(1866-11-16) Carnival Day 1: Opening Festivities
Carnival Day 1: Opening Festivities
Summary: The High Priest starts the festival proper, with wine and food and the donning of masks, later a strange lady brings the commons to the Piazzo, negating the cause for the traditional carrying of the casks. Many things happening on this opening day of Carnival.
Date: 1866-11-16
Related: The first of many for Carnival.
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Alejander  Mattias  Emrys  Myrana  Casimir  Siada  Cassius  Philippe  Yves  Eisen  Synthia  Thomas  Gisela  Shirlyn  Jarret  Stellan  Sonya  

<* Rikton - Lower Rikton - The Saints Piazzo *>

With the great walls of Rikton rising up above the surrounding buildings, the Saints Piazzo is a wide open space that is less busy than the marketplace to the north. The white cobbles are gently worn down to such smoothness, while the surrounding white stone buildings offer a more scholarly array of services from cafes to old depositories of books and scrolls. The piazzo has a gentler pace to it, with a good many trees planted about each corner to afford a good measure of shade, while white stone benches are set about the piazzo and upon these a good many scholars, pilgrims and religious sorts settle and relax. With the occasional patrol, the piazzo is certain a quieter and gentler place to settle, the soft murmur of chatter barely rising to any bothersome level.

In the centre of the piazzo a large white stone fountain shaded by two drooping willow trees offers a further place for visitors to recline upon in quiet contemplation or with a good book or scroll within their hands, the gently bubbling waters pattering within the fountain and the hanging branches dipping low to offer shade. The piazzo offers an escape from the rigours of the great and Holy City of Rikton.

(1866-11-16)

A herald will call order to the gathered crowd before the High Priest takes the stage. He wastes no time, in his fine robs of white, silver and gold. "Welcome, all, to Carnival," the High Priest Alejander says to the gathering crowd, one of his acolytes stands close by holding an elongated box. "We do hope our fair city is of liking to you all, and that you all will have a grand time in our most holy of Carnivals," Alejander smirks, a little jest that sends some of the crowd chuckling. "There are a few things that we must announce before we don our masks and make with the merry." A great speaker His Holiness, the living body of the One true god on Tirth, captures the attentions of those waiting for the week long party to commence.

"Firstly, we will not be doing the traditional game of Scavenger Hunt," this draws a few 'aww's' from the crowd before the High Priest intones loudly, "never you fret, some of you will be invited to do something special sometime this week, we assure it will be great fun."

And now it starts, as the acolyte flips the lid off the box containing the High Priests opulent hand painted mask, he reaches in and lifts it by the stick handle.

"Also, some of you might be inclined to wear boot knives or things strapped to your thighs, ladies we look at you, despite the peace we have asked for. If you are caught, for we are not going to shake you all down… even if that might give my militant a cause to…" some chuckles, "We will have to ask you to leave our fair city, and that would give us great pains indeed. Know now, you have been warned. We will not have my peace be broken with blade or true armor."

Even with the humor levied on the warning, it was understood by all, but the seriousness quickly passes "We should say it has been a long year for our gathered friends, no?" Alejander looks around to noble and common faces alike. "Let us pray for better fortunes, hmm? Let us pray for peace," he says solemnly, before he lifts his head and smiles. "Let us pray for all of that, and hope some us don't end up in the gutters, eh?" The crowd erupts with laughter as he sets the mask to his face and shouts loudly. "It is our wish, my lord and ladies," he says with the traditional titles of all the men and women of Carnival, despite status and station, "that Carnival shall begin!" The crowd cheers and begins to don their masks, that is the last most will see of true faces for five whole days. With the ceremony done, the High Priest and his mask ( http://tinyurl.com/HighPriestMask) step down with his trailing acolytes to mingle with nobles present.

A man arrived an hour ago in the Saints Piazzo dressed in as Saint Michaelis, this much is plain. His suit of highly decorative black leather muscled armour as modelled on that commonly seen on images of the Saint of Courage and his gold and silver cloak adorns his back with an image of the Saint and in colours associated with him. The armour is obviously decorative, being of thin leather and the hood of his cloak is up, veiling the man's face, for now, while a polished brass and gold helmet with a mask are in his hands. The mask, of course, is Michaelis's face.

Having come early and settled in one of the closest rows not reserved for dignitaries, he has a good view of the High Priest himself and watches interestedly. Once the Living Body of the One True God declares an opening to the festivities, the man places his mask over his face and then his helmet over top of his mask, pulls down his hood, and behold! Saint Michaelis is here!

A bunch of young people is clustered together, looking like the local zoo on a day out. There's a fluffy bear, a pink flamingo, a squirrel, a very colourful bird that looks like an exploded rainbow and a golden-red dragon. They manage to remain quiet for the time it takes the High Priest to open the carnival, though mostly use the opportunity to scan the crowd for potential flirt material.

A young woman with long black hair in a heavy braid watches the opening words of the High Priest with an unreadable expression, dark eyes too cloudy for the festivity all around her. At the explosive cheers of the crowd she seems to snap out of her reverie and look around as masks go up. Shaking her head to clear the clouds of grumpy bahumbugness out, she puts on her mask and applauds as well. Dressed as Nymaane, she's either really getting into the part of the dour moon priestess, or she's got a hell of a hangover already!

"Bring on the wine! Bring on the wine! Bring on the wine!" With the ban on real weaponry and armour, Saint Michaelis has decided to use a different tool. In lieu of a sword, he's got a silver staff in hand. It's about a foot long, decorated with various scenes showing Saint Michaelis in all of his many battles, with the victorious finale at the top of the staff. He shakes the staff over his head as he bellows his words, evidently attempting to stir up the crowd.

The flock of animals nudge each other when they hear the saint shout. The Dragon leads the charge, making a path for them until he's in front of the saint. "Did you say free wine?"

And free wine there is, for the entirety of Carnival but none so good as this vintage made by one of the vassals of the church. A huge cask, one of the largest ever seen by most, aged for 30 years and is both sweet and bitter, a happy middle for most Carnival goers. The giant cask is lifted by the unmasked militant order, twenty strong, and upended into the cistern so that the fountain that once gave water now will give wine fore most of the day and night. "Drink freely as you should love all man freely," the High Priest shouts over the din, "later we will take one too the commons just outside the city walls for their just rewards for a good harvest!" Wooden cups are handed out to all on leather thongs, cups so that the free food and drink that will be on tables all around Rikton can be enjoyed.

With the festivities in full swing, the Fox gives the black ribbons keeping his masque a final tuck out of sight before stepping forward into the general chaos and swell of people joining in. The chorus of wine gets his attention - and likely everyone else's. It'll be one cup now and maybe two later for this particular masqued creature.

Saint Michaelis doesn't need to say much at all, as the now masked man who is very obviously the still High Priest announces the pouring of wine - and then the Militants do it. The Saint spreads his arms wide, silver face, of course, non expressive. His blue eyes under the mask do clearly bear mirth, however. "Yes, you scheming drake of old! Drink, and be merry, and leave the gold to the people and you comfortable in the riches spready forth here!" Without waiting any longer, he goes to collect his cup, give it a good wipe down with his cloak and then scoop up some wine.

The animals seem baffled when the Saint maketh it rain wine on command. Apparently. Maybe. It's good enough for the dragon who bursts out "Well, fuck me, you're a genuine miracle-working saint, innit?" But his friends are already joining the crush for the free and so he quickly follows to catch up with them.

Saint Michaelis is too busy downing his first cup of wine to do any flourishes with his arms, but croaks out, "Ask and ye shall receive, O Drake of Old!"

