Today is Shag Solomon's birthday. Not that you'd normally know that, or care; the wildman spends most of his time rubbing noses with the nobility in town, when he isn't on display in the "Gallery of Science". But the Emporium is hosting a party of sorts and anyone with a ticket gets in free. Which is weird because that place is a party, but who are you to argue? What's important is that you managed to get your hands on a ticket. The door charge to get into the upper floor is 3 silver, typically beyond your means. But free... that price sounds much better. And you could definitely use a break from the tepid drudgery that makes up your average day.
Upon entering, you encounter a small desk station manned by a grinning, businesslike attendant. The thin, balding man smiles wryly at you, a gesture accentuated by his upcurled mustache. You've seen Gaspar around, you're not sure he knows any other expression.
"Ah! A ticket! How fortunate! Do come in.. yes, yes! Do come in!" The man wastes no time waving you toward the stairs, where you can hear a quiet preview of the excitement to come.
You glance over at the closed up "Gallery" before heading up, where you're greeted by a riot of exciting sound, dampened somewhat by the nine foot monster of a man glaring at you from the top of the stairs. Kurlag usually doesn't have to do much here, his presence alone serves as a pretty good deterrent. You've seen him throw people out by twos before though, one in each hand. Best to stay on good behavior.
Music plays from the stage across the large gaming hall, its laid-back sound serving as a counterpoint to the eager players, gambling their money away with cards and dice alike. Right away, you figure out why the "Gallery" is closed. The dealers and attendants are still working today, but it looks like the freaks are out to play for the wildman's birthday.
At one table, the combustible magician, the halfling Ariello Klint torments a flirtatious "Three-Dragon Ante" dealer, casting his flames tauntingly near the cards, to the annoyance of the other players.
At another table, a little blue creature with a large bulbous head, the contortionist, Tom Shingle sits with his chin on the table, one foot casually casting dice over his head onto the table. You're not sure where his other foot is.
At the same table, the alluring Chezabet pouts, her arms crossed in front of her chest, pointedly not throwing dice. It seems nobody wants to gamble with a fortune teller.
The dealer doesn't look happy to have either of them at his table.
Your attention is drawn to the center of the room, where Shag Solomon and Zalamandra stand, idly talking with several well-dressed patrons, in front of a curious open-topped maze. You've heard of the "Rat Game" before, but it doesn't look like it's starting just yet.
Zomeraand mills through the crowd of well-wishers, curious onlookers, social climbers, and power brokers. He makes careful note of the latter. Allustan will want names.
He takes a moment to retrieve a glass of red wine from one of the hurried servers, and makes his way towards the Guest of Honor, Shag Solomon. The cultured wild man...amazing how Gaspar can bill him so accurately and yet still obfuscate the truth of who and what he is.
"Happy Birthday, Mr. Solomon," Zomeraand says in greeting. "May you have many more years of prosperity before you." He raises his glass in honor of the furry faced gentleman.
Merlovaur enters the room and frowns at the large gathering of people. Looking around, he takes an empty seat at a table with a view of Shag and his entourage. Ah, that fool Solomon. How is it possible that he has survived this long?
Sighing, he looks idly across the room at the blue, bulbous-headed contortionist. A boggle! That's unusual.
Merlovaur shrugs and motions to a bar maid as he lays his silver on the table. "Strong ale please!"
The shaggy wildman squints down his nose at Zomeraand with a long pause, his pipe puffing away as though he's judging whether the man is worthy of a response. Just before the pause becomes awkward, Solomon replies, "Ah yes, quite. I plan to live awhile yet..." The wildman trails off, mumbling under his breath. His accent is surprisingly cultured, a difficult task you imagine, given the fangs and jagged teeth in his mouth. You're not sure how he manages to pronounce the "h" in "awhile" so aggressively given his faculties.
Shag glances toward the elegant Zalamandra. "Do I know this one?" he asks, gesturing toward the magician with his pipe, Zalamandra's patient expression seeming to indicate that this has been a common theme this evening.
With a grace and sensuality that is exceedingly unusual among residents of Diamond Lake, the Lady Zalamandra smiles gently at the wildman. "Why yes... you do. This is the Magician, Zomeraand, acquaintance of your friend, Allustan."
The wildman huffs a bit before turning back to Zomeraand. "Pardon my memory. I'm a bit under the drink, as they say," he says, gesturing with his wine glass, sloshing a bit over the side.
You're not sure who says that.
