Hello <3 what follows are a series of stories written as either diary entries, vignettes or whatever other quirky medium I think suits the telling of these tales. These stories will be dramatized chronicles remembering Celine Anahera in the times leading up to her murder in 302 AC. These stories are obviously not canon but are inspired by those memories of geeking about early noble roleplay with dear friends years ago. Consider this a muse project--I hope to return and add more soon. Anyways, enjoy! Or don't.
A Son Forgotten, A Son Who Remembers - Another viewpoint from Brother Against Brother
"I'm-a drink away from's drunk, lil' Don–y'can pour me anotha' cup and meet me on this-'ere bed. An' y'should 'urry too before it takes me's too long to find… Ya' pleasure."
The old pot-bellied man gave a hearty laugh, his bare chest and gut slick with sour sweat and bouncing with each hot-breathed guffaw. Bald and brazen, he stood wide stanced and glaring, perhaps longingly, to the other figure across from him. The fat man held a horn that he seemed happy to toss away, the beer's froth splashing puddles of foam onto the worn inn room's floor–he showed he had the carelessness that screamed a lack of care only a rich man could afford. His words were slurred, his cheeks hot and red, and his breath stinking of drink and primal lust–or perhaps a more wholesome desire, if Gonza observed it optimistically.
Gonza sat across the room from the fat man. Lithe and artfully posed, he sat naked, save for the slip of blue silk over his lap. Atop stained cushions, Gonza stared wistfully out the room's window, watching the eastern sky begin to bruise with the colors of sunset. Looking out over Daenshore's harbor, Gonza's emerald gaze scanned over the series of newly-arrived Anahera ships, fresh from Girobalda and the capital. Why they came, Gonza did not know. He didn't particularly care. It was nice to see the harbor look more busy than usual. And the sky looked so pretty.
Gonza sat there, enjoying the sky. He was thin and young, hardly cresting his 17th year. He sported dark auburn hair, green eyes, and the slightly-dulled pointed ears of any half-Elf. His skin was smooth and markless, well-cared for and supple. At his neck was a gilded necklace of interlocking poppies, each one sporting a small emerald that glistened in the room's dull torchlight.
He gave an amused chuckle–one so playful and so musical, any sober man would know it to be a whore's paid-for laugh. Gonza peered back at the man, seeing him for the pile of rancid flesh and gilded coin that he was. But he smiled still, well-practiced for his performance, but the flavor of mischief still pinched at the corners of his lips. He finally turned from the window, looking to the man across.
"My lord, the coin you'd pay for another drink would be one less in my purse after I'm through with you. I don't want you to drink another. Would you drink me instead?" Gonza purred playfully, or so he intended. The fat man laughed again, eventually settling belly-up into the bed beside him. He tossed the horn aside, the vessel spilling its contents onto the floor, the cheap beer flowing freely between the floorboards to now drip to the common room below.
There was a loud commotion in the room below. Gonza supposed that there would be–anyone would hate to be sat at an inn's table, expecting hot food and drink, only to find a rain of spilled beer trickling from above. Gonza laughed again, this time a genuine one–coupled with a little snort and sharp smirk. He rose from his window seat, letting the slip of silk spill to his feet before he gently stepped over it and stalked towards the bed, like a leopard would approach its prey. Wordlessly, Gonza delicately climbed at the foot of the bed, crawling to hold himself over the old drunk man. He looked down at him, eyeing the lord's crimson cheeks and lips that still held the foam of the fallen beer. He should kiss him, he thought, but he couldn't bring himself to. The man's breath was still thick with the scent of beer, flavored with however many rotten teeth that lay in his putrid mouth.
"My lord is in his cups. Perhaps you'll better enjoy your pleasures in the morning." Gonza said, his voice low and smooth. This might be an easy night of coin for him. The fat man's purse sat enticingly open, a mere step or two from his discarded beer horn. Gonza would only need to coax the man to sleep before he could get his pay and dash.
The old man laughed again, a low chuckle that Gonza knew to be his last one before he dozed away into his stupor. He pressed his forehead into the fat man's, preparing for a kiss before a scream rang from the common room below–sharp and dangerous.
Gonza shot up, scrambling away from atop the old, fat man. "What was that?" Gonza asked, surprised and desperate. This was no bar fight, the scream Gonza heard told him so. He was already pulling on his linens and street leathers while he looked down at the floor below, hoping to decipher the scream's cause between the aged floorboards. It was to no avail, he only saw the shadowy blurs of panic below.
As Gonza scrambled, the fat man burped and sat up, "Come back, lemme feel ya' again" he slurred, falling back to the comfort of the straw bed to his back. Gonza finished dressing, and he skittered over to find his boots. Outside, through the window where he sat mere moments ago, the gradients of a darkening sky were suddenly alight with the warm glow of flames. He knew when to flee, as would any silken whore who knew when to cut their losses. Gonza left him, drunk and asleep in the inn room. He scrambled down the stairs, one half of his mind worried for the dramas below, and the other half fretful after the coin he could have had.
When he reached the ground floor, he found the inn freshly blooded with the bodies of off-duty Anahera guardsmen and a few other unfortunate commonfolk. He looked towards the bar, and eyed the body of the friendly innkeep strewn halfway over the countertop, the elder Dwarf-woman's body bright with bloodied stabs all over her body and a freshly slit throat to boot. He gasped, or perhaps scoffed–surprised and hurt. What bandits would raid Daenshore's premier inn and harbor brothel? The room was empty, save for a few silken women scared and sobbing in the corners of the room. Whatever dramas happened here were done, he thought, and now was the best time to escape to home. He looked back to the dead innkeep. Daria was her name, an ancient Dwarven woman who always ensured he had a room for his clients. She was so kind, in her life.
Nevermind that. Gonza sloppily scrambled out the inn's front door, now facing the roaring fires of burning boats and the piles of dead bodies. Some wore the sigils of Anahera. Others wore no sigil, their garb common and cheap, and certainly bloodied from what Gonza could easily surmise as chaotic and opportunistic blades.
Once before, the sunset would bathe the harbor and sailors' district with the purple and blue light of a day's grateful end. It would feel almost romantic to Gonza, a way to see his own workday begin. When the more boring sailors slept, the funner ones would be about ready to spend their coin for their pleasure. But now, the sky above the harbor was alight red with the blood of the slain and the flames of the upper district. This was no bandit or pirate raid, nor some siege of the city.
Standing outside the inn, Gonza watched the horrors of battle. Guards of blue and gold battled with soldiers of gold and blue. From the decks of burning ships to the twisting cobbled streets leading to the Viceroy's palace, Gonza saw only bloodshed. What was happening? He had no time to think. He ran.
Straight, left, down the alley, and turning a sharp right to the next street. He knew these roads and allies like the back of his hand, but they looked so different now, stained with the blood of the slain and littered with the debris and trash of fighting. He hurled himself over discarded bodies and paid no mind to the wails of the dying and mourning. Home. Don's Rest. He had to return to his mother, the one who would doubtlessly be safe. Don's Rest is a compound, he thought to himself. Walled and guarded by men who were well paid and loyal, Gonza knew where safety would be.
A dead end. Did he make a wrong turn? The smell of death and fire filled his nose before he gave a frustrated huff. He turned around from his path-finding mistake, only to watch more Anahera guardsmen fight each other in the street ahead, steel bared and bloodied. An open window beside him became his blessing. He hauled himself through it, tumbling into another apparent inn that found the same deaths as the one he escaped from.
He ran, finding the front door and exiting to another side street. He was back facing the harbor again, now confronted with the hot air of the flaming merchant ships and the smell of the freshly slain. His heart pounded, his brow wet with the sweat of an animal seeking to survive. Whatever was happening, it was bloody and ruthless. And he needed to go home.
