Lord Roncilleues was a philanthropist of some import, and nobody could be quite sure whether his money came from earldom, a successful venue in innovative magitech, or the overflowing coffers of his late wife Constanzia. To think that not a month had passed since her funeral before the man gathered the next group of paying sycophants and aspiring courtiers he'd called close friends to show off a new item he'd acquired for private viewings.
A stone bust commemorating the late king Reynault II, sculpted from a Shroud-melded combination of marble, lapis and tiger's eye, a strange, titillatingly unique work of art where the sculptor's chisel met the joining enchantment, and the detailing made it ever so hard to believe that hair and a hint of fur collar detail have been sculpted by a mundane hand. The master remained unknown, as well, despite some collectors' best attempts at tracking them.
Many things like this one were honored guests at Omund Roncilleues' estate. Those things were housed behind engraved crystal panels walling off the mesmers, muffling enchantments that cut off beguiling whispers, sometimes a chain to hold from moving when not observed, or, in one case, a nightingale in a closed cage near the display.
The bust had a special track record, and a special place on a carved ironwood pedestal in the man's study.
This one's bloody trail extended from the alleged unknown master, to his daughter, to three different merchants that tried to deliver the bust to court, all perishing by way of horrid hail on a mountain pass, a strange pack of wolves in the woods, and finally, most improbably, by drowning in the river, carts and all, by walking into the rushing waters some ways away from the bridge.
Its final victims were most of the crew tasked with removing it from the riverbed. The manor's own lackey slipping and cracking his skull on the edge of the pedestal had surely been just an episode of vertigo - a stuffy summer, through and through.
The manor sprawled in silvery-grey stone, more wide than tall, fountains upon artificial channels and even a couple nooks behind the constructed waterfalls. But if one looked closely, the thing would become that much more fascinating for the abundance of enchantments that cut the estate behind the ornate iron-topped stone wall from the world. In fact, if one looked closely, it stood to note that all the artificial channels seemed quite peculiarly patterned for a simple flight of creative thought.
*
Twenty five miles closer to the coast, in a sleepy, clean town of Nanmes, known otherwise as 'The Northern Wineyard' for a delectable local sort of earthen-bodied grape, shadows were becoming longer by the hour, creeping blue and lilac across the pavements, the celestial ring already peeking through the fading golden dusk.
It was a week ago that a servant of Roncilleues' erupted through the somnolent tranquility bearing a slightly charred, folded paper.
His Highness was dead. His son was trapped inside with most of the servants and some of the guests. There was an urgent missive to deliver - not to the local militia, but some distant mage coven the locals have barely heard of, probably somewhere in the capital.
Now, in the crawling shadows and among thinning daytime crowds, a dappled grey horse carried a trim-cloaked rider to the 'Vine's Lean Inn'. A stranger, by all means, gathering glances from passersby who caught a glimpse of silver fox fur on the cowl trim. Loosely curled fingers in a deerskin glove held the reigns, a glimpse of a bracer-cuffed sleeve could be discerned behind, a sword belt at the waist.
Violet eyes traced the surroundings with a quiet inquiry until they stopped on the painted sign.
Here. His contact would be here - he'd missed the messenger with the specifics, but guessed they'd stand out as much as he could with the cloak removed.
He handed the reigns to the stable hand, the black mane of wavy hair swaying with a light nod of acknowledgement and a clink of a coin or two. Then, stepped inside the building, hoping to catch his collaborator during the last patron rush during supper. If not through an inquiry with a stout madam owner downstairs about their table placement, he'd have to be a bother by knocking on their door.
A late hour, but unfortunately - the best hour to discuss the urgency.
A stone bust commemorating the late king Reynault II, sculpted from a Shroud-melded combination of marble, lapis and tiger's eye, a strange, titillatingly unique work of art where the sculptor's chisel met the joining enchantment, and the detailing made it ever so hard to believe that hair and a hint of fur collar detail have been sculpted by a mundane hand. The master remained unknown, as well, despite some collectors' best attempts at tracking them.
Many things like this one were honored guests at Omund Roncilleues' estate. Those things were housed behind engraved crystal panels walling off the mesmers, muffling enchantments that cut off beguiling whispers, sometimes a chain to hold from moving when not observed, or, in one case, a nightingale in a closed cage near the display.
The bust had a special track record, and a special place on a carved ironwood pedestal in the man's study.
This one's bloody trail extended from the alleged unknown master, to his daughter, to three different merchants that tried to deliver the bust to court, all perishing by way of horrid hail on a mountain pass, a strange pack of wolves in the woods, and finally, most improbably, by drowning in the river, carts and all, by walking into the rushing waters some ways away from the bridge.
Its final victims were most of the crew tasked with removing it from the riverbed. The manor's own lackey slipping and cracking his skull on the edge of the pedestal had surely been just an episode of vertigo - a stuffy summer, through and through.
The manor sprawled in silvery-grey stone, more wide than tall, fountains upon artificial channels and even a couple nooks behind the constructed waterfalls. But if one looked closely, the thing would become that much more fascinating for the abundance of enchantments that cut the estate behind the ornate iron-topped stone wall from the world. In fact, if one looked closely, it stood to note that all the artificial channels seemed quite peculiarly patterned for a simple flight of creative thought.
*
Twenty five miles closer to the coast, in a sleepy, clean town of Nanmes, known otherwise as 'The Northern Wineyard' for a delectable local sort of earthen-bodied grape, shadows were becoming longer by the hour, creeping blue and lilac across the pavements, the celestial ring already peeking through the fading golden dusk.
It was a week ago that a servant of Roncilleues' erupted through the somnolent tranquility bearing a slightly charred, folded paper.
His Highness was dead. His son was trapped inside with most of the servants and some of the guests. There was an urgent missive to deliver - not to the local militia, but some distant mage coven the locals have barely heard of, probably somewhere in the capital.
Now, in the crawling shadows and among thinning daytime crowds, a dappled grey horse carried a trim-cloaked rider to the 'Vine's Lean Inn'. A stranger, by all means, gathering glances from passersby who caught a glimpse of silver fox fur on the cowl trim. Loosely curled fingers in a deerskin glove held the reigns, a glimpse of a bracer-cuffed sleeve could be discerned behind, a sword belt at the waist.
Violet eyes traced the surroundings with a quiet inquiry until they stopped on the painted sign.
Here. His contact would be here - he'd missed the messenger with the specifics, but guessed they'd stand out as much as he could with the cloak removed.
He handed the reigns to the stable hand, the black mane of wavy hair swaying with a light nod of acknowledgement and a clink of a coin or two. Then, stepped inside the building, hoping to catch his collaborator during the last patron rush during supper. If not through an inquiry with a stout madam owner downstairs about their table placement, he'd have to be a bother by knocking on their door.
A late hour, but unfortunately - the best hour to discuss the urgency.
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