The Lady of the establishment gives Zomeraand a wry smile at the exchange.
At a table across the room, a bar maid busily brings a mug of ale to a stern-looking elf, deftly sliding the coins into her apron before moving on to other patrons.
"All of matter of prospective, Mr. Solomon," Zomeraand replies dryly. "There are many who would gladly choose a gilded cage over the graves they dig for themselves every day in these hills. As for not recalling my name, it is a small matter. I am certain you will not forget it in the future." He gives the bast man a second, smaller tributary raise of his glass, then gives a nod to Zalamandra. "M'lady."
Pythia stumbled into the Emporium with her arms overflowing with crumpled papers, three ink pens were stuck haphazardly into her long, tangled halo of dark brown hair, and three vials half-filled with ink dangled off of her tattered cloth belt, tied on with tangled knots of cord. Her clothes were simple, but surprisingly alluring--a navy blue dress clinging tightly to her form, length short and neckline low. Her work clothes--no one would pay for a woman dressed in dirty old rags. She had gone home before heading out to the Emporium with the intention of collecting the papers she'd need and changing, but by the time she laid her eyes on the years of dedicated research and transcribing that plastered her walls and furniture all thoughts of frivolous things like clothes and brushing her hair flew right out of her head. And so she trudged throughout the Emporium, laden down with paperwork in whore's clothes.
Pythia cast her frenzied brown eyes around the room. She was clearly very pretty once, but life is Diamond Lake has left her with a frazzled, washed-up air. Her skin was pale and covered in ugly, irregular scribbled scars in strange shapes and sigils.
Her eyes pass over the guests and staff, slip right past Shag Solomon and his fellow freaks. Finally, they settle on an empty table nestled in the back of the room. She makes a beeline for it, pushing her way through crowds, bumping into tables and nudging chairs out of the way until she gets there. She drops her pile of papers down on the table, they fall all over it's top. Hundreds of them, all different kinds of paper and cloth, all different sizes, each and everyone one covered with strange scribbled sigils and lines and lines of cramped spidery script. She reaches for the papers, making sure none fall off or fly away, and then sits down in a chair.
She rifles through her papers, sorting and placing them in piles.
"No, not this one, no, no, YES! Yes. No!" She mutters to herself as she sorts, completely ignoring the strange looks she's earning.
Suddenly she grabs one of them and examines it, then she looks around the room comparing the images on the paper to the people and objects in the room. She holds it up to the wall, then a chair, then she gets up and begins to compare it to people's clothes.
She wanders up to a strange magician and begins holding the paper up to his face. She looks at the the stubble on his chin, then shakes her head.
"No."
She wanders up to an elf man and drops down onto her knees on the floor, butt in the air and face at his feet. She compares her paper to his shoes and mutters to herself.
After an uncomfortable minute she crawls away and begins comparing the papers to the stains in the carpet.
Zomeraand takes a step back as the strange woman thrusts the paper at him. "Such madness in this place," he says to the elf, his eyes following the strange woman as she crawls across the floor. "I have heard that the Emporium is never a boring place. So far, that has proven true."
Pythia doesn't seem to hear your comment or, perhaps, she doesn't understand it. Whatever the case, her course takes her under a table where she examines the patterns on the bottom of the contortionist's other foot, comparing it to her notes.
The Lady of the Emporium opens her mouth to respond pleasantly to Zomeraand's greeting, but promptly closes it, wrinkling her nose with a frown at the commotion. Zalamandra does a quick glance around the room, stopping particularly on each of the 'freaks' in attendance. She pauses and narrows her eyes at Ariello for a moment, but the halfling doesn't notice with his back to her, still enthralled with the dealer at his table. She does another quick scan of the room before sighing and shaking her head. Maybe she shouldn't have let the freaks invite whoever they wanted.
It's too late now, anyway.
Near the floor a few tables away, the face of Tom Shingle appears near his foot, the rest of his body, including both arms and one leg, somehow still above the table. His high pitched voice is oddly gentle as he addresses the girl crawling there. "Hey there. Whatcha lookin' for? Need some help?" The unusual creature is always curious and oddly helpful... as long as you don't expect too much. Tom stretches his neck out even further to take a look at both the paper and the bottom of his own foot.
At this point, his neck must be four feet long, at least.
A boggle also? What sort of connections does the proprietor have to obtain such obscure and exotic creatures? Zomeraand wonders silently to himself as he watches the creature stretch and contort itself.
|
Ferdrin slowly wades into the room, scanning the various activity and assessing where to start.