He kept running, jetting himself along the dock and harbor where he once found his best coin and opportunity. Where salesmen once haggled opium and lumber, lifeless bodies and plundered supplies lay instead. He continued to run, and run, and run. The shouts of fighting and dying were all around him–it felt as if there were no escape.
I must hide, he thought to himself. Don's Rest was too far away, and the chaos of this… Siege, or raid, or… Was this a commoner's uprising? Or maybe an attack from Regalia, against the ever-mutinous Tierraveran people? No, nevermind. Bury the thought, just run he hissed to himself.
He made it to the end of the dock, finding some sort of blockade of Anahera soldiers fighting one another. Where to turn? To his right was a crowded alley–littered with bodies, and stained with even more bloodspill. To his left was the sea, alight with the flames of burning ships. He huffed, unsure how to proceed. Hide. He can hide. Gonza knew he was small and flexible enough to at least fit in a barrel, but no good barrels remained. The whole dock was strewn with bodies and loose goods. It suddenly became plain to him that this certainly was no pirate raid.
He ducked into the half-burned stall of what was once his favorite fishmonger. While the fisherman caught his keep close along the shore, his wife would fry the small fishes along the harbor and hand them out for 3 pennies a piece. For Gonza, he only paid 2 pennies–fortunate for him that he was a favored courtesan of the infamous Don's Rest. Behind the broken tabletop, Gonza found refuge between broken crates and the bodies of the fishmonger and his wife. He took their spilled blood and slathered it over his leathers, opting to prepare to play dead when needed. All the while, he would hide and wait. It should be over soon. Heavens, he hoped it would all be over soon.
He steadied his breath, watching the sky as it went from purple to black. But not entirely black. The anchored ships still burned with the brightness of a thousand lighthouses. Perhaps he too would be fried like the small fish that were served along the harbor…
Two figures dashed past him, one gargantuan and desperate, the other ladylike and delicate. The blur of their figures swung past him and down the docks–they were looking for a ship, to escape. Perhaps he should join them. It seemed they knew where to go.
He stayed steady, hidden still behind the tossed bodies and broken barrels. He watched the figures, looking ahead to see if any ship survived the flames. None did. And very quickly, the two figures came to the same conclusion at the end of the dock. Gonza continued to watch the two, hoping against hope that perhaps there was some sort of dinghy under one of their cloaks. He would have laughed at his own imagination of that, if only he weren't so… Terrified.
The larger, fatter figure broke down into a sob, and the smaller, ladylike figure went to comfort the other. Suddenly, a train of Anahera-garbed soldiers approached the figures in a well-organized formation. A single well-armored man approached, sword in hand, and addressed the two figures at the end of the dock:
"By decree of the Arch-Chancellor Andrieu Anahera, rightful Lord of Girobalda and the San Selin Protectorate, Theresa and Camila Anahera are hereby to be placed under arrest for treason against the State, the Empire, and the Emperor, as well as grand treason against the Sancella of Union. For your crimes you are to be imprisoned in the Castello dei Girobala until further notice. Be aware that if you resist, we have the authority to use lethal force!"
Gonza stayed in hiding, blinking dumbly from behind a rotting fish that sat atop the body of the fishmonger's wife. He watched on, his brow furrowed after that sumptuously armored man's declaration. He smelled the smoke of burned opium, the scent seeming to suddenly conquer the scent of the dead sailors, dying guards, and discarded fish. The larger figure wept–loud and harsh, a sob only heard alongside death.
He retreated down, laying himself on the ground now. He was dead, he told himself. He is dead. He closed his eyes and remained still while the guardsmen took the two figures and carried them off.
He would lay there for hours. It may as well have been days, months, perhaps even years. Eyes closed, he found comfort in the blackness of his stubbornly closed eyes. He wondered after his mother. And he wondered after his many, many siblings. He wondered after Don's Rest. He wondered about the fishmonger and his wife. He wondered after the fat, old lord at the inn he fled from. He breathed a small, tearless sob and laid there. He let himself be swallowed by the darkness, almost happy to be away from the bright light of the flaming harbor and ships. He wondered after the two figures. He wondered after the Dwarven innkeep. He wondered after his mother again. And then he wondered after his father.
September 11th, 301 AC - The events preceding Noble Intrigue!
The throes of midday labor saturated the air of the ballroom with the sweat of servants as they hurried to and fro, setting tables and laying decorations. Celine Anahera watched from the gallery above, peering down below as the blurred figures sweat themselves rivers in an effort to look busy. Soon, richly adorned tables sporting the varied familial colors of a rejuvenated Regalian nobility would border the main dancefloor. At the center of the room lay the glittering chandelier, tastelessly dismantled and schlepped on the floor while it patiently waited to be assembled hoisted up high to glitter above tomorrow's revellers. And still, those distant, blurry servants buzzed around and away from that precious jewel, that most imperial of centerpieces. Whatever busywork could be left besides that final, hard job at hand?
"Feh." She pursed her lips, right hand clenching to her cane till her knuckles turned as pale as her many silver rings. The flavor of that dismissive, the effortlessness of that barely constructed noise--she rather liked it, though she hated that she did. It had become the iconic little remark of that new bourgeoisie--the likes of the families of Lo or Beauveret. In many ways, the servants below reminded her of these newly arrived families. She watched more of the events below, oblong blurs gently patting at already-set tables and greyly polishing glistening candelabras. There are some… Perhaps thirty of them down below, waltzing between each other in the most magnificent dance that avoided that damned chandelier. To wield power in this city is to do the hard work--with diligence, urgency and earnestness. To reimagine the relationships of power between the Imperial Crown, military and nobility demanded blood, sweat, tears and untold sacrifice. And all these rosy-cheeked nobility from the country can muster is a 'Feh'. And these damned servants cannot even do the job right in their face.
A distinct green little blur scurried into the center of the scene now. A feminine figure, small and lithe among the burlier sort of servants, the distant cloud of purple could be seen fussing at the chandelier, the Vultarin crystals gently sparkling as they were moved. How nice of her to actually do something worthwhile--a shame she's only doing it alone, though. Celine sucked in a breath and held her cane just a few inches above the ground, peering daggers at the blurs below. Before she could give that resounding clack of her cane, her personal anti-'Feh', the door to her room of the gallery creaked open. Her cane gently tapped against the balcony floor's marble before she ever so gently turned her head to her left,"My Lord Medavinci."
Built like a boar, the towering Vultarin man swaggered in, his decorative armor of the city's guard clinking and clanking as gracelessly as you can hope for in front of an already annoyed old woman.
"My Lady Anahera. Pardon my lateness I--"
"Enough, no need." She spun around, perhaps a bit too quickly. Despite being in her eighties, Celine is not entirely ailing. Her cane and hunching back aside, Celine knows her own dexterity well enough to figure its genuine expression would betray the utility in presenting as the feeblest of old women. In front of her, still standing like an oaf at the door, was Graelin Medavinci, the premier liaison between the city's ruling nobility and the great wilds of the decentralized rural military. A veteran of wars of the field and wars of scandal in politics, the Lord Medavinci stands as the ideal Regalian chauvinist bachelor, debuting with the glittering bells of a good name and the shrill whistles of loyal armies.
Her shoulders loosened before she turned back to look down on the dancefloor again. She glanced over, gesturing the man over,"Your ask for a pardon began with you still at your feet rather than your knees, therefore you know me to reject it. Even still, come. I wanted to speak over theater."
He sauntered over, burping out a laugh,"I rather thought you meant a show, but I see neither theater nor show here, my dearest and wisest Lady Anaher-- AGH!"
