Tales of Neutral Ground IC

[GameOfChampions]

Kleris was wearing his formal wear, trading out the fine leather and cotton outfit that is his day to day wear. Now he is clad in what can only be described as silk and sin. On top he is wearing a lilac silk button up shirt that has the top three buttons undone to show off some skin. Over that is a a light grey silk three button vest. Down below he wears a matching pair of light grey silk pants. The special occasion called for special looks though, with the help of prestidigitation, his glamoured armor, and good old fashioned skills Kleris was done up ready to party. He had dark eyeliner on his eyes to highlight the blue in them, a touch of rouge for color as well as highlight his slight cheek scar, and his normally messy braid was redone and tightened with mithral thread running through it.

His glamoured armor was currently in the form of a pair of black dress boots going half way up his calf and covered in intricate patterns, several rings of various metals, an intricate sword belt, the thread running through his hair, and the coat he was wearing. He wore a thick dark grey silk coat with several delicate steel rods strategically placed inside. The coat had a high collar, mithral buttons along both sides up to the thick slightly flared lapel, finally the coat had a flared hem thank to the rods supporting it so that the coat always looked like it was in the middle of a dramatic wind which Kleris aided by occasionally following up with slight winds as he stood still thanks to prestidigitation.

He was ready for the night. This was going to be a... different sort of battle so he had to come in the proper 'armor' as it were.

He happily keeps pace with the others as they make their way to the party and chats with the others, snorting very inelegantly as Gryphon mentions the horrifying slog through the dungeon. He winks at the other half elf "Well, dress for every occasion and whatnot. My only regret is nbot having a proper sewer slogging outfit. Maybe a bunch of discarded beggar rags?

Kleris easily offers his sword for the peacebond, "So does that mean if I wiull have to refrain from showing the ladies my 'sword' tonight? It truly is my best line. Whatever shall I do?"

[3SecondCultist]

Say what you will about Ambassador ir'Sencriss, at least he knows how to host a party.

The interior of Solstice House more than lives up to the promise of its outer appearance. As the four of you are escorted through the panelled double doors, you are nearly blinded by the the vision to confront you. The hall redefines grand, a single chamber that reaches to a height of at least seventy feet above your feet. At your feet is pure marble tile, the same hue of an ocean just after twilight broken by faint veins of pale quartz. The walls are either the same warm paneled wood as the door, or else are gold-enameled pillars that resemble what you saw on your way in. Most of the hall is devoted to a single space, as a trio of mahogany staircases in front of you descend into an open-air ballroom. Spread out on the dance floor below are tiles of an alternating ebony and ivory chequered pattern. You are struck right away at the similarity to a board set up to play conqueror, the famous Karrn game. In the very center of the room, a single six-pointed seal of rose-gold lies in wait, though for what you aren't certain yet.

But if you were impressed by the layout of the dance hall, what greets your eyes as you stare upwards threatens to strike you dumb. On either side of you, bathed in the amber light of the seven lit chandeliers that hang far above the press of fine nobility, stands a statue at least fifty feet in height. Cast from base to top in what truly appears to be pure gold, both effigies bear the signature scowl and furled wings of angels, wearing simple robes and each clutching a sword in two hands. One appears to be male and the other female, and although their exact identities are mysteries to you, the stories of the Messengers - the four archons who led Thrane from the brink and back into the light during the hardest days of the Last War - have spread far not only in Thrane, but all across the continent.

It isn't until your eyes recover from that reverie to focus on the actual people here in the room with you that you notice another pair of smaller statue-sentries over the hall: two hares face one another, their forelimbs raised in a silent greeting that forms a kind of archway in the negative space beyond. Through that invisible gate, a grand cerulean runner carpet extends down the central stair and down to the comparatively better-lit tiles below. The unmistakable sound of a warbling voice accompanied by a piano and some bass strings resonates somewhere beyond that point, though the crowd is too great to make out the song or the artist.

Everywhere you look, there is another lord or lady of note engaged in sharp conversation, their bespoke cloaks, tunics, and ball gowns flashing in a seemingly never-ending parade of fashions that are practically impossible to track. Whatever modesty might be associated with the Thrane sense of fashion is not here this evening, as nearly all bear the affectations of glamerweave: illusory flames on cuffs, playful displays of changing colour and fabric, the perfumed scent of your perfect meal, distilled and bottled down. The rarefied air is full with tinkling laughter and the clink of glasses, as waiters move through the richly dressed throng serving finger food and flutes of sparkling champagne of various different colors. At first glance, the orange seems to be largely a tonic, while the blue has a bit more of a kick to it, and the purple is essentially pure liquor distilled into starlight.

There is no shortage of guests and help - too many to pick out a single face yet. You will need to pick a heading and chart a course into the great political unknown to see where the winds take you tonight.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

As much as I may like to turn a phrase, a picture is worth a thousand words. Head on over to the Roll20 to check out the map for Solstice House! Credit to CzePeku for the map files.

As perfect as the map is, the figures there aren't a perfect representation of the true volume of crowd and servants. For pragmatic and visibility purposes, I only filled up the space to about half the actual in-game capacity, since moving dozens upon dozens of nobles would get tiring if something should happen in here. However, the physical layout of the map represents almost exactly what your characters see, so if you pick a direction and go there, you will find that events and characters await you.

[(Un)Inspired]

Stepping to into the great hall, Gryphon forces himself to to gaze upon the wonders of architecture as if they were the most mundane, even as he’s almost overcome with a sense of awe. That ceiling! These humans are giving Cazhaak Draal a run for their money. Don’t let your jaw drop, Kellson. This isn’t the time to gawk like a hayseed.

Fury preserve us! Look at the size of those rabbits!

With a point of his finger, The sharply dressed wizard sends his Servant to a corner to stay out of the way until it’s time to reveal his present. He rescues a glass of the richest, driest, least alcoholic drink from a passing waiter (having Spritz take a small sip of it, waiting a full minute before tasting it himself). Scanning the room, he feels the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand up. He can’t determine exactly why until his eyes alight upon the very form of Hetrion Niksar! Venomous illusory purple veins spiderweb across Gryphon’s tunic. Orbs of orange fire coalesce in front of his eyes, black smoke roiling upwards from them, as he clenched his right hand into a fist. Hetrion!

He takes a slow inhale, focuses on his diaphragm, and gives a controlled exhale; the illusory effects fading from his visage. He glances through the rest of the crowd and identifies several other figures, locking on the Aundairan Magistate, a plan comes together in the half-elf’s mind. The crowd’s too spread out. I’m going to concentrate them into the ballroom. Keep your eyes out for any elves that look like they might have hurt Madam Kett’s family.

Without looking to anyone for confirmation of his plan, Gryphon hands off his drink and stalks down the hall towards the band. Using some of the very techniques related to entering a Bladesong, he focuses his consciousness to avoid nervousness relating to his own plan. Wrapping his heart around as much confidence as he can, the Khorovar strides in a wide arc through the ballroom to the band. Passing behind whomever Hetrion is speaking to, he makes direct eye contact with the Thrannish Warlock; a smile on his face so unfriendly it approaches a sneer. Every line of his figure projecting the message, oh yes, I’m here Niksar, you’d better watch your back.

Reaching the band, he discretely gets the conductor’s attention. Do you know Flamenco de la Siberys? Brass section pianissimo, let basso profundo take the lead to bring out the soul of the song. Maintaining his position in front of the band, the wizard waits for the crowd to look towards the musicians at the dramatic change in musical tempo. With the entire hall gazing towards him, Gryphon makes eye contact with Magistrate Adias Navel of Aundair. As he catches her eye, he lets his most charming, boyish smile ripple across his face.

He strides confidently through the crowd till he’s standing directly before her while mentally combining his knowledge of Aundairan courtly manners with the hundreds of hours of charm training he was forced through with the harpies of the Great Crag, into a new lexicon of etiquette.

He gives her a deep bow as a sea of twinkling stars winks into existence across his tunic. Magistrate Navel, who could have imagined I would have the pleasure of your countenance twice in so few days? Forgive the impertinence of my request; would you shine your radiance upon me once more and grace me with the honor of this dance?

He holds his hand out to her, and if she accepts, he guides her to the very middle of the ballroom. He leads her into the intricacies of an Aundairan style of flamenco designed specifically for spellcasters with familiars, in which the lead takes perilous spins and blind back pedals, relying on the familiar’s sight and telepathy as a spotter. Breathing deeply, Gryphon closes his eyes for a moment in the dance, and when he opens them again, time has almost slowed down for the acrobatic wizard. He extends his arcane senses till he can feel the flow of magical energy between his Aundairan dance partner and himself.

With every stomp of he feet, illusory golden sparks erupt from the ground. Leaning into the sensuality of the flamenco, he dips the Magistrate to within a scant few inches above the dance floor, inwardly thanking the flexibility he has built up with his floor exercises he performs every morning. Snapping up from the dip, he sends Adrias spinning across the ballroom. As she spins back to him, he reaches back with his off hand, and using Shape Water, whips the wine out of a passing waiters glass into a long red liquid dancing ribbon.

When his partner and he suture back together, he gives a widdershins spin, twirling her in turn, all whilst entwining his ribbon of vino like a lariat around them both. As Flamenco de la Siberys reaches its final crescendo, he snaps his ribbon like a whip; as it cracks, it bursts into a burgundy cloud around them. As the dancers press their hips tightly together, Gryphon closes his eyes and tosses his head back to pose for the final note of the song.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

Spritz takes the help action to guide Gryphons dancing.

Gryphon enters a Bladesong and makes a performance check to dance (if he’s not allowed to add his int to his performance in Bladesong than he skips this part).

