The Madness in the North

Insominus

Insominus

Sauce Lover
AEgxBIO.jpg


This is the RP thread for The Madness of the North, only approved users may post here (see below)
==========================================================================
Approved Users:
Rose
Fubsy
Frost
the_miserable
Opheliabee
==========================================================================
OOC Thread: http://www.storytellerscircle.com/threads/the-madness-of-the-north-ooc-thread.3834/
 
Last edited:
Canicatti, Culviny

It is the 6th day of summer and all is well in Canicatti. The blisteringly long days are offset by the drafty, languid nights and the city is filled with foreigners from near and far. Most have traveled to the Culvinian city for the well-renowned Summer Gale Fest, a festival that traditionally marked the passage of the seasons. The Summer Gale Fest used to be considered yet another archaic Culvinian tradition that had no place in the modern world, however, in the past few years, it had become to mean more. Sixty years ago, the Summer Gale Fest marked the end of the Second Northern Insurrection, the bloodiest war Moordon had ever seen. Culvinian troops finally returned home after five years of fighting and wanted nothing more than to drink and party until their livers soured and their brains atrophied. Since then, the Summer Gale Fest has been transformed from a lesser-known, mostly ignored tradition to a week-long, non-stop booze-fueled romp through the streets of Canicatti.

Party-goers dress in their finest attire and drink until they drop in massive fest tents set up around Canicatti, typically there are also makeshift parades, costume parties, drunken brawls, and at this particular fest, an exciting new invention called fireworks that was scheduled to go off at midnight. Although the sun had just set, the celebration was already in full swing, the normal din of the city had been replaced by party music, drunken hollering, and cries of joy or disgust. The place to be on this particular evening was Lord Wolfgang Von Wilderschmidt 's fest tent, Wilderschmidt was a frequently visiting dignitary who never spared any expense when it came to grand displays of extravagant wealth. The tent itself was easily six times the size of the largest barn in Culviny, Wilderschmidt had to keep the grounds reserved year round just so he had some place to put it. The inside of the tent was decorated all of the finest and most ridiculously expensive items: wine-dispensing fountains, velvet furniture, the brightest lamps, kegs the size of houses, mock gladiatorial pits, tables and benches made of the finest Carconian hardwood, and the center piece of it all, a gilded statue of Wilderschmidt making an obscene hand gesture at the sky. If you weren't at Wilderschmidt's tent, you were no one.
=========================================================================================================================================
(OOC: Your first post should be detailing your char's path to this party, make sure to consider how they got there [did they steal someone else's tickets? buy them? are they working in the tent? etc.) and they're motivation for attending, have fun!)
 
Hedvig hated parties. She hated having to dress up and pretend she gave a damn about whatever was being celebrated. Her uncle had spent the past year trying to get them tickets to Lord Wolfgang Von Wilderschmidt's fest. He said it would change their lives. Hedvig knew the truth. Her uncle was old and lonely, all he wanted was someone to take her aunt's place. She sat on the windowsill of her room. Uncle Ludwig and her lived above the tavern. A broken down suite that hadn't been remodeled since the last century. Hedvig observed the party-goers. Pretty girls dressed up in expensive gowns walked alongside tall handsome men. Her pallid face and light colored robe made her seem like a ghost to anyone who were to look up from the street. Fearful tears slid down her cheeks. She wouldn't fit in. The nicest thing she owned was an old peasant dress which had belonged to her aunt, not to mention that the scar across her face made her stand out like a sore thumb.

"Hev," said her uncle, knocking softly on her door, "are you almost ready dear?"
"Yes uncle Ludwig, I'll be out in a minute."

She put on her worn dress and old alpargatas, at least she would look somewhat like a girl. Hedvig grabbed her handmade flint dagger and put it in a scabbard which she fastened underneath her dress, she wasn't taking any chances around millions of drunkards.

"I'm ready uncle," uttered Hedvig as she walked out of her room.
Ludwig sighed as he took a look at her, "do you really have to wear that old cloak?"
"Uncle, it makes me feel safe," It was true, Hedvig preferred to hide her face. After being shunned as a child and called every synonym of ugly, she couldn't bear to show her face in places she didn't feel comfortable in.
"As long as it makes you leave the tavern."