I think this might be my last night out in a long while, given the curriculum that Allustan has laid out for me.
He settles on the table with a little blue creature and a discontented woman, and approaches. It's only when he reaches the table, and just before introducing himself that he notices another, crawling around under the table.
He addresses Tom Shingle directly. "Good evening! My name is Ferdrin Ternyth. I must ask... is this some sort of foot-massaging servant that you keep with you, under there?"
Queslin gives over the ticket he won to Gaspar and goes up the stairs. He nods casually at Kurlag like he belongs. After a quick look around, Queslin goes over to the Three-Dice Ante table. The halfling's antics might distract the other gamblers, but Queslin knows that if even one card is the slightest bit singed, the halfling would be given a flying lesson by Kurlag. He sits down close to Ariello and sets his stake to be dealt in. "I have a feeling that this table will be hot tonight."
Pythia looks up suddenly into the face of the helpful little contortionist.
"Hmm?" she asks, only just now realizing she's being spoken to.
"Oh! Excuse me!" she laughs. "I'm looking for a sign! A symbol! One of --" she waves her papers at him. "One of these symbols I-- I know it's here! It's-- Important!" She compares her papers to his foot again and finishes, "It's not on you."
She smiles and crawls out from under the table, dusting off her dirty knees. "Thank you," she tells him, nodding once, before shoving her nose back into her papers.
She turns to survey the room again, clearly looking at patterns and things--barely registering the people mixing among them. She hurries over to the open-topped maze and looks at it from above.
"Oh! Oh!" she exclaims excitedly. She looks through her scattered papers. "Not here... No, no. Yes!"
Clutching one of her papers she moves around the maze this way and that, comparing it to her paper. "Almost... Not quite."
Shuffling up the sidewalk, absently making his way to the Emporium, a rumbled and rustic dressed dwarf mutters while reading from a well used piece of parchment.
Sir mister...my name be Bedlam Bottomland. I be wit da mining men 237. I am here to present to you...
Walking a block pass the building, the dwarf turns about. He then runs a soot covered hand through his mop of black hair. The dwarf then promptly picks up his hat, smacking it a bit, before replacing it upon his head, stepping forward to Destiny...
Producing his prized ticket, the nervous dwarf addresses the doorman.
Bedlam Bottomland, wishing to see Mr. Smenk fer...
Ignored and quickly passed inside, the dwarf finds himself confronted by numerous activities that he hadn't thought about until now, but will never forget...
The Fortune Teller, Chezabet looks on curiously at the commotion, having not much better to do given that the gamblers start to get nervous anytime she even glances at the dice. When the strange whore makes her way under her table, Chezabet can't help but smirk. "I vonder what she sees down zere?" she asks nobody in particular. As the girl wanders off, Chezabet is forced to cover her mouth to stifle a laugh as Tom nearly falls off the table trying to right himself.
Turning to greet the man in the hat who approached her, she shrugs. "Not konfused. Amused, perhaps." The fortune teller shrugs and then makes an inviting gesture. "I'm Chezabet. Others vill not gamble with me. Vill you play game or two?" she asks, pulling a deck of cards from her sleeves.
At another nearby table, the dealer Daria giggles while Ariello chuckles at Queslin's joke. The rest of the table sits somewhere between rolled eyes and shaking heads. A few wear scowls instead. Daria deals him in while Ariello strikes up a conversation. "A joker have we? I've always wondered if a joker is still funny when he's broke. Let's find out!" The bright-haired halfling grins at Queslin while Daria laughs along.
Near the center of the room, Zalamanda looks on uncertainly as Pythia compares her notes to the maze. To her left, Shag Solomon shakes his head and gestures to the nearby magician, the other well-dressed party-goers frowning around him. "You... Zoomeroo! Do you know this girl? She's interrupting my party!" There is a quiet echo of agreement from those around him.
|
|
Turning to greet the man in the hat who approached her, she shrugs. "Not konfused. Amused, perhaps." The fortune teller shrugs and then makes an inviting gesture. "I'm Chezabet. Others vill not gamble with me. Vill you play game or two?" she asks, pulling a deck of cards from her sleeves.
"Sure, let's try a game!" Ferdrin sits in the empty chair next to her, opposite Tom and listens in for her further instructions.
"There!" Pythia exclaims.
