La Maison Soloumbre: Night of April 10th

[Moral Machivelli]

In spite of the unexpected rain, those stranded fraternity members who had been unable to secure a room within the Maison have managed fairly well. The grounds are now even more full of tents that before (though the new additions might be described as anything between haphazard and a bloody mess) By this time, the grounds have grown dark. There is still a light in the library window, and there are the occasional lights from tents, as the odd sleepless brother works on his latest thesis, but excepting that, their is no light but the moon, and the ever present rain clouds appear on the verge of blocking even that pathetic bit of light from view.

Raphael Buchvold lent against a tree in silence. The canopy resulted in precious little rain reaching him, and he did not appear bothered by that that did. His eyes didn't stop staring straight ahead. If someone left the main body of tents, and walked far enough to see him, it would be obvious to them that he is waiting for something.

[alhoon]

OOC> Sorry for the delay, I didn't have internet access.

Draxton approached Buchvold invisible. Why the man had to pick a place when all could see them? Let's just hope that none would have spells one that would spot invisible creatures... or at least that those that did would know not to look.

Nearing Buchvold he made no attempt to hide the sound of his approaching and whispered.

"I'm here Buchvold. Let's keep that meeting secret, shouldn't we? Pretend that you still wait for someone please, and let me get under that tree and out of the rain."
After approaching and getting next to Buchvold, his hood still down so even if someone could see invisible people he wouldn't recognise him, easily at least, he whispered.

"Pleased to meet you Buchvold I wanted to speak with you too about a couple of things. I'm also a merchant and I would like to speak with you about a couple of easily made magic items I would like to buy. But please, tell me what do you want to talk about?"

[Moral Machivelli]

OOC Post for the new year. Just to clarify, the pair are too far away for anyone to spot them who isn't looking for them specifically. Even then, the rain makes it hard to see them.

IC Buchvold winced at "easily made".

Just who does this man think he is dealing with? Items of power are rare, and each is unique. Each has an intricate and detailed history. They are not the goods of a peddler. Does he think everything revolves round gold?

Stupid! Of course he does. He’s from Richemulot

"Certainly Mr. Serd" Buchvold is polite and genial, as befits a man talking to a fellow member of the nobility. He looks striaght ahed, and anyone who could hear him would assume, that he is meraly thinking aloud to himself, he speaks so quietly

"The recent uphevals what with the whole affair at la Manoir, the reaction of... certian other groups and the brilliance of the seige mentality , has left many of the bretheren feeling... shall we say, vaunerable. Thus it is the perfect time..." Buchvold swats at a bug that flies past.

"Damn this place, bugs everywere. Anyway as I said it is the ideal time for my buisness. Exotic arcana, scrolls, or the valuable artifacts that some would lable trinkits. However, my resources have been tied up as of late. I fear I find myself without the funds to capitalize on this situation."

[alhoon]

So Buchvold calls his merchandise "Exotic arcana, scrolls, or the valuable artifacts". A merchant's game again from both their parts. As if Buchvold didn't know that as a wizard and a merchant Draxton knew exactly how much the items cost.

But Draxton was intrigued by something else.

"Indeed my friend. This place is full of bugs. Some perhaps are larger and more dangerous than others. They lurk where one wouldn't guess they are. Have you found any such bugs recently sir Buchvold?

On another topic, I would say that with the tension between the four Towers and the Falkovnia/Invidia axis, my fortunes have become increased. I'm a simple merchant, even if successful, not interested in politics after all."

OOC> To make things more clear: Draxton asks if Buchvold knows any spies, is open to discussion about financing Buchvold and admits that although a Richemulotease and sworn to protect his land, he provides goods to the enemy too.

[Moral Machivelli]

"Yes, I know just the sort of bugs you mean, Serd. Bloodsuckers, hiding behind every corner. I haven't been able to catch one of the drated things yet. Not for lack of trying. But, thankfully, I am not the only one searching for them." Buchvold laughs
"It's the climate Serd, There are a motly asortmant of predators who rely apon bugs as a source of food. They hunt them down, every chance they get. With a little luck, they might help to clear the place up a bit"

"I wish I could lay claim to being able not to take an interest in politics" Buchvold laughs again.