She pressed her cane squarely in the middle of the man's gargantuan foot, her knuckles white while she bore that familiar maternal strength reserved for discipline through those thick leather boots. And just as quickly as she cast her cane did she withdraw it,"It is a show--look at all this. The pageantry, the bloody colors and all of it."
The man slid away a step, leaning against the balcony's railing while he dumbly held his foot. He gave a small grunt, side-eyeing the stout, bejeweled crone beside him with a poorly disguised scowl,"The wordplay was certainly fun and flirty before, but now I should want to know why wanted to meet me here, nor now for that matter." He paused, the scowl melting away before being replaced with that same stupid smile,"Unless we're to reenact a romance--are you the damsel, or am I?"
"The show," she began, not even entertaining his jests with her gaze,"is the pomp and parade we bring with this… What is it now, what do we call it? A 'liberalized' Senate." She paused, now turning to face the Medavinci,"Myself and the Arch-Chancellor's son would sooner abolish the whole Senate. I do not know what you and Moriarty and the rest of your jingoist cabal have negotiated in your backrooms, though I can only suppose the lot of you were indisposed by the vapors of the poppy," she paused, sharply sucking in a breath,"and that may have been the only extent in which my family has been involved in this thinking."
She withdrew towards one of the cushioned seats butted up against the corner of the room and the balcony's railing. She moved rigidly and slowly, the moment's silence only punctuated by the pointed clacks of her cane before she delicately perched herself at the chair's edge. She looked on to him, silent and waiting.
"... What is it you'd care for me to say?" Graelin said, that same tone of the well-to-do bachelor perfuming his chivalric ask to please. "Would you like me to kiss your ring, madam? Are we still playing some part in a show?" He smiled, his irritatingly pristine blonde hair seeming to shine along with his teeth. "If what we are doing here is a show, then what we've been doing these past months has been a game, and I rather think you're finding yourself on the losing side."
Celine gave a single, simple nod, her deadpan colder than ice. Silence hanged between them for a moment before he continued,"The Senate is going nowhere. Our dear Arch-Chancellor lacks a mandate with that ailing Emperor, where else is he to look? Who is to fund this rotted city's coffers for winter, or line up in formation for the next war?" Hands behind his back now, he gently began a soft walk towards the sitting elder,"Your family's gold is only good for so long--wealth comes and goes, especially when it comes from those backwater plantations in the jungle. Did you think you honestly would have it all your way since coming here? Your being a muse to the Kade family is no indication of power or success, nor is it a forecast of your better future. It was never going to be that easy" He stopped just a few paces from her now, looming over her. He pivoted, turning to overlook the dancefloor just as she had done."I know you hate these sorts of shows," he began, his tone suddenly softening,"but I trust you'll enjoy it. You're new to this city too, even if the sort that come to tomorrow's little event are a whole different caste of fresh meat." He turned to her now, that familiar smirk of a man bearing down unto her,"You've already paid for so much of it, might as well enjoy what your last few pennies bought."
Another moment of silence hanged between them. The Medavinci cleared his throat, his lips just parting to bid his farewells before the sudden noise of collective grunts resounded from the dancefloor below. The brief and sharp zip of taut rope on a pulley hissed from somewhere in the vaulted ceiling even higher above the gallery and dancefloor. Another resounding wave of a group's grunting labors pulled the Medavinci's gaze out across the balcony, this time the quick clinking of crystals seasoning the ends of the grunts.
"I had bought this too, with my pennies." Celine began, rising from her seat. She shuffled to stand just beside the Medavinci as the two watched the chandelier finally be hoisted to its position. Though unlit, the multitude of crystals and polished gold promised a glittering show in candlelight or otherwise. She rest both hands atop the handle of her cane, rolling her shoulders back best she could while she felt confidence fill her chest, the hot passions of an impending checkmate making her words that much more acidic,"I commissioned it from a Vultarin workshop. From your lands, I believe." The Medavinci watched as the final ties were adjusted for the fixture before looking to Celine with a furrowed brow. She continued,"My daughter had met the craftsman's daughter during tea just a few weeks ago. Of course, we already heard of this family before pursuing them for their dedication to their craft."
Graelin scoffed, confused. Before he could pose his brutish confusion, Celine continued even still,"Mandolo, the family name. Valentina, the daughter. You two have met, no?" She slid forward a step, peering down over the railing before giving a triumphant tut, gesturing vaguely towards the jubilant green blur celebrating yet another successful installment in the center of the dancefloor,"She complained to my daughter of nausea some weeks ago… My family's physician believes her pregnant." She paused, panning to Graelin now,"Strange given she's yet to be wed to her promised…"
"I'll stop the vulgarities." Celine began, reaching high to rest a hand on the tall man's shoulder,"Marry my daughter. Marry her, and I'll schlep your little boy's club forward as a true institution of the Senate. Marry my daughter, play your games with your boys, and leave the rest to myself and the Arch-Chancellor's son. That will be our deal, and thus concludes our show, my dear son."
Summer of 300 AC, A Holiday to Daenshore during a Recess in the Regalian Senate
A gust of warm wind tossed the scarlet silken curtains that draped along the cloister of the courtyard, the high evening sunlight glittering the sewn-in beads of glass to reflect a marvelous dance of tinted light that pulled and pushed with each sigh of the sky. The sun only just began to unseat from his midday throne, and that sumptuous moment of siesta yawned its end. Still, the heat of the last hour's high noon radiated off the tiled courtyard, its central fountain dry as to not needlessly waste water. Lush potted plants and strewn out cushions and pillows bordered the whole courtyard, particular clumps of blankets and throws boasting hookahs and other tools of the poppy. It was perplexing--this courtyard used to be one of the cloister of the Society of the Spirit, a slum-centered church meant to facilitate some semblance of kindness in these otherwise putrid streets of Daenshore. While this once-monastery is now a glorified brothel-called-club, Celine couldn't help but figure the more fundamental functions of this site are still maintained. Perhaps even the services of these vixens of the night and their Madam facilitate a local economy at least more wholesome than gang-centered racketeering.
"It's odd, is it not?"
The Cielothar's voice cooed in some sort of nursery song. The elder Anahera stood beside this supposedly legendary Madam. Her silks seemed to drip off her slender and youthful-looking physique, various bands, rings and piercings of plain gold fashioning her long drape of translucent silver silk. Celine always knew these Wind Elves to be ones of a much more nature-based disposition, certainly more tree-hugger than whatever flagrant skin-bearing this woman cares to offer. Though it made sense, the old matriarch certainly attempted her homework before sailing here all the way from the capital. She herself is not too old, a mere 40 years Celine's junior. An Ailor woman of this Madam's age would already be nearing her change, but it was obvious in Celine's eyes the sort of inherent blessings of youth those Nelfin enjoy certainly pose as a vain blessing in an emptier glass, or a better means of pursuing time-earned wisdom in a fuller glass. The Madam is relatively young, born and bred in the streets of Daenshore, never truly knowing a life beyond its schemes and grime.
The pair stood beneath one side of the cloister, shaded beneath the elegantly arched gallery. Despite the ample shade, Celine still boasted a white silken parasol, matching her own glowing-white gown of muslin and linen. She rather detested the heat. The elder Anahera squinted, panning ahead towards that presently dry fountain. A simple wooden table was fashioned in front of the fountain, atop of it an odd, oblong sort of husk. It bore a lightly yellow hue, though its exterior shell still looked more the part of a fanged coconut. Atop this oval of expressive fiber was an ostentatious flare of green leaves, looking almost like a weed turned fern. These leaves sat there, peacocking atop the husked orb while the Madam pointed at it, "It is from the far west, apparently quite sweet and sharp in flavor." The Madam withdrew her hand, tracing her fingertips over her lips while she so sumptuously purred, "They call it a pineapple."
