Chapter 0: The Grand Assembly

[Iss'fayn]

The staff are still lowering the flag when it is already known through the city that the Patrician has died. His wife found him on the floor of the grand study. He has been laid to rest, the formal chain of Patricianship hung over the back of the throne as is per tradition. The stone set within glimmers there in the half light that filters sleepily through the half-drawn curtains on the tall windows. The dais where the throne stands is one step up from the floor, but only one. The first among equals did not use the throne much. His desk, a vast artifice of sage green leather and aged wood shows where more of his time was spent, and it is still littered with the business of the days to come and those that had passed.

The great and the good are formally summoned to the Palac. Nobles rub shoulders with Guildsmen who shake hands with Priests and chatter with Scholars. They are all there for an occasion that may happen once in their lifetimes, or might not. The Patricianship can go only to one of noble descent, but the city votes as a whole. A two-thirds majority has been the traditional requirement, and the room is fuller than it has ever been on this occasion, a sign of the growth of the city during it's previous leader's tenure. The Patrician's Guards stand stiff and awkwardly at attention around the edge of the gathering, as the house staff work to keep drink and food moving through the room. The Grand Study, where so many have stood and had their fates decided and made their petitions now awaits a decision from those gathered there as to who will next take up the chain of office. But there is no rush for that just yet.

Firstly, the candidates must announce themselves, and then the horsetrading can begin.

[Smyg]

Here comes the unwilling Duke. He snatches a bottle of Starý Achát brew from a passing server, breaks up the cork, downs half of it in one go, and then gently places the half-full vessel in the hands of another palatial servant rushing by. And then, he moved on, finally positioning himself to speak. Julin z Rušivých was not known as an orator.

"Lords, craftsmen, priests, and of course, ladies, you all know me. The Dům pane z Rušivých has guarded this City for generations, by pen and sword. But no, don't start to fret, I come here not to announce my candidacy to replace old Hynek, but to offer my condolences to Lady Liběna." He raised a closed hand, marked by fencing scars, to his heart. "Let us drink to life."

[Gesar]

"To life!"

The boisterous reply comes from a sauntering, rakish figure who seems to delight in mocking the latest fashions of the nobility, garishly adorning himself in jewelry and altogether scandalously disregarding appropriate rules for buttoning one's shirt. At his side -or rather, affixed to it with an affectionate squeeze of his free arm- is a well-regarded member of the Seamstress' Guild, the pair of them wearing theatrical masks as per the guildmaster's usual taste.

"To life, and the livelihood of all!" The Wondersmith continues, until he stands at the side of Duke Julin and raises his glass in toast. "For let us remember that a Patrician as beloved as the late Hynek always considers the latter to be of the utmost importance. They remember charity, honor, and the repayment of debts!"

His cards -and political preferences, in his own way- laid out, then, the golden-haired thief unceremoniously drains his glass, smirking to the crowd: some were known marks, some more...compliant, still others rudely defiant. "To the livelihood of all, then, lest all lose their livelihood."

[profesoradino2]

"Erm, yes! To life!" The previously distracted man quickly approaches the two and raises his jewel-incrusted mug at the sound of the Wondersmith's sermon. "A gift not to be wasted grieving, but celebrating, as Radegast intended. I propose that we celebrate the life of Hynek, for his good character and remarkable leadership was one in ten thousand thousands."

This bootlicking, although familiar from Blažej, whose kindness usually overflows into the realm of "apple-polishing", was obviously a bad charade to stay out of politics for as long as possible. That wasn't his thing, and due to the constant trouble caused by his flock, walking into politics was stomping on thin ice; he would have everyone at his throat. What would he gain from supporting someone to be Patrician? Money? Fame? Connections? He wanted none of that. All he wanted was a nice sip of cold pilsner to calm his nerves and a nice while in the temple saunas; what could go wrong? Plus, with all of these nonconformists here preaching their anti-noble word, one might not know what trouble one might get into. For now, we just wait and see.

"I call for my fellow priests and citizens to pray to the Gods for Hynek's soul, for him to be showered with beer and given a nice spot in the afterlife." He raises his mug again and says "Na zdraví!" before going back into the crowd to sip some beers and talk with acquaintances.

