Chapter One - The Banquet

[Salkazrian]

   Salkazrian turned her attention to the hooded man who had decided to speak on behalf of the orc, and instantly she disliked him.  His words twisted and turned like a serpent’s body.  It was just the kind of pretentious way of speaking that she hated; saying ten words when one would have done.  Still, she managed to decipher his general meaning.

   “Gentleman?” she repeated with scorn.  “I’ve heard a lot of names for his kind, but never that!”  Another word from the man’s speech came into her mind.  “Shy?  There’s nothing shy about an orc raping a villager and then slitting her throat!”  Even though the words were emotional, Salkazrian’s voice remained flat and expressionless.  “And delicate?  Like a battle-axe to the face?”

   Her gaze fixed directly to where she assumed the man’s eyes to be.

   “Not that you’d know anything about that, sir.  No disrespect intended, but if you think that this is a spectacle, then you must have led a very sheltered life.

   “Now, I’ll go back to my seat once my questions have been answered.”

   She turned back to the orc, and addressed him again.

   “If I’ve offended you, then I apologise; but tell me,” her eyes indicated the young girl, “how is it that you travel with a human child?”

[Grial]

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 .

[Twigga Knosst]

"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 Sorossa]

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?"

[Grom Hazl'r]

As the hunched over orc approached the door to the manor, he recalled the strange occurrence that brought him there. I was staying at that inn, the Roaring-something, when the messenger appeared. He held that invitation and insisted that it was to me, even though I'd never heard of this "Dagmar Johannes". I still can't believe that it did indeed have my name on it. Grom pulled it out to reread what he had almost memorized. "It doesn't make sense! he muttered under his breath. "I don't know who this man is or what he wants!" He let out a large sigh, "But out of respect and honor..."

Upon reaching the door he noticed that almost all of the other mourners were wearing black. Maybe I shouldn't have worn my robes, but they are the most formal things that I own. Not to mention it's too late to change, I left everything else back at my room. As he scanned the others, stroking his beard, his attention eventually came to an older man who looked to be a servant of some kind. Grom produced the invitation and hesitantly spoke up, "Excuse me, but this is the Johannes' manor is it not?" He still wasn't sure if he was supposed to be there or not, but it was a bit too late to turn back now. He rubbed where his little finger used to be as he waited for the servant's response.

[Jenna Silverbirch]

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]

   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."

[Foraste Lydan]

I'm going to be late! Foraste thought as he hurried down the road. The invitation had come when he was just leaving New Santhala, he had set out for Nyermyersys immediately but had been slowed by rains along the way. Johannes, he had heard the name before and he had decided to visit the funeral, in respect for the dead.

He asked a citizen where the Johannes estate was and hurried there. The building sat exactly where the man said it would be. Foraste swept his brown hair off of his face and barely had time to brush off some of the dirt and grime from his cloak before he reached the mansion door.

Another guest was waiting to be seated by the door so he asked the servant in the front "Sir, is this where the funeral of Lord Johannes is taking place? I hope I am not too late."

While waiting for the servants response he removed his hood and checked to make sure Thad was okay. The Ximaxian rat uncurled from his sleep and poked his nose out of the pocket he called home. He twitched his nose in excitement from the smell of all the food. He settled back into his den, confident that he would be fed before the night was over.

[Grail Monhart]

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?"

[Twigga Knosst]

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.

[Alexandre Scriabin]

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...

[Caol Johannes]

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?"

[Alexandre Scriabin]

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 SorInyt]

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.

[Grom Hazl'r]

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...

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