Ah, Oppara! Is there a better place to be? Oppara's not just about the monuments and structures, though no one can dispute the glory of the Grand Bridge, spanning the mighty River Porthmos, nor the grandeur of the two stone lions that alternately pace, snooze, and roar atop the Lion Gate, Oppara's main entrance. Oppara is also a working city, with two harbors so busy that ships have trouble finding slips. It's a city of art and music, where you might find anything from the magnificent plaza around the Imperial palace to a tiny, secluded jewel of a courtyard, with mosaic paths, a sparkling fountain, and ornate stone benches beneath olive trees, cool in the afternoon heat. Full of art, music, debate, and delicious foods, Oppara is a treat for all the senses. It's difficult to say whether the view of the black cliffs under the sunlight or the thousand lamps of the night streets is the more magnificent sight.
Really, what does it matter that the gold has been stripped from the magnificent buildings it adorned in the past? The marble and stone beneath is still majestic, and the buildings still impressive. And so what if the laws and customs of Taldor seem to be falling behind the rest of the world, as the nobles and politicians quash all the so-called 'advancements' of other countries and governments. There's something to be said for stability, and Taldor has stability to spare.
So maybe your plans aren't quite working out like you thought. It can be tough to find one's preferred work here, though the Lighter's Guild is always looking for someone to keep the city shining at night. That's not much of an adventure, though, nor will it get you advanced in society, politics, industry, or the arts. However glorious the city, there are still bills to pay, lest you lose lodgings and end up banished to Crownsgate or the Narrows to scrounge for rough lodging -- or worse yet, to the Grandbridge Vagabond Camp, across the bridge on the south side of the Porthmos.
Maybe this letter that was delivered to your lodgings is a portent of improved fortune. Someone, sometime, has noticed you and that's usually a good start for getting ahead in Oppara.
Greetings,
We have not had the honor of becoming acquainted, but you were recommended to me by a trusted acquaintance as someone of good character and stout heart. I have need of several agents to assist me in an honorable endeavor. This will required travel and possibly some small danger. Travel expenses will be paid, and success rewarded.
If this may be of interest, or if you simply want a fine meal, meet me Wealday, 3 Abadius, 4718, at the Porthmos club. Ask the host for the private room. Food and drink will be provided, and I will present the details.
I hope to meet you then. A new venture for a new year!
I am, your faithful servant,
Remaio Alcasti
Alcasti? Never heard of 'em.
Alcasti? There's a fairly prosperous trading business by that name.
Alcasti? That was a noble house way back when. It was degraded because of... something.
Dawnilea stirs and pushes herself up out of bed, slowly, her movements deliberate as she stretches and pops her joints. That's better.... I really need to stop coming back to my room after sunrise, though... If only to make sure that they can actually clean it. Still.... that was quite the party.... and, an even better private afterparty, even if the host was disappointed he wasn't invited to join in. She yawns as she walks across the room, and splashes water on her face to wake herself up, smiling at the fresh water, towel and single flower on the table ..and that would be why we flirt with the innkeeper's son... Though I'm going to need to change inns soon to make sure that doesn't grow into a problem..... Of course, if I keep doing that, I may run out of quality inns to stay at.... Maybe I need to start tipping for good service... She chuckles a bit at the thought, dismissing it as she slides into her armour. She sighs, I suppose, if this keeps up and I run out of coin, I may have to accept one of the offers to stay on someone's estate - though I don't know how I can do that without it somehow mean that Dawnilea, the 'Vanquisher of the Champion', has accepted someone as a patron, and all that implies... let alone what the expectations might be in terms of sleeping arrangements.... Though I'm sure Mother -- or Durana, for that matter -- would be more than happy to suggest where I should sleep that would grant the family the most prestige.
She shakes her head at that, ...one advantage to sleeping away the morning is that it's not too early to drink when you get up...., but that's when she notices the paper that's been slid under the door. Another party invitation, I imagine, she thinks as she reaches for it, briefly feeling a familiar pang about who it isn't from
as she opens it, before the contents catch her interest, A job offer? That's.... interesting. If nothing else, it's a new twist... Not another request to model or fight a champion or denounce whatever noble.... and that, alone, makes it interesting enough to go....
She flips the paper over, looking for any means of how to send along a response, then shrugs, Seems I just.... go.... Well, if nothing else, I won't say no to a fine meal, and additional time away from here will give young Montas time to slide more flowers or tarts into my room.... or, I suppose, steal my smallclothes. She shakes her head as she straps on her swordbelt, Maybe I need to start bringing my pack with me... or, at least, find a safe place to store it out of the hands of teenaged boys.. She chuckles at that, and stops to check her reflection in the mirror, running her fingers through her hair but generally smiling at what she sees, A paladin's vigor is an excellent defense against a hangover... and long nights... especially ones spent in worship..
Satisfied, she nods again, and heads out the door, So, I guess the question is, do I go get that drink and have lunch, or should I find a nice strong black tea and breakfast. Too bad Montas didn't bring a sweetroll with the flower... I guess, maybe, we'll see what the specials are when we get down there.
Dawnilea takes another bite of the meat tart, savoring the mix of spices and onion, Portable, and so good.... A much better idea than sitting at a table and waiting for them to cook something, especially with the sunlight to burn away the cobwebs.... Though I should have grabbed a tankard of something on the way out.... She pops the rest of the tart into her mouth, then looks around, before pulling the invitation out again. Still the same under the light of day.... I wonder what a scion of a disgraced House wants with me? I do hope, for her sake, it's not that she hopes I can put in a good word with the Viscount and Durana....
She looks up at the sun and starts to chuckle, I do kind of wish I could be there when Durana and Mother learn I'm spending time with someone so far out of favour, though... That's almost a better reason to go than just finding out what she wants... She puts the note away and starts walking, Think I'll grab another one of those tarts... and then I can start asking around to see if anyone knows what this Remaio might be up to... and, of course, if that search takes me to a few taverns, it would only be polite to buy a drink or two, just as a token of good faith... Who knows, if I'm asking questions in the afternoon, maybe I won't have to deal with quite as many drunken idiots looking to build a reputation in a duel.
Auguste rolls over and reaches for the duvet, only to find that all of his bedding has slid onto the floor. His head throbs with the aftereffects of too much drink. With one hand, he shields his eyes from the sun streaming through the open window. ”It is too early for that,” he says, apparently addressing the celestial orb itself.
