Café de Nuit

The Tessier Gallery, Quartier Savant, Port-a-Lucine; March 11th, 770, 7:34 PM
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Mr. Agale wrote:"Circumstances permitting, I intend to settle down here and call this country my own." Agale replied in earnest. "Would I be correct in assuming that the elaborate yet subtle magical measures to protect this party from the unwanted are of your own devising sir?"

"You noticed them? You have a rare eye, M'sieur." Claude LaGrange said amiably enough. His voice was almost hypnotic, rich and mellow and possessed of the kind of tones one normally associated with operatic singers. It seemed almost strange coming from a relatively mild, unprepossessing, almost dumpy figure. "And you assume well. M. Tessier and his father are acquaintances of mine, and of course it is the government's duty to support the arts in whatever way we can. They are the soul of Dementlieu, and to protect them is an honor."

"You seem a man of unusual skills, my Borcan associate." Ambassador Vedarrak murmurred. His own words, cultured and smooth in isolation, nevertheless had the subtle rasp of military authority behind them when compared to the Councilor's. "An arcanist like the Councilor, or a mere dabbler like myself?"

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Cyrus wrote:"Of the Reniers from Richemulot, I take it?" he asked, "I have only met one other who carries that surname since I arrived in this city. A professor. Should I assume you are related?"

"The Richemuloise Reniers, you're right." Christophe said pleasantly. "The Professor's my step-uncle, so we're related by marriage. His sister married my father a few years ago. We're also related by blood, but that's something like fourth cousins once removed, I don't even know if anyone's traced the genealogy."

The Hazlani looked Christophe up and down, seeming impressed by the steel-bending build the nobleman possessed. "You are not what I expected to see from your family," he commented, "Not many nobles spend time performing intense calisthenics."

"It's a family thing." The stocky young man said cheerfully enough. "The elders look down on us a bit if we don't do something physical, though it's usually riding or fencing. I'm a bit of an odd man out because I'm fond of wrestling and boxing. You should come by the Gymnasium some day, it's in Bisson Hall. I'll show you around."

"Your cousin Felise is a show-hunter, isn't she?" Alain commented tipsily. He took another drink from the wine glass.

"She is. Good at it too." Christophe said with understated pride.

Cyrus wrote:"Well," Cyrus said graciously and glanced to Cerise, "Perhaps we should look for the curator -- what was her name? She might know much more about these haunted paintings."

"Mme. Chastel, and you're right, we should." Cerise said, sighing at the prospect of not being able to even find a haunted painting or two. She perked up quickly, though, and looked at the two young men. "Would either of you know where the curator is? We want to talk to her about some art."

"Chastel?" Christophe said, his blue eyes quite guilelessly confused. "I don't think I've met the lady yet."

"That's because you only attend art galleries and museums if someone drags you to them. Troglodyte." Alain said dryly. Christophe's open smile took on a bit of the characteristics of a smirk as he acknowledged the hit with a half-bow. "I saw her earlier this evening. I think she went back to her office, it's probably somewhere in the back."

"Thank you!" Cerise said, cheerful once more. "Come on Cyrus, M. Eisenwald, Kat. Let's go and find the others and then see the curator."

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Celeste wrote:She giggled pleasantly, presenting a small curtsey to her observers. “There: my judgment has been passed. I fervently hope that it has proved enlightening!” She cast an encouraging look at the older gentleman. “Oh, pardon me! I do go on so. I do not believe that I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, Monsieur...?”

"George Pinot," the man provided. He didn't add anything further onto the introduction, though he did seem rather amused at the bit of a joke.

"You do make it sound much better than I think of it," the older man said, stroking his beard. "I simply thought of it as a woman with a vase."

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Kerrian wrote:"Is there any chance you've seen Mme Chastel about?" He asked, turning the topic away from charity balls and the cultural imperatives behind Dementlieuese art. "There was a matter that I thought it might be worth speaking with her about...but with everyone masked..I haven't had the best time of things finding her."

