Caught In the Middle [Closed]

[Quinn Lark]

oocSorry, friends, for the delay.

“You cleaned her up well,” a voice rang in Quinn’s ear, once the embellished thrill of Shannon’s story was called to an abrupt halt—for reasons the rest of the table seemed to care little for. The gaggle of peacocked nobles around him had broken off into a half dozen new conversations, of gossip and anecdotes as insufferable as Shannon’s had been, and gave a portly man wrapped in violet and ermine the chance to appraise the woman on Quinn’s arm.

“She does smell better than you.” Quinn’s brows quirked, tipping his lips with a playful grin as his elbow found rest on the table before him. He was not an especially small man, thin and handsome, but the plum on his lady’s opposite dwarfed him.

“Put silk gloves on a slave’s hands and she’s still a slave. Masquerading her as your wife, Lark? Forgive me, but there aren’t a set of ears here that haven’t heard your beloved ran off with some foreigner. News travels fast, and news two seasons old may as well be common knowledge.”

Bitterness welled up in the back of Quinn’s throat like hot bile. He swallowed, and that simper never faltered. “Masquerading her as a slave, in my wife’s clothing.” A hand snaked out, traced a line with two fingers along his dusky woman’s neck. “She has been with us for years; no idiot worth his weight in plums would mistake her for that slattern.” That seemed to bring a smile to the woman’s fleshy lips, and her dark eyes rolled between Quinn and the Plum.

“To Quinn and his favorite slave, may Rhysol bring you happiness.” The Plum lifted his glass of red and tipped it towards Quinn’s sharp nose. “And may you beget many a brown bastard for your uncle to profit from.”

The Plum’s words were a hot stone in Quinn’s belly. His lips opened and closed a few times, but no clever retort wriggled out from between them; his grin had flattened. “Come,” a set of lithe fingers groped for a velvet sleeve, though his eyes never left the monstrous purple heckler, “the smell at this table is getting to me.”

“Keep her close, Lark,” the Plum laughed after him, jubilant in his victory, “Else I get a taste for that dark skin and make her my pretend wife!”

“Your mother!”

[Murmur]

Blatant interruption, preposterous intervention, a most dire grievance. If Shannon hadn't been a noble Murmur might have felt slighted, and though his mouth twitched uncharacteristically in his attempt to hide his annoyance, he managed a forced laugh. For the moment, Cassandra seemed to have been forgotten. "Have we met?" Murmur asked, offering Shannon a feignly pensive stare. He must have balls made of isurian steel, this one. There was a frown at the noble's bold hand, the clench of his jaw as he clapped his back like an old friend. "Forgive me for seeming impolite, sir. I rarely speak with nobles, and thus find it surprising when someone knows my alias let alone my affiliation. Though I suppose my ensemble does painfully give that away." He glanced at Cassandra, momentarily amused by her subordinate facade. "Cut the pleasantries, Miss Coven. This is a party, shouldn't we all delve in a little revelry?"

[Zvi]

Zvi rose up to follow Ares, holding his lyre close to his chest. But he set it aside, knowing he'd need his hands free to help Ares and followed after her with his eyes trained on her heels, as had become his custom. If he kept quiet and kept his head down, he stayed out of trouble. That was more important than anything else to him at the moment, especially given how intensely angry Shannon had been when he lashed out before. His thoughts were interrupted, however, when Ares suddenly stumbled. Zvi released a sharp sound of surprise, lunging towards her in an attempt to grab hold of her, but she slipped into the water unceremoniously. His dusky eyes widened and he scrambled to his hands and knees, frantically reaching into the water to grab hold of her dainty arm and hoist her out of the filthy canal. "Oh, Ares! Are you all right?" He looked her over, concerned, and glanced towards the feet of the strange man. "Please, Sir, forgive us." He certainly wouldn't let Ares take the fall for this. His second hand came down, scooping around her arm and dragging upright.

