Print Page - Chapter One

Caol stood silent at the top of the stairs. He breathed out a deep sigh of longing, as his gaze shifted aimlessly across the room below him. He longed for relief, to be out of this city of reminders, to be roaming free. Too much unfinished business was tying him to this place, this spot where he did not wish to stand, to a gathering he certainly did not wish to host. Empty tables were scattering in an organized pattern across the floor below, with a servant gliding smoothly from one to the next, putting everything into readiness. Caol thought of the guests that would be coming. Very few of them would be very friendly to him, and those who were would be hypocritical and patronizing.

Caol raised his eyes for a second, casting them upon the source of this trouble. Pain caused him to immediately look away. He cursed himself for being a coward, for not facing up to life as it was. Wasn't that how all this happened in the first place? Weakness, cowardice, appeasement, pandering...generations of groveling before men of higher standing had eroded the name of Johannes. It was a name that would no longer be remembered after today, except in the memories of a few. With determination, Caol turned his steps to the stairs. He threw his head back defiantly as he did so, not allowing any signs of his inner struggle to surface.

He looked every bit like the magnificent lord that he wasn't. With a polished yet forceful gait he advanced upon the central object of the room. It was upon a pedestal, along the rear wall of the hall. A cold, slightly paled face greeting him there. His father looked even better than he had in real life, and for once he looked like he really was at peace. Caol fought between bitterness and sorrow at the sight, standing stone still for several moments contemplation. He shifted his eyes to just above the casket. There was the portrait of the founder of the Johannes family. He had worked his way from humble surroundings to buy and force his way into recognition among Nyermersys' elite. It was this portrait that had inspired Caol to hope for great things all his life, and now it seemed that the promise held within the countenance of his ancestor would never be fulfilled for him.

He turned sharply away from the sight. He could not bear any more pain for now, he sought rest. Marching dejectedly, though still slightly defiantly, up the stairs he entered his bedroom. It too contained many reminders, though slightly happier ones. A book that had been a gift from his father when he was a boy, a small quilt that the mother he never met made for him before he was born, a picture drawn for him by the only woman he had truly loved. The bittersweet thoughts of nostalgia swam through his head and made him jittery. He whisked a key out its hiding place along his bookshelf, and unlocked his desk. Unlocking the largest compartment within it, he withdrew a bottle of R'unorian brandy. Expensive stuff, he'd been saving it for a while, hoping it would be a good tonic to ease him through the coming days. He poured himself a small glass as he sat down...

***

Koros continued to move smoothly among the tables, making sure that every one was polished to a shine, every decoration in perfect harmony with its fellows, and every place set with immaculate attention. He was one of the few servants left to the household, as many had left even before the death of Dagmar. They had even been forced to hire a few kitchen hands to manage the food for the funeral, since the cook and one kitchen girl had been all that had previously remained. He, Koros, was a longstanding servant in this house, and he had been a close friend to Dagmar for many years. He had even been a kind of mentor to Caol at times, and now he was trying to guide the youth through what was a very difficult experience. By now, Caol had been in his room some time, and guests were already arriving. The sun was waning outside the windows, but Koros noticed that the air was growing slightly stuffy. Must be a spell of evening humidity, he thought, how forgetful of Caol not to open a window.

He unobtrusively mounted the steps and opened the lone window on that wall of the house. It was tall and somewhat thin, about the breadth of a man's shoulders, and looked out onto a small flat portion of the roof. That boy will get himself in trouble if he keeps forgetting...well, no matter, he supposed, it will work out anyway. He quickly descended to the main room, to continue seating guests. After guiding several noble personages to their proper seats, he took advantage of a lull in the incoming traffic to station himself beside the door. Taking a piece of parchment out of his tunic, he glanced over it to ensure that all those already present were indeed on the guest list. Satisfied that there were no unwanted guest so far, he relaxed a bit, heaving a sigh of weariness. Still so much to do before the evening was over. His brow clouded over momentarily, and he withdrew the parchment once more. His eyes fixed determinedly on a set of names at the very bottom of the page, set apart from all the rest of the guests listed. This would be quite interesting indeed, he thought. Oh yes, quite the event...

Eyimon trudged up the road, and it seemed there was a slight chill in the air as he did so. The veil did make a little difficult to see out the corner of his eyes, and the loose white clothing afforded little protection against the sudden breezes that invaded the street.

Injera going down in the west must look rather spectacular from the looks of the few clouds and the painted sky. His sword belted at his side, he looked for the manor mentioned in the invitation now nestled comfortably in one pocket of his pack. Whoever in the name of the gods Dagmar Johannes had been still escaped him, but Eyimon felt a duty to visit the funeral. The man had seen fit to invite him after all, and it was coming time to return to a life of contemplation and prayer in any case. Nyermersys was on the way to the monastery where he would spend those three months.

A short while later, Eyimon espied the manor in question, slowly being flooded with guests and picked up his pace, reaching into his pack's side pocket to retrieve the piece of stiff card with the elegantly written invitation on it.
Eyimon did not resemble the other guests he had seen entering as he walked up the street, fine silks in somber colours had been the rule there, and the plain white wool made him stand out rather much from those guests as had entered before him.

As he walked up the steps to the manor, Eyimon paused a moment to look back up the street, and entered the main hall, where it seemed a servant had decided to take a momentary rest.
"Eyasha's blessing upon you neighbour,' Eyimon said as he extended his hand to the man. 'This is the house of the late Master Johannes, or am I mistaken?"

Twigga's honey-hued brows furrowed and she frowned, biting her lip as she stared rather despairedly at the parchment in her hands. It was decorated with all types of curious black marks, bendy, squiggly, and sometimes, on a whim, it seemed, suddenly turned straight. Pretty enough, but what by the Ancestors do they mean? She looked up to the face of the boy standing impatiently beside her, his clothes fancy and ornate and full of trimmings and edges and ruffles. Her dusty brown eyes filled with amazement as she gazed up at him. "What- what do it men?"

The page squinted down at her. He took on a condescending, bored manner as he pointed to the words on the invitation. "It is wi' great sadness that I in-invite you to attend the funeral of the recently passed person-age of dear old Dagmar Johannes.'" He rolled his eyes at Twigga's hopeless expression. "Lord Johannes's died, 'n' yer invited to go to 'is fun'ral."

The mullog girl bit her lower lip. She'd never even heard of this Johannes man. How did they know her? Strange customs they have here, outside of Ga-lum-be- inviting her to the funeral of a man she didn't even know. Evidently the page was bored out of his mind during Twigga's few moments of contemplative silence. He sighed unpleasantly, as if to say that he had better things to do with his time than wait on strange, pointy-teethed like herself. After his third sigh, he crossed his arms and glared at her, his greasy hair flopping into his eyes. "A'right, look, if yer gonna come, the fun'ral's at the Johannes' estate on the eleventh, at sundrown. Got it? Great." He bowed sardonically and loped away with a bored glower at the diminutive figure behind him.

Why she came, Twigga reflected now, in front of the Johannes' estate, she didn't really know. But she was used to being told what to do, and happy to do it, so she felt comfortable doing what the page and invitation had told her. A servant standing outside the manor's door accosted her, demanding to know if she was here for the funeral, and, having confirmed it, took her arm politely but sternly. With the air of one tending to an errant child, he directed her through the big doors and through a few hallways to yet another big doorway. There she was to wait, the servant firmly instructed her, until this servant, Koros, could help her.

So wait she did. Twigga stood solemnly, observing everything around her with widened brown eyes. In front of her, sticking his hand out to the servant Koros, stood a man with very light blond hair. He was well-muscled, and tall. There was also the fact that most not belonging to her people were taller than her to consider. She peered around his white cotton-clothed waist. If possible, her eyes widened even more. There... there were people! Lots of people! Taller than her! Giants! A whimper fluttered softly through her lips. And more were coming in... Ancestors help her! Clutching the lifereed amulet, shaped like a willow leaf, she took in the scene in through the doorway before her and the two men. Several tables set out in the huge room, people talking and laughing with drinks in their hands. She muttered a quick prayer to the Ancestors in her native tongue, while apprehension and panic washed into her like the tide of the sea onto a beach. A thought struck her simple little mind, and her nerves flickered. What would her family back at home think of her, attending a heathen religious ceremony like this? Still, the thought that she wasn't partaking in any pagan religious ritual soothed her. Twigga was merely observing and attending. She was still true to the spirits of her faith.

With clammy hands and robust haste, a complete stranger thrust this parcel into his hands and departed, purposefully not engaging in eye contact. It was a bit rain soaked and yellow, but still legible enough.

Dearest Friend,

It is with great sadness that I invite you to attend the funeral of the recently passed personage of dear old Dagmar Johannes. This great noble, of sound character and heritage, has left this beautiful disk after 53 cycles upon its surface, on the second day of Burning Heavens. He is survived by his only son, Caol Johannes. He kept good standing among the nobility, and will be remembered for his hospitality and kindness to his fellow man. Ceremonies in his memory shall begin at Sundrown on Folkday the eleventh day of Sleeping Dreameress, at the Nyermeran estate of the Johannes family. Refreshments will be provided as we commemorate the life of one of Nyermersys' finest. We are in great hopes that you will attend, may Ava bless you.

A few emotions twirled about, and he let them play out a bit to observe his own musings. Caol was an upstanding character when he first met him, a bit of a younger lad, but there was a bitterness from within that was hard to define or find much of a legitimate reason for. The few times he politely asked him why he didn't seem so pleased, Caol, as he had suspected, used his extensive vocabulary to summarize the walk of the pessimist. In spite of it, he still enjoyed the fellow, if just for the sake of noticing his appreciation for a few of the finer points in life. If he had been a guilty of the sin of being unappreciative, he still put things into perspective and engaged in conversation like a true gentleman.

There wasn't a doubt in his mind that he would pass up a second chance to cure him of his negativity; So Scriabin let go of any minor, previous engagements and packed his things. It took but a few days of waltzing along the countryside, glorious and savage at the same time, and he arrived at Nymersys.

Caol's estate was in waning condition, so it was safe to assume that the family wasn't doing overly well. He deftly approached the door and before he could do anything a servant opened the door and announced him. Where is the host? It's been quite a while since I've seen his face, yet I have an idea he's still a lot prettier than me. He grinned, but the servant was devoid of expression. He just sent him to Koros, and the man brought him to his place in the dining hall.

A lone figure walked through the warm, sticky night air of Nyermersys. At two peds in height, and wrapped in a midnight black tunic, she cut an imposing figure. Even a casual observer would have noticed the rhythmic, militaristic way in which she moved, as though she were more used to marching than walking.

As the sun set, the sky above the city burst into magnificent colours, adding to the surreal feeling of the evening. “It must be here somewhere,” Salkazrian thought to herself as she remembered the address that she had been given; an address that she had never heard of before.

The journey from Hog had been a swift and exciting one. Having received a mysterious invitation to attend the funeral of one Dagmar Johannes, Salkazrian had decided to use the opportunity to take some time away from work. After getting official leave she had arranged, (through the medium of coin), for the Order of the Wings to escort herself, her husband, and two children, to Nyermersys. A holiday was just what they needed, and the change of scene would do her daughters good!

But tonight was the night of the funeral, and Salkazrian couldn’t ignore it. It was, after all, the primary reason for her being here.

“Dagmar Johannes.” The name rolled around her brain one more time, but as before, there was no recollection of the man. It was frustrating, like having an itch that couldn’t be scratched. Salkazrian hoped that somebody would be able to resolve the matter this evening, and then she could enjoy the rest of her leave with her family.

She only ever wore the black tunic and breast binding for funerals; red was somehow inappropriate! More in keeping with her usual manner of dress, though, Salkazrian’s short sword hung from her waist. Perhaps it, also, didn’t seem to fit such a solemn occasion, but an officer without her sword was like a man who couldn’t cook; an abomination!

“This must be the place,” she thought to herself as she approached a large house, which had already started to fill with guests dressed in funerary attire.

A white knight was standing in the doorway, talking to a servant. Salkazrian assumed that she was supposed to tell somebody of her arrival, and so she waited behind him, and withdrew her invite from a pocket.

Koros

The family servant, currently devoting his duties to the position of doorman, was still enraptured in his study of the parchment list in his hand that he entirely missed the approach of a tall man dressed entirely in white. Anyone familiar with the culture of the Erpheronians could take a fairly reasonable guess as to the order he belonged to, and Koros started when he heard the unexpected sound of the White Knight's voice, "This is the house of the late Master Johannes, or am I mistaken?" Koros deftly folded up the piece of parchment with one hand while cordially meeting the knight's handshake with his other. Tucking the list away in his pocket, he quickly began ushering the man inside, "You are far from mistaken, friend, this is the very place. Please, if you would, this way to your seat."

As he was just turning to lead the man, he noticed the approach of several more persons at the door. He quickly caught a server, one of the two or three passing between this large hall and the kitchen in preparation for the meal, and explained where the good knight was to be seated. "The third row from the right, towards this side of the room, near the good lord Godwin." Directing himself once again towards the knight, "If it be your pleasure to follow this servant, you will find a placeset with your name on one of the seats there." He took a moment to watch the servant walking away, glancing at the four long rows of banquet tables laid out across the room. He turned to attend to the guests who were still awaiting his direction. He had not bothered to check the man's invitation, since there was only one White Knight on the guest list, and that was one of that special group of names. Koros was pleased that the first of that group was arrived.

The first familiar face he picked out of the group standing there possessed a mustache of considerable distinguishment, and the person to whom the visage belonged was bedecked in fine nobleman's dress with a peculiar ornamentation. Koros recognized him as someone he knew but the name momentarily escaped him. "Ah, my good sir...sir..." Finally the scraps of memory slid into place together in his mind, "Oh yes, Scriabin! How very nice to see you around again. How kind of you to come to Caol's comfort in this time, I will be sure to tell him you are here, and he should be joining the guests in due time. Please, this way if would." Deference was a practiced, disciplined skill that Koros had taken many years of careful speech to acquire. He directed Scriabin to the far right table, placing him also on the side of the room near the doors, where their sat the two brothers Dorwillen.

Terric, the younger of these cousin's of Caol's, greeted the musician as he sat down, his voice crackling in the air unpleasantly. He spoke at a speed just barely within the human range of comprehension, making it difficult to keep up with him if you weren't concentrating. "Good ev'nin', eh, didn't catch your name, good sir, but no matter. So good of you, so good of you to come. Really though, my dear ol' cousin is completely torn to pieces over this tragedy. Isn't that right, Aldred?...Aldred?!" The elder brother, eyes and brain slightly unfocused, blinked wearily as he drew out a reply, "Aahhh....yes, quite. Lady Petrina's parrot was such a dear, dear little pet. Sorry to see it go."

Terric stared at him for a moment, then burst into a string of words at a break neck pace, "Don'tyouknowwhereweare?ThatwasthismorningthatwetalkedtoLadyPetrina!!We'reatCaol'shouse,forAva'ssake!" * An ever so slight pause for breath, "Ohgodsyou'llhavetoforgiveolddeardoldpooroldAldredhere, he'sabitslowattimes." * Another pause, "WhatnamemayIcallyouby?" * Finally, another pause followed by a small decrease in the speed of his words, "And good sir, if you don't mind my asking, how is it that you came to know Caol?"

