Open Chronicles Invitation to the Rose Garden Tea Party

Beatrice Orabela · Sep 19, 2025

OOC:
Open to all
You may decided if there is some reason House Orabela sent your character a special invitation.

In character when answering the riddle you can discuss and strategize but to not make it too obvious it might be best to leave what your character is saying the answer is vague or not state it at first.
If you think you know the answer to the riddle you can message the Beatrice account on the site or message me on discord . This way if someone guesses it right away it gives others the chance to still take a crack at it.
If somehow the riddle is very hard I will give a hint in character after few days and a less subtle hint on discord.

Invitations had been sent to Nobility, the many merchant houses and those high contacts with which regularly did business with House Orabela.
Out of curtesy these had been sent well ahead, on thick fine parchment with gold embossing about it's edged and meticulous elegant penmanship in envelopes sealed with wax emblem of a single butterfly wing.
In addition to the letter was another smaller card of parchment it's words in golden ink and trim, a small riddle.

One needn’t have knowledge of me yet I am true.
Man, woman, and child, one and all are bound.
One cannot break me no matter how much might they accrue.
Only at great cost can my boundaries be found.

The Invitation specified there was to be a tea party at the Orabela estate. A grand tea party to celebrate Lady Beatrice's name day to which any may attend. The purpose written on the paper was to increase the chance for Beatrice's amusement. Though those of high society might very well be able to read between those well inked lines that this was a sort of re-debut after a long time shut away. Lady Beatrice had withdrawn from most social functions for years and had only been attending those matters which required her Prescence absolutely. It was as if to say come one and all, you will find no weakness in House Orabela.

Thus a few days before the Tea party illustrated parchment had been hung in a few locations to give even the common folk a chance to attend.
In a rare event indeed the large golden gates to house Orabela's estate were open wide. The tall enchanted suits of armor that normally guard the imposing gate notably absent. In their place were a handful of reserved uniformed servants standing to greet and direct guests. In dapper black and white tailoring with a golden butterfly embroidered upon shoulder or shirt collar. Each with an air of quiet poise.
These servants at the gate were all, at least in appearance, human.
They greeted each guest with equal politeness checking the invitations of those that had such against a list and personally guiding them to where the 'nobeler' guests were gathered. For indeed this was a grand event and the garden had been set to host all manner of guests.
Any guest not sent an invitation prior were handed a small parchment with the riddle in the trademark gold and waved into the garden.

Once one passed the tall sturdy wall surrounding the estate there came rolling greenery. Deceptively more so than one would think an estate in Alliria could house. Well trimmed hedge and many, many rose bushes in various shades. The garden wound in an almost maze like fashion so spread with topiary and flower beds that entering guests might not even notice the mansion itself at first, let alone be able to see how one would get to it's entrance.
Guests were guided to an open stretch of the garden where many tables of intricate metal work had been set. Servants were pouring tea into fine porcelain cups, and the tables were set with delicate little cakes, chocolates in various shapes and crust cut sandwiches of many varied ingredients.

Towards the back of the garden the tables were set on a raised wooden deck with carved lattice work covered in vine and climbing rose, shading it's tables. Near a large arch of red roses sat Beatrice herself, Cup in hand watching the tea party with interest. An elegant mature woman, her hair arranged in many waves of golden curls cascading down her shoulders, dressed in a coppery brown gown. Her every movement exuding a practiced grace and a hint of boredom.

Tuncan MacKraser · Sep 19, 2025

Ser Tuncan MacKraser. A knight of the highlands and a highlander knight if ever there was one. Or, at least, some might like to say. However, amid his sword and his play and his swordplay there was just a man ready to brave the land and accept the order of his lord wherever that land may take him.

Today, tonight, and after many days and nights on the ride, dinner in a tavern’s candlelight and breakfast over a campfire’s firelight, the journey had taken the knight quite a distance indeed. Tuncan had his sword, his horse, other forms of equipment and sported the right kind of attire for the adventure, along with mead and song to keep him company for the long trip.

Finally, he arrived at his given destination after his expedition began from the lands south of Vel Anir, so across the coast and southwest of Allir, in the land dubbed Edenham. From hills to plains, forests to rivers and lakes and landbridges, he came to the city of Allira and in one estate in particular.

“Sir Tuncan MicKraser,” a rather polite servant pronounced as he read the invitation that had since been given to the gentleman in his midst in one form or fashion, for one reason or the other. At least, for this house and its event, he was supposed to present himself as no less of a gentleman.

“Ser Tuncan MacKraser,” the guest announced, and corrected. “Mac,” he half-grinned. “Not Mic.” The servant blinked at him and he didn't flinch, thumb dipped into the belt at his hip where a dirk was sheathed—to be relinquished only if requested. If it wasn’t? Merely a trinket and tradition (and protection, if he’d admit it).