"It is certainly… Exotic." Celine pursed her lips. She was well aware what a pineapple is--there were samples shipped to the capital just a month ago. In any case, she nodded, turning and looking up at the Madam, "It sounds to me it'd make for great libation touched with coconut, a rum." she croaked in posing.
"A marvelous idea! We've a whole crate to try for tonight's-- what did you call it? Libation? I rather like that word, we shall call it a Libation Bath!" The Madam gave a whimsical sigh, her fingers fluttering from her lips to her collar, where she tepidly tapped gently against her skin, "I know you don't care to hear of the club, Madam Senator, beg pardon."
Her look must have given it away. Celine tutted, turning to face that pineapple set so wantonly atop that table in the sun. "It's perfectly fine, Madam. My holiday here is indeed to see family, I've still a whole week left in Daenshore." She twirled her parasol absently for a moment, "I only intend to honor that given excuse to the Lord Chancellor. I do appreciate you taking care after my time."
Seemingly on cue, one of wooden doors on the left side of the cloister burst open, some handfuls of teenagers and children, all of varying physique, condition and indeed parentage. While many were still rubbing sleep from their eyes and squinting at the harsh bright light of the outdoors, many still chattered and laughed as they all scattered about, clearing up the various cushions and fineries that bordered the courtyard. Celine peered out over them all from the courtyard while they moved to and fro, the Madam absently humming pleasantly beside her. The elder Anahera first eyed a beefy young man, clearly of some sort of Avanthar parentage mixed with Ailor. His walnut curls bounced as he haughtily pushed past his peers, boasting a great armful of blankets and pillows, and even a hookah. She then panned to see a lanky young Qadir girl, whether she was of mixed parentage was beyond Celine. She laughed boisterously while punching the arm of the boy appearing to tease her while they shared the load of a particularly large cushion with two other sort of Half-Elfin youngsters. A particularly haughty Half-Orc boy appearing to be no more than eight-years-old tussled playfully with a comically smaller, and presumably just as young, Ailor boy. "He's often late to this, even as a babe he preferred to sleep so much I was afraid he may dream a whole lifetime without living it!" the Madam chirped, absently caressing her belly.
Soon the courtyard was cleared, left bare with only the few larger potted plants at the corners. The youth began to undress in the shade of the gallery opposite Celine and the Madam, just as the water of the central fountain burst forth with a mighty vigor, shooting high in the sky while various other small faucets along the courtyard's edge began spurting forth their own streams. Before Celine could suggest leaving the youth to their midday bathing, a blur of a figure burst out into the courtyard, stumbling into the courtyard. Lithe and tall, the figure tactlessly fumbled over the slippery tile, half-dressed. His voice cracked in his quick yell, still bumbling forward before he eventually crashed into the table and its hosted pineapple. "There he is. Gonza!" the Madam beckoned out to the boy, who lay soaked and defeated in the mess of the table and dejectedly tossed-aside pineapple.
The various children and teenagers laughed and did their oohs as the boy was called. He scrambled up, dusting himself off theatrically while the fountain's waters continued to rain down on him, a handful of the children laughing in more as he did so. He eventually gave a leisurely saunter down the courtyard as he seemed to embrace the pouring water, an oddly young swagger that felt all too familiar for Celine. He approached the pair, throwing back those infamous auburn curls, soaked as they were, as he finally looked to them. And there she saw him.
His eyes were that rich emerald, so hard for the Spirit to forget in blessing anyone born into this most noble lineage. Bright, big and almost seeming to glow, those verdant portals into this boy's soul showed a greenness of youth and naivete just as vibrant and loud as the mischief that seemed to dance in the glitter of his eyes. He sported a wide, haughty grin, pointed and piqued enough to trade into what she knew him to have in that certain sharp smirk. His upper right front tooth was flatly chipped, but the breadth of his smile suggested he didn't care. A few of the finer hairs just at the top of his upper lip were stiffening into the proper stuff on the way towards a mustache, the thickness of his sideburns seeming just as newly developed. He bore that same delicate jaw and same sculpted little nose--the only real addition to conventional expectations of his blood were his slightly elongated ears, their otherwise telltale Nelfin points slightly dulled. Was that a little earring on his right lobe?
Celine blinked, stiffening as she looked down at the extended, dripping hand the boy offered to her. The Madam guffawed next to her, slapping the boy's shoulder. He bristled, shrinking while the Madam quipped in a shrill hiss,"Kiss her hand!"
The elder Anahera offered her hand up towards the boy now. Old, withered and hunched, Celine has always been a short woman, but it felt jarring to offer her hand up so high--how many other Anaheras ended up this tall, especially at his apparent age? He gave a nervous laugh before giving a quick obligatory peck atop one of her rings. The Madam cast her gaze over towards the gawking children, still half-dressed, "The water is still flowing! Chop-chop before the wind comes!" she gave a few claps before glancing towards Celine, "We ought to head to the other courtyard, more PRIVACY!" the Madam laughed before sashaying down the gallery, hardly waiting for the pair to follow.
Celine and the boy watched her as she so theatrically pranced in her walk. The boy paused, blinking before he cooed,"I ought to offer you my arm!" His voice carried that grating tang of prepubscene while he smiled. He theatrically jut his lanky arm out in a rigid acute angle, the boy's whole posture tipped slightly to the right while he offered his elbow to the elder Anahera. She took it silently, her other hand still sporting her parasol as the two trailed off after the Madam into the adjoining courtyard, one of the same design albeit with cyan drapes and complementary cushions and fineries splayed across the hot tiled floor. The Madam led the pair towards a small wall-mounted fountain in the shade of the gallery, various carved flowers and grape vines shaped up to a great gilded poppy that spouted a gentle stream of water. "This is an iteration of a work by one of the club's artisans your family has so graciously patronized with us, Madam Senator," the Madam began chirping, gesturing flippantly to the fountain, "as small as it is, the design concepts are to die for, certainly, oh, can't you just see all the details of the grapes, the fine attention paid to how the water flows down…"
The Madam's caws trailed off as noise to Celine as she still stared at the lanky boy whose arm she held. She gripped his still dripping sleeve, watching him as he bobbed his head along to the Madam's rambling. He gave a little laugh alongside the Madam as she kept going, and there it was: her son-in-laws devilish little smirk. She withdrew her hand from the boy as the Madam finished prattling, "...and honestly, Madam Senator, we're truly honored for the continued patronage, I only wish it wasn't conditioned on such grey anonymity!"
The boy looked down at the elder Anahera as she withdrew, a brow cocked at the sudden tension in the woman. "Are you alright, m'lady? Did I get ya wet? Beg pardon--" his voice cracked, the boy shut his lips.
Celine cast her wrist towards the fountain, "We're happy to keep this institution flourishing the way it is, and the anonymous nature of our donations is to remain." She turned squarely to the boy now, silent as she looked critically on him. He tugged at his soaked collar that clung to him, that same smirk on his lips, albeit shaded with a curious, humble sort of embarrassment. That is something one doesn't see with that smirk. She shoved a hand into her pocket, retrieving a small velvet pouch. She tossed it flippantly to the boy, who caught it with the glee of accomplishing truly such an eventful feat. He blinked, silent himself while he eyed the elder Anahera.
The Madam looked between the two, leaning against that most decorated fountain while she held her nails to her lips. Celine cleared her throat, promptly closing her extended parasol and fashioning it as a cane she held in front of her,"Wear this with you always, and when you are in the direst need of a friend, they will see this, and know to help." she forecast oh-so cryptically. She cast a final glance towards the Madam before promptly turning on her heels and shuffling out, the distant guard decked in the flares of the golden poppy on that deep blue field following her out.
