Open Glitterwake

[Lysanne Shard]

The Garnets Ball was the icing on the cake of all the big events of the year in The Iron Gate. During the past year, a new mineral, Carthonite had been found in the mountains! Only now in the days of the winter-spring had the mining of the mineral slowly started and fortune seekers from all over the world had flocked to The Iron Gate.

It wasn't just the lucky ones who got to enjoy festivities; barrels of liquor and tables laden with food had been displayed in selected taverns and lodges all around the city. Musicians were drawn by the city's promise of a party and the streets had been decorated with thousands of lanterns and garlands of holly, pine cones, juniper and blue, white and yellow ribbons. The House Tourmalet banners hung from the walls.

For the occasion of the ball, even the garden of Iron Gates had been opened, a

marvel carved into the living rock. Heated by deep thermal springs and lit by veins of enchanted gemstones pulsing softly in the cavern walls, the subterranean air was warm and thick with a white mist. Servants moved among the guests with trays of mulled wine and confectionery, and a small group of minstrels played slow tunes near a sheltered stalactite alcove.

In the castle, more money had been spent on the decor, of course. In the castle courtyard, there were delicate ice sculptures and the natural icicles above the windows were lit up by the glow of several hundred lanterns and torches. Here, the decorations shimmered in gold and the finest banners of the House Tourmalent adorned the walls indoors along with lush garlands of white sage, holly and other evergreens. Along the edges of the grand hall, the Gemwrights had arranged displays: floating shards of crystal, orbs of gleaming minerals suspended by invisible threads, veins of luminous ores still half-clutched in raw stone. Tables draped in blue cloths lined the hall, each one an altar to the riches of the earth.

Spiced wine and roasted meats was served, as well as honeyed pastries and delicate fruits, meticulously arranged on silver platters on a big long table in the middle of the grand hall. A troupe of bards, dressed in their shimmering silks, played the melodies of the night. Some deep lore songs of the Runefolk and some songs from the surface.

In honor of the evening, Lysanne was dressed as the star of the morning. The dress she wore was tinted in several colors, at the bottom of the dress hem it was yellow and the yellow faded to greenish turquoise, which faded to blue and at her waist the color darkened and became midnight blue. The dress was embroidered with sparkling threads, the bodice was embroidered to resemble the starry sky and over her heart was the crescent moon in a delicate pearl embroidery. She had just danced with a nobleman from a distant house, his hand resting at her waist as he was leading her off the dance floor.

 

[Rainer Zverev]

“ Might I interest you in a pastry, darling? “

To where he was stood in the dazzling garden, a squat man in festively colourful attire hassled on over from the indoors with a bundled up serviette, hoisting it in coaxing. As the edges of the folded up square fell open, a waft of honey and the sweet tang of fruit assaulted the senses, golden skin giving that delicate little crumble and crunch. Rainer’s face wilted a little bit, which he hurried to bury into a swig of wine.

“ No. I think I’ve a headache from all the— “
“ More wine will definitely help with that. “ Klaus interrupted, wholly unaffected, shoving his own goblet of wine in his sour companion’s free hand. “ Hold this, then, while I gorge myself on the lot of my plunder. “

He didn’t fight it, merely drawing deeper breath and settling to Klaus’ side as the man initiated them to another stroll around. The trail meandered about the raised flowerbeds and other partygoers, the mist in the air luminant with what sparkled upon the walls like leylines of old. His eye travelled along them, examining the rise of the cavern off which voices and echoes of distant music ricocheted. A new type of tune.

There was even that awfully pleasant, earthy scent of cellars and caves. Klaus had always said it was mold he was smelling and grown enamored with, but that’d hardly served to amend his mind about it. Just as their myriad quarrels in all these twenty years had failed to do when it came to Klaus.

“ They’ve not spared expense. “ The man remarked through a mouthful of flakey pastry, wiping a palm over his meticulous moustache.
“ No. “ Rainer responded, in the strained manner of one holding onto further opinion. Even the rabble feasts tonight. All of it, in this whole damn town, and on theirs be it.
“ Suppose they expect great returns from this— Carthonite. “
“ It is an exciting new discovery. “

Perhaps for his tone that didn’t quite match the statement, Klaus snorted.

“ What do you imagine it’s for. Other than being awfully pretty. “
“ Both the Gemwrights and the Geomancer are working to figure out further application. I’m yet to hear of developments on that front. “ Rainer spoke blasé, staring into middle distance.
“ Have you written to the Hold about it? Much expertise there, from far and wide— “
“ The Magicians’ Collective? I’d much rather fall on my sword— “
“ Your distrust of their profession makes me laugh. This attitude would not fly in my Baron’s court. “ Klaus shook his head and brows arched with disapproval.
“ I’m not his steward. “
“ You could’ve been. “
“ And you our Master of Wardrobes — Twisting my arm on the daily? “

A devilish smile crinkled Klaus’ face, wide and true. He shrugged, noncommital, and picked a dried fig from where it’d been nested betwixt the pastries on the serviette. Summarily, he popped it in his mouth and allowed the silence betwixt them, head inclining as he rested his look on their marvelous surroundings. With his company’s distracted attention, Rainer allowed himself smile a little, no matter the tight feeling about his head that’d gripped on like a vice.

“ I wouldn’t mind holding that post here. The ladies of the House have immaculate taste. “ Klaus announced finally, sounding awfully dry in the throat. Instinctively, Rainer offered his goblet back to him. It was swiftly accepted, a swig drowning out a cough.

