Bonaventura! E1 "On the Road Again"

Train Station Platform, Ravenmere

The train gave a high whistle and belched a cloud of grey smoke from its smokestack, the sharp grinding of steel bringing the engine to a graceful stop. A few seconds elapsed as jets of steam burst and then wafted down the intent of the train, filling the platform and momentarily blinding the travelers waiting there. Then all at once the cabin doors opened and the travelers' traded places. 

I can appreciate the rhythmic life of a train. Everything is at the mercy of the conductor's gold pocket watch as he consults the little hands as the wind around the face, marking the delays, the stops and the end of the line. It is a journey, progression of stops all dictated by a predisposed path which never alters until you reach your particular destination and step off. Some philosophers and poets have wrongly likened the whole of life to one long track in which everyone gets off at their fateful destination. One quickly realizes just how easily it all falls apart. It's a romantic notion. Life is Time. And it will all run into the ground at some point, and everyone will have either stepped off long ago or run right over the edge with it. There is also a magnificent explosion. 

As I was saying, I do so appreciate the punctuality of the railroad. Time is a slave to none and a master of all. My business is all about time and I am no sluggard for it to pass any quicker or run any slower. Time always runs out in the end. And that is one of the few wonderful things we can be sure of in life. The train will always come.

Our expedition of fellows deboarded the train, spilling out with the rest of the travelers. Their bags and gear followed in abundance. The Ravenmere station, and town for that matter, was located some 50 miles from the boarder of the Greenwood and was one of the last stops between Knifewatch on the Northeast boarder and Redsmith in the Northwest. This made Ravenmere one of the key stations along the route for anyone traveling across the High Moors. Everything passed through here, making it one of the fastest growing cities. Located in a wide valley of green hills and fertile ground, the whole town had grown organically, spreading out in a fashion that built itself around the railroad and out. Despite being a center of commerce and trade, it still had a very rural feel to it. The primary residents were country folk, farmers and ranchers. There were traders, merchants and growing industries. But somehow it maintained a languid and casual air of a hamlet. The roads were broad, recently cobbled, the buildings only a few stories tall and spread out with corpse of trees dotting the lanes and neighborhoods.

Arthur had set off immediately to hire carts to carry them into the open country. The ladies mingled, making small talk and observing the proceedings. Mayflower and Thomas were overseeing the organization of the servants and gear into the cart. Dr Psmith lingered in the background watching and keeping his lips closed. Telmage commenting on the dryness of his throat from too much travel and went in search of liquid rejuvenation. The ladies browsed among the shops and stands selling common wares and traveling goods. Thomas purchased a pamphlet titled "Survival: The Wilds of High Moor" written by an adventurer and physician who had spent the better part of his life exploring, treating animals and humanoids, and compiling his knowledge and experiences into a series of books. The publishers were doubtful such a dry, encyclopedic work would sell to the general populace. They encouraged him to compose a short work to test the markets. They publishers were, of course correct in their professional assumptions, much to the disappointment of its author.

Lindion, for her efforts, was rewarded with finding a sturdy hand-stitched ruck sack to sling over her shoulders during their various adventures.

Mayflower, having organized the servants and goods, was getting the rest of the equipment loaded when Father Collins moseyed over to talk with him and Thomas. He stifled a yawn and greeted the two men. Thomas was of course very reluctant to see Father Collins again so soon. The common greetings were terse for his part, but Father Collins was used to both welcoming gestures and lurid ones. They might have talked further, if Mayflower had not launched into a lecture on the benefits of the "buddy system" and then continued on the woes of "Toorakish prisons." *

The carts and horses wound their way along the rutted roads, passing miles of farmland, small villages and estates. As the passengers squinted into the low orange sun, the camp was struck. Tents were quickly erected with the help of a clockwork gearbox set into the central pole of each tent. A common area was covered with a canvas tarp and a fire was started. Each individual had a tent, certain families shared, and the servants had their own tent. Supplies were stored under simple tent to cover it from the weather. 

