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A Spring Equinox party Uptown goes horribly wrong.

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Graf
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Mon Jul 08, 2019 5:41 pm

The Perrault House, Uptown Vienda
On the 17th of Loshis, 2719, during the Early Evening
“Like the generations of leaves, the lives of mortal men.
Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth,
now the living timber bursts with the new buds
and spring comes round again. And so with men:
as one generation comes to life, another dies away.”


The Iliad, Homer (trans. Robert Fagles)
Alcide and Marie Perrault had spared no expense for the Spring Equinox. The night had come on early underneath a sheaf of rain-heavy clouds; despite the warmer temperatures – the first in months – a sharp wind rattled the windowpanes against their creaking frames, and a humid chill clung to the bones. Nevertheless, the inside of the Perraults’ fine, three-story Uptown home was warm and cheerily-lit, and the great ground-floor ballroom was a flock of vibrant dresses and flushed faces, clinking toasts, gaggles of finely-dressed men one minute arguing and the next bursting into cascades of laughter.

Incumbent Perrault and his wife were welcoming local officials, diplomats, and judges from each of the Six Kingdoms, and so a panoply of fashions could be observed in the ballroom, and one could even hear smatterings of Heshath and Mugrobi and more. Even the ambassador from Hox was present for the season's convention of the Vyrdag, looking somber and ascetic in black; a few representatives from Gior moved about, tall and pale and resplendent in white. Servants hurried here and there through the sea of galdori, hefting trays heavy-laden with apéritifs and assorted dainties. The Perraults must have been proud: the event could have been a painter’s rendition of a successful, respectable party, and if international tensions occasionally reared their heads, everyone was at least content to get along for the night.

Nevertheless, Incumbent Thaddeus Crawley found all of this insufficient.

He had just snatched another glass of port from a nearby servant, and it was already halfway-drunk; he had already had two, but even had he drunk everything in the Perraults’ cellar, it would not have been enough to transport him from the misery of the evening.

Truth be told, he did not want to be in Vienda. Each year, he tired more and more of the rainy season’s stuffy meeting halls full of judges, grasping crows perched in their black robes – parties and fundraisers – endless fawning. He felt a hundred arrows pressing at him from each side, though particularly from the southeast. The last place he wanted to be was here, at the head of the kingdom, when its phosphor-veined heart in the north lay so heavy on his mind.

“They’re all waiting for me to die.”

“Beg your pardon?”

Incumbent Crawley was tall for an Anaxi, and not even slightly bent despite his very advanced age. He had a spine like a ramrod, and he kept his chin raised. The fellow beside him, some Viendan incumbent with a weak, irritatingly erratic field, was a few heads shorter, and Crawley did not deign to look down. “Don’t play the fool. I’m too old for this liars’ game. Fawning and more godsbedamned fawning.”

The Viendan incumbent said nothing.

Crawley’s lips pulled into an even more sour frown, the spider’s web of creases on his face deepening. “I’ve represented Cerolyn on the Vyrdag for four decades, but everyone knows the Tors are in my pocket. Look around you. I would wager that every merry phosphor light in this accursed house owes its life to one of my mines. Where is the money in Anaxas? What are we to be known for, when we pass off the Symvoul?”

He heard an incoherent mumble, and for the first time, he turned to his neighbor. The redheaded incumbent peered up at him, brows furrowed; his mouth was moving, but nothing seemed to be coming out. His hand was twitching around his empty glass, in any case, and he looked as if he were itching to get away.

Crawley felt a burst of rage. “You’re going to have to speak up, he snapped. He saw no point in hiding the red-shift that bled through the mona in his field, and it seethed even redder as the other man paused to stare at him. “By the Circle, man,” he continued, “I did not devote my life to the study of Perceptive conversation, thus ruining the fine ears the gods so graciously gave me in my youth, so that I could be standing here, straining to hear your mumbling.”

Rather than shrinking back from the press of his ramscott, the idiot’s field continued to buzz against it, unmoved and unchanged. “Of course,” he replied, louder, leaning a little closer. “I apologize. I—”

“Never mind. I don’t want to hear it anymore.” Crawley peered down his long nose at the other galdor, eyes narrowing, then grunted and turned away. He finished off his glass of port smoothly and handed it off to a passing servant, the mona in his field still quivering with irritation. “I knew Incumbent Perrault when he was in swaddling-clothes,” he started again, “and his father would never have stood for this travesty of an event. What is this swill that’s being passed off as port?” He bit off the words, turning to his companion—

The Viendan incumbent was gone. As a matter of fact, despite the dizzying press of fields and moving bodies that was the rest of the ballroom, the area around Incumbent Crawley was devoid of galdori.