Performance: (1d20+9)[15]
Advantage: (1d20+9)[15]

[Amnestic]

Kett Collier Human Shadow Monk/Rogue AC: 19 HP: 52/52 PP: 19 PIv: 13 PIs: 13 Conditions: Darkvision (~7 hour), 6/6 Ki Remaining Concentrating: -- Kett isn't quite so cynical that she can't still have a quiet marvel at the ostentatious wealth on display, though she doesn't verbalise it. It's a life, an existence, that she touches but never lives in, not for more than a few scattered nights in her life. And it certainly wouldn't be her life when this was all over. She takes an offered drink from a passing waiter. Bubbly, refreshing, fruity. Not a bad way to start off an evening. A scan of the room shows no sign of Arano, or anyone who might stick out as Lady Dox. Some Phiarlans though, and a dwarf or too who might be the elusive Quicksilver. It was probably not a bad time to start considering what she'd do when - not if, she refuses to acknowledge it as a possibility instead of a matter of time - she does see him. Probably make a scene, blow both their covers and be incredibly unprofessional, just for starters. She can't say she's thrilled by Gryphon's performance, skillful though it might have been. They only wanted certain eyes on them, not all of them. Still, if it kept eyes on Gryphon and not her then it'd be fine. Acceptable. She wasn't going to complain, at least. Whatever got the job done. "I don't see Arano. No sense staying clumped together." She mutters to the remaining Arimart and Kleris. "May as well mingle, keep your eyes and ears open. Find me if you spot the target. I'm going to have a chat with those Phiarlans." An edge to her voice says it wouldn't be a friendly chat, but that wasn't entirely true, she'd stay pleasant. She'd left her signet ring on the boat, no guarantee that they knew who she was considering she hadn't been here all that long, but worth a shot, if nothing else. Hopefully they could keep some of the pervasive anti-human attitudes to one side. They might be here just for a party, she was here on real Phiarlan business. Kett glides down to the dance hall, eyes barely drifting over Gryphon, and takes a moment when there's a break in the song to speak. Chances are more than a few people in the area were fluent in elven, but she switches over regardless. "Evening. Great party, other such pleasantries." She rattles off, tongue navigating the language with practice. "I'm looking for someone who may have come in earlier. Elf, young, blue eyes, normally blonde hair but he colours it sometimes, athletic, slight skin tan." Her eyes glance between the performers, though she's only addressing the one. "He deals in chocolate, selling more than buying, and mostly artisanal. We're competitors and I'd like to discuss shipments with him." There were a number of Phiarlan codes for discussion in the open, this was just one. Assuming they hadn't spent all their time on music practice they should recognise her just as well as if she had one of the dragonmarks they were flaunting.

[CozJa]

The marvelous view of the hall is not lost on Arimart's eyes. It reminds him of many different parties he attended during his years in Sharn, quite often fundraising events for the city watch.

While he appreciates the elegance of everything around him, the paladin can't help but ponder about how far from decadence they are, and how different this feasts are from those held in Cyre, maybe just brief moments before the Mourning.

His blue note is lost in the progressing chords of an Aundarian Flamenco, as his young companion steals the show for himself. As usual, Gryphon can't help but have everyone's eyes fixed on him, whether it be due to dancing with a magistrate or being caught casting a spell in the middle of a bar.

As Kett leaves them, the Khoravar looks around, noticing only the familiar balding head of Thranish magistrate Evam Taralos.
"I'm going to speak with the magistrate," He says to Kleris, "But let's keep our eyes open. This place could be filled with the most vicious and perilous people in the whole city!"

As he walks toward the Magistrate, Arimart takes a glass from a waiter, tasting the blue drink; as he reaches Talaros, he greets him with a half smile.
"Well met magistrate, do you believe we are attending the most important event of this year?"

[GameOfChampions]

Kleris snorts at Arimarts line, "Could be, I think its almost a certainty. Power and wealth tend to make the most dangerous people."

As the others part ways to go about their own investigations Kleris looks around, Gryphon was making a scene as usual. The man tended to be a great distraction which was good for him. He looked around a bit and spotted a lesser used alcove to the right side of the floor. He casually walks over there and waits around a little, watching Gryphons dance until it is reaching the climax of the song. He waits for the crescendo of the song and as it ends he mutters under his breath. 'Prestidigitation'

He does it as quick as he can for a few different effects. Sparkles of color, the scent of roses, and a slight gust.

After big finish he goes to the shadowy alcove and illusions himself a quick wall before starting to change. The body and clothes start to change drastically.

Tall and slim with defined muscles that her vibrant red scales highlighted were the norm until you reached her eyes which were speckled with gold scales that set off her golden irises. The shiftweave became a knee length dark red dress to set off her lighter red scales, on the front it dipped into a sweetheart neckline while on the back it dipper down to show off her upper back and shoulders. The glamored armor became a series of ornaments, decorations, and jewelry all over her body. An ornamental engraved breastplate, that depicted dragonborn history for the last few millennia, attached by several dainty golden chains to her front. A large thick golden torc necklace decorated with golden claws. Ornamental bracers also covered with engravings like the ones on the breastplate. A steel chain underskirt attached just under the dress that went down several inches past the hem of the dress. Then a set of heels made out of steel. Finally she creates a fancy and delicate leather belt that hangs over her left hip that she attaches her longsword to.

Before she walks out she pulls out a slim bottle full of a light purple liquid, she quickly pulls the stopper out and downs the potion. She lets the potion of mind reading flow into her veins, extend her senses, and then Shemran walks out of the shadowy alcove like she owns it. Dress gliding around her as she walks casually over to the bar for a blue tonic she keeps her new senses over for any interesting surface thoughts, possible weapon merchents, and finally anything related to Arano or any of the other things that Kett was looking for.

[3SecondCultist]

Arimart

As your new adventuring companion commands the dance floor and the attention of all around, you find that forging a path across the room is considerably more straightforward. Although the Thrane magistrate does have two aides in robes clearly indicating their piety, you spot nobody else within arm's reach of Evam Taralos that tries to stop your approach to the man. Taralos himself is wearing an ornamental robe of spun indigo and a ceremonial cap of office over his rapidly receding hair. He greets you with a genial smile and a shake of the hand.

"Well met indeed, Sir Kaessel. I was quite pleased when I'd heard that you made the guest list; this may yet prove to be the finest event of the season, and for one so small as Layla ir'Sencriss." He chuckles. "A willful girl, but precocious. Did you see those rabbits on the way in? If the story is to be believed, she had her father commission them to replace a series of sculpures on late-century saints."

The song and dance comes to an end and all around you the crowd is swept up in their adulation, but Magistrate Taralos' good cheer dissipates when he glances to the far sides of the tiled floor. Following his gaze, you spot a few figures that you didn't notice on the way down here: armored men and women, clad in rivulets of exquisite plate the color of fresh snow. You can see none of their faces save for the smallest hint of eyes in closed visors, and unlike the various guests the swords they wear at their belts are not bound by anything. Scanning the floor, you count no less than eight of their number, waiting or near the bottom of all stairwells so that they can best monitor the action.

"They're the escort," Magistrate Taralos mutters to you, "Knights of Thrane, but I haven't been told what they're doing here. The only other person at this event who has the authority to command them should be Ambassador ir'Sencriss, but one has to wonder what purpose they're serving."


Gryphon

Initially, you can barely see your feet as you push through the surge of wealthy bodies. As you dismiss your invisible friend with the promised gift and move across the floor to get the attention of the musicians, you note that they are no more than a trio of female elves in evening wear, all of whom carry the Mark of Shadow proudly on their skin. The most senior among them - a chanteuse with a shock of white hair - gives you a single nod and gestures to her companion who pulls a lute out of who knows where to get ready. The pianist leans back on her stool, seamlessly taking up the role of accompanying percussion, and you know that you will have your moment.

Even as the first low, enigmatic notes reach the air, you can spot ears pricking up all around the room. Immediately the mood of the ballroom changes; here is a song, a true call to action among brave virtuosos to strut and show off the finer points of their footwork. You could not have timed it better, as you cross over the boundaries of the latent seal and the crowd begins to part. They are flowers, turning now towards the coming of the sun. Reaching the circle of magistrates at last, you break open their circle to offer Magistrate Navel the dance. She is dressed in a deep royal blue full length gown, shoulder-less but with a high pointed collar of worked bronze and a mask that covers part of her face. Suddenly thrust into the figurative spotlight and keenly aware of the eyes on her, she hesitates and then nods sagely... but not before you catch the flash of genuine anger in those eyes.

Escorting your new partner back to the center of the dance floor, you take up your positions as the flamenco begins in earnest. The lutist takes up the charge and the others chime in with a low rhythmic beat and both you and Navel begin to move in tandem. The arcane song that surges within your blood as you take up your stance has primed you well for the kind of acrobatics that follows; even as the noblewoman does an able enough job of keeping up it's clear that you are the superior performer. Adias manages to follow your lead on the pivots and dips, keeping time with her steps and moving her hips beneath her skirts to the beat, but her choreography is incomparable to the raw energy that ripples outward from your form.

The audience stands and stares, utterly transfixed now, as the tempo of the beat gradually increases. The elven lutist's fingers are a blur as they move from string to string, and the drum beats are so close together now that they could almost be confused for continuous undulation. A faint glow of sweat emanates from your skin - or is it hers? - as your magical flourishes take shape. The sparks are only half of it, as Navel's gown actually changes colour as she moves, oscillating between the robin's egg of a clear day and the moody navy just before midnight. By the time you get to the wine trick, you know that you have them all, as you hear a collective gasp at the edge of your focus.