*(OOC - For clarity's sake: "Don't you know where we are? That was this morning that we talked to Lady Petrina!! We're at Caol's house, for Ava's sake!"... "Oh gods you'll have to forgive old dear old poor old Aldred here, he's a bit slow at times." ... "What name may I call you by?" )

There was one more person standing at the door, one who had the unique misfortune of possessing but one arm. Furthermore, she was quite tall and excellently built with the disciplined bearing of a soldier. Koros mentally noted that another name from the bottom of his list had now arrived. Without the parchment in front of him, however, he could not bring the name of this person to the forefront of his mind. It hung from the tip of his tongue for a moment, before falling away into the caverns of his memory, so he gave up the attempt. Instead he nodded reassuringly at the sight of the upheld invitation, and proceeded to direct the woman to her seat with a delighted cheery smile. "Ma'am, if you would be so kind, just this way to your seat, please." He placed her in her seat, across from the White Knight. Two military types must have some battle stories to exchange, so the pairing seemed a good one.

Koros had returned to his post at the doorway, gazing out into the street to see if any more guests would be arriving in the near future. It was only a slight shifting movement below him, a ever so subtle blurring of dark colors at the lower corners of his vision, that alerted him to the neglected guest on the doorstep. A rather short girl, head wrapped around in a scarf, stood waiting hesitantly near the door. Koros mentally checked a third slot from the conglomerate of chosen persons, as he hastily and in a somewhat embarassed manner greeted the small person. "Hello my dear, I seem to have missed you entirely down there. Please forgive me, if you would be so kind. Just follow me in here, and we'll see if we can't find you a seat, eh? Don't worry about a thing, I'll see to it that you're most comfortable here. Thanks ever so much for coming."

Koros couldn't be sure if the shy little one could understand him, but he attempted to lead her to the table at which Scriabin sat, all the while keeping his most reassuring smile brightly lit across his countenance. He made sure she was comfortably seated before returning to the doorway. That scarf on her head was a good thing, she enough like a little girl to make her an insconspicuous guest. Koros continued his duties, leading various members of the Nyermeran nobility to their respective places throughout the room. Things were moving smoothly so far, as Koros noticed a guest of particular interest entering the doorway. Baron Myrach, with his personal servant, was waiting patiently for a seat. Koros greeted the silent, hooded man with a small hint of nervousness unconsciously creeping into his voice. As he left the man at the far left table, he felt very relieved to escape from the man's presence. Something about that mysterious stranger was...just a touch unsettling.

Mister Koros or whoever seemed to be ignoring her. Tucking a piece of paper inside a pocket, he led the cotton-clothed man inside the banquet hall with a polite smile. "You are far from mistaken, friend; this is the very place. Please, if you would, this way to your seat." He returned to the doorway to guide the other guests Twigga had anxiously, meekly watched arrive. A curious man with a handlebar moustache, small beard, and large bony hands who looked dignified and knowledgeable was the first of the gathered company to be shown to his seat, then the strange, tall woman with an arm that reached only to the elbow. Twigga shivered, her eyes widening visibly. She could only imagine what had caused her to lose the missing part of her arm. Something like that... maybe only a swamp stalker, or possibly a rogue kaiman could cause.

Suddenly she was facing the broad beaming face of the servant Koros as he bent down into her face. "Hello my dear, I seem to have missed you entirely down there." His smile twisted apologetically, yet still retaining that polite manner people who serve others for a living always seem to maintain. "Please forgive me, if you would be so kind. Just follow me in here, and we'll see if we can't find you a seat, eh? Don't worry about a thing, I'll see to it that you're most comfortable here. Thanks ever so much for coming."

Koros gently touched her shoulder, smoothly directing her through the small crowds of people who, although most were sedentary, had not settled down yet. Twigga's brown gaze absorbed the whole scene as she stumbled rather after the confident servant. Richly dressed people were talking, though, as befitting to a funeral banquet, their conversation was hushed and somber, treading uneasily on the edgy silence. Footsteps of the guests pattered anxiously and quickly as they bordered apprehensively on the all-around uncomfortable atmosphere. To her alarm, the man was leading Twigga towards the same table that the distinguished gentleman with bony hands was seated at. He rather distressed her. He was so tall, and that moustache was so bristling. Gracefully pulling back the high-backed chair for the mullog girl with the ease of innumerable years of practice, he bowed and disappeared noiselessly after seeing her clamber inelegantly onto the chair, a seat just a few from the end by the door of the table.

Mouth agape, Twigga surveyed the company around her. Everyone was just so tall, even when they were sitting! But then, she supposed she should have gotten used to that by now. Everyone was tall outside of Ga-lum-be. And their clothes were so fine and elegant! Ruefully she compared the garments of those around her to her own, and had to admit that there was quite a discernible difference. Her wool kirtle, though probably the finest of her meager wardrobe, was an obvious step -or quite a few- down from the opulent attire of most of the others, who she guessed were of higher standing. Unlike them, there were no studded rings on her stubby digits, no bracelets and jingling jewelry. Indeed, she saw no others wearing a headscarf. Twigga fiddled nervously with an edge of the dark red scarf tied around her head. A surreptitious peek under the strange linen hanging down from the table's edge -What was this cloth covering the table? None of these in Ga-lum-be! What if food spilled onto the cloth and dirtied it?- told her that most everyone else was wearing fine polished boots and lavish dainty slippers. Still, a troubled but simple relief filled her at her thought that at least she had the presence of mind to wear sandals. Somehow, she knew, her preferred bare feet would not have passed muster among such solemn grand company.

It was difficult to sit down properly with his sword belted on, but Eyimon did not remove the scabbard, lacking anywhere else to put the rather large weapon, which was only sheathed up to the protruding quilions. One of these was now jabbing Eyimon in the side, and he made a feeble attempt to adjust it before another sat down across from him. The veil still made it difficult to see, less so in the lighted hall, but it took him a moment of looking to tell that his new companion was missing an arm. It took quite a bit of self-control to keep Eyimon from cursing his missing eye. It didn't help at all that the glass replacement was itching. He should have put some water on it before he put it in... Eyimon snapped back to the business at hand.
It was the left arm, Eyasha be praised, but still, Eyimon felt a cold shiver go up his arm.

It was hard not to notice the bearing of a fellow swordsman, or swordswoman as the case happened to be. Eyimon had never been very good with distinguishing the various tribes and sub-groups but the set of the features belonging to the woman sitting opposite him seemed to remind him of the north. He did not think she was a... were the Remusians the ones that lived up there? It did not matter. Eyimon had met some northern folk. They were a wondrous people, and Eyimon didn't exactly understand the stance some took on them.

No matter, Eyimon extended his hand across the table in greeting to his opposite. trying not to disturb anything with the slightly loose sleeves of his garments.
"Eyimon Sorossa" he said, trying to find something to say.
"You knew the Lord Johannes?"

'Oh, very good Eyimon. Of course she knew the Lord Johannes! Or he knew her. She's at the funeral after all.' Master Jaeodin, one of the monks that had taught Eyimon seemed to resound inside his mind. It was obvious now, but so was the fact that the Lady Ercarem had been about to stab him. Master Jaeodin had had a saying about that sort of thing. Two in fact, but Master Jaeodin (may his teeth never fall out) had sayings for everything it seemed. Eyimon picked up a few of them, and this one had seemed particularly appropriate as he had been lying recovering from having his eye stabbed.
'As well suck lymmons as worry about what's been done.' Master Jaeodin had always had a fondness for Kitraish, which he said was made from a rather sour fruit called a lymmon. Eyimon knew nothing about lymmons, but it seemed something like biting a sour meldrapple. You didn't keep eating it afterward.

Salkazrian soon found herself being escorted into the main room. Most of the people around her were of a noble lineage; their fine clothes and expensive jewellery made that all too clear. Still, being surrounded by the rich and influential was nothing new to her; she'd done her fair share of guard and ceremonial duties. It was just a little unusual to be amongst such persons as an equal, rather than as an armed servant.

The atmosphere was understandably sombre, with people conversing in hushed voices. A veritable sea of dark colours had filled the room, and Salkazrian felt glad that she hadn't worn her usual red attire!

Coincidentally, she was shown to a seat opposite the white knight that she had noticed earlier. It was difficult to make out much about him, because his face was hidden behind a veil. Still, Salkazrian had a great respect for the order that the man belonged to. Their code of living was very similar to the Seyelite concept of Katmoh, and instantly the warrior woman felt a kinship with this stranger.

"Salkazrian Isjinah," she said as an introduction, shaking the knight's hand. "Yes, it's a terrible shame that he's passed on."

In truth, Salkazrian still wasn't sure that she had known Dagmar Johannes, but it'd be very unusual for her to answer that she hadn't.

"But death comes to us all eventually. I feel sorry for his son, Caol, it's always difficult for those left behind."

Salkazrian wanted to change the subject; she really didn't want to have to make up stories of how she had known the mysterious Dagmar.

"I couldn't help but notice that you're in the White Order; it's a great privilege to be sat with you, I have the greatest of respect for the work that you do. I'm a soldier myself; perhaps you know of the Seyelite Army?"

Toama stared intently at the paper in her hand, then up at the mansion in front of which she was standing. She couldn't actually read the elegant letters, but she knew what it said, as she had paid a scribe to tell her. She had no clue who this Johannes character was (either the deceased father or the son), but Nyermersys was as good a destination as any other, so she might as well see what this whole thing was about. And perhaps find out how someone could so easily find someone without a permanent home, travelling on wherever her fancy took her. After all, this invitation had to be written and sent within the short span of the father dying and getting buried.

She watched for a moment as people streamed in. Good, she wasn't the last one to arrive. However, she could see that she was going to stand out like a sore thumb. She was wearing the traditional colourful clothing of her people, something they wore among other things to celebrate the life of the deceased person, and her ascension into the arms of Foiros. However, all the high-born ladies and gentlemen in their fine clothing were dressed all in black. As soon as she walked in, the splash of bright red and yellow would draw the attention, if her tattooed face did not. However, it was too late to go back to the inn where she was staying, and where she had left her belongings, as well as her bow and scimitar. She was rather late as it was, and in any case she had nothing of a more suitable colour. Unless you counted her armour, which was not in the least appropriate for a funeral.

She squared her shoulders, deciding that people would just have to take her - and her way of paying respect to the deceased - as she came. Anyway, it was getting high time to get inside out of the wind, which blew right through her desert clothing. Her feet, shod in her sandals despite the weather, were getting noticeably cold.

She walked to the door with a slight limp, which she hardly paid attention to as it was such a part of her. Everything else about her bespoke the self-assured attitude of a fighter who knew her worth, from the way she held her shoulders straight to the quiet way in which she gave the servant at the door to the hall her invitation, as well as her name. There was no need for her to be loud about anything.

The servant was admirably good at hiding what he felt about her appearance. On the other hand, she did see that she was not the only one wearing something other than black, with a man in white clothing talking to some woman who, with her missing arm, seemed as much at home among this gathering of fine ladies and gentlemen as a fierce raven among gentle doves. When the servant showed her her seat, she flashed him a friendly smile and thanked him, then she turned to see who she was seated with.

Godwin and Estrilda
Godwin looked up at the Johannes estate, his great beaming smile as illumining as a floodlight. A flicker of annoyance crossed his mind, although not diminishing his bouyancy in the slightest. That Estrilda! Is she still not caught up yet? He swiveled around to call out to his wife cheerfully. "Estrilda, dear, are you alright?"

Estrilda, a thin, shrewish woman with a bird-like face, glared at him as, chest heaving, she trudged slowly on. "Godwin, you know my poor nerves are dreadful! Would you be so selfish as to slow down once in a while?"

Godwin's grin dimmed down to a small smile; settling for other small signs of good spirits, he patted his big pot belly and nodded benignly. "Can't be late for the reading of the old trump's will, now, can we Estrilda? I'd imagine even your poor nerves wouldn't want to miss that!" His loud peals of laughter bounded through the air, unaware of the displeasure of the sniffily distraught lady.

Estrilda's beady eyes glittered gloweringly at her husband. "If my poor, stressed nerves give out on me, I imagine that I won't even be here for the reading of the will!"

His big, sausage-fingered hand waved nonchalantly through the air; the other stroked his thick beard. "Never you mind, Estrilda; look, now, here's a servant."

The servant guided them through the main hall and a few other corridors to the doorway of a large banquet room, at the doorway of which a regal servant was stationed. "Ah, Koros, old chap! What a trump!" boomed Godwin, clapping one meaty hand on the poor man's back. "Great to see you again, old boy! Ah, don't worry yourself, me and the missus will find our seats by ourselves. Or if we don't like them, maybe make some more to our tastes! Oh-ha-ha-ha-ho, take a joke kindly, old boy!" After jovially slapping Koros' back again he strode into the banqet room with Estrilda, his rumbling laughter once more rolling through the air.

"Come, come, Estrilda, let's find our seats!" Godwin wove through the meager crowds that willingly enough parted before him, and after him, too. Brazenly he edged past nobles, ignoring his wife's shrill complaints of her poor nerves. "Ah, here we are, Estrilda! Right next to this distinguished lady!" He beamed at the said person, pulling out his wife's allotted seat for her before sitting down himself. The meaty noble stuck his thick hand out the the woman in the seat next to theirs. "Hallo there, sir, Lord Godwin at your service, and this is my wife, Lady Estrilda," he beamed at the person next to him, a dark-haired, sun-tanned young lady.

Grial stared at the letter several minutes before clenching his fists in anger , something that made Lyra open her eyes worried , trying his best to calm the child , Grial placed his hand on her head and said " Worry not child , it is nothing , it seems our journey will take a bit longer ..." .

Dagmar Johannes, had passed away , and for some reason Grial received and invitation for his funeral , he was someone needed to talk , someone told Grial that he had know Lyra mother , and maybe he knew where she went , but now he was dead .
It was then that Grial taught of something , the letter mentions a son , maybe he knows something , and Grial had already arranged all to enter the city undetected .
Approaching Nyermersys gates a lone guard was waiting for him , with a smile , the young man said as Grial stood before him " Grial , good to see you my friend , all is arranged I will escort you into the city without anyone noticing you , please use these robs to hid , I am sorry to ask you this but ...", raising his hand , Grial said as he put the robes " No need for that my friend , I understand , you are risking much , how is your wife ? ".
The guard said " She is well , she talks often of you , always reminding the day you saved her from that bandits , well anyway its best we get going , my gate companions will soon notice that the emergency was only a ruse , this way quickly "
Grial entered the city , following his friend´s indications he found himself before the Dagmar Johannes house , where a servant stood , approaching him Grial said "
Pardon is this the house of Lord Dagmar Johannes, I was invited to his funeral and I would like to express my respects to his family ..:"

The letter arrived early. Far earlier than’s sensible, Jenna thought, extracting herself from her cosy bed and stumbling to the servant’s door she slept besides to find a sulky page boy thrusting a letter
“Well, now. What’s this? Can’t be from ma, she wrote last week…‘It is with great sadness that I invite you to attend the funeral of the recently passed personage of dear old Dagmar Johannes.’ Dagmar? Dagmar who? Hey there!” The boy had already moved to leave, clearly as unhappy to be awake so close to dawn as she was. He grudgingly jogged back as Jenna brandished the elegant letter at him. “There’s been some mix up.” she said. “I don’t know no Dagmar Johannes. Not that I can recall, at least. This should’ve gone to someone else, oh yes..” she began to refold the letter and slip it back into it’s envelope when the page shook his head.
“S’for you. Got your name written on it twice n’all, ent it? Plus, the postmaster, he said… he said it were to be delivered to you in person. S’for you, definite.” With that he turned sharply away and walked off.
Jenna stood bewildered for a moment, letter in hand. And then, very slowly, she began to smile.