His outfit was not that of a highlander’s traveler’s garb but a bit more sophisticated with its green jacket. However, he wanted to represent his liege as much as his heritage so, inevitably, he presented himself with a brown checkered sash from hilt to shoulder, kilt, and high black boots that reached to his knees where his skirt didn’t cover.

Right. His other hand? It rested on the hilt of the sword sheathed at his hip to be given the same treatment as his dagger, all formalities considered of course. One way or the other, however, Tuncan was given entrance into this pristine establishment as beckoned with his invitation, permitted, even if he felt like he did not quite earn or deserve his position. Yet he did as bidden per his lordship’s behest.

Just another guest, he hoped, as he passed hedge and rose bush, flower bed and all manner of verdant wonder. Aye. Hearken my heart back to homeland in another time. He couldn’t help but grin at this garden. It was more vivid and rich than any lordship.

Through the looking glass clearly. Riddles in the dark. Spyglass in the pouch that hung from his belt and then some, but Tuncan needed only his green eyes to see with as he spied guests and servants, close or far, a smile to his guile and patience with plain step to his gait.

The host of the rose. Tuncan turned and gave only a delicate notice to her though. Beatrice Orabela. Her golden hair enriched her beauty, as words beyond golden ink in letters of cards and parchments inferred, but her shoulders were another form of boredom when it came to a different plate that had taken Tuncan’s gaze.

“Looking for a malty tea blend,” Ser MacKraser gestured toward a servant at a buffet table. “Something strong. Not sweet.”

“Quite right!” The server answered, polite as ever. “Might this suffice, sir?” He offered the tea leaves. Tuncan nodded. The tea was poured into a porcelain cup and the highlander walked off with a plate of chai spice cake, cinnamon cake, lemon cake and apple cake. It was a battle of wits and appetite as he turned around, looked at the crowd, took little bites and sips. Indifferent? Not quite. Never mind the riddle.

Beatrice Orabela

Petrus Ritus Iskandar · Sep 19, 2025

Among the first to arrive was a luxurious carriage of black-and-gold. The golden sun upon a black horizon topped by a glistening crown of House Iskandar detailed upon the carriage, the accompanying knights, and even their cloaks. Stepping from the carriage Petrus Ritus Iskandar would have an unknown woman upon his arm, both of them not in the colors of his house but instead in a combination of cream and white.

He had, perhaps foolishly, commissioned a renowned seamster in Alliria to design his clothing for the occasion without knowing beforehand that the man would heavily incorporate a falcon motif into the ensemble. Petrus was... not a fan. But he maintained a dignified appearance as he helped Pneria down the carriage steps and through the gates.

Of course those present knew him, his House, and so they two of them were directed to the garden and he would murmur softly to Pneria.

"Remind me to remove that seamster from my contracted associates."

Before he would gingerly hand his female companion the card on which the riddle of the evening was printed.

"Should you be the first one to solve this, My Pneria, I shall let you keep the entire reward yourself."

With that motivation given he would gingerly guide Pneria toward the Lady Beatrice Orabela herself. He was, after all, not a man to waste time and had no qualms about approaching the woman directly. Rumors abounded that Petrus was now finally in the works of joining the ruling Merchant Council, an increase in status, in prestige, and power but the man remained much the same as he nodded respectfully.

"Lady Orabela, a pleasure as always, I fear with your return to public life the sun has a new golden rival in your hair and the stars bright rivals in your eyes."

Despite the flattering words Petrus gave them as flatly, as bluntly, as if he were reading a script before his very eyes. But he did not miss a beat before presenting Pneria and ushering her forward.

"May I present the Lady Pneria, my companion for the evening."

His eyes drifted after this introduction, noting a man with fiery red hair demanding a tea at his own table, and did not immediately recognize him. For now the man remained beneath his notice outside his stark features however.

Tuncan MacKraser

Pneria · Sep 20, 2025

This was a time of sun, gold and finery. The very skies seemed to serve House Orabela on this auspicious day, causing every gilded gate and gold-leafed statue to glitter spectacularly. Pneria was peeking through the carriage windows, finger on the curtain, feeling the cobbles shaking up through the wheels of their transport.

Once, this would have been a death sentence. Nethers, it might still be. She would only have dared to be here at night, and even then, she would be careful. But now, she was going to be in the domain of the sun, ruthlessly laying bare every imperfection, while glorifying wealth and power. Burning so bright in the glare of two mighty Houses, Pneria hoped her own, small light would go mostly unnoticed.

Stepping out of the carriage, she dutifully linked arms with Lord Petrus, matching his long and brisk stride. A cowl covered her head, its collar and cloak rippling after her, along with the orange ends of her florally-designed dress. The sun highlighted her white blouse below a tight-laced corset, wound with ribbons in the same colour as her skirt. A tad more leather than usual extended from her corset, forming a single pauldron and a spare pouch and belts - carriyng some minor gear and poultices - on her insistence. She was allowed some shadows to fall over her face too from the hood of her cloak and its accompanying collar, covering the worst of her blistered skin.