After what could have been seconds or centuries, the song comes to a close, and both of you and the musicians are greeted with bouts of enthusiastic applause. Your partner clears her throat before dipping into a curtsy. "Well done, Ambassador Kellson," Adias begins with a careful tone, "that was... quite the surprise. I must confess that I was not expecting that from you. That is - well, not that I didn't think you could - what I mean to say is..." Clearly frustrated, she stops herself and takes a few heartbeats to regain some semblance of her composure.

"You danced admirably, sir. If you are willing, I would share a drink with you before returning to my prior companions."


Kett

The Phiarlan performers take in the applause that comes their way with good grace; it was truly a challenging song, and well-played for it. There are evidently no amateurs in this crowd. As you wait to slip in and speak your piece, you take advantage of an opportunity to check them out close at hand. There are three elves, all bearing your husband's dragonmark in various visible faces. Beyond that though, each of them is a study in contrast: one has pure white hair cropped short, the other a tied blonde bun, the third auburn locks that flow past her shoulders. The first wears swirling attire of blush and gold, glinting as though designed to catch the eye, while the second wears a comparatively unremarkable vest over a white collared shirt, and the third appears to be dressed in shifting starlight.

The only other point of similarity between the ensemble is the fact that they all bear the telltale glow of a peacebonded weapon somewhere on their person. Whoever these Phiarlan performers are, they're certainly not just musicians.

Your suspicions are confirmed less than a minute later, after your approach towards the apparent leader with the white hair. Judging by the way the others have looked to her more than once in the intervening time since you began to focus on them, she definitely has the aura of leader. When she sees you coming and hears you out she stops in evident surprise, listening attentively to every word that escapes your lips before answering.

"I haven't seen anyone who looks like that here tonight, I'm sorry to say. Lyrei, Thessalia, what about you?" The remaining elves just shake their head numbly. "The chocolate's not a problem for us; if we see someone like the fellow you're talking about, we can make sure to come and find you. What are your names? You and this elf?"


Shemran

For all that the focus is on Gryphon below you, the shadows of Solstice House are nowhere as deep or all-encompassing as you might have hoped. Of your quartet, you are the only one not to descend the stairwell, opting instead to take a right and stalk down the hall in search of a door or pillar to hide your transformation. While there are guards in Thrane tabards blocking any curious wanderers from straying, there is a little nook tucked away near the base of a column.

Eyes darting to and fro, you don't spot anyone other than the odd watcher looking down at the action or getting a refill up here, so you judge that it's a safe enough spot. The timing is the other half, and you wisely wait until the crescendo of the performance, when everyone's eyes are on your friend, to shed your skin and step into a new role. The change is quick and almost seamless - you've practiced this before - but you are struck at the responsiveness of your garb. Nearly every stitch and cuff, vambrace and chain link has been altered. With the exception of a few key items such as your amulet, which you have tucked away out of sight, you appear entirely different to what you did only seconds ago.

Say goodbye to Kleris Ostren, and hello to Shemran of the Flamebrow Clan.

Doing one more check, you're pretty sure that nobody saw you, so you feel safe enough to unstopper your potion and get to drinking. The effect is immediate; right away, you feel attuned to a field of whispers around you, tangled threads of desires and intents that are obvious to you now as the clothes everyone is wearing. Both have proven to be remarkably inconsistent as well - every person you read up on the gallery as they pass gives you a slightly different read. Some are concerned about the appearance of the Ambassador. Others are excited to uncover what the lot of tonight's secret auction is, and who might bid on it. Many are thinking about the food, the wine, or their company.

Yet there is a single point of silence in the noise, a person who does not register to your new magic. The absence coalesces around a solitary woman standing at the balustrade, perusing the festivities below. Though you cannot read her like you do everyone else, you note that her gaze seems to linger on Arimart as he speaks to Magistrate Taralos.

[(Un)Inspired]

Gryphon returns the magistrate’s curtsy with a bow of his own. He flashes her a smile of genial amusement at her stammering response to his dancing skill, but waits patiently for her to compose herself before he responds to her request.

I can scarcely imagine a more pleasant addition to my evening than sharing a glass with you, the Half-elf replies to his human dance partner. He delicately extends a chagrined look to her as he speaks on, beyond the continued pleasure of your presence, I certainly owe you at least a drink for springing that invitation to dance upon you, for which I must beg your pardon; the song seemed painfully apropos for the occasion and who else could I request for my dance partner than Aundair’s most majestic representative?

He walks with Magistrate Navel to the most secluded alcove that appears available and waves over a waiter with drinks for the two of them.

[Amnestic]

Kett Collier Human Shadow Monk/Rogue AC: 19 HP: 52/52 PP: 19 PIv: 13 PIs: 13 Conditions: Darkvision (~7 hour), 6/6 Ki Remaining Concentrating: -- There was a question of just how far she was willing to tip her hand. Arano was burned, yes, but not everyone knew that and even those who did might still give him a pass, depending on their connections. She also didn't want them chasing him actively, that was her job after all. If they got to him first it would complicate matters. She had to warn them from getting close, and hope that if they were working with Arano her name would work to get her close either way."Kett," she answers, gracefully pressing a hand to her chest. Normally it would be a sharp thumb point, but there was a certain etiquette demanded of her situation that was best not to look over for the moment. "The elf I'm after is Arano, most days at least. He's a bit skittish, it might ruin my shipping orders if someone he's not in business with already tries to broker a deal so I want to be the first one to talk contracts." She gives a light tilt of her head in thanks, and as a farewell says "Your help is appreciated. If you've got any jaunty jigs, some music of the sea, that'd be nice to hear? Maybe after another song or two though." But that concludes her business with the Phiarlans - for now. Just enough information to get them on board. Even if they hadn't seen him it didn't mean he wasn't here, so she can't stand around all evening waiting for him to show up. Instead she sets her eyes on her next target - the suspiciously moneyed dwarf who roughly fits her would-be-tailer's description. With perfect posture (helped, somewhat, by her concealed flat shoes - a lot easier to walk in than heels) she sashays over to the dwarf, switching back to the common tongue. Drink in hand, as casual as they come, she interrupts his thoughts with a simple, "Good evening, might you be Quicksilver?" Parties like this were just as much about speaking frankly as they were about lying, and she didn't have the time to beat around the bush. His reaction would tell him what she wanted to know either way.

[3SecondCultist]

Gryphon

The magistrate holds the gaze of a few others who look after as she allows you to lead her away from the center of the circle, but returns back to her principal subject before too long. As the two of you leave the open space, you hear the musicians strike up a new song - slower this time, but no less rhythmic - and several nobles follow your example to begin their own performances. It's impossible to miss Navel's smile as she takes your arm and matches your pace.

"Oh, and I suppose 'Flamenco de la Siberys' just happened to jump into their repertoire scant minutes after your arrival, Ambassador? What a fortunate coincidence for you." Climbing up the steps, she banishes a pair of lesser courtiers to take a seat in one of the reclining corner booths nearer to the doors. When the servers come by, she requests two glasses of '89 Iltrayan and slips the garcon a few platinum pieces for his trouble.

"Did you know that this vintage," she asks as her request arrives in record time, "comes from a vineyard that was nearly destroyed by a Reacher raid across the Wynarn River? The general in charge of defending the western border at the time was a canny sort though; he knew their tactics well, so he kept two regiments up in the hills hidden by veils. When the mutts and beast-lovers came, the general was ready. His counter-attack caught them off balance, and they fled." She breathes in the heady bouquet and invites you to do the same. You can smell the aroma of victory, of conquest assured and battle won. There are also notes of bloodlust on your tongue, the incandescent thrill of drawing spell and steel against an enemy with the intent to kill.

"The Reachers were eventually encircled on the vineyard grounds, and slaughtered to a man. Their blood fed the grapes that day, and the harvest has been bountiful ever since. Afterwards, the general skinned the ringleaders and gifted his finest captains a brace of new fur cloaks. To this day, it's said that the site is now forever tied to Shavarath, the Eternal Battleground. When you drink an Iltrayan, you ought to pay homage to its origins, in the victory of humanity over the monsters at our door." She fixes you with a level stare.

"Are you enjoying the party, Ambassador?"


Kett

Up close, you realize that the dwarf who stands alone is not exactly as well-dressed as he might have initially seemed. Though he does wear a pair of starched ivory trousers over polished black boots, they aren't in the current fashion and do not drip with the same magic or flair that you've seen tonight. Similarly, his buttoned up navy jacket is a bit bulkier than you might expect to see at an event like this. His hair and beard are bushy and dark as one might expect, though he has a patch of grey buried in the latter. He leans slightly on a well-made cane of worn wood.

While you launch into your question with barely a preamble, the dwarf doesn't reply right away. He takes his time looking you over, eyes searching for something. In the end, you can't tell if they find it. His fingers reach up to adjust his collar, brushing over the telltale glint of a necklace of some kind that is only partially visible, but he stops the motion and returns his arm to his side.

"I am sorry, but I'm no quick silver. More akin to slow iron, if you catch my meaning." He gestures with the cane he carries at his side. "Gift of age and weather I suppose. I am Drake Shardstone. And you are? You seem to have left your friends on the dance floor over there to come talk to me, though I can't figure out why."

[(Un)Inspired]

Responding to Navel’s comment regarding fortunate coincidences, a sultry look begins at Gryphon’s eyes and cascades delicately across his face. I’ve often found life is best lived when one indulges in the bounties fortune provides, rather than question the nature of her fickle coincidences. I never make assumptions as to what will jump into one’s repertoire when I arrive.