[Lazybones]

Keating Ash

Sadie turned, leaning on her backside against the banquet table as she held the glass mug of ale to her painted lips. Another arm was dispatched to the table to further anchor her balance, flattening her palm on the surface and locking her elbow; it helped to push out her bosom and thrust it into conspicuousness. She could feel Keating's eyes roaming her curves and prying away her clothing, just as she assumed his hands desired to do. Sadie did nothing to show her modesty, and she even upturned a corner of her mouth as she watched him stare at her. It felt nice to be desired, especially when her own husband seldom seemed to. Look at him, this commoner, rough and barely shaven, carrying a brutish look in his uneducated eyes. There was something else, too. A longing—she dismissed it. What man didn't long for something he couldn't have? He was sun-tanned like a farmer, and more thickly built than Shannon; Keating more resembled his half-Isurian cousins, but so much taller. Sadie had more than once wondered what a thick-armed lover would feel like. She couldn't remember the last time Shannon had entered her. Ah, but he wasn't as dull as he looked. He had a sense of humor, this one. Sadie parted with a chuckle after downing a mouthful of bitter. "A pleasure, Keating. I'm not nearly as important as you think. I'm lowborn myself, hailing from Zeltiva. But, good things come to those who marry well." Pushing from the table, she rolled her body toward his, finishing the half-step he had taken toward her. "Sadly, my husband is better with money than he is at anything else, if you catch my meaning." Colorful eyes, both emerald and chocolate, rolled over the Syliran as if she were inspecting a prize swine. "You have the look of a man who's tasted heartbreak. I know that pain." With another drink, she reduced the contents of her ale glass to less than half. She set it aside then, discarding it onto the banquet table for the slaves to clean up. Remnant sheets of foam slid slowly back onto the surface of the dark amber. "Would you care for a tour of the manor? My father-in-law wouldn't mind. I'm sure we could find a ruffled shirt that's just your size."

Murmur and Cassandra

A dark glance speared through the shuffling crowd as Shannon performed a check on his scarlet-clad wife. She was making friends. How quaint. Discreetly snorting his opinion, he painted an amicable smile on his face again as he regarded the Ebonstryfe. Murmur's reaction had been entertaining, and it was hard to resist pressing more of his buttons. The Ebonstryfe were too easy to agitate. He did resist though; this was a party, after all, not a game of subterfuge. Not yet, anyway. "Ah, how rude of me. No, we haven't! Shannon Valdinox, at your service." Shannon pulled his hand from his pocket and offered it to the Ebonstryfe. "My family has strong ties with the Black Sun, especially my dear Matron Valdinox; as such, I hear a little about everyone. There is talk of you, in the grapevine. Good things only, I assure you." An exaggeration, only. Shannon turned his steely eyes toward Cassandra, ignorant of the history between the Apprentice and the serving wench. He only saw that she was understandably nervous in the company of an Ebonstryfe, and now an aristocrat. Poor thing must have been drowning in the exposure. It was distractingly lovely, to see the desperation so barely hidden her hazel eyes. If Shannon were the sort to play the same sultry games as his wife, he might have considered her for his bed. "No, not at all, my dear. You are performing wonderfully." Shannon leaned on his cane, sending a deliberate glance to his former table across the canal. "The nobles across the way may be in need of more wine and h'orderves. Although there is one thing I might ask you to do for me." He turned back to the waitress, mindlessly adjusting his top hat. "Our mutual acquaintance has a point; this is a happy occasion. Your face is far too lovely to be deprived of a smile." There was a sudden rise in volume from the rich side of the courtyard, and Shannon turned again. Reinhard had appeared from the manor, and the crowds hailed him with light, forced applause. The Chaon scowled at it, as if their recognition insulted him. Perhaps it did. "Ah, there's Father. He looks in high spirits. Is he actually going to speak?"

