The Shattered City: Chapter One

[NeoTiamat]

The Chateau Malchance, Quartier Marchand, Port-a-Lucine; March 9th, 770, 11:32 AM
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------







It was Moving Day. To most of Dementlieu, it was Thursday. To those seeking more precision, it was March 9th, in the year 770 on the Barovian Calendar. Certainly historically well-founded individuals knew it as the 196th birthday of Lord-Governor Duclarre. But to the would-be tenants of a certain manor-house in northwest Port-a-Lucine, it was Moving Day.

"I'm... really very sorry... I wasn't actually expecting everyone to come... at the same time." Your landlord was saying, as he fumbled for his keys. Charles Devereux was not a particularly imposing example of a landlord. He was tall, certainly, and he had an intimidating gaze, but even after marriage he was still a skinny twig of a man, and his gaze was more of an absent-minded, violet-eyed stare that was at best periodically uncomfortable. "Oh... how did they get here?"

Devereux stooped and picked up a key from below one of the statues littering the Chateau Malchance's grounds. This one was a cast-iron replica of a rather ill-tempered looking cherub. Devereux stared at the key for a moment, nudged the statue with his foot, and then shrugged and opened the door.

"Er... yes, as I was saying. It seems as though just about everyone... is moving in today." Mr. Charles Devereux said. You could hear the strands of piano music filtering through the entry hall. It was beautiful, haunting music. Devereux tilted his head. "Except for the Professors... of course. Professor Lemercier and Professor Petrik, they were here... before. And.... Sieur de Castaigne moved in last month. Though he is... indisposed."

The entry hall, or more properly, the Grand Hall, was suitably grand. At least at one time the Chateau Malchance had been a nobleman's home, and it showed. The hall was lined with stout, fluted columns, recently painted a rather pleasant shade of beige. Most of the floor was hardwood, save for a thick Hazlani carpet running down the length of the room, geometric designs and obscure symbolism converging to make for something please to the eye and impenetrable to the brain. There were several small tables nearby, one of which had an empty flowerpot on it, and another statue on a stand, this time a decidedly roguish-looking bronze satyr.

Elsewhere in the house, you could hear movement and occasional low conversation. A few delicious smells emerged from the kitchen, accompanied by a low hum that made a counterpoint to the piano music in the Chateau. Looking into the foyer, you saw a very tall, platinum blond man reading a book and making a few notations in a notebook beside it. There was some creaking from the stairs as someone moved furniture along it. And of course, the lovely piano notes coming from the music room.

"Most of the rooms on the first floor are open to... everyone, except the Professors appartments. We also have a... pantry in the basement. Your... rooms are on the second... floor. We use #11 for... storage." Devereux paused for a moment. "Er... if you should happen to see #15... please ignore it."

[Rock of the Fraternity]

"Thank you for welcoming me into your lovely home," is Lia's reply to the professor's words. She bows her head, rather formally. At the same moment, she holds out her elbow to prevent the backpack containing most of her worldly goods from swinging forward and catching her a nasty blow.

The veiled woman surveys the hall and her new 'housemates' as she straightens up, and raises her staff a little, leaning it against her shoulder so the metal heel won't cut into the floorboards or the carpet. "This looks very comfortable," she tells professor Devereux. "Very nice, indeed."

[yalenusveler]

"What she said" said the young man who had for the most part, been staying back from the group, watching them. He looked a touch out of place, dressed more like a common laborer than someone who would be sharing a residence with professors and that didn't even begin to take into account the contrast between pointed ears and facial hair, or the fact that he spoke High Mordentish with an accent suggesting a childhood spent speaking Low.

"Is there a space I can use for a garden?" He asked, before collecting his key.

[DocBeard]

"Guten Abend!" The housekeeper booms cheerfully, ropey Lamordian muscles a little better defined than usual as Tomas Eisenwald isn't wearing his coat. He's been helping tenants move in all day. "Sie gut, ja?" If there is any strain on Tomas's face apon seeing his old friend Lia, it is not present enough to be acknowledged by the eccentric man.

