House Vale - Rumors & Roleplay

[Tantive]

Charisa Flomeigne, the Scion of Siamorphe is seen in the regular with guard escort of House Vale whenever she leaves the estate for her duties delegated to service to its people.

[MissClick]

Earlier the day:

. . .However the Wyrm has something else in mind, and that...Was House Vale...

Without much thought, the dragon opened its jaws - the inner mouth is bursting with flames... And then a HUGE column of Hellfire ends on the mansion, destroying everything on its path, leaving fire and destruction in its wake.

The priestess was seen with more goodly folk who've battled the fearsome hellfire Wyrm, and passers by trying to find survivors among the wreck. Naught of the mansion remained as it collapse in on itself, and the bodies unaccounted for were burnt away.

The Scion has moved her proselytising and advice sessions to outside the Castle of the Council of Four, despite having been made homeless along with the rest of House Vale.

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Oft beyond the city, and just so at the time of demise, aught unveiled afore dark eyes was so much worse than any rumor overheard; through-weaving Fist and pedestrian alike, should the vicinity retain presence.

En route to abode, Sunflower in tow, the ashen remnants are approached late eve, or early next morning - long after others had scoured and depart, tasks complete, the wildling casts gaze upon the burned husk of wrought hellfire as visit upon the wreckage. Among first memories of the Gate, this place, the peoples therein, and the building come to be, found friendships at House's founding long since come, gone, and bloomed anew. Dust is brushed from aught left of debris, revealing insignia, loss, longing, and a lingering sense of wrong with it, heart weighed heavy for the lives said to have perished; names and faces of those she knew. As comes the end of silent memorium, slender neck strained in swallow, arrangements are made to see a missive reach the displaced Lord.

Absent any obligation to accept, what remains of the House Vale's members and staff are offered open invitation to food, bedding, and refuge at the White Mask Theater within the same district, would that any deign take it. Further assistance with rubble and debris is lend with need over days thereafter.

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[wangxiuming]

Credit: Greg Rutkowski

Some time ago ...

"My lord?"

Osric looked up from his desk, quill in hand, stacks of parchment piled into a defensive perimeter - or perhaps a prison - around him. Ever since being elevated to nobility, Osric had found precious little relief from the "paper dragons" of bureaucracy; this evening, they seemed poised to win a decisive victory over him as his wrists strained to attest. Glad for the distraction from his endless battle, he offered a smile to the woman who had drawn his attention away: Chelsea, House Vale's head butler.

"What is it, Chelsea?"

"My lord, you asked me to let you know when the latest shipment of - you-know-what - arrived."

What mirth he could muster drained from his countenance. He did know what, and what it involved was of paramount secrecy. He could not afford to have the illusion be dispelled yet - there was still too much work to do. "Show me. I would inspect it myself. The last batch was a shade too dark; I fear the others have begun to suspect."

"Of course, my lord. I had it delivered straight to your quarters." Ever the prepared one, Chelsea projected an aura of calm pragmatism that Osric had grown to deeply appreciate. He had feared since Sempo's departure from the estate that the position of butler would be difficult to fill - but true to his word, the Kara-Turan had not disappointed in his selection of who should replace him.

The lord followed his butler eagerly from his office to his private chambers. Inside, on a smaller desk beside his bed was a neatly-wrapped package bound in lace and twine. His practiced fingers undid the knots in seconds' time, the result of muscle memory for a ritual he had adopted for many moons now. Wrapping parchment fell away to reveal an ornate oak box, stamped with the seals and insignias of Waterdhavien trading houses.

All the while, Chelsea watched in silence, absent commentary, absent judgment.

Osric opened the box. Inside, a month's worth of hair dye, the tint mixed perfectly to match that of the color of his own hair -- or rather, the color his hair used to be. He did not know exactly when it had started, when his hair had begun to turn from the shade of raven's feather it had always been to the sickly and repulsive viridian it was now. The unnatural shade of green marked him as bound to the fey. All he knew was that it could only be a sign of his inevitable approach to Faerie, his ultimate fate to join his pact patron on his home plane.

Chelsea was the only one who knew of the condition, had kept his secret without even being requested. Morgan didn't even know, nor Dral, nor Jak. Not even Rain. Osric had kept it from them all.

The beat of his heart settled as his eyes recognized the precise mixture that would ensure his masquerade would not be seen through. "This is perfect. Thank you, Chelsea." A moment later and he could not help himself. "You were discreet, yes? Rain already suspects me of using such products."

"... I was, my lord. But if it is any further assurance, I believe Rain's suspicions lend toward a more mundane origin. She thinks you're getting grays."

The lord could not help a smirk. "Better she thinks that than Puck coming to collect my soul."

"You might consider forgoing the facade. The House will not abandon you because your hair is green." Chelsea's words were quiet but reassuring all the same. "... certainly I would not."

She was probably right. But it was a thing that might worry them ... and the coast had enough worries to beleaguer them all without his adding to them.

"I appreciate that Chelsea. More than that, I appreciate you. I don't know what I would do without you, without any of you. Matthew, Aaron, Mrs. Miller ... you have been my rocks. The House Council, they are the house's inspiration ... but you, my staff, my retainers - you are our foundation."

"You honor us, my lord. Thank you." The smile that accompanied her words was one of pride.

There was an awkward pause as Osric struggled with what to say next. His heart was full to bursting all of a sudden; he had not expected it.

She broke the silence. "My lord, there is one more matter. The ... coin Steward Te'Vill gave you, the one you asked us to have professionally polished?"

His elf coin. The one that marked him as a true friend to the Tel'Quessir, the one Rain had given him all those years ago, the first token of their burgeoning friendship. "Aye? What of it?"

For a moment, it looked as though Chelsea wanted to say something, but then thought better of it.

" ... oh, I ... it's but a small matter, my lord. The conservator has requested an extension; apparently the coin has developed quite the patina from overhandling."

The lord chuckled. "Of course, of course. Tell him to take all the time he needs."

Chelsea didn't miss a beat. "Yes, my lord."

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In the immediate aftermath of the Hellfire Wyrm's attack on the Vale Estate, the lord of the manor was nowhere to be found. Rumors suggested he had been among those who had gone to confront the Wyrm at the ruins of Ulgoth's Beard; but even after the assault party had returned, Osric Vale was not among them. Others had come and gone to see the wreckage, to help the survivors, to save those who could be saved. Not the lord himself.

He did not come until the twilight hour, after Lady Charisa, Ashenie, and Afendaria, and Oona, after everyone else had left. He could not bear to be seen by them. He could not stand his friends' and allies presence as he walked amongst the ghosts of his house, knowing that he had failed to protect his people. He could barely do it even when he was alone.

Chelsea, Matthew, Goodwife Miller ... they were gone.

There amidst the charred remains of his house, Lord Osric Vale fell to his knees, silently weeping.