Café de Nuit

Nerit watched the proceedings with her arms folded, her hip cocked skeptically. But when the wraiths spoke of Ezra, her eyes shone, a cutting emotion playing knifelike behind them.

The Lamordian seethed.

Nerit abruptly laughed. "Tomas!" she lilted, sounding more like TOH-mahss. "To embrace the Light, you must understand the Dark."

She kicked off her sandals.

The Borcan hummed.

Nerit took one step back, her right toes pointed out. She hopped to the other foot and swung out her right hand.

"O Mors, cineri gloria sera est! Cineri fama sera venit! Reminiscere! Potes vivere!"*

She swept past Nicolas with a furtive smile and a wink. Her movements were not all-together fluid, as if she were remembering something from very long ago.

It involved tiny hopping, circles around (an absent) partner, and outstretched arms. The wraiths just might have enjoyed to see a perverse mix of Quadrille and rounds. Darkonian folk dancing was a rarely witnessed phenomenon, what with so few of the people happy enough to show it off to visitors.

As she danced small beads of sweat turned to hoarfrost on her brow.


Bluff: 33 for Rex
*O Death, glory paid to ashes is too late! Fame to the dead comes too late! Remember! You can live!

Lia raises a hand to her head as if to steady a hair ornament or her veil against the chill breeze of the wraiths' passing. Instead, her fingers caress Grimmric. "Courage, dear friend," she whispers to the little bat in their shared language of almost-words, clicks and chirrups. "If we may survive, we shall."

The Mage straightens her shoulders and looks at the specters swirling around and around. "Seems to me that a party needs more music," she says in a bland tone of voice. "More songs." Again she opens her mouth, but the song that comes forth now is like unto a dirge; slow, baleful, heavy.

"How I whirl and I whirl and I dance now
twirling through emptiest air
will you name me light and name me airy
will you finally name me fair?

How I whirl and dance
like a leaf that is dead
will you name me graceful
when into the dance you're led?

Your life bleeds out whene'er we touch
will you name me cold
name me greedy
do I hurt you too much?

The dance continues
I quicken the pace
will you cry out for mercy
beg for leave of this place?

Your life I must dine on
for which I should feel such remorse
must I exist forever with this hunger
can there be no recourse?

Your voice does not sing now
and I dance alone
will I find another victim
or are they all gone?

Must I exist forever with sorrow
exist forever with guilt
be forever overcome by the beast
that overthrows what I have willed?

Must I forever be watching
like a child locked outside
what is beautiful and warm now
what is gentle and mild?

How I whirl and I dance now
name me airy, before you join me
name me graceful, then name me wild
why must I then be so reviled?

How I long for my rest now
which has so been long denied
why must this dance go on now
when I am grown oh so tired?

What have I done to deserve this
to exist forever in pain
why must I continue to suffer
when there is nothing to gain?

Oh, that redemption would take me
oblivion put an end to my pain
for if naught changes, this is forever
and I can only kill anon and again.

Will you name me graceful and wild now
my essence it yearns for the grave
though you say that I'm free and unbound now
I am naught but unnature's slave.

Oh, how I dance and I dance in the shadows
the sun's light only causes me pain
how can I exist like this forever
when thereby there's nothing to gain?"

"A song written," Lia says in a leaden voice, "by the undead Bard Henri-Laurent De Bascombe. He whom I met... briefly, five years ago at the Opera."

Mercator's voice rises, more chanting than singing in the rhythm of the music; his voice is strong, clear, and strangely resonant, almost with the pure tones of a crystal goblet tapped with a knife.

"Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe go--
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better then thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die."

As he speaks, his voice becomes progressively less human and more musical; his form is obscured by a net of shadows, from which two dark eyes and the head of his cane gleam like three stars in the night sky.

