. It'll take time to make the arrangements, I imagine. Hint to Martella I'd like to hear from her on the matter. Maybe you can convince he to break her silence on the issue? Beats meeting me in dark alleys."
Other reasons to dislike dark alleys suddenly appeared out of the murk.
"Grand Duke Avernathus." Riveh said, although whether it was an answer to Stig's question or the name of a very unwelcome pest was unclear from Riveh's tone. "He was one of the guests at the little party I just left. Well, I say guest, but he seemed to be quite unwelcome. Maybe he was a gate crasher, now that I think of it."
Riveh grinned and bounced the diamond in his hand, letting the jewel catch some of the light. "So, having been outmanuvered by your betters, you still feel enetitled to the reward? Sounds like Taldane nobility to me." Good Gods, was Stig rubbing off on him? Riveh was nobility after all. But the casual arrogance of the Grand Duke that made Riveh's skin crawl.
"I'm sorry to disappoint, however." Riveh turned to the city guardsmen, "You, men!" he said, switching to a commanding, authoritative voice. "I don't care what the Grand Duke has promised you, but his petty escapade is going to interfere with official city business. This diamond is evidence in an on-going Lion Blade investigation, looking at the trade in connection to the Massacre. Stand down, men. I don't begrudge you a bit of money on the side helping out a nobleman in distress, Gods know they don't pay you enough, but I can't let you get in the way. Pass on this one."
He gestures to Stig, "My informant and I are are leaving. Good day, Grand Duke. May we meet again." And with that, Riveh turned and started to walk away, wondering if it would help. At the least it might confuse the guardsmen for a moment or two?
It was true enough; that was an awful lot of 'we' spouted by the older man. Enough to comment on, certainly, given his otherwise so unsociable ways. Was it merely an attempt at duping young Riveh from his dearly won prize? Or was this genuine camaraderie, distorted through the cracked and clouded lens that was the knight's foul demeanor? While his manner towards the ifrit had arguably improved since they first met - in the same sense that a grating iron was an improvement over jagged pieces of glass - the latter theory still seemed tenuous at best.
What was more certain was the displeased - and surprisingly so - cast that fell on the rough features at Riveh's acknowledgement. While his words received no reply beyond the sort of grumble only produced by men of a certain age, the ifrit could not help but think the thug's displeasure oddly intense. There was something bitter and frustrated straining at the corners of the sullen mouth, and stranger still was his attempt at hiding it, unsuccessfully. Was it something he said? A question for later, perhaps. At the moment, the Grand Duke and his band of not so merry goons comprised the more pressing issue.
"So, having been outmanuvered by your betters, you still feel enetitled to the reward? Sounds like Taldane nobility to me."
"Hah!" the very annoyed Avernathus spat back, momentarily distracted by Stig's derision. "You betray your own fetid character as surely as you'd betray the nation, Qadiran. You are no more my better than you are a Taldan. No, what you are is outranked, outnumbered and outplayed, so shut your trap and hand me what's mine." Even the literal glint in the golden eye sparked with the contemptuous. "Know that I didn't bribe the district security to look the other way just to make idle threats, you little sh*t. If you want to die for that diamond, just say the word."
Bribes? Money really was the aristocrat's solution to everything, huh? From trying to pay off Vitellia to buying his way out of the afterlife; how oddly appropriate for a man now literally made out of gold. But despite the command, Riveh could not remain quiet. That haughty grin, so assured of its victory, was too vexing to leave be, for one. Moreover, he had an inkling of a stratagem worth trying.
The guardsmen all nearly recoiled at his commanding tone. They were all fairly young, the ifrit thought, beneath their plumed helmets, their eyes dull with a certain naivety and hesitance. Most likely Avernathus had fed them some lie for their compliance along with petty coin, with their conscience already needling them that not all was on the up-&-up here. Was this what the uncertainty of looming civil war did? Make men accept gold against their better judgement just for a bit of security against the future? Whatever the case this doubt made their minds fertile beds for some counter-manipulation of his own.