She pulls an ink pen out of her hair, uncorks the ink vial on her belt and dips the pen in, then she begins frantically scribbling on her paper. "It's not quite right," she mutters to herself quietly.
Queslin clutches his heart as if Ariello's words had wounded him. "And here I thought we'd be friends. Now I feel its my duty to see your fire put out, my hot comrade."
Clean washed and tidied after a long day Bergrom pass's the doorman, I give him a brief nod of greeting as I hand him my ticket before entering.
Apon entering the Bergrom scans the room before noticing Pythia the poor lass up to something as usual, deciding to try and give her a hand or to at least try and get her to calm down a bit, Bergrom heads over to her.
"Now lass, what are you up to this time, I am sure you were not invited just to stress yourself, Is their anything I can do to help yah?"
So focused is Pythia on her frantic scribbling that she doesn't realize she's being spoken to after a few moments after Bergrom's finished.
"Hmm? ...Oh! Hello, Bergrom. What did you say?" She asks as she finally takes her eyes off her papers. Ink stains her fingers and her scribbling has started to wear right through the cheap parchment she's writing on.
"Invited? Oh, I wasn't invited. I found a ticket. Right there, stuck in my door jamb. Blown with the wind. It's fate, you know. I'm meant to be here. I wasn't sure why, exactly--you never can tell with fate, of course--but then you can't tell the purpose of most things, can you?"
She turns her gaze back to the papers and returns to scribbling. "I brought a lot of my research with me, to see which dreams this might be related to. Which symbols... And I found one! Look!"
Pythia gestures to the rat maze. "See that spot riiiiight there?"
She waits to see if Bergrom sees it. Correcting his gaze as needed until he does.
"Perfect! Now look at this..." Pythia shows him the paper she's working on. "Ignore this new stuff for now," she tells him, as she's clearly drawing a picture of the maze from above. "This old drawing, see? It's from a dream I had last year. And there it is. The maze."
Sure enough, if Bergrom compares the old drawing with the spot on the rat maze Pythia pointed to, the intricate network of lines matches perfectly.
"There was more to the symbol, in my dream. I remember that.... But that was all I could get down on paper." She gestures at the new drawing. "Now I can complete it. Of course, that doesn't tell me the why of tonight..."
"I know most people around here don't believe me. That's why they make fun of me. Call me strange. But these symbols have meaning. I have meaning. Purpose. There's a reason I'm here. And this confirms it!" she gets excited as she speaks. Determined, in an oddly disconcerting way.
"I'm supposed to do something, I guess. Meet someone. Say something. Hard to know." She shrugs and goes back to her drawing. "I won't know until later, I suppose. Hindsight, and all that."
Near the center of the room, Zalamanda looks on uncertainly as Pythia compares her notes to the maze. To her left, Shag Solomon shakes his head and gestures to the nearby magician, the other well-dressed party-goers frowning around him. "You... Zoomeroo! Do you know this girl? She's interrupting my party!" There is a quiet echo of agreement from those around him.
"No, I don't know her," Zomeraand replies in an annoyed tone. "She's a rambling idiot, for all I know, probably inclined to lapses of memory and garbled speech...seems a pretty common occurrence so far this evening," he adds giving the beast man a pointed look.
Seeing the matching symbols Bergrom shakes his head in amazement while grinning amiably at Pythia, taking particular note of the drawing.
"Only a fool would disbelieve you at this point lass, you have foreseen to many things to shrug off your dreams as just dreams.
Bergrom takes another look at the drawing to reaffirm it in his memory so he can keep an eye out for it in the future.
"So have you had any more visions of late, ones of dire nature I should keep an eye out for lass?"
Noticing the bruise's on Pythias arms and legs the grin slips from Bergroms face and is instead replaced by a frown.
"Lass I know you need to earn coin to live, but that does not mean you have to let those brutes hurt you like this, A young lass like yourself shouldn't have to work such a profession were men take advantage of you so."
Bergrom thinks for a moment before coming to a decision.
"Lass I've been thinking for a long while and have been afraid of asking you encase I might offend yah, but why don't you quit your work as a lady of the night, sell your house and move in with me, free of charge, I expect nothing off yuh apart from a cooked meal every once in awhile, you can have a room all to yourself no charge, just as long as you quit and do not take to scaring yourself again.
Aria stands outside the emporium, staring at the ticket in her hand. She's never felt the want or need to go inside, however, with everything else upside down in her life and the fact that she found the ticket while out in the woods, Aria decides she might as well. With a deep breath, Aria enters the emporium, she kicks the dust off of her boots and shows her ticket to the doorman who waves her upstairs. Upon arriving, she pulls her hood down and lets her blonde locks pool around her face.
