The Arbor - like much of Ilrien - is a contradiction of itself: to step inside is to momentarily lose the bustle of the city in the calm of well-laid out orchards and meticulously-straight rows of vines, while at the same time becoming aware of the frenetic activity required to maintain that illusion of serenity. Even now, in the depths of winter with the trees bare and the vines dormant, workers scurry to and fro, earnestly discussing important matters of agriculture while beyond and above them, supervisors and landowners fret and strut on a network of viewing platforms which command the view which can be lost here at ground level.
Your arrival, as a minor noble stating her intent to arrange the catering for a party, breaks that orderly pattern in the same way as a lodestone cast among needles: you effortlessly draw to yourself a crowd of would-be helpers and aides and hangers-on; it takes you a while to sort through the dross to find the people you need. Finding yourself invited out of the chill wind into a welcoming tent, a brazier brings warmth and a selection of dried and candied fruits and sweet wine restores the soul and loosens the tongue - theirs more than yours, to be sure.
It takes time, of course; you can't go straight to your destination without potentially damaging your ruse, but you have time enough today to listen and talk and drop assurances you probably won't be keeping. But a question here, a chance remark there and an open ear lets you learn that the cause of strife between the Bakers and the Arborists concerns a noble estate of the late Lord Ambrose, who died recently leaving behind his only son. The new Lord Ambrose is a member of the Blue Devils, and there is little good to be said about him for now. He has accrued vast debts, and has little patience for the running of an estate - he therefore plans to sell it. Because the land is adjacent to the Abor, the Arborist Guild wishes to acquire it and demolish the buildings, thereby expanding their domain. The Baker's Guild, on the other hand, wants to use the land to build a vast kiln, bigger than any they currently have constructed. Such a monument to industry would not only employ hundreds in gainful labour, but would feed the city's growing population for years to come.
The Arborists have more money, and better connections to nobility - they feel sure that they can persuade the new Lord Ambrose to sell to them. Indeed, they seem to regard it as essentially a done deal.
Unlike her older brother, Lucretia was swift to move into a set of apartments in the Gilt following House Bastien's rise, although somewhat less quick to do the bothersome work of unpacking. She sits - slumps, really - on the only available chair, all the others being buried under piles of dresses, boxes of correspondence and other matters; and scowls at you.
Lucretia, it seems, has been slighted. An Al-Mari gentleman at the New Year's ball not only refused to ask her to dance but apparently (in Lucretia's hearing) referred to her as "tolerable enough, I suppose, but not sufficient to tempt me," an insult which Lucretia has had the better part of two weeks to chew on.
"Tolerable enough?! I'll give him tolerable enough! I'm a scion of the House, and we will not be treated that way! I want this Lord Dahzee to suffer, you hear me? I want him ruined, I want him shamed, I want his invitation to polite society withdrawn, and - at the last, when he is fallen and alone - I want him to know it was me."
She waves a hand at you, negligently. "Go. Make it happen. Teach people not to cross House Bastien."
Kyra:
Your mother's endless training means that you have made it a point to recognise the names of the most notable nobles in Ilrien (there are too many to be able to know them all without recourse to one of the many books on heraldry and lineage) - and Lord Dahzee of House Al-Mari is not a name you immediately recognise. Which is enough to tell you that he is unlikely to be especially well-connected, and certainly not someone who is particularly close to the new Prince Jassinda.
I had some time so I put together an NPC listing. I've put the link up top, should be editable by all of you but let me know if not. We're already at almost 30 named NPCs, not counting the late unlamented Petey.
Violetta and Cesare did indeed have something of a dalliance, some years ago when their status was of equals (or possibly indeed tilted somewhat in Violetta's favour); but times have changed. Cesare looks momentarily bewildered at Violetta's familiarity, which verges on the presumptuous, but he's a cheerful soul at heart. "Indeed, Lady di Valori, where are my manners? Here." He cracks open a bottle of the Bruin and passes it to her, knowing that small beer is something she has never learned to like. He clinks his bottle against hers - "Your very good health" - giving her a choice between declining or accepting.
While she is contemplating which of those is the least palatable, he takes advantage of the moment to plonk his feet back on his desk.
Violetta:
Consider yourself chastened - the message is clear: you may once have been equals but now he is the son of a Prince and you are a mere retainer. A valued & trusted employee, to be sure, but do not forget yourself.
If this were a public setting rather than a private meeting I would be considering whether to make you roll to resist social Harm
"As for who messed up, well." He looks away for a moment. "I'd rather discuss the problem rather than point fingers. As you probably heard, Father took ill after the ball - it's a simple chill, and the Graces say he'll make a full recovery, but he's got a bit of a fever at the moment. That's not the problem, though."
It's very unlike Cesare not to get straight to the point.
"As you also probably know, or may have guessed, Father made a number of deals in order to get us to where we are now. One of those deals was with House Corvetto, as a result of which we owe them a favour. A significant favour. But that's not the problem, either."
"The problem is, well. The only person who knows the specifics of the deal with House Corvetto is Father, and he's not really talking much right now, or at least, talking much sense. In one of his lucid moments though he asked me to take care of it, and I said I would. Obviously, we can just wait for him to recover and find out what the deal is, he'll be fine by the end of next week, they say. But I don't know if it's time-limited, and House Corvetto are not exactly known for being patient. Also... I don't want to let Father down, I'd much rather be able to tell him when he wakes up that it's handled."
Cesare has many faults, but he doesn't lack self-awareness (that particular vice is owned by his younger sister). He's well aware that he's not the man his father is. But he does at least have the wit and enough humility to know when to ask for help instead of going it alone.
"So what I'm asking you to do is find out - discreetly - what the Corvettos are expecting from us, and to make it happen."
Ah, in that case the confusion is between Lady Calliope (one of the key NPCs of House Bastien) and Calista (Kyra's mother).
In hindsight, I probably should have come up with a different name for Calliope in order to avoid this sort of confusion, but there is precedent for NPCs with confusingly similar names.
Lady Calliope is at home when you call, as she almost invariably is for both you and Violetta; the other members of your Coterie can on occasion be met with a smoothly apologetic butler and a suggestion to return at some other time. Indeed, ever since whatever it was that happened at New Year, the reception can be distinctly frosty.
For you however, today, she is all smiles; although her expression becomes more guarded when you deliver your intelligence. "Well, I commend you on your good work, dear." One hand effortlessly smooths out an imaginary crease on her dress. "However." She purses her lips. "While I shall, of course, always take careful note of what you tell me, I have to say that Prince Constantin is inclined to think - and I of course agree with him - that the Corvetto must be treated with courtesy and a certain, let us say, circumspection." She gives you a benign smile. "I explain this to you only because I am certain you will understand, but we are now only very small fish in a very large pond; and House Corvetto are not merely the biggest fish in the pond, but indeed it may be said that, for the time being, they own the pond itself. For reasons of their own, they regard us amicably, and we in turn cherish - we cherish - that amity. I will of course be interested in whatever you find out, but I would urge discretion, both in your pursuit and in whom you confide these matters."
Another purse of her lips. "I would in particular caution you about discussing this with those of your little group who think that being discreet is about how many knives you can conceal under a ball-gown."
The message is clear: feel free to investigate this curiosity further, but if you are caught or offend the Corvetto in any way you will not merely be thrown to the wolves (or Ravens, as it may be); you will be actively sacrificed to them as propitiation.
Court of Blades – Season One: A new partner in the Esultare's dance
Prologue: a triumvirate of tasks, Part 1
12 Gennaio 794
It is over a decade, almost two, since Cesare Bastien last worked as a foreman on the docks (as his grandfather before him) and although he no longer does manual labour he still has the appetite of one who does; which explains, perhaps, why his shirt collars never quite fit and his fingers are almost invariably tugging at the silken cravat which wraps round his slightly pudgy neck. His shoulders and arms are still muscled beneath that pudge, though, as more than one luckless rudemouth has discovered to their cost.