Crismento and Zvi

The world became muffled and blue, warped by the bubbling water that obscured Ares vision. For a moment, she was free, and her body did not thrash or struggle. Being Konti, water was her element, so she was not in distress. Her thirsty gills activated and breathed the water as she stared at the shifting, watery sky. She heard mumbling voices, followed by a long, thin arm plunging into the water. She recognized Zvi's hand, reaching to pull her back into her dull life of slavery. A watery sky rolled from her pale lips as she hesitated, then swam upward to grab hold of it. In another instant she was pulled to the surface, greeted once again by the sound of inane conversation and revelry, clinking plates and shallow laughter. Zvi put her arms around her, uttering pleas for her wellbeing. Ares exhaled a mouthful of water, then again breathed the air. "I am alright," she assured him softly, staggering to her feet as Zvi pulled her upright. Her clothes were now drooling with water and a wet, sopping puddle gathered at her feet, though her skin happily drank at the moisture. She allowed herself to remain in Zvi's strong, perfect arms while she pretended—not all that convincingly—to recover. "Please, accept my deepest apologies, kind sir," she spoke to Crismento, staring at his feet. She bowed her head in submission. "There is no excuse for my carelessness. I am but a simple slave. Command me, that I might compensate you for my thoughtless offense." It was then that a quick movement appeared from the corner of Crismento's eye, too fast for him to react. An elegantly clad impostor, a thief and pickpocket, had taken advantage of the distraction to slip nearby, unnoticed, until he bumped into the swindler as well. How infuriating for the poor party guest to be so violently knocked about! No one dove into the water this time; a clawed glove instead dove into Crismento's pocket, grabbed a handful of coin, and then retreated in an eyeblink. A low chuckle accompanied a malicious smile as the thief's eyes met Crismento's. The thief didn't look like a thief, under a well-trimmed hairline and behind a luxurious, ruffled shirt. He looked like any other partygoer, but for the pickpocketing glove that concealed his right hand. Slipping away with fleet of practiced footwork, he offered the swindler a two-fingered salute in gratitude for his offering. He then dashed back into the crowd. "Stop! Thief!" The throaty voice of a city guard called through the party, but he was some distance away. The thief blended back into the crowd, disappearing in plain sight—unless someone could point him out to the guards.

Everyone

Before the thief began his rounds, Reinhard Valdinox had stepped up into a gazebo near the center of the courtyard. The platform was slightly raised, so most of the guests could see him clearly. He was a stout man, grizzled with age and visible exhaustion, and surprisingly dressed down in drab grays and tans. A thick, salt-and-pepper beard clung to his round chin, more luscious than the hair that still remained on his head. He was pale, almost deathly so, and not nearly as tan as his only son. One could hardly see the resemblance between the two. "I don't know what all of you are doing here," he declared loudly with a surprisingly full-bodied voice that carried over the party's cacophonous conversations. There was a growl in his voice that spoke of deep, restrained anger. "I don't know any of you, save my useless son, my garrulous daughter-in-law, and my unamused Isurian kin. Yet you drink my wine, eat my food, and loiter on my property as if you belong here. "I know my son's prattling wife organized this abomination for my birthday, despite my wishes to keep herself out of my affairs. This is not a party for me, but for my worthless spawn, so eager to make an impression on the public and impress a gaggle of nobodies. Well bravo, Shannon. Bravo, Sadie. I never thought my disappointment could reach new lows. "All of you must leave at once. I have no wish to entertain any of you, and in fact it would be my great pleasure to curse each and every one of you with Rhysol's wrath. Get off of my property, or I will find you, and you will never—" Reinhard became distracted by sudden movement across the canal. A unit of city guards was combing through the crowd. The word "thief" was shouted above the commotion, which only made Reinhard sigh. "Sadie, you detestable harlot, you've invited thieves into my home! Do you see now the harm you've wrought by creating this disaster? The only thing worse than my son's uselessness to this family is his taste in women. I hope that—" Reinhard's voice was cut short by a gurgle, and then he sank to his knees. The hilt of a knife protruded from his back. Someone else in the gazebo had moved like a spirit, appearing as only a shadow behind Reinhard before the knife had bitten through his ribcage and pierced his lung. As the Chaon fell to the floor, the hooded figure left standing behind him threw a fist into the air. "Death to the Chaon!" The voice carried a Syliran accent. "Death to the Defiler!" There was a chorus of screams, jeers, and angry roars, and then the figure darted into the crowd, which became a moving sea of chaos. Shannon Valdinox, who had been in the company of Murmur and Cassandra, growled through his teeth, then abruptly ran off. He, too, was swallowed by the panicking party guests, and disappeared. The rest of the city guards appointed to the party, who weren't already hunting for the pickpocket, scattered as they too searched for Reinhard's assassin.