With the elder woman gone, the boy looked to the Madam, the velvet pouch still cupped in his hand. "Well? Open it, silly goose! See what it is!" the Madam sang, twiddling her fingers towards the boy. He gave a humored scoff, his shoulders dropping while he eyed the pouch, finally reaching to untie its string. He pinched his fingers in, retrieving a slim golden chain. Rather than any ordinary chain, though, each chain was fashioned as a sort of miniature poppy, its stem looping in a circle around itself with each interlocking chain. Every other poppy sported a miniature emerald that glittered alongside the gold, a hue not too unfamiliar to him and his mirror. He blinked, frozen for a moment before slowly securing it around his neck. He looked up to the Madam, perplexed, but still with that sharp smirk.
"Feh." She pursed her lips, right hand clenching to her cane till her knuckles turned as pale as her many silver rings. The flavor of that dismissive, the effortlessness of that barely constructed noise--she rather liked it, though she hated that she did. It had become the iconic little remark of that new bourgeoisie--the likes of the families of Lo or Beauveret. In many ways, the servants below reminded her of these newly arrived families. She watched more of the events below, oblong blurs gently patting at already-set tables and greyly polishing glistening candelabras. There are some… Perhaps thirty of them down below, waltzing between each other in the most magnificent dance that avoided that damned chandelier. To wield power in this city is to do the hard work--with diligence, urgency and earnestness. To reimagine the relationships of power between the Imperial Crown, military and nobility demanded blood, sweat, tears and untold sacrifice. And all these rosy-cheeked nobility from the country can muster is a 'Feh'. And these damned servants cannot even do the job right in their face.
A distinct green little blur scurried into the center of the scene now. A feminine figure, small and lithe among the burlier sort of servants, the distant cloud of purple could be seen fussing at the chandelier, the Vultarin crystals gently sparkling as they were moved. How nice of her to actually do something worthwhile--a shame she's only doing it alone, though. Celine sucked in a breath and held her cane just a few inches above the ground, peering daggers at the blurs below. Before she could give that resounding clack of her cane, her personal anti-'Feh', the door to her room of the gallery creaked open. Her cane gently tapped against the balcony floor's marble before she ever so gently turned her head to her left,"My Lord Medavinci."
Built like a boar, the towering Vultarin man swaggered in, his decorative armor of the city's guard clinking and clanking as gracelessly as you can hope for in front of an already annoyed old woman.
"My Lady Anahera. Pardon my lateness I--"
"Enough, no need." She spun around, perhaps a bit too quickly. Despite being in her eighties, Celine is not entirely ailing. Her cane and hunching back aside, Celine knows her own dexterity well enough to figure its genuine expression would betray the utility in presenting as the feeblest of old women. In front of her, still standing like an oaf at the door, was Graelin Medavinci, the premier liaison between the city's ruling nobility and the great wilds of the decentralized rural military. A veteran of wars of the field and wars of scandal in politics, the Lord Medavinci stands as the ideal Regalian chauvinist bachelor, debuting with the glittering bells of a good name and the shrill whistles of loyal armies.
Her shoulders loosened before she turned back to look down on the dancefloor again. She glanced over, gesturing the man over,"Your ask for a pardon began with you still at your feet rather than your knees, therefore you know me to reject it. Even still, come. I wanted to speak over theater."
He sauntered over, burping out a laugh,"I rather thought you meant a show, but I see neither theater nor show here, my dearest and wisest Lady Anaher-- AGH!"
She pressed her cane squarely in the middle of the man's gargantuan foot, her knuckles white while she bore that familiar maternal strength reserved for discipline through those thick leather boots. And just as quickly as she cast her cane did she withdraw it,"It is a show--look at all this. The pageantry, the bloody colors and all of it."
The man slid away a step, leaning against the balcony's railing while he dumbly held his foot. He gave a small grunt, side-eyeing the stout, bejeweled crone beside him with a poorly disguised scowl,"The wordplay was certainly fun and flirty before, but now I should want to know why wanted to meet me here, nor now for that matter." He paused, the scowl melting away before being replaced with that same stupid smile,"Unless we're to reenact a romance--are you the damsel, or am I?"
"The show," she began, not even entertaining his jests with her gaze,"is the pomp and parade we bring with this… What is it now, what do we call it? A 'liberalized' Senate." She paused, now turning to face the Medavinci,"Myself and the Arch-Chancellor's son would sooner abolish the whole Senate. I do not know what you and Moriarty and the rest of your jingoist cabal have negotiated in your backrooms, though I can only suppose the lot of you were indisposed by the vapors of the poppy," she paused, sharply sucking in a breath,"and that may have been the only extent in which my family has been involved in this thinking."
She withdrew towards one of the cushioned seats butted up against the corner of the room and the balcony's railing. She moved rigidly and slowly, the moment's silence only punctuated by the pointed clacks of her cane before she delicately perched herself at the chair's edge. She looked on to him, silent and waiting.
"... What is it you'd care for me to say?" Graelin said, that same tone of the well-to-do bachelor perfuming his chivalric ask to please. "Would you like me to kiss your ring, madam? Are we still playing some part in a show?" He smiled, his irritatingly pristine blonde hair seeming to shine along with his teeth. "If what we are doing here is a show, then what we've been doing these past months has been a game, and I rather think you're finding yourself on the losing side."
Celine gave a single, simple nod, her deadpan colder than ice. Silence hanged between them for a moment before he continued,"The Senate is going nowhere. Our dear Arch-Chancellor lacks a mandate with that ailing Emperor, where else is he to look? Who is to fund this rotted city's coffers for winter, or line up in formation for the next war?" Hands behind his back now, he gently began a soft walk towards the sitting elder,"Your family's gold is only good for so long--wealth comes and goes, especially when it comes from those backwater plantations in the jungle. Did you think you honestly would have it all your way since coming here? Your being a muse to the Kade family is no indication of power or success, nor is it a forecast of your better future. It was never going to be that easy" He stopped just a few paces from her now, looming over her. He pivoted, turning to overlook the dancefloor just as she had done."I know you hate these sorts of shows," he began, his tone suddenly softening,"but I trust you'll enjoy it. You're new to this city too, even if the sort that come to tomorrow's little event are a whole different caste of fresh meat." He turned to her now, that familiar smirk of a man bearing down unto her,"You've already paid for so much of it, might as well enjoy what your last few pennies bought."
Another moment of silence hanged between them. The Medavinci cleared his throat, his lips just parting to bid his farewells before the sudden noise of collective grunts resounded from the dancefloor below. The brief and sharp zip of taut rope on a pulley hissed from somewhere in the vaulted ceiling even higher above the gallery and dancefloor. Another resounding wave of a group's grunting labors pulled the Medavinci's gaze out across the balcony, this time the quick clinking of crystals seasoning the ends of the grunts.
"I had bought this too, with my pennies." Celine began, rising from her seat. She shuffled to stand just beside the Medavinci as the two watched the chandelier finally be hoisted to its position. Though unlit, the multitude of crystals and polished gold promised a glittering show in candlelight or otherwise. She rest both hands atop the handle of her cane, rolling her shoulders back best she could while she felt confidence fill her chest, the hot passions of an impending checkmate making her words that much more acidic,"I commissioned it from a Vultarin workshop. From your lands, I believe." The Medavinci watched as the final ties were adjusted for the fixture before looking to Celine with a furrowed brow. She continued,"My daughter had met the craftsman's daughter during tea just a few weeks ago. Of course, we already heard of this family before pursuing them for their dedication to their craft."