The elegant wizard holds his wine glass by the stem and stares across it at Adias Navel as she recounts the history of gore and genocide associated with the wine. He listens indulgently as she describes war crimes in the tone of playful banter. He delicately holds the glass up to the light to admire it’s color and to check for sediment, followed by rhythmical swirling it to aerate it, before hovering his nose over its rim, letting its olfactorial notes play across his palate as he inhales sensuously. Black and red fruit, plum perhaps raspberry, with indubitable notes of pipe tobacco and leather. Gryphon let’s the Magistrates attempts at baiting soak into his being and mingle with wine’s nose. The sultry grin never leaving the edges of the half-elf’s lips, always threatening to spill, once more, across the entirety of his face.

I couldn’t possibly taste such a wine, without first a toast. He raises his glass to her, his outfit giving off the glow of intimate candlelight. Vive L’Aundair, the world is richer for her beauty and sophistication. He waits for her raise her glass, before sampling from his own. Closing his eyes, he lets the wine waltz across his tongue.

He considers her a moment, the slightest trace of bemusement echoing between his brows. Once again the old adage that’s there’s no finer terroir than Aundair holds true, there’s no fruit more succulent than those raised upon her native soil. I can’t help but wonder, however, just how much grander still the grapes could have been if they were not over watered with bloodshed. For just as it is well known Aundair’s terroir is the finest in Khorvaire, it is well known that for the fruit of the vine to reach its sublime heights, it must struggle. It must be made uncomfortable. It must persevere through naked hostility, of soil. Only then can the Aundairan grape reach greater exquisite ecstasy then could ever be imagined.

The ‘89 has quite a heady bouquet. But if I recall correctly, there was a drought just after harvest that lasted the next two years. Viticulturists feared there would be no harvest and that even old growth vines would die off. It wasn’t until soil fertility techniques, developed deep in the Eldeen Reaches, were applied to the plots, that a new crop was able to be produced. I’m told the connoisseurs describe the ‘91 as one of the finest vintages Iltrayan ever produced, although I must admit that as a mere dilettante, I haven’t yet had the pleasure of sampling that particular Aundairan delight.

It would seem that as Aundair enriches the world, she is likewise enriched by her neighbors. Wouldn’t you say, Magistrate Navel? He shares with her the patient smile of a man who has nothing better to do with his time than discuss wine.

When Navel’s question regarding enjoying the party is broached, Gryphon’s face can’t help but betray a faint trace of genuine mirth. It is without question, the finest I’ve been to all evening.

[CozJa]

"And so kids turn saints into rabbits? That seems material for a fairy tale, Magister!" The Prosecutor smiles slightly, then looks Taralos directly in the eyes "But we know quite well how it is to follow the words of a kid." As he say this, he drinks from his glass, half-emptying it, then turns his gaze on the Knights.

"To move such a group ir'Sencriss must indeed have something important to show... or hide. I heard voices about him bringing something from an expedition, some people even talks about artifacts from the Southern jungles. Do you have any ideas what it could be? To be honest, I'm rather curious. This promises to be an amazing evening, and I'd really like to see how much exoticness our guest can bring on the table!"
The paladin does its best to show his exitement, which is partially genuine, but for different reasons from the ones he wants to show.

[Amnestic]

Kett Collier Human Shadow Monk/Rogue AC: 19 HP: 52/52 PP: 19 PIv: 13 PIs: 13 Conditions: Darkvision (~7 hour), 6/6 Ki Remaining Concentrating: -- Kett's scrutiny of the man isn't quite complete just yet. She's not convinced, the sudden motion to hide his necklace was suspicious if nothing else. Then again everyone here was probably suspicious, and it wasn't as if she were any exception to that. "I'm Kett, and I'm sorry to say I don't have any friends here," she replies, truthfully. "Just acquaintances and business associates. I was always told that the point of a party was to mingle, so I'm doing my best to mingle." She gestures to his jacket and cane while simultaneously summoning a waiter for another drink. Her first had already vanished. "You ex-military, I take it? Saltblood?" Idle conversation to keep him talking."I grew up on a ship myself, still find the rock of a ship puts me to sleep better than anything else." Knifeman hadn't mentioned a cane, but might be that it slipped his mind, or hadn't been in use before. It wasn't enough to say this wasn't Quicksilver, and if it was, he'd really just prefer he be straight up. There was a professional courtesy among some assassins to be truthful with each other, they were all in the same business after all, and yesterday's enemy was today's friend. Her drink arrives and she gives a gentle toast to her current conversation partner and potential assassination target. "Here for the auction, or just the party?" Spoiler: OOC Show Rolling an insight to see if it beats my passive, not quite convinced by this guy: (1d20+3)[19] Also I recognised his name from the recruitment thread and now I'm wondering how many others I might have missed before now.

[GameOfChampions]

Shemran of the Flamebrow clan strides through the hall, greeting the nobles and mingling with them. These lesser nobles didn't have the same pedigree as she did, the more important Throneport nobles were not out among them for the most part, but they were locals and good for at least petty gossip. They just couldn't compare to the descendants of the Dragon-Kings, the nobles of Ka'rhashan would eat them alive. Arrive with an extra drink in hand, compliment the outfit, and then praise them for whatever she could pick up from overhearing them before she joined.

It was much easier then the way nobles mingled back home, a lot less fighting and ritual wars/battles.

She slowly made her way over to the interesting women she had spotted earlier, she at least seemed like a person worth meeting. Especially since she seemed to be interested in one of the companions Kleris came with.

After several minutes she makes her way up, only on her second blue glass of tonic while leaving behind a series of increasingly drunk nobles. She had made note of one or two to go back and mingle with. Nobody very important but it would help to have a few contacts among the common nobility.

She walks up beside the women and leans against the balustrade, she offers a glass of the blue to the women "Greetings, I had to come over and introduce myself. Anyone secure enough to relax by herself has to be someone worth conversing with. The dregs around here have started to give me a headache with their talk of lesser import. I am Shemran of the Flamebrow Clan. May I have your name?"

[3SecondCultist]

Arimart

The blue liquor - which you learn is called 'sphinx's tears' after asking around - is quite fizzy and burns on the way down, though it has a markedly sweet elder-flower aftertaste. Perhaps downing the glass all at once was not the best course of action, as you find your eyes stinging in the immediate aftermath. Nevertheless, you power through the sensation to listen to the magistrate as he ponders your inquiries.

"Ah, so you have heard about it? Yes, it's been the buzz of the evening, the mysterious item for auction. I know little of the matter myself, preoccupied as I have been with getting ready for the Nameless trial and other matters around the castle," Taralos blusters with a significantly raised brow. "To tell you the truth though, I don't think that ir'Sencriss did bring them along. He has his own guards on the payroll after all, and already took measures for extra security. No, the Knights' arrival coincided too well with a particular woman from Flamekeep, one Lycia Velancor. Have you heard of her?"

At that, the Thrane magistrate points with his head towards the balcony at the far end of the hall. There reclining on an extended sofa, sits an older looking woman who looks to be perhaps in her early sixties. A short curtain of steel hair flows down to just above her shoulders, and liver-spots are bunched up around tightened eyes. With one arm of a crimson dress draped over the back of her cushion, her neck is swiveled around to scan the party goers with pursed lips as though she had just swallowed a lemon.

"I don't gamble, thank the Flame," says Taralos, "but if I did, I would put good money on her being here for that artifact."


Gryphon

Navel lets out a little titter as you swirl the wine and savour its smell, not interrupting your gentle but clearly implied rebuttal. Grasping the crystal stem clearly but firmly, she regards you over the delicately-blown lip of her glass. When you raise your own in salute she matches the gesture, letting out a 'Vive L'Aundair' of her own as you both partake of the delicacy.

"You have a fine nose, Ambassador, though I lament the limits of your historical and economic acumen." The blonde takes one more sip. "The mere presence of the carnal garnish - and the subsequent two year drought - appreciates the value of the vintage through scarcity and uniqueness. The '89 is undoubtedly the seminal harvest, as any halfway competent Fairhaven sommelier will tell you, though I understand that some prefer the lighter taste of the '91. A bottle of the former can fetch up to two hundred galifars for a private collector, while I understand that the latter is barely half of that price on the open market."

She leans a bit closer. "You are right about a few things. Struggle does breed greatness, as the general's story teaches us. Naked hostility was the environment required for the grape to grow, and pretending otherwise does nobody - least of all the wine - any good." There is no longer any trace of mirth on her features, and you remember the initial image of the haughty noblewoman who greeted you at the gates of Thronehold Castle, one who was entirely assured of the shape of the world and her place in it. "And of course, the Reaches were once rightfully part of the Kingdom of Aundair. There are many of my countrymen who believe that its secession should never have occurred, and that all the bounty of those lands belong rightfully under our banner."

Tilting her head back, the magistrate finishes the last of her Iltrayan before rising in a cascade of cornflower. "I will grant that you danced well and have a good sense for the finer things. This does not erase what you are, or who you represent. I would advise you to avoid trying to mend wounds that have not yet healed, lest you find yourself lanced as a symptom of the suffering. Good evening, Ambassador Kellson."

Then she gets up, preparing to abandon you overlooking the festivities.


Kett

Drake chuckles at your guess, shaking his head in amusement. You don't get the impression that he's playing coy or trying to dissemble here in any way, but there is a twinkle of amusement in his eye that leaves you entirely uncertain as to your gut's veracity. "Oh, I didn't mean to imply I was hurt in the war. This is from an ill-spent youth with too much time and not enough discipline. I don’t think youth is wasted on the young, but let us say the interest rates aren't what they used to be."