"Oh! Dear Marie! I was just talking with her the other day, you know, about several of the darling little figurines she's keeping in the Guignol museum. Why, the minute I saw them I set about trying to buy one for my own manor, but it seems no one was willing to sell. Well, Marie was much more understanding than the rest of the museum staff about it-" Loiseau had gotten started, and one could only hope that she would eventually meander back around to the actual topic. "All this nonsense about 'priceless historical artifacts.' Aren't all of these lovely paintings and sculptures just as important? Now, Marie and I can see eye to eye on this sort of thing. There's a woman who understands how things ought to be. There's a woman of character! Not like these new and uppity folks who want to do everything without a by-your-leave. Well! I don't believe she's out and about right now. She's getting on in the years, you know, and doesn't care for the excessive hubbub of these events. I believe she chose to stay in her office. And such a shame, too, for she is such an elegant lady, of such good breeding! And anyone who insinuates otherwise just because she doesn't heed to their beck and call should think twice about it, I say. Really, to make such a fuss over a few missed curations - how hard can it be to look at a painting? To insinuate she should be put aside just for that? And she really does have the most exquisite taste, she has this collection of dolls, you know, that are just the most wonderful things-"

Without anyone else to interrupt her, Madame Loiseau did not seem to feel any need to stop talking.

"People will talk," Lia says, shrugging - but not yet unhooking herself from Remy. "I was aware there would be all sorts of chatter once I did this, but it means nothing." She inclines her head to Remy, a faint tone of irony entering her voice: "So I hope you don't mind if I don't quite set about choosing our china patterns just yet, my friend."

Returning her attention to professor Marchand-Renier, Lia drops her voice, trying to keep the next bit of conversation between herself, Remy and Marchand-Renier: "It is not, perhaps, something you can help me with, professor, as it is a matter of ... protocol-related assurance. I took some time today to speak to the Bursar to enquire whether there would be any objections to professors of the University involving themselves with this recent bit of business. You recall the bursar, don't you? The new president's brother? He has told me that as long as we do nothing to embarrass the University, we are free to act as we will in this matter."

Lia raises her masked head and her voice, the note of irony back in her voice: "Reassuring to know, I trust? And with that said: has either of you seen our errant curator?"

Lia wrote:She inclines her head to Remy, a faint tone of irony entering her voice: "So I hope you don't mind if I don't quite set about choosing our china patterns just yet, my friend."

"I had my heart set on a nice set of Grindley flow blues," Professor Lessard sighed airily.

Lia wrote:Lia raises her masked head and her voice, the note of irony back in her voice: "Reassuring to know, I trust? And with that said: has either of you seen our errant curator?"

"I recall the bursar well enough," Marchand-Renier said blackly. "Snake-tongued viper of a man. I have no doubt he wishes us to be reassured."

There was a bit of an awkward silence for a moment, until Marchand-Renier continued, a bit less harshly, "She left the party and retreated to her office. So say Bertram and Bertriz, at least, and they tend to know the latest gossip before the people involved do. I can't say I blame her. I half think being forced to come here is someone's way of trying to kill me through banality."

"I can show you where it is." There was a pause as Lessard considered just how sneaking off to the back with a woman would look. "Though you could probably find it by yourself. Whatever way you like, Professor Mourneswaithe, though I do believe Mlle. Blackwood to have been correct when she said we shouldn't travel alone. The catacombs seem to have been warning enough of that."

"And we all know how well I do at interviews," Lia adds in a dry tone of voice. "Let's gather some of the others, shall we? Even if only for appearances' sakes. Not to mention that little extra feeling of security."

Cyrus paused in his evening feast to pat Cerise's hand reassuringly.

"We will have ample time to hunt for haunted paintings and vampires," he said confidently, "This is but one party of many I'm sure we'll attend."

Christophe wrote:"It's a family thing." The stocky young man said cheerfully enough. "The elders look down on us a bit if we don't do something physical, though it's usually riding or fencing. I'm a bit of an odd man out because I'm fond of wrestling and boxing. You should come by the Gymnasium some day, it's in Bisson Hall. I'll show you around."

"I will have to do that," Cyrus agreed, "It is nice to know this city has a place to exercise. I was concerned too many of the noblemen in this city were dandies that pretended at sport for the sake of their fragile egos." The Hazlani's voice carried only a faint hint of disdain.

Still, Cyrus was not one to back down from a challenge like this. "Boxing is not a sport often practiced in Hazlan," he said, "At least not among the Mulan." His lip curled up a little in distaste. "Too many Mulan outside the Church let themselves get fat and useless in their old age. I think many of my people would do well to learn from your elders' urgings. Even the Red Wizards." The dommer cut himself off.

"A friendly wrestling match or sparring match may be in order," he said, brightening up. The snakelike smile returned as he regarded Christophe. "It would be a welcome change from all the prancing and posturing so many people here are prone to. I will look you up."