She walked alongside her uncle. Face down with the hood pulled over her head. Uncle Ludwig was a merry man, he was ecstatic about this party. It had been his dream to be among the wealthy for a night since he was a teen in the slums. Hedvig knew this. That's why she agreed to attend, plus, from years of working at the tavern she had heard stories of the amazing meals at Lord Wolfgang's fest. There was nothing Hedvig loved more than good food. The chattering and live music became louder as they approached the tent. Here goes nothing, thought Hedvig.
 
There was nothing Lysero loved more than a good card game. Except, of course, for a beautiful lass or two at his side with a bottle of aged wine, but who wouldn't fancy that? Cards, however, held a challenge Lysero was never one to refuse. A challenge of who was clever, and who was drunk. And usually, Lysero was careful to choose opponents who fell in the latter category. Tavern matches, especially ones frequented by the richfolk in whatever town he had found himself in that day, were his favorite. If you had the right hand (and wore long sleeves), you were always certain to win the most interesting of prizes. Sometimes sacks of gold, other times a priceless heirloom, and, on the rare occasion, tickets to Lord Wolfgang Von Wilderschmidt's tent in the biggest party in town.

Lysero's gaze swept over the droves of party-goers, the smallest of smug smiles ghosting across his face. It has been a while since he had last attended a festival, and he was not one to miss a chance for a good, old fashioned celebration. Not when there was good booze and even better company awaiting him. Lysero was sure to wear his finest clothes--robes of the brightest violet and the richest of velvet red--with threads of gold braided among brass and silver beads in his hair. It was gaudy. It was flamboyant. It was going to help him leave an impression, and by the damned Lysero was going to make sure of that.

As Lysero neared the tent, the music swelled to an ear-shattering crescendo swarmed with choirs of voices. The smell of something sweet and something bitter mixed to create an intoxicating atmosphere that made Lysero's head spin. A large smile split his face as he maneuvered his way forward, flowing robes trailing behind like wisps of mist. He had come here alone, but he made plans to leave here with company. Or, at the very least, pass out that way in a blaze of bewildering excitement.
 
Hilde was a person that enjoyed a small party, one with friends or family and lots of laughing and huge tankards of mead. That is what she enjoyed, a small party, but living in Canicatti she had come to expect this loud drunken brawl that people have called a party. She had never made enough to go to it, and she never wanted to. She much preferred to guard her little wares and sleep the week through, maybe selling some bad furs to the drunken fools who had too much money.

This year she had gotten a bit lucky. She had managed to kill and skin a bear and been profiting off every little bit of it. The fur was a beautiful rich black and soft and nice to feel. She was so proud of this fur and luckily it caught a rich man's eye. He offered her a ticket to the most famous tent at the festival for this fur. Hilde, in the spur of the moment idea took the trade and smiles, knowing how much these tickets are worth. The rich man was happy with his trade too, so overall it was a good trade. Hilde went and traded some furs and got herself a nicer green dress, it was meant to compliment her hair and she was excited for the day, most for the drink then anything else. She wants a good time and deserves a day for once in her life to enjoy time.

She smooths the dress before she enters, hair dun up in a bun. My goodness she felt like she was 15 years younger today, and smiles nervously at some men in the tent. She hasn't even thought about romance since her husband's passing... This was certainly the fanciest place she has been in and she can hardly believe she was here. She goes to get a drink to steady her nerves, keeping an eye out for a drunk man trying too much or even just man that was attractive.
 
The smell of alcohol and sound of happy chatter filled the air as Gereon made his way down the cramped road full of drunken people celebrating... whatever it was they were celebrating. He wasn't really sure, not that he cared very much, he had only heard rumors of the week long celebrating with drink and fine women, which was enough to attract him to the festival. Other than that the opportunity had also fallen straight into his lap together with a drunk, fair maiden, boasting about the privilege of getting to attend in the biggest fest tent held by Lord Wolfgang Von Wilderschmidt. Being light-fingered and quite curious about this "Lord Wolfgang" and his tent, Gereon easily obtained the ticket from the awfully touchy young lady.