Graelin scoffed, confused. Before he could pose his brutish confusion, Celine continued even still,"Mandolo, the family name. Valentina, the daughter. You two have met, no?" She slid forward a step, peering down over the railing before giving a triumphant tut, gesturing vaguely towards the jubilant green blur celebrating yet another successful installment in the center of the dancefloor,"She complained to my daughter of nausea some weeks ago… My family's physician believes her pregnant." She paused, panning to Graelin now,"Strange given she's yet to be wed to her promised…"
"I'll stop the vulgarities." Celine began, reaching high to rest a hand on the tall man's shoulder,"Marry my daughter. Marry her, and I'll schlep your little boy's club forward as a true institution of the Senate. Marry my daughter, play your games with your boys, and leave the rest to myself and the Arch-Chancellor's son. That will be our deal, and thus concludes our show, my dear son."
Summer of 300 AC, A Holiday to Daenshore during a Recess in the Regalian Senate
A gust of warm wind tossed the scarlet silken curtains that draped along the cloister of the courtyard, the high evening sunlight glittering the sewn-in beads of glass to reflect a marvelous dance of tinted light that pulled and pushed with each sigh of the sky. The sun only just began to unseat from his midday throne, and that sumptuous moment of siesta yawned its end. Still, the heat of the last hour's high noon radiated off the tiled courtyard, its central fountain dry as to not needlessly waste water. Lush potted plants and strewn out cushions and pillows bordered the whole courtyard, particular clumps of blankets and throws boasting hookahs and other tools of the poppy. It was perplexing--this courtyard used to be one of the cloister of the Society of the Spirit, a slum-centered church meant to facilitate some semblance of kindness in these otherwise putrid streets of Daenshore. While this once-monastery is now a glorified brothel-called-club, Celine couldn't help but figure the more fundamental functions of this site are still maintained. Perhaps even the services of these vixens of the night and their Madam facilitate a local economy at least more wholesome than gang-centered racketeering.
"It's odd, is it not?"
The Cielothar's voice cooed in some sort of nursery song. The elder Anahera stood beside this supposedly legendary Madam. Her silks seemed to drip off her slender and youthful-looking physique, various bands, rings and piercings of plain gold fashioning her long drape of translucent silver silk. Celine always knew these Wind Elves to be ones of a much more nature-based disposition, certainly more tree-hugger than whatever flagrant skin-bearing this woman cares to offer. Though it made sense, the old matriarch certainly attempted her homework before sailing here all the way from the capital. She herself is not too old, a mere 40 years Celine's junior. An Ailor woman of this Madam's age would already be nearing her change, but it was obvious in Celine's eyes the sort of inherent blessings of youth those Nelfin enjoy certainly pose as a vain blessing in an emptier glass, or a better means of pursuing time-earned wisdom in a fuller glass. The Madam is relatively young, born and bred in the streets of Daenshore, never truly knowing a life beyond its schemes and grime.
The pair stood beneath one side of the cloister, shaded beneath the elegantly arched gallery. Despite the ample shade, Celine still boasted a white silken parasol, matching her own glowing-white gown of muslin and linen. She rather detested the heat. The elder Anahera squinted, panning ahead towards that presently dry fountain. A simple wooden table was fashioned in front of the fountain, atop of it an odd, oblong sort of husk. It bore a lightly yellow hue, though its exterior shell still looked more the part of a fanged coconut. Atop this oval of expressive fiber was an ostentatious flare of green leaves, looking almost like a weed turned fern. These leaves sat there, peacocking atop the husked orb while the Madam pointed at it, "It is from the far west, apparently quite sweet and sharp in flavor." The Madam withdrew her hand, tracing her fingertips over her lips while she so sumptuously purred, "They call it a pineapple."
"It is certainly… Exotic." Celine pursed her lips. She was well aware what a pineapple is--there were samples shipped to the capital just a month ago. In any case, she nodded, turning and looking up at the Madam, "It sounds to me it'd make for great libation touched with coconut, a rum." she croaked in posing.
"A marvelous idea! We've a whole crate to try for tonight's-- what did you call it? Libation? I rather like that word, we shall call it a Libation Bath!" The Madam gave a whimsical sigh, her fingers fluttering from her lips to her collar, where she tepidly tapped gently against her skin, "I know you don't care to hear of the club, Madam Senator, beg pardon."
Her look must have given it away. Celine tutted, turning to face that pineapple set so wantonly atop that table in the sun. "It's perfectly fine, Madam. My holiday here is indeed to see family, I've still a whole week left in Daenshore." She twirled her parasol absently for a moment, "I only intend to honor that given excuse to the Lord Chancellor. I do appreciate you taking care after my time."
Seemingly on cue, one of wooden doors on the left side of the cloister burst open, some handfuls of teenagers and children, all of varying physique, condition and indeed parentage. While many were still rubbing sleep from their eyes and squinting at the harsh bright light of the outdoors, many still chattered and laughed as they all scattered about, clearing up the various cushions and fineries that bordered the courtyard. Celine peered out over them all from the courtyard while they moved to and fro, the Madam absently humming pleasantly beside her. The elder Anahera first eyed a beefy young man, clearly of some sort of Avanthar parentage mixed with Ailor. His walnut curls bounced as he haughtily pushed past his peers, boasting a great armful of blankets and pillows, and even a hookah. She then panned to see a lanky young Qadir girl, whether she was of mixed parentage was beyond Celine. She laughed boisterously while punching the arm of the boy appearing to tease her while they shared the load of a particularly large cushion with two other sort of Half-Elfin youngsters. A particularly haughty Half-Orc boy appearing to be no more than eight-years-old tussled playfully with a comically smaller, and presumably just as young, Ailor boy. "He's often late to this, even as a babe he preferred to sleep so much I was afraid he may dream a whole lifetime without living it!" the Madam chirped, absently caressing her belly.
Soon the courtyard was cleared, left bare with only the few larger potted plants at the corners. The youth began to undress in the shade of the gallery opposite Celine and the Madam, just as the water of the central fountain burst forth with a mighty vigor, shooting high in the sky while various other small faucets along the courtyard's edge began spurting forth their own streams. Before Celine could suggest leaving the youth to their midday bathing, a blur of a figure burst out into the courtyard, stumbling into the courtyard. Lithe and tall, the figure tactlessly fumbled over the slippery tile, half-dressed. His voice cracked in his quick yell, still bumbling forward before he eventually crashed into the table and its hosted pineapple. "There he is. Gonza!" the Madam beckoned out to the boy, who lay soaked and defeated in the mess of the table and dejectedly tossed-aside pineapple.
The various children and teenagers laughed and did their oohs as the boy was called. He scrambled up, dusting himself off theatrically while the fountain's waters continued to rain down on him, a handful of the children laughing in more as he did so. He eventually gave a leisurely saunter down the courtyard as he seemed to embrace the pouring water, an oddly young swagger that felt all too familiar for Celine. He approached the pair, throwing back those infamous auburn curls, soaked as they were, as he finally looked to them. And there she saw him.
His eyes were that rich emerald, so hard for the Spirit to forget in blessing anyone born into this most noble lineage. Bright, big and almost seeming to glow, those verdant portals into this boy's soul showed a greenness of youth and naivete just as vibrant and loud as the mischief that seemed to dance in the glitter of his eyes. He sported a wide, haughty grin, pointed and piqued enough to trade into what she knew him to have in that certain sharp smirk. His upper right front tooth was flatly chipped, but the breadth of his smile suggested he didn't care. A few of the finer hairs just at the top of his upper lip were stiffening into the proper stuff on the way towards a mustache, the thickness of his sideburns seeming just as newly developed. He bore that same delicate jaw and same sculpted little nose--the only real addition to conventional expectations of his blood were his slightly elongated ears, their otherwise telltale Nelfin points slightly dulled. Was that a little earring on his right lobe?
Celine blinked, stiffening as she looked down at the extended, dripping hand the boy offered to her. The Madam guffawed next to her, slapping the boy's shoulder. He bristled, shrinking while the Madam quipped in a shrill hiss,"Kiss her hand!"
