Open Chronicles Invitation to the Rose Garden Tea Party

[Beatrice Orabela]

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 Lady Beatrice had withdrawn from most social functions for years and had only been attending those matters which required her Prescence absolutely.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]

Spoiler: Optional Music IC

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]

Spoiler: The Drip

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]

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.

"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?

"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.

"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."

Spoiler: Image Reference (Minus the Quiver)

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]

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]

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]

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]

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.

“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