"I never imagined so many people and such oddities," Aria thinks to herself a bit overwhelmed. Needing to calm her nerves and get a feeling for her surroundings, Aria makes her way to the bar. "Ale if you would sir." She says to the barman.
With her drink in hand, she slowly sips and hides behind her glass as she surveys her surroundings. "Why did I come here?" Aria says quietly to herself.
"Oh, there's always visions and dreams to be mindful of. I see the glimpses of the future, you see, in symbols and signs, but I also see the past. The symbols aren't always important now. Sometimes they were important, and sometimes they soon will be. You see?"
After a moment she replies seriously. "There is something coming, though. Something dire. Something... big. Bigger than us. Bigger than this place. Much bigger than me. I think I'm meant to be a part of it. Meant to witness. I feel it..." she gestures are her heart. "Here."
"Though whether the signs will lead me to help or hinder, I'm not sure. I'm never sure. But I know it's important. And I know I'll know it when I see it." she nods confidently.
As she scratches out her drawing she thinks aloud. "Hmmm..."
"Work is work." she replies to Bergrom. "The Midnight Salute's a pretty good place. There's worse. There's always worse. At least there I've a bed, which is more than a few steps up from a street corner. You can't be sure you'll get to keep your coin on the street."
"There's a sign there--a pattern on the door. A star bisected by five conjoined moons. Empty, full, half, and the quarters. It's..." she rifles through her papers. "Here." she shows him her drawing of the image. "This is hidden in the wood grain on the front door. When I saw it I knew I was supposed to be there. For now. I'm not sure why yet. But I know it has to do with this..."
Pythia hitches her short skirt up a bit to show off a scar on her outside upper thigh. "This symbol. Someone needs to see it. They're meant to see it. It means something to them. To me. To the..." she lowers her voice to a whisper. "To the dire times."
She lets go of her skirt and goes back to drawing. "After they see it, I'll think on your offer. Maybe some of my symbols are on you." she smiles. "And maybe not. I should warn you, though, I've been told I'm a horrible roommate."
Bergrom cross's his arms in thought as he mulls over Pythias words and warning of impending trouble.
"I appreciate the warning lass and let it be known whatever is coming, you can count on me to keep this town safe, no matter how far it has fallen."
Bergrom just shakes his head sadly at her response to his offer.
"Fair nuff lass, you do what you must, but my door will always be open if you ever find yourself in trouble or just need a quite place to rest. On the other hand you can't be much worse then a few "room mates" I've had before. Once got captured by a small tribe of goblins back when I was younger and was still adventuring, you wouldn't believe the racket those bloody things cause, I am surprised they ever got a nights rest, I sure know I didn't during my stay.
Bergrom goes red at the memory off the capture and eventual rescue and shakes his head as if trying to rid himself of the embarrassing memory.
"Anyway lass I won't keep you to long, the evening is still young and theirs many a folk to mingle with!"
"I know, Bergrom, you're one of the good ones." Pythia replies. Then she leans over and whispers, "I can tell."
She lets out a rare laugh at Bergrom's tale. Then she pauses, clearly thinking of something. "Yes, I think I'm better than a tribe of goblins," she agrees.
She bids Bergrom farewell, dips her ink pen into the vial at her hip, spatters ink all over her legs and goes back to scribbling on her papers.
The whistle blows in the night and the Dourstone mine disgorges one shift as the next files in. Among them Chaetris Admeroi shuffles exhaustedly to her barrack. She quickly undresses and splashes some water from the wash basin onto her face. As she sits upon the lumpy bed an envelope on the pillow catches her attention.
Her thin delicate fingers reach for the envelope and carefully removes and unfolds the missive within. Her inquisitive eyes fly over the words as she examines her roommate's handwriting. "Hey Bookworm, You're probably not interested, but I got an invitation to Shag Solomon's party at the Emporium tonight. Unfortunately they switched my shift and I can't go. I thought you might be interested, so here's the ticket. Have fun girl, Miri."
Chaetris quickly changed into her best clothes and hurried across town to Zalamandra’s Emporium. The relenquishes the ticket at the door and is ushered upstairs. With a quick look over her shoulder at the closed gallery she turns to scan the room ahead.
"Huh, a Deep Bear up here? And how eloquent as well. Amazing!"