“It’s midday,” a tenorish voice says from across the room.
Auguste squints to see him more clearly: a young man with a tangle of brown hair fastening the buckle on his trousers – Samus the embroiderer. Auguste did not realize he was still here. ”Nothing good happens at midday, or really anytime before supper, if I’m being honest,” Auguste drawls as he slides out of the bed and searches through the pile of bedding for his underclothes. ”Daylight hours are the domain of the industrious schmucks of the working class and the ranks of the bourgeoisie who like to pretend that they, too, are industrious schmucks.”
“Well I have clients to see this afternoon. I’m not at liberty to sleep the day away,” Samus says indignantly as he fastens his cufflinks and fetches his boots.
Auguste sighs. Some men just aren’t worth the bother, he thinks to himself. He tries to promise himself he won’t see Samus again, but damn those cheekbones… ”Pardon me if I spoke out of turn. It is too early in the day for me to converse with the middle class without a cup of strong coffee, or at least a pot of tea.” He struggles to pull up his drawers. ”At any rate, I believe your industrious schmuckery awaits.”
Samus gives an exasperated sigh as he grabs his doublet. “You know, you are a real ass,” he says spitefully.
”I have always heard that was one of my better qualities,” Auguste says as he leans over the basin and splashes water on his face. As Samus storms out, the sound of the slamming door echoes in Auguste’s aching head. With effort, he pulls himself to a seat before the vanity mirror. He runs a comb through his untidy mop of red hair, but it refuses to lie flat on the side on which he slept.
He tosses the comb aside and looks about the room. It is not much. His family was once accustomed to much finer lodgings, but those days are now gone. He must content himself with this one-room apartment – spacious and shabby in a bohemian sort of way. Some of the furnishings are antiques – vestiges of the lifestyle he once enjoyed – but age and use have taken their luster.
”Industrious schmuckery,” he chuckles aloud under his breath. With sudden inspiration he crosses to the writing desk with its mess of papers and journals. He quickly scribbles down a few lines from his hungover rambles before he forgets them. Satisfied, he sets down the pen and picks up a small pamphlet that had fallen on the floor, regarding the cover page with pride. His latest satirical jab – this time a scathing critique of men who expect their wives to age like wine while they themselves age like soft cheese. There is an entire industry of cosmetics devoted to that hypocrisy, he thinks with a smirk. He lays the pamphlet down among the other papers with a rueful look. Well, it seems if you offer the world something sufficiently scathing and witty, people will overlook your ruined name to read it.
I could really use that coffee, he thinks. He pulls a shirt off the floor, sniffs it, and decides it will suffice. He slips it over his head, and then pulls on his black breeches. As he heads for the door, he notices two letters slid under his door. The first bears the print of Samus’s boot where he must have stepped on it on his way out. It is a note from the landlord. I told him I would have the payment in a week’s time. That was only two and a half weeks ago. He has really grown impatient in his old age. He tosses the note aside.
The other letter is something else entirely. So... “an honorable endeavor?” Shall I join the industrious horde after all? He cannot help but be intrigued by this mysterious invitation. Money is always tight these days – he wonders what sort of compensation they have in mind. Although he makes a show to himself of debating this invitation, he knows immediately that he will be accepting. He has never been one to miss an intrigue. What’s more, this is an invitation to the Porthmos Club, and invitations to that sort of establishment have been scarce for him of late. He can’t wait to see some tiresome pearl-clutching snob soil himself when Auguste de Bernardin presents an invitation.
He fastens a rapier to his side (no fashionable gent should be caught without one), pulls on a doublet, and goes in search of that coffee.
"Gerrup an' gerrout!" roars the burly day watchman as he makes his rounds down Scrap Street, pausing periodically to introduce somnolent forms to the hard sole of his boot. Thaddeus groans and shifts slightly on the cold flagstones, slitting his eyes against the sunlight and waving languorously with one hand while the other fumbles inside his trousers for his hidden moneypouch.
Just as the watchman approaches, the muscular young man on the ground gives a grunt of triumph and produces a silver coin, tossing it (rather poorly) to the guard. The King's man smirks as he catches the coin and draws his foot back as if to kick anyway, then shakes his head and spits to the side. The layabout lets out another groan as the guard stares down at him and speaks in his rumbling timbre, making no effort to lower his voice. "Nuther night, eh my boy? Can't even git yerself a spot in the 'rena, huh?"
A raucous snore rises from the strapping fellow on the ground, causing the constable to snort once in dismissal and pocket the coin before moving on down the alley.
A few hours later, Thaddeus de Porthau rolls over and yawns widely, showing a mouth full of pearlescent teeth that shimmer unnaturally in the midday sun. After a moment he rubs his red-rimmed eyes and looks around, noting that the rest of the night's scrappers have left, returning to their mansions and inns for healing and a day's rest before they do it all over again. I probably ought to get going as well, muses the well-muscled young man, rubbing one hand through his dark hair and grimacing at the sticky patches he finds.
When he arrives back at the Westport Wanderer, three streets and an alley over from Scrap Street where he spent the night, the innkeeper greets him with a cheery (and blessedly silent) wave. Thaddeus waves back and pantomimes a drink, catching Master Roden's nod before he heads up the stairs to his nice dark room at the end of the hall.
Today's the day, decides Thaddeus suddenly. I will find a way into an official fight. His mind made up, he opens the door to his room and stops, squinting at the folded parchment on the floor. What's this? Did Old Hardface actually come through with that introduction he promised? I'd be amazed if he even remembered making that promise, with the ringer I gave him. He glances down absently at his scraped knuckles as he picks up the note, and lets out a soft chuckle.
Unfolding the note, he squints at it and moves his lips slowly as he sounds out the message. ... success rewarded, eh? Ah, drink will be provided—this fellow can't be so bad, then! He makes a face. Hopefully they've got more than just tea.
A soft knock on the door proves to be Master Roden, bringing a light bitter ale and a chunk of Thaddeus's favorite dark bread—the perfect breakfast for such a morning.
Emiliano, 'Emil' to his friends, was in a happy place. He was warm, and content and immensely satisfied. Yet somewhere nearby, something was not right.