He smiles wanly at his joke, his gaze growing distant for just a moment before continuing. "While I have enjoyed an airship ride or two, I have spent very little time on the open sea. But there is something romantic about it, don't you agree?" He sips from his goblet, but it's rather difficult to tell what's in it as he clasps it with a single thick hand.

To your final question he breaks out into one more smile, as though just remembering that you had asked it in the first place. "Ah, I suppose to do one, one must endure the other, yes? However, I am no friend of the family, nor a member of high society. I have more of an academic interest in these evening's events. Which is to say more plainly, I am here for the auction.

And yourself, Lady Kett? What brings you here, aside from mingling and an new acquaintance who goes by Quicksilver?"


Shemran

Still reveling in the sensation of being able to tap into the thoughts of those nearby, you approach your target in your new guise. Moving with the extra weight and scales is a new sensation, but thankfully the reptilian dragonborn are less dimorphic in their physical differences between males and females so you don't have to deal with too many curves. Your new accoutrements clink and clatter as you walk, the price of wearing so much ornamentation to carefully sculpt the impression of foreign nobility, and so the mystery woman turns to give each of you a first look of one another.

Your first impression of her is that she is tall enough to border on statuesque, but there's more to it than that. You've seen statues of ancient warrior-queens in Four Kings and the Karrnathi neighborhoods and they were… too perfect. Beautiful, but looking at them you knew they were art and not a living thing. This stranger is breathtaking because she looks so very alive, like a bonfire compared to everyone else's candle. You can't focus on a particular feature of her that's beautiful, she just is. Her silk dress is a single stream of deep royal blue that suggests the curves of her body without revealing them, leaving bare her long neck and curling down to caress smooth dark calves. Skin that is nearly ebony-black absorbs the ambient light around you and reflects nearly nothing. Unlike the rest of the nobles here, she wears no jewelry at all.

Before the last vestiges of your divination fades, you suddenly get a single, perfectly clear impression of the woman's thoughts. No words, but brutally vivid images: her crushing your skull beneath her heels, breaking your neck in a single motion, ripping through your glamoured plate and disemboweling you with one hand. The vision dissipates, leaving the last as an indelible impression in the forefront of your mind as she breaks out into a perfectly sincere smile.

"Fekiikiri ekess vi schakri hianag di ithaeli, Shemran di Xiekivi Flamebrow. Sia ominak ui di thric owrropoqu, shar wux nomag relgr ve Usjalil Thara." You recognize the language as the tongue of dragons, spoken as eloquently as a native might.

Spoiler: Draconic

Show

"Greetings to a noble daughter of wyrms, Shemra of the Flamebrow Clan. My full name is of no consequence, but you may call me Lady Thara."

[(Un)Inspired]

As the mirth fades from Magistrate Navels countenance, the young Prince of Monsters subtly bites his lip in almost mock consternation, but the twinkle of joy never leaves his eyes. Ah, Lady Navel, your humanity betrays you.

With a slight pout of his lower lip, Gryphon considers the Magistrate’s words as he runs his gaze out across the crowd. I must yield to your greater wisdom, my Lady. My nature as an aesthete doesn’t change that my family members are the Daughters of Sora Kell. That I represent a nation of monsters. I suppose none of us are able to control our connections.

... Much as you have no control over your own connections to General Haldren ir’Brassek. You must pardon my memory, it’s as undeveloped as my economic and historical acumen, but the Navel and Brassek families have been politically entwined since the Treaty of Oiseaux in 774, is that not right? I’m told that since he’s begun his... residency at Dreadhold your own family’s Brassek holdings have dropped to less than a third of their pre-war value, and Kundarak has likewise almost completely pulled out its investments from the southern acreage your families’ both draw income from.

The Tribunal works so tirelessly and yet you’ve thus far gotten your hands on so few that have been labeled “war criminal”. It’s almost scandalous how it’s forced the public conversation to circulate endlessly on those, like ir’Brassek, they’ve been able to bring into custody. One would imagine that if enough new war criminals were brought in, then people would stop thinking about ir’Brassek’s bold experiments in vine irrigation. You might even be able to get that motion for retrial, you’ve pushed three times in the last six months, passed. Of course, even passed, the retrial would likely go the way of his original sentencing. I’m told that the decision to cast your ally into one of the windowless cells of Dreadhold came down to one vote. If only there was just one more voting member of the Tribunal counsel.

The young magician takes another small sip of his wine before floating a wistful look to the magistrate. If you wish to walk away from our acquaintanceship so soon, then as lovely as you are, I shan’t chase you. If you so wish, I can be nothing more than the monster that haunts your nightmares with thoughts of the dance that took your words away, but I think you’ll find that the benefits of my friendship bring a satisfaction that can scarcely be found elsewhere. Camaraderie can have such delicious rewards.

[Amnestic]

Kett Collier Human Shadow Monk/Rogue AC: 19 HP: 52/52 PP: 19 PIv: 13 PIs: 13 Conditions: Darkvision (~7 hour), 6/6 Ki Remaining Concentrating: -- Just because he wasn't being honest with her didn't mean he was Quicksilver, and she was less convinced with each word. "One part auction, one part networking," she stresses the word, making clear her disdain. "It's tedious but necessary for business, I find. Speaking of networking, with what's on offer, I'm surprised you're not high society if you're here for the auction." Kett comments, her meaning clear enough, but nevertheless elaborating. "The way I hear it, things aren't going to be cheap. The sort of prices that only those spending other people's money can buy. Especially some of the big ticket items. Word is there's some things shipped up from overseas, far overseas." She maintains a steady gaze, occasionally breaking it to scan the room once more for any sign of her perpetually missing husband. That, and looking for an excuse to leave the conversation without burning the bridge entirely. She'd spent enough time on the dwarf if he wasn't important, and it was about time she moved on. There were others to mingle with, other angles to find, others to interrogate. "Got your heart set on any item in particular? Might save me from a bidding war if I know in advance."

[GameOfChampions]

Shemran arches her eyebrow slightly at the other women, she may have some sort of looks that may seem attractive to other fleshy people but that was no excuse. Her mental images were an affront to the proud dragonborn women. Either she was using a face of lies in agreeing to talk to her, pretending agreement and respect, or she knew about her mental abilities this second and planned the action as an affront on purpose.

She sneers slightly "Algbo Usjalil Thara. Si tir ti kashor nomenes mental trilvolic sva shio. sjek wux tepoha thric huven ekess renthisj ekess ve hak wux shilta visp ve ekess sia ehaism ysik hak xoalir ekess scare wer scion di darastrixi mrith measly trilvolic di iilluk."

She wished to learn of the peculiarities behind this women, especially why her gaze lingered on the Prosecutor. Her interest in learning though was not powerful enough to make her grovel to this women. "Algbo vi aesthyri mrith thric tekilek ihk wer scions di wer Flamebrow Clan ornla tepoha thric halkiv persvek wer persvek batobot tiliw confn mrith wer lleisgar di vi ux Bahamuti nation. Raknes ir kepla'nasir ekess demak wer krarup di Thronhold mojka adon Q'bara."

Spoiler: Translation

Show

Well Lady Thara. I do not appreciate those mental images at all. If you have no wish to speak to me then you can tell me to my face rather then trying to scare the scion of dragons with measly images of violence.

Well a women with no respect for the scions of the Flamebrow Clan would have no interest in the opportunities that could arrive with the rise of a Dragonborn nation. Especially one preparing to join the Treaty of Thronhold away from Q'Bara.

[CozJa]

Tasting the drink one sip at a time, the paladin keeps his conversation with the Taralos, now that it is going in an interesting direction.

"Licya Velancor... no, the name sounds dull to my ears... who is she? And why do you think she came for the auction? I'm curious to assist, and maybe take part at this auction, even if I haven't been able to point clearly at what time it will take place."

While speaking, Arimart keeps looking around, keeping track of Kett movements: he knows that the stakes are high for her, and is still unsure on what is the ultimate goal of this 'mission'.

[3SecondCultist]

Arimart

The Magistrate from Thrane draws you in close and cracks a big grin, effectively shielding you from outside eyes and ears. To anyone watching, he might be sharing a private joke or reminiscing about a mutual friend.

"You truly have not heard of her? The Iron Dame? I have never met her myself, but from what I understand from... certain friends in the diplomatic service, she is a high ranking member of the Argentum." He looks at you askance. "She's their Director of Artifact Research, in charge of running reconnaissance of their procurement of strange and mystical items. Flame willing, she is here in a research capacity only, but I have my doubts about that much."

Taralos lets out an audible guffaw, one last obfuscation. "Whatever it is that she's here to examine, woe betide anyone who gets in her way..."


Gryphon

Magistrate Navel is halfway gone when your retort stops her in her tracks. You can see her gaze flit away from you - she wants so desperately to leave - but your words might as well be links in a new forged chain that keep her rooted in place. So, despite herself, she listens.

Some of your barbs miss the mark: your mention of ir'Brassek and her own family's fortunes seems to have little effect, as she keeps her head high and meets your eye unblinkingly. Yet when the subject turns to the matter of the repeated failings of the Tribunal and her own thwarted aims, something of a kind with poison slithers under her skin. Navel is forced in the end to look away to master herself.

"You are such a small monster, Gryphon Kellson. Anklebiter you may be, but your words are no less deadly for it," she mutters at last. "If your voice were not needed, I would see it silenced forthwith."

Sighing, she runs a hand through her hair. "As distasteful as it is, I see your uses - scant as they are. All the same, I will never move to endorse what you wish without the approval of Breland, Thrane, or Karrnath's representatives. If I were to vote the way you wished, it would be a disaster for our people's standing at the table of the Tribunal. Convince them, and perhaps Aundair will have a change of heart." This time when she turns to leave, she does not even bother with the courtesy of a goodbye.

