The Aristocrats! [IC]

[ThirdEmperor]

Three years, eight days since the Grand Revolution of Verlours and with the city still recovering from the bombastic festival so generously put on by the merchant guilds to celebrate that auspicious event, the uprising has yet to truly end. The public portion of it is done with at least, the vast majority of the populous content with the lowered taxes, better wages, bread and circuses gifted to them for so dutifully playing their part, with no more calls for revolution or outright fighting in the streets.

But for every rung of the hierarchy broken, every noble put to the hangman's noose, some aspiring aristocrat is eager to fill the void. Even now the merchant guilds who sprung up so quickly in the Crown's wake set to dividing the city amongst themselves and squabbling over the precise lines, the captains of industry at the helm lining their own pockets by whatever means they deem possible. Those young, free-thinking poets and politicians who had been the voices and faces of the revolution, who had in their demands for justice espoused above all the importance of equality between fellow men and elves and dwarves, now find themselves only too eager to use their fellow men as stepping stones as they seek to replace the nobility they themselves executed.

In short things are normalizing, the old balance of power teetering towards equilibrium. New names in place of old, perhaps better ones, but not the land of egalitarian ideals and freedom that the people had dreamed of and now seemingly forgotten. Just another struggle for power, differentiated from the rest only in that no other to date has had such high stakes, convuluted rules and unlikely players.

Now....

The old La Jambe Cassée Theater is still decked in the tattered garb of festivity, streamers hanging from the the rafters and scraps of brightly colored paper littering the floor in sharp contrast to the austere dignity of the ancient playhouse's construction. Things are quiet, an afternoon showing of a rather obscure but witty little drama, the drunken rabble who might make it otherwise kept out by the bronze automatons flanking the door. This is by no means a place for the poor or ignominious.

Although tonight, exceptions have been made. Six rather unfortunate individuals, who might in another life have been able to secure entry to this favored haunt of the rich and powerful by their own means, have been given special invitation by a wealthy benefactor to join him here for a business meeting of sorts. These six are in many ways as mismatched as any group could be, yet the one common thread joining them all is that while the revolution has made peasants of them all, once their's were the names that all men aspired to equal, the movers and shakers of the city this one once was.

Although all six have by now arrived in the private box indicated in the letters they received and the play is well into it's second act, this mysterious correspondent has yet to show. It is unlikely that whomever it is would simply leave them hanging, if for no other reason than that the astronomical price of seats here would make such a prank ludicrously impractical, but for now they are left with no conversation nor company except each other.

[Marlowe]

Ekaterin sat quietly and attentively, although in truth she'd seen this play at least twice before, had written dissertations on the third acts climax and the ways in which it deviated from survivable rapier technique, and though she could never be so thoughtless as to say so she can't help but notice that the lead actress's revealing costume revealed mostly that she needed to eat more regular meals.

It was a little cool in the decorative, but drafty private box. Ekaterin was wearing every stitch she owned, but although her military-style jacket and leggings were rich in lace and epaulettes, sufficiently ridiculous and impossible to please even the most jaded generalissimo, it was not a precisely comfortable outfit in which to sit around doing nothing. Plus, some of her concealed weapons were beginning to dig into her back.

Out of the corner of her eye, she surveyed her companions of appointment. A gleaming construct with a monocle, a pouting white-haired young man of undeniable attractiveness and undoubted evil, an older man with the lines of old murders on his face, a richly-dressed young woman with a hungry look, an almost impossibly undistinguished-looking fellow making a constant attempt to avoid fouling his polearm in the drapes, and her.

And me. She thought again. We begin again. It shall be amusing to see who it is we end. Let it be that they thoroughly deserve it. I would hate to break my unsullied record.

[Daftendirekt]

Choosing to stand rather than sit, Lucien leaned against the wall of the box, his arms crossed, his cold-calculating eyes taking in the crowd and the performance in only a perfunctory sort of way; his real attention was on the others in the box with him. He didn't recognize a one of them from his days of balls and banquets, operas and midnight rendezvous. He was probably the only noble among them, the scum. Nevertheless, he did his best to memorize their faces and details of their clothing -- an easy feat for the strange metal man, as Lucien had never seen one of those before -- just in case things went poorly tonight. There was nothing to be done until their mysterious benefactor arrived, so for now, The Bastard waited.

