(1866-11-21) Crossing Boundaries
Crossing Boundaries
Summary: After masks are burned, true faces appear. In an inn open late a minstrel meets with certain parties who have lately been charmed by his music.
Date: Novembre 21st, 1866 (the wee small hours)
Related: Carnival generally.
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Gisela  Philippe  Julieta  

Rikton - Lower Rikton - Marketplace - The Silver Cross Inn

The Silver Cross Inn is a far more stately place than its dockside counterpart, filled with members of the clergy and visiting nobility alike. An opulent and clean place, as most places inside the city of Rikton are, and is well swept with fresh, sweet smelling rushes strewn about the floor daily. Small windows that dot the front of the building look out onto the marketplace and its many lovely shops, while a merry hearth crackles at the back of its vast and open room. The maple wood bar is situated to the right of the room; long and polished to a gleam, just the way the dower owner, and resident bishop, of this establishment likes it.

The Inn's tables and benches are all of heavy maple, equally fine in quality and beautifully carved with the symbols of the faith, leaving the clergy and nobility to eat and drink in finery as well as sleep. The smells of fine food with various spices and tastes of sweet honey mead, made at the monastery and brought down the hill to be served to thirsty patrons, can be experienced at all hours of the day. The private rooms are set off to the left, the doors of heavy wood are finely wrought with large silver carved crosses backed by gilt suns and two silver moons in each upper corner.

Novembre 21st, 1866

It has been a couple of hours since the first of the masks have been fed to the bonfire, burning away the sins of those that wore them…and yet the fire still rages. One such individual had already cast his sins into the fire, stepping away as the visages of fox and phoenix both curled and ignited, adding to the fuel of the purifying flames.

But, the individual did not leave Rikton. No…there was still opportunities to be had, with or without the aid the masks had once offered. One such opportunity was within the inn, in the common room. For people were milling there, their faces newborn after a week of obfuscation. And people always are appreciative of entertainment. The male figure claims a chair, sliding a wooden instrument from his back to his hands. A lute, the golden wood looks well tended…with the strings taunt and in tune. Without a request, the minstrel summons a song from within, the fingertips, free of any confinement, finding the strings with the ease of a well-known love. There is no words…not presently, though his voice is clearly heard, singing a wordless countermelody to the strings. Unbidden. Simple because he can.

Upon the minstrel's red shirt… an ensemble that he had saved from being worn the whole week… is a blue rose pin, just above his left breast. It is the only token of the week that has remained with him…the only bit that might serve to identify him, save for the lute itself.

He has been amusing himself thuswise for five or ten minutes when a barmaid in the inn's employ bends over his chair, but hardly to chide him for offering pleasure to its habituÈes. She holds a goblet brimming with a fine Romante red, sent to refresh him, as she'll explain if he should inquire, by the party occupying the corner table — yes, that one, over there…

If the minstrel is looking for wolves, or swans, or sovereigns of the underworld, at first glance and at this slight distance he'll espy none amongst the indicated quartet of well-to-do persons of middle years, whose dark colouring and strong broad faces mark them to fellow Galenthians or to the well-traveled as Waystoners with barbarian blood flowing still strongly in their veins. Three are men — perhaps knights, or lords of the more rustic persuasion — in whose attire leather is much the favourite over silk; one bearded, which the Deathly King assuredly was not, but the other two promisingly clean-shaven, at least… The fourth, seated with her back to the wall, is a lady in a gown of green and black silk, striped vertically, its square neckline filled in by a chemise of fine white linen stitched with thread-of-gold, her silvering dark brown hair contained within a snood woven of stronger golden thread. Yet she is no Swan, her shoulders far broader and her bosom unmistakably more ample: considerably older, too. Still, they have what looks like two flagons more of this superb vintage; they seem to be enjoying the music, though at present a conversation across the table between two of the men is holding the attention of all four companions; why not?

Blue eyes…those sharp blue eyes that could not possibly be disguised, despite of which form was chosen for the past week, peer over towards the corner with an inquisitive air. Who would be sending the bard a drink….especially one as fine as Romante Red? The minstrel, a younger man himself, pauses…just long enough to actually partake of the goblet's contents, a sip or two before he chooses to continue.

