The rebellion begins! The city of Kintargo has long been a safe haven for artists, freethinkers, and those marginalized by the oppressive Chelish government, but now the city has been placed under martial law by inquisitor Barzillai Thrune. When a protest turns into a riot, a new group of heroes comes together to form an organized resistance against the devil-binding government and the church of Asmodeus -- but can they survive logn enough to establish allies? Or will they become the latest victims of the Thrice-Damned House of Thrune?
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In the dimly lit back room of the abandoned clothing store that now served as an impromptu soup kitchen three days a week, Impasha scrubbed away meticulously at the large iron pot that until half an hour ago had held a lentil stew. Her hair was tied back away from her perspiring face, and she was dressed in a plain, dark-green homespun dress and wooden clogs. Her own bowl of soup now rested fresh and warm in her belly -- she had not eaten until the kitchen was shut down and all the clients had been served. Enough had remained for her, just. Iomedae provides for her servants.
The boar bristles of the brush were short and bent in many places, and often it was Impasha's nails which had to scrape away the burnt remnants of the soup from the pitted black cast iron, but her mind was elsewhere, thinking of the faces of the hungry, unwashed, loud, fascinating, mostly grateful people of this poor neighborhood of Kintargo, a few of whom she was coming to know, and many of whom already seemed to know her. Wretched, ignorant, mostly good-hearted, just trying to get by-- these were her people, the ones who needed her. She only wished she had more to give them than soup three times a week.
Half an hour later, the followers of Milani were ready to close up and return to their quarters, some servant's buildings at the back of a sympathetic nobleman's house. Impasha carried the pot slung over her back, filled with the loose utensils. She felt content and comfortable with them, and they had accepted her, but were still wary. They were a bit wary of everyone, but that was to be expected. They all existed on a narrow ledge, one misstep from disaster. And as much as she liked them, she chafed at their reluctance to act more forcefully in the cause of liberation, and they shrank from her occasional clarion calls to action.
She needed to give more than soup three times a week.
Later, as evening was falling, she sat up in the branches of a sycamore tree, watching children playing noisily beyond the wall, fingering a tin pendant on her neck given to her years ago, wrestling with her restlessness. Was it her duty to follow the law if those in charge were flouting it? If the powers that be oppressed and stole from the poor people of the city, how far could she go to help them? She wanted to fight for them, but was she ready to kill for them? It might come to that. She brooded on this for a while, then closed her eyes and cleared her mind. The Inheritor is wiser than you. She will tell you what is right at the moment it must be done. You are the Hand that must be ready. Listen with your heart. Trust your conscience. Than act without hesitation.
After evening vespers with the faithful of Milani, she sat out back and sharpened the blade on her longsword for 20 minutes, then returned inside to sleep on her straw pallet. A mongrel street dog who hung about the place climbed onto the pallet near her feet and curled up there. She smiled to feel its softness and warmth, the first time she'd truly smiled all day.
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Buttercup waves to Impasha as she exits the 'free meal deal' as she calls the soup kitchen. Though she has a couple gold jiggling around in her pocket thanks to a blacksmith's unknowing donation during lunch hour, it does not pay to advertise wealth. The blacksmith should be grateful she passed that bit of wisdom on to him. No, a free meal is a free meal AND besides, as most halflings know, the more meals the better.
Heading left out the door she passes a tailor's shop and a furniture store. Neither proprietor was of the wealthy sort but the furniture maker was an old softy and let her camp out under some discarded lumber she fashioned into a makeshift shelter. Old Plank, the streeters like to call him. Though not all that wealthy he still managed to support the shelter a couple doors down where the 'free meal deal' hung their shingles.
She often wondered, being the cynical old soul that she was, whether it was all just a ruse so that the common thieves and upper story thugs would leave him alone. Because NOBODY was stupid enough to do that. A man with lots of friends in low places is a dangerous man to mess with. But knowing him personally, that thought never lasted long.
Closing her 'door' Buttercup settles in for a decent sleep, letting the street sounds begin their lulling work. Unlike a lot of others that inhabit the area, Buttercup's 'work' took place during the daytime, not the night. Nights were dangerous, perhaps more dangerous than the guards, and part of the reason she was a simple pickpocket. A lot less complicated that way too. There was still a bit of daylight left, but Buttercup was feeling a bit languid at the moment, and, besides, it is a good idea to keep a low profile when you can. At least that is what she likes to tell herself when she is feeling this way.
Pulling up the cart at the market stall, Celas collects his pay for delivering the goods for the vendor hoping for a good day. After promising to return later to help pack up he heads off to a rise where he can get a good look at the rapidly growing crowd. Big crowd, might be hard to spot anyone. I'll keep an eye out for the Valcaros, Mr. Varethil is worried that his mistress will put a target on herself. But a chance at the pockets of some devil's worshippers is also one I can't pass up.
He works his way down to where a group of Tyrant lovers are gathered but too low status to warrant the inner circle where the guards are, wearing his archstar symbol. He carefully picks the distracted there, but from time to time he looks elsewhere for anyone he knows.
If things start turning ugly, he'll slip to the edge, ready to go on out to already planned routes out to good hiding places. If he spots friends though he will try to help if it doesn't get him hanged. If he needs to he'll either hide the holy symbols he has or switch to his Shelyn one if more useful.
The manor had been too quiet all evening.
Bellara stood in the upper gallery of Gullsrest, watching the lanterns sway on the docks. The smell of salt and tar drifted through the open shutters, mixing with the fainter perfume of old cedar and oil from the rapier display case at her side. Once, the case had held half a dozen blades from trophies of Valcaro captains and duelists. Now only one remained. A tarnished heirloom, its hilt boasting the family’s silver gull.
Her hand hovered over the glass for a long moment before she unlatched the case and drew the weapon free. The balance was still good. Elarion had seen to that. He always did.
In the study below, she could hear him moving about. Measured steps on old floorboards, the scrape of a chair, the low clink of glass on wood. No doubt setting out her favored wine, as he had since she was old enough to drink (or maybe slightly before ...), and watching her with that subtle blend of concern and indulgence.
She moved through the gallery, her buckler slung over her arm, and out onto the balcony. The sea breeze tugged at her hair and the gulls called to one another overhead. It reminded her of nights she’d spent here with Lucero, their boots hooked over the railing. Trading lines of half-finished songs and daring each other to fence imaginary foes in the moonlight. He’d always laughed loudest when she won.
That laughter had been gone for weeks now, snuffed out in some shadowed street by unknown men. Unknown to the law, maybe, but Bellara had her suspicions. Were they suspicions or had she already made up her min?
Yes, she had.
Bellara rested the rapier’s flat across her shoulders and leaned against the railing. Somewhere in the city, word of tomorrow’s protest was spreading like spilled ink. A thousand voices would rise in the park, each carrying their own grievance. Hers would carry for the Valcaro name... and for Lucero.
She turned and stepped back inside. "Elarion." she called, her voice light but edged, lay out my best jacket. The one with the crimson lining. You know, te one that draws every eye in the room."
Elarion Varethil stood with the unshakable poise of someone who had seen three centuries without letting time erode his purpose. Tall and willowy, he carried the effortless grace of an elf in his prime—every movement measured, every gesture deliberate. His hair, a silver white like moonlight on the water, was touched only faintly at the temples with gray, bound neatly at the nape in a timeless style.
His steel-grey eyes were keen and steady, the eyes of one who had witnessed triumphs and betrayals yet never surrendered his sense of duty. Elegant features, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw were softened by refined composure, his expression revealing only what he chose. Immaculate dark-toned attire, high-collared and perfectly tailored, bore the quiet ornament of a silver House Velcaro pin.
Tonight, those eyes lifted from the glass of wine he was pouring when Bellara’s voice called down from the gallery—light, yet edged. The crimson-lined jacket. The one for being seen.
He crossed to the wardrobe without haste, drawing the garment forth and laying it with precision across the chair. The silk lining shimmered in the lamplight like fresh blood. For a moment, his gaze drifted toward the balcony doors, imagining her there—rapier in hand, sea breeze in her hair, fire in her eyes.
“Very good, my lady,” he called, his voice calm but certain. “Shall I have the silver pin polished as well? It will catch the light when every eye turns toward you.”
Myron's full baritone hung in the air, his arms widespread as he sang the final note of song from The Elopement of the Dowager Princess. His widespread arms and the fortunate gust of wind that rippled through Aria Park dramatically displayed the fur coat that hung off his shoulders. Died fey green (fey yellow? Maybe some sort of blend?), it almost served the purpose of a spotlight by drawing attention to Myron. It's no substitute for a real spotlight, of course, but Myron and his troupe did not have access to such an essential piece of stage equipment here in their impromptu, natural stage in the park. Ever since performances were halted at the Kintargo Opera House, the lives of every performer in Kintargo had suffered.
As his song ended, Myron began a slow clap for his performance, continuing along in another solo performance as he made eye contact with each member of his group, encouraging them to clap for him or to make things really awkward.
After his round of applause, Myron gave a deep bow and sighed. This just wasn't the same. The mood of the entire city was suffering! Myron really needed to find someone who could talk to someone about letting performers use the Opera House again. What they needed was someone to inspire lovers of art throughout the city! Some performer who would make musical aesthetes throughout the city take a stand and demand that Kingargo's cultural venues be restored!
Turning to one of his fellow performers, Myron asked, "Where did you say Shensen was going to be, again?"
“Very good, my lady,” he called, his voice calm but certain. “Shall I have the silver pin polished as well? It will catch the light when every eye turns toward you.”
Bellara’s lips curved at the offer, though whether it was amusement or approval was anyone’s guess. She descended the stairs with a measured grace, the rapier resting across her forearm.
"The silver pin? hmmm." she echoed, pausing at the foot of the stairs. "Of course. Let them see the gull in flight before it dives for the kill."
She crossed to the chair and brushed her fingers over the crimson lining. "Tomorrow is not a day for subtlety, Elarion. Tomorrow we remind them the Valcaro name isn’t to be forgotten, nor forgiven."
A gull's cry catches her attention and she glances toward the balcony. She stares off into the distance while a faint, conspiratorial smile forms on her lips. "Make sure it catches every eye. After all, they’ll need something to look at while I’m speaking."
Taking the silver pin/brooch to polish before the the protest, "Very well my lady, you will no doubt make a grand reappearance,"
Staring at the rapier and buckler, as he polishes her family crest pin "Don't forget to check the point on your rapier, and the straps on your buckler as well. I am sure this protest won't come to violence but tensions are high in the city after these most recent proclamations,"
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The next morning, Impasha ventures into the street to purchase a bundle of firewood for the cookfires. She'd already been up for an hour, spending time in the garden doing her martial exercises and her prayers. It was her favorite time of day, and had been even before the time she joined her order -- she always felt full of energy and ambition on first arising, and went about her chores with purpose. It made her feel good about herself, to go down a mental checklist of duties and accomplish things while the day was so young--to know she had not squandered herself in indolence or frivolity, or worse yet, slept until called to breakfast by someone who'd been up and working before her, on her behalf.
A light rain in the predawn hours had put a sheen on the cobblestones and they now glimmered pleasantly in the morning sun, just now peeking up over the rooftops of the lower buildings. The wind was from the northwest and smelled of the ocean, a tangy rugged smell that opened the eyes. She found a vendor out by the main street whom she recognized and purchased a copper bundle, giving him an extra copper and asking after his wife and son. The transaction concluded and the burden light, she decided to walk back a different way, to have a look at the river and see what boats had come in with the tide.
A handful of people were gathered in one of the old piazzas, and a man was reading out a some official city proclamation. She recognized the text as something she'd seen posted in various places and businesses around town. She stops to listen near a small clot of townsfolk.
"Proclamation the First: All slayers of city pests (hereby defined as doves, mice, and ravens) who present said pests to the dottari shall be rewarded with a bounty of 1 copper piece."
"Why not rats, I wonder?" said one of the men, a short lumpen man in a kitchen apron. "I wonder that every time I hear it."
"I think they's already marked out. No need mentionin' 'em again. Plus, it'd cut into the rat-catchers business if anyone could get the bounties." says another man, a younger fellow with spectacles and a book under his arm, perhaps a student or a clerk in one of the law offices.
"I don't mind about the mice or the ravens, they're nasty enough, but why the doves? What do they hurt?" asked an old woman carrying a basket filled with fresh bread. She had a fat nose crinkled with little red blood vessels, and her eyes were boggy. A drinker. Impasha frowned and looked away.
"One of 'em must've crapped on a Thrune statue. 'The new Lord Mayah did NOT approve'." quipped the bespectacled youth, affecting a posh accent.
Impasha silently wondered if the edict was somehow a covert jab at the Silver Ravens. The pettiness would fit.
Proclamation the Second: All places of public business must display in a position of prominence within the first room accessible from the building’s primary entrance a portrait of Her Infernal Majestrix Queen Abrogail II. Said portrait must measure no less than 11 by 17 inches.
This one excited little comment, and the people near Impasha let it blandly pass. Impasha looked at her feet and sighed. There could be no clearer signal that the days of freedom were coming to an end. The stamp of authority had to be placed everywhere, to remind them all that no one would go unnoticed any longer. Taldan kings sometimes did this sort of thing, and it never boded well.
Proclamation the Third: Anyone who captures, alive and unharmed, a feral dog of a weight exceeding 50 pounds is to be rewarded with a payment of 2 silver pieces upon transfer of the dog to the dottari. Such noble guardian creatures should find homes worthy of their kind!
A murmur went through the crowd as people recalled to one another dogs they'd seen about in the previous days. The man in the kitchen apron tapped his chin thoughtfully, as if mentally totting up the weight of some canine he was acquainted with. "Best thing for 'em." said the young man. Impasha wondered if the dottari would be all that picky about the weight, and speculated darkly on the use the noble guardians would be put to. She'd have to take steps to hide the mongrel that hung about the Milani quarters.
Proclamation the Fourth: The right to wear fine embroidered clothing in public is hereafter proscribed to anyone other than agents of House Thrune or the Holy Church of Asmodeus. Exceptions can be awarded or purchased at the city’s discretion.
This one elicited much nodding of heads and verbal remonstrations against various city personalities. At street level, the artists and opera goers did not have many supporters among the unwashed. Conspicuous new money families came in for several scowling jibes. One joked that bribery would be more difficult now. Another noted that it would be easier since the dispensations could be purchased.
"Actually sumptuary laws are rarely effective. It's always the little things that spark the greatest indignation in people." said the young man self-importantly. He actually glanced back at Impasha to see if she was impressed. He looked her up and down as men often did. She stared straight ahead at the herald, pretending not to notice.
Proclamation the Fifth: Grain is life! Should grain be spilled in public, it must be gathered, cleaned, and repackaged within the hour. Any person who allows grain to go ungathered after a spillage shall be fined 1 copper piece per grain.
"Grain? Do they mean all grain? Goodness, I'd hate to be one of them dock workers unloading the stuff! Someone always muffs a bag of that!" said the old woman, clutching her bread.
"They don't mean flour too, do they?" said the man in the apron in a worried tone.
The young man shook his head. "No, they said grain. That wouldn't include flour."
"Imagine if you worked in one of the mills!" said the old woman breathlessly. "You can't grind grain without spilling some of it!"
The young man laughed. "Oh come now, they aren't talking about inside one's home or place of business! Just sweep up afterwards!"
"Sounds mad to me." said the older man with a committed shake of the head.
The young man was intent on playing devil's advocate. "Well think about it. You've gotten rid of all the mice and ravens and doves. Who'd eat the grain if it spilled in the street? There's a certain internal logic to it."
The man in the apron frowned and shook his head firmly. "Mad." he reasserted.
Provocative, thought Impasha. The sort of ordinance people would use to settle scores. Scatter some grain by their door and call over a municipal official. Would a new sort of official be needed to attend to grain misdemeanors? A little tentacle of fussy control slipped into everyone's lives. Grain was life indeed. And now it would be watched.
Proclamation the Sixth: The imbibing of night tea brings a dangerous imbalance to the slumbering mind. Between the hours of sunset and sunrise, the taking of tea is proscribed.
"What, do they mean in our homes too? Not just in inns and such?" said the older man, who was becoming more indignant by the second.
"They should perscribe strong alcohols." said the old woman, incongruously. Impasha looked at her in surprise, wondering why she'd say such a thing.
"I sometimes drink a tea at night to help me sleep. They don't all keep you awake you know." said the young man wistfully. Again he looked back at Impasha, hoping to provoke a response out of her, and possibly start a conversation. Her eyes caught his briefly and he smiled. She gave him a quick nod of her head and walked away out of the group, giving up on the idea of walking by the river. Her heart was no longer in it.
Proclamation the Seventh: The odor and flavor of mint is an abomination to the refined palate. Be not the cretin! Mint use in candies, drinks, and all manner of confections is hereby proscribed.
Another provocation. Bait. Some distracting whim of the new Lord Mayor, a battlefield of his own choosing. Impasha could imagine the upper classes and elites about the city laughing to one another about The Mint Law at their parties, dismissing Thrune as a clown not to be taken seriously, who would collapse under the weight of his silly mediocrity. Right up until the time his agents burst into their homes and arrested them all.