[seventyfour]

For what felt like the hundreth time James rearranged his glaive into a more confortable position. He'd have left it behind in his room, but he didn't trust the the fat inkeeper who was at least three times his size anymore than he could throw him.

The play was one of those dreary romantic affairs, although the lead actresses costume certainly made for what it lacked in plot. He wasn't focused on it now though (although he made a good pretense at it), he was more interested in the 5 fellows he was sharing the box with.

He'd heard of metal men before, but he'd never seen one in person. The man leaning on the wll near the back had cruel cold eyes, certainly one to watch he had the look of a killer about him. A woman who certainly looked the part of the duelist and he didn't fancy testing whether it was true in practice. He couldn't get a read on the man in white hair, but he made a note to keep an eye on him. The final person, a lady by the looks of things, seemed innocuous enough but James knew enough about women generally to be wary. Especially considering that they'd all been brought here for a purpose which he assumed was more than seeing a play.

The people he was with were dangerous clearly, but that doesn't mean he couldn't make friends hear. Dangerous people make better friends than enemies after all. So to the person next to him (who happened to be the woman in the military jacket) "Good evening, enjoying the play?"

[Buwh]

The illustrious Lady Faedolen saw fit to accept this unusual request and now sat in one of those lovely opera seats decked out in the most royal finery a waitress' salary gets you these days. But, still, it was mostly purple so if she blocked out recent events and closed her eyes it was almost like she was back where she belonged. People always wanted to dissect the things she loved and this was no different, but she'd always love the simplistic plot and ridiculous situations in this particular stage-play. Ever since her Father took her to this one as a child, back when he wasn't dangling from a hangman's noose. She could almost imagine being back there with her life lived in roses..

The lady scowled as someone spoke casting a withering glance over past the young woman beside her at the man and his glaive. She didn't recognize him. Weapons? How uncouth. Her flail, a King's weapon, sat useless back in her room. She had come here to enjoy a play, not bash in a skull. It seemed like the intial estimate of six was over-stepping as she only saw a few here; the uncouth one, that woman in blue, maybe another she couldn't make out and.. was that.. The Bastard? An involuntary shiver passed through her as she knew him; by reputation and description. Sort of like the older brother she never had, well, by the way her Dad talked about him anyway. Didn't seem to be much else here besides an old suit of armor.

"Don't they usually provide servants for things like this? How can I truly enjoy a play without someone waiting on me. It's been so long."

Yes. It had been a long time since she tasted the fruit of decadence. But she was hungry.

[Daftendirekt]

Spotting the young ex-royal glancing at him and shuddering, Lucien's face broke into a grim, thin-lipped smile for a moment, his emerald eyes staring back at her in contempt. The Faedolens... what a bunch of amateurs. While his own fall from grace was pure bad luck, he was sure that theirs was from poor management -- a true royal would have been able to survive a revolution with their money intact. Hearing her whine about the lack of frivolities, he merely shook his head and turned his attention -- however feigned -- upon the ridiculous performance up on stage.

[Marlowe]

Ekaterin cocked an eye at the man with the glaive. A hyperordinary face. So ordinary it's details slip from the mind once seen. In truth, without that glaive-she registered the man's words. "It is a competent performance, although they really should feed the poor girl once in a while. And I think the leading man has been drinking between acts. I don't begrudge such an opportunity as this, to watch the work of Schvoranius and Gluckstein in safety and in state, but I would like to earn my bread and bacon. And so I'll admit to being the sharp little philistine here and wish the overrated dagger and sob opera was over". Her intonation shifted from the round, long vowels of nobility and into clipped street-slang half-way through the final sentence. She'd let the man himself decide which was the pretense.

"Ekaterin DiMacculata. Lady of the world and occasional killer. And you would be-?"

[Malimar]

It was enormously scandalous, two decades ago, when the old Viscount Tussex announced that he had produced an heir, and it turned out the heir was a construct. But nobody present is likely to be old enough to have had their ear to the grapevine at that time.

