Chapter 68: Ch. 63: Cloaks and Lances

Skill: *[Far Speak]

Designation: psychic type

Scant information exists on [Farspeak]. However, from what is known, old documents recovered at the sights of old mage towers where the golem-artificers of old did their work revealed that its capabilities included long range communication and relational triangulation. It is considered somewhere in the realm of tier 4 to tier 5 magic. Unfortunately, despite being valuable, very few people use it due to its difficulty and incomplete information on its matrices. It has been preceded by [Message] as the choice method of long range communication, though the former is more reliant on mage-links and relay obelisks. *To be updated as more information is unearthed--World Compendium of Skills , The Order of Vesper, Church of Thea

Arthur felt out of his element. No, it was even better to say he felt like an impostor at a Met Gala. The bourgeois was, well, more bourgeois than he had expected. They felt like they belonged there as they picked flute glasses from passing attendants, talked pr broke into polite laughter about one thing or another after gazing somewhere with their clique and saying a knowing word or two.  They knew how to look important.

Meanwhile there were others of Aldmoor's old  families who were either part of the undersecretariat or ancillary to the  Merchant Council. The council’s composition was based on a rotational tradition of choosing the wealthiest and most affluent with the mercantile ability to back it up.  Five led the council while the Chamber of Merchants served under them, giving some of their number to the Undersecretariat.  

 Arthur did not know much in the way of politics apart from his college days student council nor had he established himself enough to cultivate a political acumen. He was just fortunate Hanna was so knowledgeable otherwise he would have floundered even with Nora running interference.

Hanna’s skills as a [Socialite] really shone as she helped them navigate the social landmine. She was a literal trove of information and occasionally Nevine would interject with some pertinent details. He seemed like the sort of teenager who was well read and bookish. That said,  he seemed fidgety in his tweed waistcoat and matching pair of slacks and would occasionally adjust his cravat as if it was too tight. 

“ See, they’re the Marshfords. They supply all the fish in Aldmoor from their fish farms, mostly mudmauls, knucklehead salmon and rainbow trout. From what I understand, it's hard to breed the latter two without a salt marsh as they do in their domain.  With them are the eldest sons of the Deavorouxs, and the Vanqueros.  The former deals with spice trade and own a franchise of restaurants and eateries under their name while the other owns ranches of rochs and have been trying to cross them with bison or so I hear…”

This they observed from the gallery. It doubled up as a bar as it overlooked the main ballroom below. Like a viewing platform, it  extended on either side of the walls, leaving an atrium in the middle. The ball room below had chequered floors underneath giant bell jar chandeliers of chromastones and hanging plants. 

A podium hosted the musicians strumming away tunes reminiscent of Celtic music on lutes, harps . Maiden’s  swirled, their ball gowns fanning out like upside down flowers as their partners glided on the floor in step. Dancing skills were in use because frankly the scene was mesmerising. 

Behind Arthur and his company, a bartender mixed drinks while attendants bussed the tables in formal dress.  The larger titled houses had provided the extra hands from among the attendants who had been brought along with their Masters and Mastresses. 

In fact they were being served by someone from House Lalilab  right then. The other reason for stringing along their attendants was that they could be there to watch over their belongings, like weapons for example. 

Arthur felt oddly ill at ease without his arms but the doormen had been high level Guards. Garyson the [Guard Sergeant] had been there in person for the sole purpose of checking storage skills. He was not leaving anything to chance. 

Except for  Garyson, the look on the other guard's faces was comical with the arcane pistol eliciting looks of confusion. Arthur was relieved he did not bring his cerusthril sword along because that would have been the height of extravagance and paranoia. 

 He did, however, bring the hoverboard with him but they did not know what to make of the strange looking shield. Even the [Appraiser] sourced from the town’s Emporium was stumped and most of all, they couldn’t discern anything about their matching telecry which they wrote off as arcane jewellery.

Nonetheless, Garyson insisted he leave weapons with an attendant  for safekeeping which was the reason why coming along with one was recommended. They barely gave the automata a second look not realising that they were not in fact a flesh and blood person. 

It also helped that Hanna vouched for them making the process less tedious than it should have been. Arthur was only too glad  to avoid another pain in the neck if the Guard got interested in automata. Though the Guard Sergeant did imply they would have words soon. 

