Open Chronicles Invitation to the Rose Garden Tea Party

[Beatrice Orabela]

The Lords were talking over her head about something for which she had ignored. However when Lord Petrus Ritus Iskandar made a sort of severe display of writing his answer. His attitude this tea party had been so aloof and irritated that she had written him off.
Yet, much like a merchant accustomed to writing contracts his answer was so exactly right to the letter that she couldn't possibly disavow it. She wasn't the type to make a riddle with no answer or hope for no answer to come. So the look of sore bitterness that flashed upon her face was not due to the answer being found.
Of all the guests in the garden perhaps she should have known it would be someone so close to the council. Or perhaps it was less his standing as a climbing house and more his personal interest that lead him to think in the same patterns.
Luckily there came the emergence of the distractions she had mentioned giving her time to fix her expression back into a polite smile. She was still the host of the party after all.

Beatrice looked out at the garden of the growing scuffle, someone had smuggled their own toys in. Well perhaps if Tuncan MacKraser and the little rabbit put on a good show of a fight she might re-evaluate her opinion of them. She made a small gesture with her fan. Several servants as if plucked by marionette strings abandoned what they had just been doing and began either escorting the less martially inclined guest away or simply leaving themself as if exiting stage left.
The witch seemed remarkably unphased for having several arcane beasts stomping about, seemingly headed directly for her.
She offered a sidelong glance to the Lord commander Afanas "Well, now I do believe several citizens at this very table are in danger. Perhaps you could give Mr. MacKraser a hand."

Her mood slightly improved she turned to Lord Iskandar and Lady Pneria.
"Hm, seeing as you seem to be sharing a card I will hold of on my seal so that Lady Pneria may make another attempt if she wishes. In the mean time you have earned a token of my recognition. She held out her hand and one of the very few servants remaining a doll like maid placed a small golden brooch into her palm.
She held this out for Lord Iskandar to take. It was in the shape of a small golden butterfly. A discerning eye would be able to see that it was more than a bit of expensive jewelry.
"With this I the golden witch recognize the holder of this brooch has provided the solution which I sought. It allows entry through the barrier into the mansion. You may shelter there with your companion if this entertainment is not to her taste."

Indeed the prize for the true answer was a sort of badge as if to declare this guest fit for attempting a much larger riddle. She held out hope that perhaps it would not be the only brooch she awarded but she doubted more attempts would be made while these gargoyles ran amok. She didn't let it sour her mood. Some guests loved the sword much more than the pen what manner of host would she be to not allow them to play as well.
Her ruby gaze drifted back to the chaos as if it were little more than a few guests throwing fists at each other and not arcane beasts rampaging in her garden.

Irman Harefoot

 

[Afanas]

Beatrice Orabela Irman Harefoot Petrus Ritus Iskandar Pneria Tuncan MacKraser


Afanas grunted, the sound carrying all the bitter displeasure of a warrior forced to ply his trade in the worst possible arena, surrounded by perfumed nobles and their delicate porcelain, by women in silk and men, of whom many never held anything heavier than a practice sword. The garden's careful geometry of roses and hedgerows had become a killing ground, and he liked none of it.

Stone scraped against stone above. A gargoyle plummeted toward him, wings folded tight, maw gaping to reveal teeth fashioned for predation. Enmity and hunger gleamed in its granite eyes.

Before those jaws could close on flesh, Afanas's arm shot upward with inhuman speed. His palm slammed into the creature's descending face, fingers splaying across cold stone. The gargoyle's momentum died instantly, its bulk suspended by that single, terrible grip.

The muscles of his forearm corded and bunched beneath the tight fabric. His fingers began their inexorable work, pressing into the stone as if it were soft clay, then cottage cheese, then nothing at all. Hairline fractures spider-webbed from each fingertip. The gargoyle's eyes bulged grotesquely.

CRAAAACK.

The sound of its skull imploding.

BOOOM.

Stone fragments erupted outward like poorly-aged masonry exposed to pressure too great.