"Unfortunatly, I have to "Wine and Dine" as I believe they say in Dementliu, every single client. Thus I have to appear very likable, all the time ;to the point of fiting in with their political views. Thus, I am fourced to digest politics every morning. A cruel fate, no, Master Serd?"

Buchvold waits to see how Serd responds.

[alhoon]

"I understand completely Buchvold. If you could see me, you would notice me nodding with a knowing expression. I also have to know about politics, do not get me wrong, for the very same reason. Once I "dine and wine" a client, I tend to fit in with his political view of a given situation. Or even her now that I think of it, I have no problem speaking about politics with Ladies like some other nobles have. Also I have found that many women have a deeper impact in politics than their husbands or sons, just by influencing them."

[Nathan of the FoS]

Meanwhile, within the house

The Dementlieuse window opens and a slight, shadowed figure steps through, shaking his hat and cloak as he does so to scatter raindrops on the veranda. Blinking, he takes off his smoked glasses and presses them dry against his shirt, keeping his eyes closed; with the glasses back on his long, thin nose he scans the room.

There is something uncanny about the way the Shadowcloak--almost certainly the most notorious person present, at least to those here with him--manages to evade attention; he is at Professor Kingsley's elbow without causing a ripple in the crowd.

"Professor Kingsley," he says, as if identifying a specimen's common-or-garden-variety name. "Countess von Lovenhorst told me you are studying the Ezran faith, and that you had some worthwhile insights into their psychology. Tell me about the current state of your investigations."

[Pamela]

Gertrude startled at the sudden approach, and turned. Raindrops twinkled upon the mottled complexion of the Shadowcloak as the chandelier’s lighting shone upon them. Blessed sun, they look different, she thought, trying to contain her staring as she noticed how the bruise-like patterns seemed to have changed since his lecture. Her eyes flinched from the ‘clear’ skin, grey like a mouldering corpse's, and sought vain solace in the dark lens which reflected her shock back at her. Much as she hated the unrevealing glasses, its mirroring effect brought her back to herself, and she stood straight with a small smile.

Not one for small talk, she mused at his challenge and order. Her thoughts however were still unsettled, and so she sought time to gather her wits by engaging in small talk. “Countess von Lovenhorst is very kind,” she said, turning to nod at her pleasant and (thankfully) completely unrepulsive ally. She turned reluctantly back to the Father, her façade restored. “I’ve recently been interviewing Caille. The loss of Secousse is still reverberating throughout that church, especially since the overshadowing of Pineau. There’s been some infighting and defections, but nothing untoward. This Bastion seems more concerned about her sect’s popularity than its founder had been; she doesn’t appreciate their reputation as the weakest branch of the church.”

As she spoke, she began to relax and become more animated as she recalled her visit in Dementlieu. This sect intrigued her for many reasons. As a scholar, she was thrilled with the numerous texts buried and still unread within the depths of that ruined church. Their attitude to their goddess was also unorthodox for a theistic religion, verging on agnosticism. It also provided her with the rare opportunity to witness first-hand a movement at the loss of its founder. Finally, selfishly, it was located in the most beautiful country in the world, even if it was run by frivolous Dementos.

The professor then turned, interested, to the Shadowcloak. “Was there anything in particular that you wished to discuss about them? I would not wish to bore you by repeating what the Countess has already informed you about.”

[Nathan of the FoS]

Gertrude startled at the sudden approach, and turned. Raindrops twinkled upon the mottled complexion of the Shadowcloak as the chandelier’s lighting shone upon them. Blessed sun, they look different, she thought, trying to contain her staring as she noticed how the bruise-like patterns seemed to have changed since his lecture. Her eyes flinched from the ‘clear’ skin, grey like a mouldering corpse's, and sought vain solace in the dark lens which reflected her shock back at her. Much as she hated the unrevealing glasses, its mirroring effect brought her back to herself, and she stood straight with a small smile.

Not one for small talk, she mused at his challenge and order. Her thoughts however were still unsettled, and so she sought time to gather her wits by engaging in small talk. “Countess von Lovenhorst is very kind,” she said, turning to nod at her pleasant and (thankfully) completely unrepulsive ally. She turned reluctantly back to the Father, her façade restored. “I’ve recently been interviewing Caille. The loss of Secousse is still reverberating throughout that church, especially since the overshadowing of Pineau. There’s been some infighting and defections, but nothing untoward. This Bastion seems more concerned about her sect’s popularity than its founder had been; she doesn’t appreciate their reputation as the weakest branch of the church.”