Skin which had, miraculously, healed somewhat under Iskandar patronage. She couldn't believe it herself when she had first seen it in the mirror, but much of the offensive growths on her face had relinquished their hold, restricting themselves to parts of her body she could cover. The symptoms, however, remained, so the effect had been mostly cosmetic so far - but it was certainly a start.

A leopard couldn't change its spots, and in much the same manner, Pneria felt more comfortable with her added features to her dress, arriving at a compromise between practicality and pageantry.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar said:
"Remind me to remove that seamster from my contracted associates."

She noted the labyrinthic hedges in the gardens while he criticised his contracted seamster. A possible avenue of escape there, ideal for shaking pursuers. She smirked side-long at his comment, eyes still lingering on the flora and neatly-cut hedge.

"Noted."

She didn't have much to compare with in her experience when it came to fancy clothes. In her view, he looked much more dapper than he usually did, but who was she to comment about high fashion?

Petrus Ritus Iskandar said:
"Should you be the first one to solve this, My Pneria, I shall let you keep the entire reward yourself."

Attempting to keep her face impassive, she accepted the card, giving it a cursive look. Her lust for gold flared nearly as bright as the golden statues around, shining through her glittering, grey eyes. She kept her mouth in a studious pout however, flipping the card, as if its back could reveal some part of the riddle.

All she had to do was solve a small riddle? Child's play.

"The entire reward? Astra's breath," a brief, cheeky grin flashed across her features, before subduing into a blank, proper face. "I'll hold you to that, m'lord."

After some time in his employ, and not having been offered up for the executioner's block yet, she had grown slightly more comfortable with his company. She had come to learn the limits and the extent to which she could voice her thoughts, before overstepping her boundaries in his service. It was a delicate balance on a knife's edge, swaying between formality and more genuine banter.

But she sensed that he sought something more than simple servitude. An ally, perhaps, or a witness to his achievements. She wasn't certain he believed in the notion of friendship, but she got the sense of faint disappointment from him whenever she pressed all of her humanity flat into servility.

She had not forgotten that fateful night in his mansion - and the wrath that could ensue from his scorned honour. Every word, every oath she uttered, she had to choose with care, lest her shift in fortunes turned into a final curse. The notion of revenge she had once harboured had morphed into a guarded caution instead, seeing as he had actually delivered on his lavish promises so far.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar said:
"Lady Orabela, a pleasure as always, I fear with your return to public life the sun has a new golden rival in your hair and the stars bright rivals in your eyes."

Despite the flattering words Petrus gave them as flatly, as bluntly, as if he were reading a script before his very eyes. But he did not miss a beat before presenting Pneria and ushering her forward.

"May I present the Lady Pneria, my companion for the evening."

Pneria pulled back her hood, letting her dark hair tumble freely around her - faint, black blisters still marking her cheek below her left eye. Her mouth was kept in a secure line of perfect neutrality, iron eyes studying Lady Orabela briefly, before downcast in respectful submission. She gave an economical curtsey - as she had been trained by the Iskandar manservant - avoiding any flashy gestures to minimise the risk of error.

"Enchan'ed, Lady Orabela. It is a great pleasure and honour to be in your radiant presence."

These two sentences were drilled into her with military rigour, and her voice came out about as mechanical and flat as Petrus' previous greeting. Additionally, her Shallows accent mangled the words, dragging them through the gutter and clipping certain dental consonants with working-class elision. All the training in the world couldn't completely eradicate her low-born heritage.

Beatrice Orabela
Petrus Ritus Iskandar

Irman Harefoot · Sep 20, 2025

Irman Harefoot sighed as he helped himself to a plate of tiny sandwiches and pitted olives. He had no business in the noble section of the party yet here he was, on special invitation and everything.

In truth, Irman was there in a partially professionally capacity. With such a large and public event, the city of Alliria afforded House Orabela a loan of city guards and well regarded mercenaries. Irman fell into the latter category. He was then chosen to attend to the noble section of the party either due to talent and renown or far more likely because the lady of the house saw that one of the contracted mercenaries had the appearance of a small rabbit, and was enamored by the novelty.

The novelty certainly had a charm over many nobles there, who were completely unaware that Irman could hear every gossipy whisper they exchanged amongst themselves

“What a charming little specimen…”
“It’s sort of freaky looking isn’t it?”
“Like something from a fairy tale”
“I wonder if I could get one of those too..”
“It even has whiskers”

Irman felt some comfort though in the fact that he was allowed to move around and act as those he was just another guest. He was even given a copy of the riddle, though he had no interest in solving it personally.

There didn’t seem anything too suspicious going on as the flow of arriving guests began to slow. Irman was a bit concerned about just how many swords people were bringing, though most seemed to just have them as fashion accessories rather than readily available weapons. One sword though caught Irman’s attention in particular. A blade hanging from the hip of a red haired human. He could a tell by a glance that the sword had been wielded before, and the man in question had wielded it.