"Play on, ye pipers of the night, play on,
Your tune must end with morning's rising sun.
And winter's grasp is strong, and yet time brings
Return to life and hope with every spring.
Though one must fall, another takes his place,
And Time presents to all a new-born face.
What was, what is, they both shall come again,
The wheel turns 'til the Scheme has made all plain;
And we who live will live to see all things
That Ezra's grace and mercy think to bring.
Let therefore hope be strong, and courage true,
Until Eternity shall open to our view!"

Diplomacy 15. Using Dark One's Own Luck for a reroll (irony abounds), result is 29. The first poem is by John Donne, the second by...me.

Celeste made a small, rather startled noise at learning the particular genre of dance firsthand, but recovered herself quickly. Her look at Thierri was surprised, yes, but not necessarily the offended kind.

"I should not have supposed that your present...offices should be associated with the trappings of Valacan, M. Boucher! But one must remain culturally sensitive...yes, yes...I must! For your sake as well as mine, sir--so that you may adjust to your r--"

Celeste's moment of hands-across-the-border sensitivity was interrupted by a particularly intense dip.

Further up the river, about a quarter-mile away, the Fourth Deputy Attaché to the Rokuma Embassy made the unfortunate decision to light his pipe on a barge. It was an unfortunate decision in that this particular barge was a linchpin in the Embassy’s much-heralded festival celebrating the end of the cherry blossom season (scheduled 8:00 PM April 25th), which was expected to cement a number of advantageous trade alliances between the Six Islands and local shipping concerns. Such careless behavior had been a hallmark of the Fourth Deputy Attaché’s professional conduct, and had been the primary reason to date for his failure to be promoted to Third Deputy Attaché. Unfortunately, the primary reason for his career stasis after tonight would have more to do with all of the burn scars and constant screaming.

The Danse Macabre was lit by fireworks, gold and blue and pink and green. Sparklers; stylized leaves; spectacular chrysanthemum bursts. For a festival.

They illuminated Celeste. Celeste looked as if she had absolutely no idea as to whether she should be enjoying herself, because she had absolutely no sociocultural context in which to realize that she was.

“…I should have worn red, sir...I am told it is fitting.”

Explosive Pyre on the middle of the sky! According to Isa, this doesn't count as me making a check one way or the other, but does provide a bonus to the next Diplomacy I make. Never fear--she will be more directly persuasive once she recovers herself.

2 Days, 23 Hours, 12 Minutes
On the River-Front, Quartier Ouvrier, Port-a-Lucine, Midnight on April 22nd, 770
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



PC & NPC Actions
Lia = Succeeds on a Religion, grants Celeste a bonus to her next Bluff or Diplomacy (+4)
Tomas = Succeeds on a Diplomacy (Social), Success directed at Nicolas.
Kerrian = Is on Hiatus
Rex = Succeeds on a Stealth Check (Physical)
Mercator = Succeeds on a Diplomacy (Social)
Agale = Succeeds on a Diplomacy (Social), Success directed at Celeste
Nicolas = Succeeds on a Diplomacy (Social)
Nerit = Succeeds on a Bluff (Physical), Success directed at Rex

Celeste = Uses Explosive Pyre to grant self a bonus on her next Bluff or Diplomacy check (+4)
Andre = Succeeds on a Religion, grants Tomas a bonus on his next Bluff or Diplomacy check (+4)

Nicolas wrote:"I prefer to take my chance on any future mon ami, afterall what is the worst that can happen? I end up scribing my name in your little black book of damnation?" Nicolas shrugs in (very well feighned) nonchalance.

"Then dance while you can, monsieur," Thierri replied, his eyes both mirthful and grave. "It ends far too quickly."

The wraiths flew merrily in time with your songs and chanting. Their birdlike faces showed no signs of emotion, none that you could recognize, but their movements were fluid and excited. They swirled around you, flying close enough to almost touch, as if charmed by your revelry and asking you to dance - all save a few, who circled around the couple in the center, giving them a wide berth, staring at them hungrily.

Tomas wrote:"How is more horror helping? If the spirits of the dead are restless, does abusing the living really make anything better? What you are doing, Thierri, is going to carve out another Necropolis."