But, aside from his very existence, there's not that much scandalous about him, and he hasn't done anything of particular note since the Revolution, so, if this weren't so probably a meeting of former aristocrats and heirs, Syrus would be just another construct; not necessarily such a terribly odd thing.

Syrus had been to this place before, with his parents, in his youth. He had sat quietly and absorbed the play, even as his parents tried to instruct him that the point of the excursion was not the play, but to see and be seen.

So, when he recieved an invitation, he was a little concerned. He is not, as far as he is concerned, in any fit state to be seen. Where once he gleamed with adamantine, gold, and jewels, now his skin is bare wood and iron. He can afford no fancy clothing, so he is covered with simple leathers an a travelling cloak. (The cloak, and his backpack full of inks and papers, now hangs in the appropriate place; it would be rude to wear them inside!) Even the monocle is a cheap knockoff, containing no gold or brass. But he eventually decided that, fit state to be seen or not, all business propositions, especially offers from obviously very rich individuals, should be investigated.

No matter how hard his parents attempted to drill the idea of being fashionably late into Syrus's head, he was never quite able to entirely grok the concept. So tonight, he arrived almost precisely at the appointed time. Not quite to the second, but no more than a minute early or late. But he doesn't begrudge their mysterious correspondent his tardiness: Obviously, they simply understand the concept of "fashionably late" much better than Syrus does.

Introducing himself as "Syrus Tussex, utmostly pleased to make your acquaintance," he greeted, with consummate (albeit slightly awkward) politeness, whomever had arrived early. As others trickled in, he greeted, in the same way, each of them in turn. Since then, he has been sitting, attempting (with unconvincing results) to feign disinterest in the plot of the play.

[Callous]

Adelphos had been the first to show in the theater box, but he still hadn't uttered as much as a single syllable. Instead he focused his attention on the play, those glowing blue eyes of his occasionally gazing back towards the others as they spoke up, but he made no move to speak out himself.

There was an undeniable elegance in his poise the way he sat there watching the performers, his lips at times curling into a smile of amusement but the majority of the time his expression was reserved and noncommittal.

He gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement to Syrus as he introduced himself before his attention again fell back to the play, his chin resting between thumb and forefinger with his legs crossed as he lazily looked over the stage wondering when exactly he, they, would meet the unknown benefactor and host of this evening.

[Buwh]

"It's always so pretentiousness to pick out and deconstruct a stage play like this. You're here for free, madam, and I doubt you could do any better." Lady Faedolen defended, tapping her knee rapidly as another part started after a moment of silence. "See? He loves her so much.. I love the world seen on stage. You'd never see emotion like this anywhere on this side of the play. The work of the author's heart shrines through, no matter the state of the actors. Raw emotion and romance, that's the sort of life I yearn for." She spoke quietly, not taking her eyes off what was happening in the opera.

[ThirdEmperor]

"Gentleman. Ladies." The door is pushed open and into the box steps a plump, ostentatiously dressed dwarf flanked by two men in chainmail tunics who look as if they were born to work in the "hired muscle" industry. The dwarf himself could be no less than a member of the House Belzinth, even putting aside the fact that he wears the family crest on a silver medallion around his neck they are the only dwarven nobles in the city and this man is clearly a noble. Golden rings adorn his fingers and the braids of his well-trimmed beard, the traditional dwarven tattoos etched across his face done in the decidedly non-traditional color of royal purple, an ornate silver pistol with it's grip done in ivory tucked not-so-inconspicuously into his belt.

"Enjoying the play? The lead's a friend of mine." He inquires, clambering into a seat beside Lucien. "Now, I suppose introductions are in order. I know who you are, so I'll start. I am Marrin de Belzinth, Treasurer of the Esteemed Collegate of Alchemists. Also an enterpreneur in my own right. I sell crossbows mostly, some guns, the occasional golem. All very profitable." Withdrawing a silver snuffbox from his jacket, Marrin takes a pinch before offering the rest around.

"Now, before I go into specifics on why I have contacted you.... Well, I apologize for the secrecy, but this is a rather delicate task I have in mind, so if anyone here has any problems with getting their hands dirty I would appreciate if they left now."