However, it looks like you won't be alone for long: it's impossible to miss the platinum blonde hair and heavenly glow surrounding Hetrion Niksar as he sidles towards your corner of the great hall. Though you've never known him to wear armor, he has conjured up a stylized golden breastplate of mystical force with matching bracers and greaves that he wears over white robes and a matching cloak. His irritatingly perfect ethereal features with startling molten orange eyes and high cheekbones draw stares from others as he passes, yet he does not stop until he is within earshot of your booth.

"Was that the Tribunal magistrate from Aundair I just saw leaving? My my, little Grif is moving up in the world. One might even hope that you're daring to enter the world of higher politics at last."


Kett

Drake nods. "Agreed - but the key is networking with the net worthy, eh? And you're still uncertain as to whether I am a big enough prize, I think. Rest assured, Lady Kett, every person here is worth knowing to some extent... some moreso than others."

The dwarf takes another sip, his ever-present smile not leaving as he thinks on what you've said further. "I like that... spending other people's money. Not a bad job if you can get it, no?" Pausing for a moment as your eyes shift around the room, Drake does not answer your remaining questions. Evidently, he's read something in the span of your fraying attention. Instead, he raises his glass and indicates the crowd around you.

"It seems you are casting your net for a bigger fish... or at least one that is more worthy. Perhaps one to mount on your mantle.

Let me set your mind at ease - I am not your contact, but I appreciate your time. In return, if I see your Quicksilver, I will let you know. It might be helpful to know what you are looking for. I presume it was something simple, like being a dwarf, or wearing blue? Besides, it seems your friend... pardon me... your business associate seems to be concerned." You follow the direction of his hand and note that he's pointing at Arimart, who stands with Magistrate Evam Taralos not too far away from you.

"Enjoy your evening, Lady Kett. May your net overflow with bounty." Raising his glass in a salute, he limps away, leaning heavily on his cane.


Shemran

Lady Thara's face is impossible to read. Whatever lies below the surface of her features is beyond your ability to parse, even as she settles into a neutral stare. She makes no move to interrupt your rebuke, nor does she twitch when you mention the Treaty of Thronehold or Q'Barra's place within it. However, she does take a single step towards you, bringing her to the edge of your physical comfort zone. She smells cool and dark, like a bed of soil that hasn't yet tasted the sun.

"Wux tepoha creol spical, coi annishic. Bensvelk. Si jahus tlushtow ekess xihood batobot si tepohada zhina sari vi gribkoan ihk fiiki." Thara leans in further, a pair of violet eyes flitting back and forth across your smattering of red-gold scales and the gilded accents you've added to tonight's wear. For the barest instant, her nostrils contract and then flare slightly, a movement so fast that it's barely visible at all.

"Vur svabol apzen ornla wux dronilnr, hianag di Flamebrow? Wux confna ekess ve, ghent shio; svabol regipreic tir wux majak, ekess xurwk hesi ukrisic xihuuli sia tairais?" Settling back into a relaxed posture, she returns to her place overlooking the rest of the room, but leaves a clear space several feet to her left for you should you desire to continue the conversation.

Spoiler: Draconic

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"You have some backbone, it seems. Good. I was beginning to worry that I had walked into a feast for lambs."

"And what opportunities would you bring, daughter of Flamebrow? You came to me, after all; what gifts do you offer, to make our talks worth my time?"

[Amnestic]

Kett Collier Human Shadow Monk/Rogue AC: 19 HP: 52/52 PP: 19 PIv: 13 PIs: 13 Conditions: Darkvision (~7 hour), 6/6 Ki Remaining Concentrating: -- "Dwarf, dark hair, beard, lots of jewelry, was about the length of his description I got." Her eyes find Arimart. He seemed fine. Probably. "You probably want to steer clear though. Last guy he sent after me slit the throat of a guard for basically no reason, no need to add your face to the list of misfits he's chasing." She says it with a complete casual, offhand tone. She's almost deadpan in her delivery, confirming quite clearly such matters were not unusual fare for her. She downs the remainder of her drink in a long gulp and a longer sigh. "If I do find him though, I'm looking forward to a polite, productive conversation. Whatever you're buying, best of luck. Good evening to you." Two conversations spent and she had little to show for it so far. She wasn't disappointed, if Arano had been that easy to track down she'd have found him days ago, but she did feel like she was spinning her wheels. She considers discarding Drake's suggestion. The magistrate Arimart was chatting up wasn't Jarus, she didn't need to offer 'assistance' with them, but it might be good to check in and see if he'd managed to pump any information out of them, perhaps more importantly serve as a soft reminder to the prosecutor to keep his eyes on the prize. She might have to do the same with Gryphon and...oh where the hell had Kleris gone? Her eyes spin around the dance floor and then the raised area and come up with nothing. He'd vanished. Wonderful. Five minutes in and she was already a man down. One thing at a time though. She slides past Arimart, stopping only briefly to whisper "Kleris has disappeared." before she moves on, heading up to the upper level and off the dance floor to get a better view, and perhaps try to scope out any more faces that seemed familiar from this side of the room.

[(Un)Inspired]

Gryphon had experienced nearly two full days of positivity. His speech before the tribunal had went swimmingly, he was earning money off a job he had no personal stake in, he got to visit with Granny Mebsa, and the Magistrate had responded to his mild coercion quite well. It’s had all swollen into a bubble of pleasantness which was instantly popped by the sound of Hetrion Niksar’s voice. The expression on the half-elf's face buckles into the sort of grimace typically reserved for reacting to a bee sting. The soft scarlets of his tunic seizing up into the ruddy color of rusted iron.

I had always doubted the rumors that the golem crafters of House Cannith had been working on creating an automata constructed entirely out of hepatitis, and yet here you stand in front of me, Niksar. Yes, that was the Aundairan Magistrate. We were just debating how many Archon’s you let copulate with you to achieve that obnoxious glow. What could you possibly want from me?

[GameOfChampions]

Shemran feels a hiss start to rumble in the back of her throat, if this were a polite Dragonborn event in Ka'rhashan then she would have bit down on it. Here though, with this crowd, she leaned into it. Tongue flickering past her fangs, rumble in the throat, and lips baring back over her fangs slightly.

Her mind flickers through the options, this women clearly had some screws loose. She seemed to like danger and intrigue to the point of breaking personal boundaries. Tease a little more, intimidate a little more, and then dangle the hook. "Sjek wux tuor ekess sho'voth ve wux geou rigluin creol seasoning ihk nomeno lamb. Si tir ti gethrisj vhira eschoup."

Then she steps closer, moving into her personal space "Darastrixi re lleisgarir tenamalo. Yth geou ti qe pok. Wer ux Bahamuti geou lleisgar vur sweep wer tilsini vur anqui ekik di hesi lands sari wer qumado. Sjek wux tuor opportunities hak providing laraeki, angrimich supplies, mercenaries, vur throdenilt geou qe svabol wux tuor. Aryte opportunities geou qe ripe ihk wer picking."

Then she smirks at the women and walks her fingers up the arm of the other women "Hak di ekmiv wer nezcaubolic di knowing sia kurjh vorel xiekiv. Nafl si jalla qe torir svabol wer nezcaubolic di knowing wux ornla qe, svabol shilta wux provide ve batobot lyriki ornla ti?"

Spoiler: Draconic

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If you want to devour me you will need some seasoning for this lamb. I do not go down easy.

Dragons are rising again. We will not be stop. The Dragonborn will rise and sweep the lizards and goblins out of our lands into the sea. If you want opportunities then providing weapons, military supplies, mercenaries, and more will be what you desire. War opportunities will be ripe for the picking.

Then of course the benefits of knowing my own beautiful person. Really I should be asking what the benefits of knowing you would be, what can you provide me that others would not?

[CozJa]

The name 'Argentum' means nothing to Arimart, but seeing how Taralos talked about it, he doesn't want to admit his lack of knowledge on a possibly important topic for the Thranish Magistrate.

"Ah, the Argentum is here? And you think she may be looking for something... This evening is going to be really interesting. Thanks you Magistrate I..."

As he is speaking, Kett passes him by, telling him about Kleris, then walking to the other side of the room to walk up the stairs.

"This woman is paranoid, we've been here for less than a half hour, and she's already talking about disappearances? Flame, I can't even see where Gryphon went!"

The paladin recompose himself and keeps talking with the Magistrate:
"Ehm, I was saying, thank you for giving me those informations. As you have already seen during their official hearings, my associates can be a nuisance sometimes, but I find their methods effective. I hope they will take part at the auction this evening. But there's one thing I didn't understand: are you going to participate?"

[3SecondCultist]

Arimart

When Kett comes by to warn you about Kleris' supposed disappearance, Taralos moves away to get some space between you. He shakes his head from side to side when you continue talking, not engaging with what you're saying until your ally is well out of earshot.

"Apologies, Sir Kaessel, but from what I gathered about Miss Collier I cannot say that I trust the woman. Nor should you, to be frank. Though her answers during her deposition were technically true, I found there to be little honesty in them. I believe that she is working for the dragonmarked houses. Phiarlan or Thuranni are most likely, but we couldn't say which at the moment." The wrinkles around the priest's eyes tighten. "Though she may prove a useful asset, she has her own agenda and I would keep close watch on her."

The magistrate from Thrane takes a closer look at the geometric pattern of effervescent amber that seems etched into the middle of the dance floor. "Whatever game ir'Sencriss is playing," he says, "I don't have the coin to take part. No my boy, I'm here to spectate only, and to hear out Adias Navel and her friends about a different issue." The furrows on his forehead deepen.