His tastes, too, as well as his appetites, are largely unchanged despite his (and House Bastien's) rise in fortune; he has a pleasant home in a nice district, but he still works and mostly lives out of his rooms in the docks. His sole concession to his new status is that he owns the building instead of renting it. The ground floor is a raucous chaos of navvies, stevedores and burly foremen kicking it back on their off-hours at the tavern Cesare runs on the premises. No fine fare this, they offer fuel for the working man (and woman) - dark rye bread, heavy smoked fish and cheese, together with that commoner's drink known as small beer; safer to drink than the water in the Groan, a rank concoction of raw yeast akin to drinking liquid bread dough. The brewery nearby (also owned by Cesare) is located on New Quay, the bottles recognisable by the dancing bear on the label. A bottle of the "Bruin" is akin to a meal all by itself, although for those not born to small beer it is most assuredly an acquired taste.
Several bottles of New Quay Bruin, together with a plate of rough ham and cheese on rye are already in Cesare's office as one of the workers shows you in. Unlike many in power, Cesare doesn't have that affectation of making you wait to show how busy and important he is - as soon as you arrive on site, you are his priority. After all, House Bastien owes its rise not merely to Constantin's machinations but to the Hand that helped shape his vision into reality. Good retainers are worthy of their hire.
Cesare takes a bottle, cracks it open and drinks directly from it, his feet comfortably up on the table that serves as his desk (Lady Calliope be damned). As ever, he gets straight to the point. "Well. I'm glad you're here. We may have a bit of a problem. I think."
Four-fingers looks past you as you sit down, giving a rueful glance to the unfortunate Petey. "Aiden, be a fine fellow and fetch a bucket before - dangnabbit, too late." This last is drowned out by an explosive retching sound as Petey drops back to the floor on all fours and throws up, spattering the backs of your culottes with puke. (Annalise will doubtless be having words with you about that - Calrayan liquor is just as pungent on the way back up as it is going down).
With a shake of his head, Four-fingers turns his attention back to you. "Oh well. Tis the hot iron that teaches best as my old mother used to say, Lady bless her memory. Petey there will think twice before tangling with one such as yourself in future." His twinkling eye lights on the red glove at your belt, an important feature that Petey overlooked. "So I'm Samwell, of Samwell's, as you probably guessed, and now you have the advantage of me, being as I don't know your name at all - though I could probably find out without too much in the way of bother, given there's not many Altori blades in the service of House Bastien." He's also spotted the identifying tassels on your sword-belt, and gives a slight smile: he's long suspected Sasha's affiliations, but the wily Eye has never confirmed or denied which House she works with. Elisabetta - who has many good qualities, but espionage and subtlety are not among them - has done that work for him.
Samwell continues unperturbed. "Last I spoke with yer friend, she was on the trail of some boy - and I'll tell her what I told you: my bairns now have bairns of their own, so I'll be thanking her not to cast aspersions on me and mine for harming a child! But as it happens, my crew, including Petey here, were working on an unrelated matter at the Granary, a business opportunity you might say, the details of which I'll not be troubling you with, so I sent her on her way untroubled, and- what, Aiden?"
Aiden has been shuffling from foot to foot for the last few moments of Samwell's speech. "That's, uh, sorry boss but that's not, uh, I mean, Petey here did it a bit different than what you're saying."
Samwell gives a long, low growl. "Oh, Petey. Have you been making a liar of me?" The luckless goon does his best to get to his feet and stumble away, but two of the other heavies in the bar haul him up and drag him into the back room. Samwell fixes a gimlet eye on Aiden. "Talk."
Aiden audibly gulps. "Well boss, it seems that Petey wasn't sure that, uh, that Red was gonna steer clear and he was worried she'd stumble into the - the business matter you were alluding to, uh, and ... what I heard, there was a kid snuck into a cart and, uh, Petey, he wasn't happy about that, but he said he'd stash him until it all blew over and uh, I was gonna tell you boss, I was, but Petey was real, you know, insistent that it would be fine and so, you know..." He trails off.
Samwell's grizzled face is thunderously angry, but the words come out calm. "Seems that you - and Red - were in the right of it after all. Aiden - Petey's stash-house still that place in the Docks?" When Aiden nods mutely to confirm, Samwell gives you the address. "You'll find the kid there, and your friend most likely, if she's half as good as I think she is. I'd send two of my guys with you but they'd probably just slow you down. And tell Red..." Gang bosses don't really do apologies, at least in front of their crew, at least if they have aspirations to still be the boss tomorrow. "Tell her I'll make it up to her. And if you'll excuse me, it's past time I had a very serious word with Petey."
(in the early hours of 10 Gennaio, Petey's mangled body will be found tangled in one of the great winches at the docks. The Watch will quickly rule the death as accidental, which will be correct inasmuch as Petey certainly didn't mean to offend his boss.)
Salvio's arm reaches out to touch your extended handshake, before snatching his hand back to safety; but some of the scalded-cat alertness has left him as he listens to your story. He grins, lopsidedly. "Reckon we share some of that Lady's own worse luck. M'lady." Belatedly remembering the manners that the Sisters have drummed into him.
At your question about the ship, though, his wariness slips away as his brain takes over. "The Bountiful Beauty. A three-masted schooner, rigged Lapis-style, berth for up to 24 sailors, but can run with as few as eight. Just back from Calrais with a hold full of grain. Cargo capacity for 30 cartloads, but only 28 came out and I counted them twice - once as they come out, and again in my head to make sure. I thought maybe they was running a bit light, but I snuck in to the hold cos, well... like you said, too curious for our own good." Another lopsided grin. "But I was right, there was two carts there that hadn't come off, and then I heard some people coming so I snuck onna cart, was gonna jump off when it stopped at the Granary, only it didn't stop there, did it, and then when they found me... well, they weren't happy about that. Them Calrayans can really swear, you know? But the big man said when all's said an done, it's 2 carts of grain gone an that ain't worth a body. Specially someone the Watch'd never listen to, nohow."
It's almost insulting, really. Two cartloads of missing grain is - well, it's a rounding error. The cost of doing business. A bit of petty theft that slips in the gaps formed while House Al-Mari consolidates their hold on something the Elanda used to own.
The sudden pop as the grate comes loose brings you back to the present. Salvio looks at you sceptically, and then at the small hole your work has opened up. "I can get down there, I reckon. Gonna be a scrape, though. But you?" He gives you a quick once-over. "You're skinny, but that's no joke." He weighs your chances. "You'd better go first, that way if you get stuck I can grab your legs an pull you out. M'lady."
A quick note on the faction guide I put a link to in the campaign heading - the various factions of Ilrien are divided into categories: each of the Houses Major, the Houses Minor, the Citizenry, the Outsiders and the Uncouth.
You can accumulate Favour with each faction type, and House Bastien starts with 1 Favour from the Citizenry. That said, each individual faction may have its own opinion of you. At the start of the game, most factions haven't really taken much note of House Bastien, with the following exceptions.
House Corvetto, for its own mysterious reasons, seems to be pleased that you have upset the status quo. Your actions in rising to the Esultare have not harmed them, and have caused the other Houses to squabble among themselves. You have +1 status with them, meaning that they will help you if it does not get in their way. They expect the same from you.
House Elanda, on the other hand, strongly dislikes you for entirely non-mysterious reasons. Many of their former holdings are now outside their grasp, and their standing is greatly diminished. You have -2 status with them, meaning that they will look for opportunities to hurt you provided it does not cause them serious problems.
The First Court represents not merely the interests of what passes for justice in Ilrien, but also the maintenance of the status quo. You have upset this, and the First Court has had several instances of having to restore order. House Bastien is seen as a disruptive influence, giving the commons ideas above their station. You have -1 status with them, meaning that they will look for opportunities to cause trouble for you, or profit from your misfortune, if it causes no difficulties for them.