[Malimar]

Syrus greets the newcomer in much the same way as he greeted the others: "Utmostly pleased to make your acquaintance, sir." There is a slight, almost imperceptible, pause before "sir", as the word sticks in his voice processor. Syrus, son and heir to the Viscount Tussex, addressing a mere merchant as "sir"? This would once have been appalling.

When the snuffbox makes its way to him, Syrus mimes taking a pinch without actually doing so (he does not seem to actually have any orifices in the region of his nose) and passes it on.

Syrus processes his reaction to the play, vaguely aware that disinterest should be the proper reaction, at least for a man of his particular specific position in society. Or would have been, once upon a time. All the old rules have somewhat fallen apart of late, so he considers taking his cue from his companions. But, between Lady Ekaterin's dismissiveness and Lady Faedolen's defense of the play, he's not clear which cue to take. So, when all else fails, he settles on the truth: "I quite like it. I am particularly fond of the character of the sassy best friend; she is very practical, as contrasted with the main characters, who have behaved with distressing irrationality so far."

To their potential employer's last remark: "With complete respect to all present, but... if any of us were in a position to be able to afford the luxury of scruples, would you have brought us here?"

[Marlowe]

Ekaterin's eyebrow twitches at the spectacle of an aristocrat nouning an adjective, but elects to not enter into a discussion with the women. Schvoranius always did know how to seek the heart in defiance of the higher organs, and Gluckstein was too old and tired to restrain him. In any event, the appearance of the sartoralist newcomer gives more more pressing matters to attend to. Nodding to the Average-Looking man with the polearm that she'd be glad to continue the conversation at a later date, she leaves her seat and takes up a perch on the rail of the gallery, facing toward de Belzinth.

"There are some stains, that when mixed with the honey of success and prosperity" and of satisfied kharma"are washed away like pure mountain water. Others, you carry the reek for ever. May we, rather than buying into general principles, insetead be aquainted with some specifics? With whom might we have the prospect of dirtying our hands?"

[Daftendirekt]

Lucien finally speaks upon hearing their benefactor's opening.

"The obviousness of clandestine dealings here is near insulting," he hisses. "If I were inclined against that sort of thing, do you think I'd have shown?"

He smirks at the dwarf, his hand at his hip, resting idly on the hilt of his plain-looking longsword.

[seventyfour]

Before he has a chance to reply to Ekaterin the door to the box opens and James is quiet whilst the dwarf who enters introduces himself.

He takes the snuff when offered, but waits a moment before joining in the conversation, trying to take another measure of everyone in the box, who would speak first, how they'd react and speak to their would be employer etc.

"How dirty are we talking about here? Ekaterin's right, while a little larceny is all well and good, but I'm not sure I'd ever be willing to burn down an orphanage no matter how good reasons you have and how well you pay us."

[Buwh]

The Lady Faedolen flashes her ring around ostentatiously. "Well, as you can tell from my, ah, family history we have no trouble getting our hands bloody." She adjusted herself back so she could view both the play and the dwarf properly imaging that sufficed that as an answer.

[ThirdEmperor]

"Well, of course not, but if being a merchant has taught me one thing it's that people are always trying for what they can't afford." Marrin says to Syrus with a smile, before addressing the other's concerns. "Fear not, no orphanages shall be burned nor any shameful stenches of shameful subterfuge. As I have said, it is a delicate matter so I can say little until the mission is commited too, but..."

He waves his hand vaguely in the air, trying to conjure up the right words to put this subtly. "Ah, I shall just say that any might be harmed are those who have harmed others, innocent others, themselves? I think that is a good way to put it."

[Malimar]

Syrus sees the wisdom in this observation. Syrus himself tries to live within his means, scruple-wise as well as money-wise. He reserves the right to acquire scruples as soon as he can afford them, and he's a little terrible at holding on to money, but he does try.

Unlike some others, the Tussex family was never noted for any lack of principles: they were basically decently people. Perhaps out of touch with the common folk, and possessed of an excess of devotion to the Crown -- hooking their fortunes to the Crown, to their eventual detriment. But these days Syrus cannot afford even that -- not that there's much in the way of Crown left to be loyal to anyway. So he nods; the terms, as proposed so far, are acceptable to him.