[Iss'fayn]

Many others present raise their glasses to the toast, beer rising and falling with the clink of ceramic. Liběna z Buků nods softly at the cheer, glancing to Julin with tears still in the corner of her eyes. She holds a small handkerchief at which she dabs occasionally against her cheeks. The room, normally filled with light from the tall windows is oppressively heavy under the black drapes pulled across the windows. The Patrician's Guards watch quietly, no doubt one or another wishing they had a beer themselves.

Blažej z Dubů is one of those who does have a beer and he raises his glass before taking a hearty swig. "Truly it is a shame, for our dear lord Hynek to pass this way. I had hoped he would have at least left us a little bit more prepared..." He glances over at the desk. "And to perhaps not die when the ground is frozen." He rolls his shoulders as Liběna z Buků lets out a sob and then speaks, her voice cracking slightly as she speaks. "We shall have to burn him. It is what he had planned for anyway.". Blažej z Dubů laughs bitterly. "A fitting end..." The swaggering youth murmurs, glancing around. In here he was not with the sword usually at his hip and that had him tighten his grasp on the handle of his stein instead.

Samuel Elánius would look over at the Wondersmith with an inscrutable pokerface. His eyes betray the tiredness of a man awoken during the middle of his sleep. His assistant, a broad-shouldered man with fiery red hair manages to look rather more alert. In contrast to him (and on the opposite side of the room), Mojmír ‘Majoneza’ Jednotlivý is more interested in keeping an eye on Blažej Zlamaljelito, though he has no complaint in reaching for the hors d'oeuvres, shoveling a couple of pastries into his mouth and washing them down with some wine before muttering something to the attending Praporčík, a hawk-nosed man who stands by his side with a glassy stare as he watches the group with the studied disinterest of a professional.

[Smyg]

The Duke approached the Dowager, after having avoided staring at the Wondersmith for too long. That mask...

The slightest of bows. "How are the girls faring, my Lady?" He managed to keep concentrating on the widow, avoiding a sneer of disgust in the direction of the Day Watchman. He may have grown chubbier with time, and was a decadent sort all of his own, but Tusk could not stand those who gorge themselves on foodstuffs in public. Alcohol and other finer things in life was another matter entirely, naturally. "And, dare I ask, how are you doing yourself?"

[Snacks]

The Soothsayer, until now content to remain a few steps behind her companion for the evening as he distressed the widow, stepped forward and slipped an arm around that of Blažej z Dubů which was unoccupied with drinking. "Indeed, a a fitting way to honor a man whose own will burned so brightly." The blind woman, dressed finely enough to be here but not quite enough to presume equal status, gave a kind smile and deferent curtsey in the direction of the dowager, before letting her voice raise somewhat, "and what a relief it must be to everyone, to know that the kind Duke prudently turns his attentions to mourning rather than politicking."

The woman didn't especially enjoy being here, in this grand display of unearned excess. That wasn't to say that she disapproved of the place completely, or even such displays in general but, much like the wealthy lecher drinking at her side, it didn't particularly impress her. Such was the lot of the sightless, she told herself. No, it was all business to her: From the courtesans on the arms of those lords and merchants without unpaid company to bring, to the Seamstresses who would later be warming the beds of those more shy about flaunting their dalliances, to herself (and her prices were steep, to be sure). She had far too much money to be made off of this not to be attentive.

Really, did anyone come to a wake for the fun of it?

[Gesar]

Indeed, if amusement had been the order of the night, the master thief would have likely been seen in the company of his companion's blind mistress -courtesans and cutpurses did not make for the strangest bedfellows, to pardon the expression- or more likely, have elected not to attend at all. The jackals of court made for poor company, given their demeanors, and the deceased Patrician was little mourned by the artists of the Dubious Trade.

Fortunately, artist happened to be the operative word of that sentiment. What sort of craftsman would the Wondersmith have been if he did not have passion for his sordid business?

He murmured a few words to the woman on his arm, who chuckled as he lifted the corner of his mask as if to remove it, gaze turned on Samuel Elanius. Snapping it back before giving the watchman a complete profile to commit to memory, a few more whispers led the blond man to part from the company of his escort, off in the direction of Liběna z Buků as his eyes scanned the crowd for friendly faces.

Perhaps Lady Milá smiles on us, and my dearest Kralovna will deign to join us. The gods know this lot could use a bit of scandal...

