Inheritance of Dust

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Rock of the Fraternity
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Inheritance of Dust

Post by Rock of the Fraternity »

Summer has come to Borca.
Like a serpent, it crept up from the south, slithering out of Invidia. Summer crept through the Blightwood, then swam across the Luna River, crawled through the Viora Forest and across the Vasha River, finally to arrive here: Sturben.
Advancing summer battered its scaly head against the venerable walls of the House of Grace in the trade-city's northeast quarter, and eventually passed on into the realms to the north. Its coils still lie wrapped around the city, however; rendering the air thick and stifling; drawing constant sweat and curses from those obliged to work; ensuring a steady flow of beer and other spirits out of the cellars of the city's two reputable inns and an equally steady flow of silver into its coffers.

Summer's coils definitely linger around the estate of the late Arturo Cheslik.
As you approach the estate's granite-paved drive, you can feel the heat wrap around your body - but it may be that your heart is cold. After all, you have a prior history with the old scholar and now... Now he has gone on to explore that final mystery most mortals must one day experience, if only once.
Death.
You knew Arturo was in ill health these past years, but the news of his death was still a surprise to the people who had known him in his prime. Was there ever a heartier archeologist and scholar of the world's mysteries? Was there ever a man more generous with his knowledge and experience, a man who gave more guest lectures at the great universities of the Core - and according to some, in realms beyond? Even as age stole the colour from his hair and the spring from his step, Arturo's energy seemed boundless.
And now this.

Summer wraps around you like a constrictor, making it hard to breathe, making every step seem too much to endure. But endure, you must. You were invited. As were others, you notice as you approach the grand estate. Coaches, very expensive-looking coaches, stand lines up in front of the estate's hardwood doors, hand-carved by artisans from Valachan.
The doors swing open, as an ancient-looking butler bows deeply before the guests now ready to be admitted to the reading of Arturo's will.

First and foremost is a ravishingly beautiful young woman with classic Borcan looks, who dabs her eyes with a tiny handkerchief from time to time. Black of hair and blue of eye, she is dressed in the black of mourning - but such black! The fabric fairly sparkles with small diamonds and other gems, so that the lady looks more like a piece of the night sky in motion than a simple, grieving girl.

"The House of Cheslik welcomes Lady Ivana of House Boritisi!" the butler declares in a loud voice.

Walking on the young lady's arm is a man who looks to be approaching middle age - with poor grace. Curly grey hair streaked with blonde is cut in a daringly youthful 'do. The gentleman wears courtly fashion, brightly coloured, with thick, black bands wrapped in a spiral around both arms a rather theatrical proclamation of grief at the passing of old Arturo. Despite the fact that he is holding Lady Ivana's arm, the man seems to be struggling not to bound ahead, his feet shuffling in an odd little dance every other step.

"The House of Cheslik welcomes Lord Ivan of House Dilisnya!" the butler cries out.

Following a respectful distance behind the Dark Twins of Borca is a woman with vaguely exotic, angular features. Black curls with a smattering of grey at the temples cascade down over the shoulders of a wiry, athletic body wrapped in a dress of entirely inappropriate crimson. In her case, however, the mourning-bands are more tasteful and actually seem at least somewhat since; beautiful as she is, the lady looks sombre and thoughtful.

"The House of Cheslik welcomes M'selle Louise Renier, sister to Lady Jacqueline Renier of Richemulot!" the butler calls out.

Following M'selle Renier is an elderly gentleman dressed in outdated Dementlieuse fashions; a tailcoat and breeches, both of black silk. As he moves forward with the aid of an ebony cane, the tailcoat proves to have royal purple lining. Long, white hair is tied back from a face which may be sagging with age, but still has the energy that old Arturo lost in his declining years. A snowy white owl sits perched on the gentleman's shoulder, casually leaning against his tri-cornered hat.

The House of Cheslik welcomes Lord Balfour de Casteelle, president of the University of Dementlieu!" the butler shouts.