"I am Eisenwald." Tomas offers his hand to the furry looking elfling as though there was nothing unusual about him. "I take care of the place when Professor Devereaux is away. Can I help with any bags?"

[The Whistler]

“Oh, do be careful, messieurs! I shouldn’t be quite so concerned, if it weren’t something of an heirloom…”

Apparently, it wasn’t for nothing that one of the new guests had three spacious carriages parked at the curb. Across the lawn, and rather unsteadily at that, proceeded a life-sized marble statue of a woman in a gauzy tunic, head crowned by a wreath of grapevines (Image of Melora, Crescentius Domitus Fimbria, Darkon, Ninth Century T.C.)—supported by two burly workmen, who appeared to have misjudged just how much a life-size marble statue weighs. Around the assemblage, like an excitable moth, fluttered a slim woman in a pale orange morning dress, gamely attempting to use a lace fan as a means of directing traffic.

As the Chateau’s front door had not been designed to accommodate classical statuary, this effort met with only qualified success.

“Please, do be aware of the door frame! If you would only be so kind as to rotate it somewhat, I am sure that… Ah, splendid! Most splendid, indeed—how very astutely you maneuver, messieurs! Now if you would only ascend the…yes, precisely. My room shall be in the Southeastern corner, to face the sunrise: I shall see you again presently, when you return for the tapestries. Au revoir!”

"I am Eisenwald." Tomas offers his hand to the furry looking elfling as though there was nothing unusual about him. "I take care of the place when Professor Devereaux is away. Can I help with any bags?"

“Ah! A lifesaver—truly, an unmatched gallant! You may indeed help with the bags, good Eisenwald; I have several, and they are outside at present. Thank you inestimably!”

With that, Celeste fixed her full attention on the Grand Hall itself: eyes to the ceiling, turning a full circle with a beatific smile.

“Enchanting…simply enchanting! And so utterly Bohemian… I daresay, it is exactly as I imagined it.”

The tail end of her revolution brought her in line with Devereux, who by all indications she had thus far failed to notice. What she lacked in attentiveness, she promptly made up for in enthusiasm—the overall effect was rather like having a lighthouse decide to pay attention to you.

“And you must be the famous M. Devereux…a pleasure! Dear Uncle told me ever so much about you after he arranged for the room—you remember Uncle, no?—and it was nearly all I could do to contain my excitement. You understand, I was not of a young enough age to enjoy your work when you first began to write—but after he told me that you were an author…well, you must expect, I sent straight for the booksellers to gather your collected works straightaway! Even to read them at nineteen when I should have read them at six: a privilege, truly a privilege. Why, I should nearly be jealous of today’s infants! The pen-and-ink work in “The Gilded Bat” alone…”

…The wave of how-do-you-dos had carried the young woman a few degrees counterclockwise over the past several seconds, and it had just now brought her in line with the mage in the black dress. She barely even had to break tempo.

“Another lodger!” She trotted up in Lia’s direction, curtsying to a stop. “We are to be neighbors, then…how wonderful the prospect! I am Celeste Mirielle Viardot, of Bienassis; to whom do I owe the pleasure?”

[yalenusveler]

Kerrian barely had time enough to manage a slightly uncomfortable handshake with Tomas and get out a "No..I can manage myself.. I'm Kerrian by the way.." before Celeste made her...grand appearance.

It wasn't so much that she caused him to stare. That would be impolite, and Kerrian had learned quickly that it sort of made people nervous. This was more the sort of expression one developed when attempting to discern if an individual was in fact, real, instead of some strange fever dream. He tore his gaze away a bit too abruptly for propriety's sake, and mouthed a rather burning question to Tomas.

Who is she...and why does she need a statue?

Then, actually voiced. "If you need help, .Eisenwald..I don't have much to move in..."

[Cronax]

"Indeed" added the dignified gentleman who has just made a quick sidestep to avoid being trampled by the train of movers. Craning his neck to see over the precariously rotating statue in the doorway, he only mostly conceals a split second grimace before regaining an impassive expression. Turning to Devereux, he continued "Quite a bit more character to the house than your descriptions led me to presume. Nevertheless, I believe it shall be suitable."