The Bakers' Guild feels - not unjustly - that they were used as a pawn in the recent upheaval that resulted in House Bastien being promoted to the Esultare. Feelings are hurt. You have -1 status with them, meaning that they will look for opportunities to cause trouble for you, or profit from your misfortune, if it causes no difficulties for them.
The Broadsheets are very happy for now at House Bastien's actions, which have resulted in the editor audibly regretting at times that he has only one front page. You have +1 status with them, meaning that they will help you if it does not get in their way. They expect the same from you.
For all that they parade through Ilrien as though they own the city, the Corvettos take a certain pride in doing good works. Several of the major orphanages in the Twist are run (or at least funded) by House Corvetto and it is they - rather than House Bastien - whose influence is most felt across the Groan... at least for now.
It is therefore not a great surprise when one of the guards riding on the back of the coach digs into a purse and tosses a few coin in your direction, with a warning look. "That's close enough, friend." She puts a meaningful hand on the hilt of her sword. The coach rumbles down through Twistmarle Street, before turning into an open gateway which closes swiftly behind it. The arms on the gate are known to you, courtesy of your mother's ceaseless lessons on etiquette and heraldry. Interesting. What business does House Corvetto have with the Margravine Octavia? Or is the occupant of the carriage - much like you - on business of their own?
Impossible to know, of course. But nothing prevents speculation.
A half-bell later and all that is behind you as you shelter from the never-ending rain under the overhang from the roof above and consider your culinary - and other - options.
Four-fingers is old; grizzled might be a better word, he has the sort of weather-beaten wrinkled face that could put him anywhere from his early fifties to his late sixties. A twinkle in his eye as you identify him as the leader suggests that there's a brain to go with that burly, dock-worker's brawn. One corner of his mouth turns up and he's about to speak when Petey takes the bait that you have all-too-obviously presented. For all that he seems drunk, Petey is surprising quick as he lurches to his feet and grabs your arms by the wrists, spinning you round to face him. He gives you a gap-toothed smile. "Aiden here likes to talk, but you've asked enough questions." His broad, muscled shoulders work to keep your arms pinned. "Posh rakkers like you, I know your sort. Good with a swanky blade, but my weapons are, like, closer to hand." He laughs at his own pun - an unpardonable offence.
He gives you another leer. "My question is, you going now... or after I take that nice cloak off your shoulders? I give my girl a fine silk like that, I'm made for the rest of the year, I reckon."
Behind you, Four-fingers is the perfect expression of a facepalm. "Ah, dangnabbit. No bloodshed, if you'd be so kind. I'm low on sawdust as it is."
Petey nods. "No worries, boss, she's just leaving."
Four-fingers sighs. "Sure and I wasn't talking to you, Petey."
Now is the Winter of our discontent made glorious Summer by Constantin Bastien – at least, that seems to be the official line. Although with the storm overhead and the icy rain and sleet blowing almost horizontal with the wind, summer seems a long way off. In truth, Ilrien has a temperate clime – snow here is almost vanishingly rare, while in Calrais it is said they measure the drifts in feet rather than inches; and you have heard stories about the lost Jewel Cities, where it was the same hot weather all year round (although their winters were apparently marked by something called a tie-fune, which sounds unnecessarily unpleasant). No, as an Ilrienne born and bred, this climate is all you’ve known; it gets more bearable from here on in. Usually.
So, the New Year is in, House Bastien is on the rise, and all is right with the world, no? Oh, if only it were that simple. You, as a Key, know that mechanisms always, always fail unless properly tended to: wound (but not too tight), oiled (but not too much), cosseted, polished, occasionally taken apart and… inspected.
Which is what you are doing tonight: inspecting. Of course, a good Key doesn’t need to take something apart in order to know whether it is working properly: they know it from observation, from the subtle way that tick occasionally fails to give way to tock, or does so too soon, or too slowly. Everyone else at New Year might have been gawping at Constantin and his progeny, or the reactions of the other members of the Esultare (House Elanda are going to be a problem, and sooner rather than later), but your gaze was looking back – sometimes it is the trouble behind you that causes the big problems, usually as it overtakes without warning.
It wasn’t much that caught your attention, a look that passed between the Conte of House Szalar and the Marquessa de Scalier – easily dismissed as two nobles acknowledging an assignation later that night; but it was the way they looked away when they noticed your attention. Tick. Tock. Tick… Trouble.
Two Houses Minor, each alike in their ideas: if House Bastien can rise at the expense of a House Major, why not us, too? Still, a problem spotted is half-way to being resolved, right? Hence your splashing your way across Ilrien on a winter's night when sensible people are wrapped up indoors.
A thought which makes you wonder how many of the rest of your Coterie are out here tonight.
Questions to consider:
It’s not that usual to pursue enquiries yourself, is it? Is it just the absence of the rest of the Coterie that makes you do this on your own, or would you be going alone anyway in this instance?
Are you pursuing your inquiry from the top (direct to the Conte Szalar and/or the Marquessa)? Or are you going at it obliquely, and if so, whom have you identified as likely to give you your lead?
You probably have a good idea already what is going on and, if it can’t be stopped, how (like all good mechanisms) do you think it can best be redirected in your – and House Bastien’s – favour?
O, how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!
Calista’s words still sting as they propel you away from her, out of the house and into the storm-swept streets of Ilrien.
Thankless. Ungrateful. Selfish.
Your mother can draw blood without ever needing a knife. It had started as a simple enough argument, although one more suited to having with a sister: the shirt (your shirt!) she’d wanted to borrow, that you’d lent to Sasha earlier that day. The Garnetyne Eye seems to have a penchant for borrowing clothes when she needs another alias, although her hasty explanation suggested this wasn’t exactly House business. You gave it to her anyway, a simple favour for a friend, but your mother contrived to make that simple shirt a symbol of all your faults and failings, distilled into a single garment; and every word you utter becomes another stick to beat you with.
Finally, nothing for it but to take to the streets, clear the whirling in your head. Family. You can choose your friends, but not your relatives. The icy sleet to the face is certainly a way to take your mind off things. Or at least, a way to refocus the mind on other matters.
Sasha, for instance. You’re pretty sure she said she’d return the shirt already – not that it matters, but she tends to be pretty good about keeping to time. What exactly did she say she was up to, again?
Another gust of wind almost knocks you across the Plaza. This won’t do at all. You need to get inside, and dry off, and think.
Questions to consider:
It looks like you’re the only one Sasha talked to about what she’s doing, which makes sense at the moment: she and Elisabetta are on the outs for some reason, Luciana’s off sulking somewhere, and Violetta is, well, Violetta (talking to someone who can spot every lie you tell is just plain hard work). Given your people skills, Sasha probably told you more than she intended. What did she let slip without meaning to? And how is that going to be useful in tracking down where she is?
On a night like this, what quiet spot do you like to spend time at in order to think clearly? And why does it suddenly make you very nervous to see someone in Al-Mari colours leaving there just as you arrive?
They say music is the food of love; but when the winter storm sends the harbour waves crashing over the docks, and the howling wind drives the sleet and frozen rain near-horizontal; when lightning arcs across the sky, illuminating the sullen clouds with violent flashes; when thunder rolls across Ilrien as though the Lord and Lady are going to war, there is another music – one you remember from your earliest days of childhood.
The Groan sings softly, between the crashes of thunder: lulling the Deathless back to slumber, it’s called; and if in the further, loftier heights of Ilrien the well-bred look down on that practice… well, they aren’t the ones with nothing but a tumble-down city wall between them and Necropolitan Hill, are they?
This southernmost crescent of the city is where you are from: a swath of narrow alleys dotted with tall and narrow apartments stacked on top of equally small shops and cafes. A hard place, the Twist, and plenty of bad memories – but when the thunder crashes, nowhere else in the city feels right without that low, soft singing. A place then to remember, and to brood, when the not at all opaque or tedious House business gets to be a little too much at times. The New Year Ball, for instance – a week past now, but another reminder of not belonging among the nobility.