Nymaane smiles beneath her mask at the exchange between the sainted Michaelis and the gold-red dragon, and comes up to fill her cup from the fountain. It's strong! and she gives a sort of cough into the back of her wrist, laughing. Screw it! Time to get wasted! "To you, Saint!" She toasts. "A miracle!"

"Truly, today the concord of all the heavenly, earthly and obsidian powers is here, as the Holy Father has spoken. Even the Moon Priestess seeks to drink with us. Well, good show, good show!" Cries Saint Michaelis, raising his cup in Nymaane's direction, draining it and then dipping it again. Good thing that the mouth hole of his mask his big enough to imbibe through!

Nymaane fills her cup again, chuckling. Her mask only covers the top part of her face, and so she wipes a droplet of wine off her lips with her fingertips as people jostle merrily about drinking and cheering and toasting each other and the High Priest where he works his way among the crowd of nobles.

Sir Peacock has been here the whole time quietly in the background. However when there is booze no one can stay in the shadows for long! He is currently returning to the fountain for yet another drink. He is already at least slightly tipsy and yet his strut has never been more proud. He swaggers up to refill his cup that fancy coat thats made to look like a peacock's tail shifting and trailing behind him. Nymaane gets a charming grin from behind his mask as he gets the needed refil and lifts the now filled cup for a drink.

"What marvelous tail feathers," says Nymaane to sir Peacock, smiling dangerously. "Wherever did you get them from?"

"Why thank you sweet Moon Priestess." Sir Peacock replies shifting the coat and his 'tail feathers' as if preening. "As to where I got them, I assure you they are quite original. A design of my own making."

Owl moves her arms sweeping the wings of her outfit over her body. In movement it flashes skin - lots of skin, only to be hidden away again with a subtle shift of her arms. Its a silhouetted dance of fabric elegantly made to tease the onlookers.

"Very impressive, my lord," says Nymaane. "Of course, one can't really take credit for something that grows from you by God's design; such immodesty is shocking." Her lips curve and she reaches up to flick the risque fabric of his low-cut shirt with a laquered nail, laughing. More wine! She glances at the owl as the costumed person spreads their arms and shows an expanse of skin that makes her teasing of Sir Peacock pale somewhat and loses her train of thought.

"I have never been very modest I'm afriad my lady. Its one of my failings." Sir Peacock grins merrily watching has her hand reaches up to play with the fabric of his shirt, she comes close to actually touching his skin and he chuckles. Then he promptly gets distracted by the pretty Owl. A charming grin is offered to his fellow bird and he shifts his coat once more showing off his own feathers to her quite proudly.

Having drank his fill, for now, Saint Michaelis wanders off to go sample from one of the many food tables that's been laid out.

In the crowd drifts a much more modest figure. Saint Martina the patroness of purity is lingering off to one side of the food tables with a cup of wine that has yet to be refilled once. She glances around at all the people and at the approch of Saint Michaelis towards the food she offers a gentle smile in his direction.

Lady Owl moves her arms, folding fabric round her as she dose so. Her hands cross at her mid-drift and she bows back to the other feathered fowl. "Greetings Ser". she says politely "have you had any of the fine wines or drink that are out?" asks a voice which is gentle and sweet.
Justice heads over from Rikton - Lower Rikton - Marketplace

"Greetings to you as well my lady." Sir Peacock offers back to Lady Owl just as politely and with no small measure of confidence. He looks down at the cup in his hand and then back up at the Owl smiling softly. "Indeed I have. Though I plan on having even more before the day is done. Would the lady like a drink for herself? I would be happy to fetch her one if so."

Into the Piazzo the shuffling mass of grey and black robes wanders, the faceless mask apparently blinded by a strip of black cloth, while the weighted scales at his side seem to hang heavy and jolt with each seemingly laboured step. Shrouded in black and grey, the robes seem fine and yet scraps of frayed cloth catch the breeze and flutter to almost give a most ragged and ancient appearance. Though a tarnished goblet of his own is clutched within his right hand, the left remains hidden within the billowing 'rags' of his costume, the limb limp at his side and lost within the folds and mass of black and grey cloth that make up this shuffling mass of blind Justice as it meanders slowly towards the fountain.

And who would not want a drink fetched for her! A quieter feathered voice - shyer then the Peacock's own answers from behind her mask. "Oh yes, if you would something pleasant and sweet, along with some bread if you could find a warm slice?" she asks the Peacock with a little twist of her lips as she watches those make there way in and out along the festivities on the street.

Drifting in to join the festivites is a rather grim and morbid looking figure. The Lady Ghoul steps slowly with measured grace and poise. The dress she wears mimicing bones of the dead and her mask the likeness of a human skull. She watches those around her calmly as she drifts past flitting about the Piazzo almost aimlessly for the moment. From behind that skulls mask pale green eyes watch observing everything with calm detachment. Her expression gives nothing away, an eerie mask of composure.

A polite bow is given to the Owl from the Peacock along with a charming smile. "I will certainly do my best to find what you have asked for my lady. One moment, I shall return." With a flourish of his coat he is off heading to find sweet wine and a slice of warm bread as requested.

Smiling wrily, the Moon Priestess passes the Peacock to leave him speaking to the Owl and steps to a clearer spot of the fountainside, the gauzy silk of her chiton fluttering around her, long black braid swaying down her back and past her hips. The chime of silvery bells woven into her hair and about her white arms and throat. She dips her cup into the fountain and listens to the talk all around her, head already swimming with the wine. It is a very good day to get paralytic. The gardenias in her hair nod as she wanders, watching the revelry unfold. It's going to get wild here.

A somber procession moves through the Saints Piazzo, a collection of individuals clad in black leathers and burial shrouds silent in their movements striding. They carry with them several simple wooden bowls, which are slowly filling with coins of various denominations, from Galenthia, Kentairian, Aequorian, and even a few coins of Rikton. They do not speak, except to curiously ask alms for the dead. To those that provide, they are given a few words of blessing as well as a piece of bread. In the middle of the group, taller than the rest, stands what would be assumed to be their leader, the only distinguishing factor beyond height a heavy golden necklace that is worn, a heavy iron cross hanging from it, which rests on the figures chest.

This individual stops nearby the woman whose likeness is that of a Ghoul, hands at its sides, eventually producing a pomengranate, which it cracks open, offering a few seeds to the woman. "Partake in the food of the fallen?" The rest of the shrouded figures move on through the crowd, asking for their alms, stopping near Nymaane and her group, offering out the bowls.

Money? Nymaane doesn't have any on her. Not currency. But uncaring she reaches up and takes the tasselured golden earrings from her ears and drops them in the bowl offered to her, each of them worth several crowns at least.

Justice continues towards the fountain, sweeping past those present and filling his tarnished goblet but for a moment, even though there is no way he could possibly drink that wine without lifting or shifting his mask in some way or form. The heavy dark robes that shroud him shifting with each step away from the fountain, words caught and conversations fleeting as they are are lost and that cracked mask turns to gaze upon the procession, the featureless mask gazing blindly upon the proceedings.

Lady Owl waits still and steady, watchful and guarding.. like a real Owl might be caught wisely and patiently taking in the surroundings. She looks over to where the Peacock may have wandered to wondering, if perhaps he lost his way, before her eyes mov to follow the shiny earrings which were just given to someone that looked holy.

The tall figure puasing near her has the Lady Ghoul looking calmly up at him. She regards him blankly for a moment her composure never slipping, those pretty green eyes showing no emotion behind her mask. "Do you mean to tempt me then?" Those blood red lips curl upwards into a faint smirk and a dainty hand reaches out to accept the offering of the seeds pressing one between her lips and partaking of it. Once she finishes she will speak once again. "Thank you kindly my lord but I'm afriad that not even you can warm my cold dead heart." She and slowly finishes off the seeds her eyes locked with those of the taller man almost as if in challenge that expresion blank and unreadable once more.