Even as the headless body crashed to the manicured lawn, Afanas's sword sang from its scabbard. The massive double-edged blade emerged in one fluid motion, its surface crawling with a blacklight that hurt to perceive, darkness visible, shadow given substance and edge.

"Noncombatants, scatter."

It was all the mercy he could spare them. Perhaps the stone monstrosities would fix upon him, drawn to the greater threat. Perhaps these soft-bellied creatures in their finery would live to see another garden party.

 

[Pneria]

Petrus would gentle take a quill, a slip of paper, write down four words, and slide to Beatrice before he spoke.

Pneria's eyes followed the quill, and while she pretended to look upward at a beautiful archway, her downward glance stole the words. Or at least, as much as she could manage to read - what letters his cursive writing seemed to have been in that caught glimpse.

If she had known she would ever have been in a situation like this, she might have paid more attention to her former calligraphy tutor.

But why struggle when you could cheat?

Her gaze travelled from upward to sideward, tracing a long arc to Beatrice, watching her reaction at the written words carefully. And truly, they seemed to hit their mark.

Petrus did not move for a moment, letting the guards and Lord Commander spring into action before he stood, drew Pneria from her seat bodily, and stood her own her feet and gazed deeply into her eyes.

"Do you wish to flee, or remain, my Pneria?"

Flee. That was the obvious answer, what with hovering granite creatures and the Lord Commander crunching stone bodies like these nobles had crumpled their tissues. She didn't have her crossbow or her usual set of armaments with her, but even if she did, in her book, a fight avoided was a fight won. She would prefer to be a figurative specter in these events, hidden in the shadows, rather than a literal one, haunting this tea-party and lamenting a life foolishly lost.

"Perhaps we oughta take Lady Orabela up on her invitation. 'Sides," she said, tensing up as a stone fragment from an erstwhile skull whizzed by. "Rather see the mansion than this bloodbath."

On any presumable walk from the table, her fingers would snatch the quill still wet with ink. At a time of convenience, she would write another answer, piecing together what she had managed to glean and give another possible stab at some deeper concept. Something so foreign to her and her world she would never have thought in those avenues by her own volition, scholarly and distant, even if it pertained to her world theoretically. It was not so much her impression of Beatrice that had instructed her - a noble she had just met - but rather her interaction with Petrus, and what Pneria had come to learn about her own patron. Perhaps they mirrored one another in their curious and particular area of fascination.

A fascination bordering on obsession; one which she had seen even before she had met him, skulking through foreign corridors that she would come to know as home.

Pneria couldn't help but touch the tortured skin lingering below her eye, tracing her hand further down and past where it once covered, now healed and smoothed over from strange medicaments.

Whatever else happened, this day had been most instructive about Allirian nobility. Perhaps once coin was no longer a concern, all that mattered was this. Perhaps this was what Beatrice had attempted to tell her in that brief, hopeful look of intensity and in her riddle. Perhaps it was what Petrus was attempting to teach her all along, stringing her on to answer, even when he didn't need her aid. Some sort of a convoluted lesson.

Gods, she missed the streets already.


Beatrice Orabela
Irman Harefoot
Petrus Ritus Iskandar
Afanas
Tuncan MacKraser

 

[Thraah]

A blast, a jet of fire from the sky and a heavy *thump* of smoke herald her arrival.

Thraah could not navigate to the entrance of the garden, so she took the scenic route out of boredom though later she would be convinced it was to save the others from monsters of stone.

When the smoke cleared enough for her short, sticky frame to be visible in her black and red Anirian Officers coat three things were instantly clear to all.
The first was that she was a Dreadlord who commanded fire by tell of her flaming fists, the second was that she had utterly destroyed a gargoyle by hitting it like a mortar shell mid flight and the third was that the gargoyle in question lay broken underneath her feet but above what was left of the lovely tea table of their host.

"HAHA... eh, whoops! Sorry, that looked expensive!"