So here she was, about to attend the funeral of a man she knew little of, and she was more excited than she’d been in a long while. It was the first truly interesting thing to happen to her since she’d arrived in Nermeran, hoping of fresh fuel for her tales. She couldn’t stop grinning, in fact. It was all so… story-like. So mysterious.

She would have loved to pause and take in the architecture and sights of the city of the dead, but not wanting to be late she hurried on through the darkening streets. She had already taken leave of the wealthy Astran merchant who, wanting some amusement as winter approached had been keeping her as a sort of entertainer and scribe, and not paying too badly either, even if she detested being treated as something little better than a pet, a curiosity. Besides, if she hadn't been working for him, and writing for local pamphlets, the letter's sender probably wouldn't have been able to find her.

Her pack stashed safely back in an inn, all she now carried was her money pouch, which was pleasantly full, her pipe, though she’d forgotten her matches, a scrap of parchment rolled round a stick of charcoal, the invite, and her knife, sheathed and hidden beneath her waistcoat. She was feeling more exhilarated than afraid, but still, it was best to be safe, she thought, touching the hidden blade. All kinds of people came out after dark in big folk towns. While she’d been tightening the knife-sheath’s straps back in the inn, she’d considered, briefly, wearing the very old and very crumpled dress stuffed at the bottom of her bag. It was a noble’s funeral. But in the end, as she always did, she had simply changed her old leather jerkin for her embroidered green waistcoat, and given her short hair a half-hearted comb. I don’t go out intending for folks t’think I’m a boy she had thought, eyeing her still rather shabby looking reflection It’s just a rather useful side effect of dressing like this. And dresses and long hair are such a bleeding nuisance! Indeed, she had already been addressed as ‘lad’ a few times this evening, though if any of those individuals had had a little longer to study her face in clearer light they would have found it fair and pleasant enough, if not beautiful, and distinctly feminine. She was becoming almost as used to being mistaken for a boy as she was being treated with contempt by the big folk.

She found the Johannes manor easily enough, and stood outside for a time, watching the high and mighty looking big folk trickling in through the wide doors. Won’t they all be shocked to see a hobbit invading their grand get-together! But they can‘t complain, ‘cos I was invited. The thought made her chuckle and she strode after the last group of arrivals, through various halls until they stood before a banquet hall that was steadily filling up with guests. A servant was directing guests to their seats one by one, or at least so it seemed to Jenna, for her view of the hall was mostly obscured by a hulking figure waiting in front of her. Stepping back and taking a proper look at the stranger, she realised, with a jolt, that it was an orc with skin a curious shade of black. Hobbit and orcs! What, by Dalireen, was the organizer of this funeral thinking, unless he brought us two here as entertainment? Amused by the eccentricities of the big folk, she shuffled round to where the orc could see her and said-
“Well, seems like I’m not the only odd one out at this gathering.” She’d already decided this orc seemed calm enough. And if he does turn out to be a foul tempered one I can outrun him in a snap! she thought.

   Salkazrian watched with mild amusement as the knight opposite her fumbled about with his veil. Truthfully, she'd never understood the need for such a thing. In her own experience, it had always been best to make direct eye contact with people, especially when negotiating with them. Still, he finally took off the offending piece of cloth, and revealed a not-too-ugly face.

   When he looked at Salkazrian directly, she instantly noticed that his left eye was false. In of itself, this was nothing to disturb her, but a terrible image flashed into her mind. For a moment, she was back in the north; a tortured face stared blindly at her; both its eyes had been gouged out, and the awful sockets gaped open.

   With a slight shake of her head, Salkazrian cast the image out of her mind, hoping that it wouldn't return later on when she went to bed. Of course, she'd seen much more horrific sights than that, but even still, it didn't make for a good bedtime companion.

   "Sanguia, mostly," she said in answer to Eyimon's question. "A fine province, maybe you've been there? I've been about a bit, though; seen all kinds of nooks and crannies..."

   She was just about to add a well-timed, "so to speak," when she spied a muscular, tatooed woman enter the hall. Of course, it didn't take a great deal of observational prowess to notice her; her brightly coloured clothes made her stand out like a sore thumb!

   "Interesting," Salkazrian thought to herself, "She looks like a Serphelorian; but that tattoo..." She lifted her head slightly and peered more intently at the woman's face. "It's too dark. And her face...I wonder where she's from?"

   Having made a mental note to go and talk to the mysterious woman later, she returned her attention to Eyimon.

   "Xaramon? Can't say as I've ever been there, but I heard that it's a strange place.

   "Maybe I should go someday; one of the wizards could magic me up a new arm!" She paused briefly, and waggled what was left of her arm up and down.

"Either that or bigger tits!

"But tell me, what made you join the White Knights?"

   Her light brown eyes were sparkling now that she'd found somebody to talk to, and she found herself looking around the table for a glass of wine.

"I- I don't think they can do... either of those."
Peace but women were strange. Stranger than sour taenish. Eyimon fought very strongly to avoid blushing furiously. Strange indeed
"Sanguia. Of course, why didn't I think of that."
'Unless they've moved since I last checked, our order is based somewhere there Eyimon. And it has been for the last few centuries. Peace child, not every woman you meet is after your eyes!' Master Jaeodin muttered somewhere in the back of Eyimon's head.

"I'm not all together sure how I got into it. Potential inductees are identified very young, often shortly after birth, you see." Eyimon continued to attempt to adjust his sword covertly.
"I went into a monastery when I was five and didn't stray further than half a strall from it for the next twenty years."

Eyimon remembered little of the first five years of his life. He'd had an older and a younger brother. It was probably one of them they'd meant to invite to this affair, not him. His own father was five years in his grave, and Nomerros had given the ancestral home north of Astran to Eyimon, rather than take it himself. Eyimon had thought that odd. He'd never had need of anything much but he tried to spend some time there if he could, if for no other reason than that it was quiet and nice to be around.

"I regret not a day of those twenty years though." Eyimon had known a few people to feel pity for him over that, which he didn't understand. How could you miss something you'd never known?

" Indeed you are correct little one , although I think I will be more noticeable that you , I was blessed with great height , but does make me difficult to blend in...This is Lyra , I am her guardian , forgive her staring , but she has never seen an hobbit before , and curiosity always takes the best of her ..."
Jenna gave the wide-eyed girl her widest smile, all the while wondering at the strange, if rather touching sight of a human child clinging so trustingly to an orc, of all races! She has spotting the girl darting ahead of her, through the manor’s corridors as she herself had been lead through them by a servant, but had assumed the child was a household member, or the child of one of the wealthy guests. There’s an interesting tale to be had there, she thought, deciding to ask the orc of how connection to the child as soon as they became aquainted enough.

The orc’s gentle voice confirmed her first impressions of him and her initial fear vanished. Craning her head back, she addressed him in her normal good-nature, informal tones.
“Seems so, don’t it, sir? We’re already getting a few dirty looks from them in there” she jerked her head towards the eating hall. “Well, let ‘em stare, I say! We can’t help being born tall or short, can we now?” Chuckling, Jenna looked back to the child. It was rather pleasant to talk to someone on her eye level. She was getting neck pains after spending so long amongst the big folk. “And don’t worry about her. If it weren’t for curiosity I wouldn’t have made it this far north! Hullo, there, little one. Just count yourself lucky you’ll grow t’be taller than me when you’re older. Us hobbits, we’re stuck at this height for all our lives.” She pouted in an exaggerated expression of sadness, hoping to make the child laugh.

Looking back up at the orc, she spoke in lower tones, not really wanting to alert the surrounding nobility of just how out of place she really was. “I suppose you’re a guest, else you wouldn’t be waiting here. Friend of Dagmar, were you?”

"Deklitch Hardin," inquired a man said who had come up to the Black Butterfly Rovers camp.

"I am he," Dek confirmed, looking over at the newcomer with curiousity.

"Letter for you," the man said, and then went over to the lad and handed him a folded piece of parchment. Writing, or at least Dek assumed it to be writing, and a seal was on the outside of the parchment. Dek looked at it, he couldn't read, after all. He stood, looking at the folded parchment, as others from the Rovers came around him.

"Come on Dek, open it up," a young elf member of the Rovers said, "we're all curious."

Dek nodded and slowly opened it up.

"Well, what does it say?" the same elf asked.

"I can't read," Dek said.

A woman said, "well, Dek, if you paid more attention to your lessons than to looking at me, you would be able to, you know?"

"So you keep on telling me, Rover Nancy," Dek replied, to the laughter of the others, "but you are my fancy, you know that?"

"What a nice boy you are," Nancy said, "here, give it to me."

Dek handed over the parchment, and Nancy read it.

Dearest Friend,

It is with great sadness that I invite you to attend the funeral of the recently passed personage of dear old Dagmar Johannes. This great noble, of sound character and heritage, has left this beautiful disk after 53 cycles upon its surface, on the second day of Burning Heavens. He is survived by his only son, Caol Johannes. He kept good standing among the nobility, and will be remembered for his hospitality and kindness to his fellow man. Ceremonies in his memory shall begin at Sundrown on Folkday the eleventh day of Sleeping Dreameress, at the Nyermeran estate of the Johannes family. Refreshments will be provided as we commemorate the life of one of Nyermersys' finest. We are in great hopes that you will attend, may Ava bless you.

Your Dear Friend,

"But I've never heard of Dagmar or Caol," Dek protested.

"Well they know of you," Nancy replied, handing the letter back to the boy, "well, I think its time we headed towards the city of Nyermersys for you to pay your respects to him."

"But ..." Dek attempted to protest.

"No buts," Nancy replied, "it has been decided."

Dek sighed and nodded, and proceeded to help with the pack up.

*** Sundrown on Folkday the eleventh day of Sleeping Dreameress ***

Dek farewelled the Rovers, and began the walk towards the Johannes estate. He approached the main house of the estate, grasping his letter. His ankle was still a bit sore, not as sore as it was, and he hoped he'd soon be fine again to do his acrobatics. His mind fell to the mystery of that note that he had received, but pushed it to one side, he would find out about it soon enough.

"I'm Deklitch Hardin," he said, to someone he saw outside the building, "I was invited here to pay my respects to Mr Dagmar Johhannes, I hope I'm on time."

- Dek

“What is he fiddling about with down there?” Salkazrian thought to herself as she listened to Eyimon talk a little of his childhood. Was he playing with himself? Some men were like that; they just couldn’t stop touching the thing! But at a funeral? The thought made her want to laugh. It was highly inappropriate, of course, but that was exactly the kind of thing that appealed to Salkazrian’s sense of humour.

Dismissing the thought, she raised one eyebrow and tilted her head to the side.

“Who said that you did?” she enquired, referring to Eyimon’s rather defensive claim that he hadn’t regretted his upbringing.

“Indeed,” she continued, “why should you? There’s nothing finer than a good, disciplined life. Though, of course…” her sentence trailed off as she regarded the knight thoughtfully. Was the white he wore a sign of purity in more than one sense of the word? Salkazrian couldn’t imagine the young Eyimon having many opportunities to meet with women in a monastery.

“…when I was five,” she said, carefully changing the focus of the conversation onto herself, “I was probably just leaving Lu’Weilima; though I don’t remember much about it. Things were too dangerous up there at that time; the filthy Ash'mari saw to that!

“Still, I don’t feel sorry about it; Seyella has a plan for us all. If I hadn’t moved to the south, then I’d never have met Talard - my husband – and I wouldn’t have my two daughters; Eltanlia and Tarzalia.”

Salkazrian smiled as she thought of her family.

“Are the White Knights allowed to marry?” she asked out of curiosity.

Koros

A bright flash of color among the crowd of somber hues told Koros that another guest of importance had arrived. He was very pleased with the proceedings so far. No spats between any of the nobles (they could be ever so touchy at times), and he was steadily checking names off that special group on the bottom of his list. Though he could not remember her name without another glance at his parchment, he did remember that she was a Sand Sister, and he especially remembered how much trouble he had gone through to get her an invitation. The fact that she had shown up was a great satisfaction after all that effort.

"Greetings, lovely one! That is an excellent choice of color, very fitting of you. I'm sure the dear lord Johannes would have been delighted to see you. Please, come this way, if you would," with that he led the women to the table where the White Knight and one-armed soldier already sat. They appeared to be conversing lightly between themselves, so far ignoring the nobleman Godwin and his wife. Koros smiled at that; it took some skill to avoid having a conversation dominated by the good-willed Godwin. He could be a bit overfriendly when you let him, but things seemed to be carrying on nicely at this table.

Koros returned to the door to find two persons conversing together as they waited to be seated. He sincerely hoped that they had not been talking long when he reached them, calling out a greeting as he did so. One person stood about average height, but with a strong warrior's build, while the other was about a fore shorter, looking quite like a young lad. In fact, the child that was being guarded by the larger man was not so far from this hobbit's height. Koros remembered the warrior being on his list, but he could not remember these other two. Perhaps they were traveling with him? He couldn't say for sure, though he did seem to remember that they were still several smaller people on the list, so perhaps the young lad here was one of them. Cursing his memory, Koros vowed that he would check his list again as soon as he had seated this group. "If you would come with me, please, this way. Welcome to the house of the dear lord Johannes, Ava bless his soul."

He directed them to the far left table, where there sat the lord Myrach. While Myrach was terrible company, Koros wanted the warrior to keep an eye on the mysterious man. Besides, Myrach's servant Waleran was quite personable, and would keep the conversation lively, if nothing else. As he returned once again to the building's entrance, he heard a boy's voice addressing him, "I'm Deklitch Hardin. I was invited here to pay my respects to Mr Dagmar Johhannes, I hope I'm on time." He smiled at the boy in acknowledgement of his greeting. The lad was also on the shorter side, and possessed quite startling red hair. So much for trying to quietly add his special guests to the banquet group. They were surely garnering attention now! "Greetings to you, Master Hardin. You are, of course, on time. Welcome to the house of the late lord Johannes and his son, Caol. If you would please follow me this way to your seat." He decided, on a momentary impulse, to seat him at the table with the hobbit and warrior. There he would be with a somewhat younger crowd that sat at his own eye level. Hopefully that would encourage them to talk amongst each other.

Koros then returned once again to his customary post of this evening. Looking out the door, he noted the momentary lull in arrivals, but there were still small groups of persons trickling in. He took a moment to glance over the banquet hall, and his thoughts immediately went out to the man who was not yet present, but whose presence was why the funeral had been held. He hoped that this event would not be too hard on Caol, and that he would weather it tenaciously. Koros supposed that it would take a bit more patience to coax the grief-stricken youth into the throng.

Waleran
"Here now, m'lord, here is the wine you wished," the jester said anxiously, genuflecting once before handing him the glass of wine he had managed to convince the kitchen staff to give him. He watched the baron,his face concealed by his dark hood, as he took the wine glass with one black-gloved hand. The glass disappeared into the shadows of Lord Myrach's face, only to reenter the light a second or two later. A pleased-sounding smack of lips was audible, and then a low, chilling voice emerging from beneath the concealing hood. "That's all, Waleran."