“ Way to say the good Lord Tourmalet and myself are nothing short of shambolic rubes. “
“ In gowns you do not measure, my dear. " The small man remarked past his drink. " Even Lysanne Shard’s dress — A Lady suo jure, no? “
“ Quite. She is awfully clever. And talented. “
“ I’ve heard. And yet you’ve never introduced us. “ Klaus tossed his head petulantly, the silver of his earrings glinting in the lantern lights. Watching him sidelong, Rainer exhaled wearily.

“ I’m not some court herald. You can introduce yourself well enough. “
“ Hmh. “ Thoughtful, his diminutive companion eyed him up and down. “ Would it be an awful crime if I did? “
“ You already raided the banquet table. “

That loosed a little self-satisfied hehe from Klaus, who nodded.

“ And I will again yet. “ For effect, he shoved half of the other pastry in his mouth at once.
“ Perhaps I’ll be lucky enough to bump into her while we do. “

 

[Merle]

The Undergrove family stood at a crossroads. One cobbled way lead into town, while the other wound up the hill to the Iron Gate. Merle hugged his two children goodbye, while a rigid woman in armor stood watch next to their carriage.

"Papa, will you bring us back something from the castle?" His youngest, Florine, said.

"It isn't that kind of party, dear. There won't be any favors." Merle knew not to dwell on the bad news. Hefting the girl up from under the arms and swinging her into the carriage, he continued. "But tomorrow, we'll go see the lanterns in the city, and you and your sister can each pick something from the markets."

The elder sister, Maiwenn, climbed in after. She had to get up with hands and knees, but she did it by herself nonetheless. "We can get anything?" She tested, as she settled into her seat.

"Only if you don't give Ser Yamuna any trouble while I'm away."

Both girls gave their promises to behave, and after another round of goodbyes, Merle managed to get the carriage door closed. As soon as he turned, his face had wilted back into its usual dour shape. Ser Yamuna handed him the reins of her steely grey destrier, which he was taking on loan to the castle.

"Don't get into any trouble, yourself," she said to him in that frank and throaty voice of hers. "Or you'll earn me a pay cut."

"It's one evening," Merle responded in equally course tone. "Even I can stay civil for that long."

---

Three months ago, Merle had sent a letter to Iron Gate, asking to examine their newly discovered stone, carthonite, for any alchemic properties. He'd been given an invitation to this ball in response. A chance to see the gem up close. After bidding and trade agreements are already well underway, Merle let the bitter worry eat at him. An envoy from the Blade Tower should've been shown more decorum, a sample sent back or some notes at least. He didn't know if the sparse response had come from a careless clerk - hasty and overworked in their preparations of the festivities - or if it was someone higher up trying to delay his inspection.

A servant handed him a drink, and Merle shook the thought away. All his fretting was probably for naught - likely the gem was just a shiny new shade of blue for ladies to sew into their gowns.

The drink was hot, and spiced. A needed consolation for the cavernous stone hall that not even the thousand candles and lanterns could fully banish the draft from. Merle put the rim of the mug against bristly lips and blew on it. Clumsy as he did so, sticking his elbow out a bit too far and bumping into whoever was walking past him.

"Oh, shit--"

The angle and momentum was just right to spill the full cup of wine. Staining red splashed down the front of his jacket, and onto the floor. As quickly as he dared, Merle stepped his dripping self away from the other guest.

"...I didn't get any on you, did I?"

Merle had a bad habit of not really looking at people, until they said something interesting. He barely registered that the woman in front of him had long brown hair, and peculiar pale eyes. Besides, he was more worried about the state of her dress. It looked expensive.

 

[Lysanne Shard]

Lyssanne stood very still. She looked down. She exhaled once, slow, silent and gathered her face into something calm.
Then up. And smiled. “Oh,” she said at once, voice soft and full of regret. “I am so terribly sorry, Master Alchemist!”

The wine soaked through the front of the man's doublet. Deep crimson bloomed across the silver silk like fresh arterial blood, blooming over the front of his jacket. Inside, she could feel the fury rise sharp and hot. Of course. Of course someone like The Queen's Alchemist wouldn’t even look before he stumbled into her, like she were furniture. Her stomach curled with humiliation.

A few heads turned. Some had noticed. The stifled gasps. The way the wine had landed like a killshot. People were watching now. The nearby conversation had stalled, the kind of hush that spreads when others expect a scene. Somewhere to her left, someone giggled. Lyssanne's pale lilac eyes flicked toward the sound, memorizing the shape of the person's face in profile. Later...

The splash had kissed her too, stray droplets along her bodice, and a sluggish droplet ran from her collarbone into her décolletage. “No harm,” she said lightly. “A few drops, perhaps... nothing I haven’t suffered in good company.” She took a delicate step back, lifted the hem of her skirt from the puddle. The wine had already climbed the silk like a vine, it would stain, of course. But that was no longer the point.

“I must’ve drifted straight into your path. And this beautiful jacket...” she gave a breath of dismay, she inclined her head to the alchemist. A pair of servants had appeared, fluttering nervously with towels and cloths, trying to mop the floor without disrupting the guests around them. Looking like they might weep from the shame of it all. Lyssanne, without looking, reached back and took one of the towels from a servant’s hands, as if it had always been meant for her.

She dabbed at the wine on his chef, each pat careful. “Such a shame.” she murmured. “It’s beautiful silk." Her lilac eyes flicked up to meet his. “Master Merle, isn’t it?” she asked. “I’d say it’s a pleasure… though this might not be the moment.” She dabbed one last time. “I am afraid it's doomed.” The party was already moving on. Lyssanne smiled faintly, folding the towel and handing it to him. "We must find you something to change into. Would you permit me to send a request?”

