Café de Nuit

Chateau Malchance, Quartier Marchand, Port-a-Lucine; Morning of April 21st, 770
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"Mr. Mauganson! Why, my dearest Mr. Mauganson! You must come down and let me share this wonderful news!"

There were, in this world, a group of people colloquially known as "Morning People" by those around them. These people had the happy natures of being able to rise in the morning without the normal sluggishness that came with being roused from slumber. They were often bright, cheerful, productive, and utterly despised by everyone who did not share their chipper attitude. Regardless of whether or not you were a morning person, you found that you were now quite awake at this early hour. Something about Madame Loiseau's voice managed to carry through walls, doors, blankets, and pillows. How you felt about this depended on whether or not you were a morning person.

"Oh, Mr. Mauganson! You wouldn't believe the stroke of good luck we've just had! Just yesterday, I finally prevailed on dear M. Larocque about the use of his grand manor, and what do you think he said? Well, he told me that he would be most honored to allow us to use it for your charity ball! Oh, isn't he just grand? We are truly blessed, Mr. Mauganson! Larocque's manor is such a fine place, and with absolutely perfect ballrooms! I could simply burst with joy!" Madame Loiseau bubbled, clapping her hands together as she bobbed around the dining room. Professor Lessard eyed her incredulously over the top of his broadsheet, taking a moment to turn the page as she kept talking. "And of course you are all invited, my wonderful little chateau tenants! Oh! But I haven't even picked out the invitations! Well, when the time comes, you will be the first to receive them. There should be plenty of time to get them out, you know, good catering can take months to properly arrange. And your dearest landlord is of course invited as well! I was just thinking to pay him a visit, you know, and congratulate him on those remarkable essays he wrote on those terrible mages! That is character for you! That is what I call taking a stand!"

"That is not what he wrote or meant," Professor Lessard murmured under his breath, casually turning the page again.

Fortunately, Madame Loiseau appeared to be hard of hearing. "But you simply must help me with the preparations, my dearest Mr. Mauganson! There is so much to be done, and so little time to do it! Goodness knows those poor little sick dearies out in the wilderness could use a bit of charity right now. Oh, I just get teary eyed just thinking about them..."

Professor Lessard glanced over his broadsheet, then was suddenly exceedingly interested in an article on the financial mechanics of beet futures.

It was at this moment that the senior resident of the Chateau Malchance emerged from his richly decorated abode. Professor Evariste Lemercier, D.Phil, D.Arc.Sci., was not a morning person. He was in fact, drawn from his lair only by the commotion, and to a lesser extent by the prospect of food. At this apparition, Remy lowered his broadsheet slightly to take a closer look.

This was because, instead of his typically academic ensemble, Professor Lemercier was wearing a dressing gown. It was a large creation of thick silk, with a black border surrounding a main body that was a riot of color. Reds, oranges, yellows, hints of blue and green, all in elaborate geometric designs. Combined with Professor Lemercier's general body shape, it gave the sensation of being approached by a giant, ambulatory bird-of-paradise.

"Good morning, madam." Professor Lemercier said in somewhat funereal tones. He blinked at Madame Loiseau a few times, trying to discern why, exactly, this loud person had interrupted his sleep. Remy ducked back into the reading of his newspaper, a small smile on his lips. This promised to be entertaining.

"Why Professor, it is an honor to meet you, why I was just thinking of your Barovian Festival and what an absolutely wondrous work that was, such a shame that it was lost in the Gallery." Madame Loiseau said brightly, gazing about her with a kind of wide-beam adoration. "Why I know just the thing, Professor. I was just talking about Mr. Mauganson's wonderful idea for a charity ball, and it would be absolutely perfect if we could have some of your paintings to grace the ball, maybe a series of scenes depicting the harvest, strong yeomen farmers threshing hay, to put people in the right mood to contribute to the upkeep of Dementlieu's poor and deprived citizens."

Professor Lemercier favored Loiseau with a basilisk gaze. He had just been woken up, he hadn't had his breakfast yet, and he did not do paintings to order for anyone except old friends. Loiseau, probably to general dismay, did not turn into stone.

"I shall take it under consideration, madam." Lemercier said, then shuffled off towards the kitchen, gesturing for Favonius to make coffee.

"Well." Professor Lessard pouring oil on the fire as diplomatically as he could, a mischevious smile on his lips. "With everything going on right now I'm certain that the farmers would appreciate any kind of help they can get."

"Why, I know just the thing," Madame Loiseau said brightly, her previous teary-eyedness clearing up very quickly. "What these poor dears is someone to cook them a nice, hot bowl of soup. There is simply nothing better than a good meal for getting over a nasty little bout of illness."