As she spoke, she began to relax and become more animated as she recalled her visit in Dementlieu. This sect intrigued her for many reasons. As a scholar, she was thrilled with the numerous texts buried and still unread within the depths of that ruined church. Their attitude to their goddess was also unorthodox for a theistic religion, verging on agnosticism. It also provided her with the rare opportunity to witness first-hand a movement at the loss of its founder. Finally, selfishly, it was located in the most beautiful country in the world, even if it was run by frivolous Dementos.

The professor then turned, interested, to the Shadowcloak. “Was there anything in particular that you wished to discuss about them? I would not wish to bore you by repeating what the Countess has already informed you about.”

"Popularity," the Shadowcloak repeats, as if tasting the word. "Huh."

He glances briefly at the Countess, who seems unfazed by his brusqueness; she curtseys deeply. Crow gets a rather longer glance, and an identifying, "Brother...Crow."

Bringing his attention back to Kingsley, the Shadowcloak states, "Come with me"; turning on his heel, he walks off.

[Pamela]

Gertrude’s cheeks coloured faintly as she saw the Countess’ curtsey, revealing her own faux-pas. Too late now, she thought, and then passed a sympathetic glance towards Crow when he was on the receiving end of the Shadowcloak’s attention.

As you will, Master, she thought wryly at the abrupt command. She turned to nod at her companions before taking her leave, figuring that anything more elaborate- or polite- might only annoy the Father. As she followed him through the crowd, she considered the Countess’ assurance that this man would be her best option for mentor. Personality-wise, they were complete opposites; I have one; he doesn’t. Zherisians depended on humour in stressful occasions, but she was concerned. Some opposites did attract, but it was more a cliché than a reality, and it generally only applied to romance. That thought caused her to look up at the back of the Shadowcloak.

Ugh.

Still, they were there to share ideas. Or rather, she corrected herself, she was there to share her ideas, and to see whether he found anything valuable among them.

[Nathan of the FoS]

Gertrude’s cheeks coloured faintly as she saw the Countess’ curtsey, revealing her own faux-pas. Too late now, she thought, and then passed a sympathetic glance towards Crow when he was on the receiving end of the Shadowcloak’s attention.

As you will, Master, she thought wryly at the abrupt command. She turned to nod at her companions before taking her leave, figuring that anything more elaborate- or polite- might only annoy the Father. As she followed him through the crowd, she considered the Countess’ assurance that this man would be her best option for mentor. Personality-wise, they were complete opposites; I have one; he doesn’t. Zherisians depended on humour in stressful occasions, but she was concerned. Some opposites did attract, but it was more a cliché than a reality, and it generally only applied to romance. That thought caused her to look up at the back of the Shadowcloak.

Ugh.

Still, they were there to share ideas. Or rather, she corrected herself, she was there to share her ideas, and to see whether he found anything valuable among them.

The Shadowcloak leads Gertrude from the crowded ballroom to a main hallway, and thence to a small study; opening the door he glances within, then stands aside to let Gertrude enter.

Entering himself, he closes the door and turns to consider Gertrude. "You say Bastion Caille wants her sect to become more popular. Why?"

Something in the Shadowcloak's emphasis tells Gertrude that this is really two questions...that the Shadowcloak is asking both for the Bastion's subjective motivations and her strategic intentions, and that the answer to the second is what really interests him.

[Pamela]

Under other circumstances, Gertrude would have been surprised at the question and the tone with which it was presented. She was however meeting with the founder of an organization which kept a low-profile in most of the countries it convened in. Her mind wandered briefly to some of the ‘secret societies’ advertised in the Temple back home, where participants would blithely refer to their membership at soirees.

She considered how to answer his question. She’d made a thorough report on the matter, but the Shadowcloak was a man of few words- or could be, when it suits him, she thought, ruefully recalling the earlier mental marathon she’d stumbled. It would be wiser to answer as tersely as possible, and let him ask any questions required, than to invite his boredom.