"Lion Blade?" one questioned at Riveh's assured tone only to turn towards Avernathus. "My lord, you said this concerned an item rightfully yours." Halberds turned in the guards' hands in tune with the sudden shift in power, a shift the Grand Duke's two private escorts obviously noticed, they stepping forward to shield their liege. The nobleman was as surprised as he was incensed.
"Don't listen to him, you simpletons, he's lying!" Apparently his newly metallic body was capable of producing spittle as was now demonstrated. "Will you take the word of a Qadiran over that of a Taldan lord you owe fealty to? Heaven's sake, who do you think murdered our Grand Prince only two nights ago?! We'll be at war again with the sand-blasted scum within the week, this is merely a head start! Subdue the bastard! NOW, you clods!"
The none too appealing command only prompted the guardsmen to exchange a look between themselves. And in the unease shining there Riveh knew what was coming before another word was said. "C'mon." With a simple nod between themselves, the three men walked away. Whatever this was they had been drawn into, it wasn't worth their vocation or blood. Avernathus was not pleased.
"Come back here! I paid you! I paid you, damn it, you belong to me!"
The demands netted him nothing. Furious, he turned back towards Riveh. "Kill this snake-tongued whoreson!" The two escorts' hands, they apparently better paid than the guards, leapt to their swords.
None were as quick as the knavish knight, however. With a swiftness belying his age the bow was off his back, loaded and drawn. Clearly he had been ready for trouble since the Grand Duke first appeared. Or worse still, Riveh pondered, even earlier. A twang of the string played as an arrow...
...completely missed its target, flying over one of Avernathus's thugs to land in a very neat hortensia bush in a nearby garden. "Piss!" Three longsword glittered in the dark as they were drawn, the golden idol's among them. All three men rushed towards Riveh, heavy armor clattering in the still air.
Riveh did his best to hide a grin as the guards decided discretion was the better part of valor, and ambled off into the dark streets of Westpark. Instead he saves it for the spitting, outraged nobleman. Seeing the Grand Duke lose his cool is almost worth having to fight his remaining two men.
Almost.
His grin returns when Stig fires an arrow and bravely maims as bit of local flora."You were right Stig." Riveh says, "It is very much a 'we'."
Being without his usual weapon, Riveh will have to rely on his spells. Luckily his ruse managed to whittle down the number of enemies substantially. The ifrit gathered his will and dug into his arcane well of power. Best to use this range while they still had it.
It was a strange sight, seeing a sharp piece of metal cool down to the absolute chill of the empty void in seconds, that great nothingness where the light of stars never reached. That is to say, it was strange in how the immediate aftermath of this effect wasn't visible on the subject itself, but rather in everything surrounding it. Air thickened into vapor about the sword, its super-cooled steel a shock to the district's otherwise so pleasant atmosphere. And it was no shocking for the hand holding the thing. "Aargh!"
He tried dropping it - whether out of intent or animal fear, who could say- but the weapon refused to leave the guard's hand. It was curious how heat and cold could function so similarly given extreme enough temperatures, as was the case here. For the metal had burned into his glove and what skin it exposed. No doubt it was also blackening the palm beneath. Only after a vigorous, and no doubt agonizing, motion did it fell to the ground with a high clatter, the man left to nurse his frostbitten hand. Disarming and wounding the opposition in one spell; Riveh had to conclude that couldn't have gone much better.
And whether serendipity or skill, there was more of it to come.
A grunt of satisfaction left Stig as another cry escaped the frost stricken man, anything but satisfactory. Ruthless as his every manner suggested, the knight had aimed for the guard already kneeling on the ground and clutching his hand. In this position, he had taken the thug's second arrow to the shoulder. Though his face was veiled, no doubt as a precaution in committing an act he knew to be less than lawful, Riveh saw his eyes scrunch together in pain. And crucially, it was fear that shone through them upon opening again. He clearly didn't have much fight left in him. Such was not the case for either his colleague or employer, however.
"Give me that damn diamond!"