She approaches the guest of honor and carefully waits for a break in the conversation. "Good evening Master Solomon, happy birthday. How long have you been living above ground? Don't you miss the Underdark?" She blurts the uncouth question.
As more people start discussing the madwoman's scribblings, Zomeraand changes position, so that he can see the papers laid out in front of her. He searches his memory for anything familiar to his years of study.
If she truly is some sort of prophetess, there should be references to past events in there somewhere...
Pythia's notes are an eccentric collections of symbols, sigils, drawings and scribbles, intermixed with cramped, spidery writing about dreams and portents. The majority of the symbols are apparent gibberish. Spirals, masses of squiggling worms, geometric shapes and lines, flowers, clouds, and even a few household objects. Intermixed with the mundane are some of symbols you recognize as being arcane in nature. Featured prominently is the Rune of Insanity--a circle with a pair of zig-zag lines running diagonally through its centre. There are also a few stylized symbols that could relate to other planes, and historical events of the past. Among these odd symbols is the crest of house Yragerne, and the personal sigil of Lord Mayor Zagig, one-time ruler of Greyhawk (and a relatively famous personage). Unfortunately, they sigils are in horrible disarray and out of context, so you're not sure if it's true prophecy or a coincidence. Perhaps even a sham... Plus there's the most popular opinion: the woman is crazy.
Noticing Bedlam outta the corner of his eye, Bergrom makes his way over and gives his fellow dwarf a hearty slap on the back.
"Well fancy seeing you here Bedlam! How are yuh, hope you haven't blown anyone up lately!"
Bergrom chuckles at his own joke, even if it is a poor one.
"So what have you been up to of late lad?"
In another area of the large room, another woman was having similar thoughts as the blond elf.
Why did I come here? she thought, staring at the ticket that had gained her entry. She was used to her looks getting her attention and privilege. When a slightly drunk Shag Solomon had pushed a ticket into her hand and insisted she come to his birthday party, she had humored him and taken the scrap of paper. She hadn't intended to actually go, but that was two days ago. Since then, she'd had every penny she owned stolen. She had to do something. She needed to meet the people in this backwater that could help her. A big party seemed like it might be some kind of saving grace. Or at least, a distraction.
So far, it was the wrong kind of distraction.
When she had decided to go to a party, she had gotten dressed accordingly. It turned out her version of party attire and what the people of Diamond Lake were wearing differed drastically. She was very overdressed. Her crimson evening gown and matching choker were nicer clothing than some of the people in the room had ever even seen before. She stuck out like a fire in the dark.
She sighed and sipped her wine, scanned the room, and wished she was anywhere else.
The now-surly wildman scowls at Zomeraand and Chaetris, scoffs at the latter and commenting, "Why, I don't know ever what you mean," his "noble" accent slipping somewhat. Before she can respond, he storms off toward the bar, muttering, "This is not what I had in mind at all."
Just as the wildman reaches the bar, there is a considerable amount of commotion coming from the stairs as you hear the voice of Gaspar speaking with a muffled voice from downstairs, before you see him backing up over the crest at the top, his hands held almost defensively in front of him. "Of course sir... no I didn't mean anything by it... I mean, it is a private party... no of course not... definitely sir... " After Gaspar crests the stairs, you get a closer look and smile is gone, though he doesn't look afraid so much as worried...
|
|
"Sure, let's try a game!" Ferdrin sits in the empty chair next to her, opposite Tom and listens in for her further instructions.Turning to greet the man in the hat who approached her, she shrugs. "Not konfused. Amused, perhaps." The fortune teller shrugs and then makes an inviting gesture. "I'm Chezabet. Others vill not gamble with me. Vill you play game or two?" she asks, pulling a deck of cards from her sleeves.
"So, Chezabet, while we get started with cards, what do you think of this "scribbled prophecies" bit over there. Do you think she's for real?"
Ferdrin is starting to become more interested in these developments than previously, particularly when she produces the prior maze drawing that matches, but he takes the quick sanity check with his current gambling partner.
You smell him before you see him. It's not an unfamiliar smell. Everyone in town recognizes the poignant, one-of-a-kind "cologne" of Balabar Smenk. It's not the worst thing you've smelled, but it is absurdly aggressive. The balding, obese man wobbles up the stairs amidst a mismatched crowd of thugs and town guardsmen. And just behind him is a tall, scowling man with long, dark hair... Sheriff Cubbin. A man so renowned for corruption that many citizens assumed the announcement of his commission was a joke... until he started arresting people. The whole room goes still at their entrance.