"... tell me, Sir Kaessel, what you think of Gryphon Kellson."


Gryphon

Your familiarity with Hetrion is the only reason that you're able to catch the slight tightening of his jaw before he banishes the reaction beneath his usual smarmy half-sneer. There is movement at the warlock's collar as a shape clambers into view: a tiny burnished winged lizard with a hide of speckled silver and bronze. Vitae's eyes are just two more pinpricks of light amid Niksar's gaudy constellation, yet you and Spritz know from experience that the pseudodragon is in many ways as insightful as her master.

"We were just debating how long it would take for these humans to come to their senses and kick out the rabble. It's a shame that the standards around here are slipping. They'll even let in cut-rate apprentices who can't afford to buy their glamerweave, but must instead resort to orisons taught in bookstores." Somehow he manages to make the jab sound like it comes from a place of genuine disappointment.

Vitae looks up to her master, and Hetrion raises one eyebrow. "Ah, I nearly forgot! I heard a most ridiculous rumor that some skuurz'taat is angling to schmooze themselves a seat on the Thronehold Tribunal. It's been the gossip around town for a few days now; my friends and I have been laughing uproariously about it." The changes wrought to his visage obscure the finer details of his expression, but his words speak for themselves.

"Unfortunately, it's doomed to fail. What the mongrel hasn't realized yet is that my partners and I have deeper pockets, and that I'll happily outbid any offer he makes to the weak and corrupt magistrates of this town." Hetrion shrugs. "I'm sure the price will be high, but we're willing to pay it to keep civilization safe from the predations of the crag."


Kett

Given the last ditch caution about Quicksilver, Drake gives a little bow of thanks and offer his own warning by way of 'compensation.' "Ah, thank you for the warning. I'll keep my distance." He lowers his voice, indicating an elderly looking woman who sits with a small entourage. "Let me offer you a bit of advice as a professional courtesy. Enter a bidding war with Lycia Velancor only if you are prepared to shed blood - she looks more than ready to do so. And any wounds you receive will be long to heal."

As you take your warning from Drake and offer your own to Arimart and embark on your tour of the great hall, you cannot help but wonder whether the skirmishes and battlefields you've witnessed were less deadly. Tonight's weapons are not steel but secrets, barrages of deals launched at unwitting targets and masterful duels full of witty parries and ripostes. There are casualties aplenty - spurned lords and ladies, cast out of their circles for wearing the wrong attire or being caught agreeing with an unfashionable idea and being sent to lurk in the shadowed eyes like so many corpses - and there are the survivors, clinging to the glow of the chandeliers.

Thankfully you have no stake in such battles. Your purpose is clear; or at least, it should be. Finding neither Arano or Quicksilver, you have taken to prowling the event's perimeter along with the 'dead'. The relative unknown Lycia Velancor holds court above the fray, looking down on those who dance in the line of fire. There are a few more furtive pairings-off, shady bargains explored or perhaps the trembling touch of spring love. A far off woman and dragonborn seem to be blurring that line, as you spot them lean in close to one another.

But your attention is drawn to a different interaction. Closer to the exit, you spot a confrontation brewing between the distinct profile of your companion Gryphon and the brazen glow of a man you don't recognize. Their stances are decidedly hostile, yet you also spot a third man lurking not too far behind the half-elf. It's obvious to you that Gryphon hasn't spotted the onlooker, yet you notice his hands moving and a faint blue glint in his eyes...


Shemran

The woman opposite you maintains a steady gaze as you move in closer, intent on hearing out your piece in full. She does not flinch or move away when you get in close, not even when you reach for her arm. Though there is an unmistakable frisson when your talon-tips brush up against the woman's skin, you realize as you maintain body contact that she is not radiating any body heat whatsoever.

"Sia sia, vi tiamo reab di ux Bahamuti sva sia rinovup relgr?" She lets out a laugh like the ringing of a bell, not yet content to address the final question you asked but luxuriating in the back and forth. "Batobot tiric ultro zyak zi lofftarientik. Wer Flamebrow xiekivi zklaen qe versel abhlek, ihk wux ekess fehlim mishun vi inglata sva nomeno montu persvek hesi thurirlkal."

Lady Thara's eyes narrow further, a sign of obvious satisfaction in what you've said. "Visp ve throdenilt. Svanoa throden arytissi tiric dout xiekivi tepoha? Svanoa janik si xurwk klae di astahi?" Whatever calculations she is making behind that mask, you feel confident that your words have made an impression. At the back of her mind, the soldiers you have conjured are likely already spent; you have her on the hook now.

"As for what you will get in return," she purrs, switching effortlessly to the common tongue of Khorvaire, "I possess secrets innumerable, magic potent, and might peerless. What currency do you most desire, that I should match your offer with my own?"

Spoiler: Draconic

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"My my, a whole army of dragonborn at my beck and call? That does sound so very delicious. The Flamebrow people must be powerful indeed, for you to extend such a promise at this point in our friendship."

"Tell me more. How many warriors does your tribe have? How might I make use of them?"

[(Un)Inspired]

Ripples of bafflement wave, like a flag in a stiff breeze, across Gryphon’s face. ... resort to orisons? Hetrion, a look of genuine concern for the warlock tightening across his face, don’t you know that a modern gentleman provides his own magic? The wizard’s expression further sharpens into a grin as cutting as a razor’s edge. Or does even that amount of spellcasting exceed the stamina your two pathetic spell slots, you got down on your knees and begged your patron to put into you, can handle?

Gryphon squeezes his left fist so tightly that his nails dig into his palm, even through his gloves, as Hetrion refers to him as skuurz’taat and a mongrel. He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt, using the jolt of pain to help recompose himself.

Well, I suppose you have no need for such sartorial sorceries, with your bold fashion choices of... white and silver. Truly a reinvention of Flamite style. An innovator, that’s what you’ll be remembered for. Of course, that would require you actually being remembered, rather than eternally in your father’s shadow. Almost as if you’re the proverbial Shadow in the Flame.

Speaking of the Lord ir’Alsidar, I hear he’s not long for this world. Heart condition brought on by night terrors, if I recall correctly. We must pray they aren’t hereditary; if a man can’t be safe in his dreams then he’s not safe anywhere. He let’s his statement hang in the air a moment, giving Niksar time to contemplate the reputation of Gryphon’s family.

I must admit Niksar, your threats to somehow outbid any effort I make to add a representative to the Tribunal would scare me a great deal, if it were not for the rumor that your Father is leaving all but a token of your family’s holdings to the church. Such a pious man. If only you had the mental acuity to join the clergy, you might still be left to govern the Alsidar lands. How tragic that you’ve never been able to rise beyond the level of some celestial sugar daddy’s flavor of the month.

Gryphon looks his rival up and down and gives him a slow shake of his head, positively dripping with pity. Impotent in magic, impotent in style, and soon to be impotent financially. I suppose it’s no wonder your impotence is almost a Throneport byword.

[CozJa]

As the Magistrate reats to Kett presence, Arimart listens to his words, considering how much true they sound, especially if spoken by someone else.

"I too suspect she may have a lot of shady connections. But, as we say in Breland, keep your friends close and your enemies closer." The paladin smiles slightly "Hard to stab me in the back when she's working side-by-side with me... well, harder than it would be another way, at least."

When Evam Taralos asks his opinion on Gryphon, Arimart sips the remaining drink in his glass and becomes more serious.

"I believe that he has many of the gifts of youth, but I don't know if he'll learn in time how to use them. He walks a thin line and I was surprised by his offer to the Tribunal. To be honest, I believe that there's some merit in it, we both know that the Tribunal is founded on the very ideals that shaped Khorvaire, but stands on shaky grounds when we have to act on them. And you have seen first hand how much bickering his proposal brought."

Arimart rests his free hand on his waist, looking the Magistrate in the eyes:

"His proposal was at least as naive as he is, but I believe you should take parts of it into consideration: the monsters of Drooam are not a force we can root out, and if we don't use them, someone else will. However, I'm just a prosecutor of the law, and I know that the political ramification of your acts often elude me."

[Amnestic]

Kett Collier Human Shadow Monk/Rogue AC: 19 HP: 52/52 PP: 19 PIv: 13 PIs: 13 Conditions: Darkvision (~7 hour), 6/6 Ki Remaining Concentrating: -- Drake's warning is catnip to Kett. If she was dangerous and a potential bidder on high ticket items - like the planar artifact - she's exactly the sort of person she wants to be seen chatting with, though perhaps without immediately heading in her direction. She didn't want to come across as too eager, too...invested. Playing it casual, while still remaining on the prowl. It'd give her an opportunity to try to relocate Kleris at least. She idly wonders, having scooped up another drink, if Raz's eyes had rubbed off on her. Ever since he'd vanished following the hearing she'd felt things a bit more clearer. Maybe it was just getting some clarity of purpose though, and she wasn't exactly complaining about it. Well, mostly. Sometimes she sees enough that it becomes an inconvenience, like right now, with Gryphon, who seemed to have found trouble. Potentially the trouble that Kleris had found as well, if his disappearance was anything to go by. Much as she'd like to stay focused on her own situation, Gryphon's magic and/or political ambitions could still prove useful before the night was over, and if he got himself a hole blasted through his chest he'd be no use to her. She moves with as much haste as is reasonable - breaking into a full sprint wouldn't exactly be in keeping with party etiquette - to sweep up behind the man who seemed just a little too suspicious for her liking. Forcefully, definitively, she plants a hand on the man's shoulder from behind, the clap of palm on cloth sufficiently loud that Gryphon should overhear, assuming he hasn't already filled his senses with alcohol and delusions of grandeur. "Excuse me sir," Kett says, voice sweet and angelic, "Your boots appear to have come undone." They hadn't, of course. She knew that, he knew that, he knew that she knew that, and she knew that he knew she knew that, but it would serve as a perfectly polite interruption on his thought train, with a shoulder grip that advised of a quiet threat.

