[right][h3][b][i][color=B100de]Master Plum[/color][/i][/b][/h3][color=B100de]≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎[/color]
[color=B100de][i][b]Location: [/b][/i][/color]Shadowell Manor: Chair 15 
[color=B100de][i][b]Skills:[/b][/i][/color] Intelligence
[color=B100de][i][b]Hit Points:[/b][/i][/color]  6
[color=B100de]≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎≎[/color][/right]

[i]
Cas the guardian, with the eyes of jade,
Beckoning to them, collects them all together,
Beats with his oar whoever lags behind.
[/i]

Quite a gathered lot. fifteen chairs by the count, a throne for each guest. One by one they staked their claim, not in any particular order as it seemed. Some took to their seats before some others after a marvel at what strange means of transport would get them to the actual manor. Another layer of security perhaps? Or was it indeed so far a walk from this point to the warmth of the manor itself that such a cogworthy craft was needed? Or simply the mode for the stupidly rich? Not just the wealthy who could afford such a horseless carriage, but to afford something like this> Pulled along the track as if by magic. And that was the key wasn't it? To impress and inspire, to amuse and awe, the methods and means to demonstrate one power and prominence. This thing was merely a taste of what the guests could expect, as one by one they boarded. They had entered the gates, and there their ferryman greeted them openly while dressed in a suit befitting the devil himself. The imps had gone to steal the horses away from those who brought them. It appeared that tonight, they only had the clothes on their back, and whatever they took with them.   

Some came richly, some came poorly, but all came mysteriously no doubt. Even the one that succumbed to the cold found themselves in the arms of some brutish oaf. Cradled indeed by a thoroughbred steed, but to the meathead's surprise they began to rise, and protest the embrace in an attempt to face. The raven-clad man tutted and stroked his raven's crest of feathers as he took his strides parading past the rest. Pacing down and then back up the queer machine to his right, a vexing vehicle like none other across the land no doubt. Was it safe? Not the screaming metal death trap, but the invitation. The mask hides the face, but who had faced the Ambesire? A puzzle beyond the machine, a conundrum yet to be seen. A sideways glance to his right at the other bird beaker in the second seat, what sort of man was he? Would he move out of courtesy? Or stand his ground and keep his seat? A challenge to his authority. Not wanting to bring too much attention to himself or his avian acquaintance yet, he backtracked his steps to the fifteenth position and gingerly sat in the final seat. Perhaps it was the safest place to be, should the entire vehicle come to a rather explosive demise. Far away from the blast, and the one to have the greatest chance of escaping no doubt.

[color=B100de]
Sixteen chairs to fill and use,
Quickly choose, choose, and choose,
With so many more come far before us,
We'll claim the seat most perilous.
[/color]

Another singsong tune muttered perhaps in madness to the raven on his shoulder.