Coming right on Lord Balfour's heels is a gentleman who looks as though he might have been carved from ice; hair so fair as to be nearly white, pale skin and eyes barely blue enough not to be translucent all make him appear bloodless and cold. His clothing is clearly made of quality fabric, but otherwise... undistinctive. A loose, collared shirt, a snug tailcoat, trousers, a scarf, a pointed hat, all plain and serviceable. This gentleman has not even bothered to put on a mourning-band...

"The House of Cheslik welcomes Gerhard Reichenbach, of Ludendorf," the butler announces.

Other people are also waiting for admission, but apparently none of them merit an announcement. This, sad to say, includes yourselves. The butler vanishes inside, following the distinguished ladies and gentlemen who have gone before, leaving your admission to lesser servants.

"Ladies and gentlemen," one of these lesser lights - a young woman in maid's attire - says, bowing from the waist, "if you will please follow me, Lord Arturo's farewell dinner has been served. We wish you a pleasant meal in good company, for you are all here by his lordship's final invitation."
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Re: Inheritance of Dust

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Surrounded by the other nobles who weren't mentioned, one particular gentleman felt out of place in this arrangement of sorrow. A hand's width on top of six feet, with broad shoulders to match, and a black mane to hide his features, this particular noble was actually no noble at all, for he bore the holy symbol of Hala on his chest, and a priest's outfit of green, with gold embroidery, and a waste belt of thick rope. Still, as the man grasped the crest, he knew that he did not belong here. He wished to be out in the woods far beyond this sad event, but as always, business affairs forced his hand upon tables he wished not to barter upon.

Being involved as he was in the affairs of the renowned one, the gentleman still knew not why he was recalled to a place he so very much wished to leave behind. With much reluctance, he walked to dine with fellows and damsels who he hoped felt much the same way.
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Re: Inheritance of Dust

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Standing in a section in the room chosen for it's qualities as an observation point, the slender, almost delicate man silently congratulated himself on his purchase of the latest style of Dementliean gentleman's tailoring (Well, a passable Borcan imitation of the same) in black. The decision not to buy the blue outfit, which no doubt looked better on him, was already paying dividends, which he needed it to, since he had invested most of the rest of his cash in the pistol tucked under his jacket.

Not wishing to dwell on his reasons for only feeling safe these days while carrying a loaded firearm, he returned his attention to the rest of the room, he tried to drink in the faces, people of real influence, true power, and the man always told himself the only true power was information, and that was his stock in trade, or would be, once he had some information to trade.

Much as he had dressed for the occasion, he felt out of place, and looked around for others who shared his discomfort, the large priest of Hala stood out and so was approached, "Hail to thee," he ventured "might I introduce myself, I'm Umboll, and you are?"
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Re: Inheritance of Dust

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Amongst the nobles and others not mentioned stands an orangey grey haired woman. Clearly having had some attachment to Arturo whilst he was living, she dabs at her eyes with a kerchief.
Attired in a fancy red lace dress, ruby earrings and a matching necklace complete her attire. Sighing, she keeps the handkerchief in her hand and moves around until spying the two men, of which only one was speaking. She edges closer until finally she is within earshot. Seeing one is trying to make small talk or perhaps an acquaintance, she walks over and introduces herself. "Greetings," she curtsies, "might I join your conversation? I am called Delsenora."
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Re: Inheritance of Dust

Post by Ender »

Idling amidst the sea of bodies, the current slowly pulling him toward the entrance, Lucio Vasari could not help but be overwhelmed with nostalgia. Distinguished men and women in their familiar fashions, dancing in and out of social circles like butterflies in a garden… ah, how he had missed this. What rumors might he hear today? Surely with so many in attendance, he might find some gem worth remembering. He straightened his new coat and ran a fine comb gently through his straight, black hair and smiled something genuine. He felt at home once more, but the joy was fleeting. Upon hearing the butler announce the Sef and Sefeasa, anxiety crept into his mind. Lucio had prepared for this. Their presence was no surprise, but it only makes the task that much more difficult. The finely crafted rapier at his side suddenly felt heavier than it had. A trickle of sweat, perhaps from the heat, perhaps from his fears, ran down his forehead. Would anyone in attendance recognize him? No, no. Of course not. His eyes darted from face to face, hoping he never recognized anyone from his past.