Normally, Eisenwald was something of a morning person yourself. In certain regions of the world you had to be aware as soon as you woke up, or you were what the vernacular refers to as "kibble", and Tomas's on again off again quest of the past decade demand he visit almost all of them. This morning was a little different however.

Why? None of your business, that's why.

What this means is that instead of being there to laugh boomingly and pester Remy about the last time they were in Barovia, Tomas gives a strangled yelp, and there is the sound of someone hacking an expensive reading lamp in half from his room, followed by the gentle sound of fierce swearing in Lamordian. (It should be noted that Lamordian, as a language, is oddly well suited for swearing in, possibly because it originally developed as a way for tribesmen to warn each other about when the brain eating fish monsters were attacking.*)

There's a bump, more grumbling, another bump, a "WHIP!" and the sound of a large man who slept in his armor bouncing down the stairs. "Ver!" SMACK! "Dam!" WHAM! "Mit!" WHOM! "Los!" tinkle!.

"Vhom." Tomas looks up from his position on the floor, perhaps blaming Remy for his ridiculous predicament and embarrassing dress(Last night's clothes and a half tied on breastplate) "Thought it vas beink good idea to leaf svippery kat toy on narrow stairkaze? I mai beink destroyink dem." Pulling his hat back on properly, Tomas straightens out his accent a bit, and says, "Hallo Mrs. Loiseau." with something resembling his usual gentlemanly air.

Footnotes:
*: See, "The Living Bathysphere" and "In The Hands Of The Mad Rani" for further details, available from your friends at Schultess Publications and at finer booksellers everywhere.

Lia comes stalking down the stairs, her ubiquitous staff already in the crook of her arm, despite the fact that she is still wrapped in a dressing gown. A change has been made there: a dark crystal the size of a baby's fist has been affixed to the top of Lia's staff. The sullen red glow at the center of the thing is no more cheerful than the expression on Lia's face at being disturbed this early.

"Is there another newspaper?" is the first thing she asks when spotting Remy, ignoring Madame Loiseau until she starts spouting her dribble about a hot bowl of soup being just the thing for plague-worried farmers. The Mage briefly turns her back on the garrulous noblewoman, a series of expressions passing over her face behind the veil. Some of them hint at thoughts of boiling oil and dog whips.

When she has her face back under control, Lia turns to Madame Loiseau and speaks in a careful tone: "Perhaps they would be more comforted by medecine, Madame. Medecine and licensed physicians, to be sent around and help care for those afflicted. Food in large quantities would, of course, assuredly be welcome as well. Excuse me."

Lia departs for the kitchen, where she growls in a low tone: "If I do not have a cup of sweetened tea within the next five minutes, I am likely to go back into the living room and cast my new fire spell on that woman ... And it is rather early to be committing murder, so please, get me my morning tea, Favonius, if you would be so kind."

As if in response to the commotion caused by the house guest and the banging of pots in the kitchen, a groan emenated from somewhere in the direction of the dining room. Of course old houses such as the Chateau, all have their own noises caused by settling of the structure, but in this case the groan was follwed by a serious of hacking coughs and other less polite noises as the house's resident lush extricates himself from his makeshift bed under the dining table.

Stretching the kinks out of his back, Nicholas pats his unruly hair into some sembalance of order, attempts to smooth his rumpled clothes and ambles into the kitchen looking somewhat pale with green around the edges. "Coffee s'il vous plait" he manages to utter in a hoarse voice in Favonius' direction, whilst providing Lia with a watery smile and nod.

There isn't much more conversation forthcoming from the poet at this hour and with such a huge hangover, so coffee in hand and smoked glasses firmly in place he collapses on the nearest chaise longue. Sipping slowly he gazes slightly vacantly at the harpy with the shrieking voice, trying to judge what was so important that he was bestirred from unconcsiousnes on such a comfortable piece of carpet.

Cyrus stormed into the living room, wooden practice sword in hand. He turned and barked something outside in Vaasi, then slammed the door. As soon as he realized others were present, he smiled.

"Good morning," he said, "I did not expect so many people up at this hour."

He wore his usual practice attire: a sleeveless tunic that exposed the coiling vipers on his arms and a long, heavy gray zarong traditional among Hazlani elites. The elder twin dutifully put his wooden sword aside and moved toward the kitchen.

"Is breakfast ready?" he asked, "My brother will be along as soon as he finishes polishing his greaves."

Breakfast for the twins, of course, was enough food to feed a small village.

