Mists over the Musarde [IC]

[steveflam]

Norzak accepts the package as if it was a delicate flower. Placing it in his lap, he wriggled his fingers a few times, as if he was deciding the best way to open it. Looking at the young woman, he merely said "Thanks."

Then he picked it up and brought it to his nose and sniffed. Then he weighed it in his hands. Yet again he lay it in his lap. Eyeing it with determination, he finally laid a hand on the wrapping and ever so carefully opened the package, wondering what he'd find inside.

[ewancummins]

The package smells of liquor and something sweet, a scent that seems oddly familiar.
It weighs several pounds, so whatever's inside must be fairly heavy- not likely a paper thank-you note or an embroidered napkin.

Opening it, you find......




a fruitcake. Ah, but this is not just any fruitcake- it's a dwarven fruitcake, just like Norzak's mum used to make! The dark, massy, loaf is slightly sticky. A distinctive rummy odor emanates from its every pore. Blocks and wedges of dully glistening fruit can be seen partially buried in its slablike surfaces, like crystals embedded in a lump of rock.

Wherever did this human girl find a proper dwarf bakery here in Pont-a-Museau?


Evangeline waits expectantly, looking at Norzak as if hoping for some sign of his approval.

[steveflam]

Norzak's eyes open wide. He looks at the fruitcake, then at Evangeline, then back to the fruitcake. "Where did you...." he mutters and slowly , Norzak's mouth cracks up into a .... smile! "Jess like me mum used ta make....." He breaks off a tiny piece of this dwarvish treasure and brings it to his mouth and chews it slowly, savoring his most favorite treat. Well that's not counting a good dwarvish ale. "Missy I dinna know where you got this here, but ye've got me thanks" he tips his fingers to her in a salute. "Now ye've got ta show me this here bakery in tha mornin!" He moves off to a quiet corner and merely eats another little piece of his gift, mumbling to himself, but smiling!

[ewancummins]

Evangeline smiles brightly.

''Oh, I'm so happy you like it, mesieur Norzak! Of course I will show you the bakery tomorrow. ''

Denys rises to his feet, perhaps a bit usnteadily from his intake of wine, and addresses the party.

'' Thank you so much for honoring me with your presence here tonight, gentlemen. Again, I invite you to remain here for the night. It is late, and the streets can sometimes be unsafe at night- as well you know. My servants have prepared accomodations for each of you.

Tomorrow morning, I have business to which I must attend, and after that I prepare for the grand masque to be held at the end of the week. I'm certain I can manage an invitation for any of you who wish to accompany myself and Evangeline. All the elite of the town will be in attendance, and it is the social event of the season. Not to be missed, no, not to be missed...''

At her father's mention of the masque, Evangeline looks over at Sir Cirdan, blushes faintly, and looks away demurely, casting her attention towards the night view of the garden through an open window.

[ewancummins]

Meanwhile, elsewhere in Pont-a-Museau...

Between two ramshackle mansions, long since fallen into ruin, lies the pauper's cemetary. Here are buried the city's poor and forgotten. Around this forsaken plot of ground stands a sagging stone all covered in creeping nightshade. A single open corridor provides egress from the street. The gate that once hung there has rusted away, leaving only a pair of corroded hinges hanging loosely from the stones. Within the yard, the lake of upkeep is even more evident. In place of the nobly carved marble headstones and vaults of the wealthy, the pauper's cemetary has only piles of rubble and hastily erected wooden poles to denote the final restings places of its inhabitants. Clumps of sickly yellow grass sprout between the stones and along the forlorn pathways. Here and there, a token may be seen atop a humble gravesite- a child's doll or a bunch of wilted flowers.

One grave lacks even a humble cairn or wooden mast as a marker. No flowers have been left by the poor man's family. Only this evening did the gravediggers deposit the site's inhabitant. The freshly turned soil exhales strange vapours into the night air.