"You have always thought the worst of me, my White Knight," Thierri sighed. There was a hint of bitterness there, if you looked closely.

"If you came here to prevent another Il Aluk, then go home. Your work was done before you began," the magician said distractedly, absorbed as he was by his dance. "They harm because they cannot help it. We are not complete. Soon we shall be. Death will ascend, and trouble you no longer."

• Until your time comes, the wraiths echoed ominously.

"What was destroyed on the 11th will be replaced," Thierri murmured, momentarily somber. "There need be no more violence and death for it."

"I'm not certain... but I think having a corporeal body has made his personality slower to be blended into this spiritual mess," Andre commented aside to Tomas, from where he had been caught over by the building. Despite the practice at dancing he had from owning a cat, he didn't seem eager to risk moving through the ghostly cloud. "The ghosts and he don't seem to be on the same page... but I'm not sure you're going to be able to morally argue against being the harbinger of the next Requiem if it seems he's not."

Of Remy, there was not a trace.

Celeste wrote:“…I should have worn red, sir...I am told it is fitting.”

"You look perfect..." he breathed into her ear, his hand running across her shoulder and down her arm. The light from above turned his eyes orange, burning like a forest fire. His arm ran across her back, her side, her stomach as he twirled her away from him, holding her hand tightly. He twirled her back, catching her up against him, her back to his chest - a step, and his lips brushed against her cheek, another, and she could feel his hot breath upon her neck. Another twist, and they resumed eye to eye, his face an inch away from hers, enraptured.

Successes Accumulated
Andre Theroux = 0 Physical Successes, 0 Social Successes
Lia Mournswaithe = 0 Physical Successes, 0 Social Successes
Tomas Eisenwald = 0 Physical Successes, 0 Social Successes
Kerrian Mauganson = 0 Physical Successes, 0 Social Successes – On Hiatus
Rex Alistair Prescott = 2 Physical Successes, 0 Social Successes
Mercator Melanchthon = 0 Physical Successes, 1 Social Successes
Mr. Agale = 0 Physical Successes, 0 Social Successes
Nicolas Etienne de Castaigne = 0 Physical Successes, 2 Social Successes
Celeste Viardot = 0 Physical Successes, 1 Social Successes
Sister Nerit Doherty = 0 Physical Successes, 0 Social Successes

Tomas ducks around the horrible disembodied amalgamation of an arm, a leg, and a little boy's head. "I really wish you had told me you disagreed with Melanchthon's hypothesis before I jumped into the cloud of ghosts." Eisenwald mutters back towards Andre, trying to get the best of just how disturbing this whole thing is.

The worst part, Tomas thinks to himself, is that Varidot's falling for it. I thought she was smarter than that. Electricity surges in Tomas's gullet as the dance grows more intimate; bad enough that these things command him, that they speak to him of death and loss as if he were the ignorant one, as if they could comprehend...

Eisenwald stood back to back with the old man, sword cracking through the sky as another of these horrible new men of iron smashed their way through the defenses. "Ho, relic!" Tomas called with boundless confidence, a flash of lightning splitting a screaming whirlwind with diamond teeth and magma blood in three. "Any sign of her?"

The old man scowled from beneath his helmet, shoving his spear through a djinn sorcerer without bothering to devote any real attention to either bag of hot air around him. Wordlessly, he points to the glowing silver hill, just beyond their reach...

"Lirga..." Tomas looked horrified at the vaguely humanoid form being lashed in silhouette on the hilltop, his sword boiling away a water lizard from the inside out. "Seventh Heaven, what are they doing to her?!"

"That." The old man closed his black iron gauntlet into a fist, "Is the opportune question, boy."

"...I'm not saying you're doing it on purpose. I know how dangerous this sort of thing can be, and I take it seriously. You're aware of why." Tomas finally says, shaking his head and forcing the sick, weak expression off of his face. "But, okay. Maybe I did jump into the worst case scenario. No one's offered me anything else. So, what is this ascension you keep talking about? It almost looks like you and the house band here have a different idea of what is going to happen."