The guards! Damnation. How thorough will they be? Lucio shut his eyes and counted to ten. He breathed slowly, deliberately, calming his nerves slightly with each exhale. Cowardice would get him nowhere. It was the reason he was in this situation to begin with and he had to carry on. He would prove his worth. He would reclaim what was rightfully his. But he needed to be smart about this. Alone, he stood out. But no noble could survive Borca without connections. It seemed like time to begin rebuilding. He searched the nearby crowds. There, the small gathering of motley characters. That should do just fine. Taking a flask from his pocket, he approached, carefully planning each word before they even left his mouth. Words were easy. They always came naturally to Lucio. They can do so many things.

Words can open new avenues of communication. "Greetings, gentlemen, and lady." Lucio was aware of the customs of nobles; it hadn't been so long that he had forgotten etiquette.

Words can establish status. "Thank you for your company this fine day." He had not waited for an invitation, nor had he asked permission to join. A Lord would not.

Words can show kindness. "Might I offer you a drink?" He took a quick sip from the flask and extended it into the crowd; a display of trust in Borca.

Words can obscure the truth. "Ah! Forgive me, where are my manners? I am Conte Giovanni Balduccio. And you?"
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Re: Inheritance of Dust

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Standing like an oak amongst fancy bushes, the priest felt out of place, and especially so when the greetings arrived. Somehow, his being large and noticeable attracted attention, but then again, how could a priest not?

"I go by Father Oakenshade, but you may call me Harvos."

Seeing no need to avoid company in this dreary and over-indulgent event, Harvos knew making friends was not his goal, but fate had a weird way of mending holes. The only choice he was left with was partaking in the delights of newly-found friends and food; maybe a little to drink would be nice, as well.

"You are a rather insistent bunch of characters," he said with a chuckle and warm grin. "I wish the rain would let up. Such a sorrowful day would be blessed by the showing of sunlight. And thank you for the drink, my good sir. We all might benefit from a drink or two." This he ended with a great and hearty laugh to brighten the mood a little.
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Re: Inheritance of Dust

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Relieved that his overtures had yielded results (albeit after reinforcements had arrived) Humboll continued,

"I was about to say to the good Father here, that I was a little relieved that they wouldn't be announcing us all," he paused, "though I am a little surprised that a Conte not be announced," again a pause, this one tiny, barely noticeable. "though given the level of dignitary in attendance, I'm sure it was some obscure matter of protocol, and in no way meant as an insult to you sir." He flashed a smile at the Conte, hoping to cover for the possible faux pas, and took a hearty sip from the offered flask, lest he compound any insult

"After all, our fellow mourners represent most of the civilised nations, in one capacity or another, it is a great tribute to the deceased, is it not?" here a gesture to Delsenora, the most obviously moved of the group.

"Yes, bar a representative of Mordent, all those lands where knowledge is treasured have sent envoys, is it simply esteem that has brought them or maybe the lure of the wealth of knowledge that the old man managed to amass, hmm..." Humboll simply stopped speaking.

"Forgive me, I have a habit of pondering during conversation, I've been informed of it and intend to cut down," another smile this time for the whole group, "Delsenora, such a memorable name, I'm so sorry for your loss, might I ask how you knew the deceased?"
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Re: Inheritance of Dust

Post by steveflam »

Delsenora looks at Havros, "Thank you very much for your kind offer of a drink, but I do not partake of any alchoholic beverages. It tends to addle the mind
and I myself like to have a clear head at all times."