The doormen had also been given the option of announcing their entrance which Arthur flatly declined.  Now Arthur saw why that had been the right decision, there was a series of crystals rigged into the apex of the doric columns and occasionally, an announcement would sound calling out the name of some attendees. There had been notable names of the who was who in Aldmoor. 

There were foreign dignitaries too, some from the Magocracy as Hanna had mentioned and some Avensi councillors who looked like an Owlish version of the Corvani. He’d seen one in Lysfall before. 

There were also sylvani ambassadors and dwarven shipmasters of various Mercenary Corps in their ceremonial uniforms. It was almost novel to see the dwarves wear caps,  tailcoats and poofy riding breeches. There were no less than five colours and livery among their cohort. 

Edel had also arrived with his wife Raelle and one of their eldest daughters, Lysabel. The head of the Silyvres, Myra Silvyres had also arrived accompanied by her son, as had the Flasksunders and the Shadowmantles with some of their heirs.  Their entrance had been notably different if not more profound than the other guests announced before them. Gaius Phylandir was the last of the five Titled Merchants to arrive, accompanied by his wife and son. Arthur made a note to keep away from them.

“ Master Arthur?” Arthur heard, as he pulled away from the view of the ballroom.

‘Oh bother,’ Arthur internally groaned as he swivelled to face the approaching group. Nora seemed to sense his turmoil and threw him a look as they stood from their table along with the two youngsters. The gallery was already starting to fill up and soon Arthur would have to excuse himself to the balcony across from the bar. 

 Along came the Ahrakni with her entourage who turned people’s heads. Aindreas had an ubiquitous scowl on his face as he snatched a flute glass from a passing attendant, Slenlog looked like he’d rather be anywhere else as he talked to his much smaller escort. Arthur blinked to ascertain that Margaery did not have a twin.  However, the sylphlike maiden looked older, and had a mature disposition. 

‘ It's on your head if she attracts attention to us,’ Arthur said over telecry as he offered a smile. He could feel the twinges of his abstruse skill at the nape of his neck. Was it some sort of precognition or prescience like the Elder seemed to have? Even though it behaved like Danger Sense in a way, it was still hard to pin down.

“ Mastresse Margaery, hail and well met again,” Arthur said as he arose from his seat to greet her. She was wearing an off shoulder ball gown of silk with silver sequins that shimmered and contrasted with her dark complexion.

“ Blessed fortune, blissful hearths and just beginnings Margaery,” Nora said as the two maidens embraced.  That was the seasonal greeting of the Sylvani used during the Trianaid and Nora had been studious about their customs.

“ And to you as well,” Margaery said as her eyes crinkled with mirth. She had silvered eyeshadow. “ Miss Hanna, and young Nevine,” she added, throwing a nod at the teenagers’ way.

“ Er, I’ll go find my sister,” Hanna said as she dragged a gawking Nevine, “ Pardons.”

“ Haha, oh to be young.” Margaery giggled. Her cheeks were flushed purple.

“ Niece, who are your friends?” the elder Ahrakni enquired.

“ Ah, apologies Aunt Apaxvn,”  Margaery said. “ These are Master and Mastresse’s Löwenmaul. The couple I talked to you about...” as she added, standing aside to cede the view of Nora and Arthur. 

“ Ah, “ the woman hid a demure smile behind her fan. Now Mastresse Apaxvn had a presence about her. She looked like she walked off a Haute Couture walkway with her iridescent blue high low dress that looked as if she’d sewn the actual night sky into her figure. Its trailing hem  and neckline had dewy roses that looked as real as the actual thing  picked off a garden. A thorny ornament held her knotted bun hair the blackest of night atop her head.

“ My my. So this is strapping young whose outfit you pestered me for,” she chuckled, extending a laced arm. She had a feylike voice like a bell but her smile had teeth. The teeth Arthur caught before she'd opened her fan were sharp like a whark’s and sent shivers up his spine. Margaery’s were tame by comparison.

“ I am pleased to make your acquaintance Madame Apaxvn,” Arthurs stepped forward, bowed and kissed her hand. He’d never met the [Seamstress] when they’d gone to measure their outfits and had their measurements taken by an attendant. Her hand was almost cold to the touch, and the synthesiac perfume gave him a glimpse of a blue Glacia Rosa growing in a blizzard. 