Irman approached the man out of curiosity. A noble from the highlands? Perhaps a knight? He approached the man, making no effort to hide the thin dueling sword or simple dagger he had hanging from his own belt.

“That’s quite a blade you got there Ser. Hardly the kind you’d see belonging to an amateur fencer.”

Afanas · Sep 20, 2025

Afanas sat in the shade as if he had grown there, a tall black graft stitched to the trunk of the afternoon. The bench was a toy beneath him, a confession of smallness that creaked at every adjustment of his weight. He did not fidget. He had learned long ago that stillness was its own kind of threat. Only the brim of his hat moved—tilted up a thumb’s width so one pale eye could watch the golden gates and the traffic of souls that threaded through them.

The gates were the color of old teeth. Sun laid itself on their bars like a lover too languid to rise, and the metal soaked the light, warming it to honey, then to something cloying. Close as he sat—mere steps from them—he could hear the gates breathe. Not air, but the tiny sigh of settling hinges, the whisper of gold cooling. When they opened, they did not swing; they yawned.

The roses were thick about him, their heads fat and imperial on stems that bristled with ironwork thorns. The smell should have been innocent: dew, green pith, sweetness. Instead there was a mineral tang under it, the scent of old nails drawn from old wood. Bees moved like lacquered bullets. The air trembled with their hymn.

He lifted the half-eaten apple and regarded its bitten moon. It looked absurd in his hand—his fingers all knuckles and elegant cruelty, nails like tiny knives. The fruit was a doll’s heart in a butcher’s grasp. Its wet edge glistened; a thread of juice crawled down the white meat and took on the dust of the path, becoming gray, then black, as if learning sin in a hurry. He turned it, found a new flawless crescent, and bit again. The apple failed him. It had the crispness of promise and the flavor of water. He chewed until there was nothing worth savaging and then he let the pulp rest on his tongue, tasting the faint metal that wasn’t from the fruit at all.

He tilted the hat a little farther, as if indulging a question. The apple felt already dead in his palm; his grip bruised it into confession. He brushed a thumb across a seed. It shone with the obscene polish of an eye. If he planted it here, he wondered, what would the garden grow for him? A tree that bore the faces of those who lied to themselves? A crop of little bells chiming whenever someone spoke a truth by accident?

He set the apple on the bench beside him. Ants would come. The small clerks of the earth were honest in their accountings.

A servant went by with a tray. The tea steam curled above the pot like handwriting that refused to be read. Afanas smelled bergamot and something underneath that might have been the kitchen’s copper, or might have been blood remembered by the water. He did not reach for a cup. The mouth is a door. Doors should not be opened for guests who do not know how to leave.

Shadow collected along the lines of his cheek like wine in a cut glass. A lock of hair—black as the lacquer on funeral wood—slid free and lay on his collar. The buckle at his belt, that skull token, grinned at the gravel with more sincerity than most of the guests showed each other.

A child—no, a woman cleverly arranged to be mistaken for a child—stopped just short of him and peered as if he were a curiosity in a traveling cage. She wanted to ask how tall he was. She wanted to ask whether he could see the future from up there. She wanted to ask a hundred small, hungry things that would keep her from hearing the large, necessary question already knocking at the back of her skull. She swallowed them and scurried on, light as moth ash.

Beyond him the garden worked its illusions—paths white as bone, thorns with the polish of surgical hooks, servants smiling with human faces where the armors should have stood. They greeted, they guided, and the open gates yawned wider, their old guardians conspicuously absent.

Farther in, beneath an arch drowned in red bloom, the woman who owned the day sat with a cup and the posture of a saint forced to perform her miracle a second time. Golden hair, copper gown, the effortless grammar of power arranged in her fingers and eyelids. Afanas tasted iron and decided it was the roses, not the tea.

Afanas adjusted a fold of cloak, the leather answering in a soft, wet murmur, and drifted a step closer to the flow of arrivals already bled into presence: the hostess with her bored grace, the falcon-stitched merchant lord and his hooded companion, the red-haired knight, the rabbit-marked watcher.

Seven feet of night arranged into manners, he turned to the path that would let him be seen when he wished and ignored when he didn’t. He left the apple on the bench for the ants to audit. By the time he took his second step, they were already at their work, and the bees, which knew the arithmetic of feasts, sung louder.

Beatrice Orabela · Sep 20, 2025

Bored as her expression may be, the polite smile never dropped from her lips, and little escaped her notice.
She watched the guests begin to stagger in wide eyed one by one.
Alliria being as diverse as it was, it would take quite the deviation to catch her off guard. That was one reason the gates had been thrown wide. To increase the possibility of some amusement. For there was nothing she hated more than boredom.
Not too far away she caught the glance of a tall man in kilt with the fierce red hair of the highlands. He seemed to be enjoying sweets from the over flowing offerings. She imagined she might have to wait quite until stomach's were satiated and pleasantries given before any one braved chancing a response to the riddle.