As Gereon had never been to the foreign city before he did not easily find the tent that was so highly spoken of. He figured he'd just follow the stream filled with most wealthy looking people and hope for the best. When they grew nearer the sound of music filled the air and the big tent's peak rose high above the houses surrounding it. Impressive. Gereon made to move together with the stream of guest but was stopped on the way in by a guard that observed him with distaste. He realized he had to stick out as a sore thumb with his untrimmed beard and hair and worn down attire among all the fluffed up and glittery rich people.
"May I ask for your ticket... sir" said the man, clearly grievous about having to address him as such.
"Ah, um, yes!" he said as he fumbled a bit for the piece of paper he had stuck in between his belt and his hip before handing it to the guard, giving him one of his most charming smiles. The guard snatched it out of his hand and studied it closely before looking up at him again, a scowl now clearly present on his face.
"What is your purpose here?" Gereons eyebrows furrowed at that, but he quickly regained his composure.
"Well drink and fine company of course" he said confidently, but hesitating slightly as the scowl lingered and the man remained silent.
"Oh, and I am to fight in the gladiator pits" he added quickly, hoping it would please the man.
"Ah, yes of course" the man answered with a cough and nodding to himself as if it had been apparent all along.
"You can enter in the back then" he announced, handing him back the ticket and straightening himself as Gereon took it, smirking slightly at his choice of words. Before getting into any more trouble he quickly nodded and went around to the backside of the tent.
 
Last edited:
One hour until midnight

Wolfgang's celebration had been going swimmingly thus far, various bands were playing their instruments in a raucous fashion, and intoxicated party-goers sang along with the grating instruments. The floor was covered in a film of various detritus and the occasional passed out patron, the only clear spot was the dance floor, which was roped off from the rest of the tent. If one was able to slip by the guards unnoticed, they could find Wilderschmidt himself and his high class entourage.

Lord Wilderschmidt watched the party with ardent glee, an ecstatic smile was splayed across his face and his feet jittered around joyously. Wilderschmidt was a relatively small man with a large personality, and his parties were the perfect situation for him to flourish his mighty ego. On this particular night, Wilderschmidt was having trouble containing himself, he had a plan that would immortalize him in the history of Canicatti. He'd been testing it secretly among the nobility, and after excruciating trial and error, it was perfect. He called it the "Gale Gamble," everyone would be given an oat with a number inked on it, then they would draw numbered oats from a bowl and award prizes to whomever had the matching number. The prizes ranged from a lump sum of gold pieces to a night with an escort, but the one Wilderschmidt was most excited about was four individuals who would be let onto the dance-floor and be allowed to celebrate with himself. Wilderschmidt wondered what type of people they would be, meeting new people was always exciting, especially commoners. He giddily clapped his hands together as a group of his servants clambered up onto the tent's stage and began calling out numbers in prizes and he couldn't help but double over laughing at the expression on the face of a man who just "won" being thrown into the gladiatorial pit. Unfortunately, many people had thrown the oats on the ground (or in some cases, eaten them) because they had not known what they were for, so there was now a mad scramble to pick up fallen oats. Despite the chaos, one thing was clear, someone was winning big tonight.
 