Such is a Couth’s lot.
“Hey, Signorita – you, uh, lost or something?”
In the pouring rain, your cloak wrapped around you, you didn’t see the trio of youths until you’d almost walked right into them. They grin, the leader bold with his two friends behind him, nudging one another as they look at your finery.
“This is a bad place for one so fine as yourself to be alone, Signorita. We could show you the sights.” Lightning illuminates the glint of a blade. “Maybe a little something else.”
Such is also a Couth's lot, of course: when you do go home, you get a stranger’s “welcome.”
Questions to consider:
Which of your fellow members of the Gloved Hand did you fall out with at the New Year Ball? What was the argument about, and how do you plan to make amends?
These three youths have no idea who they’re tangling with – are you going to vent your frustrations on them and send them running back to mama? Or are you inclined toward something other than mayhem and violence?
Do any of the rest of the Gloved Hand know where you are, or have you taken a night off?
There’s a popular saying that trouble never sends a warning, and like many popular sayings, it’s not the whole truth. Much of your training as a Brava is with the blade, yes; but mastery of the blade requires mastery of the body, listening to the things it’s telling you that your brain will overlook if you aren’t careful. For some, it’s the pricking of the thumbs, for others it’s a tingle between the shoulder blades, but it means the same thing: something is off and danger is imminent. The last time you felt it, and ignored it, was the last time you saw your sister alive; so when it hits you now, you’re away, the dance forgotten, Blair’s protests lost behind you as you dash out of the ballroom. Sure, you promised him a dance, but he is one life’s hangers-on, for all his noble blood. If you weren’t in House Bastien, he wouldn’t look at you twice.
(Well, he’s a man; he’d definitely look at you twice, the same as he’d look at any attractive, athletic young woman. But the point stands.)
Even as you hurry, you’re thinking fast. Keys, Couth, Eye – all perfectly capable of getting into trouble. But Keys aren’t often caught off-guard, and a Couth in trouble can be heard the other side of Ilrien. No, the truth is that for real, Timmy’s-fallen-down-a-well sudden danger… it takes an Eye to get into that.
Sasha. Where has that infuriatingly sneaky Garnetyne got to? And more to the point, what has she got herself into?
Questions for consideration:
What was the feeling you got that told you there was trouble?
Where do you want to rush off to? And why, thanks to working with Sasha, do you understand that would be a bad idea?
Where are you actually going to go instead?
Whether you want to admit it or not, it’s your fault that Sasha hasn’t talked to you much recently. What did you do?
Court of Blades – Episode Zero: one of our Eye spies is missing
31 Diziembre 793, Ilrien Reckoning
Invitations to the New Year Ball at the Palace cannot be purchased for mere fiore; to be in possession of one is to be courted and promised favour after favour. Not having an invite, after all, is proof positive of one’s social undesirability.
This year however, of all years, invitations have proven more than usually difficult to obtain and more than one rumour is of blades being drawn and blood being shed to claim ownership. It is no mystery why: after the escapades of the Summer and late Autumn, the uproar among the Baker’s Guild and the near-impossible, had-to-be-there-to-believe-it almost overnight collapse of House Elanda’s power, the rumour is (could it be? Really? I’ve heard it said before, you know) that, after almost two centuries of the status quo, a new House is to be elevated to the Esultare.
And yet, as the party whirls along and the hour tiptoes ever closer to tryst, the intensity of expectation is not met by much in the way of action. Indeed, with ten minutes to the bell and all present ushered into the throne room, it is plain for all to see that five chairs only stand on the dais.
And then – on the stroke of midnight – how the Princes love their drama! The great bell tolls for tryst and the new year, and the five Princes of the Esultare stand as one (did you *see* the look the First Prince gave to Prince Lorenzo?! I’m sure he fair jumped out of that seat), drawing blades and forming an honour guard as Constantin Bastien, flanked by his two children Cesare and Lucretia, slowly walks out of the crowd (were you there?! Did you see it?! Tell me EVERYTHING, spare no detail) and in perfect, hushed silence, sits with the other Princes. (Yes, suddenly there are six chairs. The Corvetto long ago mastered such trivial magics. Let’s focus on the important matters, shall we?)
In that moment of hush, when an earthquake has rolled over the city of Ilrien and shaken its very foundations to their core, the musicians file in and a dance is struck. Mechanically, as though shaken out of a daze, the assembly find their feet; and then, my how they dance. And talk.
Lady Calliope, who has been keeping firm grip of Luciana’s upper arm for most of the last five minutes (sharp nails, too!), finally relaxes, her rictus-like smile not faltering for a moment as she issues instructions to the five of you. “Go, dear ones. Dance. And smile! Tonight, our new Prince has accomplished the impossible. The least you can do is look as though you belong here.”
Here, then, is the situation as regards the other five of the Houses Major which - along with the distressing novelty that is House Bastien - make up the Esultare.
House Corvetto, the Majestic Tyrants, have been at the top of the pile for as long as anyone can remember. They are the First House (Tier V) and their Prince, Lux (they/them) is the First Prince of Ilrien. Their strengths are in Magic (the Scholam was founded by Corvetto and the apprenticeships the Corvetto offer are eagerly sought throughout the city) and in Supply (when your family is at least 1,000 years old you accumulate a tremendous number of heirlooms which might come in handy one day). Their holdings throughout the city are immense, but their sphere of influence is particularly notable in the Palace, the University and the Watch.
House Al-Mari, the Tower Built of Spit & Spite, have risen far in the time since they arrived within this fair city. Even now, they snap at the heels of House Corvetto with a glorious disregard for subtlety. They are the Second House (Tier IV) and their Prince, Jassinda (she/her) is young, recently inherited the post and keen to prove herself. Their strengths are in Supply (the Al-Mari are self-sufficient. They keep, indeed) and Force (they arrived in Ilrien as conqueror-princes and their swords have not dulled in that time). Their holdings throughout the city are significant, but their sphere of influence is particularly notable in the Plaza, the Foreign Quarter, and the Garden.
House Battalia, the Old House of Martial Valour, have been a force to reckon with even before the time of the Dread Emperor. They are the Third House (Tier IV) and their Prince, Johannes (he/him) is a Bravo whose deeds are still whispered of by those with nothing better to do than spread idle talk (did you know he once killed three people in a duel with a quill-pen? A ****ing quill-pen!). Their strengths are in Force (Battalia commands more blades than any save the Grand Council, and any duelling school of note within the city is run by a Battalia or with their oversight) and Wealth (everyone wants to learn to duel, and Battalia is willing to teach - for a fee). Their holdings throughout the city are not what they once were, but their sphere of influence is still felt in the Arsenal and the Necropolitan Hill where they keep eternal vigil over the Deathless.
House Lovell, the Gossipmongers of Wealth & Taste, are easily dismissed by the foolish as no more than strutting peacocks; yet they are the Fourth House (Tier III) and their Prince, Esme (she/her) is old enough to remember your grandmother's youthful indiscretions. Their strengths are in Intelligence (if you mean to keep it secret, House Lovell already knows) and Transport (it's not just what or whom you know, it's how you can provide it for them). Their holdings within the city are more limited, but their influence is strong within the Artists' Quarter and the Silk.
House Elanda, the Fist Around the Heart of Trade, has had its grip significantly loosened of late - in part by events which precipitated the rising of House Bastien. They are now the Fifth House (Tier III) - an ignominy which their Prince, Lorenzo (he/him), is keen to rectify before he faces his ancestors and their wrath. Their strengths are in Wealth (even now, none can match the coffers of House Elanda. They prefer it that way) and Force (caravan guards and hard-bitten mercenaries may not have the pomp and discipline of the troops Battalia commands, but quantity has a quality of its own). Their holdings within the city are now confined to the Banks and the Docks.
OK, you have not made this easy! On top of that, I'm swamped with work in advance of the Easter break so I will let you have my decisions some time tomorrow morning (UK time).
On a more general note, in Ilrien someone like Colm would be regarded as a monster - and, worse, gauche. You shouldn't need to cut someone's fingers off to send a message when with the right attire and the right bearing, you can cut them dead with a look. The Ilrienne know that what is best in life is to snub your enemies, to see them shrivel before you, to know from their lamentations that you're winning.
Recruitment closes in 2 hours. It may take me a while to make my selections, thank you again to everyone who posted, I really wasn't expecting this much enthusiasm!
@fatmanspencer - feel free to come up with some goals for your character; those players who are picked will also get a "Session Zero" where we answer some questions, including Bonds, and generally flesh out more of the initial concept. This will also include coming up with a name for your Coterie and some initial goals for them. What I'm looking for right now is as much background as you want to write (within reason) but more importantly some sense of who your character is (what makes them tick, what ticks them off, attitudes to problem solving, that sort of thing). Hope that helps?
@Adrianos - magic in this game is generally based on "what Effect are you trying to achieve?" Sharpened senses would probably be fine, but dulling to pain could be an issue because it could be used to negate negative consequences like harm. My answer therefore is that it sounds fine in principle but we would have to negotiate what it looks like in practice. I like the concept of black powder-based magical power so that's not a problem.
@Violetta - short version of your backstory is fine for now, it can be fleshed out later during Session Zero. The main thing I need is some sense of who your character is (what makes them tick, what ticks them off, attitudes to problem solving, that sort of thing).
Actually, that goes for most of the submissions so far - the mechanics look good and the background (where provided) makes sense but a sense of personality (or a description that goes beyond merely what they look like) would be very helpful.
Wow, of the finished submissions so far no one is playing the same class. Not sure I've ever seen that before.
Yeah, I noticed that when I was listing everyone - I've never seen it before either. I think it shows what a good job Paizo did with PF1 that the classes they put together (oracle, cavalier, arcanist, etc) are as popular as the traditional wizard/cleric etc classes they imported from D&D.
Lots of submissions now! I don't envy the GM their decision.
How well connected are we to each other, like we are all trying to make ourselves better and our group of is there to be a little cut throating amongst ourselves?
Your group (or Coterie, to use the Court of Blades terminology) functions much like an adventuring party, so you are all on the same side. There's no "aha! My character is secretly working for House X instead" moments in this game. That said, and again like War for the Crown, this is an intrigue-based game so it's entirely possible that your character's interests don't always align with the other PCs - but I would expect everyone to discuss it with the other players so that it doesn't lead to PvP and/or stop being fun.
I've seen some wonderful disagreements between characters where the players were on the same page... but I've also seen it get out of hand.
EDIT: For anyone who's interested, Third Floor Wars (Youtube) did a great season of Court of Blades where the players were all clearly in sync but the characters were very much not always on the same page. It worked really well, but only because of the high level of trust the players all clearly have in one another and the GM.
@Sir Longears - thanks for letting me know, sorry it didn't work out this time.
@rdknight - thanks for your post, feel free to read along! Hopefully we can create a story that the bards will still be singing for ages to come
@Sasha - wow, you have put work into reading the lore! I will hold off on questions until we have a bit more to go with.
@Kittenmancer - good question. Romance is/can be a big part of this game and so sexuality is also in the mix (although the two things are NOT the same: there were innumerable Bond girls, but only ever one Moneypenny). As far as I'm concerned, as long as you don't make any of the other players uncomfortable then we're good.
Also, that reminds me of something I should have added in my first post - I wish this went without saying but it does need to be said: LGBTQ gamers and LGBTQ characters are fully welcome in my games.
I'm looking forward to the story we will tell together.
Jonah doesn't notice it, but as he moves on from each of the mirrors he has marked with that eldritch yellow chalk, the surface of the glass seems to ripple and distort - and instead of reflecting back the dimly-lit interior of the Silver Staff, each looking-glass in turn seems to show scenes from another time.
At first, Ranna sees what appear to be memories of her own life; things she remembers as having happened. But as the chalk symbols twist, and the emanations from Jonah's twisted creation flit back into the Ghost Field, they leave behind darker revelations...
...there is the youth she treated for fever - Casia's brother - taking a knife and carving up the bodies of several Silver Nails, before looting the corpses of everything, even their clothes...
...there is Jonah himself, exhorting a redheaded Skovlander whom Ranna doesn't recognise to put a bullet in a younger woman; as the victim falls back, her life-blood pouring from the wound in her chest, Ranna sees that they have murdered Hutton's daughter...
...there is Casia, dressed in a blood-stained uniform taken from one of the Silver Nails, gleefully stabbing Hutton repeatedly with a knife as the gang leader stumbles back, unable to defend himself as blood pours from his wounds and Jonah's magic keeps his bodyguards at bay...
...more scenes of violence and mayhem as angry ghosts are unleashed on another gang, another time, another place...
If the scenes from the mirror are to be believed, the Dusk Mites may be making a name for themselves, but they are rising up to the top on a veritable mountain of corpses.
Casia/Luce:
At first, you think it's merely your overactive imaginations; but the mirrors you walk past are indeed flickering, the reflections therein rippling and distorting as the looking-glass seems to melt like quicksilver, showing scenes from another time.
Casia sees flames and smoke as her old life burns down around her, whichever way she turns she sees the flames reflected in the nearest glass... until all is black and smoking ash, and a woman - the woman - looms into view, her cruel smile mocking everything that Casia is and has become...
Luce sees Susanne, watching as the thugs beat your father at her command, beat him over and over again until his bones snap and break and shatter; Susanne steps over his body, looking directly at her sister with a cruel smile as she blows a kiss and mouths a single word: soon.
One skeleton explodes in a cloud of dust and bone splinters! Barlus, who has been soundlessly locked in a grappling contest with another skeleton, looks over and gives the unfamiliar halfling a small nod of approval. Good work.
Everyone gets a Hero Point for that
Can his protegee Vyana or her paladin friend-without-any-other-benefits-why-would-there-be-other-benefits-I-don't -know-what-you're-talking-about find inspiration from Alorea's deeds?
Ditching the Silver Nails' costume is probably a good idea, and people seem to buy your actions - although Min (and to a lesser extent, Casia) don't really belong in this part of town. The locals might be a little more inclined to wonder what you are doing here, right in the middle of Grinder turf on a night when all hells have broken loose; but you are saved from such inquiries by the unlikely assistance of Hutton himself - or rather, the ghost currently joy-riding Hutton's body. There's a crash and a snarl as the figure - still wrapped in some of the wire that Min set up to delay it, with silver nails studded in various parts of its body - bursts (literally) through the front door and out into the street.
Fatally (not for you), it takes a few moments for the gang to realise it's not their boss: as they crowd round him, trying to tell him and/or ask him what's going on and what they should do, their first clue that something is off is when he grabs his closest bodyguard, jaws unhinging impossibly wide as he swallows the man whole! Hutton's entire body distends enormously as a result of this, the flesh bending and shaping in eye-watering ways as clothing rips apart under the impossible demands Hutton's new owner is making of them. Two more Grinders are dead even before someone can draw breath to scream, but the screaming starts soon enough anyway. Everyone runs as far and as fast as they can away from the ghost, who now - at almost 8 feet tall - towers over them. Several more people are crushed underfoot as it sates its bloodlust, feeding with an appetite that hasn't fed in a long, long time.
With all the fuss, it's a simple matter for you to slip away in the endless dark of Duskvol.
Score over! Well done, you survived
8 APRIL, 847 I.E.
Hutton's death and the gruesome, grisly aftermath thereof is the beginning of the end for the Grinders. Rumours that it was the Silver Nails who did this prompts a couple of lieutenants who are eyeing the vacant leadership position to launch a "reprisal" attack - only to find that the Silver Nails, smarting from what they think was a Grinder attack on them, are all too eager for war.