---

A breathless young man reached Rainer's side. “My lord steward...forgive m... the Queen’s Alchemist, he’s… there’s been a spill, my lady Shard thought...she mentioned.... something about a new jacket...?”

 

[Merle]

Of course she took the disgrace like a proper lady. Which of course, made Merle feel worse about the blunder. If she'd gotten mad and caused a commotion, well that would have been easier to handle than the tortured little smile he was met with.

"It's just a jacket*. The only shame here is my terrible grip," he responded, made more morose from her empathy. He glanced down at the mess he'd made instead of to her. The mug had been horn, so at least it hadn't shattered on the floor. One of the servants that appeared scooped the empty vessel up along with a handful of sullied towels, ducking away so that the other could come in with a warm sponge full of water.

There was something wrong with the scene, though. If this was a lady of the House (and surely she must be, because who else would have known his name and station ahead of time), then the servants should have been fussing over her, not the floor. How strange, the way they reacted to every pair of eyes that went their way, every voice that quieted in cruel expectation around them.

He watched the servant's nervous movements more than he looked at the lady in front of him. Until she was very close, and drying him off with a towel.

"Oh, there's no--" Merle started up, reaching for her hand to pull it away. But he remembered the last time he'd corrected a lady in the middle of her work, and the harsh look of big, green eyes it had earned him. So he dropped his hand and shut his mouth.

As she finished, that neat smile met him again. It unsettled him, though he couldn't figure out why.

"Yes, that's right," he nodded along to his own name. Forgot to ask hers, even as he accepted the towel that was offered. "And that is very kind of you, thank you. But if you're going to call on anyone, I'd rather it be for yourself."

Without much ado, he came to kneel before the lady in the fine dress, and cupped her ruined hem in his palm. Careful not to lift it too far off the floor, less the gentlefolk start their gasping again at the sight. "I'm a working wizard, my lady. The crowd tolerates a certain level of disarray from me." Folding the towel down to a dry patch, he blotched at the rude red. Seemed content in his work, as if he'd cleaned up as many spills as he'd made in his life. "They might not be so forgiving to the host -- even so gracious as she is."

---

*The long sherwani jacket that Merle wore was woven with a subtle silver and white brocade. The pattern was of thrushes perched on flowering bushes, a pastoral style that had been popular in Central Altalusia about five years ago, when Merle had the outfit tailored.

 

[Rainer Zverev]

Sat on one of the cushioned garden benches, the smaller of the two old men roused to attention. Cheerful, as was his way, neck craning at the commotion come from inside the Ballroom.

“ My— what has happened, I wonder. “
“ What. “ The retort left his companion too fast, not truly asking.
“ Someone is coming. “ Klaus continued, pointing out a particularly bothered looking youngster, garbed in Tourmalet livery and visibly searching the yard with his look. When those eyes landed on the steward, sitting stiff on the bench, recognition bloomed to relief.

“ I think it’s for you. “ The little man continued, touching his temple to his company’s shoulder in a smile and sounding hideously pleased for it. Rainer groaned, dark eyes landing on the errand boy with the kindness of a crossbow bolt.

His face didn’t flicker, not even to the little gasps Klaus let out at the mention of those involved and the possibly disastrous spill. His dark brown hand slapped against the volume of Rainer’s slashed sleeve, half excitement half hurrying whom didn’t show much inclination to budge.

A goddamn tectonic nightmare, when he doesn’t want to do something.

“ A spill. “ The steward repeated finally.
“ Yes, lord Steward. “
“ The Queen’s Alchemist, dear. “ Klaus said, through munching on the last of his handful of pecans. The serviette made a flap as he picked it up in a flourish from his lap, scattering the crumbs on the gravel.
“ Yes, indeed. “ Braced against the armrest, Rainer begun to rise. At once, Klaus dropped his shorter legs down and bounced up as a sprout, beating him to all of it. He yanked at the bottom of his doublet, straightening the front lest it lay wrinkled over the barrel of his torso.

“ I’ll see this spill for myself. “

*​

The crowd parted for him as a school of mackerel did for a shark. The sight he arrived to was positively rattling — people were staring, and a man was kneeling by a puddle of wine and hassle of servants. To anyone properly dramatic and contextually unaware it could've well looked like carnage, all that red stained linen being gathered off the floor. In the finely dressed gentleman’s grip was a bunch of Lysanne’s dress, like he was inspecting it or worse— proposing to her. He held his enraged breath, listening the last of the man’s utterance.

The host? She is no such thing, as a Shard. Had her late father, or even the current Lord Tourmalet wanted to grant her the honour— Outrage coloured his face, but he bit back the sharpest words. It was already a damn scene without him bringing— all that, to it.

“ Get up, man. You look ridiculous. “ He stepped in, leather soles sharp on the tiles. The servants kept their heads down, gathering the last of the rags from the floor into a bucket. Klaus kept a distance some three paces behind him, more interested in the ruined brocade and gossamer and distraught for it, hands laced beneath his chin.

“ Lady Shard— “ Rainer continued, his glance fleeing from her to the floor, inspecting the results of the servant’s work in a sidelong frown. A purplish hue remained at the seams, just the slightest darkening of the grout. Work for a small, coarse brush and plenty elbow grease. Once this damn party is over.

“ Perhaps yourself would prefer a change of gown. Ruined as— “ He spoke, rousing to attention at the featherlight touch at the side of his arm. Klaus was there, eyeing the Lady Shard’s bodice where it’d been splashed.

“ Or pin something upon it, here— “ His slender hand hovered towards her shoulder, then down. “ A bit of drape with dark silk. The hem can be replaced easily enough, but perhaps for now— “ A smile, entirely oblivious to Rainer’s weary disapproval at his side.

“ One can do with just hiding it. Have you any of this translucent silk left? “
“ I do not know. “ Rainer responded in the midst, leveling a glare at the man who he had to assume had caused it all. Lady Lysanne wouldn’t—

“ The Queen’s Alchemist, yes? “ He confirmed, matter of fact, his eye turning away from him again so fast he may as well have been dismissing the man. To Lady Lysanne, speaking to her with a softer tone.

“ I am not aware there is anything for us to give him, at present. In that— “ His head jerked at the man.
“ Very fine fashion. “ Klaus filled in, having sidled to the guest and gesturing at the quaint pattern. “ If we’re lucky, the sight of you here should bring a resurgence. I do so miss this style. Romantic, no? “ The rest of it was a whisper, underlaying Rainer’s droning that went on.

“ But perhaps something simpler. Hardly becoming of a Queen’s Alchemist, but— “ He gave a sigh. “ Anything over such a grotesque stain. “

The man looks like he wandered in from a battlefield.

“ White or silver, if we have them? "

 

[Lysanne Shard]

Lyssanne tilted her head ever so slightly, watching the Queen’s Alchemist lower himself to the floor with all the gallantry of a man of his station. The hem of her gown, darkened with streaks of wine, rested in his palm like a dead dove. Soft, fragile, and stained beyond repair. Inside, something slow and gleaming curled through her. Satisfaction, sharp as a knife sliding home. A queen's alchemist, kneeling. Not to a princess. Not to a crowned duchess. To her. To a bastard. And he hadn’t the faintest idea.

Of course she knew his name. She made it her business to know everyone’s name, especially those with the Queen’s ear. Lysanne could not afford the luxury of ignorance, not when her bloodline came with an asterisk. Bastards didn’t get second chances at first impressions.

She didn’t stop him. Let the crowd see his hunched back, his earnest hands, his little show of humility. Let him dab at the wine like a penitent man. Her smile curved. “Oh, gracious I may be. But I am not the hostess this evening," she whispered as she leaned forward. She said nothing as Rainer approached, the crowd folding back for him as it always did. His presence alone made the air more brittle.

The corners of her mouth softened. Not quite a smile, but a familiar acknowledgment. Lyssanne listened as the man eying her bodice fussed, hands fluttering like a jeweler over a broken clasp. But the lilac gaze stayed politely fixed on Rainer. She didn’t know the man in Rainer's company, not by name, not by title, but she caught the closeness between him and Rainer in the small details.

Her fingers found the spot Klaus indicated, brushing it lightly. “I believe there’s some of that silk left from the spring feast. It should do, don’t you think?” Her gaze shifted to Rainer then, softer, deliberately disarming. “I didn’t realize you brought a companion tonight,” she said, her voice warm but court-smooth. "He clearly has excellent taste. And excellent timing.”

“A man such as the Queen's Alchemist,” she said smoothly, “could wear the plainest of coats and still carry the room with ease. White might be too stark for this evening. Silver." She turned to Merle. "It will suit you well, Master Alchemist”

 

[Walter Thornley]

Walter Thornley, baron von Bremen, arrived to the party with no fanfare, ahead of the rest of the family.

A silver-grey drakehorse carried him - a beast slightly larger than an average horse, clawed paws marked in black stockings up to the creature's elbows, iridescent white scales dimly reflective around the crest of its elongated muzzle. Its long, reptilian tail, tip ending in a long-furred brush, swayed low to the ground with the smooth undulation of the trot. The fur of it was so smooth and dense that if not for its luster, it would seem like marble-patterned lizard skin taught around the muscle build. It did not have an elegant lightness of a horse, but the gait was smooth and fluid even at a trot, like stalking.

Drakehorses were native to Bremen, discovered there, promptly tamed and then protected by the law for four generations as the species showed great potential for maneuvers on difficult, especially mountainous terrain, and carrying archers. During Meinrad's time, it was fully expected that this fortuitous local find would be bred selectively as sturdier, though slightly slower, war mounts, especially for gathering counter-assaults to raids from the northern tribes - but Meinrad shifted priorities, and then the efforts were never allocated for three generations more.
A quiet statement of things coming to a change, perhaps.

The man in the saddle had an air about him. Stern like a breath of winter, eyes straight, chin slightly raised. There was no arrogance, but he came to a party with no delusion about avoiding social warfare.

*
Those Thornleys.
Lady of the house, a mysterious sorceress Beatrice, went missing one day.
Lord of the house, late Victor Thornley, made the second son heir because of an obsession with family looks.
The second son left home, destroyed a very good engagement with a prominent merchant family.
His twin sister, Dolores, then stepped in, but was never formally made heiress, while the oldest son Richard, instead of taking any responsibility, took every leisure across half the land his status could afford, whoring and gambling, and kept making dents in family fortunes, to stop only for a while when caught - the sister did not seem to have much sway in the matter.
Like her twin, Dolores didn't seem in a hurry to marry even for political manner - perhaps, she simply would not settle for what prospects there were.
The glorious military past of Meinrad Thornley-von Bremen, the Silver Fox, fearsome battlemage and staunch ally of the crown, seemed long worn off.

