Café de Nuit

A clearing seven miles east of Morfenzi, Falkovnia
August 31st, 761, 4:05 AM; Day 166 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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The Mists cleared from your sight. For an eternity, or an instant, they had been your companions, crossing the land in a heartbeat that you had taken months to travel across. They had risen from the desert of Har'Akir, two days north of Muhar, enshrouding you in the sand and paradoxical fog.

Now they disappeared, and you found yourselves in the moody, dark forests of Falkovnia. It was past midnight, and a few stars were out. The Mists still swirled about the feet of your camels and horses, but now they had fallen, leaving you to the tender mercies of the Kingfuhrer's demesnes. It was raining, a steady, miserable drizzle that came down without regard for your comfort or warmth.

You were not alone.

Gathered in the clearing where you arrived were four mounted figures. They made for an ominous cohort, this had to be admitted. In the darkness, their horses seemed near black in color, and each wore heavy cloaks to shield themselves from the rain. Here, in the night, they seemed like a collection of black-hooded reapers here to ferry your souls to a less pleasant abyss than Anubis's judging domain.

Still, they had their differences. The nearest man to you was quite nearly a giant, a man fully as large as the still comatose Captain Harris, his dark hair plastered to his scalp by the rain. He held the reins of his horse in huge, ham hands, and there was an odd gleam in his eyes as he watched the Mists deposit you. He did not speak to you.

The second man was a tall, ascetic type in scholar's robes, in his early seventies easily. He reminded you of nothing so much as a carnivorous stork or heron, all long limbs and hook nose. He looked a little like Devereux, perhaps, but without the professor's kind and gentle nature. There was nothing kind or gentle in this man.

He argued with a third man, a handsome Vistana with striking features and glittering near-black eyes. He wore clothing of high fashion, and there was a sword-cane by his waist, and he seemed to enjoy the rain the least of his companions. But it was not a friendly smile that he gave you.

The last man, him you recognized. Or some of you did, at any rate. Pierre Lacomte, the Curator of Dementlieu's Great Library. A somewhat puffy man in his sixties, with jowly cheeks and a fringe of white hair peeking out from beneath his hooded cloak. Lacomte was a prominent man, an alumnus of Dementlieu's University, and not at all the sort of man to be waiting with three rather dubious companions in a rainy field in Falkovnia.

Jervis glared at the huge, hulking man and touched his left hand, the one that didn't bear the massive spiked gauntlet on it, to his sword. The big man watched, and said nothing.

"Ambassador, good to see you." Lacomte said pleasantly. He guided his horse closer to the company of Falkovnians. "Hope you've had a pleasant trip?"

"It's been better, but it was a success." Vedarrak said, amiably enough. "You'll have to fill me in on the news, I expect I'm out-of-date on Port-a-Lucine's recent social happenings."

"In due time, my friend, in due time." Lacomte answered, waving it away. Unlike his three comrades, he seemed a friendly enough man. But then again, you had met many people on this trip who seemed friendly. "Well, since we're all going in the same direction, mind if we accompany you to Port-a-Lucine? The more the merrier."

"A very good idea." Vedarrak said, glancing at you. "Since we seem to have stumbled across this Expedition, may as well give them an honor-guard home."

"Exactly my thought." Pierre Lacomte said. "Exactly my thought."

Over the coming days you would notice that each of the four men bore the black snake-ring upon a finger.

The University of Dementlieu Campus, Port-a-Lucine, Dementlieu
September 15th, 761, 3:16 PM; Day 181 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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Thus enlarged, the company proceeded through Falkovnia. Vedarrak avoided the larger cities and towns in favor of traveling the countryside with the four odd companions added to his entourage. If anything, the Falkovnian Kommandant seemed more comfortable with them around, actually dismissing most of his troops to return to Lekar as you passed that massive city, though you didn't enter it.

So it was that with the Expedition, accompanied by Vedarrak, Lieutenant Schiffer and an honor guard of a half-dozen mounted soldiers, and the four serpent-ringed men arrived in Dementlieu.

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"Ah, Port-a-Lucine." Vedarrak said with a wide grin as you rode into the city's outskirts on grey September afternoon. "My favorite city."