There was a point where, when one has the ability to perceive two very different worlds one becomes adept at tuning out one of them. Such a talent was also rather useful in dealing with Madame Loiseau. It wasn't that Kerrian wasn't a morning person, it was simply there was a limit to the amount of exuberance he could tolerate before a certain hour.

"The one thing I'm worried about, Madame Loiseau , is the current talk of Plauge.." Kerrian had already managed to spy a glance of today's paper, and found it..troubling to say the least. With their prisoner having apparently died of the disease in questions, things became even more worrisome.

"I know things seem alright right now, I just worry if things get worse. I know it's..unseemly to talk about funds, but approximately how much do we have to work with in the planning of things?" Not being noble, Kerrian could be a little less...politely discreet about such things. "I'm wondering if perhaps a donation from that might serve as a beneficial act.." Kerrian paused "Or just make us a bigger target."

Another slaughter of a family being reported in the paper makes one wonder about that sort of thing.

Darius is a morning person in the strict and exact sense; he is only guaranteed to be awake between dawn and about one in the afternoon. Apart from that he keeps very odd hours indeed, although the mid-afternoon siesta seems to be an important part of his daily routine.

Entering a few minutes after his brother, he goes to the stove and piles his plate high with more or less everything which has the remotest claim to nutritive value; taking a seat in a quiet corner, he observes proceedings impassively.

Nerit was a night-owl to be sure, but this was not to say she hated the mornings. The only time her eyes looked heavy was if she hadn't retired to her quarters in a full twenty-four hours, and it would set her to twitches. Otherwise, however, the nun looked at morning time as she always did.

What she was doing in her room other than "sleep" before she descended the stairs was anyone's guess. There was a spot of ink at her right index finger's knuckle, clasped in her other hand.

Now, by all logic, and this should be common knowledge among Ezra-dominate domains, cenobites live by a harsh schedule. Rest is regularly interrupted for prayer and spiritual work. And Nerit was a member of the strictest order known to the Core, so there should have been no surprise at her full state of dress.

"Bonjour," Nerit said to the group at large, which may have included a rattling Lamordian and grumpy magess.
"Is there to be another ball, Monsieur Professor?" She raised her eyebrows at Lessard, and her tone implied quite plainly that Dementlieuse sure must have a lot of these.

Celeste was a morning person.

Come to think of it, though she did tend to get to bed rather early, Celeste was an evening person as well, when pressed. She did afternoons, too. It was probably most accurate to just call her a “person”, and be done with it.

Needless to say, she was awake—and, given Celeste’s most recent hobby, there were far more disruptive ways that she could have started her morning. Somewhere around April 4th, Mlle. Viardot had apparently decided it would be a splendid idea to moonlight as a concert violinist. This was a lovely concept, taken in isolation; however, it was somewhat hampered by the fact that Celeste had to learn to play the violin first.

Now, while Mlle. Viardot was a surprisingly quick study, considering, it is a known fact that nobody is pleasant to listen to after less than three weeks of violin practice. While she was considerate enough not to pursue her newfound field of study when her housemates were sleeping, you had recently become accustomed to hearing the mangled strains of “Humoresque” from the parlor at otherwise enjoyable hours of the afternoon—and to seeing a progressively more harried series of music teachers escaping through the garden. It was best for all concerned that Celeste wasn’t employing Professor Petrik for the job; someone might have gotten shot.

Thankfully, this morning saw Celeste blissfully instrument-free. Just enthusiastic.

“Mme. Loiseau? Mme. Loiseau! Oh, good morning, Mme. Loiseau! Oh, the manor of M. Leroque is a surpassingly elegant venue—and still more so at the appropriate time of season! The dear gentleman has a singular eye for interior spaces: one must have an appreciation of the visual if one is to host such an event. And, oh, upon the topic of catering! I am uncertain as to whether you have considered M. Galliard—oh, but I have tasted his savory creations at the fifty-first birthday celebration of my uncle, and I cannot recommend him highly enough!”

…Had they been comparing notes?

Chateau Malchance, Quartier Marchand, Port-a-Lucine; Morning of April 21st, 770
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There were sounds from around the house as your fellow boarders began to congregate, no doubt drawn by the spectacle that was Madame Loiseau. Alice and Richard ventured down the stairs, dressed in very formal attire, both peering over the banister to see what the fuss was about. A general crashing from upstairs indicated that Cerise was awake, had assumed she'd overslept, and was currently trying to put on her shoes while running. There was a slight disturbance at the door in the grand hallway as both Thierri and Katja tried to enter at the same time, which lead to a mild standoff for a few seconds - what either of them had been doing outside was anyone's guess. Of Professor Petrik, there was little sign, but then, Professor Petrik's habits did not seem to conform to pattern or schedule.