Quinn Lark

The assassin discarded his hooded cloak, revealing his clever disguise. Much like the pickpocket, he too dressed in expensive fabrics and a ruffed collar, wearing a well-groomed goatee and a gentleman's cue tied in a silk ribbon. It was only the smugness in his face that gave him away. He swam through the party like a trout making his way upstream, maneuvering around terrified party guests like fellow fish in his frenzied shoal. He knew the guards were pursuing him now, but the other pickpockets making their way through the party served as a distraction. Few had gotten a clear look at his beshadowed face. It was only his second dagger, that would give him away, which he held concealed under his attractive jacket. Yet, some the guards were getting close. They needed something to distract them. A well-dressed gentleman and his dark skinned slave appeared in front of him, Quinn Lark and his pretend wife. Another noble's dead body would do well, tossed in his pursuers' path, and the panic it would cause could quicken the party mob and conceal his escape route. "Nothing personal!" was his war cry as the assassin's glinting blade sailed toward Quinn's chest. His slave girl shrieked. "Out of the way, fool!" Shannon roar as he leapt in front of the Lark, swinging his cane to parry the assassin's blade. He grunted as steel struck lacquered wood, and stumbled from poor balance. Before the assassin could pull back his blade, Shannon grabbed for his wrist and held the assassin in a temporary stalemate. Shannon chanced to look to his side, where the Lark had been thrown to the ground. His face, twisted into a scowl of effort as he tried to keep the assassin's armed hand at bay, lit up with recognition. He knew Quinn from the art gallery, not far from here. He was a painter, and occasionally part of Sadie's social cadre. "Quinn Lark! How good to see you! Be a lad and find my wife! I know you're part of her—oof!" The assassin's free hand had thrust into Shannon's abdomen in the form of a balled fist. He keeled over, falling to one knee. Letting go of the assassin's arm, his cane then made for the assassin's groin. The killer groaned and staggered, too stunned to attack with his dagger. It wouldn't last long. "GO, you fool! Get her to safety or I WILL end your life!"

[Quinn Lark]

He would not be told thrice.

In any other situation, Quinn may have sneered, demanded what rights his caned defender had to delegate the search for his wife to him, but shock had numbed his lips and tied his tongue. At least his legs still worked; he scrambled to his feet and gripped his dusky woman by the arm. “You go,” he hissed, truly making an effort not to run from the scene. “Go home. Find Charlie. Stay inside until I come back.” If anything were to happen to the child, his ‘lady’ knew she would suffer the same fate, tenfold. She murmured her compliance in her rich desert-tongue, turned, and disappeared into chaos. He watched her leave, scowling.

Petch it all.

Quinn’s nose itched. Sadie was an intelligent woman; one he assumed would not be frozen with grief upon the assassination of a bitter man affiliated only by marriage. Dull browns scanned the sea of faces for a hint of crimson. He had seen her earlier. That dress was inimitable, and yet, he could not find it. Fingernails dug into the flesh of his palms, and Quinn gave himself to the crowd. Shoulders bumped him; others nearly knocked him over entirely, trying to make a mad scramble for the nearest exit. He could not blame them, but he could resent them.

Quinn darted upstream, past an empty table where he had sat moments prior, toward the Valdinox manor. There, on marble steps, a head above most, he managed to spot her in the company of another. He exhaled, rubbed his thumb and index finger along the bridge of his narrow nose, and found the resolve to sink back into the madness to approach her.