Turning to Humboll she nods in recognition of her name. ""Master Humboll, I knew Arturo personally. Though a very busy man, he took the time to talk to me, when none other would.
Even though he was a Noble and High in Society, he found the time to spend afternoons with me, regaling me of his many expeditions here and there and his outlook on life. Just words, you might
think, but for me, I learned much from him and shall forever remain grateful as such."
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Re: Inheritance of Dust

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"A kind word, and a little time spent, can often be of greater benefit than a wealth of unfeeling assistance," said Umboll, hoping his platitude sounded more like homespun wisdom.

"I hope you'll forgive me if I am dominating the conversation, but I must say that I have never been to the reading of a will before, and I did not expect it to be so...well attended? Is everyone here receiving a legacy, or are most here to serve as witnesses? I wonder what the old man had planned that he needed so many witnesses?...Sorry! pondering again"
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Re: Inheritance of Dust

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Gradually, you are all guided into a dining room which smells pleasantly of cedar wood, furniture wax and incense, and is nothing short of cavernous. A vaulted ceiling looms high overhead, the pale marble carved into a myriad ghoulish shapes which spiral around and at the same time seem to flinch away from a central figure known to all: Ezra, calmly standing fast against the Legions of the Night. The room is filled with light; candelabras on the table and candle-holders with hoods of pink glass on the walls all doing their best to banish every shadow from the room.

A table fit to seat kings stands in the centre of the room, the Valachani hardwood standing firm under the weight of full candelabras, plates and cutlery which appear to be solid silver, a tablecloth of damast so white it nearly burns the eye and graced with a border of golden thread overlaying it. As the servants usher you to your chairs, a casual glance at the silverware tells you that each piece appears to be unique in its decorations and etchings, and yet they form a harmonious whole. A full set of individuals, if you will.

The only thing about the room that is not cheerful and warm is the chair at the head of the table. It looks like an old armchair, as far as you can see, and that is not much; a dreary, black cloth has been draped over it like a shroud. A small portrait of old Arturo has been placed on it. In a sense, the deceased is attending his own funeral dinner...

As soon as Ivana Boritisi and Ivan Dilisnya have been seated - the former to the right of the old armchair and the latter at its left - you are all invited to sit by the servants. You are just in the process of lowering yourselves into chairs when a set of double doors on the opposite side of the room from where you came in swings wide, admitting to new entrants.
One is a Borcan man of middle age at least, dressed stuffily in a suit quite inappropriate for the heat, but sweating not a drop. In fact, he does not look as though he has a drop to spare; withered and wrinkled, the man looks as though there isn't any moisture left in his whole body.
The woman walking on his arm stands in stark contrast to him in every way. Dusky of skin and dark of eye, she is fit and healthy, a sardonic smile on her hawkish face. She wears the sensuous fashions common to the Hazlani, stiff leather vest opened down the front, harem trousers accentuating the sway of her hips. Elaborate tattoos flow down a head shaved bald.

"Please excuse my tardiness, your worthinesses," the withered gentleman says, bowing deeply first to Ivana, then to Ivan. "I was showing Lady Eleni the art gallery while we awaited the start of dinner."

Ivana nods graciously, and the withered gentleman takes his leave of Lady Eleni with a brief, perfunctory kiss on her fingertips. Sparing no one else so much as a glance, the gentleman walks over to the chair at the other end of the table, his joints audibly clicking and creaking, and sits down. Across the stretch of hardwood, damast and silver, he sits staring at the picture of old Arturo.

As soon as Lady Eleni has found her seat near the other special guests, the butler rings a small, portable gong.
"Your first dish, ladies and gentlemen, of this, the last dinner to be given on behalf of Lord Arturo," the old man calls out. "From the distant island of Souragne: gumbo."

Servants expertly and silently wheel in carts carrying great, silver tureens and porcelain bowls. Soon enough, you find yourselves facing bowls of thick soup, rich in fragrance. A muted chatter starts up as the guests gingerly try this foreign delicacy and the servants start pouring a Hazlani alcoholic drink made from fermented wheat berries: boza.