The elder Anahera offered her hand up towards the boy now. Old, withered and hunched, Celine has always been a short woman, but it felt jarring to offer her hand up so high--how many other Anaheras ended up this tall, especially at his apparent age? He gave a nervous laugh before giving a quick obligatory peck atop one of her rings. The Madam cast her gaze over towards the gawking children, still half-dressed, "The water is still flowing! Chop-chop before the wind comes!" she gave a few claps before glancing towards Celine, "We ought to head to the other courtyard, more PRIVACY!" the Madam laughed before sashaying down the gallery, hardly waiting for the pair to follow.
Celine and the boy watched her as she so theatrically pranced in her walk. The boy paused, blinking before he cooed,"I ought to offer you my arm!" His voice carried that grating tang of prepubscene while he smiled. He theatrically jut his lanky arm out in a rigid acute angle, the boy's whole posture tipped slightly to the right while he offered his elbow to the elder Anahera. She took it silently, her other hand still sporting her parasol as the two trailed off after the Madam into the adjoining courtyard, one of the same design albeit with cyan drapes and complementary cushions and fineries splayed across the hot tiled floor. The Madam led the pair towards a small wall-mounted fountain in the shade of the gallery, various carved flowers and grape vines shaped up to a great gilded poppy that spouted a gentle stream of water. "This is an iteration of a work by one of the club's artisans your family has so graciously patronized with us, Madam Senator," the Madam began chirping, gesturing flippantly to the fountain, "as small as it is, the design concepts are to die for, certainly, oh, can't you just see all the details of the grapes, the fine attention paid to how the water flows down…"
The Madam's caws trailed off as noise to Celine as she still stared at the lanky boy whose arm she held. She gripped his still dripping sleeve, watching him as he bobbed his head along to the Madam's rambling. He gave a little laugh alongside the Madam as she kept going, and there it was: her son-in-laws devilish little smirk. She withdrew her hand from the boy as the Madam finished prattling, "...and honestly, Madam Senator, we're truly honored for the continued patronage, I only wish it wasn't conditioned on such grey anonymity!"
The boy looked down at the elder Anahera as she withdrew, a brow cocked at the sudden tension in the woman. "Are you alright, m'lady? Did I get ya wet? Beg pardon--" his voice cracked, the boy shut his lips.
Celine cast her wrist towards the fountain, "We're happy to keep this institution flourishing the way it is, and the anonymous nature of our donations is to remain." She turned squarely to the boy now, silent as she looked critically on him. He tugged at his soaked collar that clung to him, that same smirk on his lips, albeit shaded with a curious, humble sort of embarrassment. That is something one doesn't see with that smirk. She shoved a hand into her pocket, retrieving a small velvet pouch. She tossed it flippantly to the boy, who caught it with the glee of accomplishing truly such an eventful feat. He blinked, silent himself while he eyed the elder Anahera.
The Madam looked between the two, leaning against that most decorated fountain while she held her nails to her lips. Celine cleared her throat, promptly closing her extended parasol and fashioning it as a cane she held in front of her,"Wear this with you always, and when you are in the direst need of a friend, they will see this, and know to help." she forecast oh-so cryptically. She cast a final glance towards the Madam before promptly turning on her heels and shuffling out, the distant guard decked in the flares of the golden poppy on that deep blue field following her out.
With the elder woman gone, the boy looked to the Madam, the velvet pouch still cupped in his hand. "Well? Open it, silly goose! See what it is!" the Madam sang, twiddling her fingers towards the boy. He gave a humored scoff, his shoulders dropping while he eyed the pouch, finally reaching to untie its string. He pinched his fingers in, retrieving a slim golden chain. Rather than any ordinary chain, though, each chain was fashioned as a sort of miniature poppy, its stem looping in a circle around itself with each interlocking chain. Every other poppy sported a miniature emerald that glittered alongside the gold, a hue not too unfamiliar to him and his mirror. He blinked, frozen for a moment before slowly securing it around his neck. He looked up to the Madam, perplexed, but still with that sharp smirk.
A Son Forgotten, A Son Who Remembers - Another viewpoint from Brother Against Brother
"I'm-a drink away from's drunk, lil' Don–y'can pour me anotha' cup and meet me on this-'ere bed. An' y'should 'urry too before it takes me's too long to find… Ya' pleasure."
The old pot-bellied man gave a hearty laugh, his bare chest and gut slick with sour sweat and bouncing with each hot-breathed guffaw. Bald and brazen, he stood wide stanced and glaring, perhaps longingly, to the other figure across from him. The fat man held a horn that he seemed happy to toss away, the beer's froth splashing puddles of foam onto the worn inn room's floor–he showed he had the carelessness that screamed a lack of care only a rich man could afford. His words were slurred, his cheeks hot and red, and his breath stinking of drink and primal lust–or perhaps a more wholesome desire, if Gonza observed it optimistically.
Gonza sat across the room from the fat man. Lithe and artfully posed, he sat naked, save for the slip of blue silk over his lap. Atop stained cushions, Gonza stared wistfully out the room's window, watching the eastern sky begin to bruise with the colors of sunset. Looking out over Daenshore's harbor, Gonza's emerald gaze scanned over the series of newly-arrived Anahera ships, fresh from Girobalda and the capital. Why they came, Gonza did not know. He didn't particularly care. It was nice to see the harbor look more busy than usual. And the sky looked so pretty.
Gonza sat there, enjoying the sky. He was thin and young, hardly cresting his 17th year. He sported dark auburn hair, green eyes, and the slightly-dulled pointed ears of any half-Elf. His skin was smooth and markless, well-cared for and supple. At his neck was a gilded necklace of interlocking poppies, each one sporting a small emerald that glistened in the room's dull torchlight.
He gave an amused chuckle–one so playful and so musical, any sober man would know it to be a whore's paid-for laugh. Gonza peered back at the man, seeing him for the pile of rancid flesh and gilded coin that he was. But he smiled still, well-practiced for his performance, but the flavor of mischief still pinched at the corners of his lips. He finally turned from the window, looking to the man across.
"My lord, the coin you'd pay for another drink would be one less in my purse after I'm through with you. I don't want you to drink another. Would you drink me instead?" Gonza purred playfully, or so he intended. The fat man laughed again, eventually settling belly-up into the bed beside him. He tossed the horn aside, the vessel spilling its contents onto the floor, the cheap beer flowing freely between the floorboards to now drip to the common room below.
There was a loud commotion in the room below. Gonza supposed that there would be–anyone would hate to be sat at an inn's table, expecting hot food and drink, only to find a rain of spilled beer trickling from above. Gonza laughed again, this time a genuine one–coupled with a little snort and sharp smirk. He rose from his window seat, letting the slip of silk spill to his feet before he gently stepped over it and stalked towards the bed, like a leopard would approach its prey. Wordlessly, Gonza delicately climbed at the foot of the bed, crawling to hold himself over the old drunk man. He looked down at him, eyeing the lord's crimson cheeks and lips that still held the foam of the fallen beer. He should kiss him, he thought, but he couldn't bring himself to. The man's breath was still thick with the scent of beer, flavored with however many rotten teeth that lay in his putrid mouth.
"My lord is in his cups. Perhaps you'll better enjoy your pleasures in the morning." Gonza said, his voice low and smooth. This might be an easy night of coin for him. The fat man's purse sat enticingly open, a mere step or two from his discarded beer horn. Gonza would only need to coax the man to sleep before he could get his pay and dash.
The old man laughed again, a low chuckle that Gonza knew to be his last one before he dozed away into his stupor. He pressed his forehead into the fat man's, preparing for a kiss before a scream rang from the common room below–sharp and dangerous.