"Figures. Falkovnians always seem to want to come here." Professor Marchand-Renier said darkly. "Have to beat them away, really."

"Well, it is a beautiful city." Pierre Lacomte said, giving the Richemuloise professor a chiding glance. "We're coming up to the University campus now, if memory serves."

"Very good." Marcos Vedarrak patted the breast pocket where he held the little sack with the Eye of Anubis inside. He turned to the rest of you, favoring you with a slightly cruel smile. "Well, shall the conquering Expedition go and meet Lord de Casteele? I'm sure he'll be all agog to hear the news of your success."

'Bastards,' Lia thinks. It is fortunate that she is still masked; though she had stowed the ebony mask as soon as the Expedition appeared in thrice-cursed Falkovnia, she has retained the felt mask. Stained by blood, soot, and other things, it is still eminently capable of hiding her face. With her hood constantly drawn up, Lia looks rathera lot like she did when the Expedition first set out.

'De Casteele,' she thinks with unfettered loathing. 'The one who set us up asstalking horses and leads the thrice-cursed Brotherhood. Who set the Conspiracy among us, and lumbered us with Pelletier. Bah.'

The wizard says nothing, however. For most of the trip 'home', she has been absorbed in study, consulting with other members of the Expedition with arcane or priestly expertise whenever possible. There have been rubbings to decipher, and notes to consult, of course; it should look perfectly normal.


(OOC: In other words, Lia's been working hard on that ritual. Anyone who wants in on that bit of R&D, please say so.)

Tomas has mostly been keeping out of the way of the more scholarly members of the expedition, taking it upon himself to keep an eye on their enemies and try to come up with some kind of plan...

Unfortunately, nothing really occurs to the warrior before they reach 'home'. On the plus side, Tomas has been forced to break into the mint-flavored pipe weed, so at least the caravan smells a little better.

Otto has also been remarkably quiet through most of the trip. This can be traced, in no particular order, to:

-A generalized yet respectful dislike of Falkovnians ("poor sports, lousy tippers, unfortunate foreign policy")

-A rather more specific dislike of hard-line Fraternity of Shadows members ("possibly want to use astonishingly powerful artifact towards malign ends; turned one of my buddies' hearts to stone that one time; could explode my house from five hundred miles away")

-The fact that six months of arcane education does *not*, in fact, qualify one to develop demigod-level demon-expunging rituals, regardless of all the motivational bits in the beginning of the textbook.

-Shock. Had to hit at some point.

-Apparently, it's more difficult to introduce yourself to people who are inclined to dislike you if you can shapeshift into a wolf, spontaneously? Who knew.

So, yes: quiet. But diplomatically so.

Charles has not been particularly quiet; he has been polite to everyone (even Vedarrak) and not far from warm to Lacomte, whom he had known very slightly in the time now designated Before in his mental register. He has also spent a great deal of time knocking around at odd hours and writing a great deal in his various notebooks, including (among other things) a monograph in which he lays out the conclusion that it's just not practical to use anything like ordinary substitution ciphers when one is writing with ideographs, and there's no evidence the Akiri ever tried.

So, from a purely cryptographic standpoint, it was really just a waste of time.

He will just have to hope that his, as it were, extracurricular activities will make up for the lack.

Kuzan kept to himself and Dieter for most of the trip back. He still smiled and laughed at Dieter's antics, but the joy was subdued by the priest's exhaustion and defeat. When the Lamordian was off doing other things, Kuzan spent a lot of time riding quietly near Harris, silently mourning the man's plight. Every evening and every morning, he ritually and carefully fed the sleeping man a watery gruel, taking care not to drown him. He checked Ed's vitals and occasionally tried some kind of magic. But he knew that only one thing could save Ed now and it was something he couldn't do.

The priest remained polite, even friendly when addressed, but sometimes it seemed strained, and he rarely went out of his way to engage in small talk with anyone. He made his medical rounds each night to most people and avoided some that he thought best to leave be, especially Jervis. Everyone knew he'd heal them, no questions asked, if they came to him, so he simply left that door open.