Sir Peacock returns triumphant! The colorful bird floats over beside the Lady owl once again his steps rather quiet for such a large proud bird. He offers her a goblet of a rich and sweet wine and a plate with a selection of fresh breads of several different kinds. "I hope this will suit the lady's needs?" That charming grin returns once more his hazel eyes twinkling with merriment behind his mask.

One of the aged white stone buildings framing the square yields up a trio of revelers(?) whose progress through the crowd sends a brief flicker of sobriety along their path. Brief, of course. The fountain's been going for ages.

It's the Deathly King in person, half his head as well as his face eclipsed by a magnificent horned mask of highly polished black leather, another ghost at the feast, strolling slowly along with the aid of a slender yet solid black cane lacquered to an obsidian sheen. His left foot seems to have undergone some recent injury, requiring it to be bandaged; his garb otherwise is a symphony in black leather and silk, as finely made as befits legendary royalty, with silver buckles upon his shoes and his gleaming leather gauntlets. He is attended, of course, by a pair of Terrifying Dead: men dressed in a very different sort of black, worn and dusty and stained with the same blood(?) which here and there streaks the exposed skin of their necks and forearms and their faces beneath identical black leather domino masks. They have on also a few mismatched pieces of "armour" which any sort of examination will prove to be nothing of the kind, it's only part of their costumes: though they move, the three of them, as though soldiers in truth, rather than for this rather morbid show.

The shrouded procession soon draws the King's sharp dark eyes: he alters course to intercept it, gauntleted fingers already unfastening the silver buckle of a belt-purse in order to find some appropriate donation. In the event it's dropped in the bowl by one of his Grinning Dead, with an exaggerated swaggering bow, and the reward of bread carried back, refused with a small gesture, eaten by the coin-bearer himself en route to that most interesting fountain.

As the earrings are dropped into the bowls, the group of individuals steps forward, and for a few brief moments, Nymaane is surrounded by them, their burial shrouds obscuring her perfectly. Only she would know what transpired within…after a few moments they part, leaving no trace of her, moving on through the crowd.

The leader of the Obzedat, as he converses with the Lady Ghoul, simply stares her down with those red eyes as she eats. "Temptation? I simply provide a path to walk and offer a hand. From the depths of the Underworld to the Heavens on high, who knows where that path may lead…the journey will certainly be interesting." A finger on the hand of the pontiff reaches out, running from the heart of the woman up her neck the side of her neck and then finally ending at her chin, before returning to the side of the man. "Perhaps that cold is appreciated and perhaps desired. A Ghoul would know such things more than a pontiff such as myself, however."

Lady Owl receives the breads and wine with a small smile, "oh why thank you, I never knew peacocks were so good at retrieval" she chuckles "Tell me, flashy bird, what is your favorate part of this time of year?" The question poised before the wine touches her lips and her eyes under the mask close as she enjoys it.

Sir Peacock laughs softly. "Peacocks may be hard to train but there is no denying we are quite useful." He winks from behind his mask. The question has his head tilting to one side as he considers the question. "My favorite part of Carnival you mean? There are many things I enjoy about it." He considers a moment. "However the best would have to be the pleasure of meeting peeple, of getting to know both friends and strangers without fear of being judged too harshly if at all. When masks are donned walls come down and watching and taking part in that in most enjoyable for me. What of yourself? What do you enjoy about it most my lady?"

It is as Justice begins his walk through the Piazza, those tattered yet fine robes all of a rustle, the limping gait that is perhaps aided or caused by the weighty scales at his side ensures it is a slow circuit as he ventures near Sir Peacock and the rather tiny Lady Owl, a blank nod offered the two and a muffled bark of warm merriment as his goblet is lifted to toast them both, "Oh your costumes are delightful, why one can almost envision you strutting and preening good sir and you my dear little bird, why I am reminded of a hunt I once partook up north, tiny little birds all gobbling as one as they outwitted a good many of the drunken hunters, an amusing sight I assure you. Truly! Such works worthy of the carnivale." And that blind mask nods once more, the untouched wine sloshing within his tarnished goblet, "I don't mean to interrupt, but one had to offer praise were it was due. If you'll excuse me." The muffled voice offers, again with a tilt of the mask.

Lady Owl grins as her lips open to reply to the Peacock when the complement from Justice is given, "ahh perhaps you would save a dance for this Raptor." The voice is soft and gentle, as she dips the bread into the wine glass and samples some this way. A little giggle escapes her lips as her head tilts rather bird like to both of those she speaks to. "Oh, you are not interrupting Ser.. Not in the least." A smile to the Peacock then, "This is my first." she says softly to the man "I am afraid I do not know what to expect."

"Indeed. There is no telling where the path may lead. I will walk it though for it does promise to be an intriguing journey." Green eyes blink from behind the Lady Ghoul's mask as she is touched. She is still and remains perfectly composed, nothing changes in her expression though there is a hint of a flush to her skin behind the mask she wears. As the touch is withdrawn one gets the impression she is raising a brow. "I have always appreciated the cold. To find another that might desire it as well is quite intriguing indeed." Those green eyes are calm staring down the red of the man towering over her evenly. "Its equal parts intriguing and dangerous I think. But occasionally a risk can yield something worthwhile."

Sir Peacock bows his head to Justice and it looks as though he is quite pleased by the praise. "Thank you my lord. I assure you my strutting is something to behold indeed. And the lady is correct, you have caused no interuption at all." He grins merrily and watches the man a moment before turning back to the Owl with a warm smile. "Is it? I hope you find it an enjoyable experience then."

It is with a nod that Justice acknowledges Owl's words, that muffled voice behind the old mask rising once more, "I am sure you shall both have a grand time." The sloshing wine toasted once more and away the shuffling pile of rags and weighted scales of justice move. Shuffling away, away, away, shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.

Lady Owl laughs as Justice leaves, her eyes twinkle in merriment as she looks back to the Peacock. "Oh I already am, Ser quite so." she grins as she sips on her wine with intermittent bites of her breads. "This one is good, it has a lemon undertone.. would you like to try?" She asks, reaching out to feed the Peacock her arms spreading and sweeping her feathers across her body daringly.

The trio visiting from the Hell of Madmen and Serpents experience a moment's difficulty in getting near the fountain of wine, which is arrested as soon as the group of giggling kittens and bottom-pinching pirates get a good look at who's behind them. The Terrifying Dead, bless 'em, are really getting into character, looming and leering and enjoying the license granted them this week to work on their list of the different ways in which girls can be made to squeal. It's all in good fun, of course; and soon everyone's got another round, and the Deathly King, not too impressed to all appearances by the vintage, has found somewhere to sit, perhaps to reckon up who amongst those present are likely to become his one day, and who the Brass Emperor's, or perhaps just to eye the Partharian kitten, who has by far the prettiest ears. The temptation to pull her tail would be very great, if one hadn't an engagement already for the evening, and so little time remaining to pass until then…

"I am delighted to hear that. I find myself enjoying it a great deal already as well." Sir Peacock admits to the Lady Owl in a softer tone. When the bread is offered he smiles gratefully and will allow the lady to feed him accepting the bite and letting his lips linger on her fingers just a fraction of a second to tease her a bit. The morsel is sampled and he licks his lips playfully. "That is quite good. Thank you my lady."