A pause. "Thierri, I'm impulsive, I admit it. But I'm always willing to admit a mistake and try to make up for it, and if people are actually talking instead of glaring at us and continuing their horrible nightmare rituals, I'm fine with listening to them. So, here I am. Listening."

(OOC: So...who is going for the social victory here? Should we be shoring up Nick or Celeste? I rolled a natural 20, getting a big bad 37 but I am holding on who I support until we work that out.

Okay we seem to be going with Celeste so I'll give mine to her.)

Thierri wrote:"Then dance while you can, monsieur," Thierri replied, his eyes both mirthful and grave. "It ends far too quickly."

Nicolas looks indecisive for a moment, something about this was just plain wrong, but then how often can you say you were invited to dance with death and live to tell the tale?

In the end his mind is made up by Nerit, the smile she gives him as she passes is like a red rag to the bull of Nicolas’ passions and temptations. He watches her dance for a moment, feeling himself powerfully drawn, yet finding it ironic that a more unattainable woman there could not be.
Actually that isn’t quite true, he chastises himself mentally, casting the sky a brief slightly apprehensive look, seeing nothing untoward, apart from the wheeling cloud of the dead, he decides to embrace the moment.

“When in Borca…” he shrugs, flipping Thierri a salute and a wink, and moves towards Nerit, bowing deeply to the nun.

“Ma Chere, you shine brightly with vitality in this morbid company, like a resplendent orchid in a withered garden. Perhaps I might be so bold as to ask for this dance?” He reaches out and presumptuous or not lightly but firmly grasps her hand and her waist and pulls her close. Looking deep into her eyes Nicolas ignores the manifest host of the dead and murmuring words, gentle words, seeming to be for Nerit alone but which carry to the ears of all in attendance. As he does so he starts to swirl the nun in a gentle, passionate dance.

“Could I remount the river of my years
To the first fountain of our smiles and tears,
I would not trace again the stream of hours
Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers,
But bid it flow as now --- until it glides
Into the number of the nameless tides. “

“What is this death? --- a quiet of the heart?
The whole of that of which we are a part?
For life is but a vision --- what I see
Of all which lives alone is life to me,
And being so --- the absent are the dead,
Who haunt us from tranquility, and spread
A dreary shroud around us, and invest
With sad remembrances our hours of rest.
The absent are the dead --- for they are cold,
And ne'er can be what once we did behold;
And they are changed, and cheerless, --- or if yet
The unforgotten do not all forget. “

“Since thus divided --- equal must it be
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea;
It may be both --- but one day end it must
In the dark union of insensate dust.
The under-earth inhabitants --- are they
But mingled millions decomposed to clay?
The ashes of a thousand ages spread
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread?
Or do they in their silent cities dwell
Each in his incommunicative cell?
Or have they their own language? and a sense
Of breathless being? --- darken'd and intense
As midnight in her solitude? --- Oh Earth !
Where are the past? --- and wherefore had they birth?
The dead are thy inheritors --- and we
But bubbles on thy surface; and the key
Of thy profundity is in the grave,
The ebon portal of thy peopled cave,
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold
Our elements resolved to things untold,
And fathom hidden wonders, and explore
The essence of great bosoms now no more. “

OOC: He’s based on Byron so I suppose it was only right to subvert some of the great poets work for my own ends

Diplomacy 32 with Mercator’s +1 – like Doc can I wait until we have a conflab about who’s going for it before I apportion the success?

** edit I'd like to confer the success on Celeste if thats ok**

We are not yet dead, it could be simply toying with us, but I would wager not. No, if carnage was its goal, it would have attacked outright by now. If the creature is to be believed, no further action beyond containment will be necessary to resolve this situation. No, best to placate monsieur 'Marquis'. The possibility of his future support is well worth the risks.

Agale flattened himself against a nearby building to avoid the press of wraiths. His head darted from side to side, desperately scanning the ghostly throng for something, to no avail. Throughout it all, he managed to belt out a respectable chorus counterpointing his compatriots' verse. There weren't really words, but the melody was catchy.

