Café de Nuit

Nerit's expression was imperceptible. Had it changed? Or had it been the same the moment before? Either way, she listened to Tomas and Alice both.

"I believe," she paused significantly afterward, as if about to expound upon the great philosophy of asceticism and temperance and chastity, "...the man takes flattery at face value, and nothing more. Is that so, Monsieur? A compliment is a compliment?"

Yet she glanced at Alice, and gave her a conspiratorial smile. Sorority was a nun's default, after all.

Remembering the women who I've seen in the hospice, caught by sailors who wouldn't take 'no' for an answer... yes, very much yes.

Tomas's eyes widen in horror at the reference; though some bitter part of his mind insists that, again, Alice is guilty of assuming a sin is exclusively male when it is not. Biting his tongue to keep from speaking(Because, Tomas's wiser half insists, that does not make Alice any less right. What were you thinking?! ) and turning his head to force away the sudden rush of memory; the feel of leather straps digging into newly sensitive skin, the alien, rubbery sensation mixed with the ice cold familiarity of steel, the smell of antiseptic, burning ozone and skin and hair beginning to sizzle, and worst of all, the intimately soft crooning of a lullaby...

"Hrm?" Tomas blinks, coming out of his brief daze and shaking his head to clear out the cobwebs. "I apologize, Sister, I...oh, yes, well." Tomas chews his cheek, looking a bit ashamed. "I think I sometimes forget the benefits of my size and the steel at my hip, ja? I apologize, Miss Blackwood, Sister Nerit is correct, I was only thinking about der whistling." Tomas smiles a little both in respect to the lightened air and as a show of sincerity, though he doesn't go for the bait. "Honestly, I was hoping for some insight into the feminine perspective, because my youngest sister is nearing that age and, well, this time I am not in some heathen hellscape."

"So if I understand correctly," Cyrus said and began pacing in slow, measured steps, "Someone is trying to rewrite Dementlieuse history and Ezran history. Or perhaps Dementlieuse Ezran history? That would be a startling way to undermine more of the government's influence. I wonder if this is the work of the University or the dissidents."

Or perhaps the University is sponsoring the rebels. That would be more unsettling.

"Why would Kartakass get used as the delivery for this revision?"

Museum, University of Dementlieu, Port-a-Lucine; Evening of March 24th, 770
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Lia wrote:Lia shrugs. "I have found it is as well to get consensus, Mr. Blackwood," she replies. "Attempting to impose one's will without consensus is prone to lead to ... problems."

Petrik sniffed. "I do not see the point of asking. It is not dangerous. The curator's office is this way. If anyone wishes to do something else, they may do so while we go there." Putting action into words, she set off down the hall, her stiletto heels clicking ominously against the floor tile.

Cyrus wrote:"Why would Kartakass get used as the delivery for this revision?"

"I don't, I don't know," Richard shrugged. "I can't think of, think of anyone that would benefit from, from any of this. It's all so, so strange." The young man stared down at the lute with the hero Brand, alternating between folding his arms and twirling the alabaster holy symbol he wore. A moment later he let the symbol drop to his chest, pulling a neatly folded list out of his waistcoat pocket and examining it with a small frown.

"Wasn't Warden Lecanu a, a restorationist?" Richard asked, a pensive look on his face.

Museum, University of Dementlieu, Port-a-Lucine; Evening of March 24th, 770
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The curator's office was currently in a state of disarray. The unfortunate Madame Chastel's nameplate was still on the door - it seemed that the University had enough troubles over the past two weeks to place high priority on cleaning out the late curator's possessions. They sat in boxes around the room, forlorn and abandoned, their fate uncertain, left to the whims of the University's replacement. Said replacement was currently nowhere to be found - perhaps unsurprising, given the late hour that it was. There was, instead, the woman that had been speaking to Professor Petrik before. Upon seeing Professor Petrik again, she gave out a strangled scream that ended up sounding more like a squeak.

"Sainted Lady of Tears, she followed me!" the woman cried. "I-I mean, I'm f-fixing the label as fast as I can, professor!"