Lady Owl smiles a bit as his lips touch her fingers, she giggles slightly and bows. "I should wander about, perhaps I will run into you again - Ser Peacock" she smiles adoreingly to him

Sir Peacock offers a graceful bow his feathered coat rustling as he does so. "I certainly hope you do Lady Owl, I'm looking forward to it in fact. Until we meet again then my dear." He will watch her depart with lingering eyes and then wander off himself.

"Cold is interesting, is it not? It is a curious sensation…it can hold one in place, keeping emotions and instincts locked in place, to be used at the whim of their master…but cold can also burn like flame, searing and destroying just as quickly." The leader of the Obzedat continues to examine her quietly for a few moments before a hand is outstretched, palm up. "Alms for the dead, Lady Ghoul? Some silver would do." He looks at her, expectantly, almost as if he is waiting for something. "Risk should always be balanced by reward…and sometimes, the journey is reward all of its own."

Lady Ghoul smiles faintly. "Indeed. Fire burns uncontrollablly but cold creeps up on you unexpected. Its more subtle but no less deadly." The request for alms has her reaching to pull a silver chain from around her neck where its been tucked into the front of her dress. Its not a pendant that adorns the chain though but a ring, a signet ring. She pulls the long chain and ring gracefully over her head and gently presses it into his palm before withdrawing her hand. "There, I hope that will suffice?" She continues to meet his gaze and nods once. "Too true. Experiences themselves can be of great value as well. I wish you all the best my lord and I find myself quite curious to see if we will meet again sometime." She takes a slow step back intending to turn and take her leave now.

Staying near the edge of the crowds, and looking rather nervous, a tall, broad-shoulder figure dressed in a dark hooded cloak is moving. Otherwise staying silent as the figure glances around at the various people present.

The silver chain and signet ring are taken and placed within the burial shroud of the massive man as he nods. "You are a wise woman." As she gives her farewell, he reaches out for a moment, grasping ahold of her wrist…enough to stop her, but not forceful. "While we may not be in the Underworld, my lady, and I cannot claim you for an entire season, you did eat of the fruit of the fallen, if only a seed, and the dead would see that their traditions are kept, if only for a single further visit. There is an inn…you will find your way there, I'm sure. Farewell." He lets go and doesn't linger any longer, disappearing off into the masses.

Masked in samite the colour of the a river at midnight, Nymaane wears opals and moonstones that drip from the white gardenias, night-blooming jasmine and heady roses woven into a heavy crown in her dark hair, and gird her fair white throat with tempermental cold fires. Only her lips and chin are visible below the mask, as her cheeks are covered by a cascading fringe of silver tasselure and flowers are braided into the hair that curls on her shoulders to either side of her neck.

She is dressed as she appears in one of the famous marble reliefs at the crumbling temple of Mavretti above Lake Evelle; in a chiton of filmy silk decorated at its breezy hems with a delicate pattern of the winter moon. The clasps at her shoulders are set with moonstones, and the cord of silk about her waist is woven through with white flowers. Over this to warm her bare arms she wears a chlamys drape of samite patterned in hues of icy blues and silver. Silver bells hang from the brooches at her shoulders where the cloak is fixed, tinkling like cold rain with her every movement and hung with beads of jet and opal, and her feet are clad in delicate sandals of black leather that wraps up her legs.

The party in the Piazzo has been going on for a long time, though the wine has stopped flowing from the mouths of the lions heads there is still a little in the well below. Though a ruckus is coming from down by way of the gates, a train of persons lead by a woman dressed as a barbarian with long red hair. They're laughing and singing and man are they a sweaty lot. The calloused hands and less than par masks count them for the lower born that live outside the city, all but the lady at the front of their ranks.

Though some of the higher crowd are a bit off put by their presence, not all are, in fact most embrace it and them for being there. Carnival is, after all, a celebration of the harvest and those who bring it in so this one day the day meant to honor them they're allowed quite easily through the nobles.

The woman with the mask of a Stag and covered in furs laughs riotously as a man whispers in her ears, then she shouts. "Break the cask for there is no need to carry, I have brought the low up high, and that is such a pretty fountain it should not run dry!" She laughs harder for her accidental rhyme leaning heavily on the same nobleman that whispered on her ear. "Well?" Every stares at the militant that has the other large cask set to the side, with approval they take down that empty cask and put up the new, a fresh cheer is let out when the cask is finally broken and the lion heads douse the well once more.

Lady Owl has had her fill of wine and bread, food and socializing. She dances in a half drunken haze uncaring of who is watching her. Her steps are awkward and she spins and staggers failing miserably at being elegant. A laugh and then a little eep escapes her as she falls over a lift in the ground she did not see, falling hard to the ground below - the owl in feathers and fabric in disaaray.

Where there is booze, there is Sir Alain. Or at least this Alain is attracted to it like a bee is to honey. With a large tankard in hand, he happily takes his fill of the new cask and moves aside to draw in a long sip before he decides to mingle with the other Carnival-goers. He needs to find his prey among the masses of costumed bodies…

Sir Peacock is wasted drunk and when he sees the Owl dancing he cannot resist. He does a little twirl his coat fanning out behind him. Its not quite as graceful as he would be if he was actually trying or sober but he doesn't look clumsy at least. Spinning over to where the Owl has fallen he offers a hand to help her rise should she accept it. "Careful there Lady Owl. The ground is no place for a beautiful bird such as yourself."

Staying off to the side, finding the places where there's less people, the man in the hooded dark cloak seems content watching the happenings. Not making any move to join everyone, he actually seems to be trying to stay away from most people, stepping to the side every now and then, when people seem to be getting too close to his location.

Saint Martina is here as well and it seem she has finally given into temptation. She spent so long with the same glass of wine in hand but now she seems almost tipsy and when the fountain is filled once more she starts over that way with a gentle subtle sway to her hips her white skirts rustling gently as she moves to get her refill.

The lady dressed as a barbarian stag makes way to the fountain to fill up her cup, she's brought her own, and with a laugh she rolls through the crowd. She stops as she almost steps on the tiny… wait, is that a woman or a child? Can't be more than just over four feet tall. The Stag shrugs her shoulders as how can she tell with masks and someone so unbelievably short. "Excuse me, little lady," she says as she steps around the Owl who looks far too drunk to be a child. With a puzzled look that can easily be seen on her eyes through the mask, the Stag turns away from the sight she's seen and looks about for pleasant company to chat with, eyeing that peacock's magnificent coat as she wanders through the crowd.

Lady Owl takes the hand from the Lord whom offers it, and she stands and politely brushes the feathers and dust from her. "I keep on bumping into you Ser, I thank you for saving me". She is pulled to her feet just as the barbarian makes her way over her.. She moves slightly around the Peacock as she is nearly trodden on "oh that was close!" she exclaims.

Its a massive fountain, and sitting on the edge of it just there with one of the wooden cup in her fingers is Sir Dmitri! The end of her braid is next to her on the lip of the fountain next to her knee and she hums to herself as she watches the goings-on, drunk enough to waver a little even sitting down.

Sir Alain begins to move, slightly, along the edge of the crowd. His first stop happens to be right next to Jarret. The blue eyes behind the mask give the Sokar an inquisitive once over, but whatever expression he may wear is hidden behind his porcelain mask. "Hi, um… you," his voice trails off uncertainly. "What or who are you?"

The Peacock will gently help lift the Owl to her feet smiling quite warmly. He chuckles. "It does seem like we keep meeting quite often. I'm not complaining though and you are most welcome." The barbarian stag eyeing his coat is eyed in return and he offers a merry grin and a polite dip of his head to her. Looking back to the Owl who was nearly stepped on he pulls her a bit closer for protection. "Careful my lady. Passing out here is not wise I think."