But by then he had made his approach, at first remaining at a respectful distance to keep the Patrician's Guard at ease. "A kind man, our Duke Julin," the Wondersmith murmured from behind the bereaved widow. He slipped a hand beneath his cloak and artfully proffered a choker of silver inlaid with black pearl, fastening it with a smirk. "A token of the Honorable House's sympathy. I could not hope to match him, not ever, but grief should not dim beauty."

"A simple thing, in comparison to His Lordship's concern for all the children of our city, but their mothers, I find, are too oft... forgotten."

[acecipher]

Marcel Makovec stayed mostly back in a corner of the room. His taste in politics was.... disdainful, to say the least, of the act of choosing a Patriarch. As if it should be that one man should have so much authority to decide all matters of the city--really, the business of other people--to himself, and to have a monopoly on legal violence. Or even to use violence at all! His bretheren hardly would ever sentence one to some form of corporal punishment, let alone capital... such violence does not befit justice well, as his lame leg all too well knew.

He munched a freshly-brought pastry--he had carted them over himself--as he stood by his good friend Samuel and the (honestly distasteful, but one could never tell that to him) Majoneza, simply watching and surveying the crowd. "Indeed, today it seems we're in quite the company, gentlemen... all sorts of puffed-up bloodlines and less-than-scrupulous tradesmen.... it's as if the city is mostly run by thieves and leeches," he quipped, before nibbling on a croissant. "Of course, when haven't such types been prone to finding themselves lording over the fates of other men, my good fellows... Save, of course, for those who would make themselves allies of justice." His thin smile hid sadness behind his mirth, as his eyes darted around the room. His focus there ignored the temple officiaries and members of the noble houses, and instead focused on gauging the temperament of the guildmasters in the room--those who he was most akin to, who held more power than even their stores of gold could belie....

[Iss'fayn]

Liběna z Buků looks to Tusk, tears still in the corners of her eyes. She seems visibly shocked but looking closely, as he now is able to, her mind is still working even as she wades through the mire of grief. "The girls. Well. They're being taken care of. I have no doubt they will grow to be fine young ladies..." Her attention scatters for a moment as she finishes her first sentence, looking to the Soothsayer and acknowledging the curtsy before glancing to the Wondersmith . "I will continue... there is nothing to do but go forward..." She murmurs to Tusk before turning her attention to the braggadocious thief. She looks at the choker and reaches out to take it, and if she picks up on the subtext of his remarks to the Duke, she doesn't comment.

Aside from this little drama, Blažej z Dubů leans into the Soothsayer. He would growl softly a moment to the blind courtesan, well aware of how skilled those fingers that squeeze his bicep through the linen of his shirt are. The murmured whisper carries just loud enough as he mutters what is perhaps on more minds than his own. "...well my songbird... bloody well get on with it... some of us have places to be... not like Volinski to be so quiet..."

The Kralovna of the beggars, Markéta Klokanová makes her way forwards, jostling past Řád Slavomír Lanik of the Order Militant of the Red Tower as she does. The vigilant goddess's priest visibly bristles a moment and as the beggar queen begins to speak, he watches her with a stern expression. "Our condolences from the guild of Beggars. At least, Hynek will not have to put his hand out to the guilds for another loan anytime soon." She glances sidelong to the priest. "Though perhaps he might just have to try in the Mrakodrapy..." Lanik stamps his foot and bellows. "I do not presume to speak on guild matters! I would request you don't on those of an ecclesiastical nature!". In his wheelchair, aged Archchancellor Vendelín Počasívosk seems to come to himself for a moment with a sly chuckle puncturing the silence that had suddenly fallen before asking aloud in an innocent and aged voice, "Could someone pass me another rohlík with pastika?". Before anyone can get it to him, his gaze seems to drift out as he observes some coruscating magical corona present in the room that only he can perceive.

Samuel Elanius clears his throat quietly and glances to Marcel Makovec before stepping forward and raising a hand, pre-empting the Patrician's Guard. "Now, now. I don't want to be indelicate, but I will be. We're all busy people here. Perhaps it might be worthwhile to get the affair rolling along so we can return to keeping our great city ticking over?" Mojmir 'Majoneza' glances up from another hors d'oeuvre and wipes his lips. "Mmm, either that or start breakfast. Man's got to eat you know."