Stepping out of the wooden and stone ruin she had made while parts of the gargoyle still smoked she smacked her arms and shoulders to rid herself of some dust, not that it did much, her black coat now turned grey with rubble.

The rabble looked like she had expected from the invitation, snobby shits in silk stockings... maybe except the one with the hood, she looked smart and the one with the sword... he was dead... real dead, she couldn't feel his heartbeat.
The red man looked pretty normal and then there was the...

"FUCK ME LOOK AT THE TREE CAT!"

Thraah spat a wad of flame onto the ground and rolled her shoulder, letting it crack three times.

"Stormy would have fucking loved you, HEEEAAAH!"
The gout of fire from her hands struck another gargoyle bearing down on her in a focused inferno that made it glow orange with heat.

 

[Petrus Ritus Iskandar]

Petrus would slowly rise from his seat in no particular hurry. He didn't explicitly trust Afanas on any personal basis, he hardly knew the man after all, but he knew enough of the Lord Commander's reputation to make a show of being unnaturally casual with his speed. Though, where the Lord Commander was concerned, he supposed it was more accurate to say he didn't yet trust the man, he trusted the title, to preserve himself and Beatrice Orabela as he took her brooch in a hand. Casting only a single glance down to it he would level his eyes not to marvel at the enchanted object but instead at it's golden Mistress. A heavy expectation to his gaze not present before as he responded to her rehearsed recital.

"Indeed. Now we shall see if you can provide what I seek from you. Though I am less confident you will weather my expectations than than how I weathered your.... game."

Petrus would give a thin smile, a ghost of a thing, before taking Pneria by the hand and helping her up. His gaze never leaving Beatrice as he agreed with Pneria wholeheartedly.

"Agreed."

His eyes would lazily drift to Pneria as he continued.

"I'm certain Lady Orabela has many more fascinating displays for her guests after all."

As Pneria touched below her eye Petrus would gently use his free hand to grip the hand touching her face. Not harshly, not to reprimand or scold her, but a level, firm grip. His gaze becoming something more expectant, more intense, as he met Pneria's gaze and then turn back to Beatrice.

"After you, my Lady, I have complete confidence you can ensure our safety through this spectacle....."

Petrus would close his eyes for a moment as an absolute headache of a woman crash landed into the scene. Getting the distinct, sudden urge to rub at his head to abate an oncoming headache he would open his eyes and add.

"..... to more intelligent company, of course."

Beatrice Orabela
Thraah
Tuncan MacKraser​

 

[Irman Harefoot]

The sound of fighting hit Irman well before he made it back to the Estate gardens. It really made him wish he had brought his hat, even though it clashed with his current outfit. Of course, how could he know that the party would be interrupted by screeching gargoyles.

“Maybe I should just start taking clumps of cotton with me wherever I go…” Irman sighed, hopping back and forth between the narrow corridor walls and landing gracefully atop the roof of a building he could only guess at the purpose of.

A short distance later he could see the garden party, or rather the chaos it had transformed into. Broken plates and spilled tea, gargoyles trying to fight their way to the quite unbothered lady Orabela. The guards were hard at work trying to stop said gargoyles, some guests were helping the guards, while the others ran.

Even from up above, the sound of it all hurt Irman’s lagomorphic ears, but there wasn’t really a choice to run away, like with the idle gossip. Instead he looked to the gargoyles that were flying above the defenders, rather than fighting through them. A thought occurred to Irman than on how to disrupt that strategy.

“Boy, I sure am a terrible idea guy.” Irman chuckled as he took a few steps back and tried to clear his head as best he could.

He then ran to the edge of the roof and leapt, landing straight onto the back of one of the flying gargoyles. The gargoyle struggled to maintain balance as Irman swiftly slashed at its flailing wings. Then, as the monster began to plummet the nimble rabbit-man leapt from that gargoyle to another one, then another, then another. After five or so Irman ran out of gargoyles to jump to, and simply rode the last one down to the ground in the hopes it would soften the landing.