The second son had returned last winter. Some connections to the noble families must have lingered, to unravel the mystery of invitation. His ex-fiancée, Laetitia d'Aullimont, has long since married, with four children of her own, and risen through two widowships to a comfortable rank of countess.

Word was, Walter Thornley ran away with a warband. A noble, working for blood money with those sorts.
Word was, he returned a cripple, no longer capable of weaving like a proper mage.
There were contradictory rumours, too.
About how Walter and Laetitia used to bicker, Walter's jealous nature over her - and yet, the two seemed quite close friends back in the day.
How Walter would welcome duels with other men seeking to steal his fiancée - and yet, word was, the Thornley heir preferred to handle blunter grips.
Scandalous, given the weight of expectation so long as he hoped to bring his family name back up from obscurity and do away with cobwebs unseemly whispers. To further a distinguished bloodline, children were expected, not just accomplishments - of which, there were yet to be any of note in a hundred years; marriage was about politics, and anyone with intent to further their station would do well to understand that as common sense.

Where there was space, the bored minds ran wild and forked tongues ran rampant.

*

Walter Thornley would not count himself as gregarious. In the past, what parties he would attend would spot Laetitia d'Aullimont among the other guests. They were still dear friends, even though her 'social entertainment' had an edge he did not like. She'd still offer enough knowledge so he knew of the other guests and would not stumble with the courtesies.

Dismounting, the baron passed the silver-buckled reigns to the lackey of the house. The lad's eyes briefly lingered on the fangs in the drake's mouth as Geist snorted, a hissing rumble escaping it more than a whinny. Walter smiled reassuringly, mostly with his eyes, shook his head ever so slightly.
Does he bite? - Not unless you stick your hand into his mouth.
And on he went, into the lights and offerings of the party. Dreading it, of course, but there wasn't really a choice.

*

He wore a pine-green doublet over an ash-grey shirt. The muted colors made the accents pop - silver briar flowers with tiny garnet middles twisted with vines and leaves around the collar and along the left shoulder, the complimenting fern-like pattern on the shirt silk ever so subtle in the play of light. Silver patterned clasps. And a decorative, light half-cape of steely-blue, with a winter fox collar trim, held by a silver chain and a pin that pulled the eye. An artisan, life-like enamel pin, glistening with the deep, rich redness. A sweetbriar rose, red instead of silver. Not for echoing the crest but for the flower language - 'mourning a broken heart'.
It pulled attention away from the sword belt, not-so-decorative - Walter's right hand, clad in elbow-tall cuffed velvet glove, rested idly against the handle of a rapier. Sheathed. Hopefully, for good.
He was still winsome, though paler than most remembered. The bright smile changed to a closed curve of the mouth, mystifying ennui. Dark eyes were velvet-soft, alert, irises an unforgettable - and unfamiliar to those who'd known him prior - indigo hue. Nothing like a crippled, withered thing some speculations painted him. A certain sad, hardened beauty of a cold, early spring, having left the harsh winter behind and budding green with hope as seasons turned.

He caught some glances, and tried to stay to the side of the events, glass of spiced wine in hand.
Laetitia was not in sight. And without her, he was a soldier on foreign ground without a single ally.

*

Trouble found him soon enough. Laetitia's eldest son and his three friends who'd introduced themselves early on, seemed to be keeping each other's company in tandem with a slowly growing intensity of sharp glances in his direction. Still nursing the same glass, Walter eyed those boys and thought back to being seventeen. They had something to prove. He was an easy target. They'd do it for their mother, in their minds, her keeping his company still, having even paid a recent visit, did not agree with them, no doubt.

They got distracted by the wine spill, and so was he, it looked like vein-torn blood for a moment- no. Wine. From a glass.
Queen's Alchemist, Walter noted. And there she was, Lysanne Shard. Pinpricks of light bloomed at the edge of the irises, sunk down the pattern to the pupils, faded. The thick dark eyelashes fell. Too far to read well. None of his business, either.
Lost in time for a split second, he'd noticed in frustration that his escape to the garden already had four well-bred hounds baying after with eager spirits. Luckily, the crowd did not part for them just as well as for the Tourmalet steward.

Like the fox on his family crest, he would not be caught without effort.
The downside was not knowing the place at all.

 

[Odette Tourmalet]

In the wake of the new mineral being found, the city flew to into action. A cause for bawdy celebration throughout the taverns and hustles and bustles of the streets. Gleaming lights filled every corner, like fireflies in the darkest of summer nights. If she were anyone else, Odette would be thrilled to engage in such festivities. Instead, she paced her room with sweaty palms, berating herself for the anxiety she fretfully endured. Crowds, heat, and drama were not things she loved. Social gatherings in general made her throat tighten in fear. Still, she had a duty to perform, and like it or not, her father would likely use such events to marry her off one of these days.

A shaky sigh escaped her lips as she turned to where her gown had been laid out for her. She traced the midnight blue silk with a slender finger, appreciating how it moved like water against her skin. It wasn't incredibly fancy, no frills or stones upon it. It was plain and soft, just like she was. It wasn't long before a soft knock echoed through her door, maidens to help prepare her for her grand appearance. Fair skin scrubbed, freckles covered, lips painted, hair pinned up and away from her face. She barely recognized herself in the mirror. Finally, she was dressed and dreadfully ready to join the fray.

Odette managed to keep her head poised and her lips from trembling as she reached the celebration proper. She had barely begun to drift like a phantom between swirling bodies when the brash red streak spread across the floor. Her wide blue eyes followed the trail until it reached the bottom of a gown ten times more exquisite than hers. Her gaze lifted and met the face of Lysanne. There was a terrible commotion over the spilt wine, and Odette made if her mission to avoid it all, diverting her eyes to the many servants carrying refreshments through the crowd. She needed one of those, desperately.

