Chapter One - The Banquet

[Caol Johannes]

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 Sorossa]

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 Knosst]

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.

[Alexandre Scriabin]

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.

[Salkazrian]

   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.

[Caol Johannes]

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.

[Twigga Knosst]

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.

[Eyimon Sorossa]

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]

   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 SorInyt]

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.

[Eyimon Sorossa]

"Heard of the..." Eymon muttered to himself, sitting back a little in another futile attempt to keep the sword from sticking it's owner through. Eyimon laughed
 "It's only the blasted Order of Seyella."
Eyimon looked up the table, or tried to without turning his head. The veil was meant as a symbol of humility and Eyimon had often appreciated it, but it was no great shakes when it came to looking at what was right next to you. Or looking at much of anything really.
"Have this off then."
 He muttered, removing the veil carefully and folded it up to sit in a pouch at the back of his belt.  You couldn't eat with the veil on in any case.

"Remind me, where is the Seyelite Army based out of? I've spent the last two months wandering around Xaramon, and it's quite scrambled my thinking. I imagine if I never see another wizard, I think it will be too soon."

[Twigga Knosst]

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]

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 ..:"

[Jenna Silverbirch]

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]

   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.

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