Waleran bobbed his head up and down and bowed with an inevitable air of relief. "Thankee, m'lord."

"You may await any further orders behind my chair."

"Thankee, m'lord." The gangly jester tremored at his master's deep, grating voice, one that treaded so easily on one's nerves. One that was not easily forgotten. But Waleran persevered, in his cracking, warbling way, observing a rather colorful trio approach and be seated by Myrach and his servant. "Eh... Master, would your lordship be so kind to your humble servant as to allow him to converse with those who are seated near his lordship?"

A few nervous seconds of ominous contemplation.

"Yes. But do not stray from behind my chair. And cease to speak on my command."

"Yes, m'lord." Waleran's bearing immediately shifted from nervously humble to lively and talkative. He beamed his illuminating, huge beak-nosed grin at the three who had just sat down- an orc carrying a blonde child, a female hobbit, and a fiery-haired lad that he rather liked the look of.

"Hi there, my name is Deklitch Hardin, but most people just call me Dek." The redhead boy paused in speaking and glanced at the hobbit, then continued in a curious manner. "Do I know you? You look familiar, but I don't recall the Rovers visiting any hobbit communities."

The lad was silent for a few moments more and then resumed his chitter-chatter. "I don't think I know either Caol or his father. Yet I got a letter inviting me here. I really don't understand it."

Waleran grinned and waggled his crooked eyebrows. "Me name is Waleran, but most people just call me 'You there in the funny hat.'" He gestured to the jester hat sitting snugly around his head, and bobbed up and down to get the bells to jingle for the boy's benefit.

Before the gawky entertainer could say more, Myrach began to speak. "Lord Myrach," he said to the orc, still in retreat in his black hood. He paused, creating silence veined with a latent menace. "So tell me, if you would, good sir, how is it that you were invited to this funeral. I mean, everyone can tell that you're of the Johannes lineage. A chip off the old block, you are." The man pointedly looked the orc up and down. Another suspension of speech. "Ah. Unless, perhaps, the child is." Myrach took the little girl's hand and petted it with his heavy, black-gloved one. Abruptly he let go and snapped his fingers. "Ah, we need a booster of some sort! The seat is too low for the little one. Koros! Over here, servant! We need something for this child to sit on so that she can see over the table."

Eyimon's hesitant reply intrigued Salkazrian; how could it be that he didn't know?

"Ah, well, in that case," she replied, "they can't blame you if you do! Just let me know if you're looking for someone; I can think of a few vai who'd be interested! Big, strong girls;" she lifted her arm and flexed the bicep to illustrate her point, and then added, with a wink, "every man's dream!"

The dark, tattooed woman had joined their table, and was sitting fairly close. Salkazrian flashed a quick glance in her direction, and then leant over the table towards Eyimon, "Having said that," she said in an exaggerated whisper, "you might not need me to help; you could get lucky tonight!"

Fortunately for Eyimon, she didn't elaborate on just how he might get lucky; her attention had shifted to a newcomer.

"Oh, my! Would you look at that!" she gasped, her hand unconsciously reaching for her sword.

A large, dark-skinned orc had just entered the room. A young child and a hobbit were with him.

"He's not a Losh-Oc," she said more to herself than anybody else, "but he's an orc, no doubt!"

Salkazrian's only experiences with orcs had always been horrendous, which made it very difficult to control her training, which was telling her to draw her sword and run this creature through before it had a chance to cause any damage. But this orc didn't quite resemble the monsters that she'd fought in the north. He was taller, and more dignified, somehow.

By now, he'd reached a table, and been shown a seat. "Looks like he's a guest here," Salkazrian thought to herself in amazement. She shook her head slightly. "Seems this Johannes kept some strange company!"

Even though she'd resisted the urge to jump up and attack the beast, Salkazrian couldn't just ignore the matter. So, with a polite, "excuse me", she stood up and marched over to where the orc was sitting.

As she got closer, she noticed that he was quite old, and missing an eye. The blond girl that sat with him must only have been about six years old; the same age as Eltanlia. The thought of her own daughter being under the control of a brute like this was almost too much to stand.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded in an icy voice. "And who's daughter is that?"

Salkazrian's fingers were still wrapped around the handle of her sword, and her whole body was tensed, ready to spring into action if the need arose.

A red haze obscured her vision as her eyes cautiously opened, sleepily peering about, her slight frame wriggling deeper into the fur around her. With a jolt, the 'bed' beneath her began to move, nearly ejecting her from her position as brown, slender fingers wrapped around tufts of fur, gripping hard. The pleasant night breeze became a torrent of wind as the fox raced down the street. Growling deep in her delicate, little throat, Allia called up to the fox, speaking hurriedly, her diminutive form bouncing with his every stride, “Todd! Stop, stop, stop, stop!”

Torches gleamed in the dying sunlight as the fox finally stopped, his nails clicking on the cobblestones as his pace slowed to a walk. Mumbling beneath her breath, the brownie settled deeper into his fur, curling up to sleep, content to let him wander. Visions of her home in the forest, of the magnificent trees and meandering streams, flowed through her slumbering mind, her soft brown lips already curling into a smile. Meanwhile, the fox cast about, his nose high in the air, every sense a slave to his stomach and a desire to fill it. Mindful of the sharp tongue of the brownie on his back, Todd set off at a trot, led always by that nose.

Allia awoke to darkness, to whining, and to nails scratching iron. Immediately alarmed, she leapt off her fox, moving to stand next to him, her tiny hands feeling for the wall that held them prisoner. A stream of curses fell from her lips the moment her hands came into contact with that black iron, her voice rising, piping loud to her ears, as her fists banged against the iron. The fox next to her scratched harder, dug harder at the floor, his nails clicking, until a sharply uttered word stilled him. Settling down, his head moved to rest on his front paws as honey-brown eyes watched his mistress.

Atop the iron, atop the overturned cauldron, sat one kitchen boy, his legs crossed under him, eyes wide at the thought of a voice reaching his ears through the iron. For the moment, he was alone in the kitchen; it was his duty to guard the fox that had been captured. The miscreant was caught rooting around in the food supplies, oblivious to everything but the food he was wolfing down. No sooner had he heard the voice than the thought to investigate entered his mind. With a mischievous smirk, he moved to the floor, settling onto his hands and knees, his face close to the ground as he prepared to lift the cauldron. The moment his fingers curled under the rim, he heard another voice, and his spine jerked upright in response.

“Ahem, what are you doing?” The boy turned his head as his gaze met with black boots, followed by brown homespun trousers, a shirt nicely pressed, and finally a grizzled face as his eyes slowly traveled upward. It was all he could do to keep an excited grin from his face.

“The fox we caught today, Sir, I heard it talk!” The grin threatened to overtake his features as he straightened, trying to look somewhat dignified.

A loud smack wiped the beginnings of a grin off his face as the back of a hand connected with his jaw, that gruff voice harsh in his ears as it scolded him, “Back to work.” But it was too late, curiosity had already gotten the better of the kitchen boy as he lifted the cauldron and fifteen nailsbreadths of fury darted out.

Soft brown eyes set in a stare met with much larger blue ones, the human's face close to the floor still, on her level. Shock and surprise were writ large in his face as she strode up to him, her hands on her hips and her lips pressed together, the very image of a woman scorned, only a tenth of the size. “Poppycock 'n fiddlesticks! What possessed you to capture me and my fox? Answer me, molasses for brains!” Arms crossed beneath her breasts, feet set apart, fingertips tapping idly against her mouseleather blouse, Allia stared him down, her tongue clicking at him as she awaited her answer.

The boy was frozen. Not a single muscle would respond, not for a moment could he get past his startlement at being accosted by a miniscule woman. The elder servant showed more sense, more diplomacy as he knelt down, lifting the cauldron to release the fox before his gaze turned to the brownie who was now watching him. His words retained nothing of the gruff tone he'd shown before, they were those of one accustomed to appeasing others, “My apologies Madam, please, allow me to escort you to the banquet; my lord would not turn away a hungry guest." He chanced a glance to the side, “The fox may come, if you don't mind keeping him under the table.”

Just the slightest hint of a smile curled the corner of her mouth as she regarded him, stepping daintily into the hand he outstretched. The look in his eyes was one she was willing to trust, though she could not help but feel nauseated by being lifted several times her own height. After quickly sitting down in his palm to ease the feeling, she looked back, clicking her tongue at the fox to follow as she was carried from the kitchen, perhaps with less dignity than she would have preferred. With a sigh, she resigned herself to being carried by this human, turning her attention to the room they entered instead.

The very size of the room astounded her, it overwhelmed her senses. The walls seemed to stretch on for an eternity; the vast amount of space made her feel even smaller than her fifteen nailsbreadths. Most of the people gathered at the tables scattered about the room were giants in their own right, to her eyes at least. Some of them even towered over the others, as if it wasn't bad enough that they towered over her by leaps and bounds! The servant carried her between two of the tables before setting her down on the table itself; there was no way she'd see even close to the table from a chair. With a bow he excused himself as she looked from one side to the other, taking in the people seated there.

“Hi!” A smile lit her cinnabrown face as she looked first to the person seated to her right, pleasantly surprised to see brown skin on a non-brownie. What exactly this girl was, Allia didn't know, it was beyond her experience, but anyone with the coloring of a brownie had to be okay. Her head swiveled to the left, and her smile faded a little, her eyes taking in an elderly human with the strangest hair on his face. She just couldn't identify with him at all. Yet, in the next instant, her smile reaffirmed itself, and she beamed at him as well. Her fox silently padded his way beneath the table, curling up amidst the empty chair's legs.

Lord Godwin and Lady Estrilda
After a few awkward moments, the dark-haired woman hesitantly shook Godwin's hand and replied in a halting, accented voice. "My name is beink Toama."

He bowed. "It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. So Lady Toama," he said cheerily, promptly taking his seat, "what part of the country do you hail from?"

On Godwin's other side, his sleeve was tugged sharply, and a bony hand placed itself on his arm. He turned his head to see what his wife -for undoubtedly it was his wife- might wish to say to him.

Lady Estrilda sniffed through her sharp, bird-like nose. "Lord Godwin, you know it's terrible manners to ask someone where they're from as soon as you meet them."

"No, dear, I don't believe it is. I haven't ever heard that before."

"That's because you haven't ever paid the strictest attention to etiquette, Lord Godwin. I've always been forced to pay attention for you and correct those mindless little mistakes that you always make." She dabbed her richly embroidered handkerchief on her forehead haughtily. "Why, if it wasn't for me, you know, we'd have no social standing at all. Oh, you are so terrible with etiquette!"

Godwin blinked. "My dear Lady Estrilda, I'm sorry to have caused you such pain. But I do believe that in this case I have made no such fault with Lady Toama."

"Oh, my poor nerves! How could you do something like this to me, my Lord Godwin!" Estrilda took out her smelling salts and waved them passionately underneath her nose, resting her other hand fretfully on her forehead.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Lady Estrilda, it was a fault unwilling. Will you be alright?"

The woman inhaled shallowly. "Yes, I- I believe so... But you must not give me such alarm again, Lord Godwin!"

Godwin turned from his wife and addressed the lady Toama with an apologetic air. "You must excuse my wife, Lady Toama. Her nerves are most dreadful, you see, and she often suffers small attacks of the nerves such as these." He shook his head dolefully.

***** ***** *****

Lord Myrach and Waleran
"Nice hat, Waleran. I like your name Waleran; I think I'd rather use that than 'You there in the funny hat.' It has a nicer ring to it and is easier on the tongue." The jester noted with a bit of surprise that the boy Deklitch seemed to have taken his joke literally. Ah well, not everyone has a funny bone, but at least he appears to be a sincere lad. "There's a seat here next to me, Waleran, why don't you sit there instead of standing up behind Myrach? I'm sure that would be a lot more comfortable than standing up." He went on without pausing for a reply from Waleran, talking ernestly earnestly about the jester's hat. "So, what do you do, Waleran? I do acrobats and sing, but I wish I had a hat like yours... That would be great!"

Waleran, biting his thin lower lip, looked over at his master. He doubted very much that Myrach would let him have a seat of his own. Still, pulling his hat more firmly around his head, as if to make up for the lack of firmness he himself was very much feeling right now, he gingerly, cautiously approached the subject. "Milord, if 't wouldn't displease you, would your kind lordship allow me to take a seat by Sir Hardin?"

Myrach, his expression unfathomable underneath his hood, let silence hang in the air, seconds dropping loudly by like raindrops. "You know, yes, Waleran, you may," he said sarcastically in his low, constantly steady voice. Abruptly he cuffed his jester a little on his ear. "Fool. When have I ever allowed you to take a seat at a social event of any noble standing whatsoever? When have you ever been worthy of the honor of having a seat? Seats are for equals. And you, servant," he continued softly, always, always retaining the unruffled, biting scorn that was his trademark, "haven't a aristocratic drop of blood in your body. And besides. You never know when I may need you."

Without warning he turned to Deklitch, dormant intimidation threading his soft speech. "And you, boy. I wouldn't advise that you take up the practice of addressing nobles without the proper respectful titles. Even my fellow nobles I don't allow to refer to me without the appropriate 'Lord' before my name." A slightly disdainful tone entered his voice ever so subtly, sneaking in and clinging to the underbellies of his words. "And, boy, I sincerely doubt that you're even aristocratic..." Sarcasm, his most constant weapon, also crept in. "I don't know about where you come from, boy, but here it's very rarely that nobles run away and become circus tramps. There's just a little bit of a social standing paradox if that were the case, you see."

Suddenly a tall, golden-haired woman with only one arm marched up to their table and confronted the poor orc, one hand -her only hand- firmly grasping the hilt of her sword. "What are you doing here? And whose daughter is that?"

Lord Myrach waited a few moments, but when the orc didn't reply, he himself spoke up. "I believe that before you so subtely came in, this estimable gentleman and myself were engaged in a conversation, miss. If you will excuse us, I would like to resume it, O mistress paragon of everything reticent, shy, and delicate." His words, especially the last ones, were swathed in sardonic amusement. Myrach's voice became deathly, cuttingly quiet as he continued. "Now, mistress, I suggest that you return to your seat and cease making a spectacle of yourself. No disrespect intended, of course." Though it was hidden from sight by his hood, a cold, ironic smile grew on his face.

"Waleran." The suddennes with which he spoke the name startled his gangly jester. "Take this wineglass back to the kitchen. I have no further need of it."

Waleran took the glass from his master's gloved hand with a bow and scurried awkwardly off, throwing a somewhat apologetic glance at Deklitch.

"Now." Myrach faced the orc once more. "Where were we, my good sir?" His voice and manner were no less menacing, no less icy for his friendly words.

Before Grial could notice he was taken inside and seated ,along with some people .
And of course the shower of questions started flowing , "why are you here " , "why is that child with you " , nothing he wasn´t used to , but in the table there was someone he just had a bad feeling , the one that seemed to be a noble , while his words were gracious , Grial sensed an inherent threat behind it , yes Grial would quickly resume his business here and leave quickly ...