[Callous]

"Then whats this talk of getting our hands dirty? Ridding the world of scum that preys on the innocent is nothing to be ashamed of." he pauses for a moment, his eyes looking upward as he gestures with one hand struggling briefly to explain himself. Then his sharp blue eyes fix back on the Marrin. "Perhaps the word you're looking for is bloody? If thats what you're asking then, I at least have no qualms with those kind of deeds Treasurer."

[Buwh]

"Indeed, who among us has not wiped out scum from their presence? Of course, I used to have a guy that did that for me but I suppose I'll have to make do." Lady Faedolen spoke while examining her nails, wondering if how badly her manicure would be ruined by all this rough-stuff.

[seventyfour]

"With assurance I'm quite happy to listen to your proposal" With James thinking that he really needs the money and he could always disappear if it really did turn out to be too seedy, it wouldn't be the first time.

[Callous]

Adelphos arched a brow at the little waifs comment. He was perfectly familiar with the reputation that her family had once commanded but now he had a hard time imagining her being a threat to anyone, then again she had been called here by this Moneyman. He'd reserve his judgement for now.

[ThirdEmperor]

"Good to hear it, good to hear. Felner?"

The larger of the two bodyguards reaches into his waistcoat and takes out two rolled-up scrolls, passing them out to whoever will take them. Each scroll is a map, the first of a medium-sized manor house, the second of what appears to be some sort of underground passageway.

"Ah, how to put this. How do I put this?" With a sigh Marrin leans back in the cushy chair he inhabits, clasping his hands together contemplatively. "Recently, quite recently a competitor of mine in the alchemical goods trade, a sir Adrinth de Galvaer, spent quite a good deal of money, a princely sum really, to permenantly retain the services of the Greencoat Irregulars mercenary company."

"Now, as an interesting coincidence, just about then my finances took a sharp little dive as bandit attacks upon my supply and merchant caravans doubled within a fortnight. The 'bandits' suddenly took an interest in being thorough as well, burning the bodies of their fallen, making gruesome displays out of the caravan guards, destroying whatever of the goods they didn't take... Shockingly barbaric stuff."

"It just so happens that among the many little concessions tossed their way by mister de Galvaer, excuse me, the honorable sir de Galvaer, was the deed to his old family manor. Shame really. He hasn't been there in years of course, moved out a few years back in favor of a larger estate, but I was sort of hoping he'd preserve it. Such a storied building you know, with so much character to it. Some days I wonder if he ever even bothered to look into the manor's history. The mercenaries certainly won't."

"For instance, in the time of his grandfather they actually donated the land beneath the house to the nearby church, so that the catacombs could be expanded to include some rather swanky, nobility only accommodations. The sole condition was that there would be a secret tunnel built connecting the crypts to the manor basement, if you can believe that sort of penny-dreadful intrigue."

"So... So here's the thing. The Greencoat Irregulars are having a bit of a celebration, commemorating their new found fortune no doubt. I would very much appreciate it and, of course, compensate accordingly, if you could spice up the proceedings a little. I've arranged for a sort of "welcome to the neighborhood" gift, I just need you to deliver it through the catacombs and then.... Well, then you just have yourselves some fun. I would advise a few of you getting there before the party's started to arrange things, sneaky like of course, want to keep it a surprise, but that's up to you."

"The pay will be five hundred gold coins apiece, fresh from the mint. I hope this is acceptable?"

[Daftendirekt]

"Just tell us when and where, and I'll be there," Lucien replies simply, falling quiet again afterwards, his eyes glancing back and forth between Marrin, his guards, and the play.

[Marlowe]

”That is agreeable. It would appear that our aspiring victims are the sort to make love to their employment" said Ekaterin. “By which I mean they will understand that those that live by the sword have a statistically high chance of dying on one. Not that they have bizarre personal fetishes. Although I'm sure bodily fluids will be spilled either way." She stretched her arms above her head langorously. It was always fun to do this around men. Especially when airily talking nonsense. It was fascinating to see where their eyes went.

"Still, we are six. They are a company. Do you have any concrete intelligence pertaining to their strength and composition? You speak ambushes and brigandage. Are these most fortunate gentlemen woodsmen then? Do they rely on stealth or on steel? Do they actually wear green at this time of the season? Oh, and if the final plan turns out to involve me popping out of a cake in my underwear I shall be asking for a bonus."