For Celeste:
You hear Mr. Agale's voice telepathically in your mind

Pay mind Miss Viardot
Your opportunity is nigh
Do not hesitate
Procure the book, then retreat
Hopefully, Mr. Prescott will assist in extrication
Good luck.

You are aware that you can likewise communicate back (maximum 25 words)

Perception 18 fails to locate Rex
Using Send Thoughts
Diplomacy 37 (Giving Celeste the success again)

The Danse Macabre goes on, and despite his misgivings and his fears Mercator cannot help but be moved with a strange exhilaration. To be Darkonian, after all, is to know that Life and Death have a long and porous border between them, and many pilgrims who cross from side to side. Nor, it seems, can the rest of this odd band of companions--save only the Lamordian, intent and intense as ever. The nun dances with the rake, the magician raises her voice in song, and the dance reels on, and the flash and pop of the fireworks (fireworks? How in the Mists?) and their streaming lines of light give all a holiday air.

Shrugging, Mercator smiles slightly. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Raising his cane, Mercator gestures toward the night sky. One final bolt of brilliance streaks down, bathing the two dancers in the eye of the storm with a strange light in which silver, purple and (somehow) black mingled, and a hail of sparks, brilliant yet harmless, poured around them with a sound like distant applause.

Using Blazing Starfall to supplement Celeste's firework display and give her a bonus on her next Diplomacy check. I think we should back Celeste first, then Rex, then Nicolas, and if we haven't got it by that point we're probably in real trouble. Apologies for not donating that last success where it might do some good.

The living and dead danced their midnight waltz, lost in their revelry. They were so consumed by the night and the dance that none of them noticed the lone shadow. The shadow flitted through the whirling dancers, deftly skittering by whirling skirts and flailing limbs. He dodged through the waltz, ducked the mazurka, and slipped past the tango.

No one even knew he was there.

Stealth of 27.

Nerit was indeed surprised by the poet's gesture, and did nothing to hide it nor refuse his embrace.
"Morbid company is my usual accompaniment, Monsieur," Nerit replied as Nicolas' hand slid over her waist. To many, a Darkonian nun was one of the least alluring females in existence. They were supposed zealous, somber, and temperate. As Nerit's smile widened, her brown eyes reflecting the fireworks and Mercator's magic, there was no trace of these qualities.

She returned Nicolas' intent gaze for as long as he offered it, her ears absorbing his words. He was, after all, not such a horrible wordweaver.
She followed his steps as any woman would or should in this dance, allowing him to twirl her around.

Her laughter echoed off the river and the stones, as if expressing that death was the punch-line and the moral to a marvelous tale. The dark emerald veil flew off, her light ashen tresses already loosened from the bun at the back of her head.

As she whirled in a circle like a mystic entranced, her green habit twirled up at her ankles. Delicate, small things began to fall before her, crystallizing in the air.

Snow drifted down to kiss Nicolas' hair and rough face. Nerit spun back only an instant later and they continued their newly frosted dance.

Mercator wrote:To be Darkonian, after all, is to know that Life and Death have a long and porous border between them, and many pilgrims who cross from side to side.

As Darkonian as Nerit was in fact, she was as strange in estimation. Nicolas had finished his piece, and so Nerit recited in turn,

"We scaled the face of reason
To find at least one sign
That could reveal the true dimensions
Of life, lest we forget

"And maybe it’s easier to withdraw from life
With all of its misery and wretched lies
Away from harm

"We lay by cool still waters
And gazed into the sun
And like the moth’s great imperfection
Succumbed to her fatal charm

"And maybe it’s me who dreams unrequited love
The victim of fools who watch and stand in line
Away from harm

"In our vain pursuit of life for one’s own end
Will this crooked path ever cease to end?"

The smile never left her face, the cruel joke neverending. "Monsieur, we must not let Thierri attain his godhood," she whispered into the ear of Nicolas, her voice devoid of humor.

The odd macabre couple, the rake and the nun, swept by the stubborn paladin, snow trailing behind them. "Tomas," she lilted again, "when you die, they will all say it was with a most dour expression!"


I'm still being pretty ostentatious here, but Isy said I could go for Diplomacy (to Celeste). It's fun to show off for ghosts.
Rolled a 1, using RT for a 29 (this included MM's bonus). I'm not sure what happened with my browser, so Neo, you might have gotten 3 emails instead of 2. Let me know.

YES. Yes. That is indeed among my aims! I do thank you for the reminder, M. Agale! And what a singular means of communication you--

This was clearly Celeste's first time speaking telepathically. Word limit aside, she did a horribly slipshod job of covering up what she had ABSOLUTELY NOT BEEN THINKING OF just prior to Agale's intervention--which, while rather vague on particulars, almost certainly did not involve retrieving the book.

Celeste looked into Thierri's eyes, clearly affected by the...totality of the experience, and just as clearly aware of all the reservations she should be having. Mlle. Viardot was not much one for emotional dilemmas, generally being one to pick a personal trajectory and ride it like a steam train until it crashed into an embankment. But there was no context for this.

"...M. Boucher...when I said I believed you to be a good man…I spoke sincerely. I am aware of your self-conception; truly, I am under no illusions in that regard… But sir…sir, we have spoken of this before. Our first conversation upon the topic of philosophy—of how, with time, even something so horrid as a war may be transmuted to a symbol of national unity, of something true…”

“We disagreed on the particulars, yes, M. Boucher…but we agreed on that… I ask you, sir: in like fashion, may not a man who pretends at goodness, and who does so with constancy…for whatever reason…is not that man a good man?”

If you were close enough to look, you could see Celeste tearing up. Not the imminent sobbing kind, but the absolutely, painfully sincere kind. The oddly happy kind. “I believe this of you, M. Boucher… All I ask is that, even now, you remember what it is to be a good man…and that you continue to pretend.”

37 on Diplomacy, including Lia’s and my own bonuses! I rolled before Nathan posted, so can his bonus be put toward my next roll?

"Come join the dance, the horseman said
beneath one arm, I carry my head
but the other hand, for yours 'tis free
up your skirt, I promise not to see," Lia starts to sing, the new tune more lively than the last.

"Come join the dance, the vampire said
let me kiss your hand, your arm will feel like lead
but be not sad, for by our dance's end
you'll dance evermore, all ties will be rent.

Come join the dance, the specter said
I can not whirl you or lift you, 'tis ver sad
but at the very end, it might not be so bad
you'll whirl up all free, not held down by the land.

Come join the dance, the ghoul lord said
I'll nibble your ear, then your flesh I will rend
but be understanding, though it makes you sad
at least you'll lie quiet by our dance's end.

Come join the dance, the living man said
your body I'll tumble, your flesh may not mend
your spirit I'll dazzle, oh where will it end
but 'least we dance freely, though be it hand in hand

Come join the dance, the living woman said
my embrace it will warm you, your mind it leaves dead
how our touch it will thrill you, you can't understand
but 'least we dance freely, though be it hand in hand

Come join the dance now, it is what I said
at the end you should rest now, but please understand
when you've been through your paces, then is not the end
but each dancer must rest... but 'tis not the end."

"You wraiths know not death," Lia says in a calm voice. For a moment, it looks as if she will insert her hands up the opposing sleeves, but then realizes the sleeves of her current outfit do not accommodate such a thing. She shrugs and crosses her arms. "You are undead. I have seen, myself, that there is more beyond the Veil. Cross over. Continuing the dance as you are now is beyond meaningless. It is baseless torment."

(OOC: Another Religion check, this one worth 27, for a bonus to Celeste Viardot.)

Kerrian was sadly, far from the world's greatest dancer. And dear sweet dame music? Well, there relationship was one of appreciation from afar, a few flirtations that went nowhere of substance. But his relationship with the world of spirits and ephemera? There, there was where true intimacy resided.