Rushing him with raised swords, both men swung for the ifrit, sharp blades glinting in the warm light of nearby lampposts. But Avernathus wasn't getting anything with blows like these. Completely unarmored as he was, Riveh could rely on nothing but his agility to protect him in this battle. Amazingly, this proved enough. Dodging and weaving in a show the like of which was rarely seen outside major fencing tournaments (or so he imagined it), he evaded the whistling sword edges coming his way with relative ease. Hell, with style even, given his finery. It was enough to make one wish for an audience.
The Grand Duke would have to do. The man was so incensed his metal cheeks looked like little red-hot furnaces.
Riveh felt a thrill rush through him as he dodged the blades of his foes, while another groaned with pain. Usually his fights went very poorly until a lucky burst saved the day at the last moment. Winning at the onset was a novel, if welcome, change.
The ifrit danced out of the Grand Duke's enraged strikes, grinning at the metal man.
Despite being in range, Riveh focuses on the blades and, while still dodging, casts another spell. A swirling blackness forms in his palm, black as pitch. Indeed, it even seems to feel like sticky ink against his skin. Then, with a flick he grasps the other guard's forearm and sends the pitch up toward his face. It leaps off the oracle's skin, toward the man's eyes, hopefully blinding him.
Riveh then takes a step back although he does shout to the man, "Lie down and surrender, and we won't kill you!"
This was just plain unwholesome, or so the armed escort's horrified face said. Seeing a tar-black blot move about, climbing skin one inky tendril at a time like the shadow of some eldritch squid monstrosity, was bad enough, but feeling that same thing hurry up one's own arm? The poor man looked like he wasn't going to sleep tonight. Unfortunately, this was all the effect Riveh's spell amounted to. His victim proved hardier than the magic in flailing about, it veritably leaking off him in ink blots before it could reach his eyes. Damn.
"What are you doing, you clod? Strike him!" Avernathus demanded of his trashing guard. "And where are you going?!" he angrily bellowed at the other one, now fleeing the scene to nurse his injuries. "Come back here or so help me, you're never going to work in this city again! Do you hear me?!"
"Stavian's Fire..." Stig grumbled at this display. "The Grand Duke is a grand ars*hole. And you." He looked to the ifrit, irritably. "What good is your fackin' magic if I can do it better? Here."
This said, he suddenly began to emit the most unpleasant hacking, hawking and clearing of the throat Riveh had ever heard. Images of rusted sewer pipes being forcefully scraped free of slime didn't quite do it justice, but soon enough the ruffian had coughed up a mouthful of something unmentionable. Something unmentionable that he proceeded to spit in the astonished Grand Duke's gilded eye. Bullseye.
"See? That's how it's done." He was rather pleased with himself. Avernathus was not.
"HOW DARE!" If steam rose out of the metal man's furiously bellowing mouth, Riveh really wouldn't be surprised. He was enraged. He was also, however, too indisposed wiping brown gunk out of his eyes to accomplish anything much in combat, an opening that allowed the knight to pull out his sword and hold it out to the younger man.
"C'mon! Finish these clowns." The subject of the ifrit's own blinding attempt did not sit still throughout this, though.
Pain shot through Riveh's entire side, seizing and shining, as the guard's longsword careened into it, cutting deep. Getting his fancy dress cut and bloodied was turning into an unfortunate habit.
It was never fated to last, his charmed advantage over his enemies blades. The pain in his side was almost as bad as watching Stig, quite literally, spit his way to superior fighting skill then his own arcane well of magic. It was humiliating, really. Still, no time to dwell on that, not in the middle of combat.
The ifrit grabbed the sword from Stig with and, "You aren't having fun? I figured you'd love to spend more time spitting on nobles."
Riveh raised the sword and slashed at the footman . The weapon lacked the solid feel of his morningstar but then again, it was something he could carry into a party. Maybe he should invest in one?
"Give it up, man." Riveh said as his blade struck home, drawing blood. "You are outnumbered. Run off before we spit on you too."