His head pounded, echoing with dull, repeated throbbing. As if a miner had taken up residence in his skull and was determined to mine his hungover mind for valuables. There was also a chorus of voices, but they couldn't seem to get their song together. Instead of harmonizing they seemed determined to clash, in counterpoint with the determined throbbing.
Light swam into focus, slowly at first, then with a few eyeblinks rapidly coalesced into the face of an angel. She was beautiful. Same this morning as she had been last night. Lyra? Liane? Lyssandra! THAT was her name. He smiled at the angelic vision. Why wasn't she smiling back? She had certainly smiled last night.
Last night, yes,.. wait, was it morning?!?
With an extreme focus of will, the sights and sounds merged into a cohesive and comprehensible whole.
The angel leaning over him wasn't singing or smiling, she was shaking him and shouting, "We slept through the night! My husband is home from the night crew!"
The pounding WAS in his head, he had drunk enough libation to the glory of Cayden last night, as well as to the beauty of Lyssandra, to ensure that. But the pounding in his head was echoed by the pounding on the apartment's wooden door. And the bass cries of an angry male voice was the counterpoint to Lyssandra's angelic cries.
Emil tumbled from under the covers and out of the small bed, more or less gracefully, and began tugging on his breeches.
"You have to get out! He'll kill you! He's VERY jealous! I don't know why!" Lyssandra was shouting as Emil focused his bleary eyes, looking for the rest of his clothing.
"Can't imagine why. Cayden extols the virtues of sharing both love and beauty. And YOU certainly did honor to his worship last night!" Emil said cheerfully despite the headache as he picked up his scattered clothing, shoving his way more or less into most of it.
As he picked up his weapons belt, he unhooked the small mug hanging from it. "Still, it is wrong to presume that all others share that same dedication to spreading love and joy as we do. And it is wrong to judge them. Come, let us pray for our sins of having caused your husband dismay, and that he may forgive us for causing him to stray into anger."
Emil knelt before Lyssandra who was still perched on the bed, and clasped her hand in his as he filled his small mug with a silent prayer. He took a drink from the now-filled mug, and the beer almost immediately made his headache recede.
"Hear us oh Cayden, and forgive us for causing our friend to stray,..." Emilinao began to intone sonorously. But he was interrupted by yet another bellow along with a blow that caused the wooden door to split halfway apart. A burly, bearded face with red, angry eyes peered through the crack and focused on Emil.
"I'LL KILL HIM!!" The shout sounded more like the roar of a bear than a man.
"On second thought. Cayden is often busy." Emil said as he stood up hastily. He started to turn, stopped, grabbed Lyssandra by the front of the nightshirt she was wearing, and pulled her forward for one last brief, passionate kiss.
'If your going to go, go with a smile!' Emil thought cheerfully.
Judging by Lyssandra's sigh, she seemed to agree.
The young cleric downed the rest of his cup, clipped it to the belt he was still carrying, winked at the fair maiden, and dashed the three steps to the window. He was accompanied by the sounds of the wooden door being smashed to bits and the bellowing roar of the bear-man doing the smashing. If Emil wasn't quick enough, he would probably be next.
The window set into the soft stone walls of the apartment were large enough to allow Emil to fit through, but narrow enough to require him to slow down to do so. He was halfway through the window when the husband burst through the remains of the door, scattering splintered wood across the apartment as he rushed towards the slender cleric with mayhem on his mind.
"I'LL KILL HIM!!"
Emiliano looked at the charging man, and smiled. Light gleamed from one of his teeth. The husband slowed, blinking, his angry brow furrowing even further in confusion.
"I congratulate you sir. Your wife is very beautiful!" Emil said sincerely. The young cleric turned and swiftly squeezed the rest of the way through the window.
This side of the apartments had no balcony, but had a narrow ledge one could stand on. It wouldn't even have been that difficult if one wasn't being pursued. Emil took a couple of swift steps, started to slip, made it another two steps and jumped,... managing to barely make it to the back of a passing cart full of hay.
'Could have been much worse. COULD have been manure!' Emil thought even as the momentum of his leap carried him across and over the edge of the cart. He plummeted the remaining few feet to the ground, where he landed on a passing person laden with wrapped parcels. Both Emil and the stranger fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs, unfastened clothing and scattered packages.
Emil landed more or less on top, so he was the first to pop up.
"Sorry about that. And Thank you. You broke my fall perfectly!" he said cheerfully.
"Get off me!" the other man cried as Emil was doing exactly that.
"If you've broken anything, My master will have you flogged!, I'll..."
"I'LL KILL HIM!!
"So sorry, love to stay and chat, must dash!" Emil said to the parcel-carrier, already a half-dozen steps away and picking up speed.
He pulled his rumpled hat from the carried clothing and waved it in a vague approximation of a fancy courtier's bow before plopping it on his head, turning, and dashing through the crowd with amazing fleetness. He didn't slow until he had left the cries of both the angry men far behind. And even then he continued walking, although at a more moderate pace as he readjusted his rumpled appearance into something more suitable for public presentation.
"Well. THAT was certainly my exercise for the morning! I suppose I may as well go and clean up before breaking fast!" Emil said aloud to himself. He plucked his small mug from his belt and once again filled it with a silent prayer. This time he took time to appreciate his deity's blessing as he meandered the streets back to his own humble apartment,...
Emiliano did not take the direct route to his abode. He wandered for a couple of reasons. He did not want to lead any angry persons who may want him to pay for damages to door or packages to his home, and he LIKED to walk. He felt that Cayden was a wanderer, and the simple act of traveling brought him closer to his deity.
Once he was certain that he was not being followed by anyone, (other than those looking for an easy mark, and those were dismissed simply enough once they glanced his obviously non-decorative sword), he turned down the street he lived on.
Emil tugged the brim of his feathered hat to a few he recognized, and a couple of small shop owners nodded in return. He doffed his hat to an elderly woman who was up early, rocking fervently in a rickety rocking chair. She had a bundle of knitting in her hands, and her surprisingly sharp eyes and ears were ready to glean the days gossip from passer-by.
"Good morning Widow Shiner! Beautiful day isn't it? Not as beautiful as yourself of course my fair lady!"
The woman peered at the cleric through narrowed eyes.
"It's too early to be so full of yerself Master Thanos. An' yer never THIS happy unless your in trouble. What was it this time? Blonde or Brunette?"