“ And I as well,” she said with an approving tone. “ I am pleased that my craft suits you,” she said with twinkling eyes. That statement seemed to set off a chain effect. Their group was suddenly in the spotlight as people whispered and looked their way. They’d already garnered much attention and Arthur suppressed an urge to squirm.

“ A personal project from the Madame of The Jade Weaver?”

“ Who are they? Now that I see it, the maiden’s evening dress, though sylvani in make, looks like her work.”

“ Did they say the Löwenmaul's? Is that the rumoured Mage Crafter and his healer wife?”

“ By the Mother, he is really tall. Look at their silvered hair, my how fated.”

“ Do they have a child together?”

They even put a spin on Nora being his wife!  Arthur would have done a spit spray if he had a drink.

“ Did someone say a mage crafter and his healer wife?!”

“ Say that again?!”

And if that was not enough, like Whark’s scenting blood, the people he’d dreading came. Adventurers with avaricious eyes, hobnobbing councillors and awestruck masses turned their way.

Doubtless, there was no malice on her part. Madame Apaxvn also had her own admirers to contend with. Then again she showed her shrewdness by the choice of escort. Slenlog the jhordic half-giant was like an impenetrable shield. A Silver tier adventurer with a presence in his own right, the half giant was like a bluff upon which the tide of people broke. 

As a result, Madame Apaxvn was left with a few none-too starry eyed persons who did not look like they would bow and scrape in her presence.   The rest of the Wyndfinders also found themselves swallowed up, being asked to regale their story of a daring rescue.  They were a popular Silver Tier team, most notable because not many could boast of surviving as long as they had with three members. Someone even mentioned they were overdue for a promotion.

Naturally, the stories had Arthur’s and Nora’s involvement. He did not fault the Ahrakni woman for putting him in the cross hairs.  But who better to clean up the scent of blood than a dhampir? It was all metaphoric of course. 

Arthur watched Nora work her charm, literally. She was so well spoken and as surgically precise as a physician’s knife and as deft with her tact as she put on a veneer of politeness, rebuffing some of the more troublesome elements. 

Whether it was her bedside manner or just her soft power, it really worked wonders and Arthur wasn’t swamped by audacious requests. He turned down an offer to enlist a daughter as an attendant here, another to take up a tutoring gig here and yet another to join a team of Silver tiered  . Pointed questions about what they had inside the manor and the workings of the building were also thrown his way. 

Most were quick to point out that keeping such a building in top shape was too much for one servant, unaware that said servant was an automata. It was hard to tell that the servant was an automaton but a telecast from Nora let him know it was what she had been angling for.

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“ Preposterous; golems have simply none of the delicacy required for household chores. They are lumbering brutes who would sooner be a roch bull in a ceramic shop,” a man with mutton chops claimed.  His jowls quivered as he shook his head in disbelief; several spectators nodded in agreement. From his ripe as a tamarillo cheeks,  Arthur thought he had one too many drinks. His waistline was in danger of spilling out of his coat. The man had been adamant that Arthur’s claim of a golem the size of a humanoid would still be a bumbling brute proving that automata were either few and far between or nonexistent.

“ Counci―

‘ Councillor Ealric,’ Nora whispered over the telecry. She was occupied with the fairer sex.

“ ―llor Ealric.  I can summon them for you if you would like,” Arthur said, keeping off the grimace in his face. [Eye of the Storm] was paying dividends. Had he not had it, the man’s attempt to foist off one of his daughters to work at the manor would have made him blow his top a few breaths ago. 

“Zumi!” Arthur beckoned the automata.  The automata had been standing so still they might as well have been a fixture near the wall even though there were  attendants who had stood there ready to intervene when their masters and mastresses called.

 A servant squeaked and almost jumped in the air as the automata moved; there were gasps and equal parts awe and horror as the exotically dressed automata strutted towards him, parting the throng who gave way with anxious looks.