As everyone joined for the evening meal, stories of past hunts, adventures and monsters naturally came up. Lindion was asked if this was her first safari, and she told them that she had been on several with her fiancé, but that was long ago. Mayflower was surprisingly empathetic, before regaling the group with a tale of the Wobberjacky; a mythical creature who lures its prey into danger with the use of mimicry. 

Eventually everyone settled into sleep for the night. Everyone that is, except Father Collins. He was a creature of the night and was enjoying the first book when he heard a unusual sound. He peaked out of his tent and listened. He heard the horses moving nervously and saw the shape of a man in the dark. Father Collins attempted to move quietly, but Thomas heard him and also went to investigate, shielding his lantern with a rag. Father Collins saw nothing out of the ordinary, other than some spooked horses. He turned and noticed Thomas hastily backpedaling into the cover of some bundles. Whispering the words of an incantation, Father Collins cast Lumen, an orb of bright energy illuminating everything in the near vicinity. Thomas had recovered as Father Collins approached him. Thomas was of course suspicious of why this priest was nosing around outside, but he agreed to take a look near the horses. He noticed one of the leads was untied, but there was no way to know if someone had done it or it had come undone on its own. Thomas and Father Collins decide to camp out and watch through the night in case their prowler returned. Taking provisions, they huddled down in a clump of grass.

When Thomas awoke, the sun was just cresting the far ridge. Father Collins was alert and chipper as ever. The walked back to the camp in search of coffee. They settle in the mess, as food and drink are being prepared. As they waited, one of the servants rushed out of the supply tent exclaiming that something had been stolen.

*This is a common expression among those who have traveled abroad in the Emerites and the Southern Alliance in the far South. Toorakish Prisons are notorious as they are comedic. Toorak is a nomadic people who tower over the rest of their kin. Rumored to have giant's blood, they are fearsome, not very intelligent and have a skill in organization and administration. The prisons themselves are almost a joke considering some of the greatest prison escapes have been made from their jails. 

S1: E28 "Revelations"

The Late Parsons

I will admit a certain amusement at this turn of events. Thomas was always so reliably boring. How surprising then to witness the lad grow a bit of a backbone. It was not inspiring in his bravery. It resembled something akin to those kickable mutts who bark at other dogs when they know there is a fence separating them and the larger, more predatory creatures.

Thomas had secured a larger animal in the form of Mayflower, a bold and daring fellow with the basic shame and judgement of a Pitbull. Mayflower knew what he was about, it appeared, and pushed until he got it. The only difference between Mayflower and Thomas is that Mayflower had money. Wealth really did buy you a lot of things. But good sense was not one of them. But that hadn't stopped Mayflower. Ambition was the name of the game, and the two men now approaching the Parson's residence were ready for anything Fate threw at them. Thomas had tried to prepare an inquisitive Mayflower as to the nature of this visit. He told the fellow about the Spring-heeled Jacks and their mission in getting the inventions Jacqueline Parsons had made for her gang. As they neared the gate, they noted the presence of two constables who were stationed at the entrance. The quizzed the constables, who having exchanged several puzzled glances, merely waved them in. They informed the gentlemen, who gave the constables their names, that they had 10 minutes, before walking down the street. 

Reaching the front door, they knocked. None other than Morty and Boyd, two lackeys of Thomas' former employer, Roald. Thomas and Mayflower both were on alert, aware that they would need to tread carefully with these two breathing down their necks. The two goons led the pair up to the study and waited outside while Thomas and Mayflower entered. The study was paneled in dark wood, a large desk, sizable paintings and a wall of books filled the room. The fire snapped out against the darkness, but only managed to cast longer shadows. A solitary figure, a dwarven male who was presumably Mr. Parsons, sat facing the fire in his high back armchair. Every line in his face was deepened, the color gone from his cheeks and his voluminous beard and thick eyebrows, streaked with grey, hung about him like a brooding cloud. It was not the sight of an industrious man. I cannot say Mayflower was moved much, but Thomas was sympathetic to this man's loss. 