Emil barked a laugh.
"Redhead. And totally worth it! Although she cannot compare to yourself! But since you continue to deny me the pleasure of your companionship, I must seek solace where I can find it." He said, clutching his heart in mock pain.
The widow spat to the side. "Yer full of vinegar and nightsoil Thanos!" She cried, though despite her words she clearly enjoyed the flattery.
"Away with you, before I show you me knitting needles are more than match fer yer pigsticker!" She fluttered a scrap of knitting at the rapscallion.
Emil doffed his wide-brimmed hat once again. He smiled broadly.
"A duel I would be honored to lose fair maiden!" He called in farewell as he continued on his way.
Emil made it to his apartment. In a small but surprisingly well-maintained building. His landlord was thrifty, but fair. And if he wasnt extravagant, the roof rarely leaked and the premises were kept clean. The cleric climbed the narrow stairway (Not much more than a ladder really) to the second floor, and unlocked the door to his room. He kicked the letter that had been slid under the door.
"Huh. That's new. Wonder who I owe money too now?"
He opens the envelope and scans the contents rapidly.
"Huh. WOnder if they're any relation to Honoria Alcasti. Haven't heard of her since that unfortunate political move that ended her career." Emil mused aloud.
"Well. As long as food, and drink, are provided, I can hardly afford to turn down such an offer. And who knows, It might be fun!"
Dawnilea shakes her head at the protesting cries as she gathers up her clothes, "No, no, I need to go." She sighs as the lute-player's face scrunches up in an all-too adorable way, her brown eyes shining in the candlelight, then sighs again as she grabs her swordbelt, "Ashandra, you can't complain that I'm not staying the night - it'll be dawn in about an hour...." She grabs the swordbelt and pulls, reclaiming her weapon, earning herself a frown as wisps of chestnut-brown hair fall over the bard's face. Dawnilea leans forward and brushes the hair back and gives the girl another kiss, but pulls back quickly before losing herself in it, and stands again, resulting in a second complaint, this time from the honey-haired half-elf singer, "Unfair! Where's my kiss?"
Dawnilea sighs and says in an exaggerated tone, "Oh, I suppose it's only fair...",. and leans in to kiss the man, quickly slapping away the hands that try to grab her and prevent her from leaving. Kiss delivered, she backs away and says, "Look, I've got to get at least some sleep, as I've got an important meeting tonight... And, it's not like I'm leaving you alone...."
The half-elf calls out, "We're here for another three days.... Maybe after your meeting?"
The paladin shrugs as she finishes lacing her boot, "No promises, but we'll see how my meeting goes." She opens the door, then adds with a smile, "I mean, I can certainly think of worse ways to spend an evening...", then pulls it closed behind her.
She starts her familiar pre-dawn walk back to her own room, ready to try to sneak past the innkeeper's family as they start preparing breakfast for their guests, Well, that was fun.... On the plus side, with the bottles we brought up to the room, I'm likely to still be feeling fine if I wake by noon... Enough time to get into a nice warm bath.... especially sin-- the thought stops suddenly, derailed as realization strikes her, -- the meeting! I was supposed to be asking around about my potential employer, not bedding that duo... She chuckles, ..or, at least, before bedding that duo...
Arriving at her inn, and hearing the noise, she decides on speed rather than stealth, racing up the stairs to her room and hoping to avoid being seen. She smiles as she locks the door behind her, pulling her chain shirt off and throwing it onto a chair with a practices motion before collapsing in her bed without even removing her boots. I'll... try asking again in the morning.... She rolls onto her side, ...or afternoon... Lots of time... she yawns as she lets sleep claim her.
The Basilica of the Last Man atop Aroden's Rise flames golden in the setting sun as you make your way to the Porthmos Club. A fine view of the mouth of the mighty Porthmos river spreads out to the west, with ships under sail both entering and leaving the river, arrivals doubtless heading for the great merchant docks at the base of Oppara's black cliffs. The sea winds that belly the sails also ruffle your clothing, but mischeviously, not violently. It's a lovely evening for a walk, warm and mild. The brightest of the evening stars are just beginning to show above the eastern horizon.
The impressive basilica - more centotaph now, where priests tend the memory of the dead god - is not your destination. Overshadowed by dead Aroden's monument is another former church, the Porthmos Club. The mark of Shelyn, goddess of art and beauty, is in the building's very bones, though it is no longer consecrated to her use. Walls of delicate stone tracery rise to a peak, also bathed in golden light, but laced with intricate shadows formed by its ornate carvings. The large windows reflect the glory of the setting sun, sometimes painfully bright.
The time on the invitation was for early dinner, so the coach traffic to the club is light as of yet. It's too early for the high and mighty to see and be seen. That impression is borne out by the interior of the club itself, which is full of empty tables with a couple of quiet exceptions. Regrettably, no pearl-clutching is evident at this unfashionable hour.
A tall, slender half-elf in expensive, understated attire greets everyone entering and asks for your party's name. Upon hearing the request for the private room, he nods gravely, waves a slightly shorter version of himself forward to man the entry desk, and leads you to the left, down a corridor away from the main dining room to a stairway tucked into a utility area. The ornate spiral stair, decorated with tiny, exquisite works of art tucked into niches in the walls and lit by glowing stones, descends to a private room.
A large table, set for seven, with a great variety of cutlery and glassware at each place, stands in the center of the room, while comfortable chairs are scattered in small conversational groupings around the walls. As with the stair, works of art are displayed on pedestals, in niches, alongside books in the built-in bookcases, and hanging on the wall. In the place of honor above the room's only fireplace hangs a large oil painting of Shelyn relaxing with her fellow goddesses Desna and Sarenrae. The painting is bracketed by a matched pair of decorative glaives which, upon closer examination, might be useful.
A middle-aged halfling in the formal dress of the establishment waits in the room and greets you with a bow. "Your host will be here shortly. May I bring you a beverage?"
Dawnilea watches for a moment, taking in the sight, and nodding at it, It's lovely.. Truly, it's remarkable how easy it is to take things for granted when you see them every day... She smiles, and takes a moment to run her fingers through her hair one more time, About as ready as I'll ever be... Let's hope this goes well. She chuckles at the strange sense of nerves, You'd think I was sneaking out of my parents' house to meet a girl on a moonlight night, rather than going to a meeting for potential employment, and pushes the butterflies away, Worst case, it's a good meal, an excellent cellar, and a useful excuse to have spent a few hours pampering myself to be presentable for the meeting... Having convinced herself of that, she tugs on her chain shirt one last time to straighten it before walking in the door, then greeting the halfling.