The minstrel remains perched on his chair, as he switches songs. This one seems to be a difficult one, the notes rolling like distant thunder. It is apparent that this is not normally a song that the minstrel would chose for this particular environment. A ballad or a bawdry bar song would have been ideal…certainly more likely to elicit coin flowing than the fingering exercise he is doing now. But, he does it all the same, his fingers flittering over the neck of the lute even as his eyes watch the table of Waystoners, flickering down to his fingering only upon rare occasions, before glancing back up to the corner.

Why? Why is the lutist chosing to play such a difficult, quick-tempo'ed tune? Simply to watch the reaction from yonder table. It seems the young fellow has some sort of idea in play.

The tempo rises; and the eyes of the lady in the striped silk gown rise likewise from the figures being sketched out upon the polished maple surface of the table, flicking not towards the minstrel's face but his hands. A tell as broad as the day is long, though her strong-featured Garaili visage (marked by a scar on her right cheek, two inches long, healed almost away) remains impassive and she has perhaps one ear still upon the talk around her. Those are the Deathly King's eyes, dark, intelligent, unflinching.

Of course, the lifting of the eyes is caught. After all, that was the purpose all along. To see which one of the four was responsible for the goblet that now sits on the table before the bard. And…once the eyes are noted, there…is almost a faltering of the fingers as the musician realizes just where he has seen those eyes before. It does cause a small chuckle to escape from his throat, as the fingers quickly recover from their near stutter, as muscle memory takes over…the tempo increasing even more, were it possible. There is a shake of the head, a sly smile that had been seen before under guise of fox as well as flame bird, as he continues onward, finishing his little exercise with a minor flourish. The speed in which he summoned the notes had drawn some onlookers…curious as to what prompted the fellow to play so fast. Yet…he doesn't see their reactions. Once again, it was an audience of one….and the one was quite unlike what the minstrel had expected. A truly welcomed surprise.

The lady in the striped silk looks away from the minstrel's feverishly strumming fingers once or twice, to find her goblet among the quartet upon the table, to lift it to her lips; or to raise an eyebrow at one of her companions, with devastating effect upon whatever he was in the middle of saying; but her idle gaze always reverts, till the final echo of that flourishing finish fades… Seconds later the bearded fellow on her left, in response to some suggestion, pushes back his chair and stands. He's the one looking at the minstrel now, and the only one, as he stalks across the common room with the confident grace of an expert swordsman (knight, then, probably).

"Her Excellency, Baroness Quinn of Ghost Hills, would like to make your acquaintance," he soon explains, in an amused drawl which must be a standard part of people's equipment in their part of the world.

Oh…there is a twist that the minstrel did not expect. The bearded one walking in his direction. The lute is laid upon his lap momentarily, as another sip of the wine is taken before the verbal invitation is delivered. The musician certainly knows a knight when he sees one. And, to his credit, the bard knows how to react when nobility requests an audience. With as much grace as the young man can muster (which is quite a bit, judging from the fluid ease of his movements) the minstrel slings the lute to his back (in one sweeping motion, much like a certain fox of the previous night) and takes the goblet, then nods.

"Of course, good Sir. We must not keep her Excellency waiting."

A bit of a cheeky response, though said reverently enough. With that, the knight then leads the minstrel to the corner, to the awaiting presence of the Baroness with eyes of deathly majesty.

Naturally the Baroness of Ghost Hills forbears to arise upon the approach of a mere commonborn minstrel, though when her knightly messenger ushers him near she extends her hand to him civilly enough. Without the Deathly King's silver-buckled gauntlets it's still a large enough hand for a woman, strong, with clean, short-cropped nails, and the calluses of a swordsman, though it emerges from a detached sleeve of striped green and black silk, made in three parts, joined together and fastened to the bodice of her gown with ribbons (sewn, not tied in bows) of cloth-of-gold. "How do you do?" she inquires drily, in an alto voice not so very much higher than His Majesty's. "It seems to me there's something familiar in your touch upon those strings…?"

Late at night as it is already, the door to the inn opens and a young woman enters. No, she drifts elegantly inside, soon shedding the cloak of dark blue wool, when the night's chill is quickly driven away by the relative warmth in the common room. Hazel eyes roam the interior and the people currently present, and as soon the Pearl of Four Corners has spotted the Baroness of Ghost Hills, she will approach, the cloak draped over an arm, depositing the garment over the back of a still vacant chair at the table, where Gisela and Philippe are already sitting. Not waiting for an invitation, and not even asking if she is interrupting, Julieta lowers herself onto the same chair, an amiable smile given to Gisela first and the minstrel next. A face that is vaguely familiar to her. "Good eve…", the courtesan intones. "I trust I am not too early?" The question more meant for Gisela than the charming bard.