The Saint of Purity makes it to the fountain and refills her cup. Eyeing Sir Dmitri curiously she settles a polite distance away but still next to the other with a small smile. "Evening. The wine is good I take it?" There is a hint of amusement in those dark eyes that glitter slightly from behind her mask.

Taking a few steps backwards, the hooded person instinctively reaches for something he realizes isn't there. "Nothing. Nobody. No one…" The quiet reply comes, as the head underneath the hood turns to watch the other person briefly.

Lady Owl nods her head as she is pulled into the Peacock.. her head to his hip and she breathes a shaken breath. "Thank you and no I wont, I will be sure to find an Inn.." she smiles softly "I think I should find some way of getting you payment for your rescue."

The Barbarian Stag flits and skips and sides and pushes her drunk way through the crowd, a laugh on her tongue she quickly finishes her first drink and goes back for more. She has to make up for missing the cracking of the first cask right? She holds her large mug out to the lion's mug and fills it up. The mug must've been taken from a tavern for it is wood and banded in iron with a stout handle. Once the lion fills it up completely she pulls it back and takes a hearty tug, wiping her lips with the back of her hand offering a rather large belch to the One. "That's good win," she says looking into the mug before she walks away from the fountain again.

There is a long pause as Sir Alain considers the other masked man's answer, but he offers a short nod. "It is nice to meet you, Lord Nobody. You are getting less drunk than the others, it seems. You ought to remedy that!" He gives the taller man a friendly cap on the shoulder as he decides to move along. His feet bring him to the spot Sir Dmitri was lounging at. The garb was recognizeable, but he squints as he notices his fellow cavalier has some new… assets. The pendant only makes it more difficult to keep his eyes from straying from her visage. "Ah, greetings Sir… Dmitri." A beat. "You have changed since I last saw you…" His gaze lifts to regard the Saint Martina nearby, who he greets with a friendly nod. "Good evening, Lady." He can't tell which saints were which right off the cuff, sadly. Only that it was a female saint.

Sir Peacock stands there letting the little Owl have a moment to recover. He smiles down at her gently and a look of mischief appears in his eyes at her words. "Oh? Well I will not insist upon any form of repayment, but if you truly wished to find a way to thank me I certainly would not object." He smiles that charming grin of his and slowly a hand lifts to gently touch the Owl's neck gently caressing it before withdrawing once more.

"Hm?" Sir Dmitri looks over and then smiles, blue eyes warming behind her mask. She's definitely drunk, but not so drunk that she can't focus. Yet. That's on the way. "Why good evening, Sainted Martina!" she says, and lifts her cup politely to greet her, laughing in a bit of embarrassment. "It is very nice indeed; I've just had rather an adventure, so I'm, aha, resting my legs. But that's my profession, you know." She wags a gloved finger. Because she's an adventurous, swashbuckling cavalier! Obviously! "I would twirl my moustache but I left it at home— Oh! OH!!" She sees the person dressed as Alain and gasps, jumping to her feet. "ALAIN!?"

"Why?" The man in the hood replies, shaking his head a little, stepping back one more step at that touch to his shoulder. Warching the other head off again, he lets out a breath, shaking his head, and muttering something.

Lady Owl steps delicately away from Sir peacock - steady now. "Would you like a dance?" the little owl wonders of the taller fowl. A smile dances on her lips "just don’t let me fall yah?" she asks and grins "just once more before bed?"

Standing off to the side, with a wholly amused smirk upon his vulpine features, a certain red fox watches the revel with great interest. However, unlike most of the partiers, who seem rather lubricated with the libations that has been flowing steadily….this particular fox seems rather sober. He walks straight, stands without leaning…and….should someone be fortunate enough to hear him speak (for it is certainly a male fox), there is no slurring of words at all. Of course, he hasn't spoken much, though, with a musical instrument at his ready, he has certainly opportunity to play…which he has. After all, what good is a party without musical entertainment…

The taller cavalier holds his arms akimbo as he regards the other. "It's me! I just finished rescuing a fair maiden and thought I'd drop by and indulge in the wine with you." He holds up the tankard, as though hold a toast. "It is good to see you." Alas, Sir Dmitri was a light weight…

The Barbarian stag wheels backwards in an awkward display of arms windmilling as she stops herself from skipping into a man dressed as a Red Fox. She lets out a sigh of relief when she notices he has an instrument that she didn't smash. "Holy bloody Abyss, I'm sorry." She says to the Red Fox. She smiles, a thing that is seen as her mouth is wholly exposed. "A bard, or musician?" The Stag asks, bringing the mug to her lips, "one is fun the other is dull," she says with a grin.

It's been a wonderful evening for the black clad Fox, having collected at least one feather, one earring and currently? The man is speaking to a woman dressed in a masque with a tall wig atop her head, the multicolored bobbles prime for the plucking as he leans close in conversation after their dance had come to an end. Only, the man doesn't pluck and run. Conversing in low murmurs, it's only once some sort of conclusion is made that the woman laughs and reaches for one blue orb and deposits it into one upturned palm. Tucking it somewhere on his person, he grins and moves off to mingle a bit more.

"I would be delighted to have a dance! And fear not I won't let you fall." Sir Peacock grins and the drops into a graceful bow with extra flourish, his coat drawing even more attention as he sweeps the Lady Owl away to dance.

After some jovial drunken chit-chat, Sir Dmitri presumably falls to the effects of her (pitifully small) amount of drink, and Sir Alain is forced to gently lay his comrade down as she takes a brief snooze. He stays vigilantly at her side, however, just in case anyone nearby gets any ideas… they WERE a bunch of drunk people, after all. He notices Lord Nobody still lingering on the outskirts of the party. "Still not drunk enough for me to try to ask you to dance…" He opines outloud, though chances are it's in jest. Or maybe it isn't. Who knows?

There is a soft chuckle as the musical fox tips a nod, then a wry little smile. "Well, I certainly have no desire to be dull." There is a soft laugh, the sharp blue eyes taking in the form of the lady barbarian before the red fox. "And…since I do not wish to be dull, then I must be, by process of elimination, a bard." A tip of a wink, the left eye blinking closed for a moment. "Will that strike you as fun?"

Lady Owl chuckles a little as she leans into the Peacock, she was still not too great at dancing, but this time, she has someone to lead! The small Owl manages to look alright abit the Peacock might have to bend down to her slightly. An awkward pair but the two seem to be having some fun as she whispers into his ears.

"AH HA! I knew it," The Barbarian Stag laughs sharply and nods. "Immeasurably so, Bard Fox, err… my lord," another laugh at her folly of traditional greeting for every person at Carnival. Those of low birth find that tradition quite fun as they play at being lords and ladies for a week. She takes the man's free arm, and wraps it around hers, sober he may be but she'll still be oddly strong for a drunk woman. "So, my lord, what does a sly fox do for fun?"

The arm is freely given, as a gloved hand gently pats the Stag's own arm. Straightly gentle, for a sly fox. Without missing a beat, the reply is given. "Whatever fits your definitely of fun, my lady." The tone is casual…but certainly steeped with innuendo. After all, this little fox is sober. Meaning he is fully aware of his actions, which makes the little banter all the more revealing.

The Peacock seems to be motivated to show off his dancing skills now. Dispite all the wine he has consumed he seems exceptionally graceful. He twirls the Lady Owl around with grace and elegance that coat catching the air around him elegantly as he moves. The whispered words draw a smile from him and he lifts her into his arms spinning about and then placing her down once more to conclude the dance. He leans down to whisper something back and then straightens up and offers her his arm. "Thank you very much for the pleasure of that dance and your company. Would you like an escort to where you are staying my Lady?" Its offered politely but judging by the mischievious and rather hopeful look in the tall birds eyes it may not be entirely innocent.

