Café de Nuit

Lia remains mostly quiet during the lavish meal, except for two occasions. At the very start, she sighs and says: "I did not expect to be back here anytime soon. The place has not changed." The second time she speaks is when the poultry is served. She only speaks after moving her chair well back and crossing her arms in front of her chest: "I encourage you all to eat this... stuff quickly so they can clear the platters away. I'm deathly allergic to poultry." The Mage only samples a couple of glasses of Barovian red wine; thick, heady stuff, but she drinks it in careful measure.

Once in the boat, surrounded by the eerie forest and the fog, Lia actually seems to come alive. Grimmric emerges from her hair and flutters along above the boat until the branches of the King's Wood lean too close for that sort of entertainment.

"A most convivial atmosphere for a spot of trainhijacking," Lia says, a note of mischief in her voice. "So, how do we go about it? Do we need a bit of light?" She waggles her staff, whose heel she has grounded on the bottom of the boat. The crystal does not start to glow, but it sparkles a bit more than it should in the fog.

"I'm fine." Tomas has been off since their return from their part of the mission. The swordsman is currently leaning against a tree, chewing on a blade of grass and glaring at a bird's nest. "And haven't you had enough of that, Lia?"

M. Prescott wrote:He stayed quiet on the boat ride and stayed near the center of the group, as if trying to get lost in the crowd. It was hard to do on a boat like this, though. The pharmacist fidgeted constantly, as if he was uncomfortable being so out in the open, as it were.

Sitting directly next to Celeste didn't help. The unavoidably close quarters had led Mlle. Viardot to notice the apothecary for the first time in quite a while, which had in turn led to a protracted conversation about gout (Celeste's Uncle Hughes's; occasional; treatments thereof). Consequently, M. Prescott had the unique experience of being complimented on his pharmaceutical craft twice per paragraph, by a person who clearly would not have known pharmaceutical craft if it jumped up and bit her in the face. Whether or not this was morale-boosting was anyone's guess.

It also didn't help that Celeste was among the most conspicuous people on the craft. The train-hijacking outfit was apparently targeted at vigilantes who want to look snappy for the papers the next morning: there was a lot of silver filigree, a rather low-cut bodice, and an adorable domino mask of the sort that made the wearer look less anonymous.

And a parasol. Celeste was very insistent about the parasol.

Prof. Mourneswaithe wrote:"So, how do we go about it? Do we need a bit of light?"

"Oh, do instruct me upon the proper procedure!" Mlle. Viardot was far more enthusiastic about this than she had the right to be. "I have acquired a pry-bar. Should it become necessary."

The pry-bar was probably lavender-scented. She hadn't taken it out yet, but it was just a guess.

Mercator had made a very small amount of polite small talk during dinner--mostly because the conversation was taken up by a rather long and hair-raising explication of what his housemates (including a pair of now-elsewhere and apparently little-missed Hazlani churchmen--perhaps the crowning bizarre touch) have been up to for the last few months. He now sits in the stern of the boat, dressed--as he always is--in black, and turning his cane slowly in his hands and watching the faint light play across its silver head.

At Lia's remark he looks up and gives her a rather odd look. "Convivial?" he repeats. Then, looking at Celeste with a skeptical eye, he shrugs. "Well, perhaps. Do you expect that we will reach our destination soon, Goodman Finnsen?"

DocBeard wrote:"I'm fine." Tomas has been off since their return from their part of the mission. "And haven't you had enough of that, Lia?"

"Of what? Convivial atmosphere or hijacking trains?" Lia asks. "Because the former has been in short supply of late, and the latter is something I have never done before."

The Whistler wrote:"Oh, do instruct me upon the proper procedure!" Mlle. Viardot was far more enthusiastic about this than she had the right to be. "I have acquired a pry-bar. Should it become necessary."

Lia gives Celeste a Look. Even with the veil taking the edge off, it is still a rather pointed expression. Lia's voice remains even, however: "It's a train-job we're about tonight, dear. We're not going for a spot of breaking and entering in a house. Though perhaps, depending on the Ghost Train's inner security, it might be useful for opening doors. Now. Does your fashionable selection for tonight perhaps include masks? Because I think it might be a very good idea for none of us to show our faces when we get inside the train."