Beneath his exhaustion, though, lay a brimming anxiousness. They were here, at Port-a-Lucine, and Kuzan was ready to go home. The priest livened up a little more once they came in sight of the city, but it was an intent, pointed anticipation, not a cheerful, laid back energy. The mess was almost done and he seemed ready to hop the first ship back to Sri Raji and leave this hellish adventure behind him.

Quiet and withdrawn would have been an easy way to describe Sascha's modd but tightly wound would be better. If anything his demeanour had grown more and more strained with every footfall on Falkovnian soil, as if the ground itself was now anaethma to the knights soul.

Not that the company helped, Sascha had had much the same reaction as Jervis to their new companions, although a grim half smile did cross the knights lips as the larger detachment of troops left.

The walls of Port-a-Lucince dont make much of an impression on the knight either, as far as Sascha was concerend they were walkign into a nest of intrigue and conspiracy casually carrying a bound demon and enjoying the attentions of a Falkovnian honour guard.

The University of Dementlieu Campus, Port-a-Lucine, Dementlieu
September 15th, 761, 3:16 PM; Day 181 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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Kaitou Kage wrote:When the Lamordian was off doing other things, Kuzan spent a lot of time riding quietly near Harris, silently mourning the man's plight. Every evening and every morning, he ritually and carefully fed the sleeping man a watery gruel, taking care not to drown him. He checked Ed's vitals and occasionally tried some kind of magic. But he knew that only one thing could save Ed now and it was something he couldn't do.

As the others began to ride towards the main University building, Kuzan felt a hand touch his shoulder, just for a moment. It was Lebrecht. The Falkovnian lieutenant had taken the entire trip rather philosophically. He was fully aware that he and his superior were the Expedition's jailers, but also, Lebrecht was their comrade-in-arms, and that was the more important distinction in the Falkovnian's mind. He bore you no ill will.

"Go on, you've done what you could." Lebrecht said gently, looking back at where Harris rode in a litter between two horses. The huge man had lost some weight since he had taken to his sick bed. "We'll take the Captain to a hospital, there must be one in this city. I'll try and find you and tell you where he is soon as we get him settled, fair?"

Flea, the Schiffer's huge black horse snorted at this moment, and the Lieutenant gave a Kuzan a comradely pat on the shoulder. "Go on, it's your moment."

================================================

Leaving the Falkovnian soldiers behind, but not (now Ambassador) Vedarrak or Pierre Lacomte or the other three serpent-ringed men, you entered the large, magnificent building that was the administrative nerve center of the University of Dementlieu.

It was certainly a large group. With the return of the conspirators, it was nearing on twenty people, and now Vedarrak and his four companions made for a group yet larger. This was also a group with enough concentrated magical and martial power to level a small town, perhaps, but that was neither here nor there.

It was also a nervous group. Sarari stalked along beside Charles not unlike a cat, her eyes watching the men with the onyx rings carefully. Samael walked in the van, looking almost cheerful, at least until one noticed the glassy, fragile quality of his smile. Beside him, Lily seemed calm, even content with her lot in life, alternatively fanning herself with the emerald fan and writing things down in her notebook. Her latest notebook, actually, she'd filled quite a few on this Expedition. Of course, then one noticed that Lily never let go of the silken fan with all of its unpleasant little devices in it. So perhaps she wasn't as calm as she seemed. Devereux also wrote, though in the spellbook that Lia had given him some weeks ago. Over the journey he and his student-turned-teacher had methodically filled the pages of that book with a variety of spikey, not-particularly-comforting sigils.

Guy did not seem calm. He seemed like a caged wolf, emotions roiling just below the surface, ready to explode at the slightest provocation. A caged animal, or perhaps a condemned man going to an execution, to judge from the cold determination in his step. Michel had none of that. Michel chatted a little too forcefully as he walked. Michel just wanted this all to end already. Jervis looked like he wanted to hurt something. Then again, Jervis always looked like he wanted to hurt something.

Remy said nothing as he walked. He just stayed near Andre and Marchand-Renier. It would have taken a perceptive man to notice the glares he sent the way of Lacomte or Vedarrak. Carter and Marchand-Renier talked together in low voices, but they had run out of ideas. To fool Vedarrak once was an achievement. To do so twice... Dieter seemed the only honestly cheerful member of the company, and even he could tell that the mood here was anything but jubilant.