Another bark of laughter comes form the Barbarian Stag. "Of course you do," she says with a grin. "Let's see…" The stag tapers off, looking for something fun to do. "First," she says with a finger upward, "we must needs get you a drink! Then! Maybe we can find some tricks to play hmm?" The Stag eyes a man of the militant order and snags a wooden cup on a thong of leather hanging from his arm. "My thanks!" She says cheerily to the unmasked man and hands it to the Red Fox. "Here, for you!" she says handing it off and replaces her free hand with the mug she has of wine. "The wine is quite good."

Lady Owl chuckles her eyes alight as she looks to the Peacock, the small woman nods her head "That.. I think would be wise, yes." she chuckles as she looks round at the other pairings, she leans into the Peacock and lets him lead her away.

Hislain is left casually guarding his friend and watching the drunken dancers, as Lord Nobody seems to not enjoy his taunts. It wasn't anything he didn't expect. He finishes off his tankard and lazily discards it… on the floor. Expecting coordination was likely too much.

It is the fox's turn to laugh as he is handed the wooden cup. "Oh, you are a bold one, milady. I have a feeling I am going to enjoy this evening far too much for my own good. How fortunate for us both." In one smooth motion, the cup dips into the fountain…withdrawing without a single drop spilled from the cup…and none staining the fox fur gloves that the masked gentleman wears. In the same fluid motion, he takes a drink, chuckling more to himself. "You are quite right, milady. It is indeed quite good."

"A bag of fun, that is me!" She says as she fils up his cup from her own mug, she drags the fox through the crowd. "If you don't it will not be my fault," she eyes around the crowd at the many masked faced around. "Oh!" She points to a lady with impressively high hair. "I bet…" she grins mischievously, "you cannot get the feather out of her," she points, "hair." There's a chuckle there as she takes a gulp from her mug.

There is a glance up as the fox regards the rather impressive bouffant. "you mean…that feather at the top of that tower of locks?" The head turns, as the fox regards the Barbarian Stag escort upon his arm. "That would be quite a challenge. What, pray tell, would be my reward for obtaining said feather for you, milady? Besides the continued pleasure of your company, of course." It is a stalling tactic, of course. One used as the fox contemplates the target. Already, the wheels are turning…

"Whatever you please, my lord," The Barbarian Stag says, "within reason, of course." She bows her horned head slightly and laughs into her mug. "Is it such fine company, I wonder, if you don't know who I am?" There's a wife grin the meets the sly fox before her eyes turn to the large coif.

"Ah…but you don't know who I am. Would it matter? Why, I might be a dreadfully dull musician all along." That wide grin is greeted with a rather wicked smile. The red fox holds up a finger, then smiles once more. A plan has formed. "Now…if you would excuse me, fair damsel, I have a feather to retrieve."

The fox pulls his arm gently free from the lady Barbarian, flashing her a wink, before he turns to approach the lady with the towering tresses. As he approaches, his demeanor changes, becoming more worrisome…almost panicked. "Pl…please excuse the interruption, milady. You see, my lady friend was showing me her rather lovely ring and, fool that I am, I dropped it. I saw it roll over here. Would…would you do me the tremendous honour to look for the ring with me? I believe it would be just under your feet." The mannerisms are so unsure and pathetic…and so totally unlike the confident fox just viewed recently. And…the lady accepts it. Either the alcohol has made her more accepting of total strangers, or the Fox's story is quite believable. She even steps to the side and bends downward, looking towards her feet to look for the alledged ring. As the head lowers, the fox simply steps to the side, seemingly to avoid the descending mass of hair, while his fingers oh-so-deftly pluck the feather from the locks, tucking it up his sleeve with all the practice of a magician. He then bends down, making a show of looking about, then sighing softly. "Oh, I am so sorry. It appears I have been mistaken. Please…forgive the intrusion." With that, he turns to step away, looking for all the world that he is dejected…

Which disappears as the fox returns to his barbarian companion. With a small flourish, he produces the feather from his hiding place, presenting it to the lady. "One feather, as you requested, milady."

"Perhaps! But I'd have to care first!" The Barbarian lady laughs. "You lie well enough, and I cannot read your face. Then you should count yourself a lucky musician all the same!" She nods but calls after him a bit too late. "What of your pr…ize" She lowers her hand and watches the show, laughing all the while. It really was a large coif of hair. When she bends down to pick the ring up, the Barbarian lady laughs riotously. "Oh. Well done!" She laughs as she takes the feather, taking a piece of leather thong about her wrist and straps the feather plumage into her hair facing downward. Quite the barbarian indeed! "My turn! Also, there is the matter of your prize. You did not specify, you sly fox."

"No…I did not." The fox watches with approval as the Barbarian claims her prize, adding it to her own tresses. "Having the pleasure of your company is prize enough, fair barbarian." He takes another pull from his wooden cup, the prize given freely by the Barbarian lady. "Although, if you do insist that I select a prize, then perhaps that shall be your challenge. To obtain a suitable prize."

"A task for a task, a true game it is!" The Barbarian Stag grins, bouncing on her toes with glee. Her eyes search the crowd clapping her hands. "What tasking will you lay upon me? I do so love games, my lord!"

A finger reaches up to tap the uncovered chin of the red fox in a mockery of consideration, since the red visage of the fox obscures the rest of his expression from view. "Well, milady Barbarian, I have need of a token. Something that we would share so that, as the week progresses, we might be able to recognize one another and renew our acquaintance." A pause…then the fox continues. "A blue rose, such as the one you possess, would do. But, it cannot be your own, for then I shall never find you again. So…I fancy a blue rose. However you obtain it is at your discretion…but I do award points for creativity."

"Oh, perhaps this one will take some time, my lord." The Barbarian Stag says, already scanning the crowd. "Though of the thousands here, I bet I can find a single rose of blue." She skips her way through the people present, smiling at the high and wealthy mingling with the low and poor, they were her drinking partners for four days. She pushes further to the back, making salutations as she goes, weaving through the crowd.

Then she spots it. A hatpin, so very small and delicate, she gingerly takes the hat off the man's head and laughs as she puts it on. The man makes a playful grab for the tricorne thing, which makes the Stag giggle harder. After a short game of chase she gives the hat back with a chaste kiss to the man's cheek before she scampers off.

She comes back triumphant, the hat given back with out the pin, so small but lovely. "He won't miss it, likely he would've lost the pin and the hat by the end of the night!"

His movements are slow, and his path ever winding through the crowd-though the sway comes with practiced drunken grace, a twig here and a hand slapped back before his own laughter rolls out in a drunken cough. Were one thinking, this bushy vagabond likely seems out of place-though them who know how deep roots drink, it is all part of the persona, for old trees drink deep. Deeper than the fellow who has been mingling amongst the crowd ever has. Still his steps bring brushes and trading of riddles until he can come close to flowing fountain of wine. And with sigh-the fancy leather and gourd drinking skin is uncorked and bobbed in while he whistles like wind through leaves. Still eyes play sharp

Sharp enough to catch a stag bounding about, but he doesn't press or push forward. No, he will make sure this bloody thing is broke in. The Old Man Oak turns and shakes a mossy clumped leg before reaching down to fiddle with a boot.
Saint Michaelis arrives from the OOC Nexus.

The sly red fox stands and observes with great interest, keeping the Barbarian Stag within his sights. There is a great deal of enjoyment for this, only the first day of festivities. Already playing games. Still, it does seem like an unfair task he might have sent his lady acquaintance on, for, truth be told, hers was the only rose of the unique color he saw. Still, it does not seem to deter her on her task, and the Fox is all the more willing to see how she does.