Kerrian's eyes went unfocused, seeing not simply a swirling cloud of wraiths, undead abominations. No, he saw instead ancestors. Some long forgotten, some still fondly remembered. That spark of life that resided even after death.

"Nicolas, if you could manage something slightly uptempo, but still appropriate, I think it would be appreciated." He said quietly, before moving to make an attempt to join the dance.

OOC:Speak with Spirits used to give Nicolas an insight based +4 to his next check

2 Days, 23 Hours, 9 Minutes
On the River-Front, Quartier Ouvrier, Port-a-Lucine, Midnight on April 22nd, 770
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PC & NPC Actions
Lia = Succeeds on a Religion, giving Celeste a +4 bonus to her next regular check
Tomas = Succeeds on a Diplomacy (Social), success directed at Celeste
Kerrian = Uses Speak with Spirits, gives Nicolas a +4 bonus on his next regular check.
Rex = Succeeds on a Stealth (Physical)
Mercator = Uses Blazing Starfall, giving Celeste a +4 bonus to her next regular check.
Agale = Succeeds on a Diplomacy (Social), success directed at Celeste
Nicolas = Succeeds on a Diplomacy (Social), success directed at Celeste
Nerit = Succeeds on a Diplomacy (Social), success directed at Celeste

Celeste = Succeeds on a Diplomacy (Social)
Andre = Succeeds on a Diplomacy (Social), success directed at Nicolas
Remy = Succeeds on a Stealth (Physical), success directed at Rex


The wraiths gleefully twirled around the poet and the nun, attracted by the performance and the absurdity. The strange pairing seemed to please them in particular; they flew in every which way, through the falling snow, a stunning aerial accompaniment to the couple's dance. Some flew beneath the fallen veil, lifting it up in a floating dance of its own. Others gave a chant of their own, just audible beneath the other songs and music in the air.

• Zig et zig et zag, la mort continue
  De racler sans fin son aigre instrument.
  Un voile est tombé! La danseuse est nue!
  Son danseur la serre amoureusement.
  
  Zig et zig et zig, quelle sarabande!
  Quels cercles de morts se donnant la main!
  Zig et zig et zag, on voit dans la bande
  Le roi gambader auprès du vilain!

Tomas wrote:"I really wish you had told me you disagreed with Melanchthon's hypothesis before I jumped into the cloud of ghosts."

"I didn't have a better alternative until just a minute ago," Andre protested, attempting to dance around his own mob of over-eager ghosts. "This isn't exactly something that happens very often, I'm still working on it."

"Death - Atropos - is dead," Thierri replied simply to Tomas, never taking his eyes off his dance partner. "Thanatos will take her place. That is all there is. What Dementlieu lost on that night, when Death died, will be restored. No more people need die or kill for it."

“Why do I feel that Charles would be so very much better equipped than me to figure this out? Though if I may recommend, now would be a bad time to attract the incipient psychopomp's attention. He seems a touch preoccupied.” Prof. Theroux muttered, before stopping and bowing to his accompaniment of wraiths. They dipped in turn, a polite bow of sorts. “Now... I'm not much of a dancer, but perhaps I can tell you the story of the Appointment in Samara? It begins in the desert city of Phiraz...”

Rex wrote:The shadow flitted through the whirling dancers, deftly skittering by whirling skirts and flailing limbs.

Rex encountered the strange experience of attempting to move into a seemingly empty space, only to find it already occupied. Apparently someone else had also spotted this route through the ghosts, and was trying to make use of it at the same time. And of course, neither had noticed the other until they'd run into each other. There was a small noise as something in front of him wobbled a bit, and a glint in the air from what might have been a pair of glasses. It was slightly embarrassing, but no one was watching them.

"To the left. Following the movement of the ghosts," Lessard's voice whispered. Despite knowing he was there, Rex still couldn't see him. "You should be able to come out right in Boucher's blind spot. Get ready to pull her out of there. I'll cover you."