The gargoyles collided with the ground in a series of sharp heavy crashes. A few survived the falls but most shattered on impact. This included the one that Irman was ‘riding down’ which sent the rabbit-man flying in the air and into a tumble. With Irman only coming to a stop a short distance away from rolling straight into Beatrice Orabela.

Irman then rose to his feet as best he could— Dizzy and covered in a mix of tea and gargoyle dust (with some blood from himself and the cutthroats.). He gave the best bow he could manage and said in a shaky and woozy voice.

“Why hello Lady Orabela, I hope you are doing well..”

 

[Tuncan MacKraser]

Fiddles. Riddles. Tuncan had no time for music or games at the moment as he moved his metallic blade through the stone limb of his opponent. It severed the next instant, courtesy of a glimmer that he himself was not terribly familiar with. However, the highlanders were rich in verdant splendor as much in certain powers, and the blacksmith who forged this man’s sword was among the latter.

The knight was no coward. He had to stand and fight, not merely for his lord who he represented, or for his host, the Lady Orabela, or for the woman hiding under the table among others diving for shelter, but for himself as well. There was no honor for a man who ran or hid when he, a swordsman, had a sword and could stand with it.

Forearm torn. If this gargoyle felt pain or frustration then it did not display it. Instead, it bound forward toward the highlander knight. The latter reacted by redirecting his weapon for the former. The sword soared toward the gargoyle’s neck in a blade of sunlight, rays bright enough to ignite the skies for a moment, only it was some kind of ethereal emerald over yellow.

In the thunder of his deliverance, Ser Tuncan had taken the head from his foe, though it was but one in a number. Shifting his attention to the rest, he glimpsed others in his midst, allies fighting right beside him, hosts and guests storming for exits or the entrance to the mansion.

There that rabbit-at-arms was, Irman Harefoot, flying from the sky and taking out his enemies as he landed on the ground. That dark figure from earlier, with a great blade in his grip, and no doubt as to his bladesmanship. Another person, one with a sharp tongue if ever there was one, but she had heart and was no coward. Aye. Fine. Dinna fash.

“Blades and staves!” Tuncan MacKraser cried as he raised his own to scrape the face of another foe. The sheer force behind his swing was enough to split its visage like rock fractured by a hammer. “Swords and axes!” He walked but he did not run. “Even daggers!"

He was not the commander of the warriors beside him but he shared their command. “Fight! FIGHT!” He rolled aside, dodged a claw, braw and brawn, and splintered a leg the next second in his rise. “And drive these daft bastards back!” His sword served its purpose, did its duty, but it wasn’t a claymore. Had he that beauty in his hands? A different story.

Beatrice Orabela Petrus Ritus Iskandar Pneria Afanas Irman Harefoot Thraah

 

[Afanas]

Thraah
Irman Harefoot
Beatrice Orabela
Tuncan MacKraser
Pneria
Petrus Ritus Iskandar

Afanas tracked the chaos with pinpoint precision. Where others might have struggled to process the maelstrom of motion, his mind dissected each element with mechanical efficiency, every sword arc, every shifting stance, every plume of pulverized stone that danced through the air. Time stretched thin in his perception, the world moving through honey while his thoughts raced ahead.

Movement above. His gaze snapped upward.

A gargoyle gliding above Thraah, poised like a stone snake preparing to strike. Perhaps the girl had already marked its presence, but Afanas refused to gamble with her life on a perhaps.

His blade began its spin, accelerating into a black blur that carved the air with a high, keening whistle. The sword became a drill of shadow and steel, then launched, a dark missile that crossed the distance in a heartbeat's fraction. The blade punched through the gargoyle's chest with the ease of paper yielding to flame, leaving a perfect circle of absence where stone and substance had been.

"Above you!" His warning cut through the din as the gargoyle's corpse began its graceless descent. Dead weight it might be, but several hundred pounds of stone would crush bone just as readily as any living threat.