Party goers fought each other over the oats. It had gone from a joyful place to an absolute dystopia. Hedvig stood in a dim corner. She had lost sight of uncle Ludwig, she hoped he was okay. She slowly crept towards the refreshment table, the one place where the people seemed to be somewhat sane. She listened to the conversations of those around her.
"I heard that some lucky commoners will get a chance to go into the dance floor with the lord," Said an astounding young lady to her equally mesmerizing friend.
Hedvig rolled her eyes, that was nothing but a rumor. It resurfaced every year, but those with a brain slightly larger than a pea would know that no high class citizen would give that opportunity to bottom feeders like her.
Things went quiet. The fighting paused as the same man from earlier made his way to the front of the stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Yelled the man as a servant handed him the bowl, "It is time for the second round!"
The few party goers who still had an oat approached the stage. Among them, Hedvig. She was hoping to win some gold. Her and uncle Ludwig needed it to pay off their debts before they lost the tavern. She looked down at her number. 37. Aunt Grete's lucky number.
The man's booming voice announced number after number. Some people won big, others got thrown into the gladiatorial pit. Lord Wolfgang and his entourage laughed whenever the latter happened. She was about to give up and go back to her corner when a small band made its way onstage and began to play a hushed song.
"Now, for the grand price," the man paused, this was clearly the moment he'd been waiting for, "The opportunity to spend the rest of this fine evening with none other than Lord Wolfgang and company!"
The crowd went crazy. Excited screams filled Hedvig's ears. She couldn't believe it. Wolfgang actually did it. "Man must be mad" thought Hedvig. The announcer called out several numbers. None of them hers. She didn't care though, being called up would give her all the attention she didn't want. People would notice her and her scarred face. She'd be forced to be around people in fancy tailored dressed whilst all she had was an old dress. She became red with embarrassment just from thinking about it.
"Lastly," Said the man's loud and excited voice, "Number thirty seven!"
Hedvig froze. How could this be? She was about to remain silent, spare the shame, but something, or someone, pushed her forward. She stretched out her arm, handing the man her oat. It was all a blur. The jealous cries from the crowd and the hateful looks. She felt sick. A woman dressed in servant's clothing led her away from the crowd. The woman offered gave her some water.
"Are you a'ight?" Asked the woman, a sweet looking lady that appeared to be in her mid 30s.
Hedvig nodded even though her chest felt heavy and her body numb.
"I'll take you to the dance floor when you're ready," said the woman, smiling warmly.
About half an hour passed before Hedvig found herself able to stand again, "I'm ready,"
The woman nodded and grabbed her hand, leading her to the spotlight.
 
A few drinks, a couple songs, and a couple of pretty faces later, Lysero was completely swept away. At some point in time, he had found himself leaning against a table with a lovely lady draped over his shoulder in drunken stupor as he sang along to a song he barely knew. His hair had gone wild, but it only accentuated his inbetween appearance--someone who looked too grandiose to be poor, but too frayed to be rich. A strange charm, but one he embraced with a laugh and a wink.

Lysero lifted his head as the atmosphere of the room changed. The festive mood remained, but it seemed more tense. More competitive, almost. The corner's of Lysero's mouth twitched. Good. As numbers were called out, Lysero's arm slowly looped further around the lady. If he had known what those oats were for, perhaps he wouldn't have tossed his away. But it was too late to change that. At least, it would be for anyone of no skill. He paused as his fingers brushed against the lady's pouch, hand slowly slipping in as to not awaken his passed out companion. He felt around until a small shape confirmed what he was looking for. Ever so slowly, Lysero pulled away and gently adjusted the lady so that she was half-sprawled on the table. Better there than the floor.

"Pardon, my fair lady, but it seems our paths must diverge. Though I thank you dearly for the little, ah, gift." Lysero gave small bow to her before looking down at the numbered oat in his hand: 82. Closing his fist around the oat, he moved closer towards the center of the room. Murmurs swathed around him, the air humming as whispers of the grand prize floated about. After a moments pause, a number was called and nervous looking individual was pulled towards the dancefloor. The young woman (Lysero had to blink a few times to make sure of it) looked about with panic. Surprising considering the sense of desperation in the room. Once more, the tent fell hushed as another number was ready to be called. Lysero looked back down at the little stolen number in his palm. 82. 82. 8-

"82!"

Lysero looked up sharply, surprise flitting across his features before a triumphant smile took hold. He raised the oat high, pushing his way past looks of bitter envy towards the announcer. He clapped the oat in the man's hand firmly and shook it before turning towards the dancefloor. Lysero strode towards it with his head held high, his robes fluttering like flags. He bowed deeply as he approached the man presumed to be Lord Wilderschmidt and the young lass called prior, before looking up and giving them a wide grin. "Greetings, my lord and lady. I am Lysero, and I am deeply pleased to meet you."
 
At this point in the night, Hilde was a bit tipsy, mostly just been drinking and keeping some men from trying to reach down her dress, or up it for that matter. She was over by the kegs, draining over tankard of mead, which she can hold a lot better then most of the drunk women stumbling about; a fact she is proud considering she has one more then one drinking contestant among her friends back home.