Gonza shot up, scrambling away from atop the old, fat man. "What was that?" Gonza asked, surprised and desperate. This was no bar fight, the scream Gonza heard told him so. He was already pulling on his linens and street leathers while he looked down at the floor below, hoping to decipher the scream's cause between the aged floorboards. It was to no avail, he only saw the shadowy blurs of panic below.
As Gonza scrambled, the fat man burped and sat up, "Come back, lemme feel ya' again" he slurred, falling back to the comfort of the straw bed to his back. Gonza finished dressing, and he skittered over to find his boots. Outside, through the window where he sat mere moments ago, the gradients of a darkening sky were suddenly alight with the warm glow of flames. He knew when to flee, as would any silken whore who knew when to cut their losses. Gonza left him, drunk and asleep in the inn room. He scrambled down the stairs, one half of his mind worried for the dramas below, and the other half fretful after the coin he could have had.
When he reached the ground floor, he found the inn freshly blooded with the bodies of off-duty Anahera guardsmen and a few other unfortunate commonfolk. He looked towards the bar, and eyed the body of the friendly innkeep strewn halfway over the countertop, the elder Dwarf-woman's body bright with bloodied stabs all over her body and a freshly slit throat to boot. He gasped, or perhaps scoffed–surprised and hurt. What bandits would raid Daenshore's premier inn and harbor brothel? The room was empty, save for a few silken women scared and sobbing in the corners of the room. Whatever dramas happened here were done, he thought, and now was the best time to escape to home. He looked back to the dead innkeep. Daria was her name, an ancient Dwarven woman who always ensured he had a room for his clients. She was so kind, in her life.
Nevermind that. Gonza sloppily scrambled out the inn's front door, now facing the roaring fires of burning boats and the piles of dead bodies. Some wore the sigils of Anahera. Others wore no sigil, their garb common and cheap, and certainly bloodied from what Gonza could easily surmise as chaotic and opportunistic blades.
Once before, the sunset would bathe the harbor and sailors' district with the purple and blue light of a day's grateful end. It would feel almost romantic to Gonza, a way to see his own workday begin. When the more boring sailors slept, the funner ones would be about ready to spend their coin for their pleasure. But now, the sky above the harbor was alight red with the blood of the slain and the flames of the upper district. This was no bandit or pirate raid, nor some siege of the city.
Standing outside the inn, Gonza watched the horrors of battle. Guards of blue and gold battled with soldiers of gold and blue. From the decks of burning ships to the twisting cobbled streets leading to the Viceroy's palace, Gonza saw only bloodshed. What was happening? He had no time to think. He ran.
Straight, left, down the alley, and turning a sharp right to the next street. He knew these roads and allies like the back of his hand, but they looked so different now, stained with the blood of the slain and littered with the debris and trash of fighting. He hurled himself over discarded bodies and paid no mind to the wails of the dying and mourning. Home. Don's Rest. He had to return to his mother, the one who would doubtlessly be safe. Don's Rest is a compound, he thought to himself. Walled and guarded by men who were well paid and loyal, Gonza knew where safety would be.
A dead end. Did he make a wrong turn? The smell of death and fire filled his nose before he gave a frustrated huff. He turned around from his path-finding mistake, only to watch more Anahera guardsmen fight each other in the street ahead, steel bared and bloodied. An open window beside him became his blessing. He hauled himself through it, tumbling into another apparent inn that found the same deaths as the one he escaped from.
He ran, finding the front door and exiting to another side street. He was back facing the harbor again, now confronted with the hot air of the flaming merchant ships and the smell of the freshly slain. His heart pounded, his brow wet with the sweat of an animal seeking to survive. Whatever was happening, it was bloody and ruthless. And he needed to go home.
He kept running, jetting himself along the dock and harbor where he once found his best coin and opportunity. Where salesmen once haggled opium and lumber, lifeless bodies and plundered supplies lay instead. He continued to run, and run, and run. The shouts of fighting and dying were all around him–it felt as if there were no escape.
I must hide, he thought to himself. Don's Rest was too far away, and the chaos of this… Siege, or raid, or… Was this a commoner's uprising? Or maybe an attack from Regalia, against the ever-mutinous Tierraveran people? No, nevermind. Bury the thought, just run he hissed to himself.
He made it to the end of the dock, finding some sort of blockade of Anahera soldiers fighting one another. Where to turn? To his right was a crowded alley–littered with bodies, and stained with even more bloodspill. To his left was the sea, alight with the flames of burning ships. He huffed, unsure how to proceed. Hide. He can hide. Gonza knew he was small and flexible enough to at least fit in a barrel, but no good barrels remained. The whole dock was strewn with bodies and loose goods. It suddenly became plain to him that this certainly was no pirate raid.
He ducked into the half-burned stall of what was once his favorite fishmonger. While the fisherman caught his keep close along the shore, his wife would fry the small fishes along the harbor and hand them out for 3 pennies a piece. For Gonza, he only paid 2 pennies–fortunate for him that he was a favored courtesan of the infamous Don's Rest. Behind the broken tabletop, Gonza found refuge between broken crates and the bodies of the fishmonger and his wife. He took their spilled blood and slathered it over his leathers, opting to prepare to play dead when needed. All the while, he would hide and wait. It should be over soon. Heavens, he hoped it would all be over soon.
He steadied his breath, watching the sky as it went from purple to black. But not entirely black. The anchored ships still burned with the brightness of a thousand lighthouses. Perhaps he too would be fried like the small fish that were served along the harbor…
Two figures dashed past him, one gargantuan and desperate, the other ladylike and delicate. The blur of their figures swung past him and down the docks–they were looking for a ship, to escape. Perhaps he should join them. It seemed they knew where to go.
He stayed steady, hidden still behind the tossed bodies and broken barrels. He watched the figures, looking ahead to see if any ship survived the flames. None did. And very quickly, the two figures came to the same conclusion at the end of the dock. Gonza continued to watch the two, hoping against hope that perhaps there was some sort of dinghy under one of their cloaks. He would have laughed at his own imagination of that, if only he weren't so… Terrified.
The larger, fatter figure broke down into a sob, and the smaller, ladylike figure went to comfort the other. Suddenly, a train of Anahera-garbed soldiers approached the figures in a well-organized formation. A single well-armored man approached, sword in hand, and addressed the two figures at the end of the dock:
"By decree of the Arch-Chancellor Andrieu Anahera, rightful Lord of Girobalda and the San Selin Protectorate, Theresa and Camila Anahera are hereby to be placed under arrest for treason against the State, the Empire, and the Emperor, as well as grand treason against the Sancella of Union. For your crimes you are to be imprisoned in the Castello dei Girobala until further notice. Be aware that if you resist, we have the authority to use lethal force!"
Gonza stayed in hiding, blinking dumbly from behind a rotting fish that sat atop the body of the fishmonger's wife. He watched on, his brow furrowed after that sumptuously armored man's declaration. He smelled the smoke of burned opium, the scent seeming to suddenly conquer the scent of the dead sailors, dying guards, and discarded fish. The larger figure wept–loud and harsh, a sob only heard alongside death.
He retreated down, laying himself on the ground now. He was dead, he told himself. He is dead. He closed his eyes and remained still while the guardsmen took the two figures and carried them off.
He would lay there for hours. It may as well have been days, months, perhaps even years. Eyes closed, he found comfort in the blackness of his stubbornly closed eyes. He wondered after his mother. And he wondered after his many, many siblings. He wondered after Don's Rest. He wondered about the fishmonger and his wife. He wondered after the fat, old lord at the inn he fled from. He breathed a small, tearless sob and laid there. He let himself be swallowed by the darkness, almost happy to be away from the bright light of the flaming harbor and ships. He wondered after the two figures. He wondered after the Dwarven innkeep. He wondered after his mother again. And then he wondered after his father.
Last edited:
