Member
AliceAbigail
Scrawl Banditta
Wilted Rose
mickilennial
Ekreture
Supermaxx
erikhRoughly a month prior
Swinging. Pirouetting. Dancing and mingling. The ballroom of the palatial mansion was alight in the glow of festival. Under the vaulted ceiling the heavy chandeliers hung with streamers of pearl and glass beads. The reflected light shimmer across the floor and the great many multitudes dappled the bright happy faces with the light of a million stars. A jovial scent of spice filled the cavernous space from great banquet tables. The buffet laid across it filled with the richness of taste and the wealth of expectation of the foreign merchant who had decades before moved into the small city state of Valentine.
And like the jewels that hung above, so too did the city outside the palace's windows shine. Across the bay, rising scores of streets marched up the hillside from the shore. The dark shapes of boats sat in the dark crystalline waters of the bay. The lamp light from windows glowed in the darkness, adding to the view the light of hundreds more soft yellow and orange stars to the inky sheet of night.
From a stage erected in the middle of a room, a large band took command of the dance, and the singing praise of a multitude of string instruments swayed the dancers about in staccato energy. They sweated in their livery, beads pouring down from their brows as the heat of the dancers and the energy of their playing consumed them to their very core. They appeared as if hypnotized, as if taken by the music and by some other force. Eyes closed in intense concentration, or held up to the old mosaics that decorated the ceiling high above.
And in front of them, broad shouldered and impressive was the master of the house. The bearded and noble master. Carbono Ithilmu, or as those of more ancient times knew him: Semiane Munch Strige Vrykolas. He had come far in space and time since the days he was a low rural count, brooding over the valleys of his domain from a rude stone cut castle on a high ridge. He had passed from the languid and sepulcher tapestries and trappings of a dynasty so ancient that it was dead, save for he. Now here he was, among the warm glow of participants to his own spectacle and the light of the uncountable candles he could afford, crates of which arrived to his palace by the day and it was said the true scale of his wealth could be measured by the inordinate tons of spent wax he threw out to the bay. Who could find a master richer? Seemingly more well connected.
Who would not adore his sublime presence? His eyes, as dark as they were glowing. His presence, so immense it filled a room by itself, let alone a full one.
He commanded his steps, holding out one hand to take a new dancer; man or woman he discerned not. And each danced with him. Some more tenderly than others. And each contact appeared to boost his aura, his presence. While others tired his energy grew. He noted not the heat, or seemed to grow hungry. He drank the wine heavier than any demon, but held himself no less drunk than the simply warmly inebriated; he did not stumble or fall and moved with all the complexity of a spirited dancer, in full control.
As the Saturnalia drew on into the night, the guests began to withdraw. Those who could find the door stumbled laughing and warm in the face from the wine and the joy as they were piloted away by their drivers, the clapping of hooves echoing down the sweeping cobblestone drive that turned they away from the mansion as it had brought them in, funneled by the delicate shadows of olive trees.
Those who weren't so lucky were helped along by the servants, who stepping out of the woodwork took them to guest rooms. They appeared seemingly from no where like nimphs in the wood to take the drunken wanderers away to safe quarters. Their joyous delirious laughter could be heard all throughout before they were closed off in private chambers and stumbled their ways to beds or couches, naked or half way there.
As the ballroom empty, the band ceased to play and they soon retired. Though not drunk, the deprivation of exhaustion hung over them and they threw themselves off to the side, surrendering to their own weight and curled in a corner. The servants stepping out from their doors as the sound of party subsided and began to clean up the mess, the goblets tossed aside, the food on the floor, the sweat and blood and puke. And the last among the many to stand was master Semiane, a glass of wine held high in salute to the revelry.
“And to thee, a good sleep.” he was heard to say in the silent ballroom before downing the goblet. Emptied, he walked over the bodies that had collapsed from exhaustion and handed it to an elderly chamberlain who bowed and delivered it with the others to the kitchen.
“Oh what fun, what joy!” Semiane gloated, laughing as he walked across the sleeping hall, “Oh how man pushes themselves. The escape they seek. A much ado respect to you all. I am well fed.” he added, laughing.
The echoes of his footfalls followed after him as he walked through his estate. From the ballroom to the foyer. The towering room glowing with a lunar blue light through windows that reached up with the columns and intricate details of the architecture. Up golden flights of stairs, the railing a decadent gallery of detailed filigree and painstakingly carved scenes in carved spaces no larger than an oak leaf. Across carpets, imported from many of the far corners of the room and through even more broad chambers. Windows galleries that look out across vineyards and orchards, complete with a distant winery on the far hills, dark against the sheet of the moon glow night.