The Mutinied Sailor, Quartier Marchand, Port-a-Lucine; Evening of March 24th, 770
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Tomas wrote:"Honestly, I was hoping for some insight into the feminine perspective, because my youngest sister is nearing that age and, well, this time I am not in some heathen hellscape."

"You might be better off asking your sister, then," Alice said, with a small laugh. "I cannot claim any insight into the lady without knowing her, although I will say this, from experience with my own - everything you do or say is going to be wrong until she is seventeen, at which point she may become receptive to sense." The woman leaned in closer, with a conspiratorial smile. "Of course, Richard and I never did, so you may just have to take your chances. But, if you can refrain from strangling your siblings for the first twenty years, I find everything turns out well enough in the end."

Nicolas wrote:"Sounds like a sweet deal you have there, still theres always a sweeter deal to be had. As I said my lucks changed, if you're blind for silver, how do you feel about gold?" He says glancing meaningfully down towards Kerrians outstretched hand, all the time flicking a coin of his own across his knuckles.

Mr. Agale wrote:"If you were so inclined to take the gentleman up on his offer and tell us a tale, we can just as easily turn a blind eye to where we heard it from, and you are none the worse off you were a minute ago save the weight in your pocket." He taps the side of his nose subversively.

"Ah... I guess my vision's clearing up nice right now." Latour said with a horrible grin. It wasn't particularly frightening or anything like that, just his breath could have stunned an ox. "It's not a long tale. I get my silver, and I don't see them fellows in black or Bertin at night."

"I'm the night mate... on board the Archeron. Ships from... Port-a-Lucine to Nevuchar Springs, and south to Nova Vaasa... carries for the mage trade, Red Academy, Univ of Dem, all that sort. Not that I ever see any high and mighties..." Latour said with an exaggeratedly slow shrug. "Every few weeks... Bertin comes along with two, three fellows. Usually fellows. Sometimes a girl or two as well..."

"I don't see them come on board... I don't see them root around in the holds... I don't see them take stuff, I don't see them bring it back. I really don't see it, I mean, just big boxes of stuff." The gold-toothed sailor said, picking up one of Nicolas's golden coins. "Then a couple days later, the boss pays me a lot, though not so pretty as...these... coi..."

Latour stared at the golden coin, momentarily dumbfounded. Something tried to work its way through his drink-sodden mind, something that was screaming FEAR through every inch. And Latour was afraid, and perhaps had he acted on that fear, he might have lived.

"Drinking too much... or not enough." Etienne Latour muttered, then took the stein of beer and downed it, raising the mug high as he gulped it down. There was a momentary glitter, and suddenly Latour began to cough, great hacking coughs.

The sailor staggered to his feet, knocking the stool aside, clutching his throat in one hand. Latour coughed again, dry, heaving coughs that must have been hideously painful. Then he coughed yet again, and blood poured from his mouth. It was a vivid, wretched stream of gore, gobbets of sliced flesh intermixed with the blood. Latour couldn't stop coughing, falling to all fours as he heaved again, though all that came now was a moist gurgling. Captain Cedolin had been a fit, attentive man who drank only a bit of tea. Latour was drunk and had downed an entire mug of beer. The coughing grew weaker, and after one final, forelorn attempt at breath, Etienne Latour, Night Watchman of the Archeron, collapsed, drowned in his own blood.

Alice screamed.

Perception

"Hah! A little eccentricity never ruined a person for me, libschen." Tomas winks outrageously at Alice, hamming it up expressly so she doesn't take it seriously. "But I appreciate the indulgen...is he alright?" Tomas turns when he notices the chugging out of the corner of his eye, and then.

No, he isn't alright. What's more, Tomas thinks he knows why; moving on instinct, Eisenwald kicks off of the barstool he was half-sitting on, forcing his body forward like some kind of meaty train engine! There's a shimmer of light from Eisenwald's hip, as three feet of steel whips through the air in the heartbeat it takes for Tomas to shout,

"Gefunden du Schuftgeisten!" Ivorsen gleams like a beam of sunlight for the few moments its in the air, quickly sheathing itself as Tomas holds his shield up on the off chance his hunch pays off-just as it hits him. Stumbling for a second, Tomas points at one of the scimitars...the one that was just behind the poor man. "Kerrian! The sword! Mach schnell, the line, she is fading!"