"Good evening, and yes, thank you. I'd be quite pleased to start with a nice Pinot... If we're staying local, a Harfol '09, preferably, though an '11 would be fine as well."
Dressed as finely as he could pull himself together, Auguste strides proudly into the Porthmos Club. He is immediately disappointed by the sparse crowds at this hour. Well, perhaps if I stay long enough...
Shown back to the private room, he takes the staff's invitation for a drink order as an opportunity. As long as someone else is paying... He selects his wine accordingly.
Seeing Dawnilea here before him, he wastes no time in walking over to meet her. "Are you our host? No, of course not. It seems it was their goal to hire as many irresistible redheads as possible. I always knew that my looks would create an opportunity one day." He grins mischievously as he tries the wine. "I am Auguste de Bernardin. With whom do I have the pleasure of meeting?"
Thaddeus de Porthau hums a tune to himself as he traverses the city streets in the lovely evening light. His humming is off-key, but only just, and the tune is nonetheless recognizable as The Streets of the City are Golden — an old air somewhat out of fashion these days.
Arriving at the club, he glances around curiously. Now, that's odd... where are the bouncers? Looking the half-elf up and down, the burly young man nods at the host's greeting and follows along, his mind trudging murkily behind as it grapples with the situation. No bouncers... so how do they break up the fights? Maybe... maybe they don't... The young man's eyes widen slightly. Maybe this is the secret fighting club no one would tell me existed! I'll bet they watch the fights and then invite the winners to their initiation fights, and then if you win you get in! I've got to come back here.
Upon entering the private room, his gaze wavers between the two personages already present. Finally, after a few moments of silence, he smiles winningly at Auguste. "Good even to you! Might you be the illustrious Remaio Alcasti?"
"Good evening, and yes, thank you. I'd be quite pleased to start with a nice Pinot... If we're staying local, a Harfol '09, preferably, though an '11 would be fine as well."
The halfling quirks an eyebrow and gives a tiny nod. "Very good." He trots off to return momentarily with the requsted vintage. "If the '09 does not suit, we do have a bottle of the '11 remaining." He serves Dawnilea the glass and leaves the bottle in a marble wine chiller on the table.
The halfling repeats the invitation to Auguste but has not yet returned with the libation when Thaddeus arrives.
Dressed in the best of his remaining finery, (which, while far from being peasant rags, is still a far cry from impressing anyone of notable station), Emil stands for a moment to appreciate the view of the setting sun on the Basilica, now a monument to the Dead god Aroden. But he takes time to bask in the view of the same sunset on the Porthmos club.
'Ah, Shelyn. If the bold blade of the dashing, drunken Cayden had not captured my heart first, it would have been you. Truly, I still consider myself a lover, not a fighter. But some things are worth fighting for. And I shall protect you as well as everyone else here. If I can.'
Emil doffs his hat in brief salute to the goddess and her former palace of worship. He enjoys the breeze ruffling his hair for a moment, taking pleasure in the imagination that it is the goddess herself caressing him in reply.
The cleric also imagines that he can hear Cayden's brash but genuine laughter at the nerve of his newest acolyte essentially wooing another power. And he hopes it it the laughter of approval at something the drunken god would probably do himself if he had half a chance.
With a wry smile, Emil tugs his hat to a rakish angle and makes his way to the Porthmos Club. Inside he gives the doorman his name, and mentions the private room. He notes that it is still far too early for the 'truly' fashionable to be seen yet. All the better. Since being all but disowned by his family, he wasn't looking to run into anyone too high up the social food chain this early in the evening. After he'd had a few cups of Cayden's Courage in him, he'd be ready to wrestle the Dire Bears and Sinister Serpents of the Social Scene. Probably.
Emil notes the artworks on display with a keen and appreciative eye as he obediently follows the doorman to the reserved room. Between his family education, and his interest in history in general, he finds several pieces that he recognizes. And many more that he does not, but hopes he gets the chance to examine later.
Once ushered into the room, he takes brief note of the table set for seven, the few who have arrived before him, and the paintings and artworks around the room. He stares with a small smile at the painting of the three goddesses, under which a couple of redheads and a brunette are in quiet conversation.
"Lovely." he says softly. Although whether he is referring to the paining of the 3 goddesses, or the redhead female standing under it facing him is unclear.
A middle-aged halfling in the formal dress of the establishment waits in the room and greets Emil with a bow. "Your host will be here shortly. May I bring you a beverage?"
"That would be wonderful, thank you. I'll have a,..." Emil pauses, realigning his thoughts with the circle he would be swimming in this evening.
"A nice white wine please. I'm open to suggestions. BUT I would not turn down a Thunderfoot Sauvignon Blanc '12 if you have any available. I like the sweetness." Emil says with a small smile to the halfling.
He takes another look at the 3 across the room. They have the look of those having just met and easing into conversation.
'Good. I'm not the only one my mysterious benefactor invited then. I wonder who,...' Just then the red-headed man turns his head from the woman to address the other male, and Emil's jaw drops open.
"No way,... Auguste, is that you?"
The halfling returns with Auguste's wine and takes Thaddeus's and Emil's drink orders.
"Your host apologizes for his lateness and is eager to meet with you. He will be here shortly."
He patters out again to fetch the remaining two orders.
Thaddeus catches the halfling's elbow as he leaves. Lowering his voice enough to not disturb the others, but not enough to impact decorum, he asks, "Pardon me, good sir, but would you be so kind as to tell me something about our host?"
The waiter looks slightly astonished at Thaddeus's question, then looks thoughtful. "I fear I know little more than the public knowledge. A well-spoken, middle aged human gentleman who has done well in his import/export business. He has been nothing but polite to me, which is telling about his character, I think." A ghost of a smile flits across the halfling's face, then he excuses himself to fetch the libations.
"Emiliano, yes? It is something to see a familiar face. And here this gentleman was ready to take me as our host..." he grins at Thaddeus. "Do not worry yourselves; I swear to use my powers of impersonation for only the most noble of purposes." He presses his hand to his chest and gives an exaggerated bow.
Looking to stir some conversation with the other guests, Auguste asks, "So, do any of you have some idea what this is all about? I must say, my invitation to this soiree was most delightfully mysterious. Are any of you acquainted with Alcasti?"
Dawnilea smiles, "Perhaps, it would be best to bring both bottles. I'm imagining it will be quite the dinner party."
Dawnilea chuckles at Auguste's joke, then nods affably, "Well, it's right and good to deal with a host that acknowledges our natural superiority. I am Dawnilea Harpefax, daughter of merchants."
She then shrugs, "But, also a warrior of small recent acclaim for beating down the dueling champion on the very day --- well, night -- of his victory." She shrugs, "At least, I assume that's why I've been invited -- Honestly, pinking and then knocking out a drunken lout seems to have opened more doors of power than my parents were able to by offering my hand back in the day."
Dawnilea finishes the wine, letting it roll over her tongue in sensual pleasure before paying attention to the men in the room, Seems Auguste and I are the only two with any manners.., then sighs. "I am Dawnilea, he is Auguste, and from their little interaction, I believe that you're Emiliano.... Which leaves, you good brooding sir. Have you a name, or shall we address you by your otherworldly heritage?"
Auguste asks, "So, do any of you have some idea what this is all about? I must say, my invitation to this soiree was most delightfully mysterious. Are any of you acquainted with Alcasti?
Dawnilea shakes her head, "No... Though, I do know that it's a family that has fallen out of favour, and just being here is probably bringing shame and disgrace on my family... At least, I hope that the latter is true."
Auguste grins broadly. "You don't know true liberation until your family is well and truly disgraced. Embrace the f@~*-em-all way of life, that's what I say." Auguste drinks to that.
"Emiliano is correct, but please Auguste, call me Emil. I'm just happy to see a familiar face myself." Emil grins at the bold Auguste's humor.
"Sorry gentlemen, Lady. But I'm afraid I'm as in the dark as your are. I do not recall having heard of 'Remaio Alcasti' before. Although, I HAVE heard of a 'Honoria Alcasti'. She was an outstanding commander during the Even-Tongued Conquest. She made some, unfortunate, criticisms of the Crown's supply chain. Unfortunate because they were accurate, which made her,... unpopular." Emil shrugs.
The cleric looks back and forth at the banter of Dawnilea and Auguste.
'Well. Seems I may be in good company after all.'
Emil salutes Dawnilea and Auguste with his own glass.
Thaddeus' face reddens, first in embarrassment at Auguste's ribbing, then in outrage at Dawnilea's derogatory address. He clenches his fist and opens his mouth to retort, but Emiliano's friendly reply robs him of the opportunity. Loosening his grip on his goblet, he evidences a slight wince at the discussion of shame and disgrace, but quickly recovers and gives a courtly—if shallow—bow. "Thaddeus de Porthau," he interjects, almost sounding as if he's trying to change the subject. "I am pleased to meet you all. I'm sure this Alcasti is no relation of that one's; he's most likely an upstanding citizen who has heard of each of us from various channels and is perhaps seeking entertainment."
He cracks his knuckles meaningfully at that last, flashing a dazzling smile as his opalescent teeth shimmer in the firelight.
The halfling slowly and carefully returns with glasses for those who haven't received them yet, the opened bottles (which he likewise places in marble chillers on the table), and several unopened bottles of varying vintages. He requires two hands to manage the tray full of bottles, but manage he does.
Two of the place settings go onto the emptied tray, and he bustles to the kitchen entrance just as another man enters from the stairway.
"Excellent, you are here! I had invited others, but it appears they do not plan on showing. Their loss, I assure you! And not much mine, for you are the very people I had hoped would attend! You all have wine, good. We are off to a wonderful start." His speech is rapid and excited, with many exclamation points.
The man who entered proves to be a well-dressed human approaching - or perhaps dipping a toe into - early middle age. He's dressed colorfully in the style of the day, but as a merchant, bearing no ribbons or pins of a noble house. The outfit is well-tailored, but disguising a slight rotundity about the middle is beyond its ability. His countenance is pleasing, moustache and hair well-groomed, and he has fine, dark features which speak of high blood somewhere in his lineage.
His excited charge into the room abruptly halts. "But I have not introduced myself! I am Remaio Alcasti, importer and exporter, and I am delighted to meet you. And I apologize - I must ask your names. I know the names of those I invited, but do not know you by sight. Still, forgive the rudeness, and I am certain we will be good friends by the end of tonight!"
Dawnilea turns to face the man -- no, our host -- she corrects herself, suppressing an urge to chuckle, While it might break the ice, i can't imagine a nervous laugh would help anyone... Don't think it would be good to tease a potential host, even if he is clearly as excited as a Caydenite locked in a brewery six weeks after harvest. Plus, I still need to compare the '09 to the '11.... .
She smiles, nodding her head in greeting, letting the man finish, Bearded, despite his family's disgrace... and a bit of a social liar, but not a good one -- unless there's a way to reconcile the idea of us being his favourites with not knowing who we are..
She raises a glass, "I am Dawnilea Harpefax, Arshea's blade."
Remaio bows. "Recently bested a champion, I believe. Unfortunately, outside the arena, so no prize was won but a good name... in truth, the highest prize of all. Who knows, riches may follow in time."
Emil's eyes widen at the sudden entrance, and subsequent rapid speech, of their host. he allows the Lady to respond first, naturally.
'Well, I may as well make a good first impression on our host. Before Auguste steals all the attention! Good to know SOME things never change.'
Emil doffs his hat flamboyantly and bows low to Remaio.
"Emiliano Diego Thanos." Emil shrugs. "The second. Cleric of Cayden. AT your service ser'." The priest replaces his hat with a flourish, and a grin.
Remaio glances at the bottles arrayed on the table and feigns being struck in the heart. "A cleric of Cayden... my purse may never recover from tonight," he jests, then grows serious. "And, from what I hear, a true son of Taldor, concerned for her welfare and honor. I believe what I will ask you to do is in the best interest of our country, and I hope to prove it to your satisfaction." He bows to Emil.
The tallish, muscular fellow with the shimmering teeth stands straight from where he's leaning against the wall and gives a courteous bow, a bit lower than the one with which he favored the others, but still not so low as would be unbecoming from one of the (albeit minor) noble houses toward a merchant and host.