Thomas attempted to approach Mr. Parsons by pretending to men of business, hoping to help arrange for the managing of the Late Mrs. Parsons assets. It appeared immediately that Mr. Parsons had no idea of his wife's extracurricular activities, nor of her intimate relationship with her murderer, the ork driver they had formerly employed. Thomas successfully related a lie. Thomas likely thought he was sparing the old dwarf some pain, or perhaps thought better of revealing the true nature of his dearly departed wife. The parts about Jackie saving Thomas were true enough. He just missed a few key details. Thomas changes tact at this point, revealing to Mr. Parsons that his life was likely in danger from the two men now standing guard outside his rooms. Mr. Parsons was also ignorant of this detail, and growing more annoyed by the minute, stormed from his study to come face to face with Morty and Boyd. This was when Thomas grew bold, and Mayflower wilted. It's understandable. Mayflower was quite confused as to what was going on. Declaring that he would wait outside, Mayflower left Thomas and Mr. Parsons staring down the mean dogs in front of them. Morty was growing irritated, trying to rouse the others into some kind of fight. Mr. Parsons was growing equally indignant at the insinuations of Morty about his wife. I was rather hoping someone would snap and start shooting, but Morty and Boyd were under strict instructions not to create another scene. And so finding themselves at an impasse, they left out the back, Morty whispering to Thomas that "I won't forget." 

Thomas, glad he would not have to skewer anyone else this evening, quickly left, and having found Mayflower, made him promise to have his men return to claim the prize in the back workshop. They then departed, Mayflower at once insisting they return to his home for a meal and a much-needed lesson in etiquette for Thomas.

Sometime later that day, Mayflower received word from his fellow vigilantes that the workshop in the back had been cleaned out and anything of obvious value had been removed. There was a small safe cleverly hidden behind a false panel that had been opened by a professional and now lay bare.

Confrontations
Now we go to the business of Philip. I imagine any reasonable employer would have scolded their servant, and maybe for good measure just sacked him too. But Lindion did not toss Philip to the street for breaking trust. Philip was at first completely offended that she would think him such a scamp as to reveal personal details about his mistress to the Duke. But then it dawned on poor Philip, like the light of a nightwatchmen on an unfortunate burglar, of the error of his ways. For Philip had recently made the acquaintance of head mistress in the employ of the Duke. They both shared a similar position, and it helped that she retained some of her good looks and charm. What is more, Harriet Dodds was an encouraging listener. This information had somehow made it into the ears of the Duke. Lindion, having learned there was no obvious nefarious intent, informed Philip that he would endure punishment instead of being sacked. He would for the foreseeable future partake of her new elixirs, potions and concoctions. Dear reader, you had not the pleasure of hearing her voice, seeing that look in her eye or the fear I so relished in Philips eyes. But rest assured, her threat worked. In fact, it worked too well. But I won't spoil what happens next. For it shall prove equally enlightening. Lindion for her part, reminded Philip that he was low class and Lindion was highborn, and that there was a difference.

He accepted his fate with the grace pummeled into butlers and excused himself. He returned a few moments later to announce a Miss Dendrarr was requesting an audience with her. She was ushered into the parlor and Philip was instructed to keep everyone out of earshot. An indelicate parting shot at Philip I have no doubt.

Yuko wasted little time in relating the dire warning spoken by the assassin. Yuko had sent a letter to the Lorieths and speak to Lindion's aunt as soon as possible. Lindion thought it best to send advance warning and simply risk a visit. Philip departed early by carriage and let the Lorieth household know they would be coming shortly.