"Wasn't Warden Lecanu a, a restorationist?" Richard asked, a pensive look on his face.

"Yes, I had considered the possibility but I didn't want to voice it," the dommer said coolly, "What if the Warden found something to suggest this is how it really was? Even if true, something like this could undermine not only Dementlieu but the very foundations of your faith. It is quite a revolutionary concept."

A new thought entered his mind and he gave Darius a significant look. We must talk alone.

Some things he'd heard about the Bastion and other prominent figures in the local Church made him wonder.

Nerit gripped Alice's arm and released a lyrical curse that amounted to the same thing as a scream. Her eye was targeted on the wall for only a second, but it was enough.

Immediately her countenance shifted. Back to the frantic one at the Chateau, the ranting one. She watched Etienne in something like indignation, but horror was at the forefront.

"Quis in sepulchrum mea materterae mingat?!" she cried without second thought, and she covered her mouth.

Perception 21

"Please calm yourself," Lia says to the frightened woman, and glides closer to her. "We would like to view the curator's catalogue of the contents of the Guignol Museum. The official catalogue, with the full description of every item in the Museum, if you please."

Museum, University of Dementlieu, Port-a-Lucine; Evening of March 24th, 770
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Lia wrote:"Please calm yourself," Lia says to the frightened woman, and glides closer to her. "We would like to view the curator's catalogue of the contents of the Guignol Museum. The official catalogue, with the full description of every item in the Museum, if you please."

"Why? W-what do you want with it?" the woman stammered, suddenly defensive.

Professor Petrik didn't do much more than curl her lip slightly at the woman, but it was enough. "Well y-you can't have it!" the woman blurted out. With a horrified glance towards Petrik, she continued, "not that I-I wouldn't be getting it for you i-immediately! B-but, there's been so much trouble in the city lately, and we're having i-issues with the curator transition process-"

"Speak!" Petrik demanded.

"Well, t-there just aren't any!" the woman snapped. "You heard me, there aren't any! It seems Madame Chastel didn't bother to keep them! She just... did it all from memory, apparently! And every last one of the museum assistants knew about it and didn't do a thing about it! They all say it was supposed to be someone else's job! And now she's dead, and we'll see how far their fingerpointing gets them, now won't we!"

"This is not my fault!" she exclaimed defiantly to the universe.

*clunk*

Agale's pint slammed onto the bar with an imprecision borne of haste, not anger. The mug bounced in a roughly circular fashion while his head snapped to the wall behind the bar, then to a point to a point in space a little above Latour's sputtering corpse, then immediately back to the wall.

The gears of his mind spun freely. A plan solidified. "Johnny, our new friend here requires medical attention, if you would be so kind as assist me in helping him to a proper doctor." With a grunt of exertion, Agale grabbed one of the dead man's arms, threw it over his own shoulder and hoisted the body to its feet.

Perception 26

Mlle. Curatoress wrote:"This is not my fault!" she exclaimed defiantly to the universe.

“No, it is not!” Celeste also exclaimed defiantly to the universe. She had somehow managed to cross the office during the woman’s tirade, and was now standing right next to her as if she had been there all along, broadcasting the academic’s faultlessness at her companions with an air of exultant sympathy. For all you knew, she was actually sincere about it.

Still beaming, she turned to face the woman, looking rather as if she wanted to award her a medal for something. “What zeal, mademoiselle! What righteous fervor! Oh, we cannot help but be swayed by your plight—after all, what possible need could you have had, to censure the catalogue-keeping habits of our dear, departed Madame Chastel? Why, one can only applaud your discretion in forbearing to burden her with such petty concerns!”