And, she finds her target! The fox can only laugh at the exchange, the merry chase giving her the time she needed to free the hatpin from the tricorne, a move rather deft and certainly appreciated. As the Stag returns, the fox claps, his applause muffled somewhat due to the gloves he wears. Yet, nonetheless, he is rather impressed. "Well done, milady! I could not have done that better myself." He finishes the applause, extending his hand to claim the token. "I would call that a wild success, in more ways than one."

She puts the pin in his hand and beams a bright smile. Odd… one would think, on someone wearing the mask of a stag. Quickly she claps her hands as if to announce the commencement of the next game. "It is a task I put before you to find me another leaf for my hair. Have fun finding one of those, slyest of foxes." She takes a drink from her mug full of wine, though finds it empty after just a small swallow. "Bugger," she says, "you go find me a leaf, I will find me a drink!" And of she bounds to the wine trough.

To those who were here when the High Priest opened the first cask of wines, it almost seemed as if was deemed from on high. If one trusts what the crowds have said (and they are indeed oft fickle and nonsensical), Saint Michaelis himself raised his staff and caused the wine to flow into the fountain. Well, whatever happened, in appears that Saint Michaelis has come stumbling back into the Piazza, many hours later. Yes. Stumbling. While he's managed to keep his silver mask clean, a fascimile of Saint Michaelis's face, he stumbles as if he's drank his own cask of wine. And he likely has.

The man dressed as a dashing cavalier has been steadily drinking and he is finally feeling buzzed. His tolerance was still considerably higher than the woman passed out next to him, however, who has been soundly napping for the past couple of hours. He nudges her curiously, testing to see if she was capable of being roused now. He wasn't going to leave her alone.

The Barbarian Stag bounces on over to the wine fountain to put her Inn mug under the lion's mouth, her red hair falling in her face she pushes it back. Mug full she leans back and looks at the man with the silver mask and chuckles. "Only at Carnival, I suppose," she shrugs as she goes to walk past him and the two cavaliers. She looks around for the fox with her leaf, but doesn't see him anywhere. "Ah well, I'll see him again, I bet." She smirks.

Saint Michaelis has stopped at one of the food stands, where a man dressed as a bull hands out skewers of beef, onion and pepper (yes, the irony) to interested parties. All appear to be able to partake and it looks as if all has been payed for. The Saint looks over at Sir Alain in between bites; despite his drunken walk, he dutifuly wipes away grease and sauce from his silver mask after each bite. "Who are you, porcelain cavalier?"

The Auld Oak keeps watching where the stag hath bounded, and there his gourd is finished. Enough that he rises up with full skin which is pressed to wooden cracked lips, so that he may drink deeply. A glance is sparred the one filling her mug, and accented voice, which comes out wizened and thick slides out. "Or he will shee you." a cackle of laughter drunk. "A shprig, for a question?" the old oak preposes "Shmall if any-you could use th' foliage."

The cavalier lazily waves his empty tankard at the Saint before he helps himself to another refill. "Al… Sir Alain. The most handsome cavalier that ever was," he announces. "I was feeling particularly pretty today." He squints again from behind his mask as he studies Michael. "How do you do, Lord Saint… Saint Guy?" Pure eloquence.

Sir Dmitri wakes up with a 'snxxxxOH!' and looks around, blinking behind her mask. How did she end up with her back propped on the fountain, sitting on the ground?! What time is it?

Sir Alain tilts his head back to Dmitri once 'he' finally moves. "Ahh, you awake, my friend. That didn't seem like a comfy position to be in, but you insisted." A thoughtful hum drifts through the porcelain mask he wears. "Do you want help up?" He asks, extending his hand to the other 'cavalier'.

"Saint Michaelis, thank you very much, SIR!" There is stress put on the last word. Somehow, the courageously dressed holy man remembers to gingerly return his wooden skewer to the vendor so that he can reuse it. This is Carnival, after all, and there are so many people to feed. Michaelis turns to face Alain, sauntering over. "I… what story are you from?"

"Oh god, I am bad at drinking," says Sir Dmitri, and embarrassed takes Sir Alain's hand and accepting his help up quite gratefully. "Oh dear ahahaha! WELL NO WORRIES! My butt is hardly bruised at all." She swats at it through the cavalier's coat she wears and beams. "When I am sober I shall rue the day I was ever born! OH THAT'S RIGHT!" And seeing Alain all over again (because she is very drunk and she forgot why she was excited, she siezes his shoulders. "I am so excited to have FOUND you! What marvelous clothes! You look marvelous, really! Even your hat!" Dmitri takes Alain's arm possessively, as happy as a lark, and also so that she doesn't fall over. "Perhaps I should get something to absorb all this wonderful wine I should not be drinking, and then have more wine. Good evening," she adds to Saint Michaelis.

The Barbarian Stag with fire in her hair blinks at the Old Man Oak, "My lord?" She says, though there is confusion in her tone. "What?" Though she does stare at the tree looking man for a moment and takes his hand dragging him to the side with one hand the mug in the other. "Alright, I can hear you now. What?"

His lips curve upward in a grin as Michael bristles in indignantion, but the cavalier bows respectfully in reply. "My apologies, Your Exaltedness. I need to brush up on my religious lore." It has been a long, long time since he's had lessons. Though perhaps not as long as some! "I'm from The Queen's Cavaliers by M.Thistle. Surely you've heard of it?" His head turns to regard Dmitri once she's pulled up from her makeshift napping spot. "Why thank you. I dare say you look even better, dear Dmitri." It was hard to pull off a wink behind a mask, but he tries! He remains standing straight, serving as a good human support beam for Dmitri. "I think we will all be feeling like shit in the morning, but it's worth it."

Some hours past the Deathly King and his entourage of Terrifying Dead in their mock armour and strategic bloodstains retired from the field to an appointment elsewhere; late in the evening they pass again through the piazza, His Majesty's grand horned mask gleaming ever-brighter with the reflected light of cressets and coloured lanterns, their party amended by a tall, slender girl in a gown of powder-blue silk with a black velvet ribbon about her throat from which is suspended a single rather splendid sapphire. She appears by this hour to be not only intoxicated but trying his patience with her talk or simply her lingering: his already slow progress with his wounded foot and that black-lacquered walking stick topped with an obsidian sphere is complicated by a velvet-gloved arm snug about his waist, just above his low-slung black leather belt. … At least until he stops short, some yards yet shy of the fountain of wine, and takes drastic action in the form of gathering her in close with a hand upon her shapely derriere and whispering something.

The girl's eyes widen behind her mask. Suddenly she's delighted to part ways, just as soon as she can squirm out of his suddenly tenacious grasp; and his low laughter follows her till she vanishes (inflicting upon him a quick reproachful glance) into a crowd of the same kittens who have all evening been delighting assorted pirates, bears, mythical hunters — and perhaps even cavaliers! — with their tipsy antics.

The Deathly or Horned King is free thus to dispatch a representative Terrifying(ly Grinning) Dead to the fountain, to fill a trio of cups, whilst he finds one of the few empty places remaining at a long table inhabited by a motley and by this hour half-conscious assortment of revelers. It turns out to be not only a suitable place to rest during a too-long walk back to a certain manse, but a fine point of vantage from which to observe vignettes still more colourful than his own — why, there's a girl here wearing horns!

"She is a liter-ary genius," says Dmitri, of the mysterious M.Thistle. "And probably gorgeous." Very neccessary to add that one.

Saint Michaelis jerks a black gloved thumb at the bull masked vendor next to him, this for Sir Dmitri's sake. "Beef. Delicious. I need more wine." The silver mask of Saint Michaelis, immobile and emotionless, with his rather mobile and lively blue eyes under, dart to and fro Sirs Alain and Dmitri. "M Thistle. No, who was this? An author? And as for the morning; there's kaffe, we hope, and good food, and crushed dried roots to assuage our pain. The One gives aboundingly!"