These proclamations were ridiculous, but not mad. He was daring people to resist. Hoping they would. It seemed so clear to her. It chilled her--the bluntness of it. Like someone announcing they were going to gouge out your eyes, and the moment they pull out the implement they intend to do it with and then smirk at you.
And yet they had to be resisted. Just not on the battlefield they'd chosen. There were darker, deeper crimes at work. Ignore the chaff. She'd intended to go that day to the protest anyway, but now she resolved to go armed and with armor. If the authorities would provoke people over tea and mint, they'd certainly try to goad people into doing something impulsive at a protest. If the crackdown materialized, people would need protection.
"Let me be your Hand." she murmurs, and turns into an alley to take the fastest way home.
Buttercup also reads the notice, Well, not the same one, a different one, being just about everywhere. in fact, not reading it would have been the true test of resolve. There is no way in the heavens she could be tempted to hand ANYTHING over to the dottari. Might as well just show up in shackles. But she could, perhaps, make a little money by collecting some pests and handing them over to a intermediary... Nah. There are better ways of earning cash.
A new day presents new opportunities, some of which are not worth the time. Though humorous ... Does Thune even have a sense of humor?... none of the notices affect her and Buttercup gives them little real consideration; instead, she searches for notices on public gatherings as she weaves her way through the traffic, keeping an eye out for marks.
Celas wanders toward the area he selected, as the crowd builds, he locks on a target, a merchant finely dresses with style just off, screaming newly rich with a silver pendant with a red garnet archstar. The man with his small bored looking halfling attendant heads to where a small crowd pools around a posting board. Blending into the crowd he comes up naturally behind his intended target.
The man is slowly reading the proclamations, so Celas gives them a quick once over. Mostly nonsense, what 1 copper a grain drop? impossible no miller ... Of course, grab the millers by their bits, rake them over for a bundle. Devilishly slick racket.
His target reaches the sumptuary law and blanches, seizing the moment Celas slightly opens the man's purse and slips a few coins out and then fades into the crowd, calmly slipping away.
+2 if looking for trouble bonus is applied. Pickpocket negates -5 penalty.
If it goes wrong tries this first:
Celas smiles bending down and says, "Pardon me, it seems you dropped this.", handing the man the coins.
+2 if looking for trouble bonus is applied.
And if that doesn't work, he skedaddles:
If deception doesn't work slips away quickly, once out of sight, stealth along one of his planned escape routes and go to another area of the growing crowd but far enough not to encounter his failed target again.
The soup kitchen sponsored by the Rose of Kintargo (a group started by the followers of Milani - the Everbloom) is in an alley near a tailor's shop called The Devil's Threads, located in the Redroof section of town. The owner of that shop is a red-skinned tiefling with short horns named Hetamon Haace who happens to be the sub-rosa leader of the Rose of Kintargo. Hetamon smiles and waves as you prepare and serve the less fortunate behind his shop. His demonic face generally carries a disarming smile, but today he looks worried. "After the Night of Ashes, I don't know how much longer we can keep the kitchen here. The dottari are on the hunt for anyone who venerates Milani, and I may have to close up shop as well. I don't know if they suspect me...yet but they will. I cannot go to the protest today at Aria Park, but please attend if you can and see how things fare. Oh, and if you go, use caution if moving alone through Redroof or Temple Hill - word is the thugs of the Red Jills are on a rampage - assaulting and robbing more than usual. Good luck and may the Light of Hope walk with you."
"Yeah," says another. "No way they are going to let a protest happen here in front of the Opera House now that the new Lord-Mayor has moved his residence there. That's just asking for trouble."
Myron looks around the park, and the meager audience for their performance have also moved on. There are a few stragglers hanging around, and as he watches, a squadron of armed dottari led by a tall dark-haired woman with a long glaive on her back, arrive and spread out on the Opera House steps, clearing meant as a cordon for the new Lord-Mayors chosen home.
Unfortunately, no one answers your question about Shensen or her whereabouts...
Buttercup finds her way to the protest location early. using her streetwise ways to avoid trouble.
and her city lore to find a path least likely to encounter trouble, particularly given the warning about the Red Jills.[/ooc]
The hosts of a meeting are typically just as distracted as the attenders, scurrying around like ants, totally focused on the myriad of problems these things present. She eventually picks a harried looking merchant shaking sweat out of his eyes (a good omen if there ever was one), and makes her approach. She grabs something the man points at and moves it to the platform he indicated next to him. She eyes the rapier, but decides against it. It looks like it might be an heirloom or something. Hard to sell and easy to trace. Instead she goes for the dagger strapped to his leg.
to try to snag the dagger.
Elarion's long, pointed ears perk up at the sound coming from the hallway, "My lady, one of the help appears to be in distress, I'll go and take a look, see what may be wrong,"
Placing the now polished family pin on a nearby table, before stepping out into the hallway and finding the source of the sound.
He crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to her height without quite breaking his poise. "Take a breath. One strong breath. Wipe your eyes. Then stand straight, for you are seen and in this house, you are not alone."
After a pause, his tone gentled. "Now tell me, child, what troubles you?"
Befuddled for a few moments why all of his troupe and their audience have dispersed, Myron suddenly recognizes what the dottari on the steps could mean for him. With a mournful sigh, he removes his brilliant coat, rolls it up, and stores it in a satchel he brought for just that purpose. Hopefully, nobody will consider his bespoke hose or his custom-stitched, cuffed leather boots as "fine" clothing, seeing as how they are last year's fashions. The edict against fancy clothing is a step too far, in his mind, and with the dottari nearby, he'd rather not risk any sort of confrontation.
He hangs around the park since nobody at the manor is likely to miss him. He was certain that he'd heard that Shensen would arrive here later in the day for some event or another. He didn't mind waiting.
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Impasha listens to Hetamon Haace sympathetically. "You did all that you could. More than most." she reassures him. "And thank you for the warning about the dottari, I'll pass the word along. And I have every intention of going to Aria Park today. Wouldn't miss it in fact." Her steely grey-blue eyes fairly glint at the prospect.