When the numbers started to be called, she made sure to grab her oat tighter, which she had luckily kept. People were winning gold here! Oh she was certainly hoping for at least that. Though maybe a round in the gladiatorial pit looks like fun, though she would hate to ruin her dress with blood and sweat. She wandered her way closer to the stage and watched the raffle being called, and frowns as her number wasn't called for anything. She double checked the number, 17, and frowns deeper. The raffle wasn't over yet, and then oh my, the grand prize. To be with Lord Wilderschmidt, in his tent. This was not possible, how could she win it. Two out of the four numbers had been called, a very nervous teenager and this man whose wardrobe made her question his fashion choices. As the hush fell over the room, Hilde was sweating a bit from her nerves, but the mead in her blood made her grin enthusiastically as she waited for the next number.

Her heart skipped a beat when 17 was called and she runs up tot he stage and gives the caller her number, before straightening her dress and approaching the other winners and Lord Wilderschmidt. She does a deep curtsy, "My lord, it is an honor to have won. My name is Hilde, and it is such a pleasure to meet you."
 
After having both his armor and weapons checked at the entrance of the tent, Gereon had quickly been ushered by two burly men to join the other fighter by the gladiator pits. He was pushed down onto a hard wooden bench and given strict rules to follow. One, no killing. Obvious really, it was a party after all and he doubted that Lord Wilderschmidt wanted that kind of blood on his hands. Two, no weapons in any other part of the tent. The gladiator pits were situated at the far back of the colossal tent and had ropes separating it from the rest of the party to avoid any accidents with flailing blades and drunk people. Other than that hey were pretty much free to do as they pleased, sounded good to him.

As the night progressed the party escalated both in volume and alcohol intake, something Gereon was more than happy to partake in; and did so fully. When he had taken a break from the battles for a few more drinks and someone had stuck an oat in his hand he hadn't thought much of it and had just put it in is pocket with a shrug, quickly forgetting about it as he gulped down the ale. He had a attracted quite a bit of attention from a few young, curious maidens of the crowd who seemed to like the idea of a more "beastly" man than what they were used to. Gereon who was now covered in both dirt and blood from the fights was a big contrast to the clean and sophisticated men of their status. They watched eagerly as he played with the poor untrained sods who had been thrown into the pits thanks to the lottery and how he gave them a few cuts and bruises just for the show of it before being declared winner. He flashed them a smile and laughed, basking in the attention as they applauded and whistled at him.

The mood of the party seemed to switch at a dime when suddenly the music stopped and a voice whom Gereon guessed belonged to the Lord of the establishment boomed over the crowd. Apparently there was going to be a grand price and people were loosing their minds over it. He wasn't really sure what it was all about, he was so hammered. Stumbling forwards to lean against one of the fence posts, he clumsily dug through his pocket to look at his oat. Number 12. He watched half attentively as three people were dragged onto the stage with Lord whats-his-face and was just about to take another swig of his delightful ale when he heard someone yell out:
"Number twelve!" Blinking first in surprise and then bewilderment, Gereon didn't have much time to react before his weapons were promptly stripped of him and he was shoved away against the stage. With neither time or opportunity to clean himself up Gereon stumbled up to the Lord with his wild blond hair a mess on top o hi head, mud and sand on his clothes and blood smeared on his face and hands. Finding his balance again he quickly composed himself as much as he could in his drunken state and bowed carefully, wanting not to fall flat on his face in front of everyone.
"Greetings, it is an honor to meet you my lord," he said as he rose.
"My name is Gereon, apologies for my appearance" he continued, chuckling slightly and making a vague effort to brush some of the dirt of his clothes.
 
30 minutes until midnight

Wolfgang clapped his hands together in excitement, this was going to be a very exciting night. He eyed the winners as the fourth one was guided towards them, they weren't exactly something to look at, but Wolfgang hadn't expected any otherwise. He cast a side-ward glance at the first one, oat number thirty-seven, given her clothes, Wolfgang deduced that she was a woman, but it was hard to tell because of her androgynous build and the hood concealing her face. He noted the fresh pink of a scar on her face, but he stopped himself from studying her too intently, there would be time for that later. However, he couldn't stop himself from wondering about the origin of such a wound.