Clasping his hands behind his back and huffing under his breath, he wandered toward the nearest of the hall’s high, narrow windows. Usually, they gave out on the Perraults’ well-tended garden, with its creatively-trimmed shrubs and winding stone paths, but this evening, they were clouded with fog.

In the rest of the hall, the party went on.


ABBC3_OFFTOPIC
The Perraults’ party for the Spring Equinox is open to any politically-involved galdor in Uptown Vienda. Feel free to enter and mingle as you will (and even approach Incumbent Crawley, if you dare). However, keep in mind that as the night draws on and events unfold, the party may prove to be unexpectedly tense – and dangerous.

The next post goes to Raksha, but after that, the floor is open. There will be no posting order, but we'll be posting updates regularly.

If you are Resistance and would like to be involved, DM Raksha or I.

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Raksha
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Mon Jul 15, 2019 9:32 am

17th Loshis, 2719
VIENDA|EARLY EVENING
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"Oh Gods, I am not in any mood to talk to that dottering bastard.” Damen D’Arthe muttered under his breath, glancing down at the drink in his hand and moving with a slow meander away from the direction Incumbent Crawley was headed. Beside him, Julian Megiro chuckled and sipped on his brandy, bloodshot eye on the dreaded galdor as he passed them, muttering to himself.

“Don’t worry Captain D’Arthe, the man alienates everyone so he doesn’t have to talk to them. He’s a bastard and an ersehole to boot. One day, it’ll get him killed I swear it.” The salt and pepper haired Bastian laughed quietly, shifting through the people with nods of acknowledgement.

“Did you see the Gioran that came? Something-or-rather-Dahane? Dah Huwayne?” He asked, turning side on and pointing a little finger in the direction of the foreigner. Julian glanced inconspicuously, looking over the giant woman that stood in their midsts. She was close to seven feet tall, with thickly braided long white hair that ran down the centre of her back in line with her spine, wide set eyes so pale they were nearly white and skin glistening with a fine dusting of quartz. Her outfit was overly elegant, a pristine white silk dress that wrapped around her body and up over one shoulder, the hem of the fabric embroidered with silver monite and her waist cinched with a white leather corset. Her white eyelashes and eyebrows were not tainted with makeup, only her cheekbones and lips reflecting the iridescent dust made from ground cave-beetle shells that had been brushed there. On either side of the unsmiling, straight backed Da Huane were two Quartz Guardians, gripping their spears and shields with unwavering dedication.

“Joliken Da Huane. She’s the Kingdom’s leaders eldest daughter, and from what I understand basically the next in line to lead Gior. I would have thought you would have known that Captain, given your late wife was a Gioran.” The Bastian’s jaw clenched, and he sipped quickly on his beverage.

“Why would I? She might have been from Gior, but she came to Anaxi soil and as such we were Anaxi. I didn’t care about her primitive culture then, and I don’t now. It’s an archaic concept, family dictated leadership. The whole country is stuck in the past.” Lowering the cognac with a sound of satisfaction, Damen looked at Julian and waggled a pointer finger.

“The question is, Mister Megiro, why would Gior send someone so important outside of their country in the first place? I don’t know if you’re aware, but the tow-headed kensers believe they are superior to all other races. They supress emotions and rarely let foreigners inside the Kingdom. To have anyone outside of the Ambassadors attending this event is a strong show of trust. Perhaps its a play for sympathy. Perhaps it’s strategic, to remove the stigma of stoicness to the point of stupidness. Either way, I have no interest in speaking with a woman. She has no place in politics.” The disgust was rampant in his voice, sharp blue eyes turning from the woman to look around the rest of the room.

From the floor, Alyssa and Caina moved with unseen ease, hidden in plain sight with a clever outfit and carefully crafted stories. The two humans were passable as passives, with the assistance of a glamour of auburn hair color from a galdori sympathiser in their Viendan Freedom Fighter Cell and a strong submissive performance. A backstory about being hired from a private residence for the night, and a water tight alibi, the two woman were as visible as the bugs crawling in the dark corners of the potted shrubbery.

“That’s the Incumbent there, moving along towards the windows.” The master assassin breathed as they stood together stacking drinks on trays from a beverage table. Their backs were to the upper levels, but Alyssa seemed to know precisely where the old foul tempered galdor was. Lifting her tray, the woman turned with a slight inwards hunch, as though protecting herself from the oppressors around her. She looked as though her spirit was broken and her life forfit, blue eyes on the ground.