[Smyg]

Ignoring the Wondersmith's folly, the Duke turned away from Lady Liběna.

"Well, then. If you must be so blunt." A jagged smile. "Who wishes to rule the City?"

[FireFly]

Roman Volinski shifted his eyes through the crowd of nobles whom had gathered at the news of the Patrician's death. He leaned closely to his beloved Adéla and murmured something into her ear. The two shared a stifled laugh. The two were waiting for a moment to finally end the charade of bereavement that had overtaken the nobles of the land.

Finally a voice spoke in the crowd ending the pretense that all the nobles were here for anything more than a chance at the Patricianship.

Roman stepped forward and spoke loudly, "Here here, well said my fine noble sir Julin z Rušivých! Whom here shall declare their intent! Let us commence the formalities, but once more raise our glasses and thank our noble Patrician for his service in life, for in death he will not be forgotten!"

Roman downed his glass of beer before speaking again, "My fellow noblemen and women, least we forget we have a sacred duty to uphold the laws and prosperity of these lands. Our former Patrician has performed admirably, and I, Roman Volinski of Dům Volinski, wish to humbly serve as The Patrician and continue in their footsteps"

[Snacks]

The Soothsayer listened as Roman Volinski made his speech, leaning in to whisper in her companion's ear as the crowd murmured at the announcement of the first candidate.

With a gentle pat on the arm, she parted ways with Blažej z Dubů, and made her way to mingle with the other guildsmen. Politics, someone had once said to her, was like picking pockets- a light touch and making oneself scarce gracefully were two thirds of the job. Chatting with nobles all night, for better or worse, wasn't her place in the world.

Stepping over to the Kralovna, and putting a friendly hand on her shoulder, though...

"Markéta, dear. Do the streets treat us as well as they ever did?"

[Gesar]

The good Duke apparently lacking the sporting mood that truly made these events what they were, the Wondersmith bowed again and excused himself with a quiet, but wholly polite, "Our deepest regards to the families of you both."

Far be it from him to impose on his betters, at least in such a forced manner. These were times that required more elegance than the coarseness on display by Elanius and his ilk, particularly when the crowd at hand seemed ill-disposed to appreciate the courtly art for what it was worth.

Onwards to greener pastures, then. Milá herself cannot part me from the company of scoundrels and whores, hm?

With the unseen smile of a man who had been consequently proven right, the guildmaster thus sought out those more clearly of his station, namely the Beggar Queen engaged in conversation with the Soothsayer. "My Queen and my dearest Lady Songbird," he offered by way of greeting, bowing with a flourish of his hands. His words were uttered sotto voce, as if concerned for the tedious proceedings for nomination. "I am as ever your servant."

Slightly louder, and clearly for theatrical effect, he added, "It is a shame we meet under such circumstances. To think we are surrounded by such sordid types as to honor a man's death that any of proper birth might become a dangerous enemy to their peers..."

His disdain at least honest, the beak of the mask craned in the direction of Blažej z Dubů, still dramatically airy in his declarations as he said, "And it is yet another disgrace that we will likely have no young blood to guide us away from the stale ways of the past, no?" Before the question could be answered, he leaned in to whisper to the Krasnova, smirk hidden behind the mask.

[Iss'fayn]

There are a few murmurs from the crowd as Julin speaks and then Roman answers. Blazej z Dubu cranes his head to listen to the Soothsayer for a moment, reaching and tugging at his moustache tip agitatedly as his companion releases his arm. He casts around aimlessly for a moment and then takes a sullen swig of his pilsner at the remark of the passing Wondersmith. He seems uneasy and a little wrong-footed but to his credit he keeps his mouth shut for a moment. Elanius seems unfazed at the idea of the distaste of some appearing more to care about returning to his humble bedstead, though even he is able to express some irritation at the remark of Majoneza.

The Kralovna lets out a chuckle, flashing the nearly toothless gums in a broad smile. "As well as they ever did, Soothsayer dear. And the sheets, are they still satin?" She wiggles her brows as the Wondersmith comes closer. "Don't be sore dearie... by the way you couldn't see to lending me a couple hundred coin? I's got mouths to feed you know..."

Lanik returns to a conversation with a lesser priestess of Zlatazena, apparently chastened.