The ride over was not terribly eventful. Both were occupied with their own thoughts. When they arrived, they were escorted through the halls of the Lorieth estate. The black and white tiled floors shimmered in the low light. They walked past an abundance of marble pillars, alcoves which sheltered statues, relics and items of the old world. The house was very quiet, so that the only sound was their own shoes clicking on the floor and their hearts pounding in their chests. The passed through double doors and were seated in a comfortable room, elegant in its decor in the simplest of terms. A few paintings hung on the walls, a fire had been lit and a few seats were set before the fire so as to make a comfy place to speak with guests. Soon tea and a lemon watere were brought for Lindion and Yuko, followed soon by the glowing hostess, Genevieve Lorieth. Yuko wasted no time telling her hostess of the threat spoken by the assassin. I shall not bore you with the specifics of the diplomatic talk of two people both feeling out the other for a confirmation. There were the obvious denials and the deflection from commenting on the situation. They spoke of the desire for the war to end, but Yuko soon learned that the perception of the North was thoroughly clouded in a misunderstanding of history. Both looked to the other as the instigator, their perceptions of history Yuko had taken for granted completely non-existent in the eyes of the Lorieths. They didn't even know about the Ivory Queen and the good she had done, nor of the connection between their beloved monarch and the Voice of the Alluminat church. The terms of peace for the West were a complete surrender of the forces in the North. Yuko knew the implied meaning of such terms and deferred until a later time. 

Lindion and Yuko left, the ambassador confused and unsure of her move forward. As they drove through the lanes back to the Belebrante estate, their conversation turned to the Safari that was on the horizon. Yuko desired to invite Remallia Ulbrinter. Lindion commented that this was not likely, as the Ulbrinters would not so easily part with a second child or place them in danger. Yuko, being curious, inquired further. Lindion told her that she was once engaged to be married to their eldest son who was lost at sea before they were to be married. Lindion changed the subject, Yuko turning to her other guests. She also had invited Telmage, much to Lindion's chagrin. Lindion carefully suggested asking Father Collins along as his knowledge would be most useful source of knowledge if she wished to understand the conflations in their two histories. Lindion had ulterior motives, of course. She managed to get Dr Psmith to accompany her as her personal physician. She wanted Father Collins to get a sense for this man who was far too excited about plumbing the depths of her mind and memory. 

Once they arrived at the Belebrante estate, Lindion requested to speak with Arthur. The head of the house was sitting behind his desk, consumed by his work and preparations for the expedition. Lindion told Arthur about her encounter with the Duke in a vague and direct way, leaving out specifics where it was possible. She then asked Arthur again why he invited her. Arthur was dismissive and even evasive in bringing his opinion to bear on the topic. I watched with some amusement as the frustrating nature of Arthur brought out the personality of Daverreinna. The annoyance was replaced with a coquettish grin. Arthur noticed. It was delightful, as this outbreak of Daverreinna was likely to further complicate the implied attraction of Lindion to Arthur. But Arthur was no fool, and politely ignored her. Recovering, Lindion mumbled "Not again" and left flustered and desiring for a private place to scream into a pillow.

Bonaventura!

Each Adventurer has received a special invitation to join a safari into the wilds bordering on the Greenwood in hunt of wild game, hosted by the Belebrantes and by extension, Yuko Dendrarr. The invitation is geared to each specific character, as seen below:

• Lindion Mavienness - Personally invited by Yuko Dendrarr to accompany her.
• Benedict Mayflower - Having used the ruse of a hastily assembled hunting expedition company. He is to organize and guide the hunt.
• Thomas Thompson - Accompanying the expedition as some of the help, maintaining the weapons, gear and carts transporting the group.
• Father Collins - Personal guest of Yuko Dendrarr, asked along to inquire about the religious history of the Aluminat church and its beliefs.
• Dr Psmith - Invited by Lindion Mavienness as her personal physician and to lend his knowledge to the group.
• Additional guests: Anastasia Dendrarr, Telmage Etherington

Additional servants accompanying the safari are servants of the Belebrantes, Lindion's gardener, Joe, and some additional hunters to aid in the hunt. A pair of hounds are coming along as well.

Adventuring Gear

Each Adventurer will receive an allotment of personal gear, along with access to other items as part of the caravan. But they must request access to these items or have one of the servants along to carry it.

Personal Items: Sturdy traveling suit/dress, wide brimmed hat, heavy boots, umbrella/cane. You can carry a knife if you wish. (If you have a something (like an asset) that grants you better clothing or gear, you may substitute the item for something of better quality.) A tent, cot, small writing desk, lantern and 1 personal touch that you could have requested beforehand.