The white costume of the Swan has been replaced with a dress of blue colour, showing off some butterfly embroidery as well as the comely physique of the Pearl, her dark brown tresses are worn in a fashionable hairdo, some strands framing her face, while the rest has been twirled and pinned up at the back of her head, wich draws attention to her long slender neck.

Naturally. The bardic commoner, though hardly common with his playing, had not expected the invitation to the table…much less the extension of the hand in greeting. The offered hand is taken with the fellow's right, just a brief touch as the two great each other. "Well met, your Excellency. Tis an honor to make thy acquaintance." A name is not offered…not yet, for a question is yet to be answered….and a response is necessary. "I find myself well this evening. I sincerely hope that the same is true of you." Then…a pause, as the minstrel regards his hands, flexing them gently as he considers the second question. "Yes….I had assumed that you might have recognized somewhat, given the intent observation moments before. Though, this time it was without gloves of fur, so perhaps not as impressive a feat as the night previous." The subtle allusion to his gloved playing betrays the fact that this minstrel does suspect that the Baroness before him and the majestic Wolf are one and the same.

Then, as a lovely vision sits down, without warning, the minstrel turns to regard her….and offers her a smile. Yes…the two might have seen each other in passing, but not much beyond that. The attention returns to the Baroness. "And…it seems your Swan has returned to your side?" A guess. A good one…but a guess nonetheless.

"Impressive enough," drawls the Baroness of Ghost Hills, "to be going on with." Her lips curve into one of the Deathly King's own small smiles of amusement (the scar on her cheek, hardly visible at a distance, is rather more so now); and then they are interrupted by a vision in butterfly embroidery, who easily claims a full complement of baronial attention for a few long seconds after an affirmative nod is bestowed upon the minstrel in answer to his deductions.

Was she too early? … "Never," Gisela Quinn assures her, bestowing a light touch upon the beauteous new arrival's pale hand where it rests upon the table. So much more restrained than some of their behaviour together when masked; but perhaps possessive in its way… Then she slides her own goblet across to the erstwhile White Swan, lest she feel a thirst which simply can't wait till reinforcements are summoned from a barmaid by a wave of a hand from the knight already standing, who being the lowest ranking among the present trio of Quinn retainers (not counting the two former Terrifying Dead seated at another table drinking water), tends to find himself landed with these little jobs. Never mind. It'll be someone else's turn tomorrow, maybe even the day after.

The remaining pair of knights are swiftly dismissed by a firm, "Off you go," and a smack to the back of the head of the nearest. "No more antics with fucking church doors, if you please," she reminds him sternly, and stares down his murmured apology and his reminder that he can't quite recall what he was thinking in that precise moment, sir, but he's very sorry.

Then suddenly the ladies are seated alone at a table for four, and a casual wave of the elder's hand gestures the minstrel to join them. "Your name, young man? Unless it truly is Fox. And why is it that I have not heard your music before? I feel certain I should recall."

Philippe's remark earns him a charming glance from the courtesan, as she tilts her head just so to the side. "I am glad to be rid of the hat," she confesses with a melodious chuckle, in affirmation of his guess, referring to the structure she had worn on her head during all of the Carnival, before it became a victim to the flames in the burning of the masks. "It was a little cumbersome, I have to admit. So cumbersome, that I feel light as a feather now." //That perhaps also due to the fact, that the accumulated sins are no longer resting on those comely shoulders.

Julieta smiles to Gisela's reply to her question, hazel eyes shifting from Philippe to the baroness, and then to the goblet, so generously offered to her. Slender fingers curl about the stem, accepting it, the courtesan holding Gisela's gaze as she takes a slow and moderate sip from the goblet and puts it back down onto the table with a graceful nod of the head, acknowledging the gesture. When the baroness asks the minstrel about his name, she leans back in her seat, turning her head to regard Philippe fully, curiosity glinting in her eyes.

There is a glance cast towards the unfortunate soul on the receiving end of a sound slap to the back of the head. The comment about church doors certainly intrigues the minstrel…but that will have to wait, as he turns back in time to see the Baroness invite him to sit at the now cleared table. As he descends into his chair, sliding his lute free to set gently by his side, the name is offered freely. "Philippe, your Excellency. Philippe Giscard. It is quite possible you had not heard of me before. I was, until very recently, residing in Aequor…and played within there almost exclusively. It was only recently that I deemed to explore beyond the immediate borders of the north and Four Corners…with Rikton here being the first performance outside of my former limitations." As if to offer a bit more information, he continues. "I have since relocated myself to Four Corners…it is more central, to allow me the possibility to journey southward and broaden my horizons."