Some of the homegrown Nobles had begun to arrive as well. House Iskandar was very certainly on the rise to being on equal footing. No, perhaps claiming such was hubris. Her own house had a complicated position, where they may have once been among the strongest they had withdrawn and rested on their laurels for too long. It was the subtle turmoil of such upheavals in recent times that had spurred her to move forward with her own goals in earnest.
He was wearing noticeably lighter colored clothing than usual. Normally she would have taken that to be a statement of some kind. Especially with a woman in arm. Yet the woman on his arm did not seem to be high born. While her features held a certain charm she wasn't the sort of beauty nobility normally paraded around as a prize.
She met Petrus' flattery with the same unchanging smile. Her eyes sizing them both up swiftly.
"Lord Iskandar, Your flattery is as clever as your investments. It is a privilege to have a rising sun among our roses. "
Beatrice's gaze shifted to the woman who had been introduced as a Lady. She wasn't sure what gamble Iskandar was making but he had brought along a pawn of some kind. Beatrice would certainly be watching. Then again she was watching many of the guests.
"Hoh~ A passable performance Lady Pneria, I welcome you both to my garden and my game of wit."

It seemed that that city itself, or rather the council, was watching too. She herself had no petition to station them here, but the council had insisted. The stated purpose was a concern that the commoners might start quibbling or bothering nobles, that they only feared for her safety. As if she didn't know very well that the other houses on the council would breath a sigh of relief if some tragedy forced her to withdraw again. She could see their new lord commander lurking around in the shadows.

Ah well she wouldn't begrudge it. If someone really did try something foolish it might provide a few moments of amusement to see what the council's coin was paying for.
Among the nobles and guards mingled a twee rabbit folk. Perhaps it had been selected in the hopes she would find it sweet. She had almost wondered if one of the servants from the inner mansion had wandered outside before noticing it's flamboyant clothing and shiny armor. Seeing the little rabbit knight standing next to the tall and robust fire haired man was quaint. Somehow they had an air of a fable about them. whimsical indeed

Beatrice summoned a small folding fan of a similar copper to her gown. She set her tea down and fanned herself lightly as she turned back to the two before her. "Do feel free to join my table or mingle with the other guests as you desire. Oh, and should you find you've an answer to my little challenge and be elsewhere about the garden when inspiration strikes, you may let a servant know your answer. You will find they are quite efficient at being my hands and ears. "

It certainly wasn't mandatory, she imagined there would be plenty of guests not even willing to brave an attempt. Still, she held hope there was much time yet left for it to be solved.
Petrus Ritus Iskandar
Pneria
Tuncan MacKraser
Irman Harefoot
Afanas

Tuncan MacKraser · Sep 21, 2025

The cup and saucer might have been a tankard of ale just the other day, the plate of cake replaced with spiced minced meat pie, and the highlander would have been at peace to stand and eat and drink. At this establishment, however, it was a bit awkward to walk around with a cup and saucer so delicate and a plate of cakes no less so.

So, instead, as he spread his lips at a passing server with a tray in his hand, and nodded at a guest whose own lips were spread at him as she nodded back, Tuncan found an empty table and sat his food and drink down. He didn’t sit himself. His hindquarters needed a break from all the sitting he did on the way.

Hand resting on the sword hilt that tilted from his hip, he witnessed a pair approach the host. Both were adorned in clothes quite appropriate for the occasion: a kind of hybrid amid black, grey and white for him with a crimson cape. A true noble, that one, hm. Whether he was truly noble, though, was a different story.

His lady was dressed to represent a flower’s throne. The cowl shrouded her, like the veil of a wedding dress, after a fashion. The highlander knew nothing of these two at first glance but the lady piqued his interest more than her companion did. The lass hides in plain sight, perhaps.

Standing with cup and saucer in hand, back resting against a pillar, his eyes went this way and that when words came. The highlander turned, gaze taking in his visitor amid his bristly fur. Hm. Tuncan cocked a brow in genuine interest. That, sir, is a rabbit.

Irman Harefoot said:
“That’s quite a blade you got there Ser. Hardly the kind you’d see belonging to an amateur fencer.”

“Indeed,” he agreed with a glance at his scabbard. The straight blade that was sheathed with a basket hilt would indicate it for a broadsword to a trained gaze. “We folk of the highlands pride ourselves on our swords and the skills to wield them as well, hm.” He mentioned with a corner of his lips tilted into a simple grin, coating his throat with another sip.

“And that?” Tuncan nodded at the rabbit’s belt. “Rapier, I believe?” Irman Harefoot

Interaction Tags
Irman Harefoot

General Tags
Beatrice Orabela Petrus Ritus Iskandar Pneria Afanas

Irman Harefoot · Sep 22, 2025

“You believe correctly Ser. Had it for many years after I realized most towns don’t take too kindly to you hauling a polearm up and down.”