"I am honored to make your acquaintance," he offers smoothly. "You've clearly an excellent taste in venues, and your words ring of sincerity and honor. The world would be a happier place if all men might display such refinement."
Their host looks up at the muscular man. "You could only be Thaddeus de Porthau, correct? I am very pleased to meet you. And yes, isn't the venue wonderful? I've always wanted to use this room, but my life has been far too boring until now. Why not launch this venture with some panache, I thought, and so here we are!" Remaio laughs at his own enthusiasm.
Auguste can barely conceal his cocky smirk as he bows low. ”Auguste de Bernardin, at your service - wordsmith, philosopher, and, as I hear it, esteemed intellectual.” He straightens up and appraises his host. ”I must agree with Monsieur de Porthau - a most agreeable setting. I am not certain what seduced me more - the intriguing and mysterious invitation, or the reputation of the Porthmos’s wine cellar.”
Remaio bows a final time. "So pleased to meet you. I was especially hoping you would attend. We have much in common. But now, why don't we eat while we talk?"
He moves towards the table, clapping his hands twice, sharply, and invites everyone to be seated.
A small parade of human waiters enters the room, each bearing a plate with a bowl and small loaf of bread, which they place at the remaining settings. The halfling brings a bottle of olive oil, which he pours into a small dish at each place, adding grated salt and pepper.
"Kakavia," the halfling announces, "Made with today's catch, straight from the market. Enjoy, gentlefolk." The parade returns to the kitchen, leaving steaming bowls of rich fish and vegetable soup, bread, and dipping oil at each place.
Remaio examines one of the bottles breathing at the table. "Would you care for a white with the fish, or do you prefer to stay with your reds?" he asks the party, offering to pour the white into its waiting glasses with his own hands before being seated.
"As you may have guessed, I have a long tale to tell, which is why there are so many courses awaiting your pleasure," he smiles, then sips at his own wine. "I can begin the tale now, if you like?"
Dawnilea smiles and downs the half-full glass of red in her hand, in what is obviously a well-practiced motion, "With a flaky fish, a white for certain.. I'd suggest a pale Sellen, and while many would recommend a Kyonian, I've found those from the River Kingdoms are just a touch drier and pair somewhat better with fish." She pauses, then adds, "But I'm sure whatever you have planned would be fine."
She turns to the host, and says, "Honestly, I beat down the lout thinking his claims of victory were just boasts, and wasn't prepared for the sudden popularity it's afforded me.... though, to date, this room -- and the cellar below -- have made this the best of the many offers I've gotten."
She looks to the others, then shrugs and says, "It is your dinner, good sir, and your coin. By all means, tell your tale."
Thaddeus takes a seat, raising his hand slightly to indicate that he prefers to continue with the robust red wine when the other man offers to pour the white. He smiles and inclines his head ever so slightly to the halfling in appreciation, before turning his attention back to the host. "My ears do quiver to hear your tale, sir," he replies, with no hint of joke or irony.
After taking a seat as invited, Emil holds forth his suddenly-empty-glass, allowing their host to fill it with the proffered white wine.
He makes a show of sniffing it daintily, before giving Remaio a wink and tossing down a large gulp.
"Excellent choice sir! This will go perfectly with the fish. Thank you!"
Emil nods again to Remaio.
"Indeed, you have certainly captured our attention. And have baited the net well to boot!" The cleric laughs, holding aloft his again-empty glass.
"I have many questions. But I think I shall best serve my purpose, and my powers', by enjoying as much of your fine bait as you are willing to share, while I enjoy your tale!" Emil grins.
Remaio hastily spoons up some soup and drains a glass of wine - "to fortify myself for a dry task" - before setting aside his first course and beginning his story.
"First, a bit of dry history lesson. As I'm sure you remember from your schooling, Taldor was, at the very height of her glory, treacherously attacked by Qadira on the east, intent on overthrowing the Empire. Simultaneously, the western provinces rose in rebellion, placing our Empire in the unenviable position of fighting a war on two fronts." He pours himself a fresh glass of white while he speaks, and takes a swig.
"As you know, Taldor beat back the Qadiran assault, but was less successful in retaining the provinces. This was a sore loss for the Empire, and many of the military commanders were cashiered. The nobles were stripped of lands and titles. One of these commanders - a bright young General who had proven brilliant before the war - was my ancestor, Honoria Alcasti. Unfortunately, she fought her dismissal and disgrace, accusing the Crown and the High Command of failing to properly supply the Taldan armies." He grimaces and takes another sip of white.
"As you can imagine, that did not please the Crown, and the entire family was degraded from the nobility. We were not, however, stripped of our pride. My branch of the family has kept careful birth records, so I can, if needed, prove my descent from General Honoria Alcasti."
"What I never could prove was her innocence of the charges that were brought against her - charges of dereliction of duty, of cowardice - terrible things for any commander."
"My researches have proved fruitful lately. I am now ready to retrieve some evidence of Honoria's prowess and honor. Once enough evidence is collected, I plan to petition for a hearing at Court to present the evidence and beg for reinstatement of Honoria's name to that of an honorable war hero, and of the family's return to the ranks of the nobility."
Noting that the bottoms of the soup bowls are coming into view, he again claps his hands sharply, and the places are cleared of used dishes and cutlerly before the next course is brought in: scallops on the half shell with sage butter, mixed piclke of parsley root, carrot, radish, turnip, pear, and currents in a spiced wine vinegar, and fresh bread and oil.
"Are you all with me so far, at least in understanding?"
Auguste takes a leisurely draught of white wine as the new plates are presented. ”Clear enough, but why all the fuss? What is to be gained? Being reinstated as a noble house comes with burdens of its own. Being a hopeless degenerate has its advantages.” A look of slight unease in Auguste’s eyes suggests this wanton embrace of the libertine life belies some genuine discontent that he is eager to conceal.
Dawnilea nods, "Honestly, I knew of the fall of your family, though only small bits of the why of it. I will say that, if you're right, then this seems an injustice and a bit of scapegoating..." Careful, he's conflicted, let's not push him over -- "though, it could just be a grand error, the product of the chaos of the time," she tries to add reassuringly. Maybe I should slow down on the wine, excellent as it is, before the next course of dinner is my own boot, she thinks, then raises the glass to her lips anyway, ..then again, I've spent years building up a tolerance, now... besides, it's not like they can keep the bottle now that it's been opened.