You are free to chat among each other or with the other guests. All the people mentioned before are within easy reach, as is a powerful-looking gentleman wearing a neck scarf despite the heat, who is taking pains not to look at Louise Renier -- and whose eyes burn with loathing when he cannot stop himself from doing so.
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Re: Inheritance of Dust

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"Well," murmured Umboll, hoping he was pitching his volume at a level audible only to those seated closest to him "just when I thought things couldn't be any more intriguing," here he paused for a while, as if considering his next words very carefully, "there's this interesting soup, I notice both fish and meat, I'm sure that's perfectly normal..."

Umboll found himself torn, part of the attraction of this event had been the possibility of getting himself noticed by one or more of the powerful people with whom he sat, but now with them within discoursing distance he suddenly felt like gaining their attention might be a very bad idea indeed.

It was as if the Lady Eleni's arrival had awakened in him a sense of danger in the room that had always been present but muted under the familiar accents and civility of the Westerners. He tried to dismiss it as simply being born from his unfamiliarity with the Hazlani, and inwardly chided himself.

Still, he paused before starting the soup, and observed the other diners reactions

Trying to guide himself back to his original course, while allowing the soup to cool, he girded himself to address the Lady Louise, in many ways the person here that his normal, unshaken self most wanted to impress.

"Milady Renier, I hope you will allow me to inquire as to how summer finds the people of Richemulot?"

He was pleased with his opening gambit, respectful (maybe a little overly respectful, a side effect of his nerves), and neutral in tone, by asking after the people in general, he hoped that would allow her the room to frame her answer around those who lay within her circle of interest, Umboll had found that people tended to enjoy talking about things that interest them, and were more well disposed to those people who gave them the chance to do so.
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Re: Inheritance of Dust

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Delsenora looks around ever so slowly, taking in the scene. Her eyes stray to Arturo's seat and picture, holding it in her sight before looking at the rest of the room and its occupants.

Not well versed in the art of etiquette, she waits until most of the guests are seated before finding herself a seat herself, close to some of the people she conversed with slightly.

Whens he is served, she looks at the utensils surrounding her bowls and plates, frowning slightly. Her sense of smell kicks in as she takes in the aroma of this "gumbo' from Souragne.

Smells savory enough she muses to herself and looks a bit embarassed, looking at the spoons before her. Not knowing which one to use. She turns to the person who is sitting next to her

and asks shyly "What spoon do I use for my soup, exactly?" Lowering her eyes, she tries not to draw too much attention to herself as she looks at the gumbo.
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Re: Inheritance of Dust

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Huh...this looks different, thought Harvos.

After taking a few bites, and sipping at the drink before him, the supposed priest found conversing with others, or rather beginning the conversation, difficult and pondersome. He'd never been too keen on interacting with nobles, though he had been given a basic training on etiquette when he was younger.

Having sat himself next to Delsenora and other familiar folk, Harvos lifted the soup spoon from his collection, and said faintly, "look for this one. I know. To me, a fork is a fork, but these folks are determined to make their lives more complicated than need be."
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Re: Inheritance of Dust

Post by Ender »

"Father Oakenshade," he began, before remembering the the priest had said he could be called Harvos, "I hope you don't mind me asking, but was Cheslik, ah, associated with your... church?" He might as well search for those juicy rumors while he had time.
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Re: Inheritance of Dust

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"Ah, Giovanni," the priest started. "I know not what tendencies he followed when pertaining to the beyond of life. In all honesty, I don't remember him speaking of that topic often enough. What about you? What religious following do you accord yourself with?"

With sleeves rolled up, and arms moving to and fro among the food and pleasantries, Oakenshade was beginning to find comfort in this claustrophobic gathering of royalty. He wished very much to be gone from this place, but duties were required, and responsibilities dealt with. The sooner he returned to his grove and brethren, the better.
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