A smile is given to Juleta, as Philippe chuckles softly. "I understand perfectly what you mean, dear lady. My costume of choice, for the day of air, was a rather burdensome number. And…it seems that yet, it was not enough to truly hide my true form." A shift to Gisela, then. "For you, your Excellency, saw right through the feathers. Yet I had no clue till just moments ago of the secret you kept close. Truly an inspired performance."

The former Fox may notice, as he sinks into his seat at the Baroness's other hand, a walking stick propped against her thigh. Sturdy ashwood, on this occasion, topped with a knob of copper well-burnished by her grasp… Now, there's an indication. She turns briefly from her swan friend to listen to his recital of his antecedents, her expression cooling slightly as he claims such a northern name, such a northern habitation; at last she offers, "Then I've a reason the more, haven't I, to visit Four Corners, when I can be reasonably certain there's not a bounty on my head within the city limits." She sniffs. Turning to the surpassingly lovely young lady so often at her side this week, she explains, "The Swan you've met is more usually a Pearl — Julieta Scuderio, the Pearl of Four Corners, she is called. She can tell you," and reluctant amusement curves her lips, "to what extent I've been performing."

"I believe, I've heard you play before," Julieta states with a smile towards the bard, "some time ago, in Four Corners. So you've relocated to live there now? I am pleased." The comment on the costume earns a chuckle that perhaps also is stirred by the remark that follows. "Oh, yes." Her gaze shifts to Gisela, that smile deepening. "Our Deathly King delivered quite an impressive performance." Even so, the mention of a possible bounty on Gisela's head makes that smile wither somewhat. "I believe, such worries shall be a thing of the past now," the courtesan comments with a lifted brow. "And yes. I'd be very pleased to see you soon in Four Corners, baroness."

"You might, at that, fair Pearl." For Philippe was certainly no stranger to 4C. As such, he is aware of the courtesan, at least by reputation…and now properly acquainted. "Yes. I felt it was more fitting for one who wished to travel to other kingdoms to actually not reside within one. Far more easier to traverse." Again, that slight grin graces Philippe's features. However, the bounty mention does draw a worrysome expression to the bard. "Well…if that is the case, fair baroness, then perhaps I shall come to you? After all, it would do me good to venture to Galenthia at some point, if only to prove that just because I have an Aequorian origin doesn't mean I share the same sensibilities."

"Do you suppose," the pronoun stressed, for this remark in an undertone between the Baroness and her favoured courtesan carries more freight than a chance-met minstrel could know, "my enemy is an honourable one…? No; if I visit your city again," and her gaze shifts to include both the young musicians she has so very much in her sights, "it will not be because he considers himself bound by the terms of such a treaty, but because he knows that if I die in Four Corners, our mutual friend among others will wish to know why."

On that note she sniffs and changes the subject to something more befitting the occasion — and the goblet a barmaid has just brought to the table and filled with wine from the emptier of the two flagons, and placed before her. "Northerner though you may be, Master Giscard, I hope you shall consider your lute your letter of introduction in Wayston… I'm sure you've heard we are barbarians," and she lowers her voice to a wolfish register, showing for an instant those lupine teeth, "but one who wishes to cross borders with such talents would do well to cross ours, now that we've opened it again. I can assure you of a welcome in my lands at any rate, or in Murias. As long as you undertake to knock off the false compliments; I do well enough without those."

The smile fades from Julieta's perfect countenance, when Gisela hints at the implications of any future visits to Four Corners. "Our mutual friend," she states, moving into a sideways lean, favoring Gisela, "has assured me he would bring this to the attention of the Chancellor. I am certain, your life should be nowhere as safe as in Four Corners by now. The conflict has been settled. It would be a folly to start it anew." Her hand reaches for the goblet, when another is brought for the baroness. A ghost of a smirk appears on the Pearl's features, when she overhears Gisela's words on flattery, addressed to the bard, mayhaps she has heard similar remarks from the baroness before? Even so she raises the goblet in a toast, offering both Philippe and Gisela an amiable smile. "Let us drink to the future then. Nothing crosses boundaries as easily, as art and music."

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License