Can I help with any bags?"

The gentleman then makes a half turn towards Tomas and gestures to a large wooden travelling trunk on the curb. "Certainly. If you would be so kind my good man. Room number nine. And do be careful with it."

[NeoTiamat]

The Chateau Malchance, Quartier Marchand, Port-a-Lucine; March 9th, 770, 11:32 AM
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Is there a space I can use for a garden?" He asked, before collecting his key.

"There's a... patch of land behind the house." Devereux said, carefully moving the key he had found under the cherub to his front coat pocket. "A few... hundred square feet. You'll have to share with Miss.... Blackwood."

“And you must be the famous M. Devereux…a pleasure! Dear Uncle told me ever so much about you after he arranged for the room—you remember Uncle, no?—and it was nearly all I could do to contain my excitement. You understand, I was not of a young enough age to enjoy your work as it should be enjoyed, when you first began to write—but after he told me that you were an author…well, you must expect, I sent straight for the booksellers to gather your collected works straightaway! Even to read them at nineteen when I should have read them at six—a privilege, truly a privilege. Why, I should nearly be jealous of today’s infants! The pen-and-ink work in “The Gilded Bat” alone…”

"Er... thank you. It is very... kind of you." Dealing with enthusiastic fans was not one of the authorial skills that Devereux possessed in spades, but since most of his fans were below four feet in height, it worked out. At the moment though, M. Devereux looked as if a hurricane had just come through. He continued, his pauses even more pronounced than usual. "It is... nice to have a... fan. At... any age..."

Celeste was already gone, speaking to Lia now. Devereux blinked twice, straightened his jacket, and discreetly edged towards the common room.

Turning to Devereux, he continued "Quite a bit more character to the house than your descriptions led me to presume. Nevertheless, I believe it shall be suitable."

"It is a very... old... house. A great deal of... character." Devereux agreed readily enough. The landlord gestured towards the statue of the satyr. "A previous owner was a sculptor and metalworker... a Jean Levrisse... he did a lot with the house before... er... nevermind."

"The Chateau is nearly... two hundred years old." Devereux said, pride in his voice. "A house... accumulates.... character in that time."

"This looks very comfortable," she tells professor Devereux. "Very nice, indeed."

There was a slight thump from the foyer as a book was neatly snapped shut. "It is quite comfortable," a pleasant, polite voice answered in reply. The slender blond man stood up off the lacquer wood couch, neatly tucking his notes beneath his arm. He was dressed in a white shirt and sky blue vest, a pastel cravat, a pair of utilitarian trousers running down to his polished brown shoes, all done up as neat as a pin. He pushed his large glasses up his nose, letting his green eyes run over the large group that had gathered in the entrance hall, before finally alighting on Lia. "I thought I recognized your voice."

He was older, and more dignified, but Remy Lessard's features were as sharp and distinct as ever. And, for the moment, a small smile even touched them.

[Kaitou Kage]

The sound of angry arguing in Vaasi greeted the ears of the people assembled at Chateau Malchance.

"Look. This should be clear,” a voice snapped in a low tenor, “You fight with one sword, unless you're some Rokushiman who's spent his whole life fighting with two. Therefore. Why do you have ten swords in this box?" The voice would've been pleasant to hear if it hadn't been so irritated.

"I can't believe you haven't caught on yet,” a second voice retorted. It was so close to the first that it took several seconds before you realized it was a second man. “There are different swords for different occasions. I can't present myself to the Aerkebiskop when I'm wearing a giant blade on my back."

"And why not?"

"It's uncouth. Like you."

Two men stepped through the gates. Both wore similar clothing: steely grey robes decorated with chains. A metal gauntlet covered their right forearms, and a symbol of a spear etched onto a diamond-shaped medallion hung from both of their necks. The pair looked virtually identical, both just barely into their twenties, heads shaved clean and tattoos decorated their scalps in patterns indistinguishable from each other. The only obvious distinctions were the different styles of dark glasses the two wore and the red trim on the robe of the man lagging behind. He lagged back because of the giant box he carried along with his other pack.