Promise made, he flashed Alain a smile that said both "thank you" and "I see what you did there." The priest finished his meal and shoved his plate off on a passing servant, then smiled at Cerise.

"Shall we, my dear?" he asked graciously and then inclined his head toward Christophe and Alain and smiled congenially enough. "It was a pleasure meeting you gentlemen. I look forward to our future encounters." Then, he held his arm out for Cerise again and began searching for some of the rest of his group.

"...show hunter?" Tomas raised an eyebrow at this, having somehow missed the term. He was thrown off by the wine glass shoved into his hand, which he swigs from before remembering that he wanted to stay sober tonight. Ah well, it's just wine, right?

And then Cerise is dragging them all off.

The Tessier Gallery, Quartier Savant, Port-a-Lucine; March 11th, 770, 7:45 PM
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The rest of the Tessier Gallery was not quite as bedazzling as the grand showroom in which the party was taking place. A few paintings and marble busts added a bit of decor, but otherwise the offices consisted of the same nondescript hallways and rooms you found in any official building. A few servants, invisible to your eyes in the masquerade downstairs, shuffled through the rooms here, going about their business; quite a few of them paused to watch you pass, but knew better than to say anything about it. Cerise skipped on ahead, dragging Cyrus along behind her, until she skidded to a stop, turned on her heel, and walked back to a solid oak door with a bronze nameplate upon it:

• • Marie Chastel
    Director of Exhibitions

"Here we are, I guess!" she said, though her cheerfulness seemed tempered with something else.

Professor Lessard walked forward, reaching for the door handle even as Thierri and Katja reacted. The soldier stood straight up in alarm, her single eye flitting back and forth; the magician sniffed deeply several times, staring off distantly as if trying to place something. There was a heavy click as the handle refused to yield to Remy's attempts. "Locked," the professor reported, his frame as taut as a coiled spring.

"Blood," Katja said, at almost the same time. She reached out to grab Thierri by the arm. "You. Thief. Open the door like you did at Perrine's, quickly," she commanded. The magician slipped loose from her grasp, glaring at Katja and clutching his arm like it had been burned.

"I pushed a rotting plank, mademoiselle, and it fell over. I doubt that will be sufficient here!" Boucher snapped back. Despite his rancor, he was obeying with all haste - he could clearly smell the blood as well. He flipped a tarnished butter knife out of one of his sleeves, jamming it in between the door and the doorway. "Be fortunate that no self-respecting magician would ever be stopped by lock or bonds," he muttered, as he yanked back on the knife. The lock made a chunk as it retreated.

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Whatever else one said about the curator of both the Tessier Gallery and the Guignol Museum, she had a very comfortable office. It was large and well-lit, with a small stove in the corner keeping it pleasantly warm. A large window outside was discreetly curtained with heavy silk drapes. The desk, chairs, and bookshelves were all fine, old furniture, rich but understated. And of course, there were the dolls.

Marie Chastel was apparently a collector of porcelain dolls. They were everywhere, on the desk, on the bookshelves, everywhere in the room. A hundred easily, all exquisite examples of the doll-makers art. Shepherds guided sheep with little silk ribbons around their ceramic necks, while great dames swished too and fro with tiny, detailed dresses. Wiry-haired dogs were painted with the greatest of care, their masters dressed in fashions that spanned the last fifty years. Chastel had indulged her collection freely, and so they sat and stood about her office by the dozen, watching you with glass eyes that reflected the light.

Mme. Chastel herself was an elderly woman, in her sixties if not older, with grey hair that had been done up in a severe bun, but now was loosened. Her hands were wrinkled, but free of liver spots, and she was dressed in an elegant dark-grey dress that served almost as camoflauge, making it easy to miss her in a crowd. The curator's face was hook-nosed and severe, with powerful-grey eyes, but at the same it was a rather bloodless face. And indeed, Mme. Chastel was a rather bloodless person. You knew this for a fact because though she had been stabbed through the heart, there really was very little blood in the room.

It was a very clean murder scene, in large part because the sword, with its golden sunburst hilt, had been left in body. Mme. Marie Chastel had found the Sword of Leon. Or possibly the other way around.