She appeared to think for a moment. “But perhaps…yes, dear Mademoiselle, perhaps your singular bureaucratic finesse may help to ameliorate our troubled minds, as well! We, in co-operation with the noble Professor Petrik, seek insight into the Guignol’s recent exhibits—and, lacking catalogue, why, what better insight than that garnered from the exhibits themselves? Tell us, kind Mademoiselle: does the Musée still store the remnants of the Proto-Akiri Culture, the First Dead Man’s Campaign, or Pre-Conquest Valacani collections? Only lead us to them, if they be here, and our curiosity shall be satisfied—and yourself duly commended for your grace and adroitness, I am sure!”

Diplomacy 31 to calm her down, and/or get her to lead us to the ex-exhibits that Lecanu was interested in.

Darius is impressed. If the Iron Inquisition were ever to open a distaff branch, Professor Petrik would be a notable addition to their ranks.

He is not impressed by the way the Museum's curating has heretofore been handled. Being the only person who knows how to do the job is good for the continued employment of that one person, but very, very bad for the institution, and it seems there has been a noteworthy lack of oversight of the Museum at the University level.

Then Mademoiselle Viardot begins, and Darius has to brace himself mentally until the flood of verbiage subsides and he can pick over the jetsam for the gist of what she just said. It's not a bad idea, but there might be a better way...

"If Warden Lecanu restored artwork for the Museum," he says, putting just the slightest twist on "restored", "might he have been paid for his services? It would be worthwhile to find out. Even if no record were made of what he had worked on, the time he received payment might hint at his work. Perhaps we can look into it after seeing the former exhibits."

M.Agale wrote:"Johnny, our new friend here requires medical attention, if you would be so kind as assist me in helping him to a proper doctor."

Agale's words snap Nicholas out of the horrified trance he had been in, staring open mouthed at the dead sailor. Then Nicholas' brain does what any self respecting alcoholic lush of poet would do when faced with a scene of rabid horror and plumps for a dose of dissociation and denial.

"Right you are Ringo" he says to Agale, calmly draining his pint, dropping the cigarette into the dregs with a hiss and helping the Borcan shift the corpse. "I believe I know one on Rue des Ferrats..... close enough to be legit but far enough away for us to lose any followers". The last part is said in an undertone for Agale's ears only. With that they start to move the corpse towards the door.

Trying not to think about the dead sailor on his arm, that wasnt smelling any better for the fact he was dead, Nicholas sends his brain off to think about the information they had just absorbed.

Streetwise 24 for information on Bertin and the Acheron

Kerrian saw the glimmering reflection in the saber almost the same moment Tomas pointed it out. In the space between breaths, a flurry of thoughts ran through his mind. Sympathy Principle. Have the Mirror Brilliant, act through any other reflective surface. Crazy..but might work. Have to ask Cerise. However a more important thought cycled through his mind, and was transformed into action.

Two actions, to be precise. The first involved silvery almost tears flowing from from Kerrian's eyes and mouth, coalescing into the large spiritual hound, sticking near his companions. The second, was far less "normal" for certian definitions of normal, lashing out with the fury of an ancient bear spirit at the "reflection" as he clutched tightly the carved wooden figure he seemed to carry for "luck". Even as the roar resounded, Tomas felt a resonance, a connection to something ancient and primal that bolstered him ever so slightly.

Quite frankly, having just seen a man drown to death in his own blood for no reason...this probably should be nigh normal. Or everyone would be too drunk to notice.

At least that's what Kerrian told himself.

Ok, Free action to Summon Spirit companion, giving all adjacent allies +1 to all non AC defenses, Then...trying to use Thunder Bear's Warding on the "reflection". Let me know if i need to roll attack+ damage, and Tomas will gain 3 temporary hp. Also untill the end of my next "turn", all allies adjacent to my spirit companion gain Resist 3 vs all damage.

22 to hit vs fort, 11 thunder damage

Museum, University of Dementlieu, Port-a-Lucine; Evening of March 24th, 770
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Celeste wrote:"Tell us, kind Mademoiselle: does the Musée still store the remnants of the Proto-Akiri Culture, the First Dead Man’s Campaign, or Pre-Conquest Valacani collections? Only lead us to them, if they be here, and our curiosity shall be satisfied—and yourself duly commended for your grace and adroitness, I am sure!”