His eyes flicked over to the next subject of his attention, oat number eighty-two, a Varsonian, obviously. His clothes were nothing but a dead giveaway, Wolfgang wasn't typically a fan of Varsonians, they were too full of themselves for his tastes. But if anything, they were redeemed by their easy going lifestyle and party-loving attitudes. Wolfgang had only given a small acknowledgement to the man's greeting, it was far too loud in the main hall to make anything out anyway. His eyes caught with the rapier hanging of the man's belt, Wolfgang had considered barring weapons from the event, but ultimately decided that armed participants might spice up the festivities a little. He would have to ask the man about the sword, Wolfgang was a fan of weapons of all kinds although he could care little about using them.

He examined the next winner, his inspections becoming less and less discrete. Oat number seventeen, given her gait and her stance she was most likely from one of the northern states. He couldn't but grin when he saw that she was already sufficiently inebriated, it was a sign that the celebration was going well. It was always entertaining to see old northern birds come out of their typical grim and serious demeanor and let loose a little. Wolfgang was hoping for that tonight.

As the fourth winner approached (oat number twelve, he thought, Wolfgang had been too focused on the others to hear) Wolfgang couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. This man was obviously a gladiator and had no place among the party-goers. As the man offered greetings, Wolfgang began to reconsider, his appearance showed that he had been hard at work, and that was nothing but something to reward. Besides, he thought, there was nothing wrong with some young rough-and-tumble to make the night more interesting. He gave a slight nod in return to the man before turning to address the whole group.

"Friends! Rejoice! You have just obtained a once in a lifetime opportunity and I fully intend to make this a night to remember, so smile a little" He announced in a booming voice, letting a wry grin to grow across his face. He spun around to face the crowd, throwing his hands into the air. "As for you all, I'm sorry that not all of you won, but do not despair, there is still plenty of food, drink, and women to go around!"

There were few raucous cries from the crowd and a fight broke out somewhere, Wolfgang ignored them and turned back to the winners, giving them a sly wink before gesturing for them to follow him. He lead the group behind the curtains of the stage where servants were running to and fro with massive containers of alcohol and platters of food, Wolfgang weaved his way through the clatter, making quick strides. He began to skip a little as they approached their destination, the private section of the tent. Very few of the elite knew about it and even less were permitted entry. This was a place for the elite to indulge in risque parlor games and careless hookups, and many of the elite party-goers supported this by wearing costumes to conceal their identities. As Wolfgang lead the others into the dimly-lit private section, they were greeted by a ragtag group of costumed participants that would've normally caused any person to shout in alarm. The rest of the room were either engaged in oddly erotic parlor games or in the bountiful food and drink that was flowing generously. Wolfgang gestured to a servant to bring his own mask, a gilded version of his own face with jewels and feathers adorning. He slipped it on and motioned excitedly at the room as the other patrons curiously approached the group.

"Well, what do you think so far?"
 
Hedvig looked around the dimly lit room. The masked strangers frightened her. She had a bad feeling about this. The other "winners" intrigued her, but the one that called her attention the most was the lady in the green dress. She reminded Hedvig of home. Something about her weather worn skin and dominant stance reminded her of her mother. She wondered if the lady was also a northerner. The lad dressed in brightly colored clothing reminded her of the boys back home. The ones who saw her as one of the guys, but never as a love interest. Lastly, the burly man with the messy beard and dirty clothing. When Hedvig saw him, she almost cried (again). He looked so much like her father on the night of the fire. Blonde hair turned black by the smoke, pajamas covered in dirt and blood. Hedvig took a deep breath. The room was far from bright. She removed her hood. Everything seemed louder and brighter than before.

The masked strangers approached them. Hedvig got closer to Hilde, that's what she had introduced herself as, who made her feel safer and a lot more at home. They were looking at the four of them like they were a gang of freaks. Hedvig didn't like it one bit.

Lord Wolfgang turned to them, he was now part of the masked posse, and asked "Well, what do you think so far?"
"The food is great," murmured Hedvig as she admired the tables of food positioned around the room.
The lord smiled at her as he inspected the scar that stretched across her face. She knew he was eventually going to ask about it.