Rex felt someone slink off in the other direction, but soon they were both as invisible to each other as they had been before.

Celeste wrote:“We disagreed on the particulars, yes, M. Boucher…but we agreed on that… I ask you, sir: in like fashion, may not a man who pretends at goodness, and who does so with constancy…for whatever reason…is not that man a good man?”

If you were close enough to look, you could see Celeste tearing up. Not the imminent sobbing kind, but the absolutely, painfully sincere kind. The oddly happy kind. “I believe this of you, M. Boucher… All I ask is that, even now, you remember what it is to be a good man…and that you continue to pretend.”

"I once believed that," Thierri murmured, his flame-struck eyes returning her gaze a thousand fold. "I, who believe in nothing. No truth, no meaning, no fate, no gods who care enough to help us. Nothing in this world but us, beasts pretending to be something nobler, and the lies we create to avoid facing this truth. Yet..."

• There is no justice, the wraiths whispered.

"Yet I have seen the just," Thierri said softly.

• There is no mercy, the wraiths hissed.

"Yet I know the merciful," Thierri murmured in reply. "We lie to ourselves, we pretend as if these things are real, and so we act to make them so. Fragile, imperfect virtues, so easily shattered, so hard to destroy. I thought to make myself into a man simply by acting as one. Even now, beneath, I know it to be a sham. Violence is wrong, necromancy is wrong, all these things are right and wrong. Ask me why, and I have no answer. It is a lie I tell to preserve my masquerade, nothing that I believe. People are flawed, justice fallible, mercy foolish, morality grey, good and evil different for every man."

His dance slowed, and he held her in a passionate embrace, performing the steps to a waltz as intimate as his fiery tango. One hand ran lightly across her back; with the other, he leaned in closer, caressing a tear from her cheek. His lips stopped moments away from her skin, and there he remained, pulled there by some magnetic force, unable to tear himself away. "Celeste..." he whispered.

"I want this power," Thierri confessed, his voice ragged with uncontrollable emotion. "It burns me from the inside out, it consumes my mind and soul. It is obsession, it is madness, it is the only thing in which I believe, the only thing in this world which is absolute. It is terrible, and it calls to me - it is beautiful, and I revel in it. This is the truth."

"But in doing this, I replace what has been lost," he continued, speaking in a low voice close to her ear. "I, who wished to heal, will heal Dementlieu. No more can take advantage of what happened, no more need kill for it. We, who died because of what was done, will finally put things right. This is also the truth."

"In this, the good man and the monster are of one mind," he said, his heart pounding against her chest. "We must do this. How can we act in any other way?"

Congratulations, Celeste is at 6 successes, which means she can try for a Social victory by rolling Diplomacy check. Note, that various bonuses from others do not operate for this specific check (fireworks or necromantic advice aren't going to help Celeste here).

It is also time to start thinking about getting out of this alive. You may roll Acrobatics, Stealth, or Bluff checks, same as before, only instead of trying to get closer to Thierri, you are edging for the exit. If you make the check, you can negate one future failure.

If you do roll Acrobatics, Stealth, or Bluff, be sure to state whether you are trying to add to someone's successes, or are heading for the door.

Successes Accumulated
Andre Theroux = 0 Physical Successes, 0 Social Successes
Lia Mournswaithe = 0 Physical Successes, 0 Social Successes
Tomas Eisenwald = 0 Physical Successes, 0 Social Successes
Kerrian Mauganson = 0 Physical Successes, 0 Social Successes
Rex Alistair Prescott = 4 Physical Successes, 0 Social Successes
Mercator Melanchthon = 0 Physical Successes, 1 Social Successes
Mr. Agale = 0 Physical Successes, 0 Social Successes
Nicolas Etienne de Castaigne = 0 Physical Successes, 3 Social Successes
Celeste Viardot = 0 Physical Successes, 6 Social Successes
Sister Nerit Doherty = 0 Physical Successes, 0 Social Successes