[GameOfChampions]

Shemran rolls her eyes playfully at Lady Thera, switching to common easily to keep up with the flow of conversation "Please. If you want armies you would need to provide something worth armies. Your sweet personality would only be worth a few younglings in training. As for the specifics of our forces that will stay with me... for the time being."

She nods, respectfully, as Lady Thara lists her assets. Shemran licks her lips and stares at the freakishly cold women, that was an impressive list and the power it was delivered with. It was intoxicating. "Well lets keep this a casual affair for now, grow into shipments of mithril weapons and deliveries of elite dragonborn strike teams to topple governments later. Lets start with the innocent trade of secrets and tidbits, the aforementioned secrets innumerable."

'All the best lies have roots in the truth Lady Shemran'

Her eyes linger below on the growing commotion surrounding Gryphon "Lord Roland, the nephew of Karnathi advisor Count Vidim, was humiliated by the good ambassador down there and his companions. I'm sure you know that already, but I have heard from some Dragonborn traders delivering exotic materials from the corrupted dragon graves that Lord Roland will not let sleeping owlbears lie. He is planning an exotic, and outlawed necromantic ritual of some sort to destroy his newly gained and hated rival."

She then gestures to the other end of the hall where servants were bustling around "The other good Ambassador, Danilos ir'Sencriss, whose fine entertainment we are enjoying this evening has not been so squeaky clean. He had his daughters tutor murdered because he was giving her un-lord like sentiments, like power to the common folk and rights to the people. Proper democracy stuff. I have heard from a personal source that the murder was both gruesome and sloppy, he may have left trails."

Finally she jerks her head towards the port side of town and her tongue slithers out for a second, "Finally I know that the Council is drastically concerned about the missing people port side of Throneport. They are hiring expert teams to hunt down the missing. An informed friend of mine says the concern is led by Magistrate Navel due to not one... but two of the missing people being her lovers. A Hobgoblin dockworker she was carrying on an affair with and a warforged sailor she... retrofitted with certain equipment. She is livid at the idea of someone uncovering her... indiscretions with them."

Spoiler: Roll

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(1d20+7)[21]

[3SecondCultist]

Arimart

"You surprise me, Sir," says the magistrate with more passion than you expected, "I know you come from Breland, so why do you speak this way of the Daughters and their western legions? Have you not heard of the deadly harpy flights in the Byeshk Mountains, or their aberrant pet that rules Greywall? What about the new gangs of trolls and medusae in the City of Towers itself? Flame help us Arimart, they are a nation of monsters!"

Clearing his throat, Taralos touches the pendant around his neck that represents your shared faith. "The Church of the Silver Flame calls on the righteous to protect the innocent from evil. The Thrane of today, the one I fight for in our court, was founded on that principle. I know that you must try to remain impartial in your station, but consider the moral cost of giving Droaam a permanent voice at our proceedings. There's a reason why the rulers of the Five Nations did not invite the Daughters of Sora Kell to the summit talks when the Last War ended. To call the proposal 'naive' barely scratches the surface of the damage it would cause if it passed."

Thankfully you're saved from having to engage any further, as a squat figure approaches you. A dwarf with dark hair and a brocaded navy jacket over pale trousers limps towards both you and Magistrate Taralos, stepping over to the left side of the judge so that he faces both of you.

"Greetings prosecutor, magistrate," the newcomer gravels as he extends a hand to shake. "The name's Drake Shardstone of Sharn; always good to see a familiar face at these functions. I wasn't sure given your association with Lady Kett. Congratulations on your recent success with Maugrim the Nameless, by the way. Not an easy task, but you certainly seem to be putting your past behind you."

Shardstone looks at you head on. "You are the special prosecutor now, yes?"


Gryphon

This time, your return strike hits somewhere closer to home; a muscle moves under Niksar's impassive facade, and you swear that you can hear the grinding of his teeth. All the same, he manages to keep his cool despite staying deathly quiet when you mention his father.

"How predictable of you, Gryphon," he growls, "to conflate book knowledge with greatness. It doesn't take magic to alter the world the way you so desperately want to, just a willingness to recognize the truth of things. I prostrate myself before a higher power, accept my limitations and move on. My friends - for all their means - do the same. We don't seek to overturn order for our own benefit.

But you? No, there has never been a puzzle that the brilliant Gryphon Kellson could not crack, no problem you haven't been able to coerce or push or force or outrun." When he leans in, you can feel the surge of heat that ripples off of him, a veritable furnace of heavenly flame. "The world does not - cannot - allow such a person as you to exist for long; the changes you champion are too great, too wide-spanning. They will never accept you and your mistresses for who you really are."

In that heartbeat the mask slips, and you see true spite at last: the man who has sought to keep you down since you first came to Throneport. "One day soon, you are going to fail so utterly that there will be no return from it. And when that day comes... I vow that I will be there to watch."

"Excuse me sir," calls out a voice you recognize as Kett's, though in a higher register than you're used to. "Your boots appear to have come undone." Initially you aren't certain whether she's addressing you, but as your head swivels to look you notice another man who has been standing directly behind you for who knows how long. Tucking his hands into the pockets of his robe, this mystery fellow adjusts his attire and says something to Kett before trudging back towards the stairs.

"Well I won't keep you, Grif," says Hetrion while staring right at Kett, the weight of his previous tone still present yet now buried under a flimsy veil of courtesy. "As it looks like you're popular this evening, I will take my leave. We will be seeing each other soon, I'm sure." His manners do not extend to staying to listen to any parting words from you, as he turns on his heels and stalks off.


Kett

By the looks of him, the fellow near Gryphon doesn't look like too much. Wreaths of fog-like patterns emanate from his cuffs and around his collar and his cloak billows on a breeze that isn't there, but wearing enchanted clothing makes him just another courtier at the ball. He's got a beard and sallow features, nothing that you recognize right away. Though there is The gestures he is making don't seem offensive - or at least, you can surmise that he isn't actively attacking your ally, as there seems to have been no ill effect on your half-elven wizard.

The moment you put your hand on the stranger's shoulder, he freezes what he's doing, dropping his hands out of sight. Whatever display you saw from across the room disappears instantly, as he catches your gaze and starts to move away, checking his boots and mumbling an apology for the disruption. Though he makes no effort to hide, neither does this third man seem intent on pressing any issue here.

Gryphon, for his part, continues his conversation with the radiant fellow standing near him right up to the moment of your interruption, at which point both figures turn to look at you expectantly. There is something terribly alive in the lambent intensity of the other man's eyes. To be honest, you aren't entirely sure if he's a man at all, he seems a truer angel than your falsetto.

"Well I won't keep you, Grif," he exclaims, gaze boring into you unblinkingly despite the position of the words' intended recipient. "As it looks like you're popular this evening, I will take my leave. We will be seeing each other soon, I'm sure." When he spins around to leave, you feel the rush of a shimmering midsummer flow in his wake, a sweet and heady burning that gives you chills all over.


Shemran

"That's disappointing," Lady Thara says, allowing a touch of the aggrieved to permeate her tone. "I was rather hoping that you would be willing to trade me something tangible, not merely gossip and rumor - only some of which is correct, I'm afraid." Though you wait to her to confirm which one of your ideas is the truth, she does not deign to do so, but waits until you're done speaking to speak her own. She does not blink - in fact, up to this moment you haven't seen her blink even once.

"You are well informed, my dear," she murmurs back to you, "though not as well as you might hope. All the best falsehoods have roots in the truth, Lady Shemran. I should hope that someone as well versed in social graces as you would know how to spot the difference in your own information. Though..." she gives you a complete look over, slowing to visibly appreciate your form, "you could be the one lying right now, and I'd never know it. I truly cannot tell."

She claps her hands together vigorously and quite suddenly. "Oh, but this is fun! I must say that I'm enjoying not knowing for a change. I will respond in kind, then. Three secrets: one of which is a lie, one of which I believe to be at least mostly true, and one that is truth unalloyed. You will have to decide for yourself which is which. Shall we begin?"

Pivoting her body so that the two of you are face to face, the ebony-skinned woman takes a deep breath in and out, and you could swear that the light around both of you dims ever so slightly. She holds up three fingers. "One. The halfling woman who runs House Ghallanda's Golden Dragon location on the docks - I believe it's called Mayapple Hall - is not a halfling at all, but a night hag who is secretly here by the tacit invitation of the Great Crag of Droaam. In exchange for selling secrets to the Daughters, she feasts freely on the pleasant dreams of those who stay at her inn." The first finger drops.

"Two. Even as we speak, an expert infiltration team working for a secret society in the Aurum club and made up entirely of shapeshifters is breaking into Castle Thronehold to silence the prisoner Maugrim Nameless before he can stand trial, for fear of him revealing their secrets. He will be found dead tomorrow morning, hanged in his cell or having befallen some other accident." Another finger goes down.

"Three. There are a number of fiendish operatives at work in this city at any given moment, each answering to the whispers of the Lords of Dust, a secret cabal of demonic rakshasa who are loyal to the various Overlords stemming back to the Age of Demons. One of them is the Brelish magistrate Berem Lann, though his lapdog down there by the name of Arimart Kaessel has also served as a pawn of the demons in recent weeks." The last finger is gone as Lady Thara forms a fist with a flourish, the back of her hand towards you.