"What are you doing here?" "And who's daughter is that?", Grial turned towards the voice , it was a woman , the first thing he noticed that she was missing an arm , and that her hand was in the sword , narrowing his eye , his immediate concern was of Lyra , if the woman attacked , the little one could be hurt , it was then that the noble spoke in his behalf , and yet again Grial had that icy feeling on his back , the human was sly , every words that he spoke had a second meaning , Grial felt he had to say something " Thank you for speaking in my behalf , but his woman seems very focused in her questions and while I have no obligation to answer them , I will ..."

turning toward Salkazrian , he said in a friendly voice " Now to answer you , suffice to say I was invited just like you and that I am the child guardian , if that satisfies you curiosity , please let us be ...", his voice suddenly dropped to cold tones " you had already frighten enough the child and I will not allow you to distress her anymore "
He added pointing his single eye to Lyra that in the meantime was clenching to Grial arms , afraid of the single armed woman .

"Hi!"

The word, uttered by a small, high voice, tugged Twigga out of her timid observation of her surroundings. Eyes wide, she looked wildly on either side of her, but found no person who might have said it. A thought presented itself to her timidly- could it be an eru who had spoken to her? But no– of course not– eru didn't speak out loud, everybody knew that. She scrutinized the area to her right more closely, then the left. How could this– She saw it. A tiny brown figure, could only be about twelve or thirteen widths of her index finger. Twigga leaned towards the little person in astonishment, wonder mirrored in her dusty brown eyes. The closer proximity allowed the mullog girl to notice details that had been indiscernible before, and she drank them in with the amazement of something totally new. She was now able to perceive that the miniscule person was a female, judging from the adlemirene waves flowing down her back, and the feminine looks, even smaller and more detailed.

Twigga reared back and gazed warily at the brown little woman. How was it possible for a person of such size to exist? Unless she was the victim of magic or enchantment, or something of that sort. It had certainly happened in one or two of the stories Twigga had memorized in Galumbe as a child. Or had it? She didn't quite remember. In her swamp homelands, small happenings of unusual natures were usually attributed to a mischievous eru, anyway.

Her square hands tugged anxiously at a corner of her headscarf, a warm reddish shade of adlemirene brown, as she looked on the little woman. "Hello." Twigga's Tharian accent was far from perfect, and the pronunciation she retained from her native language caused her to stress the 'h' on the word.

The little woman was small, but she was formidable-looking, and not just because of the feathered needle things fastened to each tiny leg. Her face itself was strong and confident, with its aquiline nose, the square jaw, the high cheekbones. Twigga did a double-take at the 'needle things'. She peered in closer once more, unaware of the offensiveness of obvious gawking. They looked sharp, by the Ancestors! Upon further reflection, she realized that they could be miniature versions of the very darts she herself hunted with. Though of course she wasn't carrying them with her to this grand meal. She'd hesitated at bringing her walking stick, let alone her darts and blowpipe.

Eyimon rose from his seat, finally knocking the sword into the correct alignment as he did. He strode towards the now rather involved dispute with the orc. Peace but did everyone seem to need to argue?

Eyimon had his hand ready to pull out his sword, but it was difficult to watch everyone at once, with the blind spot on his left side.

"Need I remind everyone that you are guests here."

Eyimon was never very good at threats, but he tried his best, making sure everyone head the note of steel clicking out of it's scabbard. He no longer regretted wearing his sword, despite the problem of the quillons.

"If not for the sake of the late master Johannes at least or, lest you cause him more hurt than has already been done, his son."

Eyimon paused to look everyone in the eyes, ending with what he hoped was a glare at the one-armed Salkazarian.

"Then for your own sakes, stop disrupting the peace, or you will force my hand and we may have need for undertakers in this house again. It would be a great shame to have to disrupt one funeral with another."

"Good show Eyimon! That should do nicely."

Eyimon heard Master Jeodin claaping from somewhere in his head. The old monk had always been one for congratulations, though they were usually followed with-

Of course, you may have to follow through on your remarks. That woman didn't lose her arm knitting. Nethor's beard child! Do you ever think things over? It could very well be you the undertakers have to measure for the last coat!

-criticism. And usually in greater quantities than praise. Eyimon should have seen that one coming.

"Do I make myself clear?"

Before the orc had a chance to answer, the servant who had been shuttling guests ushered the three of them over to a table whose only occupant was a curious hooded man. Something about his silence and stillness made Jenna feel a little uneasy, but it was such a weak sensation she all but ignored it.

Curse these big folk chairs! She thought as she seated herself. As she was settling herself down, trying to look as dignified as possible when the table came up to her chest, a lad in the first few years of adolescence was brought over to their table by the servant.
"Hi there, my name is Deklitch Hardin, but most people just call me Dek," he introduced himself, but then took a harder look at Jenna herself.

"Do I know you? You look familiar, but I don't recall the Rovers visiting any hobbit communities….I don't think I know either Caol or his father. Yet, I got a letter inviting me here. I really don't understand it."

Jenna’s eyes narrowed a little. Another one with no connection to this Johannes fellow! A rover of all the folk on earth, and all, she thought. And yes, now the lad mentioned it, she had felt a little flash of recognition when he’d been brought into the hall. That red hair and freckled countenance…It made her think of a dark room, the air heavy with the smell of wood smoke and ale and full of chatter and laughter.
Then she had it. That tavern by Tyr Donain- now what had it been called? Thergerim for war hammer, she remembered that much, so it’d be kemruhnt something…She ran through the limited collection of dwarvish words that had lodged themselves in her head over the years, trying to find something that fitted. It was a ‘kuh’ sound, I’m certain she thought Kaenun kemruhnt? The sad war hammer? No, you old cloth-brain, that’d just be daft…And it weren‘t kiin neither, though that sounds closer…

“The Kann Kemruhnt!”
The words burst from her mouth and into an extremely awkward silence.
Jenna blinked hard and realised she had been concentrating so purposefully on pulling that tavern’s name from her memory, she had slipped off into daydreams and missed a whole chunk of the conversation that had been taking place around her. Looks like it were more important than most too, you long-legged fool. See how that one-armed woman’s glaring? Bet you’ve made a nice mess of their argument, the snappier part of her chided. Might be I’ve help break up something nasty, though. her more optimistic side replied, reasserting itself. It always shook her when her darker feelings about herself began to resurface. She’d had enough self-doubt and angst as a girl and enjoyed playing the cheerful, care-free hobbit for the big folk so much she tried to keep her thoughts in line with her preferred character. Keep your true opinions hidden, Jen, if you want to keep your head and your mind, Ma had told her, and though she knew it wasn’t quite right she had tried to bury her discontented thoughts ever since.

It appeared the white-clad man, a knight of some description, had come to break up whatever dispute had been taking place between the gentlemanly orc and the one armed woman. The woman was missing her left arm too, and Jenna almost instinctively rubbed her left wrist, where a few bands of ropey scars emerged from her shirt sleeve, spreading in a fainter web across on side of her hand to the stubby remains of her little finger. The flash of sympathy she’d had for the woman quickly vanished as it became clear, to Jenna at least, she’d been threatening the orc and his child in some manner. She had, in her rash, stubborn way, decided the orc was a decent sort and it would take a great deal to change her mind.

She cleared her throat and spoke in a polite and exceedingly well brought-up voice uncannily close to the clipped tones of the shifty-seeming gentleman sharing their table. “Now, ma’am. I am not too certain what your trouble with my companion here is, and I probably have no right to become entangled in it, but he seems an honourable gentleman to me and doesn’t deserve such cold words. And to threaten to draw your sword in a noble’s house, and in front of a child- you must have more sense than that. The poor girl is terrified!”
She switched her gaze to the white knight and continued with her literary voice, as she called it.
“Sir- it’s a noble thing you’ve done, trying to settle a dispute you had no part in, though I suppose it’s your duty to do so. The best thing we can all do is put our weapons away”-she glanced at the knight’s sword for a moment “and sit back down. This is a funeral, and I’m certain blood shed here would hardly help everyone’s mourning.”

With that she turned back to the youth and spoke to him as if the dispute had never begun. It might look rude, but she didn't care. She'd long ago decided that the only way to end an argument was for one side, or all, to stop talking. Arguing back got you nowhere. Her voice slipped back into the comfortable grooves of her native and far more rustic and informal accent.
“Sorry for drifting off- but yes, the Rovers never visited the shire while I were living in it. It was at the Kemruhnt we met, weren’t it? That was a grand time! You were the lad who came to sing with us. Well, Dek, I’m Jenna, in case you’re as forgetful me.” Remembering his naively open comment about not knowing anything of The Johannes family, she lowered her voice so only he could hear and said “Now don’t go telling everyone, but I’ll admit I don’t know nothing about this Dagmar neither. Well, I found out as much as I could ‘bout the family afore I came, but I never clapped eyes on the fellow while he were alive. Makes me wonder if there ain’t more here who had an invite arrive clear out of the blue. T’send one invite out t’the wrong person’s a mistake, but two starts to look a little more suspicious, don’t you think?”

Salkazrian was surprised when the orc answered her questions. He seemed to be quite eloquent, and his tone was friendly. It was a far cry from the vile noises and crude speech that other members of his race had vomitted into her ears. But then, those were completely different circumstances.

The cold threat at the end of his response actually made her feel a curious kind of respect for him, though she was loathe to admit it! His genuine concern for the terrified girl at his side was as obvious as the little one's trust in him.

When Salkazrian saw the fright in the girl's eyes, she realised that it was the sight of a one armed woman towering over her that was causing it, and not because she was being held captive by a monstrous beast!

Salkazrian was just about to offer her sincere apologies, and to try to cheer the girl up, when Eyimon arrived on the scene. "Here comes the cavalry," she thought to herself with amusement when she heard his speech.

Then, almost immediately after Eyimon had said his piece, another guest at the table offered their opinion. Salkazrian didn't really listen to her words, though; she was too busy wondering what a queer assortment of people had gathered for the funeral! Nobles, a white knight, an orc, a hobbit, and of course, herself!

When the halfling had finished speaking, Salkazrian bowed her head in the orcs direction, and loosened her grip on her sword.

"You have my deepest apologies, sir," she began. "You are, in truth, the first civilised orc I have met."

She didn't elaborate on the kind of atrocities that she had seen his brethren commit; instead, she crouched down so that her eyes were at the same level as the little girl's. Then, with a wide smile, she addressed the youngster.

"Hey, little one, don't be afraid! Everything's okay, now. My name's Salkazrian, what's yours?" She finished by speaking her thoughts out loud. "You look like my eldest daughter; she's got the same colour hair as you."

Johannes

For some reason, the accursed name just didn't want to be remembered. Nyermersys was a beautiful city in the eyes of Grail Monhart. If you had information, you had power, and here he was being invited to the funeral of Mr.Dagmar Johannes. The problem, of course, was that he had no idea who the Johannes were. The courier had arrived early not two mornings ago, and the fool had gone through the trouble of snapping the rickety excuse for a door off it's hinges in his excitement. Naturally Grail had been furious, as would anyone who was half naked and asleep on the floor. It was only after he had cooled down that he had been able to make any sense of the now dirty, and blood flecked letter.

It came to him moment later, and the name Johannes finally clicked into place. They were a family of nobles in name only, and only recently had Dagmar Johannes passed on. It seemed that his son, Caol, would be holding the ceremonies for his father in two days time, and no doubt would be off again once the whole ordeal was finished. Now all that was left was to find out why he had been called.

Glaring at the dirt covered floor of his small hovel, he'd watched the sun rays as they moved across the floor. Thinking was something that Grail was good at, but this one mystery was going to have to be taken care of. After all, if everyone knew who he was, what was the point of being an esteemed thief and assassin? Muttering to himself about the stupidity of some of his informers, he had made his way down to the Johannes residence.

Living on the other side of the city was a good thing, and had given him plenty of time to dry after his hasty shower. Taking his time, he had tried to observe the silent building that had been the home of so many Johannes'. While there he had managed to silently befriend the gardener, and a servant boy who threw the trash during the morning and evening hours.

So it was that two days later, on the day of the funeral that he had made his way down to the mansion. Though he did have an invitation, taking the front door was for people who had no imagination. So Grail sneaked around the building till he reached the back door of the kitchens. The serving boy was waiting for him as planned though he was oblivious to Grail's presence. With a smirk Grail shouted out to him in a cheery voice,

"Hey, you going to let me in or what? Where are the morbid well wishers, and family members?"

Waleran
My word, what a tense lot those kitchen workers are! Waleran hurried back down the length of the banquet hall to his master’s chair. He was just in time to see a little person, probably a halfling, giving a little speech to the people surrounding her, which included two more guests who seemed to have joined their table. He –or she; the… person does have some feminine qualities to her face– finished up and began conversing in a more relaxed manner with the kind little circus lad.

The jester resumed his precarious place behind Myrach’s chair, wondering what in Ava’s name had occurred while he was gone– besides the one-armed woman accosting the orc with the little girl. The woman bowed and spoke apologetically to the orc, slackening her grip on her sword’s hilt. "You have my deepest apologies, sir. You are, in truth, the first civilised orc I have met." Her tall height stooped until she was face to face with the blond lass, smiling benevolently. “Hey, little one, don’t be afraid! Everything’s okay now. My name’s Salkazrian, what’s yours?” Memories of another small person danced in her light brown eyes. “You look like my eldest daughter; she’s got the same hair colour as you.”

Her gentleness with the little girl struck a warm note in Waleran. He adored little children –they were his best audiences, after all– and was glad to see that this woman seemed to as well. A thought struck him, his beak-nosed face lighting up. And speaking of audiences…

Pulling a banjo out of the straps holding it to his back, he posed for the guests in his proximity. “Well, my lords and ladies–” The words of respect he spoke mostly for humorous oxymoronic-like effect, having gathered that most of the people around him didn’t mind a jest or two directed at themselves. “–now that preliminaries have been established, may I suggest a song, perhaps?” A grin spread itself underneath his great nose, and he began picking at the banjo and singing in his warbling voice, loud enough for everyone near enough to hear, but still softly to allow Master Dek to reply to the halfling if he wished.

“There was a lass, a by-John lass,
Who set my heart a-flutter
Her arms were brawn and her nerves were brass
And she turned my heart to butter.

Aaeli-a-rel, aaeli-a-rel, aaeli-a-rel, oh.

I had a bird, a by-John bird,
An aaelirel, yes she was
She sang the best that you’ve ever heard
‘Twould give your ears a buzz.

Aaeli-a-rel, aaeli-a-rel, aaeli-a-rel, oh.

All of the day, the by-John day,
I’d spend with either female
But they both made me choose, said they
Between them, whose love’d prevail.” Waleran frowned mid-song at the awkwardness of that last line, then shook it off like a dog shaking water off himself as he continued the ditty.

“Aaeli-a-rel, aaeli-a-rel, aaeli-a-rel, oh.

Well…

I chose the girl, the by-John girl,
To love and wed forever
But a secret then the lass unfurled
A laddy was my lover!

Aaeli-a-rel, aaeli-a-rel, aaeli-a-rel, oh.

My eyes got wide, so by-John wide,
I fled her fast I could
My dear aaelirel birdy now I wished-”

Lord Myrach roused himself from his silence and silenced Waleran with a few words, his voice icy but tinted with an undertone of amusement. “Waleran. A less jesting song would be more appropriate in light of the occasion, I believe. Unless, of course, you’d rather no song at all?”

Waleran, startled, bowed. “Whatever you wish, m’lord.”