Celeste wrote:And, oh, upon the topic of catering! I am uncertain as to whether you have considered M. Galliard—oh, but I have tasted his savory creations at the fifty-first birthday celebration of my uncle, and I cannot recommend him highly enough!”

Nerit wrote:"Is there to be another ball, Monsieur Professor?" She raised her eyebrows at Lessard, and her tone implied quite plainly that Dementlieuse sure must have a lot of these.

"Blessed mists, good Sister, don't you know how long it's been since the last one? Weeks," Professor Lessard said, calmly turning the page on his newspaper. He had a truly impressive talent for keeping a straight face, and if there was a chance Remy was not being perfectly sincere, it was safe to say Loiseau wouldn't notice it. "I wouldn't be surprised if all the recent troubles were simply the result of pining for a ball."

"Oh! Well I should hardly think that. The people of Dementlieu have shown such admirable fortitude, especially in this horrid time," Madame Loiseau differed, showing an actual smidgen of common sense. "But I will say that a ball has a way of making everyone happy. Oh, how wonderful it will be! And the catering! Oh, I must admit I have been so lax on the catering! I'd been meaning to ask my dear boy, you know, he absolutely adores fine cuisine, and has such wonderful taste, but as soon as I am able I will run straight over to M. Galliard and speak to him about our ball. It sounds absolutely delightful!" Madame Loisaeu clapped her hands together excitedly. "Oh, you all simply must help me with my preparations, and I would certainly welcome any more fine recommendations you might have!"

Kerrian wrote:"I know things seem alright right now, I just worry if things get worse. I know it's..unseemly to talk about funds, but approximately how much do we have to work with in the planning of things?" Not being noble, Kerrian could be a little less...politely discreet about such things. "I'm wondering if perhaps a donation from that might serve as a beneficial act.." Kerrian paused "Or just make us a bigger target."

"Don't you worry your little head about such a thing, my dearest M. Mauganson! I will cover every expense for the ball myself! And I should hardly be so remiss as to neglect the little dearies when they so obviously need help!" Madame Loiseau cooed, pressing a hand to her ample bosom. "Why, we have barely even started preparations for the ball! What are they to do in the meantime? No, don't you worry about a thing. I have always made it my business to help anyone I can who is in need. And who could argue with that? I'm sure that some of those ill-minded anarchists will do their best to paint it ill, but I believe that shows a certain meanness of spirit that is quite ingrained. Are we to let such people to dissuade us from helping others? I certainly think not!"

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Lia wrote:Lia departs for the kitchen, where she growls in a low tone: "If I do not have a cup of sweetened tea within the next five minutes, I am likely to go back into the living room and cast my new fire spell on that woman ... And it is rather early to be committing murder, so please, get me my morning tea, Favonius, if you would be so kind."

The animated tendril of smoke, already racing about, put out a new cup and collected tea leaves for Lia. The kettle was already on the fire, and Professor Lemercier was sitting at a table in the kitchen and staring off into the distance, or possibly at the tea kettle. He tilted his head as one of Madame Loiseau's more raucous comments floated into the kitchen. "Antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem. *"

The kettle began to steam, and Favonius quickly lifted it up and provided tea, carrying the cups to their various owners. Professor Lemercier took a deep sip of his. "I begin to feel human once more. Breakfast, Favonius, if you'd be so kind."

The elemental began to work on providing breakfast, which in Lemercier's case involved three pieces of toast, several eggs, thick slices of bacon, milk, honey, butter, more sweet tea, and an orange. The professor came by his bulk honestly.

The little wisp zipped by Thierri entering into the kitchen, who watched it work with some interest. It didn't look like Madame Loiseau had awakened him, by virtue of it looking like he hadn't slept at all. The young man at the very least looked better than Nicolas, this time around - which was not saying much - but there was a grey cast to his skin and a dark look about his eyes."Professeurs, monsieur," he greeted, still trailing Favonius with his eyes. "If I may pose a question?"

"It is the mission of both scholars and educators to educate whenever the opportunity may arise," Lemercier replied, tucking into his bacon with a knife and fork. He smiled for a moment. "After all, Τί τάχιστον; Νούς. Διὰ παντὸς γὰρ τρέχει.** Let us try and speed yours."

"It is obvious that your companion possesses both an animate nature and an intellect. I wish to know if he is alive in a comparable sense to a man or an animal," Thierri said, experimentally holding a finger in the path of the smoke elemental. Favonius curved around it while proceeding around the kitchen.