[Malimar]

Syrus takes the scrolls and scans their contents as he listens to Marrin explain the situation. Once he's done inspecting them, Syrus passes the scrolls on.

"This task sounds... straightforward." Well, no, Syrus is sure it won't be straightforward at all, but the unstraightforwardness will probably come when they actually meet the enemy on the field of battle. Or house of battle, as the case may be. Basement of battle.

"I may be too identifiable to be suitable for the pre-party arrangements, so I volunteer to be among those who deliver your 'gift' through the catacombs."

[Marlowe]

"I, of course, can blend seamlessly into any crowd." said Ekaterin with breathtaking inaccuracy. "But catacomb duty sounds fun as well. Could we have some idea of the nature of your "gift"? Explosive device? Noxious Vapour Emitter? Shapechanging half-Outsider Flesh Golem controlled by the mind of a half-insane forsaken child and animated by the soul of their dead mother? Something else of which we may not want to share the proximity? I've nothing against violent and destructive events, I just prefer them to happen to other people."

Maybe I do talk too much, she thought. Still, I've been blindsided by the random and bizarre quite enough for one lifetime.

[ThirdEmperor]

An eyebrow goes up at the simply outlandish things tumbling from Ekaterin's mouth, "Please, young lady. Have some sense. Nothing, I shall repeat, nothing so outlandish. I just wish you to deliver some fireworks to my new neighbors at their party tomorrow. The address is, ah, 341 Cavelton Street. The church is just a few houses down, ask for Brother Patten and they'll show you to the catacombs."

"As for the neighbors themselves, I'm afraid, very much afraid that I know oh so little about them. Quite secretive folks, although you might be able to find out a little more on your own. Ear to the street and so forth." Easy to have your ear to the street when you're in the gutter, after all.

"The most I can say is that their leader is a man named Anton Feraldo, a rather tactless individual, whom I think you had best make a special point of talking to. And with that, gentlemen, I must be off, for sadly I have no time to watch this fine operetta to the end."

With that, the dwarf hops down from his chair and strolls out the door, accompanied by the second of his two thugs, leaving only the one identified as Felner behind. "Ahem. There are a few things which I have been asked to give you, although the one doing the asking was most definitely not mr. de Belzinth. These- From his waistcoat, which seems to hold far more than it should, Felner takes two leather waterskins, throwing them onto the recently vacated chair. - contain fire-oil. Very flammable." The next item is a glass vial, containing an translucent liquid. "Now this is a potent venom. Veeery dangerous. Would be disastrous if it got in somebodies food, could kill a lot of people."

Finally, a bundle of a dozen twigs tipped with a reddish substance of some sort. "Tindertwigs. Sure even you know what they are. Good day, good luck, if you meet any success we shall contact you." And with that brusque goodbye, Felner is gone as well.

[Daftendirekt]

Lucien wordlessly picks up the vial of poison and slips it into an inside pocket in his worn black velvet coat before leaving the opera box and heading out into the city.

Spoiler

Show

Knowledge (Local) check (1d20+6)[25] to know precisely in the city where Cavelton St. and the church are.

[Marlowe]

Ekaterin watched until the door closed tightly behind Felner before she slipped off the rail and addressed the others. “I did not like the sound of those inverted commas, but it seems promising. Fire, venom, and steel running red in the dark. Quite takes me back to second year geography. I will, with the blessing of you fine ladies and gentlemen, take to the streets for a few hours to find out what I can about this Anton Feraldo, posing as an penniless mercenary looking to join his merry band. I do not believe it should require an elaborate deception.”

She turned to James. "If you would care to accompany me on this venture, we could continue our conversation. We shall join the rest of you at the church in not over three hours." Sh额 paused at the door. "Oh, and as to the play. The sassy best friend is revealed to be the true heiress, swapped at birth, the heroine is left free to marry her dashing pirate captain, the ill-mannered suitor turns out to be a perfect match for the mouthy chambermaid and the mysterious killer turns out to be the altar boys, who are actually incestuous twins driven to murderous insanity by their experiences in the organized religion industry. Gluckstein took a little vengence with that twist. I shall see you all later."