“Secousse was treated as a living relic due to her authorship. Now she is gone, and the Dementlieus seem to act as if the Third Book died with her. Attendance- and so, donations- have fallen locally; the other sects’ private disdain is increasingly being voiced.” She recalled Raines’ disgust over the Dementos’ ambiguity concerning the Grand Scheme. “Then there is the internal frictions over the succession…The other sects’ anchorites have been ‘visiting’ the country more than ever, but their impact has been minimal. The Dementlieuse are quite irreligious as a society.” The professor privately held that their real god was Fashion, both in the arts and clothing.

The Zherisian debated dwelling any further on Caille's motives and concerns. She decided to move on. “One thing Secousse left behind is the library, and Caille intends to woo scholars with it. She has no intention of opening it freely to the public, of course.” Only a fool would do that, as far as she was concerned. She was well aware of the number of books that were lost every year to theft and vandalism at the Paridon University. “Those who are to be invited must show some loyalty to the sect; usually in the form of attendance, donations, and public shows of devotion. Certain anchorites have been chosen to go abroad to both attend international universities and to cater to potential flocks there. This will not of course draw much attention in all departments, but those dedicated to the arts and social sciences are certainly intrigued.” She herself was debating how far she was willing to go to visit the archives.

“The Bastion has also let it be hinted that there are certain sections of the library which are concerned with the planes where Ezra’s celestial company still dwell, among others. There are also works which discuss earlier forms of divination, and certain anchorites have been working to recover these original uses. She led me to believe that there had been some success in the matter.” The professor shrugged. If there had been any spectacular breakthroughs, the bastion would either have kept it a private weapon in their arsenal, or else announced it much more widely. She herself favoured the former option herself. Still, the existence of such books- and the possibilities they suggested- would be of interest to many in the arcane field.

“On the national front, Caille's beginning a session of lectures dedicated to the exploration of the Grand Scheme and the nature of Ezra. Speakers will be invited from the other sects- and apparently, even from other faiths, and some heretics,” she remarked with a touch of wondering amusement. “The controversy will invite attention their way, as well as strike a challenge to Raines, Caille’s most vocal rival. It’s not a secret within the churches that as far as he is concerned, his latest revelation is the most accurate, and thus supersedes all others. Caille seems intent on rubbing his nose in the fact that they are all awaiting a fifth book.” She didn’t bother to point out the obvious implications of that one. Raines seemed to believe that the fifth book would be revealed after the apocalypse he predicted. He probably thinks he will be the one to pen it, after he’s thoroughly purged the world... She realised that she was going slightly off-topic and decided to bring the summary to an end. “The Dementlieuse love the potential of scandal and spectacles, so there’s been much interest in the matter.” They also annoyingly seemed to think that this ‘open-minded’ approach was a national characteristic. A shame they aren’t so willing to admit to the navel-gazing one, though it’s the most obvious to the rest of us…

[Rotipher of the FoS]

Perhaps it is true intuition, perhaps only a passing thought or a snippet overheard from another conversation, but the bard's grin stiffens minutely -- a bit forced, if only momentarily -- a few seconds before the Shadowcloak's ominous interruption. He blinks away the distraction, begins a riposte to the Countess's latest verbal sally in the trio's ongoing banter, when the eerie Father's unmannerly interjection sends his train of thought veering onto a very different, and precipitous, wagon-trail.

Oh, bloody damnation!

Casting the dismay he can't wholly keep from his face, ambushed as he is, as startlement -- and, yes, awe -- rather than horror, the VRS spy tilts his head, to peer askance at the Fraternity's most infamous officer, out of the (nervous? intimidated?) corner of his eye. Playing to "Brother Crow's" prior anxiety, when he'd first faced Mikkelson at close quarters -- a reaction Lady Karla, of course, had observed first-hand -- he blinks twice, looks to the Countess as if seeking cues to what manner of response (if any) is most wise, then drops his gaze compliantly to the floor: the dutiful schoolboy before the headmaster, again.