“We need to get up to him and take him alive. That window, if we can get him close enough we could sneak out the back, up the trelice and take him out with a simple elbow to the head. As long as we don’t drop him, we’ll be fine.” The commentary was almost inaudible, the Wisp turning her head just so that the sound traveled towards Caina with a clarity that could only be learned through years of practice. As though it was an unspoken agreement, Alyssa began her slow and careful migration through the people towards the staircase, eyes ever on the ground and posture non-threatening.

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Ralor Szczebrzeszynks
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Tue Jul 16, 2019 11:22 am

🙞 The Perrault House / uptown vienda
the early evening of Loshis' 17th day
Blanketed in the umbra of the clouded starless skies, the uptown house stood out among the landscape, it’s windows beaming weak shafts of light that helped make out patches of the well kept garden and the winding pathway that lead from the main road through the gate and into the main doors of the residence. The carriage lumbered heavily through the path, unaffected by the chilly cold that threatened with rain but still creaking with the wind from time to time.

Such was the cold that Ralor could barely feel the notes of the new cologne he had been sold earlier in the week, when he had been invited to the event. Invited might be a stretch; the hoxian delegation had extended him the invitation, if not out of professional courtesy toward him, then towards his late parents. “Whatever. Might as well join the event, get a foot in the diplomatic door, so to speak.”

He was slightly nervous, since it was his first time attending an event in which he was the professional figure, not just a drag-along for his parents. He even washed his hair two days earlier than usual, to make sure it was impeccable, brushed carefully towards the top back where he knotted it into as good a ball as he could fashion, letting the rest trail down the back of his head while his sides showed the short trim hair, the mugrabi style he had loved so much in his early youth of travelling along the desert’s rivers.

“Is this carriage hot, or am I sweating from nerves?” He pressed his hands against the black pants, his white shirt buttoned up under a black vest, a slim tie elegantly tucked into the vest framing his neck. On his belt, at the lower back, the dagger that had helped him so well so far, by never being needed but always being present. His frock leather jacket, a classical piece of hoxian fashion, lay in front of him, waiting for him to leave the carriage without ruining it. The inside of the carriage was stuffy, but his cologne disguised it pleasantly; the high note of citruses was already fading, but the rose note was still there, comfortably resting on a leather and wood base notes, a very hoxian scent according to the gentlemen who sold it to him.

The carriage came to a halt in front of the house. Ralor stood up, wrapped his frock jacket around him, and stepped out of the carriage. He slapped it twice, thanked the man driving it, and took towards the front door, presenting the document that gave him access to the party. He strode into the party with carefully planted steps, making sure his posture was composed, as well as his field, keeping it fluid so as to not invade anyone else’s field, but also still, so as to appear composed. “You can do this, Ralor. You were born for this. Góra tego chce,” he remembered the hoxian worship of the Lord of the Mountain.

A waiter passed him by with glasses of port; he picked up one, and moved towards the party with glass in hand, bringing it close to his nose to smell the drink, then took a sip, the notes of dried fruits and wood a welcome taste in an otherwise unfamiliar setting. But alas, his was to be a life of diplomacy and mingling among the high society, so mingle he must. “Now, where are you, Anatole Vauquelin?”

🙝
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Alexis Geradot
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Wed Jul 17, 2019 11:29 am

17th Loshis, 2719

There was a thin line between a showman's vintage and a poor man's scowled upon handouts, between a priceless antique and a neglected piece of last's season's junk, and between an enchanting and revealing exhibit of amber history and a shambled relic ruined by abandonment. There were houses that older children used to scare their younger peers with stories of hauntings and murders, all boarded up windows, curtains, and cobwebs, and there were ancient mansions of painstakingly restored from another era that spoke highly of their owner's taste and care. There were ancient tombs and testaments that, well-kept, were made out to be chief importance to every scholar, and there were their overlooked brethren who, licked by the inky tongue of the same press, had also suffered rain, or a child's pencil, or the dog-earing of some book-hating mongrel. History was kept in value of how attractive it was, after all, dancing down that thin line that separated vintage importance, tastefulness, antique value, and relic novelty from ruin, neglect, abandonment, and the burn pile.

Luther Penn had liked to believe that he knew this line between very well. Now he sat, a lumbering, mountain of a dark man, perched- perhaps too graceful a term- on the tiny seat of the carriage. The first modification to the canary pale yellow carriage he had made when he found it still in rolling condition in its wooded abandonment was reinforcements to the driver's bench that protruded from the front of the distinctly 2680s style of the boxy body. It was, with a lot of hard work and stolen paint, hidden well between the carriages of rich politicians and businessmen, some palatable eclectic of a quirky galdor's heavy pocket. Out of style, of course, but tasteful all the same- while the most modern carriage was one that liked to show off its contents with wide windows, Luther had nothing he wanted to show off. It was better for the eye to be distracted by the yellow exterior because, tonight, the interior needed to remain anonymous.