Group Gear: There are items available for use that you might find useful but will require a requisition from the Group Supply. Sometimes these items will be given out if the group is heading out, but is regulated so as to not lose or let things get damaged. Dishes, soap and blankets are readily available.

Gear 

• Backpack
• Bucket
• Lantern
• Camping Kit
• Small Animal trap
• Spy glass
• Clockwork Compass
• Wooden matches
• Rope 30 ft
• Medical kit
• Cart and horse (Max 3 available)
• Riding horse (Max 5 available)
• Change of clothing (Max 1 pair available each)
• Tool kit

Weapons

• Baker Rifle   Skill (Firearmes)    Damage (10 dice, ROF 1, Shots 1, Reload 6, Range 250 yrd)
• Centaur .36 pistol    Skill (Firearms)   Damage (10, ROF 1, Shots 6, Reload 5, Range 30 yrd)
• Elephant gun 6-bore    Skill (Firearms)    Damage (10, ROF 1, Shots 1, Reload 5, Range 150 yrd)
• Axe (hatchet)    Skill (Improvised, Specialist (axe), Fisticuffs)    Damage (6)
• Knife (small/large)    Skill (Swordplay)    Damage (4 or 6)

You may request additional items but may only requisition up to a max of 2. 

Lore

The rolling plains are a sea of prairie grass, small farming communities, quaint towns, a few lakes and the Serberis River. Knots of trees, craggy rocks and low hills protrude gracefully, giving the prairie a bit of character a naturalist or painter would appreciate. 

Sitting on the horizon like a perpetual brooding storm cloud is the mysterious Greenwood. It is considered one of the last true strongholds of Elves. Not unlike the Eldren, these are pureblooded, proud and cloistered away from the rest of the High Moor. In the East, Hellgate Keep is a bastion against the creeping decay of the Tortured Lands. Two mountains peak out from the canopy of old green trees, giving a point of reference. The one in the North is named the Lonesome Peak. The cluster of mountains in the South is known as the White Peaks. Very few people venture into the wood, and those brave or foolish enough, return with stories of strange creatures, monsters and tales of daring deeds. Others just don't return. A few have even come out having no memory of anything after they tread across the border of the Greenwood. Some tell of Fairie creatures spied from the windows of the train which passes through the wood. Others glimpse strange lights and tell of spine-chilling growls and mournful howls. Not much is known of the region, and that is just how its residents would like it to stay.

The Masquerade

The smooth stone walls glistened in the dim electric lights which hung from the ceiling. The genteel figure, dressed in disheveled evening wear, swept down the narrow stone steps, the smells of mildew and steaming garbage clogging his nostrils in a swirling haze that streamed across his path in fingers of steam. He never paused or waited, taking each turn and twist in the labyrinth of tunnels and caverns. Eventually, the dull rumble of life above was replaced with the sounds of steam and clockwork engines which shuddered against the burden of stone and time. 

The figure moved like a shadow between the pilings, pillars of stone and oily steel. As he turned down the last long hallways, he reached a charred oak door. It was fitted with an unusual brass knocker and nothing else. The knocker itself was polished and was composed of metal bits, gears and delicate arms and levers. The man pressed his palm on the surface and then jerked it back, a small trickle of blood dripping from a prick in his flesh. The arms and gears came to life like the internal functions of a clock. What was once an indiscernible collection of bits transformed into a delicate face of a woman. As the final piece of her high cheek bones and fierce gaze clicked into place, the door swung open, allowing the man to pass on into a large chamber of stone and blazing firelight.

"Michael." Intoned a deep male voice from the head of a long table of polished ebony. The man was tall, broad and handsome. He was dressed in a good suit, had no beard and had immense hands, which he interlaced together as he leaned back in his high back chair. "Draw nigh to the court of those who will judge you."