The servant who had helped her earlier approached them with a tray containing several finger foods. Hedvig helped herself to something that looked like rye toast with brie and Iberian ham. It was delicious, and without thinking about it she helped herself to another one.

As the night progressed, Hedvig found herself jumping from food table to food table trying the different delicacies, she didn't know if she'd ever get a chance to indulge in such delicious food ever again. She eventually built up the courage to start a conversation with one of the other winners. She slowly approached Hilde, there was something she was dying to ask her.

"Pardon me ma'am, but are you by any chance from the Kingdom of Moremere?" She asked, smiling gently.
 
Following the lord and the other victors into a secluded part of the tent Gereon found himself in a dimly lit room surrounded by masked strangers and plates and cups overflowing with food and wine. Everyone was in different stages of nudity, some small groups enjoying each others bodies fully on big beds or on the tables as people danced around them. The other winners seemed less pleased at the prospect of what this private section had to offer, at least he young... girl? She seemed somewhat scared of the other participants and their activities, understandable at such a young age, he thought. He just stood there with crossed arms, taking it all in, until a low giggling in his ear made him startle. As he looked behind him he was met by glittering masks peering back at him and more laughter. Curious hands were traveling over the naked skin of his arms and over his stomach, the smell of wine on their breath more than noticeable.

"Well, what do you think so far?" came the voice from the Lord in front of him, now also he adorned in a radiant mask. Gereon slowly shook his head and laughed.
"It's as if one has stepped through the gates of heaven, my lord" he answered, luring another round of giggles from the latent participants surrounding him. Some of their hands had started to move more freely and Gereon gave another chuckle and let his head fall back, desperately hoping that the Lord would soon leave them to explore this new part of the tent for themselves.
 
"I have seen many great parties," Lysero spoke as his gaze swept around the room, "but this, my good man, is among the greatest."

The atmosphere was like that of a brothel -- sexual and secretive -- and a bit more sureal, like Lysero was just stepping into a dream. His eyes skimmed over the bodies of the patrons, their faces hidden behind porcelain smiles and hollow eyes. Some of them waved and beckoned him closer invitingly. Others, in the meanwhile, remained stoic as masks could be. Yet Lysero could feel stares like needles pricking into the back oh his neck, sinking deeper and deeper. He was more than happy to avert his gaze away towards a passing servant with a tray of drinks, eagerly taking a glass. It was a good reason to keep distracted, but he couldn't shake away that little prickle at the back of his neck. Another looked around delivered the reason. The masks. Everyone had them but the winners, making them stand out like a lamp in the night. Lysero was used to standing out. Lived for it, even. But here, it was strange. Like he was back in the alleyways of his hometown, and he had just gotten caught and beat for all to see.

Lysero shook the thoughts away. There was no need to go thinking like that now. He had just too much to drink for the night, or perhaps not quite enough. What he needed was a distraction. Lysero wandered over to the rougher looking of the winners, the bloodied fighter of a man, and gave him a firm slap on the back. "Quite the popular one, aren't you?" he chuckled, the paranoia fading a bit.
 
Gereon got his second start of the night as someone slapped him on the back. Turning around to see that it was the other male victor he chuckled at his comment.
"It is a curse" he joked with a big grin, throwing his arms out to the sides in a mock show of exasperation, although in reality being more than pleased with his situation. As a servant passed them he quickly reached for a glass of wine, holding it up for a toast to the man.
"The name is Gereon, pleased to meet you"
He took this chance to observe the man a little closer, not having had the time earlier. His attire was colorful and grandiose, typically Varsonian, so a man he could probably get along very well with as he had seen many of his kind. The facial features and details of the man was a little harder to make out in the dimly lit room, but he could tell that he had the typical dark skin of a Varsonian and a thin, chiseled jaw. He was just about to comment on their common home land when the participants surrounding them made themselves remembered. Cool hands were playing with the few braids in his otherwise free hair and others were pressing their bodies against his side, dancing slowly to the rhythm of the music. He made his best to ignore them for now, but noticed that the other man was also starting to catch their attention. He absentmindedly let his free hand roam as it pleased over the curves pressed into him as he returned to the conversation.
"So you are from Varsonia? I could not help but to notice your clothing" he said, gesturing against the mans flowing silks and decorated hair and hands. His own attire had pretty much gone to shit in the pits, not that he cared very much as it apparently didn't sward of any potential 'bed sharing' from the looks of it. He was also more than used to the blood and dirt at this rate, always being dragged back into the damned fights.
 