"Well," the woman said, slightly mollified, "I-I'm afraid not. The 'Empires of the Ancients' display and the exhibit on Darkon have been packed up and sent to Toyalis, to the Black Academy, just yesterday. I-It was part of a trade in exchange for their exhibit on Kartakass. It should be back in... five months of so?" she offered, fully aware this was not likely to be a reasonable time frame. "As for the Valacani collection, it was returned to Neblus when the exhibit ended, several months ago."

Darius wrote:"If Warden Lecanu restored artwork for the Museum," he says, putting just the slightest twist on "restored", "might he have been paid for his services? It would be worthwhile to find out. Even if no record were made of what he had worked on, the time he received payment might hint at his work. Perhaps we can look into it after seeing the former exhibits."

"Warden Lecanu?" the woman questioned, looking almost pouty for a moment. "I've never heard anyone by that name. If those good-for-nothings in the department have been doing even more off the record, I'll- I'll- argh!" The woman ran out of the room, either to have a very sharp word with someone over all of this, or to get away from your questions as soon as possible.

The Mutinied Sailor, Quartier Marchand, Port-a-Lucine; Evening of March 24th, 770
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Tomas wrote:"Gefunden du Schuftgeisten!" Ivorsen gleams like a beam of sunlight for the few moments its in the air, quickly sheathing itself as Tomas holds his shield up on the off chance his hunch pays off-just as it hits him. Stumbling for a second, Tomas points at one of the scimitars...the one that was just behind the poor man. "Kerrian! The sword! Mach schnell, the line, she is fading!"

Kerrian wrote:Two actions, to be precise. The first involved silvery almost tears flowing from from Kerrian's eyes and mouth, coalescing into the large spiritual hound, sticking near his companions. The second, was far less "normal" for certian definitions of normal, lashing out with the fury of an ancient bear spirit at the "reflection" as he clutched tightly the carved wooden figure he seemed to carry for "luck". Even as the roar resounded, Tomas felt a resonance, a connection to something ancient and primal that bolstered him ever so slightly.

Tomas's sword swung through empty space, Ivorsen whistling through the air. Not a moment later, the thundering roar smashed at the old scimitar hanging on the wall, it's blade a reflective strip of metal in the dingy tavern.

The sword had been a souvenir of some kind, probably a trophy of some sailor's encounter with pirates. It was not particularly large nor particularly well made, though it was clean enough and the blade had been well polished. This was all in the past.

Now, the scimitar shattered under the sudden roar of sound, the brittle old steel fracturing under the sudden stress (and quite probably, the metal had been rusted and polished to wafer-thinness by now). Tiny shards of polished metal fell in a sudden shower onto the tavern floor.

That was all.

Mr. Agale wrote:The gears of his mind spun freely. A plan solidified. "Johnny, our new friend here requires medical attention, if you would be so kind as assist me in helping him to a proper doctor." With a grunt of exertion, Agale grabbed one of the dead man's arms, threw it over his own shoulder and hoisted the body to its feet.

Nicolas wrote:"Right you are Ringo" he says to Agale, calmly draining his pint, dropping the cigarette into the dregs with a hiss and helping the Borcan shift the corpse. "I believe I know one on Rue des Ferrats..... close enough to be legit but far enough away for us to lose any followers". The last part is said in an undertone for Agale's ears only. With that they start to move the corpse towards the door.

A calm manner and a steady voice can cover a multitude of small imperfections. With the right attitude and demeanor, a man can bluff his way out of almost any situation and divest himself from almost any problem.

Unfortunately, arcane assassinations, sword-swinging Lamordians, spontaneously appearing bear spirits, and thunder-casting Verbrek shifters would stretch the abilities of even the smoothest tongue. Particularly when those smooth tongues are being bled on by a tattered corpse. Latour leaked. A great deal.

Some people just stared at the little circle dumbfounded and silent, their reactions muddled by shock, alcohol, or most likely both. Others, who despite appearances were at least somewhat civic-minded, started calling for the gendarme and screaming 'MURDER!' at the top of their lungs. Yet a third group, less civic-minded, merely ran for the doors. It was, in short, utter chaos.