Auguste takes a leisurely draught of white wine as the new plates are presented. ”Clear enough, but why all the fuss? What is to be gained? Being reinstated as a noble house comes with burdens of its own. Being a hopeless degenerate has its advantages.”
Alcasti considers Auguste's words seriously, despite the flippant end. He replies with some sympathy, "First, there is the good name of my ancestor. If she was indeed a war hero and was unjustly dismissed and degraded... scapegoated as you say, lady... it is right and just that her name be restored. And secondly..."
He stops to sip more wine and consider his next words.
"I will be frank with you, so you can choose your path and not claim you were deceived. There is nothing wrong or illegal in what I - I hope 'we' - undertake. But if my family were restored, I would have more influence in the upcoming talks of Succession, and possibly a vote on matters of law."
"I am a patriot, but I am not blind. As far back as the war Honoria waged, we might have retained our colonies had we been more... flexible. Our adherence to tradition is a fine thing, but being stagnant and unable to change is not. Taldor needs to change with the times."
"Since Grand Prince Stavian's son was killed, he, in his grief, has not named an heir. His only remaining child is a woman. According to our laws, she cannot sit on the throne. This is no secret."
"Yet all I have heard of her is good. She is capable, level-headed, intelligent, and has studied statecraft at her father's knee. The nobles who might have a chance at becoming heir don't wish that law to change. Many others of us do. We trust in the royal house and do not understand why the Princess should be excluded from the throne by an obsolete law. We wish the law changed, and the Princess to be heir. It would be good for Taldor if the succession were settled before we are thrown into a crisis. Grand Prince Stavian is no longer young."
He shrugs. "So there is the deepest part of my desire - to aid Taldor. There will be no plots against the Crown in this room, nor attempts to overthrow the state. But if the idea of working for someone who would see a woman on the throne offends you, you may leave." Remaio gestures to the door, then smiles. "Or wait until after dinner, if you prefer. I did promise a meal if you showed up."
Emil blinks once or twice as he glances accusingly at the glass in his hand.
"Why is the glass always empty?!?" The cleric murmurs.
Yes, I had heard of Honoria in my studies. Although to be honest MY knowledge is far more historical tales, and less family history. So I was missing some of the important, finer, details." Emil gives a small smile as Remaio kindly refills the distressingly empty wineglass.
"I must agree. It seems unfair to so dishonor anyone whose sole crime seems to be pointing out the flaws in her superiors. No matter how unpopular the truth is, it IS the truth. I have never understood the popularity of disparaging others to make oneself look better. We all make enough mistakes. No need to add more to the list is there?" The youth says in a carefree way that belies the carefully crafted way he actually says what he wants to say,... Habits from a previous time.
Emil scratches his chin (and briefly contemplates a beard) as Remaio explains his intentions. Most of them it seems.
Emil salutes with his glass.
"To aid Taldor. AND to help a damsel in distress as well?! Well NOW you have my attention! Pray good sir, please do continue!" Emil declares as he not-so subtly pushes his empty bowl aside in expectation of the next course, and the continued tale.
Dawnilea looks skeptical, but also starts nodding, "Well, as a woman whose value was measured by the husband I could bring my family, and a follower of a god who literally teaches that gender is fluid and can be whatever we want it to be, I support the idea of equality and that the Crown should sit on the brow of a woman."
She then says, "But, as you say, tradition in Taldor is... ancient, practically petrified. I don't think it would be so easily moved, and think it's unlikely that the balance currently hangs on a single vote." She shakes her head, "That isn't to say I won't help deal with the injustice of the past, but I fear the rest is little more than wishful thinking."
"It is true enough that changing a law will not rally support for the change, but it is a start," Remaio agrees, rising to refill Dawnilea's glass. "Taldor is a political place, and the nobility all know how to play the game. There are some who will honestly support the change, and others who will support the Princess so that a hated rival is not awarded the throne."
He calls for the next course while he seats himself. It is another appetizer course: afrutum on fig leaves, cuttlefish cakes, a lettuce salad, and garum available for pouring to taste.
"But that is a far-distant problem. The immediate issue is this: I need agents to act on my behalf to travel to several locations and gather evidence and testimony as to Honoria's actions. I believe her detractors smeared her service record. Now, evidence has come to light that may prove her deeds worthy of praise, not censure."
"If this evidence supports Honoria's career, I will also need you to testify on her behalf at Court. This is strictly regarding what you found, where you found it, or who said it. Though I would contract and pay you for the effort, you are not members of my household or family, and would need to testify as independent agents."
"If the early evidence does not support my view of my ancestress, well... I will give up the effort and return to my merchant life satisfied. If it does, it might mean more excursions for you to gather more information."
Thaddeus nods along as he works his way methodically through the various dishes (and copious wine). He frowns periodically, as if struggling to follow some of the conversation's winding twists, but finally nods. "I am certain that you know that I'm no spy," he begins, then frowns at his vulgar wording and tries again. "What I mean, of course, is that I do not engage in any low, underhanded activities of the sort that others might describe as 'information-gathering'. I am certain, being such an upstanding citizen yourself, that you would never ask or suggest such — still, I hope you will forgive me for ensuring we are all clear upon that point."
"I must beg for clarification myself, then, for information gathering is exactly what I need -- information about my ancestress and her career. I will tell you the first mission plainly: a distant cousin, whose branch of the family chose to live in Andoran after Honoria's disgrace, has in her posession papers and even a diary that once belonged to Honoria. I ask you to retrieve those items and a description of their provenance from my cousin."
"As for Andoran, it does not interest me except as the place my cousin resides."
Remaio calls for the halfling to remove the empty bottles and replace them with full ones.
"Now, let us speak plainly, as we are not in Court and have no need to play the games the nobles and politicians do. Would that task offend you, Master de Porthau?"
Thaddeus blinks at the other as he processes the man's words. Finally he shakes his head, reddening slightly. "No, no, certainly not. I meant no offense, good sir. Your pardon — I believe my recent choice of company prior to this evening has affected my manners."
A nobleman such as this would never stoop to such things! And he's already said there's nothing dishonorable about the request. Just go to Andoran, ask his cousin for the papers and talk to her a bit, and then come back!