“ What are you doing, that is simply a maiden who is too pale of skin. Aren’t those tattoos on her face?” one of the councillor’s flunkies remarked. But even he was unsure as the automata came to a stop and wordlessly bowed in front of Arthur. Someone mumbled something about eccentric enchanters as they remarked on the runic tracery.

“ Meet Zumi, they run my manor,” Arthur shook his head with a pained smile. 

‘Volemhir was right about growing into my heritage as a [Scion]’  Arthur thought wistfully. He thought that explained Szephia’s mercurial nature as a Faerieborn Avatar and her proclivity towards mischief, like last ephemeral kiss just to toy with him. For Arthur, his bane as a Dragontouched Scion  was going to be pride. And it was rearing its fat ugly head.

“ Perform some exotic tricks. I have seen maidservants with [Detach Emotion] and [Adroit Pose],” another one said. 

Arthur sighed; there were contrarians in every world. If he had explained that a phone could take still images without magic there would have been yet another dozen doubting Thomases.

‘What was your plan Nora?’ Arthur telecast his companion.

‘ Knowing thy enemy's intentions  in advance, maybe?’ Nora sent back. ‘ Like you, this is my own way of covering my bases.’

‘Ah,’ Arthur realised. She was referring to the conspiracy board. ‘Using the automata as bait?’

His gaze never settled on one area for more than a few moments as he watched the reaction of some important personages. Most seemed indifferent, almost apathetic. The dwarves pretended to be engrossed in something of their own while the Sylvani seemed to have better things to do than gawk like the rest. Arthur thought they looked snooty.

‘Hmm…can you lean a little into it? Showoff perhaps? Mages Crafters love to show off their finds.’  Nora said.

“ Oh ye of little faith,” Arthur feigned a groan as he walked around the automata. He actually cringed at his method acting as  onlookers seemed to take that as a prompt to step back for a spectacle. 

‘ What do you have in mind?’ Arthur asked as soon as a space had been cleared.

‘ You told me you fought them,’  Nora  sent back. 

‘Oh, that’s an idea so crazy it might have come from  fiction…’ Arthur sent back. 

“Very well then. A glass of water on a tray?” Arthur prompted. A passing attendant handed one over on a steel tray. Arthur took the tote bag from the automata and exchanged it for the platter.  Nora took the tote bag from him.

“ Here is a steel tray ,” Arthur said. “ Metal,” He reiterated.  “ And this is water,” he said, drinking from the glass.

“ Are you going to make her juggle a glass of water on a platter?” someone called out.

“Hmm, I don’t think I would. Too generic…” Arthur said  as he placed the glass atop the tray . He moved a distance away as if contemplating something.

Without warning, he turned around, and from his faux spell glove threw a [Spark Bolt] in the automata’s face. People screamed in alarm as they jumped back, flinching from the brightness and noise. When hue and cry had died down, they saw that the automata remained standing  where they had been. Sparks crackled on her clothing  and the platter but the water and the glass remained untouched.

“ That was a tier 2 [Spark Bolt],” Arthur said. “ Useless against golems as they would merely absorb the spell without effect,” he said, taking the glass and drinking from it. He grimaced at the taste of ionised water. 

 “ However, automata on the other hand are a different matter altogether,” pointing out the minute twitches on the automata’s frame. He didn’t have to mention that a flesh and blood person would be on the floor in worse condition. The onlookers looked aghast. Some guards already moved, worried that some hothead had already caused problems before realising it had been a false alarm.

“ Well, that was some shock value,” Arthur said. Then the tinkling of a wine glass broke the spell as the Meet began in earnest.

The Sylvani New Year and it seemed things could only pick up the ante from there. In the streets, in homes , taverns and bars, heck even the red light district was flush with gaiety. Drinks flowed aplenty,  tongues and perhaps much more  were loosened, the smaller merchants purses  had never been heavier.  Merriment was on the air; but not for everyone.

There seemed to be a more insidious happening  going on. Even the few footpads preying on a hapless fellow who'd wandered off into the wrong alley knew the jig was up.  Before  organised crime, they were small fish and they made themselves scarce as a gang of men in dust coats made their appearance. They had an aura about them even the rabble operating on the wrong side of the law learnt to read.

  “Hmph, slim pickings, a man scoffed at his lesser ilk as they scampered away. A drunk lay passed out, bereft of everything apart from their underclothing as they snored away the night.