When the time comes for the public meeting in the park. Impasha has traded in her homespun dress and clogs for a breastplate, breeches and knee-high military boots, worn but well-polished. The breastplate is iron and unadorned, dented and scratched in places, though clearly worked over enough by the blacksmith's hammer to put it back into some semblance of proper shape. The rivets at the joins have little moats of rust about them, but in general the iron is polished as much at the rough metal will allow. She wears a red headband about her forehead and a wooden holy symbol of Iomedae hangs brazenly from her neck. Longsword and shield are strapped to her back. As she walks into the park, rattling and clanking a bit, she looks more than a little out of place, but she seems secretly on fire, and very intent. It felt good to openly stand against the oppressive forces of the city at last, and to stand among a crowd of others who felt as she did. It was a relief in fact. She was eager for it.
Energized as she was, she looks about for familiar faces in the crowd and spots a couple of people she recognized from her time working in the soup kitchen. There was a little halfling girl who often showed up. One of the more difficult things that Impasha had had to adjust to in Cheliax was the institution of halfling slavery, and the appearance of any one of this diminutive race moving about free always inspired a deep pang of sympathy and fellow feeling.
She also spotted a merchant who often made deliveries to the kitchen. HIs presence surprised her a bit, as he'd seemed superficially apolitical. Perhaps the well of resistance in Kintargo was deeper than she imagined.
She gives a friendly wave to the halfling girl and the deliveryman in turn, feeling the need to talk.
Buttercup's knowledge of Kintargo, especially the seedier side of life there, allows her to slip unmolested through the areas of town where the Red Jills are said to be acting up. She doesn't see any sign of trouble, but in this place, what you see does not always measure to what is actually going on.
She arrives at Aria Park before the crowd really gets thick, but there is bustle around the place as some folks are arriving, whether they are organizers, curious on-lookers, or security, it's hard to tell as they all mingle together. Finding what appears to be a minor noble, she decides to relieve him a finely crafted dagger. Working deftly, she is able to first loosen, and then lift the dagger free of the jeweled scabbard holding it in place without drawing the attention of the man, who is complaining loudly about not being able to wear the most sumptuous clothing he owns to this very public event.
After hiding her new treasure in her pack, she turns and sees Impasha, the chosen of Iomedae, who feeds the less fortunate waving at her from among the ever-thickening crowd.
Bellara adjusted the crimson-lined jacket Elarion had pressed into her hands, smoothing the fabric over her shoulders as she stepped into the hallway.
At the sound of Elarion’s calm, reassuring tones, she paused in the doorway. The sight of Alamara crumpled in the corner drew her brows before she realized what she was doing. She quickly changed her expression into something lighter, brighter, almost teasing.
"Well now. Tears before the curtain even rises? That’s no way to begin the day."
Her tone softened, though her words still carried an edge of her dramatic flourish. "Chin high, little dove. This house may be battered, but we do not bow to tyrants, nor to despair. What ails you so?"
Elarion finds the halfling girl Alamara crying in the corner of the stairwell hiding her face as best she can. When he approaches she stiffens expecting an upbraiding, but instead when he is gentle she falls into his arms sobbing. "My brother and his family have no where to go, sir. They will be on the street now. I don't know how to help them and I'm afraid with things being as they are in the city, they'll end up in the Salt Mine or worse. And now, with the missus afire against the government, I worry they'll come burn our place down too, like they did his master's, and I'll be on the street too..."
When Bellara appears, the halfling girl straightens up as best she can wiping away the tears and sniffling. "Sorry, missus. I did not mean to disturb you."
Celas is able to smoothly pocket a handful of coins from teh well-dressed dandy without anyone noticing. He slips them into his own purse with a well practiced hand.
Before he has time to find another mark, he sees Impasha from the soup kitchen waving at him from across the park.
Myron bought an apple and some cheese from an ambitious vendor who set up near where the crowds were starting to gather at the north end of the park, and sat on bench to chew his lunch, all the while keeping a sharp eye out for the songstress Shensen. Spying no sign of her at present, he at least gets to nosh on the food, and hums a song to himself, watching the proceedings mostly disinterestedly.
Bellara lifts a hand to still her.
"Don’t waste apologies on me, Alamara." she says, her voice gentler than her smile, though Elarion can still see the edge of performance clinging to her words. "If the Victocoras could be brought low in their own halls, it’s no wonder the rest of us sleep poorly."
She steps closer, crouching slightly so her eyes met the servant’s, mirroring Elarion’s earlier gesture but in her own fashion. Less poise and more ... daring.
"Listen well, little dove. They want us afraid, scattering like mice at every creak of the floorboards. But you are not alone in this house, nor in this city. My name may be tarnished, and my purse thin, but a Valcaro still stands-and I will not let the dottari make kindling of Gullsrest while I yet draw breath."
She straightened, brushing a strand of dark hair back into place, and with a sharp grin added, "And if they do come, wel-then we’ll make sure they regret ever putting quill to parchment to call themselves our betters."
Her gaze flicked to Elarion, a spark of challenge in her eyes. "See? Tears turned into fire. Much better."
Buttercup makes her way towards Impasha, rather smug look on her face.
"I knew I'd find you here, though probably for a different reason. You feeling lucky today?" she asks, something she always asks. "Looks like there is going to be a decent turnout."
Buttercup makes another scan of the area, looking for guards or other officious looking rule-mongers. It's a habit she's been trying to cultivate, though she knows she needs some work.
"Lady Bellara speaks true,"he said, voice low but carrying. His hand remained steady on Alamara’s shoulder, neither urging her forward nor allowing her to shrink back. "The tyrants would have us bend until we break, but discipline is not so easily scattered. Jaidz teaches that fear is no failing—only a moment to be mastered. Courage is not the absence of tears, child, but the act of standing once more in spite of them."
He straightened slowly, giving her room, and with that subtle weight he so often carried in his words added, "Consider this your test. You have stumbled, but now you rise,"
For a moment, the lamplight caught on the faint white tracery of chalk lines visible just beneath his cuff, remnants of his morning devotion. His thumb brushed briefly over the spot, almost unconsciously, as he continued, "So breathe deep, Alamara. Straighten your back. Carry yourself as though the world takes its measure from you. For it often does, and if you falter, then let us bear you up until you find your feet again."
His eyes flicked toward Bellara then, calm steel against her sharp grin, the steadying shield to her spark of fire.
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"I knew I'd find you here, though probably for a different reason. "
This catches Impasha offguard, on more than one level. She was surprised that this halfling had given her attendance at this protest any consideration at all; but also she was curious what reason the halfling imagined she'd be here. But it wasn't important. She crosses her arms over her breastplate, and speaks gravely, saying something she'd obviously mentally rehearsed.
"It's time the people of this city made their voices heard." she says simply, as if the proposition was obvious. "Protest doesn't always work, but not protesting never works. If we don't stand up to this bully, he'll keep pushing us forever."
"Looks like there is going to be a decent turnout."
Impasha looks around and nods, appraising the gathering crowd. "This will be my first protest actually. To be honest I don't really know what's going to happen. Is there some sort of local resistance leader who's going to speak to the crowd? Or are we just gathering in solidarity with one another?
She looks down at the halfling, and realizes introductions are in order. She offers a hand. "Impasha Relenne. From Korvosa. Do you live here in town?"
As Celas moves away from the area of those that support House Thrune, he turns down a momnetary quiet square and puts his archstar away, leaving him without open religious affiliation. He heads toward the other end of Aria Park intenting to get to where the protesting noteable would likely gather but the movement of the growing crowd pushes him more centrally, since he choose not to push through. He sees Impasha waving wondering who at then sees Buttercup moving to her. Buttercup, she's dressed for a fight, thought you smarter than that. Then he sighs to himself and follows Buttercup hoping that her luck holds for the both of them.
Arriving after Buttercup, he hears kindly Impasha's greeting to her. While he stands, he scans around as well but looking for where the Valcaro might be. If Impasha greets him, he'll give his name as Handy Hank.
She looks down at the halfling, and realizes introductions are in order. She offers a hand. "Impasha Relenne. From Korvosa. Do you live here in town?"
"Buttercup. Yep, I'm local. Been to the soup kitchen."
Secretly she is quite pleased the Impasha never noticed her. Must be doing something right then."Be careful out there. Rumor has it the powers that be will be looking to make their own statement at this thing. I'm already marking out an escape route."
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"Be careful out there. Rumor has it the powers that be will be looking to make their own statement at this thing. I'm already marking out an escape route."
"Are they really?" says Impasha in mild surprise at the news that the authorities might use the protest for their own statements. Fo a moment she seems unsure, and her brow knits, but a mild shake of the head resolves her. "You're quite right, this may turn ugly. I half suspected it might anyway. You're wise to plan for a fast withdrawal." She looks down at Buttercup fixing her gaze intently. "If there's trouble, stay close to me. I'll get you out." she says, the way someone speaks when they make a blood pact.
But there's something else--Impasha seems excited, perhaps even pleased at the prospect of trouble. Like a drunkard hoping someone will shove them first and give them the excuse.
As the delivery fellow comes up and introduces himself as 'Handy Hank', Impasha cocks an eyebrow and a wry smile. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you 'Hank'." she says. "Buttercup here thinks there might be trouble from the authorities. What do you think?"
Alamara stands up straight and smiles, nodding at the encouragement from Elarion and Bellara. "Yes, missus. We will stand strong." she says proudly, then flits off to do her daily chores.
Not long after, Bellara and Elarion also alight in Aria Park, which is slowly filling with people.
Part 1 - Fledglings of Silver
Even with the cobblestone of Argent Avenue and the foliage of Aria Park still wet from the morning's light rain, dozens of Kintargans have gathered along the facade of the opera house to protest the city's new lord-mayor, Paracount Barzillai Thrune. They city's new leader was appointed by Her Infernal Majesty, Queen Abrogail II, in the wake of the previous lord-mayor's sudden flight from the city -- an event that still has local rumormongers whispering furiously. In a scant seven days, Paracount Thrune has instituted martial law, a curfew, and seven outlandish and polarizing proclamations. These actions and more have called many of Kintargo's dissatisfied citizens here on this overcast morn. There's no sign of Barzillai Thrune himself, and the opera house's door remain tightly closed -- as they have since the man chose this landmark as his new home -- but judging by the growing sound of the protesters, he surely can't ignore the scene on the streets below much longer.
Some of the protestors call for their new lord-mayor to lift his unreasonable restrictions, while others call for an end to foreign rule from Egorian and demand a proper election to determine the missing Lord-Mayor Bainilius' successor. The crowd seems to be divided into factions: Kintargo partisans who demand local rule, economic conservatives who bristle at new taxes and business policies enacted in the last week, advocates for democracy who cry for free and fair elections, anarchists who are generally there for any good protest and Chelish loyalist who are there to counterprotest in support of the new Lord-Mayor. All those voices create an unintelligible but certainly noisy hullaballoo.
The streets were already thick with voices by the time Bellara and Elarion stepped out from Gullsrest.
When they reached the park, the din struck her first. A dozen factions shouting over each other, anarchists, and loyalists bleating praise for praise. The sheer noise of it all was almost intoxicating.
Bellara slowed, letting her gaze sweep the Opera House’s shuttered doors first, then the cordon of dottari posted like across the steps. Her lips curved with disdain. "Seven days, Elarion. Seven days, and he’s already turned a city of song into a city of silence. No wonder the people have to shout just to hear themselves think."
She glanced sidelong at Elarion, the faintest spark in her eyes. "Well. Shall we give them something worth shouting about?"
With that, she vaulted lightly onto a low stone planter near the crowd’s edge by the fountain, ensuring that the the crimson lining of her jacket flashed in the light as she spun. She raised her voice to carry over the clamor, to the best of her ability.
"Kintargo! Look at this rabble they’d make of us! Bickering, bowing, begging for scraps! They tell us these are the rules we must live by! No mint on our tongues, no songs in our throats, no joy in our homes."
"If they would chain us with absurdity, then let us laugh in their faces until the chains rust and fall away!"
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As people continue to gather and the noise level rises, Impasha's own level of engagement begins to intensify. Noting that counterprotestors and troublemakers are wrestling to control the spirit of the crowd, the young champion can't keep silent. She steps up onto a rim of a fountain and holds up fist to the people.
"My friends! Take heart and stand brave! We here are but the smallest fraction of the population who view the heavy hand of Cheliax's newest Paracount with scorn and contempt! Has he presented this city with any justification for his curfews?"
A few 'No!'s
"What is his martial law but an excuse for his thugs and bullies to run riot among the innocent people of this beautiful and cultured city? Are we going to stand by and let these bullies silence and beat up our friends and neighbors?"
A few more 'No!''s
"People of Kintargo, the new Lord Mayor has no intention of being just or reasonable! He has no affection or sense of duty to this city! Look at where he is! Squatting inside the opera house! Stealing the cultural hub of Kintargo for his own private residence! Can the Paracount not afford to own a home in our fair city? (scattered laughter) Are the palaces of the previous lord mayors not suitable for this son of Thrune?"
"I'll tell you why he's in there--he is showing his mistress what a BIG MAN he is, and how he is not after all some ragged minor member of the clan, but someone who will cow and intimidate a city that has always stood apart as distinct and proud of its traditions and achievements! He wants to show his mistress that he can make us cower and beg! All we have to do is lay down and take it from him, slink away to our homes and stay quiet as his goons swagger through the streets!"
"But look around you! We are HERE! TODAY! To say NO to all this! And to HIM! If we stand together, and give heart to our city, the vast majority of whom stand with us in spirit, then he cannot defeat us all! So let your voices be heard! So NO to the Tyrant!"
Impasha turns to face the opera house and shakes her fist at it as she leads a chant.
"No to the Tyrant!"
"No to the Tyrant!"
"No to the Tyrant!"
"No to the Tyrant!"
She steps down from the fountain and takes a few paces toward the opera house, still leading the chant and shaking a fist at its curtained windows.
As Impasha leads her chant, she catches the eye of the crimson-jacketed noblewoman and directs one of her shouts symbolically toward her, a fellow leader in this worthy cause.
Celas notes the quotes around Impasha's use of his name but is fine as long as she goes along with it. After Impasha's question, Celas nods to Buttercup, "Good to see you Little Flower and with a good head on your shoulders. Yes, kind Impasha, the devil's minions will make trouble, how much remains to be seen." His eyes then catch his quarries, as BeLlara makes herself as conspicuous as possible.
Celas sighs again, "And the provocations start boldly. I wonder how the crowd will respond. Our dear leader won't be happy, but will he act now or wait for more to commit?"
Then Impasha joins her in fiery speech and Celas shrinks back to fade a bit in just a face in the crowd.
Celas turns his eyes obviously watching the crown for its reaction and any official action taken.
“Kintargo,” he said, his tone measured, “Lady Bellara speaks of laughter, and it is true, laughter defies fear. But discipline must temper defiance, or we become the very chaos our enemies claim us to be.
He swept his steel-grey gaze across the crowd, lingering on the anxious faces near the dottari cordon, the partisans clutching banners too tightly, the servants and dockhands with worry carved into their brows.
“Jaidz teaches us that fear is not our master. Courage is the act of rising when fear bids us kneel. Today, each of you has risen. You have stepped from your homes, your shops, your ships, and stood here shoulder to shoulder. That is no small thing. That is defiance forged into discipline.”
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“But discipline must temper defiance, or we become the very chaos our enemies claim us to be…Jaidz teaches us that fear is not our master. Courage is the act of rising when fear bids us kneel. Today, each of you has risen. You have stepped from your homes, your shops, your ships, and stood here shoulder to shoulder. That is no small thing. That is defiance forged into discipline.”
Elarion’s words seem to resonate with Impasha. She nods forcefully and enthusiastically voices her approval at a few points, scanning the crowd around her, willing them to appreciate the wisdom being offered. She now pulls her shield off her back and when adding her assent to anyone’s speech, she bangs the wood with her fist.
Buttercup is delighted! The rhetoric is inspiring, moving, and, more importantly, distracting! Butttercup is inspired and moved to pick some pockets muttering "Yes!" in response to all the echoing "NOs".
"Delightful!" Myron exclaims to no one, not that anyone could hear him over the din. He had no idea that the new lord mayor was quite so unpopular! If the populace made him exceedingly problematic, he might flee the city like his predecessor did, and then the Opera House would be available again!
He hopes Shensen is here; if she doesn't have any better ideas for reclaiming the Opera House, perhaps the will of the people can restore Kintargo's cultural scene!
Myron wanders the crowd, trying to find Shensen.
Buttercup - Pilfering
There are now plenty of people in the crowd to try to rob, along with a dozen or so street vendors working the edges of the crowd. During the hour or so in the early part of the protest, as the crowd gets slowly worked up, she cases and then strikes at the unsuspecting purse of a merchant who seems to be in the Kintargo Independence faction, crying out for local self-determination as much as voicing protest against the new proclamations of Thrune.
During the first hour, Buttercup is not caught, but she is wary, and as such as makes off with only about 2sp of loot, much of it in copper pennies. Not the most profitable hour she has ever spent.
Bellara, Impasha, and Elarion - Rabble Rousers
Impasha speaks in front of the crowd with great passion, denigrating Thrune, and raising up the people of Kintargo. Her speech is not poorly received or negatively perceived, but it doesn't really inspire the crowd to a great extent. She receives cheers and applause but not a rousing following.
Bellara speaks in front of the crowd also, turning her oration into almost a performance. She showcases her skill with words similar to her skill with a blade. By the time she finishes, the crowd, warmed by Impasha perhaps, gives her a rousing cheer and she is afford many handshakes and claps on the back when her turn to speak is over.
Elarion follows on. Not a many of persuasion or performance, he is short of speech, but wise in presentation, and the crowd roars their respect for his wise words and encouragements. He is perhaps the best received of all the speakers in the first hour of the protest.
Celas - Crowd (or Crown) Watching
Celas knows Kintargo well. He understands its people and their complicated political motives he thinks. As he watches the crowd, he senses that the general mood of the protest is agitated and discontented, but not overtly violent, even with the soup kitchen lady and a noble woman in a fancy jacket stirring things up a bit. The wise old elf that spoke last seemed to have a big impact. Once or twice he steals glances up at the windows of the Opera House, overlooking the protest and he thinks he sees, if only for an instant, a movement of a curtain there, and wonders if Barzillai himself is watching the proceedings from hiding.
As he looks back at the crowd, he notes a would-be thief stealing the cashbox from a street vendor who has stopped to applaud fiercely.
Myron - Searching for Shensen
Try as he might, Myron has no luck finding Shensen in the crowd. Once he thinks he spies the exotic beauty from behind and taps her shoulder, only to be face to face with a Vudrani woman shouting fierce epithets against those speaking out. "Up with Thrune. Infernal power!" she cries right in the disappointed musicians embarrassed face.
The first hour of the protest nears its end, but the crowd shows no signs of abating. The factions continue to shout at each other and the scene is pretty chaotic which works to the benefit of some, and the detriment of others.
It is pretty clear the dottari lined up in the front steps of the Opera House are getting more and more nervous as the size of the crowd grows again as the second hour starts.
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Although Impasha quickly recognizes that she's not as adept at public speaking as some of the other people stepping forward to inspire the crowd, she is not discouraged by the fact, nor envious of the others' success. She was having too much fun. She'd never spoken out in a public setting like this, and gave herself points just for working up the courage to say anything. Even if she'd failed to really connect with the audience, she'd still set herself up as one of the leaders, and that felt exhilarating.
Nevertheless, she now steps back to rally the audience from within it, banging on her shield and whooping occasionally when agreeing with a speaker. She also begins to note a few counterprotestors attempting to intimidate or heckle members of the crowd. Fired with her enthusiasm, she moves to protect those targets with her own intimidating glare and defiant words.
After wandering around assessing the crowd's growing mood and happenings within, he sees a thief taking the chance at cashbox unattended by a cheering vendor, first he tries to remember if he knows either or both of them, as he has performed in this area a number of times when plying his tumbling skills. Depending on those results and how he feels about them will determine who he might help. If he knows the thief in fair or neutral way, he lets him try to get away with the deed. If know know the vendor is a fairer way than the thief, he alters the vendor to gain any favor with him.
He looks for a contact that has some chance of knowing what is or will come down on the crowd. Most of all he looks for minor corporal in the dottari he has done "business" in the past. He wants to know if something is coming down on the crowd, and if he doesn't know if or when, then Celas ask if he will give a sign not too blatant, that it's about to hit fan. Of course, a suitable gratuity will be offered.
Deeply dissatisfied with the results, Buttercup decides to be more discriminate and starts looking for better marks. At least she did manage to pick up that dagger before the protests began. She wanders around, casually sticking her hands where they do not belong, but not actually taking anything. Yet. At one point she nearly gets her hand bitten off by some nasty devil familiar that was lurking under a cloak.
"How rude."
One fellow, who looked to be rich AND dangerous, was flanked by a couple of nasty looking dogs. That guy she left along by a wide margin. She never did like dogs. If it weren't for her 'steps' she'd have been dog meat long ago. Hiding does no good when your pursuer can just sniff you out. Good thing dogs don't talk because that is one secret she would prefer to keep.
She looks around for a vender that might sell cayenne pepper or something that would throw a dogs scent off. She really should have taken care of that a while ago, but life happens and she traded her last packet for a nice dinner.
Buttercup fondly rubs her tummy at the thought.
It was worth it. Eyeing the dogs she mentally adds At least so far.
Fearing that he may have overshadowed Belarra, Elarion sets himself to watching the crowd, any other nobles he may know or looking for any Thrune agents that may be invading the crowd.
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Bellara had won the crowd, so she decides to double down.
She had felt the crowd’s warmth when she first spoke. Their hands clapping her shoulders, their cheers echoing her words. That energy lingered in her blood, buzzing like a fine wine. As the chant "No to the Tyrant!" rolled across the square, she seized the moment again.
With a flourish she sprang back onto the fountain rim beside where Impasha had stood earlier. Her crimson jacket caught the light, and her voice, "You’ve seen the proclamations nailed to your doors, haven’t you? Curfews like chains. Fines like shackles. Obey or burn. That’s not law. IT'S THUGGERY WITH INK ON IT!"
Barzillai Thrune cowers in our opera house, OUR opera house! Like a rat fattening on stolen bread. Do you think he came to Kintargo to serve its people?"
"He came to strangle its song, to smother our laughter, to silence us into obedience." She raises her fist skyward and shouts "Kintargo has never bent to Thrune, and we will not start now! Let him hear us! Let him quake in his velvet seat while the city he thinks to master roars in his face!"
She spun, pointing her finger dramatically toward the opera house itself.
"Raise your voices with me, Kintargo! Cry out for your freedom! Cry so loud even Hell itself must tremble!"
She launches into a cry of pacing the rim of the fountain, shaking her fist in the air.