Balabar nods politely at Kurlag, who stands watching impassively, and swaggers through the room with a lordly air, he and his thugs knocking into patrons and furniture alike, though no real harm is done. "Zalamandra, you look beautiful as always," the big man announces in his wheedling voice as he approaches, a lecherous smile plastered to his face.
The Lady, to her credit, has an air of confident grace, unperturbed by the abrupt interruption. "Balabar, what a... pleasant surprise. What brings you to my establishment? We're not used to seeing you and yours on Waterday. Is this a special occasion?" Zalamandra smiles pleasantly at the pair and their entourage.
"Indeed it is!" Balabar exclaims, gesturing to the men with him. "We're here to honor what will be a long lasting friendship! Nothing less than the Veiled Corridor could suit the occasion. I expect that won't be a problem?" The fat man's slimy grin makes it fairly clear that he isn't really asking.
Zalamandra maintains her pleasant smile. "Of course not. Give me a moment to prepare the girls. I expect we'll hold to our usual arrangement?" Though, she doesn't wait for a response before swaying sensually toward the stairs and up to the Corridor. It's fairly clear she isn't asking either.
Two of the most powerful men in town stand leering or scowling around at the room, surrounded by muscle. Nobody is all that happy about it.
shaking her head slightly, though the interruption prevents a real answer.
Seeing Balabar and his lot enter, Bergrom can't help but wrinkle his nose in disgust before saying in noticeably loud voice.
"Gods above, whats that orrid smell, smells like someone found something dead and rotten and decided they wanted to wear it!"
Bergrom making a mockery of pretending to look for the source of the smell, finally lands his sigh on Balabar and his group and elects a false gasp of surprise.
"Why good Balabar its you! I think someone may have swapped your cologne out for else something my dear fellow."
Muttering under his breath.
Wanting to get back to the game, Queslin dares speak, "Mr Smenk, Sheriff, perhaps you would like to test your skills while you wait."
Pythia is completely oblivious to the entrance of Balabar Smenk, his entourage, and the trouble they cause. She focuses on her work, scribbling out the last of her drawing and writing a few scattered notes in the margins.
"Aha!" she exclaims. "Done!"
She corks the ink vial on her hip, pops the still-wet ink pen into her mass of tangled curls, and stands up. She collects her papers and wanders over to the table she left the rest of them at, squirming through the crowd and bumping into tables on the way.
She gives a sniff at the air, but then ignores it. She doesn't seem to mind the smell of Balabar--she's smelt worse.
Arriving at her table she drops the rest of her paperwork on the it's cluttered top and sits down, frantically fixing and reorganizing the piles.
Allustan and the Mayor will be most interested to know that Smenk and Cubbin showed up to the party uninvited. What are they playing at?
Zomeraand watches the two men carefully, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Aria nearly coughs up her ale when the acrid smell of Smenk wafts across her nose. "I should have known Smenk would show up here," she thinks to herself. Aria quickly spies around the room looking for a place where he may not notice her.
"The woman in the evening gown? No, too flashy. Maybe the eccentric oracle then? No, she draws too much attention to herself. The card table maybe? Too big a chance there could be a big hand which could draw attention." Her eyes then fall on the rat maze. "Perfect. I'll just be another face lost in the crowd watching the running.
With that thought, Aria makes her way over to the maze table, doing her best to avoid Smenk's notice. Upon reaching the table, she offers herself a brief look back at Smenk to see if he noticed her.
Still standing at the top of the stairs, the nervous (and frankly) out of place-looking dwarf turns bodily as the smell roars upstairs to devour him as the leviathan does the fishing boat! Bedlam clears his throat.
Mr. Smenk!
The dwarf proceeds to speak as the man cresses the top step.
Mr. Smenk. My name is Bedlam Bottomland. I am here tonight to respresent...
As the hirsute wildman turns his back and walks away in a huff, Chaetris stares helplessly. "I'm sorry, was it something I said?" She looks around, suddenly feeling like everyone is watching her social faux paux. She suddenly realizes that most of the crowd is entranced by Pythia. As suddenly all eyes turn to the hubbub at the stairs.
"The boss? Here?... Ulp!" Her eyes go wide and she attempts to lose herself in the crowd.