By highlands, Irman assumed the man meant the region next to both Val anir and the Falwood. Those two places were ones Irman always made sure to steer clear of though this land of the highlanders was always somewhere that sounded quite interesting. They’d likely have little use for a mercenary though. Spending time in a mountainous region might be nice however.

“Ah sorry.” Irman remarked “my mind wandered for a moment there, say I haven’t gone and even introduced myself yet have I?”

He stuck his hand out to offer a handshake with the tall man.

“Irman Harefoot, rabbit at arms.”

Tuncan MacKraser · Saturday at 11:27 AM

“Aye. Yet my highlands don’t tend to mind.”

The rabbit man had a point, of course, more than the tip of his sword. It was one thing to carry a scabbard in communities for your blade to stay in or a bow and quiver on your back. Brandishing a big axe or a great spear, however, namely in your hands, might earn some brows in certain towns if not bump some heads.

Setting his cup in his saucer with a delicate clink, the highlander accepted the extended hand, a firm grip from his fingers, and offered a grin.

“Rabbit at arms, is it? Hm.” He spoke in no mocking tone. “It’s a privilege, Iman Harefoot.” Taking another sip, he licked his lips. The tea he picked was rich; strong, not sweet. “Ser Tuncan MacKraser, at your service, hm.”

A server approached just then, asking if they needed anything on or from the tray. Tuncan didn’t but did pass over a strip of paper in a gesture for it to be delivered to the host of this rose garden tea party.

“We’ll see if I have the answer to the riddle right, aye?” He returned his attention to his fellow patron. “Now, master rabbit-at-arms armed with a rapier, how about you tell me more of your people, and I shall tell you of mine, hm? I admit, I am rather curious.” What better way to pass the time in an event like this than by making conversation?

Interaction Tags
Irman Harefoot Beatrice Orabela

General Tags
Beatrice Orabela Petrus Ritus Iskandar Pneria Afanas

Petrus Ritus Iskandar · Sunday at 5:51 AM

Petrus gave a ghost of a bowed head at Beatrice Orabela when she replied. The tepid approval of the hostess was then followed by a pointed remark toward Pneria and Petrus would glance sidelong at his companion for only a brief flicker before an easy, liquid shadow of a smile would grace his features. Like the pouring of molasses would it fill his features though offer not a hint of the sweetness of that selfsame syrup. His voice a low, knowing tone as he remarked.

"Passable enough, it seems."

Petrus would let his gaze meet Beatrice's for a moment. Something unsaid in his gaze, silent, but no less definitive a statement as Beatrice gave her niceties. In response words would join his gaze in a tone altogether unbothered and equally appraising.

"Joining your table would make this gathering much more entertaining."

Pulling back a chair for himself and Pneria he would finish his statement as he sat directly across from Beatrice.

"One can only hear so much of the House Orabela's hospitality before wishing to experience it in person."

Petrus would gently move Pneria's hand from his arm to the table, relinquishing their physical contact but taking up his companion's gaze.

"Pneria, do pay close attention to our esteemed Hostess. You'll find few rarer women in Alliria to learn a thing or two from."

Turning his gaze back Beatrice he would sit back in the chair and his expression would flatten, a sort of granite weight settling into his eyes as he spoke now.

"It is not uncommon for Hosts or Hostesses to have a surprise up their sleeve for these sorts of gatherings. To leave a.... lasting impression of the event."

A heartbeat's worth of a pause.

"Is this riddle of yours all you have in mind for today, Lady Orabela?"

Petrus's expression remained inscrutable. Even the scant glances of emotion he displayed being choices rather than reactions. The thoughts flowing behind his eyes were solely his own and even someone else accustomed to the games of nobility would find him a singularly granite wall of stoic mystery when trying to size him up or glean anything from his countenance.

Beatrice Orabela
Pneria

Pneria · Sunday at 9:32 AM

Pneria seated herself, hands on her lap, as cautious about touching the table or any cutlery as if they were booby traps. Her nose twitched, mouth scrunching up at all the finery on display - the golden cutlery, the goblets, the no-doubt centuries old wine flowing . . . She had only managed to convert the accumulated value to about three-thousand gold pieces before Petrus spoke:

Petrus Ritus Iskandar said:
"Pneria, do pay close attention to our esteemed Hostess. You'll find few rarer women in Alliria to learn a thing or two from."

She did pay attention to her - as one might keep their eye on a lounging lionness - but with his words, she was allowed a more blatant and studious look. Taking in the woman with golden hair - all soft, rolling curls like kneaded butter - and warm cinnamon eyes glancing at her with languid bemusement. Though not the familiar warmth of a friendly acquintance, but rather like a distant furnace, preparing to smelt those around her into new material.

Pneria felt positive there was nothing she could learn from her. She looked old, at least what counted for old in the Shallows, though not yet wrinkled. What could a scurrying thief possibly learn from the height of nobility? He might as well have asked the moon to learn from the sun. Their sole similarity happened to be their shared routes in the sky, taking turns to lord over day or night, rarely crossing paths.