`

 

[Merle]

“ Get up, man. You look ridiculous. “​

The insult lobbed by the approaching man rolled off of Merle a lot cleaner than the wine had.

"Ah," he said, as he hefted himself up to standing. The hem brushed against the tile, not much better off than it had been before Merle's attention. "I'm glad to see someone has the Lady's interest at heart. Your servants have been dawdling, at best."

The Lady had a name, or at least the placeholder of one. Shard. That hadn't been on the list of names he'd been told to memorize - had Yamuna made a mistake and left someone out of the family tree? No, that steely woman didn't make mistakes. She must be a favorite niece or something, come for the festivities, he thought to himself.

There had been two men that approached. The shorter-and-wider one appeared at Merle's side, droning on to him about fashion. His eyes only looked to the stout gentleman when he was asked a direct question. Not because he wasn't paying attention, just a bad habit of his.

"I have no preference in color, good ser," Merle responded. He got the sense that the man would not be satisfied with his apathy though, so he dug around for something else. Luckily he did not need to flip very far through his library of mountain styles, because the Lady answered for him. He smiled at her surety. It wasn't a bad look on her.

Not the hostess, she says, he thought to himself. Could have fooled me.

Then he turned to everyone else who was still hanging around, addressing the little crowd of two. "Alright, whisk me away to whatever side room and let's get this over with. If this takes any longer, I'll start walking around in my undershirt." Another glance at the lady, bolder this time. "And then we'll really test that claim of yours, Lady Shard."

 

[Erren Tourmalet]

"Relax."

A familiar voice met Odette's ear—comforting and commanding all at once. Fingers touched her shoulder from behind as Erren Tourmalet moved to stand beside his younger sister, a smile as soft as the silk adorning her resting coolly on his lips.

"You're going to faint before you make it to the drinks if you keep fretting like that," he chuckled, lowering his head and lifting a brow in that uniquely scolding way only someone who’s made the same mistake can manage. "Let Lysanne be the center of attention. It’s her God-given talent."

And wasn't she parading it like a crown of thorns? For all the venom that surrounded her status— a status he'd bargained to improve more than once—Erren’s half-sister still made the Iron Gate’s social circles orbit her like moths around a fickle flame.
His smile faltered, a crack in the mask worn thin by sleepless nights and heavy thoughts, as he took in the scene—already more performance than party. Lysanne had a talent for turning whispers into wildfire, and that usually made his job harder.

With a small shake of his head, Erren refocused on Odette. The smile he offered her was the well-worn one of a protector—reassuring, practiced, and a little out of season. He hadn't truly played the guardian since she'd been small enough truly need defending.

"You look lovely," he said, voice softening. "Your choice, or Mother's?"

He already suspected the answer. Odette wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t been gently—or not so gently—steered into place. Erren himself would have preferred to drown in paperwork and politics rather than in perfume and pretense. But for the family’s ambassador to miss the Garnet’s Ball? That would be an even grander farce than the arch Alchemist’s latest attempt at flirtation—a performance as subtle as a spark in a powder room.

The outfit he wore was one far beyond his norm, but this attraction was nothing if it wasn't for drawing every present set of eyes to the family; A deep blue velvet tailcoat, edged with gold scale embroidery that traced the collar, cuffs, and coattails. The interior lining of the coat shimmered, seeming to flash gold when it moved in a dazzling ripple effect, hidden only partially by the silken half-cloak affixed to one shoulder, bearing the Tourmalet crest and hanging down his back.

Poor Erren looked as though he was being suffocated by the ensemble..

"I know you dislike these settings, but remember.." He assured her, "...This is the Iron Gate, and we are Tourmalet. There's really not much you could possibly do wrong."

 

[Walter Thornley]

The garden shadows fell deeper between the lanterns and lay long by the walls. He did not scurry, did not run, did not pick up the pace once the ballroom changed to a corridor that led out under the starlit sky. The rings spread lazily on the deep inky tapestry above, stars glimmering like specks of frost dew.
The susur of the tree branches soothed the edge of the chase. It would come to a stop out of earshot, though perhaps not hidden from prying eyes. There would not be many - the hosting family's bastard being splashed with wine and picking the right slip of silk to hide the occasion would hopefully keep the focus of the guests, the stewards and the guards.

Laetitia's son was only seventeen, but his friends were all older, Walter noticed as they approached, tension in their eyes but a varied display of curves to their mouths. Derision. Challenge. Sheer glee, from the thought of getting away with a bit of 'entertainment'. Frustration - from not having caught up to him sooner, and now not being able to lure him back, closer to others, where the boys' youngest friend could be heard accusing this upstart baron of insulting their mother.

It was his fault for not having died last winter, against all evil tongues' expectations, Walter concurred with a chuckle. Nothing he could say to them would get him out of this, he knew. It was only a matter of time till blades were drawn.

*

And drawn a blade was - the oldest friend of Laetitia's son, Armand, 'standing up' for him against Walter bloody Thornley. The latter was as unimpressed as the ornamental engraving on the nearby fountain. Too far for any other attendee to hear the exact words exchanged, but Armand's sudden reckless flourish near the baron's face was suddenly interrupted by the young man grasping at his own nose sprouting rivulets of blood.
The rest of the pack balked, then sprung into action. They were younger, some were taller than him already, a good stock. But he was faster. Their embellished movements never knew the curt and unapologetic nature of a real battle. He was an Obscurata. And while his hand barely remembered itself on the grip of a rapier - it did not matter, in the end.

