(Nobilis) The Familia Venaticus - Twin Masquerades

[Maerok]

(OOC: http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?t=70573)

A steady breeze blows through Venaticus's stronghold in the Valde Bellum, the lost wonder that is Altinus. The Maiden of the Waterways, Elisa, diligently patrols the canals and winding pathways through the watery miracle and the people of the Chancel pass along the excitement of coming events.

It has been mere weeks since word first reached you of the proposed alliance between your Imperator and another Imperator of the Wild, Pelovan, and his four Nobles. This treaty comes in light of the recent attack on the Chancel, when one of the Vain Lord's Nobles was struck down in a sudden attack by a powerful Excrucian.

In order to seal the deal, it has been decided that each Chancel shall put on a masquerade within the course of one week to celebrate coming years of prosperity and redoubled strength. Aside from their Estates and affiliations, you have not yet been able to travel to Locus Pelovan. Envoys and Anchors have shown up to confirm the details of the parties and it has been agreed on that your Chancel shall be the site of the first masquerade.

[ArlEammon]

Mr. Daniel was sitting on a Gazebo in the Chancel looking around at the odd site, occasionally asking if he was high. He didn't much understand being a Noble. As far as he was concerned nobles were aristocracy. Not real life X-Men with great supernatural power.

"Maybe I wasn't paying attention in class." Daniel thought. Surely they must have mentiioned miracle working deities like this in English Lit.

[rubakhin]

Prochazka is, much to his surprise, in a fine mood today.

It probably has something to do with the way he woke up - in the library at Altinus, slumped over a philosophical tome that was, admittedly, a bit on the dry side.

A breeze has blown up, and the antiquated windows tend to let in the draft. The cool air mingles with the scent of aging paper and dust. The subtle workings of the drop in temperature and the fresh had air had roused him gently.

A nice change, he thinks cheerfully. I usually wake up screaming.

He yawns, drops a bit of scrap paper into the book to mark his page, and hides it on a shelf even more obscure than the one he found it on. He has the greatest faith in the erudition of his chancelpeople, but ... well, odds are that no one is going to want it before he has the chance to come back.

He smooths down his clothes, and checks both the time (earlier than he thought) and his reflection (disheveled) in the grandfather clock on the first floor. Satisfied with both, he steps out into the sun, feeling more at ease than he had in a long time. Having no particular place to go, he flags down a gondola. Might as well take the scenic route. Enjoy the day.

[pingcode20]

Thump. Jingle.

As the first of the telltale footsteps sound through the crowded streets, people stepped aside respectfully. It was difficult to miss the approach of Iron Tom, and he made a point of it.

"Yar, I be here to pick up the rum." he bellowed, striding over to a brewery. It wasn't all rum, but the drink commonly associated with his estate was part of it.

He watched as a group of porters started carrying the myriad crates of various alcoholic beverages (and some not so alcoholic). "Aye, that be the lot of 'em." nodded the pirate noble, flipping a single golden piece of eight to the storekeeper, who pocketed it carefully before returning to his brewery.

Captain Flint's Grog Recipe
* kerosene
* propylene glycol
* artificial sweeteners
* red dye #2
* rum
* acetone
* battery acid
* SCUMM
* axle grease
* and/or pepperoni.

[Rynol]

Alexander, however, was somewhat busy, more like Iron Tom than Prochazka or Mr. Daniel. Albeit... totally unlike the pirate Noble by the same token. As Alexander took pains to remind himself. The lawyer strode through a street near the grand hall they were going to hold the masquerade proper in, still besuited from a court appearance he attended before coming to Altinus. With a sense of intense business, Alex glided into the hall, and leveled his gaze all around.

The decorators were putting up the banners and the bouquets. The caterers were milling about getting their orders in... order. The seating was being arranged. Small matters of decoration were being arranged to suit the incoming Nobles - snake motifs, an ensured high attendance, and... Hm. Symbolic motifs would have to do. Alexander was familiar with abstracts, but found them somewhat annoying to precisely pin down, so he'd have to leave the symbolism of purity to, ah... Prochazka maybe?