“Sadie.” He was heard before he was seen, and when she turned, he was there. By now, panic had matted his hair to his forehead and made his palms clammy. He’d managed, for a time, to keep his eyes from the source of the panic, but he indulged himself with a sideward glance, and the stench of blood and death clung to his nostrils and tainted his tongue. “Your husband, he—” Quinn’s brow furrowed, “He sent me after you. That assassin,” Syliran assassin he thought, accusingly, before stealing another glance over his shoulder, as if Shannon would appear without a scratch. “He attacked us.”

Quinn had never been delicate, in matters of sensitivity. He glanced at the behemoth of a man at Sadie’s side. “Shannon’s still fighting the Syliran. That is, if one or the other hasn’t lost yet.”

[Keating Ash]

Keating had shaved that very morning; yet so fast had the afternoon shadows grown upon his face that it appeared no blade had yet touched his skin. The stubble darkened his jaw to match his gaze as it hovered upon Sadie, but the woman’s hair was equally dark. Keating’s fingers tightened with the desire to run through the soft strands, but as always, the man remained steadfast… and in control. “Then your husband is a fool. Or blind…” he said with a good-natured snort, looking down at Sadie’s fine attributes. There was little space between them. Yet Keating made no move to touch her, only drained his own mug, and slowly without making contact, reached around to set the empty vessel next to hers upon the crowded table. All the while his eyes never left her face. “Maybe you’re lucky… I just work with these…” And the dock worker held one rough and scarred hand out near her hip for her to see. Strength lay not in just Keating’s arms, but in the digits of his hands as well. They were large, the fingers thick. He felt the current between them; he thought she felt it too. The elemental feel of common connection; neither of them was innocent or pure. Yet it seemed they understood one another well enough, despite their differing stations in life. This wasn’t Keating’s first flirtation with a married woman; he’d seen it before - even the most beautiful of women had distracted husbands… and he would bet that Sadie needed more attention than most. “If you've felt pain… I doubt it was for long - pretty as you are…” He would not speak of his own pain, and he dismissed hers; the man could not fathom anyone suffering the way in which he suffered every day. “Aye…” he breathed with a sparkle glinting in his eye, “Show me what you would… ruffled shirt or no, I’d find a use for it. Though, be warned… I ain't no one’s lapdog.” At that his large hand moved up and for a moment his thumb touched the hollow of Sadie’s elbow, as his fingers wrapped around the back to give her the gentlest of squeezes. Slowly his hand moved away. It was only a moment of soft contact, yet from such a powerful man, it hinted at more... including his desire to be away. Before Sadie could answer though, an older man began to address the crowd. At first it was difficult to hear the speech over the noise at the banquet tables, but as the revelers quieted, the words became clearer, the voice more angry… combative and rude. Keating’s eyebrows rose in surprise and he leaned down, to say lowly, almost in an intimate whisper, “Ahhh… harlots and nobodies… no wonder we get along…” Keating laughed then, though his eyes were hard. His chest had expanded in insulted indignation. Not that as a low-born man he expected better; the dock worker knew how the world worked, and he snorted, “I’d say you married well alright... Can’t say much ‘bout your father-in-laws’ manners though and-” The words were cut short as a knife suddenly stuck out from the man’s back, and another man darted into crowd yelling. Confusion reigned. Even with his fondness for women who were trouble, Keating was smart enough not to get mixed up in political intrigues. With the showing of the dagger, it was time for the dock worker to take his leave. Yet it remained to been seen if Sadie would wish to take her leave with him or retire alone, after the very public, and very harsh words her father-in-law had spoken. Keating assumed Sadie would react emotionally, like a woman. And any comfort Keating could offer would best be done away from the prying eyes of the estate guards. His hand reached to touch the small, delicate curve of her back, to capture her attention once more. But the man was interrupted by someone calling Sadie’s name. Inwardly Keating swore… but already the man stood before them, sweaty and disheveled. By the looks of him, he belonged on the other side of the canal… one of the elite. “Calm down man!” Keating barked at the immaculately dressed, but panicked man that had joined them. “And tell me… is Sadie in danger? Her husband ain't gonna want her to go to him now… not in the midst of this...” On guard himself, the large man scanned the chaotic crowd for signs of attack. He was calm, used to volatile crowds after his years spent working in taverns. Standing taller, the violence in the air charged him and ignited him, and made him feel more alive. The warm pressure against her back increased slightly. Eyeing Quinn and his unblemished skin, Keating turned back to the red-garbed Sadie, “Is there some where safe for you to go? Somewhere you'd like me to take you?”