He let it drag a few beats longer. Let some of them recollect themselves from being tripped, shoved, tossed to the ground out of balance, like flustered, angry children with sharp shiny toys. Let them come at him again. One tried to unleash the Shroud, some kind of dizzying spell, at him. That lead turned into a full heartbeat's pause, the baron staring back silently, as straight-backed as before, as proud as before. He barely moved from where he'd stood when beset by them.
He did not weave back to defend himself. So the rumours were true...

The weave unraveled back into Shroud as it passed through him, not that those boys were studious enough to know.
No blood on the noble whelps save for Armand's broken nose - he didn't want more accusations piling up past bruised egos.
A server hurried off to call the nearby guards and cut into the altercation - the beat required to register that almost cost him a puncture in the sleeve of the shirt. Thankfully, bystepped just in time, like a swaying willow branch, blade sheathed just as the guards showed up.

*

In a short time, he'd given more words in self-defense than he cared for, and was left alone, muttering a quiet thanks to the server bringing him a glass of hot mulled wine. Perched against the edge of the fountain, Walter lowered his eyes to the warbling waters framed golden, silent for a while.
A heavy tightness gripped his chest just as he was about to warm himself with the alcohol-infused mixture of spices and burnt citrus pills. Cough shook the baron's core, hand lowered the glass to some other purchase it wouldn't tumble from. Grip would be too unsteady. The world swam and swayed, too sharp and bright even in the darkness. His gloved right hand trembled, tearing a pained groan from him as he pressed it to his stomach, fingers curled.

He'd rejoin the crowds viewing Carthonite once he'd just... catch his breath.

 

[Odette Tourmalet]

Odette tensed at the touch of fingers on her shoulder, but the accompanying voice made her relax just as easily. She turned to him as he stood beside her, a taut smile on her face. Erren was a steady rock in the current of the crowd, He may be teasing her, but it was a comfort, nonetheless. As he spoke, her eyes flitted back to Lysanne, and she shifted uncomfortably.

"She is such a natural at this." Odette gestured at the crowd before them, a sigh escaping her lips. "I couldn't hope to be nearly as confident, or forward." She laughed softly and the conversation shifted once more. She eyes her gown as he complemented her, and she raised a brow in mock questioning. "I compromised with Mother of course. I agreed to come but told her I got to pick what I was wearing. The gaudy stuff she's put me in would be too unbearable."

A servant passed by them, tray laden with goblets. Odette snagged two and offered a glass to Erren. "I am actually surprised you made it, I figured you'd have come up with and excuse to leave town, Diplomat." She grinned at him, blue eyes finally lighting up as the comfort of familiarity began to warm her up to her surroundings.

She nodded silently, family was duty, and neither her father nor mother would let them forget for one damn second. "Just wait until I'm married off, popping out babies. You'll have to come rescue me from my familial duties once in while then too. I don't know if I'll survive being shipped off to gods know where." She laughed, sipping the dark red wine, staining her lips with its robust color. She gestured to his outfit, as she pulled the cup from her lips. "You like nice, quite the gentleman tonight. Perhaps you'll find some entertainment taking the various ladies about the dancefloor." He was personable, but she knew he definitely would not go out of his way for such frivolous activities.

 

[Erren Tourmalet]

"Oh believe me, I considered finding some reason to be out of town this evening." Erren spoke with a sigh as he accepted the drink, bringing the rim of the goblet to his lips and letting the scarlet nectar within steady his nerves. “But if I skipped the Garnet's Ball, I’d be haunted by Mother’s tongue until the next year’s came around.”

Such a casual statement wasn't nearly so disrespectful as it may have sounded; both he and Odette had suffered the wrath of their Mother's scorn before.

But there was more to his presence than family obligation. Whispers had drifted through the Gate in recent weeks: new faces arriving, unfamiliar names with unknown intentions. Some claimed they were here for alliances, others for leverage. Perhaps a few simply for the wine. Lysanne’s brazenness, for all its volatility, had a way of teasing the truth out of even the most guarded.

He only hoped she didn’t overreach. She had potential, -real potential- if she could learn restraint.

“You wouldn’t be yourself if you were bold, Sister,” he added, pleased to redirect the conversation away from their scheming kin. Turning to face her, the folds of his half-cloak caught the low amber light, the fabric shimmering like fire beneath smoke. “You’re still young. And Mother has no others to call daughter. I think you’re safe from being married off just yet.”

Swirling the wine about his goblet, he takes another long drink, brow furrowed as he posed the same thoughts to himself. With Father gone, Odette had become the precious diamond of Mother's eye, but he himself would receive no such benefit.

“As for myself... I doubt I’ll be much help continuing the bloodline.” He laughed, soft, dry, and nearly hollow. “I’m not against mingling, but the distractions of courtship hold little charm.”

A half-truth. Odette would know that. What he meant, what he couldn’t quite say, hung between the words like the many fragrant perfumes and scents in the air.. Erren wore confidence like a cloak in public, but in private, it frayed and slipped—especially where matters of affection were concerned. Whatever charm he wielded in the hall evaporated in the quiet. That part of himself... he had never learned to command.

"But... Thank you." He smiled nonetheless, "I worked hard on the ensemble."