Hilde frowns at the party goers, erotic games were certainly not her style. She hadn't tried anything like that since she lost her husband, and though she wouldn't be opposed to a hookup, she really isn't looking for it. She frowns at the masked members though and when the teenager, a girl apparently, stepped towards her; Hilde steps a bit closer to her.

The masks were creepy, staring at them with empty eyes and fake smiles. It was something almost supernatural about this room, if she had to choose a word it would be cultish. They had been dragged into a cult to be scarified, and she could not shake that feeling, and her thoughts made her miss the Lord's question till everyone else had answered. "The mead is good, and the food smells delicious." She says calmly in an almost breathless voice, clearly showing her mind had wandered from the current topic.

She quickly headed over to where they were serving most of the food, wanting away from the strange people and their strange games. She gets some but mostly starts to drink, and drink good. She didn't want to get drunk earlier, but now, getting drunk will certainly make things easily. The teenager approached her and asked about Moremere. She hiccups lightly, "I am from Moremere, but I haven't lived there for some time. What is your name?"
 
Hedvig stretched out her hand, "I'm Hedvig, pleasure to meet you," she wasn't one for starting conversations, but this was the first time she'd met another person from Moremere in the past 6 years, "I lived in Moremere my whole life.... until I was 10, then my parents," Hedvig paused and choked down some tears, "my parents, they sent me away."

She looked around the room, trying to seem somewhat normal. The other two winners, both men, were surrounded by masked figures. They were conversing as they felt up the strangers around them. She felt uncomfortable watching them, so she directed her attention towards the servants walking around. She wondered how they felt towards the atmosphere in the room. Hedvig noticed that Hilde looked almost as uncomfortable as she did.

"Have we met before?" Asked Hedvig, pausing to give Hilde a chance to answer, "I feel like I know you from somewhere, I'm sorry, I'm probably disturbing you."
 
"I am from many places, my good man. Varsonia just happens to be one of them." Lysero let out a chuckle and raised his own glass before downing the rest of the liquor. "Lyesro Kolmenova. The pleasure is all mine."

His eyes wandered the tents, distracted despite his jovial position. The wine helped, that much he knew. But still, there was that numbed prickle at the edge of his mind that bothered him like an insistent tick. Lysero wrapped his arm around one of the surrounding ladies, choosing instead to focus his attention on her instead. Something -- anything -- to numb that constant feeling. What had gotten into him that night? For a moment, he contemplated asking Gereon if he felt similar, but quickly pushed the thought away. He was a guest tonight. And, bad feelings or not, it was rude to bring up such trivial feelings. Especially when nothing seemed wrong. At least, completely.

"Interesting so far, isn't it? You see many things, wandering around like I. But this is certainly one of the most memorable, if merely for such lovely company." Lysero jested, his hands trailing over his current escort sensually. His gaze lifted as he directed it towards the two other winners, his gaze more curious than anything as he observed the teen and her older companion. "Speaking of company, what do you make of the other fortunate souls Lady Luck has favored?"
 
"I think I would remember a lady like you." Hilde says calmly to Hedvig. "Moremere is not a small kingdom, and I lived more north than most." She drains another tankard and lets out a little hiccup. "Ah. You are not disturbing me though. I had a feeling you would feel uncomfortable in this..." She frowns and takes a minute to think of an appropriate word to use in front of the teenager. "This hole of mystery." She nods, knowing it wasn't perfect, but right now, the mead was having affect on her brain. She gives a quick look over to the other winners, having the feeling they were looking at her. The clown, Lyesro Hilde thinks is his name, is looking at them. She quickly looks back to address the young lady. "Where did you get that scar?"
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top