A man enters the cemetary alone and on foot. His black cloak swirls about him in the moonlight, so that an onlooker[ were there any such present at this unholy hour] might imagine him to be a great bat, swooping over the boneyard in search of prey.

The lone man pauses at the fresh and unmarked grave. He bends a knee and snatches up a handful of earth with a long, narrow hand. Holding it to his nose, he inhales deeply.

[Adam]

The mention of a party of rich potential patrons proves enough to draw Bennedict out of his train of thought long enough to mumble "Certainly, yes, I'd be pleased to attend."

The acknowledgment of his host out of the way, the archivist was free to return to examining the items. More mysteries, he thought, mysteries upon mysteries. And some of them quite a bit more dangerous than I particularly prefer. He cast a nervous sidelong glance back to the mirror, images of a blue eyed woman calling to him again for a moment before his gaze turned back to the table. Shaking his head to clear it, he picked the piece of parchment up from the tabletop and unrolled it, staring at the symbols and trying to divine some meaning.

[ewancummins]

Evangeline excuses herself and retires to her chambers for the night, casting a coy glance over her shoulder at Sir Cirdan as she departs.

Denys gets to his feet and announces he is likewise going to rest.
''The evening has been altogether too short, my friends.''

Servants arrive to direct those of you who choose to spend the night to your chambers, should you wish to sleep. If anyone is still hungry, wishes a bath, needs a candle,etc the servants will provide for that, as well.

[Adam]

"Incabulos..." Bennedict mumbles, squinting at the scroll. "Who is Incabulos?"

When a servant comes by to ask Ben if he needs anything, he asks for an ink pot and a pen, flopping a dog eared, weatherbeaten pocket journal onto the table and flipping to a blank page towards the back.

[Le Noir Faineant]

Cirdan bows silently to Evangeline, then uncomfortably steps from one foot to another.

Incabulos... I know that name... Back from home...

"Bennedict... I think I know that word you just said. From my home, in Darkon. I think it was..."

[Adam]

Bennedict's eyebrow arches as he sets the quill down carefully on the table and removes his glasses. "Indeed? Perhaps you'd care to elaborate."

[ewancummins]

Ambrose, a young serving-man, brings Ben his inkpot and pen. He also sets a pitcher of water out, should anyone need a drink. All the lights in the house have been extinguished, save for four candles in silver candlesticks, which stand atop the dining room table. The effect is that you all sit in a wavering pool of light in the midst of the great darkened house.

Ambrose begs you l;eave to go into the other room an lay down awhile-
''I'll be on my feet in an instant, if you call,'' he promises. He draws up a couch upon which to take his rest.

[steveflam]

Norzak grabs two tankards of ale before heading to his guest room.

[ewancummins]

[for Norzak]

The guest room is small, but well-appointed. A sturdy wooden bed, topped with heavy, soft blankets and feather pillows dominates the far side of the room. Next to this stands a little night table. A chamberpot sits at the foot of the bed. Above the bed is a window, the shutters open to admit the night breezes.

[steveflam]

Norzak removes the matress and places it on the floor. He packed it with his hands a few times before finally satisfied he sat cross legged on it. He downed both ales quickly and rubbing his belly, he bleched rather loudly. He took a pillow and placed it under his head. Laying back, he closed his eyes and near a minute later was snoring.

[Le Noir Faineant]

Bennedict's eyebrow arches as he sets the quill down carefully on the table and removes his glasses. "Indeed? Perhaps you'd care to elaborate."

Cirdan seems to hesitate for a moment, perhaps a bit intimidated by the scholar's direct addressing.

"Near Nevuchar Springs, were I grew up, people used to tell tales of a demon with that name. A spirit of plague with skeletal hands, that brought pestilence.
- This superstition is farily common among humans there; when they eat chicken, they spare two bones and put them in their chimney, forming a small bone cross. That is said to keep Incabulos away."

Cirdan reaches out for his glass of wine. "Maybe the artififact is Darkonian, then."