Balabar Smenk, having previously shoved past Bedlam, ignoring his entreaty, chuckles aloud at the subtle (for a dwarf) insult. "Dwarves are very direct, it seems. It's not a bad quality. Easier to figure." The fat man mumbles, "If Dourstone didn't have a monopoly on you folk, I'd probably hire a few. Maybe I'll try anyway," he concludes to himself with a shrug.
"As for you, elf," he spits, his voice practically dripping with scorn, "why don't you go play with Moonmeadow at Lazare's. I don't need a silly game to know I'm better than you." The other two elves in the room go unnoticed, thankfully.
The Sheriff and the various lackeys launch into raucous laughter at Balabar's insult. The fat man joins them after a brief, angry scowl toward Queslin.
The room quietly returns to their games, pointedly ignoring the ruckus in the middle of the room as Balabar and his entourage find nearby seats to wait in.
It also seems like rats were brought out during the commotion and placed in the four entry areas to the maze. The Rat Game is starting soon!
Bergrom turns to spit with disgust before remembering were he is.
"Bah racist bastard, probably hasn't worked a hard day in his life."
Muttering more curse's under his breath about Balabar, Bergrom catch's sight of Chaetris outta the corner of his eye and decides to go over and have a chat since Bedlam seems untalkative, at least to him.
"G'day lass, barely recognised you their, dressed up as you are. What brings you here tonight? I thought you had another shift?"
And, we were...sir?....I...
The lost-looking dwarf begins following Mr. Smenk.
Merlovaur stands up when he hears Balabar's insults. "Nay sir, you will not be allowed to address my elven kin with that tone! We have done nothing to deserve such treatment from you. I demand respect!"
He rolls up his sleeves and stomps over to Balabar and points a finger in his face, "I don't care who you are or what you own. You do not have license to disrespect elven kind. You will treat us with civility and deference. We will not be intimidated by you and your goons!"
Merlovaur then lowers his voice and growls. "Now, why don't you apologize?"
At Merlovaur's bold approach, the whole room goes quiet, everyone staring intently at their cards or at the dice, or anywhere but at the crowd in the middle of the room.
"Deference?!" the big man exclaims, an incredulous look on his face, before letting out a deep belly laugh. The rest of his entourage joins in immediately, filling the room with the roar of laughter, though few others join in.
When the laughter dies down, Balabar gives the elf a greasy smile, still sitting in his chair. "Apologize? I won't. But you might want to apologize." The fat man nods over toward the nine-foot tall half-ogre bouncer walking slowly, deliberately toward the conflict.
"To Kurlag..."
Pythia finishes sorting her papers and smiles happily. She puts her hands on her hips and surveys the room, ready to relax at... Wherever she was! Now what was the occasion again? A holiday of some kind...? Birthday? Yes! A birthday! But whose?
Suddenly the whole room goes silent and a few moments later half the crowd bursts out in mocking laughter.
What did I miss?
Pythia hastily picks up her papers and wanders closer to the commotion to get a better look.
"You went about it all wrong," Zomeraand says to the elven ranger. "Mr. Smenk is a businessman, one as ruthless and relentless as that cologne of his," he wrinkles his nose for emphasis. "Talk of manners and respect are of no interest to him, only profit. If you have something he wants, or needs, he might bend his neck a little. Otherwise, he is going to make certain that everyone sees the price of publicly challenging him. Make no mistake, he is going to sic that lumbering hulk on you right here in the middle of Mistress Zalamandra's lovely Emporium. Chairs and tables will be made into kindling, casks of wine will be smashed, fine glassware will be shatter. It would not surprise me if members of the staff, including some of the lovely ladies of the red curtain, are injured in the ensuing brawl to the point that they are unable to perform their duties. Of course, you being a drifter from out of town, clearly have no means to pay for the damages wrought from the ensuing melee. Mr. Smenk, on the other hand, is one of the wealthiest men in Diamond Lake, and the loss of revenue from having to close and repair the Emporium would be quite costly, and after all the Mayor will, no doubt, rule that someone," he gives Smenk a meaningful look, "must compensate the lady for the damages."
Bergrom noticing the confrontation happening gives a quick apology to Chaetris, before heading over to Mervolar and Balabar and interjecting himself.
"Now now elf, No use wasting your words on the spineless coward, You would have better chances of converting a Drow to follow Tyr."
In a whisper that only Merlovaur can hear.
In a clear voice.
"Hell, Come to think of it, not much difference between Balabar and a Drow, tho at least with the Drow you can expect to be stabbed in the back for a reason."