The air of a ghostly smile played around the area near Myrach’s face. “No song, then.” He looked around at the others around him, resting his gaze finally on the man who had intervened in the argument orc and the one-armed woman. “Now then. Thank you for your kind interest in us, sir.” A chilling, entertained voice that, curiously, did not sound too thankful.

Grinning upon the lyrics of the song, and the obviously ashamed Lord Myrach, he chose to study the two a bit more. He could only make out a few punchlines from the little diddy, but the situation became apparent through the manner in which they addressed it (specifically the situation and not necessarily how they addressed one another). The most important details of all for an experienced observer are the more subtle cues in a person's posture; Along with the directions in which they look at different times. It really gives a cue as to how an individual will treat such and such situations in the future. Waleran was easy to catch the drift of. Nothing but good intentions, point of fact, and appreciation. A textbook example of why the caged bird sings. His master was not so difficult to read either; Obviously, he put on his masque of piety and nobility to compensate for grievous sins and insecurities. It's not as if he was heinously self centered, but more as if he didn't know any better.

To counter any possible impatience on his own part, Scriabin left his seat and quietly withdrew his Viola from it's casing. Quickly and quietly, he tuned it by ear and played a few preludes. "Such a peculiar set of events... That we should linger and socialize, while the host is no where to be seen. Caol didn't necessarily seem like he would take this all that hard either; Maybe he's just in need of a bit of rest."

The idea perturbed him some more, so he began to sing to himself. One of his own compositions, and one that seemed to fit into the situation. "We truly are animals of emotion. Not to mention interesting, after everything is said and done..."

"Zefiro torna, e di soavi accenti
l'aer fa grato e 'l pie discioglie a l'onde,
e mormorando tra le verdi fronde,
fa danzar al bel suon su 'l prato i fiori.

Inghirlandato il crin Fillide e Clori
note tempran d'amor care e gioconde;
e da monti e da valli ime e profonde
raddoppian l'armonia gli antri canori.

Sorge più vaga in ciel l'aurora, e 'l sole
sparge più luci d'or: più puro argento
fregia di Teti il bel ceruleo manto.

Sol io, per selve abbandonate e sole,
l'ardor di due begli occhi e 'l mio tormento,
come vuol mia ventura, hor piango hor canto."

And then a repeat in standard tongue:

"Zephyrus returns, and with sweet accents
makes the air pleasing and loosens his foot from the waves,
and murmuring among the green branches,
he makes dance to his sound the flowers in the meadows.

Phyllis and Chloris, garlands on their brow,
temper their sweet and joyous notes of love;
and from the mountains and the valleys low and deep
sonorous caverns echo their harmony.

Dawn rises more lovely in the heavens,
and Injera spreads forth more rays of gold;
while purer silver adorns Thetis' fair cerulean mantle.

Only I, wandering through abandoned, lonely woods,
the brightness of two lovely eyes and my torment,
as my fortune wills it, now I weep, now I sing."

He couldn't help but attribute the piece of music to the composer reminiscing upon those who passed away before him, taking up the gifts of the fruit they planted in life. The very essence of grace, being brought forth in comparison to the idle solitude and pain of the composer himself.

And in conclusion, he couldn't help but relate to it. What an evocative theme for such a short and deftly wrought composition...

Koros

"Excuse me, but this is the Johannes' manor is it not?"

As soon as Koros spotted the next guest, he mentally checked another name off of that special group on his list. The spots were almost filled, he thought with a determined, leveled satisfaction. The old orc was Volkek-Oshra, clearly defined by his robes as a man from that race of fire-wielders. Koros noted the elder mage had a confused air about him. Probably what all my special guests are feeling right now, thought Koros. Well, he mused, it will all become clear to them before too long, if everything goes right. That was a big if, but sometimes you had to live with such risks. Being a lifelong servant, Koros was quite used to living with whatever got thrown his way, since he usually didn't have any choice.

"Yes, good sir, this is indeed the very place. You are here to pay respects to our dear late lord, yes? Please, if you will, follow me this way." He led the orc back into the main hall. Fortunately his appearance would me more accepted than your typical orc, since the more sophisticated Ximaxian breed drew a considerably higher degree of respect than their northern brethren. It did not escape Koros' notice that the other guest of orcish heritage was not getting a warm reception at all. Troubled, Koros paused to assess the situation. No arms drawn as yet, and the White Knight appeared to be trying to play peacemaker. Maybe he would get an early chance to prove his usefulness. Koros deftly led the Volkek to a table farther away from the unpleasantness, where their was already sitting the fine lady Taoma. With that settled, Koros began walking over to the table where the disagreement was occuring.

Passing back by the door again, he was cut short of his purpose when he heard another voice asking entrance. "Sir, is this where the funeral of Lord Johannes is taking place? I hope I am not too late." Koros smoothly checked and collected himself in mid-stride before advancing to the door with a warm greeting to the new guest, "You are right on time, my good sir. If you would be so kind as to follow me, we will have you seated right away." He directed the man to a seat next to the nobleman Aldred, and across from two curiously diminuitive ladies. "Be assured that the banquet will be underway but shortly," he smiled warmly before leaving the group to finally attend to that dispute which he prayed had not run out of control by now.

He was again thwarted in his mission when a kitchen servant walked up to him. "Eh, sir..." the boy faltered for a moment, "errmm, seems sir that we've got a new guest, now. Was let in the back door, see, by one of the servants. Should we have him be seated?" Was this another of the special guests, perhaps? Koros would have to investigate the situation further. He made his way back to the kitchen, and as he did so the young servant boy made a small signal with his hands, that Koros missed but another boy did not. This kitchen boy hurried back to Grail, giving him some instructions. "Ya can go in through that side door, see? Hurry up and go now, so you'll be going out as the boss be coming in. That way nobody sees ya when ya gets in. That's why ya took the back way, right? Just get a seat as soon as yer in, so's they don't getcha."

Terric and Aldred

It did not bother Terric that the initial target of his conversation had left. He simply changed his subject and moved onto the next victim...ermm, guest. He was in the midst of a rather tedious, though fast-paced, monologue on his opinions of a few newcomers to the city. Local town gossip, the kind that you get in a five-minute meeting between acquaintances, with the exception that five minutes was not going to encompass an eighth of the material which Terric was apparently skimming right off the top of his head. His discourse, which no one in particular had been listening to, was interrupted by the entrance of another poor soul--I mean!...guest, who had the misfortune...or...good fortune? to have Terric's company. "How'd you do, my good man? I don't believe we've met before so I'll start the introductions." The interruption had fortunately slowed Terric down for just a second. "I am Terric Dorwillen, a cousin of Caol's. Who do I have the pleasure of greeting, good sir?"

Whilst Terric talked, Aldred absent-mindedly rose from his seat to follow the music he was hearing. He listened to the sound of the Viola that Scriabin was playing, and listened with interest for several minutes. When the small performance ended, he slowly bunched his eyebrows in strained thought. This was not surprising since most thought was strained for Aldred. Finally his brow cleared and he carefully asked Scriabin, "How did you learn to play that music? It is...very nice," he finished, struggling for the final two words. Then perking up a bit, he continued, "What else do you know to play?"

His eyes lit up for a moment and his face fumbled a bit from surprise to a homely grin. Simple folks had an unexpected way of pleasing him.

"I appreciate the sentiment. It's been too long for me to even try to remember the place and time. I do recall it was a over a decade ago, and maybe a few faces come to mind... I'm familiar with many pieces, my friend. Maybe we'll try something more exciting. Why not an improvisation?"

The Viola was once again carefully removed from it's case, and Scriabin picked up the tempo this time. He proceeded to play a few mode progressions based upon the Je note.

After a half a minute, he was satisfied with the elasticity of his fingers and began to tackle some elvish melodies, and then transpose different themes, basing the key off of a higher note each time around. Intensity just kept building for a while until it felt nearly anti-climactic. And at that moment he doubled the tempo, without missing a beat. He proceeded to perform double stops, use percussive effects and plucking patterns with the instrument until he settled off after a large, ascending scale.

But, the piece was not ready to go out without a fight. With technical perfection, clarity, and experienced phrasing, he began to perform sweeps and then full chord double stops. At long last, he removed the bow from his right hand, placed it under his neck, and played double sweeps at the interval of a third away from one another, both hands fretting the board of the Viola.

He finished the piece, and stretched his hands for a moment. Having satisfied himself with practice for now, he had a seat once again and decided to speak with Aldred. Well that just made my day, he thought.

Toama watched the exchange between lord Godwin and his wife with expressively raised eyebrows, though her face did not give anything away otherwise. Yes, these people - especially the wife - were the kind of nobleborns that she felt... if not contempt for, at least not the smallest inkling of respect. She'd like to see how this woman would react if she'd ended in the hot desert sands of Aeruillin, and just how long she would survive. Still, some people might surprise others, and even themselves, with the strength they might show under duress. But at this moment, in this particular situation, Toama could not bring herself to take this silly woman seriously.

She satisfied herself with turning back to lord Godwin to answer his first question: "I am not offend in question. I am beink from not these country, but from far way, from conti... continent? of Aeruillin." Before she could go on, the one-armed woman at her table got up and marched to some other table, to confront what looked like an orc. In her time in Sarvonia she had not yet met one, but she had heard enough stories to identify the one as belonging to that race. The stories also spoke of atrocities, but she tended to take those with a bit of salt. From what she gathered they could be considered some kind of hereditary enemy of humans, and enemies always committed atrocities. Without having witnessed them first-hand, she just kept the stories in the back of her head but otherwise kept an open mind.

Which was a good thing, considering that while the argument at the other table was in full swing, another guest was seated at Toama's table - and this one, too, was an orc. What a coincidence, two orcs at one gathering, even if this new one looked decidedly more civilised than the other. She could not help but wonder who the beloved deceased had been, if he had known two orcs. Unless they were both like her, that they did not know this person but had received an invitation nonetheless? The more she thought about it, the likelier it seemed - and not only the orcs, but the one-armed warrioress, the white knight who had also deserted this table, and some more folks that she could see scattered around the banquet hall seemed too out of place to actually have known this rich man.

As Grom was unceremoniously staring at the other guest waiting to be seated, a human with the look of a scholar, he was caught offguard by the servant's reply. "Yes, good sir, this is indeed the very place. You are here to pay respects to our dear late lord, yes? Please, if you will, follow me this way." The servant led him towards a table at one end of the hall, where he couldn't help but notice another orc! Not of the Volkek-Oshra, but an orc nonetheless. This Lord Johannes has some interesting friends indeed. Wait! A White Knight! And two hobbits! No, that one with the red hair, a young boy maybe? More humans, hhhmmmm... His pondering was put on hold as he took his seat, across from a strangely dressed woman.

Grom sat there with his thoughts, unsure of what would be proper. The one time I am invited to something it had to be a funeral of a man I do not know! And humans have such strange mannerisms, but this one in front of me seems to be a stranger among the other guests as well. What to do, what to do... At long last, he decided it would be best if he struck up a conversation, or at least tried to.

"Excuse me," he said as he leaned towards the woman, "but you wouldn't happen to know our host would you? I fear I may have missed him on my way in. I'm not very good with dealing with humans." Even after saying it, Grom felt slightly abashed at admitting this to a stranger. Funerals never were easy for me before, but this one has me all uppity, and I don't even know who died! Oh, what's to become of me...

Eyimon sheathed his sword with a smile and a nod to those about, returning to the table. Hopefully he had that blasted scabbard set straight. Another seemed to have arrived since he had left and was seated a short way away from Eyimon.
"Eyasha's merciful peace, please let this not turn into another incident." Eyimon prayed quietly as he sat down. It looked like an orc. It might be an orc, somewhere in there. Not one of the nothern variety though. There was a sort of refinement there that Eyimon couldn't place.

Johannes. That was the name on the invitation. That was who everyone here was supposed to know.

The more Eyimon turned the name over in his head, the more he could be sure he'd heard it before. Perhaps the Elder Johannes had known his father? Eyimon's father was dead and in the grave a decade at least though.
It seemed to Eyimon perhaps something of a joke, some colossal pun, that he had been invited. Eyimon hadn't seen his family since he was five. He hadn't known that his father had died until he was given the rights to the manor in a letter. A letter of all things. The house of Sorossa was not a particularly close one.

Eyimon wondered exactly when they would see this Caol Johannes. It didn't make sense that he would invite a... colourful, group such as this together and not appear. If the others began to get impatient. Eyimon feared what might happen.

Godwin and Estrilda
"I am not offend in question. I am beink from not these country, but from far way, from conti... continent? of Aeruillin."

Godwin beamed in his huge benevolent manner. "So far away, eh?" He gestured to his right side with one meaty thumb. "Lady Estrilda and I haven't been-"

He broke off, staring, as a servant showed a bald orc adorned in stiff red robes to the seat directly across from Toama, and watched as the guest promptly proceeded to lean across the table towards the tan-skinned woman. He seemed a bit uncertain of himself, as if he had come to the wrong place by mistake. "Excuse me, but you wouldn't happen to know our host would you? I fear I may have missed him on my way in. I'm not very good with dealing with humans." His voice confessed embarrassment of some kind.

Almost immediately, Lady Estrilda's shrill voice came trilling over his shoulder in a manner that was meant to be hushed but nonetheless carried to every corner of the grand hall. Her bony fingers clutched Godwin's arm, piercing like five unpleasantly sharp needles. "Oh, my! My lord Godwin, is that another orc?" The other skeletal hand fanned at her bird-like visage. "Oh, my word, they do grate on my nerves, they do!" Estrilda brought her face close to her husband's head, hissing into his ear. "Why were they invited, anyway? Surely those barbarians couldn't have had any connection with the late Lord Johannes. They..."

Lord Godwin hushed his wife with a thick finger to his lips. "Lady Estrilda, dear!" He glanced at the bearded orc waiting for a reply from Toama. "Don't be ridiculous, my dear! Your nerves are grated on by everything..." Her mouth opened indignantly in protest, earning another hushing motion from her spouse. "Dear, I know your nerves are dreadful... Yes, I'm sorry I said that; of course you can't help it." His booming voice lowered considerably. "And don't worry, my Lady Estrilda. He's but a simple orc. His aristocratic standing can't be that high."

With a sniff of her pointed nose, Estrilda conceded and loosened her grip on her husband's arm. Godwin, renewing his previously jolly conduct, turned to the orc. "So, good sir! What brings a man like- er, one like you to this occasion?"

"My Lord Godwin!" came the strident response at once. "You know how it bears on my nerves when you are rude like that! Honestly, dear, how can you say such a thing, bringing up mention of the dead without the proper respect? It's a funeral, for heaven's sake! Oh, my harried nerves!"

“The Kann Kemruhnt!” was suddenly said by Jenna and Dek smiled at the memories ... the music, the singing, the drinking, the smoke.

"That's right," Dek said with another smile, "you're a good musician," he added to her, as the jester dragged out a banjo and began to play.

"Say," he continued to Jenna, "didn't you recently bring one of your pies to the compendium? It was delicious."

Dek listened to the song, smiling as Waleron played and sang, even as he listened to what Jenna was saying.