Until now.

She awaited patiently what this burning celestial might want to sear into their hearts.

Beatrice Orabela
Petrus Ritus Iskandar

Afanas · Sunday at 10:35 AM

Beatrice Orabela
Petrus Ritus Iskandar
Irman Harefoot
Pneria
Tuncan MacKraser

Afanas moved slowly, yet soundlessly. His clothes didn't shuffle nor did his feet make a single noise as he made his way from standing beneath the shade of a tree, cleverly concealed by two bushes, to being just a few paces away from his host's table. The very air seemed to part before him, as if the garden itself recognized the presence of something that did not quite belong to the world of afternoon pleasantries and gilded conversation.

Slowly, he removed his large, dark hat and held it to his chest with one hand while his other hand worked to brush long, stray locs that had fallen over his forehead. The gesture was precise, calculated, every movement deliberate. He was the tallest of the lot by far and the only one dressed almost completely in dark colors, his silhouette cutting through the dappled sunlight like a blade through silk.

The contrast was striking and entirely intentional. Where the other guests adorned themselves in the bright colors of spring and prosperity, Afanas wore the deep charcoal of storm clouds and winter nights. His cloak, though impeccably tailored, seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, and his presence cast a subtle pall over the immediate vicinity, not unlike how a cathedral's shadow might fall across a market square.

"A curious thing, Miss Orabela," He said, with the tired courtesy of a hangman at prayer, soft, even, and perfectly audible. The roses seemed to listen. Their red heads canted like congregation. “Your guard is a sieve. I begin to think you invited me here not for the riddle, but to present a measure of security that your men are incapable of reproducing."

Pneria · Sunday at 3:43 PM

A long shadow fell over the table, but it did not offer shelter from the penetrating rays of Beatrice Orabela. In fact, it did quite the opposite.

Pneria did not need to turn to recognise this presence. She felt danger prickling in the air even as he arrived, like an old sixth sense, a remnant of her life as Alicia Blackbolt. When he spoke, recognition settled over her like a phantom noose, already tightening her throat.

The Lord Commander. The bloody Lord Commander. Of *course* it was him. Why not serve up Velin Deal in the same manner, ghosts of her past come haunt her at this refined table?

She was already flat-footed by this extravagant environment. But to add this problem on top of things? This was the last thing she needed. The last time she had seen his pale mug was in the cistern, and that had at least been at some distance. Now he was standing not two yards from her. She could only hope he wouldn't recognise her outside her calle and pang - her thieving clothes and gear - and with some of her blisters healed from her face.

Pneria studiously kept her head turned away from him, pretending to inspect the nearby garden of roses. All the while, a mantra was beating through her mind like a rhythmic drum.

Please don't sit down, please don't sit down, please don't sit down . . .

Afanas
Beatrice Orabela
Petrus Ritus Iskandar

Beatrice Orabela · Sunday at 9:00 PM

Tuncan MacKraser said:
A server approached just then, asking if they needed anything on or from the tray. Tuncan didn’t but did pass over a strip of paper in a gesture for it to be delivered to the host of this rose garden tea party.

“We’ll see if I have the answer to the riddle right, aye?”

As the servant took the paper and silently viewed what was written, across the garden Beatrice lowered her gaze inclining her head. As if listening to a whispered secret she briefly saw the written answer and the red haired swordman through the servant's eyes and ears. Beatrice sneered and uttered a laugh under her breath.
” Ha↘Ha↗Ha↗ how sweetly naive, very well, I will accept this." She placed the hand fan aside and reached for a small box next to the tea pot. From this she pulled another piece of embossed parchment and a golden wax stamp.
She pressed the stamp to one corner creating a small glowing seal.

The servant returned Tuncan's scrap of paper and indicated for him to look at the back of the card provided earlier with the riddle. There as if they had always been there in gold lettering were the words " I the golden witch, acknowledge the owner of this card. This card bares proof that a favor may be granted."
The servant bowed ”congratulations, as before you may make your request to one of the servant's and we will relay this. Of course you need not make your request at this very moment. You may think well and reply at your convenience. Please enjoy your time in the garden."

Using such a vague riddle was turning out to be a quite good gauge of personality at the very least.
Beatrice turned her attentions back to those standing at her table.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar said:
"One can only hear so much of the House Orabela's hospitality before wishing to experience it in person."

She gave Petrus an amused almost derisive smile. Only for a moment. Then the reserved pretense of friendliness bloomed across her features once more.
"Hoh~ I do wonder just what stories those old vultures on the council crow about. "
So cordial they are when crawling to ask her to lend her funds and vote to this or that. Yet none of them had the spine to show up to her little game. It seemed even rats could learn to be weary of unguarded cheese.

Petrus Ritus Iskandar said:
"It is not uncommon for Hosts or Hostesses to have a surprise up their sleeve for these sorts of gatherings. To leave a.... lasting impression of the event."