The Grinders are tough, but they find out shockingly quickly what it means to tangle with real soldiers. In a matter of days, most of the key members of the gang are out of action - most dead, but some having the wit to seek passage on the first boat out of the city.
Either way, the Grinders are no more.
14 APRIL, 847 I.E
Word gets out, somehow. Word always gets out, somehow, in the Dusk. Nothing is said, exactly; or at least, not out loud; or at least, not to you out loud. But several - not completely coincidental - things happen almost at once.
The first is that you receive several gifts from Lady Phroiag; she doesn't deliver them herself, but it's unusual for someone of her standing even to admit that a district like yours exists. For her to send things to you, here, rather than waiting on you to come and collect them at a time and place of her own choosing, is a message almost as valuable as the gifts themselves - whatever her earlier displeasure, the Dusk Mites have patronage from someone of status.
The second is that both Bazso Bazs, of the Lampblacks, and Mylera Klev, of the Red Sashes, take some time out from their interminable, months-long feud with each other to offer you a gift of their own. Not personally, of course. Bazso rarely leaves his headquarters these days, and Klev is holed up somewhere near the Iruvian embassy. They are both marshalling their remaining troops for the 'one last push' that will, they promise, wipe out the other gang and leave them victorious. But be that as it may, they each send representatives to offer (free, gratis and for nothing, Bazso would point out) a slice of turf. They are both very quick to point out that this is a mark of respect; but the truth is that both gangs' reach now exceeds their grasp - offering the territories to you is less of a loss of face than admitting they can no longer control them.
The third is that, by a sort of osmosis or electroplasmic motion, individuals are starting to converge on the streets around your (hidden) headquarters. You get nods of respect when you walk past them, and they are quick to offer word on what is going on in the surrounding territory, or deliver messages, or keep watch. They are mere lackeys, unlikely (without a bit of effort from you) to be much use in a scrap or anything requiring significant thought; but they are willing to help out as they can.
You haven't made it, not by a long shot; but you have at least, it would seem, arrived.
I believe it is no longer the 23rd of April in any time zone, so now we all just wait trepidatiously - good luck everyone! Some great characters for the DM to choose from, I don't envy the task of selecting only three.
Male Human (Highborn) Administratum Seeker I Wounds 13 I Fate 4 I WS 36; BS 28; S 29; T 25; Ag 25; Int 35; Per 34; WP 35; Fel 40; Inf 34
Havelock Iacton wrote:
I've played the tabletop previously, I used to have a Tyranid army.
You, sir, are a xenos-loving traitor to humanity. Space Wolves till I die.
I played a few editions of the tabletop game and have read a couple of books so I'm not completely unfamiliar with the lore, but it was a while ago so anything from the last 15+ years will be new to me. I haven't kept up with the computer games either - I played Dawn of War but then real life intervened and I haven't looked at the newer stuff.
I confess I've never heard of Mutant Chronicles.
@Calidus - having Intimidate might be useful if you don't mind making that change.
Male Human (Highborn) Administratum Seeker I Wounds 13 I Fate 4 I WS 36; BS 28; S 29; T 25; Ag 25; Int 35; Per 34; WP 35; Fel 40; Inf 34
+1 on not wanting to cramp anyone else's playing style! This being 40K I'm sure there's going to be lots of opportunities to righteously immolate heretics, unbelievers, evil-doers, xenos, and people who talk at the theatre.
Thinking some more about the mix of the group, given that we have a sanctioned psyker I'm almost certainly going to row back on the whole 'hearing voices' angle that I had going. It was one option I was considering but there's lots of other directions I can go with this character instead.
Zealot-Brother Calidus wrote:
Both Havelock and Morvius seem to be professionally trained, while I see Calidus as a (very) enthusiastic amateur. I would imagine the Inquisition's rationale for recruiting Havelock and Morvius is pretty clear cut - a Psyker and a Fixer. A zealot on the other hand is more likely in the event things go south - an expendable asset?
I hadn't thought of it like that... I see Morvius as a dabbler in things rather than someone who has had professional training or *shudder* something so vulgar as a job. But yes, he has a background with the Administratum which means he knows how the game is played.
Male Human (Highborn) Administratum Seeker I Wounds 13 I Fate 4 I WS 36; BS 28; S 29; T 25; Ag 25; Int 35; Per 34; WP 35; Fel 40; Inf 34
GM of the Hive wrote:
First, this is a completely new system to me. I don't have any experience with it, and as such, I will likely be somewhat shaky with the mechanics in the beginning of things. I'm sure I'll get the hang of it quickly, but you'll have to give me some time to get used to it.
I'm in exactly the same boat so no worries, we will all muddle through together.
GM of the Hive wrote:
Second, this is the Warhammer 40k setting, with all the nasty dark stuff that entails. This will be a more adult-themed campaign, in terms of violence and such. I won't go out of my way to describe anything horrendous or unnecessary, but there will be gratuitous violence, blood, gore, and death. With all the horrors awaiting you in the 41st millennium, you will need to be strong of mind and spirit. You have been warned.
Don't threaten me with a good time ;) this is exactly why I applied to this game in the first place
Hi all, very pleased to be selected! Looking forward to gaming with you in the grim darkness of the far future where there is only etc.
Morvius is high-born, and caught the inquisitor's eye in the worst possible way: by falling under suspicion when his cousin was found to be in a Chaos cult. The best way to prove his innocence (or at least, his lack of guilt for this particular crime) is to co-operate with the investigation. The threat of execution lends a magnificent edge to one's senses, and after 50+ years (although he looks much younger) of having all his whims catered to, there's a certain pleasure to be found in the danger of adventure.
His strengths lie in influence and subtlety, so my preference would be for us to run this more like a spy game (or a Call of Cthulhu investigation, even) where we have cover identities, or at least do our best to keep things quiet as much as possible. If we go flashing our Inquisitorial badges all over the place and getting into fights, his usefulness will be much less as his WS and BS are not the highest, to say nothing of his Toughness.
He's also going to be very good at supplying the group with weapons and armour because he counts everything as being one degree less rare (he also has the Peer talent with the Rogue Traders). Think of him as your fixer and influence-peddler, and try your best to keep his noble blood from getting splattered across the nearest bulkhead, and you will have a useful friend.
Flamer is thematic for the ecclesiarch character, for sure! I love the smell of burning heretic in the morning. Smells like victory.
On a more practical note, I think it does depend on how many of the group will be focused on melee vs shooting, as they won't thank you for roasting them (Exhibit A and it depresses me how long ago that comic was)
Alias "Polish" I Male Akorosi Cutter I Insight 1 (Study 1) I Prowess 3 (Prowl 1 Skirmish 3 Wreck 1) I Resolve 2 (Command 1 Consort 1) I VICE: Luxury I STRESS 3/9 I HARM: Lvl 1 (stab wound; bruised by leviathan)
Violence ensues.
Briefly. Finraeth is not in a mood to be trifled with, and hasn't been ever since the news of Dary's death reached him. These individuals aren't responsible for that murder, but they are the first suitable target he has had for his frustrations, and so they bear the brunt of his anger. Not entirely fair, but neither is life.
In the time it would take a person to read that paragraph, the first victim is down; they are still gaping at the audacity of being confronted in the street like this by a lone individual when the meaty sound of bruised flesh and the gristle-crack sound of breaking bone confirms to their drink-addled senses that yes, they are indeed under attack. By that time, Finraeth is in their midst, and the ghosts summoned by Jonah are surrounding them and lending a new terror to their uncertainty. It is nothing resembling a fair fight, although Finraeth restrains himself enough to ensure that he keeps it non-lethal. He has no personal animus against these individuals; it is simply that they have something he requires.
It is all over in a matter of seconds, the last of his victims grasping helplessly at the mist around him, his blind panic at the ghosts rendering him oblivious to the more physical threat of the Cutter who steps in neatly behind him and switches off the lights by means of a fist to the back of the skull. The fight now ended, he hastily drags them into a nearby alleyway and proceeds to remove their uniforms; thus equipped, he is about to make a hasty exit when a thought forms, or rather perhaps a memory.