"You admit, then, that that thing on your back is uncouth,” the man lugging the case said, still speaking Vaasi.

"No, this blade is a piece of master craftsmanship. Forged by Haakon Klemens, a very faithful man in Nova Vaasa. He should be honored that I carry the sword at all."

"And yet this paragon of swords is unfit to bring into the presence of the Aerkebiskop."

"Would you bring a monstrous piece of weaponry with you when you see your superior?" The lead man glanced over his shoulder at his follower.

"Monstrous! I agree. No weapon should take two hands to lift."

"Maybe if you weren't such a wuss, you could lift it. Stop dragging my case."

"Maybe if you weren't such a wuss, you would be able to carry your own possessions. Or be able to wield a sword with one hand."

"You're so stupid. I don't carry my things because it's your ordained job."

"But Dementlieu is the land of revolution! Up the proletariat! Gard!" The long wooden case falls to the street, and the grey-and-red clad Hazlani had his sword out without even seeming to move his hand toward the scabbard.

"Pick it up, Darius." The grey-robed Hazlani's face darkened and he reached for his blade. "And watch your tongue."

"Make me. Big brother."

The two stared at each other and the tension rose until it could be cut with a knife. Then the pair seemed to notice others were present. The grey-and-red-clad Hazlani’s sword returned to its scabbard so quickly it seemed to jump from his hand on its own. He picked up the case again and began heaving it toward the door. The grey-robed Hazlani let his hand drop from his greatsword hilt and turned to enter the mansion.

“Ah yes,” he said in High Mordentish, placing his hands on his hips. “This will do. I approve of your rug.” He gestured with his gauntleted hand at the Hazlani carpet. “It is nice to see a bit of home in this forsaken city.” He glanced around, and then his dark glasses rested on Devereux. “You are the landlord, Devereux, yes? I am Cyrus Isfahani, and this is my brother, dar-EYE-us.” He emphasized the “eye” a little more than necessary.

“It could be worse,” Darius inserted helpfully, “We could be in Lekar. Or Pont-a-Museau! Or Levkarest!”

“How could it be worse?” Cyrus mumbled in Vaasi. “I’m stick here with you.”

“It’s so you don’t get homesick,” Darius replied brightly, also in Vaasi.

Cyrus turned back to Devereux. “I am ready for my key, sir. My fool servant can carry my things up to my room and make sure they are put away properly.” The Hazlani smiled, but it was the unpleasant smile of a viper waiting to strike. The venom, however, was directed at Darius, not his new landlord.

Darius merely grinned, completely nonplussed.

[Nerit]

Sister Nerit alighted with leather sandals a minute or so after the first group. She was able to manage one bag of luggage in her hand, which rattled and clinked as she headed up the steps behind the others and several movers.

There was something to be said about the Chateau, which a few people were accomplishing quite satisfactorily. Her eyes searched the group, and while none of them truly disconcerted her, she was surprised at the variance in persons. On first glance she had thought, perhaps, she would stick out like a sore thumb with her white and green, but this clearly would not be the case.

Port-a-lucine must be à la mode! She smiled to herself before peering over her shoulder at the ruckus of two especially foreign-looking men.

Before she could find the landlord, their words stomped out any chance of her asking for assistance. Luckily, they seemed to recognize him immediately.

After their loud, raucous foreign words, Nerit raised a polite hand to Devereaux and added, "Monsieur, s'il vous plaît, est-ce vous avez ma clé, aussi? I am Sister Nerit." She spoke as formally as out of a textbook, and had a near-undetectable lilt on some of the vowels.

[Nathan of the FoS]

Darius nods at Devereux. "He can't be trusted with the key, monsieur, you had better just give it to me. The room at the top of the stairs, yes?"

Accepting the key, he glances around the assembled renters and jerks his head upward in what might be an extremely abbreviated general salutation and then disappears into the house, baggage in tow.