"A question that quite a few scholars have shed ink over." Prof. Lemercier said, musing. "But the majority opinion that's arisen in the last decade is that the answer to your question is 'yes'."

"They would, then, be capable of returning through the veil, as one of the living dead," Thierri said, still darkly watching Favonius swirl around.

Lemercier raised his bushy eyebrows, as he drained his teacup. "This is a very peculiar line of questioning, my young man."

*Ancient DarkonianIn the good old days, children like you [Madame Loiseau] were left to perish on windswept crags

**Archaic SithicanWhat is the fastest? The mind. It travels through all media."

"Of course they can," Lia replies without hesitation. "There are undead elementals of various sorts. In addition, there are such unpleasant creatures as Weirds, which exist to feast on negative energies. Grave elementals may not be quite undead, but are closely linked with death and the grave -- and decidedly unpleasant to have to deal with, believe me on this. And there are plenty of other elementals associated with death and undeath. This is known. Why do you ask?"

"Is there to be another ball, Monsieur Professor?" She raised her eyebrows at Lessard, and her tone implied quite plainly that Dementlieuse sure must have a lot of these.

"Well, they're not quite as memorable as Darkonian fare, to be sure. But there is something to be said for quantity." Tomas drawls, having heard his fair share of stories about Magos Rex's sadistic taste in entertainment; or rather, enough stories from enough sources that Eisenwald figures there's some truth there.

Maybe he'll investigate it, Tomas thinks, when he's tired of living.

Speaking of deadly danger, Tomas rubs his eyes as his internal 'Lia is whispering unholy secrets men were not meant to know.' alarm goes off. Well, okay, its not that specific, but this morning feels way too pastoral. Something's going to go down.

"...no, 'something' isn't getting you a new velvet hilt wrapping." Tomas murmurs towards the friend on his hip, rolling his eyes at the sword's insatiable vanity. "That cross guard you insisted on to go with the new belt wiped me out this month, I'll have you know."

Shaking his head(After all, it was a bit silly talking to his sword.), Tomas shamelessly starts reading over Remy's shoulder. "Remember the last time we were in Barovia, mich freuind?" Tomas asks quietly, smirking boyishly at the idea of such frivolity as that little adventure.

Nerit gave Tomas a dull, unimpressed look. Darkonians took their king very seriously, as well as his entertainments. Nothing could be compared to the severity of their adversaries, the Falkovnians, however, and so Nerit found the comment unreasonable.

She watched as he apparently spoke to his sword, nonplussed. With a confused blink, Nerit returned to the flapping bird, Madame Loiseau.

"Preparations," the nun repeated. "Mm...for charity," she added, begrudgingly. For some reason she looked quite unexcited. Could it be because the last ball was a total disaster?


Pssst, that is the real defintion of nonplussed!

Celeste had briefly scurried up to her room for about half a minute after Mme. Loiseau had invited her advice, and had returned with a small notebook filled with what were apparently catering recommendations. The thickness and comprehensiveness of the item suggested that Celeste already had a notebook full of catering recommendations for exactly this sort of situation, which now that you thought about it was something that you wouldn't put past her.

She pressed the notebook enthusiastically into Mme. Loiseau's hands, then picked up the conversation as if she had never left it.

Mme. Loiseau wrote:"And who could argue with that? I'm sure that some of those ill-minded anarchists will do their best to paint it ill, but I believe that shows a certain meanness of spirit that is quite ingrained. Are we to let such people to dissuade us from helping others? I certainly think not!"

While she might well have been more realistic about the motivations of possible anarchists than her visitor was (which wasn't saying a whole lot), she could certainly sympathize with the sentiment.

"Hear hear, Mme. Loiseau! One must always maintain an optimistic attitude in such trying times--after all, it is often the best course to lead by one's own example!"

While usually an early riser, the bleary eyed figure which shambled its way out of Mr. Agale's chambers bore little resemblance to the usually dapper tollere. He made his way down the stairs with a plodding gait, clearly hung over. Momentum and the promise of coffee propelled Agale across the hall towards the dining room, but the shrill of Loiseau's voice detoured his course off to the right through the common room. He makes an effort to muffle his profile so as not to attract attention to his disheveled state.

Stumbling into the kitchen, he mumbles a chorus of pleasantries and apologies to those present. Cognizance only returns to Agale after half a cup of coffee has been downed. "Why ever would someone want to create such a thing? If this business with the University is any indication, keeping ordinary elementals under control is tough enough. Why add the risks of necromancy to the mix for no practical benefit over a more conventional conjured servant?"

Stealth 17 to void Loiseau's notice.