For a fleeting instant, the darkness lurking within the gray-mottled Fraternity elder impresses itself upon Crow's intuition, briefly setting his social acuity reeling with vertigo. Sun's blood, this man -- creature...? -- had fallen terrifyingly far, perhaps farther than anyone he'd encountered since-

The gist of the Father's words penetrate his distraction then, and alarm of a different sort banishes such bitter reminisence from his thoughts. Dash it, the dark-tainted wretch was interested in Kingsley, of all people! Bad enough, that the Countess should attract the yet-salvagable Zherisian's well-meaning admiration, but this?!

(While actual prayer was beyond the bard, he could be thankful for good fortune. He was thankful, now, that the grim Father's preemptory rudeness was sure to grate upon the ever-gracious Professor's every nerve. Crow might not pray, but he hoped like hell that her agile wits and elan would see Kingsley through ... and that her response to his query would be sufficient not to offend this blotch-faced villain, yet would soundly fail to stir his further curiosity or interest.)

The bard's concerns for Kingsley slip to the back of his mind, as Father Shadowcloak considers the Zherisian's initial reply, then turns abruptly to the Countess ... and to Crow himself. The Lamordian noblewoman holds her tongue under his tinted spectacles' gaze, and so terse and gruff a personage is unlikely to welcome unasked salutations, so the spy, too, keeps silent: a sharp, prolonged bow from the neck -- less ostentatious than the Countess's curtsy, yet utterly humble and self-effacing; a servant's gesture, to the proverbial 'lord of the manor' -- is his chosen offering of respect.

Unnervingly, the Shadowcloak's gaze lingers long on Crow, its dour weight intuited by the spy even though his own eyes are closed and downturned. More unnervingly, the Father knows his alias, unasked. And the bard is positive that Shadowcloak was paying but scant attention last evening, when the Manoir-fire survivors' brave deeds were praised.

So then, it's your lap which that shalach-ti cur Roeccha crawls into, to have his ears scratched, of the inner circle's quintet....

The Father's probable knowledge of "Brother Crow's" backstory requires he cast himself in a slightly different light. Head still downcast, eyes still meekly closed, the bard lets the fingers of his right hand -- fondly clasped round his guitar-case's strap, in another 'carefree bard' mannerism -- curl a bit more, making his grip firmer, more secure. Still a bard's pose, but one more befitting an adventurer -- one whose instrument is, in truth, a weapon -- than a minstrel, who plays merely for coin or pleasure. A subtle show of competence, hinting that his skills -- "Brother Crow", the Il Aluk survivor's, rather -- are at his FoS superiors' disposal, and equal to such tasks as they might assign him.

So unearthly is Shadowcloak's demeanor, the bard isn't certain how well he could read the Father's body language, even if he were looking at him directly. Still, whether or not "Brother Crow's" understated gesture escaped his notice, the eerie Umbra's decidedly-unbardlike voice barks out curtly again, as he breaks off his inspection and ushers Kingsley from the lecture-hall for further discussion.

The bard waits several seconds, as the Father's and Professor's footsteps retreat, silently wishing Kingsley good luck as she departs. For himself, he makes no such plea: either his cover-identity remains intact, or it has failed him already, yet it serves the vipers' purposes to leave him in play for the nonce. That game, too, the VRS spy has played before, and it does not worry him overmuch; in truth, since realizing the true nature of the Doomsday plans he seeks, Crow honestly hasn't expected to get out of this one alive.

(His only real concern, if exposed, would be if his genuine loyalty to the heirs of Van Richten were likewise uncovered. And, given the nature of his adversaries and certain other facts, the prospect that Crow's VRS affiliation might be sincere is the last explanation these suspicion-ridden vipers would deign to credence, even if he told them so outright.)

The hall door closes behind the departing pair, and at the sound, the bard looks up, turning back to the Countess. He blinks, grins sheepishly -- embarassed, no doubt, at having been seen so sorely discomfited by a gentlewoman such as she -- then weakly quips:

"Funny. I could've sworn that Invidian chap's weather-report said the stormclouds would be gathering above the Maison, not dropping in on the lecture-hall...."

[Nathan of the FoS]

The hall door closes behind the departing pair, and at the sound, the bard looks up, turning back to the Countess. He blinks, grins sheepishly -- embarassed, no doubt, at having been seen so sorely discomfited by a gentlewoman such as she -- then weakly quips:

"Funny. I could've sworn that Invidian chap's weather-report said the stormclouds would be gathering above the Maison, not dropping in on the lecture-hall...."