Nathan of the FoS wrote:At Lia's remark he looks up and gives her a rather odd look. "Convivial?" he repeats. Then, looking at Celeste with a skeptical eye, he shrugs. "Well, perhaps."

"You must remember that I grew up in Mordent, monsieur," Lia says. "The moors were my playground when I was young. Fogs on the moor and the gloom of dusk were... some of my favourite times." The Mage smiles a little. "I had my playgrounds all to myself then, you see. Most others were too busy huddling inside by candlelight to disturb me."

Rex shifted uncomfortably next to Celeste. He never made direct eye contact with the debutante, but he watched her from the corner of his eye. Of course, she did most of the talking. Rex was a quiet man by nature and in the presence of someone as eminently social as Celeste, Rex tended to fade into the background. Still, her enthusiasm did put a faint smile on his lips, and he promised her a housemate discount if she and her family chose to buy from his shop later. He even suggested a particularly roborant elixir that should help with the gout.

Lia wrote:"You must remember that I grew up in Mordent, monsieur," Lia says. "The moors were my playground when I was young. Fogs on the moor and the gloom of dusk were... some of my favourite times." The Mage smiles a little. "I had my playgrounds all to myself then, you see. Most others were too busy huddling inside by candlelight to disturb me."

"Ah, I thought I recognized your accent," Rex murmured, "It is good to know more Mordentishfolk live in the Chateau, professor." The pharmacist pulled a case out of his jacket. "It is not a mask, but in my studies of medicines, herbs, and poultices I've learned that some powders and plants are useful costume makeup."

"In other words, you find the weather anti-convivial, and therefore evocative of nostalgia," Mercator points out, a touch sharply; he seems a little on edge. "I had in mind our evening's activity more particularly. I do not know what measures will be necessary to take control of the train, but I fear violence will be among them. It is a prospect which I find disheartening."

Falling silent, with an expression that might indicate he has said more than he meant to, he turns to scan the surrounding mists for some sign of their destination.

"Well, its a ghost train, right? So its not as if we're breaking any laws." Tomas pauses, chewing on his stalk of grass and sitting up as the boat finally passed the lovely tree he was resting against. "Well, excepting the laws of nature, but those are more like guidelines anyway."

"Speaking of guidelines; try not to damage the train itself too much when the fight breaks out." Tomas recommends in that 'i'm smiling but seriously don't do it.' way of his. "We don't know if the machine is a projection of the spirits in transit, or a spirit's personal imagio in and of itself. Either way, die floor and walls suddenly deciding we are needing to stop moving is a bit of a hurdle, ja?"

As far as facial protection goes, Tomas has wrapped a cloth, leather and metal apparatus around his face. Those familiar with the seafairing peoples of the frozen reaches would recognize it as a popular insulator among the wealthier Voros for fierce winter time raids.

Kaitou Kage wrote:"Ah, I thought I recognized your accent," Rex murmured, "It is good to know more Mordentishfolk live in the Chateau, professor." The pharmacist pulled a case out of his jacket. "It is not a mask, but in my studies of medicines, herbs, and poultices I've learned that some powders and plants are useful costume makeup."

"To each their own, good neighbour," Lia says, inclining her head to Rex. One hand dips into the folds of her cloak and brings out an oval of black felt, lightly dusted with glitter. "A trifle theatrical for my own tastes," she says as she dons the mask, "but it was a present from the girls at the Symphony. This seems as good a time as any to use it, since I do not intend to visit any royal balls in the foreseeable future."

Nathan of the FoS wrote:"In other words, you find the weather anti-convivial, and therefore evocative of nostalgia," Mercator points out, a touch sharply; he seems a little on edge. "I had in mind our evening's activity more particularly. I do not know what measures will be necessary to take control of the train, but I fear violence will be among them. It is a prospect which I find disheartening."

"I understand," Lia says. "Violence is deplorable, even when it becomes necessary. Now if memory serves, the usual method of hijacking a train requires either the blocking or destruction of its rails -- but we need the thing to move. Do we have some way to convince the train's driver to stop?"

