Bloodstones [WFRP]

[padraig]

http://whfb.lexicanum.de/mediawiki/images/5/53/Grafik_T%C3%BCrme_von_Nuln.jpg
Marktag, 21 Brauerzeit, 2522, shortly after 10 AM
House of Margrethe van Schramleben, Schlossfels District, Nuln

You find your way to the address listed on the invitation, a stately townhome in one of the nicer parts of Nuln. The streets are free of both roving street urchins and garbage, and it even seems that more sun pierces the hazy clouds of smoke billowing from the city’s forges.

A servant opens the door and quickly escorts you into the main entertaining area. An ornate fireplace dominates the far wall, left at a slow burn to stave off the autumnal chill. An Arabyan carpet covers the floor, looking somewhat worn, and those of you attuned to the fashions of the upper class realize the walls are a shade of dark green that was most fashionable two winters prior.

About twenty people stand about the room, clustered in small groups. Most wear the standard finery of the nobility, though a few stand out. A uniformed man with a distinctly Tilean accent commands the attention of several.

“...and the one-legged squire said, ‘don’t worry about me, I ride sidesaddle!’”

Earning a bout of raucous laughter.

Two servants wander through the group, carrying trays. One offers lavender water and Bretonnian sparkling wine, the other glazed pears and some sort of dried fruit, stuffed with cheese.

“...I hear she wore...”

“...you should read his earlier works...”

Soon, another servant entered, and rang a small brass bell. The group fell silent, before the thunderous roar of cannon fire burst out, close enough for you to feel a slight tremble under your feet. As soon as it ceased, the conversations returned to their previous hum.

All
Unless it's your first time in Nuln you'll recognize this as one of the daily test barrages by the Gunnery School.

“...the situation in Ostland really is appalling, we should...”

“...and she’s appointing him...”

[Sossrim]

"Nuln... it's been a while."

A spring in her step, as always, Ottilyn Emmaline "just call me Otti" Hirtzel made her way down the wide streets of the White City, careful to keep her new boots clear of any runoff. She'd spent some of the last of her money on new clothes for the salon; her old ones had become encrusted with salt and warped by water during her voyage back from Tilea, and she wasn't eager to ruin these just yet. It was always amusing to cause a scandal, especially one that her father would probably hear of in time, but interesting things often happened at parties, so she wanted to keep getting invited.

The fact that she wore breeches and a well-tailored shirt rather than a dress would stir just enough scandal to keep things interesting, so long as the fabric was of quality enough that the servants would let her in at all. Nobles could be fussy. Otti crossed her fingers and muttered a prayer to Ranald.

The house was an old one, impressive of size and design but showing its age; it was the very antithesis of the new money sort of place in which she'd grown up, which had been all fancy doodads and no style. As the door swung open, Otti greeted the servant on the other side with a wide smile and a mannish half-bow from the waist. As he led her inside she lagged behind him, taking in the decor with a practiced eye. Yes, this was decay. Though she couldn't for the life of her remember hearing anything about this particular noblewoman, the state of her furnishings and the number of guests spoke of a decline in status.

It was all sombre and proper, the sort of thing that bored the famously raucous Countess Emanuelle out of her mind, and that probably explained it at least in part. Otti only hoped that her own presence would liven things up a little. And perhaps there would be other interesting guests as well. Grabbing a glass of wine and a piece of the cheese-stuffed fruit, she made her way toward the largest gaggle of people she could see. If they reacted to her unusual presence, fine; she would prove as interesting in conversation as in looks. If not, that was fine too. She would listen, nod and laugh and gasp at all the right moments, become part of the scene. That often proved both enjoyable and informative.

After the music and laughter and free-flowing wine in Verezzo, this would probably be a letdown. But Tilea had become boring after a while, as had everywhere else Otti had been. Perhaps she would go to Araby next, she mused, thinking of that faded carpet. Or perhaps, if she gave this party a chance, it could be the beginning of something else entirely, something bold and new and exciting...

It was worth a shot.

[Perius]

"Ah, Imperial girls..."

Sir Hector de Quincey, third son of Sir Roger de Quincey, harpist, soldier and Knight Errant of the Duchy of Brionne, sat tall in the saddle as his horse navigated the broad streets of the Schlossfells quarter. Once, when he was new-come to the Empire, the high buildings of Nuln had seemed intimidating to the country knight - but three years had passed since he first came to the great city, and now he felt almost at home in his surroundings.

Why, the previous evening at the Weissman's scarcely a member of the assembled company had guessed he had been in the Empire less than ten years. Gretel Schnelling, all dark curls and teasing smiles, had betrayed his secret with an impish pleasure, but, by the time morning came, even she had been forced to confess (between giggles) that he had a very proper accent indeed.

Smiling slightly at the memory of her, Hector picked up the pace, determined not to be late. He had spent an enjoyable week in the city, basking in the hospitality of a merchant house grateful for his efforts in saving their youngest son from Averland cattle-hustlers across the border - but now that hospitality was wearing thin. His purse was down to its last few silver pieces, and, whilst he was happy to carouse with traders sons and dally with lawyers daughters, he would die before he begged a living from (or, worse, had to marry) a wealthy commoner.

The van Schramlebens, on the other hand... they might only be Imperials, but they were what passed for aristocracy in this land. Doubtless he had only been invited as a gimmick, a novelty for their guests to fawn over, but their rank still made them a step up from the company he'd enjoyed since being thrown into that prison back in Heideck. Be amusing enough, and hopefully get invited back - that was the plan.