[Rock of the Fraternity]

"It is quite comfortable," a pleasant, polite voice answered in reply. The slender blond man stood up off the lacquer wood couch, neatly tucking his notes beneath his arm. "I thought I recognized your voice."He was older, and more dignified, but Remy Lessard's features were as sharp and distinct as ever. And, for the moment, a small smile even touched them.

"My goodness me," Lia says, sounding simply surprised. "I'd thought to try and schedule a visit in a few days, but here you already are. Remy Lessard, as I live and breathe -- or is it doctor or even professor Lessard now? I'm a little out of touch with your career."

Lia calmly drifts over to the young academic and extends a gloved hand for shaking. Up close, Lia ... doesn't really look her age. If anything, she looks a bit more vital than she did during the Expedition, a little healthier. Another change is the smile, of course. She didn't use to smile so easily back then.

"It's been a while, Remy," the Mage says. "How have you been doing? I -"

At this point, a socialite whirlwind seems to spontaneously erupt at point blank range; Lia blinks a few times as Celeste makes her entrance and then zeroes in on her.

“Another lodger!” She trotted up in Lia’s direction, curtsying to a stop. “We are to be neighbors, then…how wonderful the prospect! I am Celeste Mirielle Viardot, of Bienassis; to whom do I owe the pleasure?”

"I am Liability Mournswaithe," the black-clad Mage replies after a very brief pause, "of Mordent. Affiliated to the University faculties of history, archaeology and arcane philosophy, though I am not currently a member of staff there. How do you do? And ... with whom do I have the pleasure?"

"Guten Abend!" The housekeeper booms cheerfully, ropey Lamordian muscles a little better defined than usual as Tomas Eisenwald isn't wearing his coat. If there is any strain on Tomas's face apon seeing his old friend Lia, it is not present enough to be acknowledged by the eccentric man. "Can I help with any bags?"

"Hello again, Tomas," Lia says, waving slightly at the Lamordian knight. "Goo to see you again as well. You needn't worry about my luggage."

Lia shrugs one shoulder, drawing attention to her pack. "Still travelling light, you see? One of the lessons of the desert. We should talk a bit, later. Perhaps professor Devereux and Monsieur Lessard would like to join in for a bit of reminiscing ...?"

[Kaitou Kage]

Cyrus bared his teeth after his brother, but Darius left too quickly to receive a retort. Bastard, the Hazlani thought. At least with little brother gone, he could look around, get to know some of the people. Let's see...

A nun dressed in Ezran colors just walked up. She was quite pretty, Cyrus noted, but she’d be prettier without that vulgar green and white. The Hazlani couldn’t decide whether he wanted to chase her or sneer at her. On the one hand, she worshiped a false goddess who couldn’t keep Myttri away from the city. On the other, drawing her into the folds of the Lawgiver’s robes would be so much fun. He grinned and moved his gaze on.

That’s when he saw the noblewoman. Oh, how lovely, Cyrus thought, how very, very lovely. The Lawgiver priest glided serpent-like toward Celeste and her little group.

“Good morning,” he said. He gave Lia and Remy a cursory nod and then grinned at Celeste. “Cyrus Isfahani, son of Nezar Isfahani III of Hazlan.” Cyrus bowed extravagantly to the young noblewoman. “Perhaps you’ve heard of us? We are a very old and dignified family in my homeland. May I have the honor of your name, my lady?”

[Rock of the Fraternity]

"A man of the cloth?" Lia asks, her tone light as she reaches out one finger to point at Cyrus' amulet. "Or merely a devout worshiper of the Lawgiver? That is the sign of the iron faith, is it not?"

[Kaitou Kage]

Cyrus's serpentlike grin faded instantly when the ugly woman addressed him. Slowly, he looked down at the finger pointing to his chest. The dark glasses-covered gaze slowly traveled up Lia's arm like a snake slowly following its prey until he met her gaze.

"You may call me Dommer Isfahani," he said crisply, "A pleasure, I'm sure."