“ Can't blame them; adventurers and what not,” his accomplice replied. His street name was Scar. Amongst their ilk, those who earned their names were just that, Names.

 It was a play on words, just like there were Titled families so were there Titled Adventurers, who ranked  just above Mithril tier. Their actual guild classification was Adamantine but  it was the titles that they were known by.  Like  Ernisius the Hydrabane, for example; now that was a name. Similarly, even the crime had its own guild and hierarchies.  

The No-Names sat at the bottom of the totem pole, Names sat in the middle, the top had the Nameless who suffered no one alive to tell the tale. The lowest of the low were the Nicks, riffraffs and street rats; the rabble so to speak. They coined the term themselves and their appellations were no different than the two word combinations goblins had. Which was what just about every other rank above them called them; gobs. A slur for a filth.

As for Scar, being a Name was already well-earned. Scar had a generous number of scars, you couldn't tell where one began and another ended. Now that was one man who'd  gotten into more scraps than he was old. He had one particularly ghastly one that went across his neck which he had a [Tattooist Enchanter] mark with red tattoos, like blood. A berserker’s rune tattoos for those stun bellows, because Scar was a [Bruiser] aspiring to be one.

The second man was Whisper. Ironically, he was talkative, until there was wet work involved. The whisper of a blade was the last thing one heard. If you survived the first time, you wouldn’t be able to pick him out from the everyday fellow on the street, he had the blandest of faces and voices imaginable and might as well be the new cook you added to your retinue come to finish you with poison.

Whisper was good with his blades, or anything that was small and had a sharp edge like a lockpick. Infact, his throwing knives were so obnoxiously towards the point that they looked like picks. And these he had about four of them threaded and nestled alongside the vials of poisons  inside his dust coat. He also wore a pair of gloves and was a stickler for cleanliness. Nonetheless, Whisper confessed himself a [Liquidator], not an [Assassin].

“ Aye, without the 'naiad 'n all,  we wouldn't be 'ere otherwise. Now let's quit lollygagging—I want in on the action afore the ship leaves. I want to see who our third friend is,” Whisper replied.

“ You remember how to work those things?”  Scar asked, scratching at a scab that still itched. He was referring to the  odd bricklike  items  Whisper had been fiddling with for a while as they scoped out the quarter. There was a scant number of adventurers, most had gone to indulge in the festivities. Trust people who jumped headfirst into danger to  go hard on such things, especially after the last debacle that had some missing in action, dead or incapacitated.

“ Hmm,” Whisper replied. “ Wind up the chroniker like so. Remember, we have 60 heartbeats, before it all goes up with a blaze of glory,”

“By the way, why yer reckon  the The Cook calls 'imself so?” Scar asked. They peeked from an alleyway and then walked as though they knew they belonged there. The Sojourner's Quarter was unsurprisingly deserted. 

“How would I know? Do we sorts look like the kinda folk to hobnob with them? All he's good for cooking is these eccentric creations he calls pyromites,”  Whisper shrugged.

 Finally finding a place that suited their task, they got down working. A loose window was pried under a [Muffle] skill from Whisper as they broke into one of the rented cruckhouses. Whisper entered while Scar remained on watch.

“Hmm,maybe he's crazy like one of them mad wizards. Can't deny he cooks th' best Pearl. I hear even one of the Fingers is starting to take notice. Seems like the new fix's givin'  Dream Lich and Haze grass a run for their gold.” Scar mumbled to himself

“ Better stay off those fixes, they ain't good for you.”

The hair at the nape of Scar’s neck stood on end as he heard the steel in his accomplice’s voice carry from afar.

‘Damn that Whisper and his cantrips.’ Scar thought as he grumbled as he fished for his roll of moonleaf. That was not to be as Whisper came back out. Scar immediately thought against it and wearily thought against and wearily patted his pockets in exasperation.; Whisper abhorred all things drugs.

“ The chroniker’s ready to start a countin,” Whisper said. “ Send the signal, we’re heading to the ship.”

“ Aye,” Scar mumbled as got a spell orb and began  sending a [Cipher] as they broke into a fast walk. A Name or not, one wouldn’t want to be caught at the scene of a crime.

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