“Sorry for drifting off- but yes, the Rovers never visited the shire while I were living in it. It was at the Kemruhnt we met, weren’t it? That was a grand time! You were the lad who came to sing with us. Well, Dek, I’m Jenna, in case you’re as forgetful me.” Remembering his naively open comment about not knowing anything of The Johannes family, she lowered her voice so only he could hear and said “Now don’t go telling everyone, but I’ll admit I don’t know nothing about this Dagmar neither. Well, I found out as much as I could ‘bout the family afore I came, but I never clapped eyes on the fellow while he were alive. Makes me wonder if there ain’t more here who had an invite arrive clear out of the blue. T’send one invite out t’the wrong person’s a mistake, but two starts to look a little more suspicious, don’t you think?”

Dek nodded, she was correct, of course. His face went slightly red with embarassment and said softly to her, I sometimes speak before my brain gets into gear. I figured it might have had something to do with my mother. She was from around these parts, I understand. She was disowned by her family when she fell pregnant with me to my father. She and I came and lived with the Rovers. The Rovers are all I've known. But none of them will tell me anything about my mother. I even came back to where she grew up, but I was beaten and returned to the Black Butterfly Rovers. I still know next to nothing about her, and want to know more. I guess it's because I'm a truth seeker."

Dek was quiet, listening to the song and the music and smiling, then another song started up with some other singing and he decided he didn't like it that much at all ... the words, he didn't recognise them, but he did admit to himself that the music sounded alright. Dek turned and looked at the man who was playing a stringed instrument, then, the man returned to the start and sang in the common tongue. Then, after a brief conferral with another man from his table, the man played another tune. Dek listened carefully to it, and applauded politely at the end of it.

Looking at Jenna, Dek said, "I think that these people need to hear a bit about Rover Nancy." He looked at Waleran, "how about you play again, Waleran, and I'll sing this time. It's a fairly simple tune, so it shouldn't take you too long to pick it up. It starts on mid ey. Can you do that?"

Terric and Aldred

Aldred listened as carefully as he could to the musician's reply, "Maybe we'll try something more exciting. Why not an improvisation?" Aldred got the impression that this person knew quite a bit about music, but the nobleman couldn't catch much else. And that last word positively threw him for a loop. Mustering his limited thought capacity into a sensible answer, he began to speak, "Improv...Im...Do you know some music that is good for dinner? Helps eatings, er, diges...eating? I'm feeling hungry already, I hope they serve some food soon." A more familiar topic was adding a bit of confidence to his words again. "Let's hope the food here is better than the last dinner I went to. You wouldn't believe how much bland food a noble will serve. I'm so tired of unexciting food...hey, maybe you could play something exciting, to liven up the food?" Aldred had already completey forgotten that this was exactly what the man had just asked him, but that was of little consequence to the dull-witted man.

Meanwhile, Terric was excited by some revelation from the man he was engaging in conversation. "A Compendiumist! How very, very interesting! That must be a very thrilling job, no? And one requiring quite a bit of knowledge, I would think. Where did you study for such a serious undertaking?" A thought occured to Terric, giving him a moment's pause. A twinkle appeared in his eye, and he continued talking at an even faster rate, "You know, I might have a good project for you, my good man. Something that could keep even a Compendiumist busy at work. Ah yes, if you would do me this favor I would be deeply pleased. Would you consider the project if I gave you a few details?"

"Oh, my! My lord Godwin, is that another orc? Oh, my word, they do grate on my nerves, they do!" Truth be told, it was not the first time Grom had hear such a response to his presence nor would it be the last, but it always stung. He somberly sat up straighter in his chair and looked the speaker, a thin lady with an almost hawk-like face, straight in the eyes.

"So, good sir! What brings a man like- er, one like you to this occasion?" Before Grom could say a word in answer, the lady, whom he assumed was the man's wife, spoke up again. "My Lord Godwin! You know how it bears on my nerves when you are rude like that! Honestly, dear, how can you say such a thing, bringing up mention of the dead without the proper respect? It's a funeral, for heaven's sake! Oh, my harried nerves!" She's an odd one, for a human. Still, it appears as if she has some standing or other. Sometimes I wish human politics were as simple as my people's. Clearing his throat before answering, "Well, I received a letter, an invitation really, which said I was to come and pay my respects to the late Lord Johannes. So here I am, though I will admit that I did not know the man personally nor have I a reputation. I myself am a bit confused as to why I was invited to the funeral of such a prestigious man which I hope will be made clear once I get a chance to speak to his son." Pausing to look around once more, "You wouldn't happen to know if he's here yet do you?"

Before the man answered, yet another guest sat at the table and engaged the White Knight in conversation. Such a strange gathering guests, who was this man Johannes?

Jenna sat back as she listened to the lad’s speech. His voice was deepening, she noted, but still squeaked in that curious strained way of male adolescents. ‘T’were if someone had sat on their privates!’ her mother had remarked on more than one occasion.

Smiling a little at the thought of that, she nodded a little as she listened, the smile turning to a grin as he complimented her playing.
“That’s a most kind thing t’say, lad…”she mumbled, blushing a little.

"Say," Deklitch continued "didn't you recently bring one of your pies to the compendium? It was delicious."

“I did indeed, I did!” she said, fumbling in the pocket of breeches to try to get hold of her pipe, for she felt in need of a smoke “I like writing this and that as much as I do singing. Tis an honour t’have something o’mine in that great compendium, I must say.” She finally drew her pipe from her pocket and paused, struck by recollection for a second time. “Aha!” she exclaimed. "You’re the one who’s been writing about all them kyranian matters, ent you? Most informative, one don’t normally hear much about those folks, I think. I must bake a pie with some Kyrattin meat one day. T’see if you like eating ‘em as much as you do writing ‘bout ‘em!”

Her pipe retrieved, she began searching for a match as the lad spoke of his mother.
“That’s a sad tale. I hope you find out what became of her eventually, master Hardin-p’raps you will soon, if she lived near here. There ain’t nothing more frustrating than an unsolved mystery, I find” she said, keeping her voice as mournful as she could while she became increasingly annoyed as her matches completely failed to be anywhere on her person. It’s an interesting one as well, she thought. I must write it down afore I forget! You could spin a good story from it, I think.

Still frantically patting at her waistcoat, she continued, speaking with a wry smirk.
“I’m lucky, I suppose. My ma’s been with my all my life and I love her dearly, I do. Though I’m fairly certain I never met my father. Ma didn’t talk of him, and neither did most of the town. Well, I’ve never wanted to meet him! He sounds as though he were nothing better than a wandering scoundrel-y great-hobbit without a decent loving feeling in him.”

She joined Deklitch in applauding the magnificently moustached human at the opposite table, having finally remembered her matches were sitting on the dressing table back at the Nymeran inn.
Casting a glance at her, Deklitch said "I think that these people need to hear a bit about Rover Nancy."
Jenna chuckled. “Oh, aye, that song” she said with a wink. “I bet it’s just the sort of thing all these high-n-mighty folk’s turn their noses up at. Just be careful they don’t throw you out for vulgar behaviour!”
She considered whether or not to sing along. As much as the thought of shocking the human nobles amused her, she still wanted to stay inconspicuous as long as possible. Looking to Waleran, she gave the jester a smile and said- “T’were a fine tune you were singing, and, your master willing- it’d be nice to hear another.”

She rolled her fingers sound her pipe’s stem, lamenting her match’s absence.
“I wonder” she began, loud enough for the rest of her table to hear her, and perhaps those on the next table along as well. “If anyone has a match on them? Or anything else that could light a poor hobbit’s pipe?”

After speaking with the little girl, whom Salkazrian learned was called Lyra, the one-armed lady made her leave and started to walk back to her seat. Eyimon had already returned to their table, and Salkazrian wondered what he would be thinking of her now.

“How did the old man get acquainted with an orc?” Salkazrian thought to herself as she walked. “That is, of course, if he knew him at all.”

Something about the gathering wasn’t right; why would so many unusual people be here? It stood an increasingly likely possibility that they, like herself, hadn’t known the deceased. But if that were the case, then who would have invited them, and why?

Salkazrian didn’t have much time to consider these intriguing questions further, for as she got closer to her table, she noticed another orc! For a moment, a wave of adrenalin washed over her, but she quickly suppressed it.

“I won’t say a word this time,” she thought to herself as she sat down in her chair. “But I’ll keep an eye on him; that’s for sure!”

Another new arrival sat at the table, too; a young man. His clothes were far from noble, but he had a cute face. Salkazrian nodded in his direction briefly, and flashed him a quick wink.

“Well,” she said to Eyimon once she was seated, “I’m glad that’s over.” She smiled slightly, and then added, “But tell me, do you really think that you’d best me in a sword fight?"

Myrach
The circus lad, Deklitch, turned his gaze to Waleran with that impish air that he had about him. "I think that these people need to hear a bit about Rover Nancy. How about you play again, Waleran, and I'll sing this time? It's a fairly simple tune, so it shouldn't take you too long to pick it up." Waleran glanced at Lord Myrach- he hoped he was wrong about what the noble's response would be. "It starts on mid ey. Can you do that?"

“T’were a fine tune you were singing, and, your master willing- it’d be nice to hear another," piped in the halfling.

A frown tugged at the jester's mouth as he glanced doubtfully at Myrach, inclining his head respectfully. "My lord, would you mind if I accomodated the wishes of our dignified neighbors?"

"Waleran, I wish to sample their dryest wine. Fetch me a glass." A dismissive wave of Myrach's hand sliced through the air.

"But, my lord? You already had a glass, my lord." A look of slight puzzlement creased the jester's knobby-nosed face.

"Waleran." Myrach's fingers tapped quickly, testily on the clothed wood of the table. "That hardly matters. Now, their dryest wine, if you will, jesting simpleton!"

The jester's features cleared, followed by the wide-eyed, nervous look seen in the frightened eyes of a colt. His adam's apple bobbed up and down like one end of a seesaw. "Yes, my lord." Once more throwing an skittish apologetic expression at Deklitch, he fled down the length of the hall, eventually disappearing into one of the servants' side doors. If possible, his limbs moved even more awkwardly than before, legs trembling with every step.

"No, I'm afraid there won't be any more music for the time being. But how about you all tell me about yourselves, how you know the Johannes, et cetera," Myrach said with a sudden, cold change of tone. One could almost imagine his cynical brows raising in derision of the guests, but anything his face might have betrayed was concealed by his black hood. He turned his head abruptly, looking at the halfling on the other side of the orc. "Would you like to start, young one? ...Oh, how rude of me! Interrupting a conversation like that. I do apologize."

He kept his obscured eyes on all four of the tables, scanning for the effects of the order he had given to Waleran. Soon enough a suggestion of a chilly, satisfied smile played about the shadowed area of his mouth, for he glimpsed the brawny, tough-looking men slipping imperceptibly in throughout the hall.

***** ***** *****

Lord Godwin and Lady Estrilda
Lady Estrilda made a shrill, meeping noise that sounded more than a little indignant. "Him! Here yet!" Fanning her face again, she sucked in air. "Oh my, my smelling salts! Oh!" Her thin hand groped about her neck until it found the capsule hung there, flourishing it directly beneath her nose, herself moaning stridently. "The man is dead! Oh, the disrespect! Oh, my!"

"No, no, my dear." Godwin patted his wife's arm patiently. "No, I believe the man- er, he was referring to the son, young Caol Johannes, my dear. Weren't you, ah, sir?" He looked inquiringly at the orc, doggedly persisting in his arm pats as Estrilda continued her high-pitched keening sound. "I'm not sure if he's here yet, hasn't shown up, anyway. Poor lad. Always been a cynical lad, at least the here-and-there times I've visited with him, but I can't say what his father's death has done to him."

Abruptly his blunt, bearded face, so unused and ill-fitted to solemness, brightened, its various creases becoming happy again, and he banged one meaty fist on the table. "But there! Too much solemnity is bad for the soul, you know! It is a funeral and all, but myself, I can't see why every minute of it has to be somberness and grief!" He winked. "Lady Estrilda and I, we're just here for the reading of the will!" Lord Godwin's barrel-chested torso shook as he roared with laughter.

Almost immediately his wife's moans became shriller and louder. "Oh, Lord Godwin, such disgrace for the deceased! Oh, how can you, my lord! My nerves, my nerves!"

"Well... That and the food!" Godwin grinned at Toama and the orc. "Oh, hush, Estrilda dear, it's all right." He wiped a few merry tears from his eyes as his mirth subsided. "Ah... Seriously, however, I am sad to see the old fellow go... Kind of cowardly chap, he was, but he always had a proverb or two for me. Ah yes, I can remember quite a few of them." Curiousity lit his face, and he looked from Toama and the orc's faces. "Perhaps he gave a few to you? Remember any good ones?"

Koros

Koros strode into the kitchen, only to find everything seemingly operating according to schedule. Dinner was smelling wonderful, and nearly everyone was working busily, with the exception of a lone boy standing idly staring off in the direction of the side door. However, upon noticing Koros, he quickly snapped into action and scurried into the farthest corner of the cooking area. Koros stood silent for a moment, his irritation nagging at him every second he did so. "Well, boy?" He allowed the words to escape with great care, not letting too much anger into his voice before continuing, "I thought we had another guest here, I certainly hope he hasn't fallen into the soup."

The servant looked up at Koros with a mixture of fear and mischief in his eyes, "Well, I...errr, it seems he musta fergot his invite, yeah? Seeing as there's nobody of interest here, why don't I just let ya be on with yer job." The boy began sheepishly stepping away to join his comrade at the other end of the room. Koros looked on as the youth cast glances back at him with every creeping step. Making no move, Koros simply panned his gaze across the room, resting it upon each and every member of the kitchen staff. Oh well, he thought, this is one mystery I simply don't have the time to deal with. Clearing his throat a bit he added, "Serve the appetizers and main course, chef. See to it that it is served with a choice of neepwine, ice wine, and cha'ah. And please be quick with it, if you can."

As Koros walked out, several servants disseminated among the tables carrying trays of food and carts with iced drinks. The appetizer was toasted breddgrain sprinkled with cinnabark, and was followed up with a mithanjor stew. After that, the guests had a choice of dishes between spicy taenish, juicy beef, and pulled pork with various vegetables.

As the meal was being served, Koros noticed that there were still a few straggling guests filing in, much to his chagrin. Shrugging off the inconvenience this caused him, Koros put on a smiling face to greet them all. He particularly noticed the one leaning up against the wall, standing out from the crowd with his snow-white hair. "Good evening, my good sir. Your timing is excellent, for we are just serving the meal at this instant. Had you arrived any later, I fear you might have missed dinner! But never mind that, just follow me this way to your seat." Whatever unpleasantness had been occurring earlier had settled down now, and with several empty seats remaining here this seemed the best place for the new guest. "Enjoy your meal, sir," Koros said as he motioned to the seat for the man, the one to the young Rover's left.

Terric

"I would certainly take on any such assignment, what would you have me do?"

"Well, mymymy..." Terric paused for a short breath, arranging his hurried thoughts, "It's my understanding that the Compendium does plenty of entries on various persons across the disk, no? Well if I do say so, the Dorwillen family is one that should be of great interest to you, great interest. Lots of interesting people in it, if you hadn't guessed...hehe...well, I think you'll find, if you'd just listen to me for a little while, that I am not only part of such a wonderful heritage, but I am most certainly..." His voice lowered to a muttering whisper, "the very most important person in that family. Why, one might say," his voice dropped a bit more, "that I am the most interesting person in all of Nermeran!"