To the surprise of many, Nerit did much of the talking at dinner. No one had seen her so voluble before, but her words and explanations were precise in manner. She had thought about events. Perhaps even written them down. There were a few places in which she went quiet, letting others comment on the experience. Indeed, she never interrupted when someone else began.


Now, on the boat, Nerit was again quiet. It seemed discussion no longer behooved her. Once she smiled over at Rex from her place behind Mercator, seeing how Celeste had entrapped him in her loquacious jaws.

The discussion of masks made her smile as well. The prospect of wearing her Darkonian habit was ridiculous for a job such as this. So, once again, she wore Katja's thick, drab clothes, only this time with the mask Celeste had lent her for the ball months ago. Pity, if they were to fight. Its feathers and beads would surely be ruined. Still, at this rate of borrowing she would either need to find income for less conspicuous attire or concede to being a mendicant.

1 Days, 1 Hours, 3 Minutes
On the banks of the Petit Musarde, Late at night on April 23rd, 770
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Mercator wrote: "Well, perhaps. Do you expect that we will reach our destination soon, Goodman Finnsen?"

"Soon," Finnsen replied, his black eyes shining like pearls. "Very soon."

Lia wrote:"Now if memory serves, the usual method of hijacking a train requires either the blocking or destruction of its rails -- but we need the thing to move. Do we have some way to convince the train's driver to stop?"

"Getting on is the easy part," the boatman said, with a flash of white teeth. He stood up as the boat gave a light thump. Looking down, you could see the bow had struck the misty riverbank. Finnsen stepped off, not even bothering to moor the boat in place; it stayed, rocking gently back and forth in the water current. The boatman took his dim lantern and walked into the woods, the poor light proving well enough for him to see by. Even then, he tended to trip and stumble over the massive, tangled roots, hidden by the dark and the mists. He was not so graceful on land.

The mist began to thin as you picked your way through the forest, thick foliage blocking your path. On the river, you had heard the quiet but omnipresent sounds of nature: insects, night birds, the fluttering of bats, the rustle of bigger things. But as you moved further inward it quieted, until all that could be heard was the sound of the air - like a rush of steam.

The Ghost Train was here, sitting deep in the Dementlieuse wilderness. You did not see it, through the trees, as you approached. You simply arrived at a clearing, and it was there.

It looked much as any train, had that train been forged from the Mists themselves instead of steel. The wheels were set on no track you could discern, Mist pouring forth from them like steam. A brilliant light beamed forth from the front of the engine, and yet the world seemed no brighter for it. You could still make out the letters engraved on the ghostly nameplate: No. 5 Lamplighter

One of the cab car doors slid open, mist pouring from the train floor as it did. Inside you saw... a normal looking train car, still as new as the day it had been finished. The walls were lit with gas lamps, and the seats were covered with red velveteen. Only the passengers were different - cold, black shades, their twisted, half-present forms sitting or standing just as their living counterparts would.

In front of you was the conductor, you could only assume. For he wore a conductor's hat, welded out of scrap iron and steel. It was set upon a face not unlike a welding mask, save that in place of a visor, there were two circular, metal "eyes". Thick bands of black metal formed his torso, curled around upon each other to imitate a suit. If there was a man within that mechanical shell, you could see no trace of him.

The conductor held out one hand, gloved in gears and metal, for payment.

This was one of those situations where no real amount of preparation existed to adequately prepare oneself. So instead of making some likely fatal social gaffe, Kerrian looked to Finnsen and some of the more worldly members of their little train hijacking excursion, ready to follow their lead.

Never mind the conductor was INCREDIBLY creepy.

Neo wrote:The conductor held out one hand, gloved in gears and metal, for payment.

"Hello!" said Celeste.

23 on Arcana, if nobody tells me how to handle this situation without dying.

Mercator steps forward, hands the mechanical man two lunars, and steps up to the train, his face drawn and his motions betraying a certain amount of tension as he boards.

Rex felt odd. On one hand, a giddiness brimmed just beneath the surface. On the other, he wasn't sure what was going on. He still wondered how in the hell he got on this little expedition. But he handed over his lunars and climbed on board...

...And promptly vanished.

Stealth 28.
Perception 17 to cast a general look around for anything of note.