"Remy," Lia says, reaching out a hand to professor Lessard, an odd, distant tone in her voice. "I think I -"

The instant their hands touch, Lia gasps sharply. "Magic," she says, her voice now sharp and warning. "Something big - the place where the poor woman lies is the epicenter of it. I ... It is waiting. This is a thing that is still waiting for something to happen. I have never seen anything like this, it defies identification ...

Do not go in there. Someone get the gendarmerie, or else the gallery's security personnel. Hurry. The servants might implicate us otherwise."

(OOC: After re-rolling and enlisting Remy's Aid Another, that's Arcana 24. Big magic Lia's never seen the kind of, reminiscent of the tension before a storm.)

Kerrian paused at the threshold, taking in the scene before him. "A...sword with the hilt like the sun." The look on his face was growing, somewhere in that delightful land between shock and anticipation. "Lia..what does it feel like?" It was an odd question, but with the sudden intensity that came to his green eyes, it was an important one.

"Is it hot like anger rising up in your blood, is it cold like friends dying and leaving you alone? Does it have eyes like a thousand jewels with a four legged body dark like a night that doesn't lay claim to stars?" It was a rather odd series of questions.

But considering the fear starting to spread across Kerrian's face like a bloodstain on a white carpet, VERY important questions.

Kerrian cast an accusing stare at Mme Chastel's porcelin children, as if to say "What did you see, what did you see that your painted mouths won't dare speak."

low mordentish"I think that the wards here...are to keep out what tried to kill me at the chapel. I don't think they'd WORK...but..." Kerrian looked back to his companions after his small outburst in his mother tongue. "Someone get the gendarmes..though..I think they might be out of their element.."

"That's oddly specific." Tomas asides to young Kerrain, jealous of the boy's superior spiritual senses. He flicks his shield-arm, and there's a SHUNK sound as the adamantium shield snaps back into place! Flicking tattered cloth off of the exposed shield, Tomas nods to the others, argues the need to get help with the need to avoid a panicked mob, and decides to risk it. "HELP!" Tomas exclaims, stepping towards where he hopes people will be. "Gendarme! There's been an accident!"

Tomas Eisenwald, MAN OF ACTION! wrote:"That's oddly specific." Tomas asides to young Kerrain, jealous of the boy's superior spiritual senses.

"I..had a vision in the Chapel. The sword with a hilt like the sun split the blackbirds...the twin gendarmes. " Kerrian said, before Tomas had a chance to fully away. "Something though...something attacked me. It didn't kill me..but it hit me hard enough to let me know it could."

The Tessier Gallery, Quartier Savant, Port-a-Lucine; March 11th, 770, 7:45 PM
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Kerrian wrote:Kerrian cast an accusing stare at Mme Chastel's porcelin children, as if to say "What did you see, what did you see that your painted mouths won't dare speak."

She's dead.

The whisper was on the very edge of consciousness, a thin, childish voice from within the room. The room was well lit, with several lamps burning and a stove providing heat, but the light was dimmer now. Only the eyes of the dolls were truly illuminated, glass eyes that reflected the light.

She's dead. Killed her. Death is dead. She's dead. Dead. Dead...

Other voices joined the chorus, soft, like children who whispered behind their teachers back. The gold on the hilt of the Sword of Leon looked almost molten in the dim light.

Death is dead. Death is dead. Killed her. Shouldn't. Couldn't. Killed her. Dead. Death is dead. Dead. Dead. The voices rose now, high-pitched and piping, ascending in volume. Blue light glinted off the eyes of the dolls. Dead. Killed her. Death is dead.

The Sword of Leon nearly glowed in the half-light, and the corpse of Marie Chastel shuddered. Her mouth snapped open, the jerky movement of a marrionette, and no living thing. Then, she screamed.

It was a sound which one could not describe, a pitched keening that shuddered through your body and reverberated in your bones. It was a sound filled with loss and pain, raw emotion that simply could not be contained.

The child-voices now joined in the scream, and had it continued you might have gone mad. The pressure built against your minds... and stopped dead still, even as your bodies burned and sweat coated your skin. The screaming continued, but no longer did it press against you.

It continued for how long one could not say. It felt eternal, but no more than a minute, perhaps. Then there came a moment when it could be born no more. In that same instant, the screaming stopped.

...dead. A little girl's voice filled the silence, and then the blue light faded from the eyes of the myriad dolls. The Sword of Leon was covered with a patina of dirt and grime, as though it had been left in a gutter for centuries.

Silence reigned.