His journey ended in his bedroom. A library and gallery of all things fair and fine. Where hanging from the walls were paintings and tapestries centuries old. Books in far-flung languages and complex ciphers. Suits of armor from many periods and kingdoms stood in silent drill against the wall under sword and shield. And in the middle, in a large bed of white and gold reclined several young women, naked save for the sheets that covered them. At the sound of the door opening they stirred and rose, presenting their fair fine bodies to him as he stepped forward to kiss their cheeks, their necks, and their chests as they disrobed him and invited him in.
Free of his clothes he breast lay exposed to the warm night air. Unlike the rest of him it bore the signs of his age, his being. Far from the expression of his public self his chest was boiled and white, hairless. His massive ribs jostling for space against his tough leathery skin with the tight sinewy ropes of his muscles. The magic and skill of reconstructive surgery had done much to try and cover this, but unlike his face, what magic he possessed seemed to do little to hold whatever form was sculpted onto his body here.
But the young women he lay with did not seem to care or pay no heed as they gingerly brushed him with his fingers. Their embrace lasted until there was a knock on the door that stirred them. Indifferent Semiane rose and called out, “You may enter.”
The large doors opened, and in stepped an old man. His eyes down cast at the parchment he held. His face pale and white as he looked up and bowed. “Your honor, I hope I am not intruding.”
“It doesn't matter. What is it?” Semiane answered him as he sat up right. Folding his hands in his lap.
“There is word from the imperium. Evidently, the Emperor Zachaeus had announced he is retiring from his duties. His sons are to take to the throne, but on the condition that they are married. I know my honor is looking for opportunity, and so, I believe this opportunity would be most fitting.”
Semiane thought for a moment and nodded. I have not made my way to Xelwyth, he thought to himself. Raising his eyes he looked at his old house steward and said, “Who are the sons, whom are they looking for. I can imagine the opportunities I can have, but who might I have to contend with to gain favors.”
“That, I have here.” the old man said, producing a new scroll from his back pocket.
“Then let's sit down.” Semiane said promptly, throwing over him an embroidered robe as he invited the old man to a table near the window. He lit a few nearby candles as the case was explained to him, who the princes were, and what their dispositions may be. Semiane nodded along, feeling a taste for adventure brew on the back of his tongue.
“I may have to go.” he said, stoking his thick beard. “By morning, when can you ready a ship for passage?”
“Perhaps by the afternoon, or late evening your honor.” the old man said to him.
“Then be on it, keep me notified when it's ready or there are delays. I will be in touch by courier if I need anything when I arrise.”
“As you will, your honor.”
Swinging. Pirouetting. Dancing and mingling. The ballroom of the palatial mansion was alight in the glow of festival. Under the vaulted ceiling the heavy chandeliers hung with streamers of pearl and glass beads. The reflected light shimmer across the floor and the great many multitudes dappled the bright happy faces with the light of a million stars. A jovial scent of spice filled the cavernous space from great banquet tables. The buffet laid across it filled with the richness of taste and the wealth of expectation of the foreign merchant who had decades before moved into the small city state of Valentine.
And like the jewels that hung above, so too did the city outside the palace's windows shine. Across the bay, rising scores of streets marched up the hillside from the shore. The dark shapes of boats sat in the dark crystalline waters of the bay. The lamp light from windows glowed in the darkness, adding to the view the light of hundreds more soft yellow and orange stars to the inky sheet of night.
From a stage erected in the middle of a room, a large band took command of the dance, and the singing praise of a multitude of string instruments swayed the dancers about in staccato energy. They sweated in their livery, beads pouring down from their brows as the heat of the dancers and the energy of their playing consumed them to their very core. They appeared as if hypnotized, as if taken by the music and by some other force. Eyes closed in intense concentration, or held up to the old mosaics that decorated the ceiling high above.
And in front of them, broad shouldered and impressive was the master of the house. The bearded and noble master. Carbono Ithilmu, or as those of more ancient times knew him: Semiane Munch Strige Vrykolas. He had come far in space and time since the days he was a low rural count, brooding over the valleys of his domain from a rude stone cut castle on a high ridge. He had passed from the languid and sepulcher tapestries and trappings of a dynasty so ancient that it was dead, save for he. Now here he was, among the warm glow of participants to his own spectacle and the light of the uncountable candles he could afford, crates of which arrived to his palace by the day and it was said the true scale of his wealth could be measured by the inordinate tons of spent wax he threw out to the bay. Who could find a master richer? Seemingly more well connected.
Who would not adore his sublime presence? His eyes, as dark as they were glowing. His presence, so immense it filled a room by itself, let alone a full one.
He commanded his steps, holding out one hand to take a new dancer; man or woman he discerned not. And each danced with him. Some more tenderly than others. And each contact appeared to boost his aura, his presence. While others tired his energy grew. He noted not the heat, or seemed to grow hungry. He drank the wine heavier than any demon, but held himself no less drunk than the simply warmly inebriated; he did not stumble or fall and moved with all the complexity of a spirited dancer, in full control.
As the Saturnalia drew on into the night, the guests began to withdraw. Those who could find the door stumbled laughing and warm in the face from the wine and the joy as they were piloted away by their drivers, the clapping of hooves echoing down the sweeping cobblestone drive that turned they away from the mansion as it had brought them in, funneled by the delicate shadows of olive trees.
Those who weren't so lucky were helped along by the servants, who stepping out of the woodwork took them to guest rooms. They appeared seemingly from no where like nimphs in the wood to take the drunken wanderers away to safe quarters. Their joyous delirious laughter could be heard all throughout before they were closed off in private chambers and stumbled their ways to beds or couches, naked or half way there.
As the ballroom empty, the band ceased to play and they soon retired. Though not drunk, the deprivation of exhaustion hung over them and they threw themselves off to the side, surrendering to their own weight and curled in a corner. The servants stepping out from their doors as the sound of party subsided and began to clean up the mess, the goblets tossed aside, the food on the floor, the sweat and blood and puke. And the last among the many to stand was master Semiane, a glass of wine held high in salute to the revelry.
“And to thee, a good sleep.” he was heard to say in the silent ballroom before downing the goblet. Emptied, he walked over the bodies that had collapsed from exhaustion and handed it to an elderly chamberlain who bowed and delivered it with the others to the kitchen.
“Oh what fun, what joy!” Semiane gloated, laughing as he walked across the sleeping hall, “Oh how man pushes themselves. The escape they seek. A much ado respect to you all. I am well fed.” he added, laughing.
The echoes of his footfalls followed after him as he walked through his estate. From the ballroom to the foyer. The towering room glowing with a lunar blue light through windows that reached up with the columns and intricate details of the architecture. Up golden flights of stairs, the railing a decadent gallery of detailed filigree and painstakingly carved scenes in carved spaces no larger than an oak leaf. Across carpets, imported from many of the far corners of the room and through even more broad chambers. Windows galleries that look out across vineyards and orchards, complete with a distant winery on the far hills, dark against the sheet of the moon glow night.
His journey ended in his bedroom. A library and gallery of all things fair and fine. Where hanging from the walls were paintings and tapestries centuries old. Books in far-flung languages and complex ciphers. Suits of armor from many periods and kingdoms stood in silent drill against the wall under sword and shield. And in the middle, in a large bed of white and gold reclined several young women, naked save for the sheets that covered them. At the sound of the door opening they stirred and rose, presenting their fair fine bodies to him as he stepped forward to kiss their cheeks, their necks, and their chests as they disrobed him and invited him in.
Free of his clothes he breast lay exposed to the warm night air. Unlike the rest of him it bore the signs of his age, his being. Far from the expression of his public self his chest was boiled and white, hairless. His massive ribs jostling for space against his tough leathery skin with the tight sinewy ropes of his muscles. The magic and skill of reconstructive surgery had done much to try and cover this, but unlike his face, what magic he possessed seemed to do little to hold whatever form was sculpted onto his body here.
But the young women he lay with did not seem to care or pay no heed as they gingerly brushed him with his fingers. Their embrace lasted until there was a knock on the door that stirred them. Indifferent Semiane rose and called out, “You may enter.”
The large doors opened, and in stepped an old man. His eyes down cast at the parchment he held. His face pale and white as he looked up and bowed. “Your honor, I hope I am not intruding.”
“It doesn't matter. What is it?” Semiane answered him as he sat up right. Folding his hands in his lap.
“There is word from the imperium. Evidently, the Emperor Zachaeus had announced he is retiring from his duties. His sons are to take to the throne, but on the condition that they are married. I know my honor is looking for opportunity, and so, I believe this opportunity would be most fitting.”
Semiane thought for a moment and nodded. I have not made my way to Xelwyth, he thought to himself. Raising his eyes he looked at his old house steward and said, “Who are the sons, whom are they looking for. I can imagine the opportunities I can have, but who might I have to contend with to gain favors.”
“That, I have here.” the old man said, producing a new scroll from his back pocket.
“Then let's sit down.” Semiane said promptly, throwing over him an embroidered robe as he invited the old man to a table near the window. He lit a few nearby candles as the case was explained to him, who the princes were, and what their dispositions may be. Semiane nodded along, feeling a taste for adventure brew on the back of his tongue.
“I may have to go.” he said, stoking his thick beard. “By morning, when can you ready a ship for passage?”
“Perhaps by the afternoon, or late evening your honor.” the old man said to him.
“Then be on it, keep me notified when it's ready or there are delays. I will be in touch by courier if I need anything when I arrise.”
“As you will, your honor.”