"Well, what would you like to hear about me first, my life as a child? My great artistic accomplishments? How about the wild love life that has me the gossip of the town? Or, to stay a little truer to the matter on hand, my relationship to the Johannes? And a little info on my excellent family tree?" Terric was badly exaggerating about himself, but how often did you get a chance to get your name in the Compendium? Besides, that accomplishment might win him enough fame to actually have that wild love life he'd just lied about...

Finally having come out of the stupor his second conversation with Aldred put upon him, he caught the pungent fragrance emanating from the kitchen. Such amenities shouldn't be needed or worried about, but he couldn't help but feel spirited that he was about to eat a better meal than he had eaten in a few months.

He heartily enjoyed the toasted bread of cinnabark, and the stew cleared his taste palette well enough for him to delight in the spiced taenish.

In his mind, you could rate food upon how much you sweat when you eat it, and the taenish was certainly doing well. Not only that, but Aldred was preoccupied with the food before him, and it gave him time to take yet another perspective of those around him.

There was quite a variety of peoples in the manor. He recognized a Rover, two Orcs of different heritage, and all manner of venturesome folks that looked like they were quite the energetic type. What really seemed to suggest something, however, was that a Kasumarrii man had just entered. What sort of a situation was he getting whisked into anyway?

Why was he invited here, for that matter? He certainly didn't fit into the crowd. They were all too much prettier than him, and it was a sad reminder that he was no longer a strapping young lad. He remembered distinctly how he could pick out enticing women as if they were trolls in a hafling's home.

Feeling a bit like an addict, he withdrew once more, and like a paranoid six year old he played his Fíoelà just so quietly that one would have to be closer to hear it all that well.

Tensely he bowed a few chords, and he reprimanded himself mentally for a moment, stretched his hands in a way that looked apparently painful, and loosened his countenance first, then his wrists, until he was relaxed enough to play.

He then began to practice scale progressions one after the other for about a minute and a half. By the time he had gotten that far, he lost all sense of time, environment, obligations, and then even his own self... At the last, he held only onto a sense of morality to mentally chastise himself should he make a mistake.

Having finished warming up, he began in earnest to play. Soulfully, he wove his way around the fretboard of the instrument, vibrating the chords and singular notes he bowed, developing upon it only scantily as it was the opening entreaty of a sonata.

Then he brought two different themes together: one with self contradicting chords, clustered harmonies and slow, drawn out bravado, with drumming notes in the background to keep a concrete tempo. And the other theme was more of a folk melody, with short, separated notes and chords to complement them every so often, but more remote sounding, loose rhythmically, and softly played, rather than the boisterous melodies you often heard that sometimes didn't seem so conscious of themselves.

If he was at all insightful a person, or righteous in any way; The music was much more so. The piece was who he wanted to be, who he tried to live up to: Fair portion and measure in every direction, similar to a droplet of air beneath the surface of water that distributes itself in so symmetric a sphere, that every natural principle is taken into account.

Aldred made eye contact and said a few words, but Scriabin apparently didn't hear him. He just kept on playing, or was he playing any more? He couldn't hear it anymore, and for that matter it began to seem more like audible thoughts. Needless to say, he was experiencing bliss.

And however moral and justified his reasoning seemed, the trance gave him something akin to savage pleasure. Is the notion of being wholesome and righteous any different towards any end rather than committing one's life to sins and transgressions against love? Or was this bliss a reminiscense of the mutual relationship between each individual to some degree? Did it make a difference at all if one was righteous or not? The very fact that we exist must have been a casualty of logic and balance. Or is it that we might become righteous in spite of it all that tips the scale? And is that precisely why we aren't privy to every bit of knowledge available to Ava (whoever and whatever she is)? Why, even I myself would be blunt as a child if provided with the information, and take it all in with an absolute lack of perspective. Perhaps I'll have to lean unto an understanding other than my own.

Having been sated of such thoughts, he reached the conclusion that the reason behind such intense pleasure was the lack of guilt in which one could observe and participate in the emotion. The different sinful pleasures were obviously intense, but by the same token temporary, self contradicting, subject to environment, and transgress against every other individual present at that specific time.

And when one follows the narrow path of righteousness, the troubles of the world seem as nothing; Not to mention, any treasures the world has to offer appears as rubbish in comparison to the wholesome sentiments naturally ingrained in people that were impossible to remove, untraceable except by intuition, as if given by so undeserved a graceful delegation as one had trouble picturing. Damn. I didn't expect we'd have to do any growing up today, old man. I'll have to puzzle on that for weeks now. What a chore...

I hate these 'horse' things

Mila had had nothing but trouble with these horse-drawn carriages that strung her from place to place on this peculiar continent, from each equally oddly-named province and town to another, lost in a mish-mash of queer sounding syllabelles that her Zhunite tongue could barely wrap themselves around. These strange gruffling beasts were the quickest way to travel, however. Master Ziron would be occupied for much longer in his document compilations, and such an activity wouldn't require her services as a bodyguard.

Clutching the leathery piece of parchment that was addressed to her, despite lacking any permanent address, Mila waited as this wooden contraption darted throughout the winding streets of yet another unfamiliar city. She was stunned how anyone could find there way in such a bewildering place. At least Marmarra had a geometric design!

As the buildings passing the small window in the carriage's frame grew in their stature Mila came to wonder how powerful her host for this occasion actually was. Some of these homes matched the grandeur of the Kogianates. Well not really, but they were impressive nonetheless. The clip-clop of the beasts drawing the carriage quickly extinguished itself as the unusual creature came to a halt.

'This be the place madam' murmured the carriage driver, who's name she had impolitely forgotton.

'Thank you' she said with an almost insincere bluntness, leaving the carriage into the fluttering breeze of the orange sunset, the slight heels of her thigh length boots clacking agaisnt the stony ground in a manner reminiscient of the horses that brought her here.

As the grey Gondolsilk cloak that covered her purple corset was drawn into the wind along with her tempestous red hair, Mila mulled in her head what the custom was at such grim functions on this continent.

Will it be like a Tarshiinite funeral, with gifts for those attending? Or worse a Tsohamin one where I'll be expected to help with the cremation of the corpse?! Its one thing to turn up to a funeral of a man you are unsure you ever met, but to help destroy what remains of him exceeds the mark surely!

Mila continued to approach a stern but hospitable looking man dressed in the attire that she had learned expressed you were not of noble birth rite yourself, but had the bittersweet occupation of being immersed in their world, never being able to touch the grandeur.

Such is servitude...

Meeting her warm brown eyes with those of the servant attending the door, Mila brandished the letter she had been given inviting her to this function.

'It is such a shame that the first letter I receive in this Kingdom should be one beckoning me to such a tragic occasion, but am I correct in assuming this is the Johannes residence?'

"No, I'm afraid there won't be any more music for the time being. But how about you all tell me about yourselves, how you know the Johannes, et cetera," Myrach said with a sudden, cold change of tone. One could almost imagine his cynical brows raising in derision of the guests, but anything his face might have betrayed was concealed by his black hood. He turned his head abruptly, looking at the halfling on the other side of the orc. "Would you like to start, young one? ...Oh, how rude of me! Interrupting a conversation like that. I do apologize."

Deklitch hesitated, the warning of Jenna from earlier still going through his head, the warning of the Rovers still going through his head, the beating he had suffered when he tried to find out about his mother going through his head, and he felt to his stomach at that point ... it was more the memories than any lingering pain that he still felt as a result of that beating ... he had known from past experience that when someone wanted to keep something hidden that they would do anything to keep it hidden, and so, this youth who was mostly truthful, spun a story that only partially resembled the truth. The pause, continued, and Dek noticed the eyes of people on him, and he realised they were waiting for him.

"I suppose that I'm beginning," Dek commented.

"My father and my mother met about fifteen years ago," he said, "she lived in Astan, he was a Black Butterfly Rover, she was a town girl. Nine months later, I was born, and she was almost killed as she refused to let them take me away from her. So mum and I joined dad at the Black Butterfly Rovers. She was killed two years or so after we joined ... when a horse stampeded. I really have no memories of her."

Dek paused and then continued, "I grew up as a Rover, I was taught to do acrobatics and later on to sing. On a few occasions I tried to find out about my mother, but was unsuccessful each time. With the latest attempt resulting in me being beaten by people who didn't want me to know the truth about it. I am still looking for the truth about it. Most are telling me that she wasn't who I think she was ... but I remember things about it ... I suspect that she was something more than what I have been told. I think she was likely a daughter of a merchant or something like that." Something like that, Deklitch thought, would any of them possible believe that?

Another pause, and then, "I know that we performed in these parts not long ago. I think that maybe the Johannes watched us perform. Maybe Caol knows something about my mother that he wants to tell me. I don't know. But I'm here."

Dek looked around the table, and said, "that's it for me."

A woman, a soldier by stance, seated herself near the white knight. He seems to be quite popular tonight... But did she just glare at me for a moment? She wouldn't be the first orc hater I've met, but definitely one of the most dangerous... His thoughts were interrupted by the man speaking up again. ""No, no, my dear. No, I believe the man- er, he was referring to the son, young Caol Johannes, my dear. Weren't you, ah, sir? I'm not sure if he's here yet, hasn't shown up, anyway. Poor lad. Always been a cynical lad, at least the here-and-there times I've visited with him, but I can't say what his father's death has done to him." The turn of the conversation brought back memories of Grom's childhood and the loss of his friend. One day Lars... One day I'll be strong enough...

With a sudden burst of cheeriness, he continued. "But there! Too much solemnity is bad for the soul, you know! It is a funeral and all, but myself, I can't see why every minute of it has to be somberness and grief!" Winking, "Lady Estrilda and I, we're just here for the reading of the will!" The man's chest barreled with laughter at the dark humor. His wife was quick to chastise him, "Oh, Lord Godwin, such disgrace for the deceased! Oh, how can you, my lord! My nerves, my nerves!" Undaunted, the man continued with his jokes. "Well... That and the food!" Godwin's grin was something akin to a laughing wolf.

"Oh, hush, Estrilda dear, it's all right. Ah... Seriously, however, I am sad to see the old fellow go... Kind of cowardly chap, he was, but he always had a proverb or two for me. Ah yes, I can remember quite a few of them. Perhaps he gave a few to you? Remember any good ones?" Grom was more than bit stunned at what Godwin had just shared with him and the woman across from him. These humans must be mad! I've never met a man so free with his views of other people. In fact, I've never met a man so jovial about death! This man Johannes sure was strange, but then all humans are strange. Regaining his bearings, Grom answered, "I do not, as I said before, I did not even know the man... But I do recall one from my own childhood. 'Before you take more than you can handle, remember that you can't put any back.' Although, I've found it has different uses than just food." Grom smiled to himself at his "joke" as the food arrived.

While he enjoyed the fine meal being served, the woman across from him spoke up. "I am beink curious. You say before, you get letter, but do not know... dead person? Are you maybe in knowink of how these letter find you? I also did receive letter, but I am not knowink why, or how. Also I am thinkink in my head that maybe other people here are also like this, yes?" The words she spoke left Grom thinking through what she had just said. It was the first time he had heard a human stuttering when speaking Tharian. She must be from a strange land indeed... To Toama, "That thought had crossed my mind as well. I find it highly unlikely that one man would meet so many strangers if he were a noble, especially since they all seem to be from different corners of the world. As to how the letter found me, that I cannot say. I haven't stayed in one place long enough to call anywhere home." He paused slightly,"That's a very unusual accent you have, if I may ask, where do you come from?" He winced as pain shot up his back. Confounded back! I should see if there's a healer among the guests here. It's worth a shot when I get the chance to ask around. He grimaced through the pain as he waited for the woman's answer.

"Would you like to start, young one? ...Oh, how rude of me! Interrupting a conversation like that. I do apologize." The fellow’s hidden eyes seemed to turn to Jenna and a shiver shot down her chest. Words deserted her for a moment, but a moment later Deklitch piped in-"I suppose that I'm beginning,"

Jenna listened carefully as young master Hardin told his tale. Most lads his age worrit about this and that and who they are and where they come from, she thought, but few have so much reason to be that way.
“As I said before, lad, a sad tale.” she said, still rolling her pipe’s stem between her finger and thumb. “And now I suppose it’s my turn, good sir.” She eyed the hooded figure, not bothering to conceal her distrust. Why should I? she thought. There’s a man who gets a thrill from being high-and-mighty and frightening-like. I can’t say out and out that this whole Johannes business is a mystery to me, no, that’d please him too much, to have it confirmed that I don’t deserve to be here. But if I tell him some untruth…it would be even worse if I found out I’d lied outright. Something twixt the two, I think.
She smiled sweetly and leaned forward, chin on her hand, elbow on the table.
“I suppose it’d be my turn to spin a little tale, then?” she said. “I’m glad to see you enjoy a story, sir, even if a song ain’t to your liking.” Oh, but I’m sure there’s a reason to this questioning asides pleasant chit-chat, she thought grimly, still smiling. What are you trying to find out, you slippery creature?

She was about to begin when the hall’s doors were thrust open and a stream of servants poured in, each holding a tray of glistening food. Her sickly smile widened and became quite genuine.
“A veritable feast!” she exclaimed, profusely thanking the young man who set down a plate of toasted bredgrain before her and setting down her pipe, her urge to have a smoke replaced by ravening hunger. “Though I suppose it is a banquet. This portion’s a bit on the smaller side, though.” She had devoured the appetiser in minutes and sat back. Eating had only increased her appetite it seemed and her stomach let out a low growl. Well, she thought, that’s why it’s called an appetiser.
“Apololgies, sirs and madam. But we small folk do enjoy food. Them who don’t can’t enjoy anything in life, my ma used to say.” She was preparing to begin her story once more, when another servant promptly whisked away her plate, to be replaced by a steaming fish soup, and all her attention was again on eating. When her bowl was wiped clean with a hunk of loibl, she once more relaxed, sipping her cup of cha’ah.

“I’ve never been much of a drinker” she said to no one in particular, nodding towards her cup. “And I always liked a good brew better’n wine. So! About myself. Well, I’m a hobbit, as I’m sure you all can see, though I’m not from them marshes-from those marshes down south,” she quickly corrected her grammar, switching from her comfortable hobbit-accent into more formal tones. “I suppose none of you will have heard of the dogodan shire, though. It’s even further south, in the place big folk call enthronia. A beautiful, warm place it is. I’ll go back, one day, but for now I’m travelling the world for not much reason other than to see it all. Not that imaginative, is it? Every other farmboy seems to dream of that these days. See, I’ve always loved tales, whether I’m telling them or reading them or hearing them. So I make what money I need from telling this or writing that. I’d been in the employ of a rich fellow over in Astran before I came here. You see, Johannes, bless his soul twice fold, was familiar with my work, I believe. Was something of a patron of mine.” The lie slipped out easily, startling her. Well, she had had some mysterious wealthy patrons in the past. “So I just feel mightily honoured to have been invited to such a noble-get together, of which I am clearly not worthy.” With her last words she shot a narrow-eyed glance at Myrach. Her story-fuelled mind had decided this man was a rotten sort who could be up to no good, and it would take a great deal to change that opinion.

Thankfully, her pork and vegetables arrived soon after she had finished, along with a white haired man, preventing her from answering any more questions.

Adventures of Caelereth

Archives => Death's Invitation => Topic started by: Caol Johannes on July 03, 2009, 07:11:37 AM