Sir Dmitri says, "Ohhh beef. Yes that is the ticket." She giggles at the attempts to wink, grinning. "Yes indeed! For every impugnity, the One giveth delicious beef, braised in butter and garlic."

One blonde brow lifts at Dmitri's comment. "She, mmm? Do you know Thistle, Dmitri? Do tell!" His voice raises an octave or two in excitement over discovering who the mystery author may be, but he does pause to answer Michael. "Aye, an author of growing renown! You ought to pick up a copy. I got mine at a small booth in Four Corners. Eer, there's two volumes now." He makes a disgusted sound. "I'll pass on the kaffe. I still think that stuff is second-rate poison in disguise. Beef is good for every occasion, though." The cavalier nods sagely to both his companions.

"Perhaps the Parthians are trying to poison us slowly then, Sir Alain, indeed!" Saint Michaelis cackles. "I was busy this last year, yes, fighting battles and slaying mighty, evil men as a Saint of my calibre ought to be! Look!" Pulling his engraved silver staff from his belt, he points it directly at the Deathly King. "He knows of all those I've slain for the glory of the One!"

Sir Dmitri ooohhhhs very appreciatively at these assertions. At Alain's question though she blushes under her mask, glad that it's not too visible and covers her lips with a gloved hand. "Wh-why no! No it's just that M.Thistle sounds feminine, don't you think? Lets get some food."

A sneer. "Can't trust them Parthians." His attention alights on the Deathly King and his nose twitches slightly at the impressiveness of his costume. "Did you two ride into battle together? You make an… interesting duo." His head bows to Dmitri curiously once more. "I suppose it does…" His interest doesn't seem to altogether disappear, but he does not implore further for the time being. "I think I'm pretty full." Of liquid, but still full. "I might burst."

The swing of that elaborately-engraved silver staff draws the Deathly King's attention from a kitten girl attempting to defend her whiskers from being playfully groomed by a hound (his sins writ large in his costume, obviously); the coolly handsome expression upon that shining black leather mask does not, of course, shift, but the dark eyes behind it fix upon the saint. The cup of wine by now in the King's gauntleted hand is lifted civilly in the other's direction and, because despite having had less to drink tonight than most of the rest, 'less' is by no means 'none', he calls in a pleasant and resonant tenor voice, "And I thank you, my lord, for the gift of these fine new cup-bearers." He nods to the pair of Terrifying Dead presently in attendance, each of whom has for Saint Michaelis a friendly, inebriated wave.

"The Deathly King and I took murderers and evil men out of the world. And now they serve His Majesty himself, as you can see. My pleasure, my lord! I am ever a servant of the One and we benefit both!" Saint Michaelis cackles. "Look, at those two men there serving the King- Alphard Tarris and Trevor Robar!" His cackles, having ceased for him to speak, now continue, and he goes to fill his wooden cup with wine in the fountain.

The names didn't ring familiar to the cavalier in the porcelain mask, with the exception of Tarris. The fact that one has apparently been killed doesn't strike him as particularly bad news, nor does the revelation that he was a black-hearted murderer. He raises his tankard apprecivately at both the King and the Saint. "May you slaughter many more!" He tips his tankard over to the fountain to capture a few more sips of wine, in spite of the fact that he just claimed to be too full. He peers over to Dmitri. "Do you think you'll need an escort home, Dmitri?"

He bought it! Phew! Dmitri tosses her head, and seeing a young lord passing by with far too many delicious skewers, deftly relieves him of one in full view of Alain (if not the overburderned Donkey). Munching on the savory beef, she chuckles. "I would be obliged, dear Alain. I'm not much of a drinker, I'm afraid, despite what these huge muscles would suggest." And she makes a muscle, posing manfully and causing the pendant to swing. Or doesn't. There's no muscle there.

Sir Dmitri says, "You can see that I have been wrestling bears."

Sir Dmitri says, "In my spare time."

Sir Dmitri says, "Y'know, with my muscles."

A chuckle rumbles from behind the mask. "Not with your hands? An impressive feat indeed." He eyes the pendant again before offering Dmitri his arm. "You can eat and walk at the same time, yes? I suppose I could carry you, if not…" That would be an adventure in itself given both their drunken states.

Immediately an argument breaks out amongst the Terrifying Dead, neither of whom want to be Alphard Tarris. But, rather than uttering his name out loud, they compete instead for the right to be Trevor Robar, of all unlikely distinctions. This brings a chuckle (by no means a cackle) to their sovereign's lips, framed by a gap in his mask which is fortunately wide enough to permit the consumption of wine. "Doomed now and for all eternity to fetch and carry for me," he answers the saint so intoxicated by his own wit, his voice carefully pitched to carry as on a battlefield, "walk my dogs, and see I've clean socks enough — a dreadful penance, I assure you, for any man who thought to usurp the rightful order of his society."

"Socks for Alphard Tarris! Socks for Trevor Robar!" Saint Michaelis chants this, over and over as he marches off in the distance, towards Saint Lanard's Way and the noble manses there.

Sir Dmitri smiles, leaning her cheek happily on Alain's shoulder. She's drunk, and she's had delicious food. And she's drunk, holy shit very drunk, wavering on her feet. But a miraculous thing happened, in her opinion, in finding someone dressed as a character from the Queen's Cavaliers, and in her fuzzy, forgetful pink cloud she's not too eager to let go of Alain's arm. But on the other hand, she doesn't really want to get picked up off the ground either. "Nobody carries Sir Dmitri!" She announces, laughing. "What a terrible blow to my manful pride that would be! I am the beardliest of our companies, you know. But I will gladly take an arm to lean on." Even so, she refills her cup, glowing with boozy good cheer. "Do you have a Leopold?" she asks, eagerly. "I have a room by the docks."

Alain's muscular arm provides good support, per usual! "It looks like you can walk. I'm impressed." Given how tiny Dmitri was! "But even the most bearded must have someone to lean on every once in awhile." He begins to guide them away from the merrymaking, slowly, then towards the docks as instructed. "I believe Leopold is spending his time with a lady, as he often does. He started drinking early." He wrinkles his nose slightly in distaste, but it's hidden behind his mask, naturally. "Have you seen Raphael?" He asks with a playful hint in his tone.

"Ugh, yes." Dmitri snorts. "He is being disgusting, trying to convince some actual nuns to join his crew or something. We sailed here from Ryalta."

"Nuns?" He laughs at the image such an idea presents in his mind. "That would be one interesting crew, but they don't strike me as the adventuring sort. Credit to him if he succeeds, though." As they presumably closer and closer to their destination he purses his lips. "You'll have to show me which house it is… they all look the same to me." Especially when drunk.

When they come to the right Inn, which is as she said right on the docks overlooking a section of some very rough looking ships, Sir Dmitri does indeed point out which one it is, and abuse poor Sir Alain's helpfulness in getting drunkenly up the stairs and into bed like a giggling, wobbly loon.

Sir Alain is a proper gentleman and makes sure 'Sir' Dmitri makes it safely into her bed, in all her bubbly drunken stupor. He doesn't linger within the room, but nearly trips over a oh-so-familiar blade on his amble out. He catches himself, but he's too drunk to really comprehend what he just saw at the moment. Maybe later! Maybe.

Sir Dmitri gets plopped into bed like a sack of potatoes, and kicks poor Alain a few times with several hilarious apologies when he helps her take off her boots, then rolls herself drunkenly into a blanket and is out like a light. So majestic. So graceful.

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