He remembers, at a much more youthful age, taking quill and ink and applying his best artistic endeavours to sketching a mustache on the face of his and Casia's sleeping nanny. He was quite proud of the result, a looping curling affair that grandly covered her entire upper lip and spread across the cheeks. Their mother was considerably less impressed and did her best to tan his backside into leather by way of remonstration with her mischievous son (Casia, whose idea it was but who wisely left the execution thereof to another, went entirely unpunished; another litany in the book of sibling injustices).
The memory strikes him now, and he grins. Drawing a stiletto dagger from a sheath in the small of his back, he reaches down and hastily carves the Grinders' gang symbol into the buttock of the nearest victim. It's not his best work, but it will do. His victims may not remember much of their assailant, but between that carving and the reek of Skovlandic liquor they should have no difficulties in (albeit mistakenly) identifying who has wronged them.
He slips the knife ("borrowed" from his sister, but that's another story) back into its sheath, gathers up the pile of clothing, and fades back into the darkness from whence he came.
Alias "Polish" I Male Akorosi Cutter I Insight 1 (Study 1) I Prowess 3 (Prowl 1 Skirmish 3 Wreck 1) I Resolve 2 (Command 1 Consort 1) I VICE: Luxury I STRESS 3/9 I HARM: Lvl 1 (stab wound; bruised by leviathan)
Another night, another place
Finraeth's affinity/relationship with alcohol is markedly different from Casia's; most notably because for him it is principally about quality, rather than quantity. And there is no doubting the quality of the liquor in the bottle he is currently holding; it is the very worst: a rough Skovlandic peasant drink, distilled by (and possibly even from) rough Skovlandic peasants. The young man uncorks the bottle and his nose wrinkles from the acrid fumes; the smell is unmistakable.
Which is, of course, the point.
Another point of distinction between the two siblings is that he has absolutely no qualms in spilling alcohol where it serves his purposes. With a quick, sharp motion he upends the bottle over himself, letting the rough-smelling liquor seep into his cloak and form a vile miasma around him. With that done, he settles back once more against the wall that is his shelter against the wind and his shield against too many prying eyes. For tonight he is, intentionally, far from home: in a district populated largely by Severosi, and outside a tavern known to be frequented by the Silver Nails.
This is, as they say, a tough ask. He needs a small group of them: enough to furnish him and the others with disguises, but not so many or of such seniority that they will overpower him. He is all too aware (both from Jonah's stories and general folklore) of the Silver Nails' reputation and ability for extreme violence. He has no wish to be on the receiving end of what they can deliver. This is his third night of waiting for the right opportunity; and it would seem that third time is indeed the charm. The small group he identified earlier have now spent many hours in the tavern, and it is his hope, by the time they emerge, that firstly they will be sufficiently drunk that the advantage will be his; and that secondly the hour will be sufficiently late that nobody else will be around who might be inclined to intervene.
On both of these counts, he is rewarded. Fortune may favour the bold, but good things come to those who wait. As the small group of mercenaries exits the tavern, staggering together in the tight knot favoured by those who are seeking mutual support, he detaches himself from the wall that has been his cover and walks into the middle of the street; favours his soon-to-be-victims with a bow.
"Gentlemen. I require your cloaks, your tunics, and most of all your silver badges."
Alias "Polish" I Male Akorosi Cutter I Insight 1 (Study 1) I Prowess 3 (Prowl 1 Skirmish 3 Wreck 1) I Resolve 2 (Command 1 Consort 1) I VICE: Luxury I STRESS 3/9 I HARM: Lvl 1 (stab wound; bruised by leviathan)
I don't think the Dusk Mites have any particular notoriety outside of the district of Crow's Foot - if Min is based in that part of the city, he has fallen low indeed.
Finraeth's studies at the university (both formal and extracurricular) left him with sufficient knowledge of Iruvian culture and customs that he recognises the decorations the newcomer is wearing; and sufficient knowledge of the language to know that even attempting to speak it, as badly as he does, would be a great insult. He sticks to his best Akorosi, stepping forward and grasping the man's hand with a firm grip and looking him straight in the eye. "How do you do. As my sister says, I am Finraeth, although in the Dusk I go by the name of Polish." His gaze tells Min that he hasn't seen Min's sandals, because to have seen them would be bad manners; and therefore he has chosen not to see them, because good manners are part and parcel of a gentleman.
Like his sister, and like Min himself, Finraeth is wearing fine clothes that have seen much better days: the frock-coat is stained and has fraying sleeves, and pairing it with that shirt and that waistcoat (the only ones he has left, alas) is an act of daring. It would be easy to look at this tall young man in his early twenties and see no more than a fop, the sort of arriviste that his middle-class parents no doubt intended him to become when they sent him to the university to move up in the world; but there's a set to the shoulders and a muscularity in his grip, together with a confidence that he can hold his own in a fight. A keen observer would note the marks at his belt consistent with where a pistol and dagger would normally be (it is the height of bad manners to be visibly armed in polite company); and a very keen observer would note the slight draping of his coat at the small of his back that suggests a concealed weapon (it is the height of folly to go anywhere unarmed).
Cirthana (like many clerics of Lawful gods) likes to think ahead and plan things out before she says anything. When you tell her about Laurel's information and your plan to go into the deep woods in search of things that may or may not exist, and which may or may not be helpful, you can almost see the wheels spinning behind her eyes as she plays out her objections and your counter-arguments; seeing clearly that you will do this regardless of what she says, as well as the ultimate trump card (all the more potent for being true) which is that if you don't do this, who will?
She sighs, and concedes the argument in advance as a waste of effort. "Very well, dear. Come with me for a minute, will you?" Leading the way into her study, she unlocks a large wooden chest and kneels over, rummaging in it until she pulls out several large items wrapped in cloth. Carefully unwinding the strips of cloth, she reveals a steel suit of armour and a shield. The breastplate was once emblazoned with the sword of Iomedae, but it has been scrubbed away, although traces of the commemorative signifiers and medals still remain: the Mendevian star, the crusader sunburst, the black pennant, the Grievous Crown of Martyred Greatness. "These were mine once upon a time; I probably wasn't much older than you when I first drew my sword and charged headlong at a demon." She shakes her head. "Really, it's a wonder any of us survive into adulthood. I took the breastplate to an armourer about 18 months ago and had it re-sized for you once it became clear you weren't going to grow any taller. I was planning to give it to you for your 21st birthday but I think you're going to need these rather sooner than that."
She gives you a fierce hug, the sort only someone who picked up a sword at 16 and didn't put it down for another ten years can give you. "You come back to me, alright? Whatever happens, you come back. Now go, make your mother proud. Both of us."
Cirthana endures Lucia's anger as the church weathers a storm, patiently outlasting it until it has dissipated. In the silence that falls afterwards, she gives the young woman a sad smile. "One of the most terrifying things about growing up, my dear, is discovering that the adults around you are not as all-powerful or all-knowing as you thought. Even, or perhaps especially, the ones you looked up to. We are fallible, we are vulnerable, we have blind spots." She takes another few sips of her tea. "I don't ask for you to understand but if I have disappointed you, for that I am sorry."
Vyana Yada wrote:
Vyana nods as Cirthana lays out the first step for them. "So we'll go talk to the herbalist," she says as if running the words over in her head. "If she has the cure then why wouldn't she offer it initially? Whatever this malady is, it hasn't been very discriminating in who it affects."
Cirthana shakes her head. "I know Laurel. She is a good person, whatever our differences. As I said, she may not even be aware that she has the answers. But whatever this malady is, it eludes me: it is neither poison nor disease, or else it would respond to my prayers."