 

[Walter Thornley]

Walter drew in a slow, patient inhale. Shroud sparked and sank back into the marrow of the bone, somewhere deeper than the actual marrow. It hurt. It sang. Eyelids sunk closed for a few moments, hid a glint of moisture. It hadn't always hurt from as slight an ependiture as was required to teach those boys. But he had frayed himself quite grievously the autumn past, and overexpenditure only meant one thing - he'd pay it all back.

So, he would take another moment of being still.

He had found beauty in loss. Once an aspiring, radiant talent of many opportunities and friends to match, his fingers could no longer touch the weave and spin it into fine threads of arcane formulas, will and calculation making dream manifest. But he could hear the song, now, always. He could let it unravel without unravelling before his eyes, the slow movement of Shroud through the world, carried by the wind, bulked up in the clouds, seeping in groundwaters and radiating from the stars. Perhaps he could know better than ever before because the wonders sung, and sank, right through him.

The trinkets some guests wore sang of protection in tiny motifs of pebbles skidding off a solid rockface, blades breaking against a shield. Others, then, oft hid among the adorning jewels, had a different nature. Of rot seeping into the hail earth to sap it into nothing but brittle sand, of a worm whose lifesblood would stop hearts as its aspect burrowed through, of coiled and poised malice in subservient waiting.

A gift. A blessing. At a cost. What made him had no understanding. Only equilibrium. It owed no explanation.

Another deep, slow inhale, and the unbearable sharpness in his every sense had finally decreased. Stars returned to the sky instead of flooding his vision. Walter detached himself from his perch at the fountain side. A gloved hand passed over his face.
Enough dawdling, he wouldn't make Dolores face the brunt of Thornley introductions when he'd arrived much earlier and with a purpose.

*

The Thornley heir wandered back into the ballroom, crossed it along one edge to the viewing area, and stopped besides one of the pedestals. As if materialized by sheer force of whim, but factually by the virtue of one of the dutiful and unobtrusive lackeys, by the time that Walter leaned slightly toward one of the Carthonite crystals he had a glass of wine in his hand to stave off the ramping up unease, a sip briefly painting his lips with a slightly richer flush of red.

It was very much alike to gleaning the mathematical structure of a spiderweb - an understanding imprinted into his mind, but not coming into words in any language to decode it easily - at least, not without deviating. Languages themselves were distortions, each colored aspects in their own slightly different hue, definition resting on connotations layering onto context, and what remained resembled the aspect described - but always, always an imperfect copy. If only he could weave, he would find a way to imprint comprehension gifted to him straight into the other minds...

He took a larger sip of wine, the fresh imprint of the weave structure inside Carthonite losing sharpness in its edges as it settled in his mind. He'd give it a little time to settle, the mind was a fickle thing that refused to adjust to branching concepts quickly. And then, oh, he'd keep himself entertained by flight of thought, if nothing more appropriate was found. If only there was some familiar scholar present to ramble excitedly on the new find and its potential applications. Alas.

*

The halls felt so vast, and none of the people moving were familiar. A sinking sensation coiled somewhere between his heart and wine-fueled bravery. Introductions into polite societies usually happened by vouching proxies, especially so when presenting someone of low social rank as a person of interest. No such luck, of course. Another thing to overcome.

A pair lingered at the edge of the events, their garments dyed in prominence of rare deep blue with golden thread embellishments, and their mannerisms betraying a certain reticence of either to join the guests. A young girl, hair like a shroud of autumn streaming down the folds of shrouded attire, eyes too soft for the locale. A man beside her, older, darker, more composed, with a certain similarity in both face and garb. Her brother or cousin, by the looks of him. Attention lingered, roamed from the lithe frame to the poised smile framed in a groomed beard, detoured to embroidery, and arrived to the crest on the shoulder...

Ah.
The Tourmalets.
Not the eldest ones, perhaps.

A beat later, he'd made a decision, slowly drifting closer, merging with the crowd with an almost sincere study of the patterns on the drapes and the detailing of the ceiling carvings.

He understood the reticence so very well... The burden of making rounds for introductions and pleasantries, of proffering tailored words to an undecided outcome, could be quite tiresome, and quite futile.
Defence and offence, simply put in tactics more familiar.
Or, perhaps, the reticence of someone chained to make their restraint jingle for someone else's amusement. Didn't matter if the chain was solid gold.

He studied the pair discreetly, finding himself closer to the wall just as well. A few lingering looks from some of the socialites he'd passed - some recognizing him, the others appreciating his stature.
Tailored words, was it.

Five steps away, another beat.
If you are looking for an escape, the garden has been recently vacated.
Three-
The goblet in his hand was only half-full, but suddenly revealed an inticate relief of trees and skyborne larks on its side.
He better think about the words.
Two...
Another sip, a languid glance over his shoulder at the others, outwardly a dignified and calm presence, inwardly preaching his own collapse.

Perfect distance, full stop. Now.
Anything. Don't miss steps in a dance or you'll step on toes.

"Such a shame there aren't more of my colleagues present for the festivities," Walter lamented, genuinely. "It is a beautiful evening to appreciate the crystalline structure with porous weave retention despite the rigid material. Or, the philosopher's alternative - the wine."
A chuckle under the breath, smile curling the corners of his mouth impeccably, the many lights of the hall glinting in the humorously narrowed eyes. Caught at a certain angle, the light brought out the true violet hue.

Those curious, dark eyes studied the older brother, lingered half a beat, then drifted to he one who must have been Odette.
"Walter Thornley, baron of Bremen," the introduction came with a slight tilt of the glass, not quite raising it, but in acknowledgement that all of them seemed to seek similar distractions. "A pleasure."