[Cassandra Coven]

OOCApologies for the lateness of the reply. Everyone else can reply ahead of me if I end up doing this again. As Cassandra stammered to protest to Murmur that she was really not there to socialize, but rather to perform a service, Shannon's quick and silver tongue was there to save her from further embarrassment. "I - yes, yes, of course, m'lord," came her reply as she attempted a tentative smile for the man. Eyelashes batted and her gaze shifted just at the exact moment Shannon's eyes would have met hers. A sign of subservience, or a game of coyness? If her employer had been but a fraction of the carnality of the men Cassandra served in the Silver Sliver, he would have recognized it as the latter. It was all unconscious for the dark-haired woman, however. Such actions came natural for her, borne by years of playing tease with tavern patrons to keep them in their seats just a little longer and hopefully have them buying more drinks. But rather than bite at the bait, Shannon had dismissed her, directing her to wait on the table had come from. Cassandra half-bowed, only remembering belatedly to abbreviate the action lest she exposed the more tender parts of her legs to those viewing her from behind. She moved to obey, but even she was distracted by the arrival of the party's celebrant. The man was not pleased by the festivities it seemed, and his lecture left Cassandra wondering if she continue doing the job she was being paid for or just leave the premises as he had demanded. She did not have time to decide for, as she watched, the man collapsed, the hilt of a knife stuck visibly on his back. His attacker screamed a rallying cry before vanishing into the crowd. Having lived in the walled city for a few years herself, Cassandra thought she recognized the assassin's accent as Syliran. And then there was chaos. The panicked ran this way and that, scrambling to escape the courtyard as if fearful that they might be murdered next, while those seeking retribution for the attack on the nobleman struggled to search for the murderer in the sea of bodies. The people's alarm was infectious and Cassandra joined the crowd of people wanting nothing more than to leave the place. Everyone seemed to be looking out for themselves at this point and, in their blind panic, someone ended up shoving Cassandra to the side. She stumbled to her knees though the press of people seemed to be absent where she fell. Gazing up, Cassandra found herself behind the bar. It was empty, the barman must have slipped out at the first opportunity. She supposed it was as safe a place as any. Crab-walking to the far corner, she decided to wait out the chaos around her. Surely the guards would catch the murderer in no time and calm everyone else down. But poor Reinhard! Why anyone would want to kill the Valdinox patriarch was beyond her, but she supposed it was none of her business. She just came there to earn a living.

[Verilian]

Keating Ash +1 Seduction +1 Leadership Lores: Attending a Valdinox Party, Flirting with the Upper Class, The Death of Reinhard Valdinox Cassandra Coven +1 Rhetoric Lores: Attending a Valdinox Party, Alias: Murmur, The Death of Reinhard Valdinox Loot: 20gm for a days work, doubled as promised Crismento Miren Lores: Attending a Valdinox Party, Failing to Act, The Death of Reinhard Valdinox Murmur Lores: Attending a Valdinox Party, Upstaged by a Noble, The Death of Reinhard Valdinox Zvi Lores: Attending a Valdinox Party, Saving a Konti in Distress, The Death of Reinhard Valdinox Quinn Lark +1 Running Lores: Attending a Valdinox Party, Insults of the Upper Class, Saved by a Valdinox, The Death of Reinhard Valdinox You Question My Logic? : Unfortunately the thread didn't go on long enough for me to award everybody xp, however if you feel that I missed something, let me know and I'll take a second look. Notes: So many veteran Ravokians in one place, I felt like I was back in my AS days again. ^^ I'm sad this thread didn't get to play out, but maybe I can get you guys together for a different quest one day. We'll see. For now, keep up the good work, and keep writing!