Something like this happens in a city and there'd be folk blaming goblins for the trouble sure as the sun rises in the sky. It'd been happening since goblins and tall folk first met. He figured the only reason they weren't beating on the tenement gates right now is because those so inclined were too sick to lift a brick.
After giving this a bit of thought, I'm going to nix some of that: I'm just not interested in exploring themes of racial prejudice and tension in this game. Goblins are seen as a bit weird and chaotic, sure, and there's some resentment among the wood-cutters that they get the better-paid work; but there's no more dislike of them as a whole than there is against elves, halflings or gnomes.
Are the goblins of Falcon's Hollow downtrodden and oppressed? Well sure, but so is everyone.
1) It's corrupt There used to be 3 families that ran the place, but the surviving family (the Kreeds) had the other two families killed off - or so the rumour goes. But don't go listening to rumour, or spreading them either! Kreed and his lackeys control pretty much everything, from the magistrate through to the local wizard through to what gets bought and sold on the high market (and who gets access to the high market in the first place - and it's certainly not you guys, at least for now). The few good(?) guys (the herbalist, the sheriff and the local priestess, plus one or two others) don't really get on and aren't able to coordinate any resistance, beyond doing what good they can. This isn't a "let's clean up this town!" adventure.
2) It's a long way from anywhere Nobody comes to Falcon's Hollow by happenstance. This town is the end of the line for many of its residents: a final destination in a flight from the law, a haven from crushing debts, a sanctuary from abuse, or a new start free from religious persecution. Yet those who dwell in the town know that it has more than its fair share of problems, and many who come to live here soon realise they simply traded one set of worries for another. Far from the cares and demands of civilisation, the dense forest and crystalline river of the surrounding Darkmoon Vale might seem to promise freedom, but in truth, those who dwell here do so under the oppressive auspices of the Lumber Consortium and Thuldrin Kreed’s harsh vigilance.
3) There's only one game in town Whatever the poets might say, civilisation is built on timber. If it's metal, it was forged in a charcoal furnace. If it's stone, it was constructed with wooden scaffolds. Even if it's just a hole in the ground, it is propped by wooden beams. All that timber comes from somewhere, and a lot of the good stuff (the dense hardwoods and precious darkwood) comes from Darkmoon Vale. It's a brutal business: families here are large, and everyone has lost someone (killed or maimed) in the lumber camps or the sawmills of Falcon's Hollow. The entire town was built by and is run for the benefit of the Lumber Consortium.
4) It's safer than the alternative As bad as the town may be, the surrounding area of Darkmoon Vale is not somewhere you want to end up alone. The dense forest is trackless and lightless beneath its vast canopy, a suffocating and oppressive place. Away from the river, you can get lost and die of thirst if you don't know what you're doing. Although the wolves, giant moorsnakes and stirges that live there will probably make sure that thirst is the least of your problems...
Alias "Polish" I Male Akorosi Cutter I Insight 1 (Study 1) I Prowess 3 (Prowl 1 Skirmish 3 Wreck 1) I Resolve 2 (Command 1 Consort 1) I VICE: Luxury I STRESS 3/9 I HARM: Lvl 1 (stab wound; bruised by leviathan)
Finraeth (as a fan of both the classics and the archaic) nods approvingly at Jonah's use of the word "gird" but deprecates the idea of fleeing. "Where, then, shall we flee unto? Fortune favours the bold, after all." He sincerely hopes.
As Jonah's distraction gambit flares into bright light, he pulls the harpoon charm off his wrist. This is the Ghost Field, where memories have power; ergo, this fragment of a harpoon should "remember" what it once was. For a second or two, as he stands there, nothing happens; the small fragment in his hand looks as feeble as a matchstick. But, with a sudden flaring of electroplasm, there is a crackle of sparks and the stink of ozone and he holds in both hands the potent memory of a leviathan's bane. It sputters and sparks, like a firework on the verge of exhaustion, its odd light reflecting in his eyes as he moves forward, caution thrown to the winds, to stalk the beast.
Alias "Polish" I Male Akorosi Cutter I Insight 1 (Study 1) I Prowess 3 (Prowl 1 Skirmish 3 Wreck 1) I Resolve 2 (Command 1 Consort 1) I VICE: Luxury I STRESS 3/9 I HARM: Lvl 1 (stab wound; bruised by leviathan)
Finraeth's expression passes through a number of different stages as he gapes at the tormented, scorched, husk that is shambling blindly towards them. "F- father?" The expression he finally lands on is one that he rarely permits to see the light of day, and his companions might not immediately identify it as he runs towards the man, throwing his arms around him heedless of the flames...
...and flinging him, as hard as he can, against the nearest wall, before pummelling him over and over again with his elbows and fists.
"BASTARD! YOU ****ING BASTARD OF A ****ING ****!!!!!"
Oh, yes. His expression: it's pure, unbounded, rage.
He continues to thump the memory shaped like his father, even as he continues to shout.
As the memory-form crumbles beneath his fury, he still isn't done. He picks up the skull with both his hands and holds it aloft, forcing it to stare at Lolo and Jonah. "Look at them. F!#%ing Look! At! Them! Did you trade in their lives, buying and selling their people like they were just some... Commodity?!" He turns the skull around, staring directly into its eye sockets. "I'm ashamed of you. I've abandoned the family name and I will never take it on. And I'm not even going to let you look at Cassie. You've lost any right to call either of us your children. Now Get. Out. Of. My. Sight."
He lets the skull go; as it falls, it connects with his boot as he drop-kicks the memory of his father's remains as far as he possibly can, before dusting himself down and readjusting his waistcoat as he regains his composure.
"I'm glad we had that little chat. I feel much better now we've cleared the air."
Alias "Polish" I Male Akorosi Cutter I Insight 1 (Study 1) I Prowess 3 (Prowl 1 Skirmish 3 Wreck 1) I Resolve 2 (Command 1 Consort 1) I VICE: Luxury I STRESS 3/9 I HARM: Lvl 1 (stab wound; bruised by leviathan)
26 FEB:
Only the most reckless, foolhardy, egotistical or self-sabotaging of lurks would conduct a burglary without posting a lookout. Finraeth solves that problem by not telling Cassie that he's going to be her lookout. Scrunched into the brickwork opposite the target, he watches as she makes her smooth entrance and clean getaway.
Almost clean. This is the Dusk. There's always someone watching. Finraeth sighs as a figure peels away from a patch of shadow, doubtless off on their way to tell what they've seen. Some things are just too predictable. He steps out in front of their path. "How do you do? I don't believe we've been introduced."
*THUMP*
A kind word and a smile will buy you that brief moment of confusion to put them down: Finraeth's fist catches the man's jaw, dropping him like a puppet with cut strings. He doesn't bother to savour his handiwork. Time is pressing. "Who are you, then? And what am I to do with you?" He turns the figure over with the toe of one shoe, letting the lamplight catch the distinctive checked shirt, with green and purple sleeve. Of course. Kobb the Kramp, lurker in the dark and snitch to anyone willing to buy him the hard liquor he is slowly killing himself with. Put like that, the solution is obvious. But costly.
Blast it. I hate having to improvise.
Slowly, hesitantly, Finraeth pulls out the little silver flask from the inside pocket of his frock-coat. The sloshing noise tells him it's still half full, some of the finest uisge the Dagger Isles can make, smoked over marsh-earth and aged for 50 years. It's one of the last few mementos of his old life, one he has been savouring slowly, sip by sip. He's almost certain he'll never be able to afford it again. Slowly, solemnly, he unscrews the cap and pours it out over Kobb's unconscious form. When the snitch wakes up, the reek of liquor will tinge any story he tries to tell with its own overpowering narrative.
The job done, he stands there for a moment as the uisge soaks into that garish green and purple plaid, all of those future moments of carefully saved-up joy lost, like tears in the rain. "Pleasant dreams, Kobb."
He starts to walk away, before turning on one heel to address the unconscious man again. "And change your tailor. Anyone who puts one colour over another like that should be fed to the Sisters."