Michael stepped into the warm glow of a dozen candles, lanterns and a roaring hearth. Six figures, 3 women and 3 men, sat on either side in their dark silks, and extravagant furs. Gold and silver peaked out from every crevice of their clothing despite the figures only appearing as dark silhouettes. Michael passed a hand over his face and rolled his shoulders. His body shifted, bent impossibly, transforming before his eager audience into the form of a young man. He had shoulder length dirty blonde hair, a thin boney frame and a pale face. His eyes were a pale blue which sparkled and danced with the fire around him.

"Welcome to the halls of a thousand faces" the chorus of voices chanted from the shadows. "We welcome he who bore the knife. We welcome he who has spilled blood. We welcome our brother back to the fold."

"Give an account and speak honestly before those who will judge you," the leader said, leaning forward in his seat.

"I have walked the ways of mortals; I have delivered our message to the Ambassador of the North, and I have sown the seeds of disunity and discord." Michael said, his lips curling into a broad, dark smile.

"Have you not neglected to mention your failure," a female cut in like a razer, her outline full of luscious curls and jingling with chains, rings and bracelets which held a fortune of charms and tokens.

Michael bit back a bitter laugh. "I delivered the message."

"And yet," an older man added with a voice like worn leather, "You have not the knife by which to prove the message has been received. Show us her blood."

"She was surprisingly nimble." Michael said under his breath. He added boldly "I have performed my task."

"Your task was to drive a knife into the heart and dream of unification. The ambassador is unscathed, and you have surrendered the instrument by which she was to perish." Another voice, youthful and strong which wore an excess of black lace and rings on her fingers, added with a bitter shake of her head.

"You employed magic, which has attracted the attention of the agents of the Lorieths." another feminine voice added, though the acid in her vocal cords almost diminished the airy qualities of her pristine voice. She tilted her head, as if to examine an insect. "You panicked."

"I have sown doubt and paranoia," Michael protested though grinding teeth. "My capture would have undone everything. I used means given to me for just such an occasion."

"That was not the only tools given to you," a slithery male voice said, the outline of his shoulders shifting like oil across water. You could almost hear his smile spreading across his face. "You had a knife did you not? That is, until you lost it."

Michael's cheeks flushed with fury. He was about to protest when the leader held up a hand. "You have been silent, Artor" he added cooly, inclining his head to the side. Michael glanced to the seat next to the leader where a man was seated. He could see in the reflection the man was dark in complexion, with short curly hair and sharp features.

"The boy has not killed the ambassador, it is true. And he has acted rashly. But he has shifted the pieces into place, nonetheless. The Crown must now respond, as will the North. There will be denials. There will be protests. Even now the North has received word of the attempt by the Lorieths to murder their kin. Sparks we can fan into flames. Whether or not anyone believes the message, everyone will have acted just as we predicted. For it is human nature."

There was a reluctant assent to the words of the one called Artor. The leader turned back to face Michael. "This council has judged you. Blood for blood."

"Blood for Blood" the chanting voices echoed.

"The oath must be fulfilled."

"The Oath, the Oath!" they keened.

Michael felt something bump his arm. He glanced around, a spotted a knife which had materialized out of the dark, glinting like polished silver against the dark stones. He bent down and picked up the cool metal in his sweating palms. "Blood for blood," he said, drawing the blade across his hand. Holding his fist aloft as blood trickled across the stones, he cried. "Count my oath fulfilled."

"Oh, we do," the leader smiled and with a flick of his hand a mass of bodies broke from the darkness like a flood. As the cries of Michael were carried away on the wave of groping hands and bare feet, his voice now just a muffled gurgling, the only memory of that failed assassin was a silvery knife in a pool of warm blood glistening atop the slick stones.

"The court of the Masquerade has judged you" the voices chanted in unison. "And it has found you wanting."

With a growing crescendo, the chorus of voices chanted "Glory to she who wore Correllon's Crown. The children of a thousand faces have gathered beneath her skirts. It was she who set the gears of the world in motion, formed the machine from the shadow and fanned the flame of invention. We who walk in your shadow, salute the LADY LAFEEN!"