Vedarrak, now Vedarrak was enjoying himself. The Falkovnian Ambassador was actually humming a little tune to himself as he walked, a little bit of one of that country's innumerable marchs. Reaching the sizeable antechamber of Lord de Casteele's office, he smiled at the secretary and said. "The Menetnashte Expedition has returned. I expect the President of the University will want to see them now?"

"Lord de Casteele is in a meeting just at the moment." The secretary, a thin man with a pinched-looking face said to the Ambassador. "He'll be with you as soon as he finishes with the Chair of the Department of Phi--"

"We're quite done, thank you." A cool voice from de Casteele's office spoke, the door opening soundlessly. No creaky hinges for the President of the UoD. "I was just getting ready to leave."

The speaker was a tall, elderly gentleman in a tweed jacket, with a beak-like nose and a disheveled fringe of white hair around his bald pate. The edge of a pair of lenses were in the jacket pocket, but either way you recognized the speaker. Lord Adrian Ramsey, the head of the philosophy department at the University of Dementlieu.



"I would like to be the first, however, to welcome the returning Expedition home." Lord Ramsey gave you a smile. It was not a nice smile. Snakes had smiles like that. He applauded you lightly. "Genuine heroes, all of you."

"Heroes?" A second voice came from the office as Lord Balfour de Casteele emerged. He was an old man, in his eighties easily, but still wiry and in good health, even if the tailcoat he wore had last been fashionable some decades ago. The crows feet around his keen eyes crinkled as he looked at you. "Why, it's the Expedition. Congratulations, congratulations. I wouldn't have believed that it could be done, but you, gentlemen, have done it."

"Philippe, fetch some wine." The secretary hurried off. Lord de Casteele looked around the room, and realizing immediately that there was no chance of fitting everyone into his office without refolding time and space, sat down in his secretary's chair, the closest to a main seat the anteroom had. "Please, sit down. Ambassador, Pierre, all of you, sit. It's a pleasure to see so many friendly faces in one room."

"That does leave me out, I believe." Lord Ramsey said slyly.

"You can sit as well." Lord Balfour said pleasantly. He looked warmly at you. "So, tell Lord de Casteele all about it. It must have been the adventure of a life time."

Lia does not really reply to lord de Casteele's greeting. Her featureless mask turns from him to professor Ramsey, to de Casteele, to Ramsey ... and she just picks a chair that is as far from either of them as she can get. Hands folded seemingly casually in her lap, the Mordentishwoman maintains her silence.

'I'd like to see ou burn,' are the words passing through her mind while she looks at de Casteele -- as well as the other men wearing the onyx ring. 'I'd like to see all of you burn. I'd like to see all of you die..' But still, she keeps her peace, and her posture looks relaxed. Her eyes are half-closed, the red hue obscured behind pale eyelashes. If anything, Lia looks ... sleepy.

And then she speaks: "I do apologize for interrupting the festive atmosphere, sir, but in the desert ... An apparition told me that my father had died. Has there perhaps been a message to that effect for me from Mordent during my absence? I would not usually trouble you with a family matter, but the question has been weighing on me."

Tomas, being a mere graduate student, lets the Professors actually tell the story, unless his opinion is asked for. Travel has obviously hardened the Lamordian, as the foolish young man now carries himself with some sort of strange dignity that wears oddly on Eisenwald's frame. Almost like he'd rather not posses this new quality.

He cannot keep himself from putting a comforting hand on Lia's shoulder, however, when she mentions her father.

For her part, Lia gently pats Tomas' hand, and does not bother to shrug it off or otherwise respond to the touch. An increase in maturity comes in many forms ...

Did he really just refer to himself in the third person? Charles thinks, with just the thinnest edge of contempt edging his thoughts. "Oh, yes," he says aloud. "I went expecting adventure, and I got all I wanted and more. A surfeit. Ezra send there be no more in the offing. The interruption of the sending-off party was hardly the tip of the iceberg. But I'm sure you know most of what happened already, monseigneur, from the reports from Expedition leaders."