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Footsteps sounded from down the corridors, coming in response to Tomas's call and Chastel's more exotic cry. A half-dozen guards in the discreet clothing of the Tessier Gallery, led by the young M. Tessier, with Councilor LaGrange at his side. Trailing behind them, well-armed and curious, was Ambassador Marcos Vedarrak and his shadow, the efficient Lieutenant Jaeger.

"What...?" Was all Claude LaGrange said. It was all he needed to say.

Surprise and a strange blase warred in Kerrian's mind for a moment, before settling in to a rather distressing You talk to spirits, this is going to be normal for you. Welcome to the rest of your life. Sucks to be you, huh?

"Mme Chastel has been killed. Whomever did this has significant magical potency." A rather succinct answer to LaGrange's rather succinct question.

The young M. Tessier got a bit more questioning however. "Who put up the wards that are around the gallery? And would they respond to a breach from inside? If so, whomever put them up is probably going to get a response soon, unless that was all just an illusion." Kerrian frowned. "I..don't know enough about how those work..so I can't say if what that was could be reproduced with one."

A moment's pause as Kerrian looked back into the scene of the crime. "Someone who can actually talk to people...keep the guests calm. It wasn't..well..it wasn't the Jeweled Black Beast...it was more raw, more untamed. The more people get agitated...well, if it wasn't an illusion...it might go after more people."

Low Mordentish"Did she practice magic? The dolls eyes could be the gems...and do you see anything that might be cherries? I tasted cherries. No...I know that doesn't make any sense..Why is Chastel death? And why isn't there more blood?" A barrage of questions..and oddly perhaps answers as Kerrian then began to pace in place, trying to think of answers to questions that lived somewhere in a realm several nations over from things like conventional logic.

"Hi." Tomas says, closing his eyes and breathing. There we go, that's better. "Things've gone poorly. Sir, is there a good reason for everyone to leave? I can announce it."

"You seem a man of unusual skills, my Borcan associate." Ambassador Vedarrak murmured. His own words, cultured and smooth in isolation, nevertheless had the subtle rasp of military authority behind them when compared to the Councilor's. "An arcanist like the Councilor, or a mere dabbler like myself?"

"A dabbler at best, although even that would be too generous a description." Agale replied "I simply find it wise to keep abreast of current trends in various fields."

It was a very clean murder scene, in large part because the sword, with its golden sunburst hilt, had been left in body. Mme. Marie Chastel had found the Sword of Leon. Or possibly the other way around.

If Agale made any show of surprise at finding Chastel deceased, it was conveniently hidden by the mask. He did do a little mental arithmetic. Let me see. Given the state of the unfortunate gendarme patrol earlier today and now this, by the end of tomorrow all of the stolen relics ought to be recovered with only say another dozen deaths.

"Was that all too unnerving performance the magical build up you sensed? If not, I would anticipate a trap of some sort to trigger upon entrance to the room or handling of the sword." Mr. Agale said matter of factly as though he were commenting on the weather. With more urgency in his voice he said "While not optimistic, I'm not terribly inclined to take the word of animated effigies at face value. Is there any hope of reviving her?"

"There are only two plausible explanations for these displays. Either some bizarre eldritch ritual is being performed which requires a series of unusual sacrifices or these killings are intended as a message. If, as I suspect, the latter is closer to the truth then we must first determine at whom the message is directed before we can determine the identity and motives of the perpetrator. Since our involvement was incidental and as I understand it, divination magic to see future events is rare and impractical, we can rule out most of our persons as the intended target. The only agency who has predictably been informed of the crimes is the gendarme itself and through it, certain members of the nobility. Given the opportunity, I think I might be calling upon Councilor Chantreaux on the morrow if anyone would care to join me."

A moment's pause as Kerrian looked back into the scene of the crime. "Someone who can actually talk to people...keep the guests calm. It wasn't..well..it wasn't the Jeweled Black Beast...it was more raw, more untamed. The more people get agitated...well, if it wasn't an illusion...it might go after more people."

"The wards are the doing of Councilor LaGrange. This means that either the assailant is at least his equal in magical skill or that the guilty party is among the party-goers." Agale paused, letting the implications of the latter sink in. Turning to Tessier he continued "Sir, although I would find it highly unlikely that the guilty party yet remains on the premises, I would strongly recommend that departing revelers be discreetly analyzed for residual magic."

There also rests a third possibility that LaGrange himself is complicit, he thought to himself.