Chapter One - The Banquet

[Grial]

“Well, seems like I’m not the only odd one out at this gathering.” , Grial turned to where the voice came , only to find either a child or a very small person , placing his red eye on her , he realized it was an hobbit , the little people , but before he could answer , Lyra always the curious child ,  quickly left his left hand to place herself in front of the hobbit , with her blue eyes sparkling with excitation , thinking it was another child ..

Smiling , Grial spoke in an unusual soft voice for a orc " 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..." , caressing Lyra blond bangs , Grial continued " 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 ..."

[Eyimon Sorossa]

"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?

[Jenna Silverbirch]

" 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]

"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

[Salkazrian]

   “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.

[Caol Johannes]

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.

[Deklitch Hardin]

"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."

Dek smiled at the man who spoke to him and followed him inside the banquet hall. Dek was led to a table where a halfling, an orc and a small child were sitting, together with someone who had the looks and manner of a noble. Dek wondered if maybe this was the Caol Johannes they were all here to comfort, but he didn't want to bother with that for now. He wanted to talk with the others, find out what they knew about this event.

"Hi there, my name is Deklitch Hardin, but most people just call me Dek," he began, but then he looked at the halfling again.

"Do I know you? You look familiar, but I don't recall the Rovers visiting any hobbit communities," he asked Jenna.

After that, he paused, and said, "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."

[Alexandre Scriabin]

Finally having had adequate time to acquire some perspective on the folks around him, Scriabin began to engage with his environment once again. He was a bit disenchanted now that he realized that the woman he sat next to didn't have any hidden, or intriguing, musings, but after the fine points were set aside he admired her simplicity. Besides, her name was amusing also. Seeing as Terric wasn't one for any kind of real insightful discourse he made eye contact with Aldred.

"So you had quite a bit of history with Dagmar?"  "Ummm... yes, he was quite the fella. You see one day he......etc.etc..."  So I assume you were a relative?  What? You'll have to speak up. What was I saying? (Long, drawn out pause) After that he.........etc.etc..."  I guess I never looked at it that way... So you're a relative are you not?  Ummmm, well yeah...  Well, how did he see things from a dying man's eyes?  Old Dagmar always did have the funniest way of fishing...........etc.etc...

Methinks I sat at the wrong table today, thought Scriabin. Ah well...  When can we expect the ceremonies to commence? He said.

[Twigga Knosst]

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."

[Deklitch Hardin]

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.

Dek heard the man in front of Waleran call himself Lord Myrach, and bristled despite himself at the way that the 'Lord' spoke to Koros. He then turned his attention back to Waleran.

"Nice hat, Waleran," Dek replied, "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 it is easier on the tongue. 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 then standing up."

"So, what do you do, Waleran?" Deklitch asked the jester, "I do acrobatics and I sing, but I wish I had a hat like yours ... that would be great!"

[Eyimon Sorossa]

"Ah." Eyimon did nothing but blink and sit there with his mouth hanging slightly open for a few moments.
"Um, uh..." in truth, Eyimon had no idea.
The monks spent their days in monasteries, and he had no idea what arrangements were made for the priests. He didn't remember if there had been any interdictions against marriage in the codicies, but Eyimon had never been particularly good at remembering the codicies. Except for that one passage. That passage was important.
Well of course it's important! It's the rules for Nethor's sake. What would we be otherwise? Master Jeodin had always been like that.
"I- I'm not sure." Eyimon stuttered a bit. Peace, but women were- No. This woman was strange. Nethor's hands! But she was strange.

Eyimon finally managed to stop himself from adjusting the sword. Eyasha's peace! He shouldn't have worn the thing. Somehow the scabbard had shifted a little when he sat. He just needed an excuse...

[Salkazrian]

   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.

[Toama SorInyt]

The servant had led her to the table with the two she had noticed earlier. However, with them in conversation, she didn't think she'd be welcome to just butt in - besides, she had no idea what the conversation was about. She was soon distracted from the pair by the arrival of some nobleman and his wife. A fat nobleman, no less, who thrust a hand in her direction while introducing himself and his wife.

Toama looked at the hand for a moment before realising that he wanted her to shake it. The customs here in the mild climate of Sarvonia were not quite second nature to her yet. After a moment of hesitation she reached out her own hand and pressed his - not quite a shake, but close enough - and introduced herself. "My name is beink Toama." She was unsure what else to say. Usually when she was in the company of some nobleman it was because he had hired her as a bodyguard. Rarely did she sit next to one as if they were on equal footing. Truth be told... she didn't *like* nobles. Well, most of them, anyway. When they paid her, she could limit her interaction with them to the basics about their security, rather than having to make small talk with them like now. But then, in her experience, small talk was what they excelled in, so she just left the initiative of the conversation to Lord Godwin.

[Allia]

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.

[Twigga Knosst]

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.

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