Luther squirmed on the hard bench that was worn to the shape of the previous owner's haunches as he sat outside of the large house, the phosphor streetlamps slowly fading into life as the evening fell away into the melted taffy of night. He was both a stranger and a familiar here- Luther was a man of the Dives, muscular at the hands of hard work and barely able to find a tailor willing to fix his clothes to fit his long limbs. He had spent too much of his coin trying to match the clothing of these richly-dressed drivers of galdor carriages, each stoic and quiet as they relaxed in their few hours of time away from owners and masters. Luther knew he didn't stand out, but he still felt paranoid; Alexis was always paranoid now, paranoid he'd give himself away by forgetting his place as a human now, not a galdor in a galdor's world, paranoid he'd submit to the Raen's fabled madness, paranoid he'd lose his old life, or perhaps even Luther's in the toiling chaos of his brain as his detached spirit worked against the weight of Luther's dead body.

He looked down at his hands, wrapped securely in the leather reins of the carriage for fear of losing the deft motor control of Luther's heavy fingers at an unfortunate time, and the disbelief of how deeply wrapped up in all the mess of the Resistance gripped him. Alexis Geradot was a galdor doctor who any father would be proud of his son or daughter marrying, instilled with the prime beliefs of both a conservative galdor and a successful man: he was determined to be rich, determined to hush the lower races in order to keep his place. Yet, Alexis Geradot was dead and buried inside the body of Luther Penn, inside the Resistance. Had Alexis been alive, perhaps he would've been dressed smartly, Ana on his arm as they surveyed a Spring Equinox party between their co=workers and swirled across the polished floor and bright lights of some lavish, mansion like this one. He would've ate, drank, and laughed well-into the night, with no danger on his mind. He would've been endlessly unaware of the strong and tall human that sat in the faux galdori carriage driver's clothes he could barely afford, stomach gargling like a sewer drain as he waited, palms sweating, for the assassination, knowing that the torch of keeping his friends alive would soon be passed to him. But he was Luther now, endlessly wrapped in the foretellings of death in order to stay alive. Inside the house whose yellowed windows drew pictures on the lawn, the world would, for a few hours, burn, and he would tease the fire with a handful of kindling. For now, he waited.
Death is not a friend, but I hope in the end he takes me in his arms and lets me hold his face, he holds me in his arms and whispers something funny, he lifts me in his arms and tells me to embrace his attack. Then the scene turns to black.
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Caina Rose
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Wed Jul 31, 2019 7:25 pm

Perrault Manor • Anaxas/Vienda
on the 17th of Loshis, 2719 • during the evening
T he embers of Caina’s hatred burned with each passing moment spent in this luxurious mansion. Almost as wide as it was tall, the Perrault household easily spanned an entire city block, taking up valuable space that could’ve housed other, more needy families that were otherwise on the streets or crammed into overpriced, undersized accommodations. And this wasn’t even considering the gardens and other buildings on the property. Phosphor lights lit the large hall they were currently standing in, leaving no corner hidden from Alcide Perrault’s gaudy sense of narcissism that every galdori had from birth. Anaxi galdori, anyway.

Caina was currently trailing after Alyssa, mimicking the older woman in posture and outfit. This wasn’t the first time Caina had disguised herself as a passive, but it was the first time she had worn different hair. It kept floating into her vision and Caina would turn, suddenly, distracted at the unfamiliar sight, before focusing again on her friend. And a friend she was, because you didn’t enter into a situation like this with someone who wasn’t trustworthy.

They stopped at a table to gather more drinks- likely the easiest job Caina would ever have. You just walked around with a tray and didn’t flinch when someone smacked your ass. Caina nodded as Alyssa spoke, the movement barely perceptible, and they turned once more into the crowd. Caina kept her eyes carefully on the other’s ankles, a move that simultaneously made her look submissive, while letting her keep an eye on Alyssa, and the others around them. People broadcasted their motions with their feet, and most galdori hadn’t spent most of their lives unlearning that.

Caina didn’t need to voice her agreement at the plan, especially one sound as that. She was a soldier, even though no one knew about her war. And she would follow those who led her. So she followed Alyssa to the stairs, the pair deftly avoiding anyone who might call for a drink, and disappeared from the hall.
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