He'd dressed for the part, too. His armour was folded up in the saddlebags, clearly unsuitable for a social occasion. Instead, he wore the crimson doublet Maria von Ropsberg had given him two years before, now newly washed and repaired. His linen breeches were less fine, although he had taken care to tuck their ragged ends into his high riding boots. A green travelling cloak was flung over his back, rent with sword-thrusts and slightly haggered round the fringe: over the top of it, his battered white shield and well-kept battle-axe were strapped. With his dark flowing locks and delicate harp, he thought he looked every part the warrior-minstrel.

Dismounting in front of the house, he handed Tancred's reins to the footman at the door and, leaving the man to guide the horse to the stable, strode down the corridor to the reception. Everything about the noblewoman's house was different from the merchant quarter. The shabby green walls reminded him vaguely of Gravine Maria's residence, a stark contrast to the new blue wallpaper of the Weissman home; the soft carpet was more charmingly frayed, reminding Hector of the wall-tapestries back at home; even the furnishings had been tastefully left ungilded. For a few moments, Hector was in awe of the carefully understated class of the place.

Then he tasted the sparkling wine.

"By the Lady," he mutters, delicately replacing the glass on the tray he took it from. Evidently all is not well within the noble house of Schramleban - either that, or they're trying to poison their guests. Snaffling a glazed pear from one of the waiting staff, he slips it into his money pouch for Tancred to enjoy later, before glancing about the room in the hope of catching site of his hostess.

Harp in one hand, mouth-clearing glass of lavendar water in the other, he looks about to try and spot her.

[Major Kiaslu]

Not every member of the party was happy to be there exactly. Klara von Mackensen for one was more relieved to have avoided excess attention. The young cadet had expected remarks from the man on the door, from the guests about her, and knew in her soul that they'd be sure to come from the Tillean man in uniform. She knew his sort at a glance. Thus, she had swiftly moved to isolate herself a little. She stood in one corner of the room, having placed herself silently beside a young couple who seemed engrossed in one another's company, to the point of seemingly failing to notice her.

As it stood, Cadet Mackensen seemed to blend into the shadows of the corner in her mostly black uniform, hood raised to conceal her blond ponytail and sipping her sparkling wine with the mildest frown she could manage. Klara could recognize the taste of Bretonnian liqueur and it still seemed horribly light to her. Powerless, without head, kick, strength to it. Even before her time in the army, she knew to dislike the brewing practices of the southerners. Along with everything else about them... The young Reiklander smiled at her own reflection in the glass, thinking back to Father, ranting for hours at a time about their neighbors over the mountain.

Father. He never liked court, but when he attended, he had confidence. He strode through the place, talking to those he wanted to and ignoring everyone else. A little part of Klara wished she could bring herself to act like that.

But no. The cadet stood there, nursing her drink and looking out at the mass of society passing by, thinking to herself. She'd have enjoyed this greatly not too long ago, back in Altdorf. She should really be enjoying it now, even when wearing uniform rather than a dress. Relief from the barracks, from officers' demands, the shouting, the inanity of it all. For a moment, she'd thought she could step back into her old life, just for the afternoon. To attend a party, meet people, talk freely with them about the little unimportant things of the day. To relax without having to loose herself in her cups again.

But no. That was never going to be the case down here. She knew noone in Nuln beyond the regiment, and most of the officers she'd dealt with swore off social events like they were hosted by Ratmen. And thus, she was alone, a name that someone had noted was connected to old blood, invited either out of pity, or in hopes of showing that this faded old place still played host to glory in its way.

What am I doing here again? Cadet Mackensen sighed quietly, considering briefly abandoning the party in favor of a tavern. She had the coin for it, and it might be better. No pretense amidst drinkers. People stared at you, or let you be. And she was as likely to bump into a friend at the local tavern as here.

And it was then, of course, that she saw her.

The Cadet simply stared for several seconds, taken aback by the unexpected visitation. Otti? Instinctively, Klara ran a hand through her hair, straightening the ponytail, and bringing down the hood. It was an old mannerism when in the company of friends, and Ottilyn Hirtzel was most defiantly a friend... assuming that was indeed Otti. They hadn't seen each other in a while. Not since I joined the Collage. And... cut my hair.

That seemed strange, even to the blond haired trainee officer herself. She'd taken dueling scars since then, and was now wearing armor and minimal makeup.. and it was her shorter hair that preoccupied the young Reiklander?

Then again, Otti tended to make her think in strange ways. That hadn't changed, it seemed. Klara grinned as she looked across the room, watching her old friend closely, trying to see what she was about. If she wasn't too preoccupied, this party might be about to take a positive turn.

[Sossrim]

Halfway to her chosen group of gossipers, Otti caught a flash of movement from the corner of her eye, a momentary glimpse of a familiar face. Could it possibly be? She peered a moment at the features that had emerged from the hood, heedless of the awkwardness of her stare, then broke into a wide grin. "Klara?!" Turning on her heel midstep, she wheeled back over to the corner where she'd spotted her friend at a half-run, arms extended for a hug. For all the differences between the girl now and the way Otti remembered her, the staying in a corner of the party sealed it.

"Klara," she said again, laughing delightedly, "look at you! Your hair and... and a uniform! Oh, your family must be marvelously horrified!" She was gushing now, and knew it, but hardly cared; she'd been worried this party would prove to be a dreadful bore, but the risk of that was gone entirely. The two of them had often made their own fun even at the most dismal of events back in Altdorf.

So Klara, once so worried about her family's opinion of her, was an officer now, and Otti, ever the rebel, had been thrown out of the University. Klara had a uniform and a sword; Otti was little changed, aside from her newly-tanned skin. There was nothing to do about it but laugh. She reached one finger up to gently trace the thin white line running diagonally across the lower left of her friend's face; preserving personal space seldom occurred to her, especially among friends. "And that's new and dashing, too! You must tell me how you got it. Oh, it's wonderful to see you!"