A heartbeat's worth of a pause.

"Is this riddle of yours all you have in mind for today, Lady Orabela?"

Beatrice gave a feigned look of innocent surprise. Raising a hand to her cheek as if slightly offended.
"Is my little game of wit and some lovely sweets not enough to satisfy your tastes? If I did have a little something planned then it would spoil the surprise to even confirm or deny as such, Lord Iskander. So I shan't. "

She needn't have assured him that there were no nasty tricks on the horizon. Perhaps some of the previous Beatrice's might have used such a gathering to pull some cruel stunt, poisoning the tea, handing out cursed items, or perhaps even summoning some great arcane beast in the center of the garden. These were softer more orderly times, or perhaps she herself had become softer and more orderly. The physical proof of it was approaching just then like a mirage of shadow in this sun bathed garden.
To her inviting the Lord Commander was much more an assurance for the guests than herself. His assessment of her guard holding no great offense. For it might well be that way. There was nothing of import for her servants to guard in the garden.

"Does such a notion displease you, Lord Commander? Here I thought you the type to find joy in sheltering a rose from rain, A real white horse type. Ah↩︎ ha↗ ha↗ "

Though from the corner of her eye Lord iskander's companion appeared to be fretting even more than before.
Perhaps the Lord commander was not as reassuring presence as she had intended. His stature was a bit imposing perhaps, but not menacingly so. His features were certainly handsome enough to invoke a blush on a maiden but Lady Pneria had arrived on another man's arm. How amusing.

"I should hope that this little gathering will remain but a dull assessment of my guards. Though I do so rarely have the option of seeing skill such as yours put to the test. It almost makes one hope for a bit of mischief."

interaction
Tuncan MacKraser
Petrus Ritus Iskandar
Pneria
Afanas

general
Irman Harefoot

Irman Harefoot · 2025-10-02T14:17:50-0400

Irman had stepped away from the crowd to escape the relentless gossiping that was coming forth once the Lord commander had suddenly appeared. He definitely had some interest about what the good lady was discussing with that darkly dressed man, but then he’d be just a blather mouth away from being a gossiper too.

“Hells, is that the lord commander?”

“Course it is, don’t matter though. Plan’s already in motion.”

A Plan? That sounded to Irman like something a guard should be rather attentive of. He glanced to the side, noticing a pair of men who seemed like any other guests at the garden. “Seemed” being rather important, as Irman knew cutthroats when he saw them.

The pair uttered some more, though Irman couldn’t make out the words over the noble gossip flaring up. The pair nodded to each other and left the garden; wandering towards a part of the estate that wasn’t being used for the party.

A passageway, somewhat obscured by tall bramble bushes. “That’s odd..” Irman muttered to himself. “Wasn’t there supposed to be a guard stationed here?”

Looking beneath the bramble bush he quickly found his answer. A young man dressed in the colors of house Orabela lay dead beneath the thorns. Next to the corpse there was also a small bone figurine of what looked to be a winged gargoyle.

Irman’s eyes flashed green as he readied his sword and trailed the cutthroat pair.

“We can’t be worrying about the big man now, not when we’ve got all the beasties placed and ready to go.”

“S’pose so, but it makes me nervous. You know heard what the employer said e’d do to us if we failed to kill the old bitch?”

The pair were tailed back to an old servant building, with two more dead guards spotted along the way. As Irman approached the building he overheard even more voices than just the two cutthroats.

“We’ve planted the last of em, lord commander’s showed up though.”

“Yeah, should we be worried these figurines won’t do the trick?”

“Nonsense. once I cast the activation spell, all of the grotesques will return to full size and seek out their target relentlessly.”

“Which is lady Orabela”

“Exactly, and with so many placed all around the estate the odds that ONE of them can land a mortal blow on the witch is nigh guaranteed.”

“Then we just slip out in all tha’ panic and get our pay all nice like.”

“My employer is not one to skimp out on payment I assure you.”

Just outside however, Irman stood at the ready to burst in with rapier drawn. He knew he had to identify the well spoken voice as quickly as possible, and kill them before the figurines could be activated.

Beatrice Orabela
Pneria
Petrus Ritus Iskandar
Afanas
Tuncan MacKraser

Open Chronicles Invitation to the Rose Garden Tea Party

More options

Beatrice Orabela

Golden Witch

Tuncan MacKraser

Ser Tuncan | Highlander | Knight of Edenham

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

Head of House Iskandar

Pneria

Lesser Moon

Irman Harefoot

Afanas

Beatrice Orabela

Golden Witch

Tuncan MacKraser

Ser Tuncan | Highlander | Knight of Edenham

Irman Harefoot

Tuncan MacKraser

Ser Tuncan | Highlander | Knight of Edenham

Petrus Ritus Iskandar

Head of House Iskandar

Pneria

Lesser Moon

Afanas

Pneria

Lesser Moon

Beatrice Orabela

Golden Witch

Irman Harefoot