Andre had been pensive the entire trip back to "civilization". Not quite the snappish and cynically surly he was during the early days of the trip, but more withdrawn and insular, as if he was thinking about something that was not quite here or there, but somewhere in the unknown middle.

"The expedition was not without its...unforeseen difficulties." Andre finally said, his voice somewhat quiet. "We lost two of our number early on, and then Professor Pelletier met a..rather unfortunate end. And unfortunately, the culprit remains at large." Andre said that last bit with a sour look. "However, tragedy has been accompanied by triumph. Beyond the primary goal of this expedition, we've also accomplished that which will certainly enrich the linguistics and history departments, as well as that of theology." Andre tried to show something akin to happiness in his affect, but his next words showed rather much why it was hard going.

"I just wish that we hadn't lost people doing so."

Anteroom to Lord de Casteelle's Office, University of Dementlieu Campus, Port-a-Lucine, Dementlieu
September 15th, 761, 3:25 PM; Day 181 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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Rock wrote:"I do apologize for interrupting the festive atmosphere, sir, but in the desert ... An apparition told me that my father had died. Has there perhaps been a message to that effect for me from Mordent during my absence? I would not usually trouble you with a family matter, but the question has been weighing on me."

"I fear I do not know. If the University would have heard anything, it would be with the postmaster." Lord de Casteelle said quietly. "Ask Phelippe. My condolences on your loss, however."

Nathan of the FoS wrote:"Oh, yes," Charles says aloud. "I went expecting adventure, and I got all I wanted and more. A surfeit. Ezra send there be no more in the offing. The interruption of the sending-off party was hardly the tip of the iceberg. But I'm sure you know most of what happened already, monseigneur, from the reports from Expedition leaders."

YalenusVeler wrote:"The expedition was not without its...unforeseen difficulties." Andre finally said, his voice somewhat quiet. "We lost two of our number early on, and then Professor Pelletier met a..rather unfortunate end. And unfortunately, the culprit remains at large." Andre said that last bit with a sour look. "However, tragedy has been accompanied by triumph. Beyond the primary goal of this expedition, we've also accomplished that which will certainly enrich the linguistics and history departments, as well as that of theology." Andre tried to show something akin to happiness in his affect, but his next words showed rather much why it was hard going.

"I just wish that we hadn't lost people doing so."

"I'd been recieving reports from you up until a month or so ago, when Professor Pelletier sent word that you had arrived safely in a monastery somewhere in the deep desert of Sebua." Lord de Casteelle said. "I sorrow to hear of his passing. He was a good man."

"Still, their sacrifices will not be forgotten." The old mage said, the black ring on his finger glinting gently in the sunlight coming from a nearby window. Lord de Casteelle looked out of the "Perhaps a statue on the grounds, to commemorate this Expedition and its lost."

"Not that the you'll need statues to remember this group, hmm?" Lord Ramsey said with an appraising look at you. "They seem rather impressive to me. After all the... artifacts they've brought back. It will advance the study of Akirology by decades. I imagine the history books will have a few words to say about this, when the time comes."

"Oh, certainly, certainly." The president of the University said with a wave of the hand. "The history books, a statue. We'll have to hold a reception, of course. It'll be the event of the season. The Council of Brilliance will be there, as well as half the greater nobility of Dementlieu. You too, Ambassador, all of you. And with the Menetnashte Expedition as the guests of honor."

"We'll hold it on Saturday, the 18th. The Council will be free that day." Lord de Casteelle said, musingly. Then, almost as an after thought. "We'll even invite you, Adrian."

"I'm touched." Lord Ramsey said with a silken smile.

"I fear..that may require a bit more security than one would want." Andre offered, getting a look much like putting one one's favorite slippers, and finding them filled with maggots. "There is a certian unpleasant factor. A Man who goes by the name John Lancaster Cavendish. He has made his plans for this fair city and it's people abundantly clear." Andre shuddered, and shook his head as if trying to clear out some unpleasant imagery.

"He combines all the worst elements of a low theater performer and a necromancer of no small talent. From what little we've been able to gather..he's got plans to create a more controlled equivalent of what happened to Il-Aluk. I lost my parents to the original. I have no desire to loose my own life, or that of the people of my home to his imitation."