Blood on the streets of one of the most affluent districts in what was one of the richest cities - nay, the very richest! - on the globe. What was the world coming to? Well, Riveh knew what Taldor more specifically was coming to: war, and if there was any root cause behind this debacle, this was it. Surely no watchmen could be bribed into shirking their duty without the uncertainty of warfare ahead. Surely no mercenary, no matter how well paid, would attack a highborn (even one as admittedly lowly as Riveh) on the streets of Oppara without its government in shambles. Without believing they could get away with it. What a sorry state of affairs.
Sorrier still was the ifrit finding himself without any recourse but violence, answering the blow to himself in kind and spilling the remaining guard's own. The footman grunted in pain, and his trials weren't over yet. Quickly stepping behind the man and drawing a dagger from his boot in one fluid motion, Stig jabbed the blade up and underneath their opponent's armor.
Another pained yelp. Now faced with blades to the front and back, the footman looked decidedly unenthusiastic about his prospects. The hesitation was only momentary. "I yield!" he said in response to the ifrit's prompt. "I yield, sirs!"
"You'll do no such thing!" But to see the indignation on the Grand Duke's gilded face. Furious as a favored child denied its wish. "You are my employee, I am your employer! Money was exchanged! You belong to me! Your blood belongs to me! And if it needs to be spilled, so be it! Now kill them!"
It was of no surprise to anyone but Avernathus himself that this line of argument was less than compelling. Rushing away - whether spurred on by shame or self-preservation - the guard tried to leave the battle as quickly as he could. He wasn't so quick, however, that the Grand Duke couldn't vent his considerable frustration on him. "Ragh!"
Metal scraped on metal as sword met armor. The footman escaped with a scare, only looking back in surprise at his lord's irrational ire. For he really was being absurd, wasn't he? Standing there, a golden idol clutching a no less gilded sword, Avernathus was panting like a wounded bull, fury just short of madness glowing from his eyes. Now outnumbered, he held out his weapon towards Riveh and the aging ruffian in turn, warding them away. Did he still intend to fight? For what? The diamond? Or just a pride that couldn't accept loss?
"You want this one dead?" Stig's query to him was almost patronizing in tone, as was the look he gave the nobleman. Clearly he wasn't impressed at the Grand Duke's antics. Then again - perhaps even Stig was sensible enough to know that killing an aristocrat carried consequnces. If so, then he was more sensible than their foe.
Riveh, still wincing from the bleeding cut at his side, was happy to see the final footpad hurry off. The ifrit didn't want a fight to the death, and certainly didn't need a another wound in a pointless street fight. It was one thing to save a desperate damsel in distress from a horde of evil halflings. It was quite another to trade steel with a hired thug over a diamond.
The young oracle eyed the nearly raving nobleman and did, very briefly, contemplate killing him. Frankly, he would probably be doing Taldor a favor by removing some of this dead weight. Besides, would it even really be killing him? His soul was in some sort of unnatural limbo anyway, right?
But no.
Riveh shook his head, "No, I don't think so." He turned to the Grand Duke, "In fact, I'm going to give you a great boon, Avernathus. I'm going to let you live, if you apologize. Just say you are sorry for the trouble you've caused me with this ridiculous outburst. I won't even make you beg." Riveh held up the sword to the dim light, watching the moon gleam off the steel. "If not, I'll let my rising distaste for you overwhelm me, and we'll find out if you have a second idol of resurrection."
"Apologize?"
The Grand Duke looked like Riveh had just told him to eat ten raw pigs, as if commanded to move to the Fog Peaks to live out his life as a mountain goat. The gleaming steel aimed at the ifrit and ruffian was actually lowered momentarily, not in surrender, but in sheer bewilderment at the absurdity of this request. Then the affront set in. How dared this whelp command anything of him, he who was his superior in every way? Station, rank, age, nationality, race - by any metric one cared to name, this literal bastard was his junior and yet here he stood ordering a Grand Duke of Taldor? Threatening to kill him? The nerve. The gall!
"You... You...!" For an instant Riveh could see it so clearly: the image of Avernathus's scalp tipping open to let out scalding steam like a great big golden kettle. Such was his indignation. This only made what happened next all the more curious. "Heh... Hah ha hah! Ha ha ha ha harh!"