"Stormclouds?" the Countess repeats, gazing after the retreating Father and Professor following in his train. Only a past master of observation would note, as Crow does, the subtle play of emotions across her face--cold calculation, tinged with fear and envy. Visibly coming to herself, she smiles mischievously. "Say rather that Night has fallen, and landed next to us. But I believe that Professor Kingsley is bright enough, for all that. How do you and she know each other?"

[Nathan of the FoS]

“Secousse was treated as a living relic due to her authorship. Now she is gone, and the Dementlieus seem to act as if the Third Book died with her. Attendance- and so, donations- have fallen locally; the other sects’ private disdain is increasingly being voiced.” She recalled Raines’ disgust over the Dementos’ ambiguity concerning the Grand Scheme. “Then there is the internal frictions over the succession…The other sects’ anchorites have been ‘visiting’ the country more than ever, but their impact has been minimal. The Dementlieuse are quite irreligious as a society.” The professor privately held that their real god was Fashion, both in the arts and clothing.

As if reading her mind, the Shadowcloak interjects, "What does hold the attention of the Dementlieuse, Professor?"

The Zherisian debated dwelling any further on Caille's motives and concerns. She decided to move on. “One thing Secousse left behind is the library, and Caille intends to woo scholars with it. She has no intention of opening it freely to the public, of course.” Only a fool would do that, as far as she was concerned. She was well aware of the number of books that were lost every year to theft and vandalism at the Paridon University. “Those who are to be invited must show some loyalty to the sect; usually in the form of attendance, donations, and public shows of devotion. Certain anchorites have been chosen to go abroad to both attend international universities and to cater to potential flocks there. This will not of course draw much attention in all departments, but those dedicated to the arts and social sciences are certainly intrigued.” She herself was debating how far she was willing to go to visit the archives.

“The Bastion has also let it be hinted that there are certain sections of the library which are concerned with the planes where Ezra’s celestial company still dwell, among others. There are also works which discuss earlier forms of divination, and certain anchorites have been working to recover these original uses. She led me to believe that there had been some success in the matter.” The professor shrugged. If there had been any spectacular breakthroughs, the bastion would either have kept it a private weapon in their arsenal, or else announced it much more widely. She herself favoured the former option herself. Still, the existence of such books- and the possibilities they suggested- would be of interest to many in the arcane field.

“On the national front, Caille's beginning a session of lectures dedicated to the exploration of the Grand Scheme and the nature of Ezra. Speakers will be invited from the other sects- and apparently, even from other faiths, and some heretics,” she remarked with a touch of wondering amusement. “The controversy will invite attention their way, as well as strike a challenge to Raines, Caille’s most vocal rival. It’s not a secret within the churches that as far as he is concerned, his latest revelation is the most accurate, and thus supersedes all others. Caille seems intent on rubbing his nose in the fact that they are all awaiting a fifth book.” She didn’t bother to point out the obvious implications of that one. Raines seemed to believe that the fifth book would be revealed after the apocalypse he predicted. He probably thinks he will be the one to pen it, after he’s thoroughly purged the world... She realised that she was going slightly off-topic and decided to bring the summary to an end. “The Dementlieuse love the potential of scandal and spectacles, so there’s been much interest in the matter.” They also annoyingly seemed to think that this ‘open-minded’ approach was a national characteristic. A shame they aren’t so willing to admit to the navel-gazing one, though it’s the most obvious to the rest of us…

The Shadowcloak nods; while Kingsley has been speaking he has not looked at her once, save when he asked his first question, staring at points around the room seemingly chosen at random. Now that she is standing at a conversational distance from him, Kingsley can see that the dark blotches beneath the Father's grey skin do move, and (even more disturbing) that his eyes, behind their concealing spectacles, are a liquid black, as if he saw the world through two balls of wet ink.

"A competition of ideas," the Shadowcloak says musingly. "Survival of the fittest. Why does this matter to us, Professor?"

Gertrude recognizes this immediately as the Shadowcloak's key question. Answer well, and she passes into the Father's confidence; answer badly, and her hopes--and sacrifices--have been in vain.