But, more than anything, he had cause to smile. All was good.

[Maerok]

The lights begin to flicker on within the capitol building of the city, the Heart of the Chancel and the center of command for Venaticus. The people on the streets have never seemed to notice the light. If you look in just the right fashion, you can see the Maiden ascending from the waters below to one of the lower balconies within a rising column of water.

This building is the tallest of Altinus's structures, and though conforming with the surrounding architecture, it radiates the undeniable majesty of the being it houses within, creating a scene of geometric and aesthetic perfection.

[rubakhin]

"Oh, hold on a minute. Could you push to the side of the canal?"

The gondola rocks as Prochazka stands and steps from the boat onto the low stone wall separating the waterway and the garden (much to the oarsman's irritation). There was rain recently, and the grass and earth gives a bit beneath his shoes.

It's peaceful in this corner of the city. The traghetti moor at the other side of the park. Occasionally another boat will pass, the gondolier dipping the oar in long, silent strokes, but that's all. Nothing can be heard but the water lapping against the walls of the canal.

Prochazka had spotted the American. He doesn't really know him (not yet, anyway) and in fact does not have much experience with America at all, except in reputation - first as the boogeymen of the socialist states, and later on, even as early as the sixties, as the mythical land from whence came everything exhilarating and free. All he knows conclusively is that America tended to welcome Europe's spurned intellectuals, the dissidents, with open arms, and that the long-suffering émigrés seemed to be able to find happiness there. In their new language even more so than their new home. There was Brodsky, the poet laureate, and the elegant turns of Nabokov, who made a whole literary heritage into his recursive Chinese box. Prochazka himself has a voyeuristic kind of love for the dead dialects of Faulkner and Twain, the intricate jazz vernacular of spoken word poems, and in particular, the rough desperate violence of the Beat wanderers, the visionaries to whom words were bullets and the English language a belt-fed gun.

He raises a hand to the American in greeting.

[pingcode20]

Thump. Jingle. Splish.

Iron Tom clomped his way towards the heart of Altinus, followed by a line of porters, bottle already in hand.

Taking a swig of the rum, he marched into a side door, the crates being piled up just outside as the door slammed shut. While this was the city of art, it was also a city of adventure, and no foreign dignitaries would be denied the opportunity to taste the varied and multiuniversal (or was it just 'biuniversal?') Altinan Cuisine.

And every one of them going well with rum.

Or a rum-derived beverage.

[ArlEammon]

[color="sierra"]
He raises a hand to the American in greeting.

::Raises back:: "Hiya there! Are you a Nobilis?" ::He asks: "I hope so. I haven't found any of our other employees? I'm the Noble of America..... Its great to know that our Lord follows the Wild... Isn't it?"

[rubakhin]

"Um, yes! Yes, I am." Prochazka smiles at him empathetically. "I'm the Noble of Translation, Radomir Prochazka. Or Mirek, if you prefer." He added quickly, "Mirek, it's a diminutive, a nickname. Like in your country, a man named Michael might go by Mike, and so on and so forth."

He sits down next to Daniel and beams at him for a while. "So, you're an American! That's exciting. I don't know much about America. You've got, ah, your jazz, and your rock music. I knew somebody once - this was during Soviet times, when I was living in Russia - who used to make tape copies of Western bands that we couldn't get under Melodya, Melodya being the official government-controlled record label that imported a few groups, harmless stuff, like The Beatles. So what he did was like samizdat, but with music. I never did find out how he got the tapes."

He takes out a battered pack of methols from his pocket and a Zippo. He sticks one of the cigarettes in his mouth and lights it.

"It was interesting ... jazz and rock used to be completely forbidden in the USSR at some point in time, but everyone listened to it anyway, and the government just sort of forgot that it was illegal, I think." He smiles. "So, that's my entire experience with America, more or less. You want a cigarette?"

[pingcode20]

"Gar, when be the party starting? My legs be getting stiff."