The golden idol laughed. Booming and loud, it was like hearing hammers on plate armor. Only when the square jaw came to rest again could the ifrit confirm that it wasn't madness that had set it guffawing. No, it was plain old high spirits. Namely, the assuredness in one's own victory. "Yes, I suppose you would dare." The anger hadn't left the Grand Duke. Boy, had it not. But it was now mollified somehow, his gilded features shifted from fury to superior sneer. "A symptom of the times. You, foolish cur that you are, believe yourself immune to the consequences of threatening a lord of Taldor. That without a Grand Prince there is no law to rightfully punish you. That is the saddle on which your audacity rides. Heh. in one sense you are almost right. But only almost, half-blooded cretin that you are."
The moon that gleamed on Riveh's sword looked so much brighter, so much fiercer reflected in the Duke's golden hide. "You think that the anarchy of an empty throne will shield you? No, Geminus," - he spat out the name like undercooked chicken - "it will be your undoing. What do you think this nation will revert to without an emperor, eh? When loyalty to the crown becomes null and void, what do you suppose becomes the supreme currency of the realm? I'll tell you: currency! Gold! In absence of loyalties and institutions, gold rules. Always has, always will. And this in turn makes me, a very affluent man, king. King and your executioner!" There it was again, that ever so increasingly maddeningly confident glint in the golden orb of an eye. "Strike me down if you think you can! I don't care one iota! Why should I? I've already bought my way from Pharasma's Spire once, the tart, and I can do so again! That diamond you carry may be a scarce and valuable commodity, but not insurmountably so. The market will adapt, and soon enough my sons will have one of their own that they may bring back dear old dad. And when they do, his murderer will never be safe. Oh ho ho ho, no. Mercenaries will be the least of your worries. With a princess telling them one thing and a general telling them another, who do you think the city watch will listen to? Or the common infantry? Whoever pays them, that's who. You won't be safe anywhere, you hear? Nowhere! You and your vulgar f*ck of a friend!"
The unfamiliar profanity echoed down the gorgeous district of Westpark, as out of place here as the common beggar. Seriously? The Grand Duke was countering Riveh's threat with all the resurrections and assassins money could buy? This was ridiculous. The man couldn't just solve all his problems through gold. Could he?
"Now then," Avernathus said in a calmer tone, running a hand through the spun gold that was his hair, correcting an errant lock. "I admit that this battle is yours. But make no mistake: when next we meet, my resources will include a lot more than some bribed guards and hastily amassed men. And on that day the war shall be mine." Raising the ornate sword to its scabbard, he made to sheathe the weapon. He did not follow through with the motion, however, watching the ifrit and thug for their response.
The resplendent aristocrat's rant (what else could you call it?) conjures up a confusing well of emotions in the young ifrit, so much sot hat he is struck dumb for a moment. The well-maintained alleyway falls into silence for a moment while Riveh processes his mental thoughts.
His first, and most visceral, reaction was unbridled contempt. This nobleman was so ensconced in power that he assumed any change, no matter how chaotic would benefit him. That Golarion revolved around him and always would, even when he was literally standing defeated on a field of battle. The self-centered spiral knew no bottom.
Second, and only slightly behind the first, was fear. Whatever else, The Grand Duke was right. Gold was a powerful weapon when wielded in the proper way. A powerful noble with a vendetta against Riveh could easily derail his future plans on reclaiming his family's status. Riveh was supposed to be ingratiating his fellow nobles, and here he was insulting and outraging them. Was this stupid event going to destroy House Geminus?
Thirdly was just confusion. Was it possible to be this dense?
Stig looks over at him, the unkempt man probably wondering if Riveh has lost his wits, the silence is so long.
Then, Riveh feels a strange feeling of calm wash over him, a weird portent of the future. Without really thinking about it, he looks at the golden men standing in front of him and says, "The world is changing, Grand Duke Avernathus. Much that you thought was strong and sure is less then it appears. New days are on us." And with that weird enigmatic comment, the younger man turned on his heel and walked away into the darkness, reflecting on his own words.