Latest revision as of 23:36, 20 February 2017

Participants

• Fenris
• Hildegard
• Krove
• Peter

Date

20/2/480

Log

In any case, it's simplest to just follow behind the ones who have more excuse to be here; be a quiet observer behind the large snow leopard who actually could fit in this society.

Peter has absolutely no excuse to be here - his face is bruised and stitched, dressed up in Sweetwater militia garb that may be the only reason he hasn't been shouldered out just yet. He wipes his feet, leaving a mass of mud and other treasures where he had before he steps on in. He spots Krove and gives the little fellow a few seconds of staring before grunting and moving along, hands on his hips.

The main gallery is beautiful. The floors are waxed and polished and fine rugs run here and there with even finer tapestries adorning the walls. There are large cases on walls and in central places on the floor displaying all sorts of artifacts, some ugly and mundane, and other beautiful and exotic, all of them obviously old. And all of them marked with small, neatly written tags, describing what they are and their famous former owners. Original Solacious weapons, a scratched, iron crown said to belong to the original Good King. Rings and masks and bowls and trinkets of all sorts grace the display cases.

Among all this beauty and finery strides the ragged figure of Amos Longtooth. The scarred old tom cat seems to spend much more time glaring at beings look over artifacts than he does the artifacts themselves. His milky, blind eye makes for a disturbing deterrent for anyone who might be interesting in taking home a souvenir.

Hildegard looks towards the chipmunk that has seen better days, then towards Krove. "Your work?" She asks, likely referring to the medical treatment, not the reason for needing it. She doesn't stand around waiting for a reply, though, moving off to walk amongst the artifacts. She observes them all with an appropriate amount of time for a tourist, stopping just long enough to read the tags and ponder the story. They were all exciting to her! But some more than others.

History was never Krove's strong point. He could only see many instruments of barbarity, cruelty, and the aspect of keeping down the Common man, of doing what profited the few, rather than the many. Of course, there were inklings of interest in why they kept it, but all of that is interrupted by the comment from the Merchant-cat. "Hmm? Oh, oh yes! Quite." He then wheels around to inspect the work himself, hoping not to see any signs of infection. He'd prayed before operating, one could certainly hope there weren't any foul airs caught within the sutures. "You haven't been scratching at them, have you?" He mutters to the militia-being, squinting through his thick horn-rimmed spectacles. "That will only make it worse, you know."

Peter ponders the correct answer to Krove's question for a moment before he replies. "No," he says, not the best of liars. He turns away to hide from any further scrutiny, instead looking over the various old weapons, pausing for a moment to take a long look at the crown. "Don't know what you are doing here. Thought you were from over in Cliffside."

In place of pride, at the center of the gallery, on a raised pedestal are three oil paintings, each pointing toward a different part of the room. All three are currently covered. They are probably meant to be revealed at some sort of special event.

"The crown is interesting, isn't it?" Hildegard asks, of whoever might be around. "For it to be of the first King, yet it is made of simple iron. Not fanciful metals, or even Creator Steel. But iron. Perhaps a mark of a humble king?" She muses, eyes roaming around the room again to settle on the covered portraits. She would not peek early and spoil the surprise. Yet, at least.

Focus on the stitching lost as the would-be patient turns around, Krove is torn between two sets of thoughts--the first, that he probably shouldn't say 'know your enemy' when in the middle of a house of sharp, pointy objects. Especially ones which were likely familiar with the internal organs of Cliffsiders. Secondly, that he had to come up with some sort of retort to the comment of a humble king with an iron crown. "History is useful, my friend. Its own reward, in ways--but so is metallurgy. Iron is stronger than---" Well, it wasn't stronger than creator steel, certainly. "Iron can be worked simply. More so than creator steel could ever be." He was stuck on a somewhat valid point which Hildegard made, but he couldn't admit it. Sweetwater was full of backwards-thinking bumpkins. He wouldn't be surprised if literacy wasn't even a requirement for enrolling in the militia.

"Same thing mine's made of," the chipmunk replies, bluntly, to the musing cat. The backwards thinking bumpkin himself bumps against Krove as he passes, just floating idly around between the historical artefacts, seemingly not interested in an unrevealed painting. After all, it's no good to anyone if you can't look at it.

There is a polite cough from the center of the room, where a zebra in well tailored servants' garb waves for everyone's attention. He does not speak, but bows a little to the scattered crowd. Then he reaches up, with no speech or fanfare, and delicately removes the covers on the paintings. He then bows once more, and absconds with the linen covers.

The newly revealed paintings depict three different felines, and two of them are quite obviously older than the others. The two older paintings depict females in dark, leather armor, one a fine-boned cheetah and the other a more robust looking lioness. The third painting is much newer, but still has some years on it, showing the image of a young, male panther, with fur so black that he almost looks like a hole in the painting, wearing a fine, military cut uniform with a collection of medals for valorous service.

Amos stops in his prowling long enough to whistle in appreciation for the paintings. "Must have snatched those off the walls while the old manor was still being ransacked," he rasps, "Only way I can think that they got out with a clean portrait of old Reggie himself!"

"Oh, certainly. Iron is strongeer than fancy metals, but who makes a crown for protection? They are more often apparel of ceremony, aren't they?" Hildegard ponders aloud. "If I were a queen, I'd probably have invested in a great deal of finery- Much like the pompous Beings growing rich in the lofty spires of Cliffside. Some of those bigwigs at the academy... Never seen so many silks," she murmurs, before the paintings are revealed. "Impressive indeed. Looks to be in remarkable condition for something like that, though." A forgery? She would hope not, in a place like this.

Oh look! Fancy that, a bunch of nobles, being fancy. Nothing new here--But ransacking sounded good. That was a curious thing indeed, for someone who wasn't more familiar with recent Sweetwater history. "Hmm--you make a good point, Madam Hildegard. Wouldn't be surprised if it was actually swathed in silks before those decayed. Give it a false sense of worth around a fairly common core." Propaganda is what you make it. Still, the ransacking was a curious thing to mention. "How often are noble homes ransacked?"

Peter wrinkles his nose and looks to Amos at his commentary. "What?" he says, the historical value of the items going entirely over his head. "Reggie who?" he asks, wrinkling his nose.

Amos turns his blind eye on Peter and bares his teeth in a grin, showing off the oversized fang that gives him his name. "Old Reginald Longtail hisself," the tattered tom rasps, "And an original portrait if I had to guess. You're looking at three past heads of the King's own spyguard. Alessa is the first Longtail, and Reginald was the last. Flora's Grandad who tried to overthrow the Good Queen of his time."

Hildegard folds her arms, appraising the portraits. "And taken, you think? I am surprised they have not tried to take it back, now. Who is this Hugo Snowmane?" She asks, looking towards Amos. "I have yet to become acquainted with the man or the name."

"Not the last, I hate to say, Old Man." Leave it at that, and try to focus on how to use this information to his advantage--if the King very well knew this, and Flora was open enough about it--what leverage could possibly be gained? Both of them seemed to be soft in the head, from what examinations he made.

Peter blechs and sticks out his tongue for a moment, making his disgust known. "Pretty portrait for an ugly old man," he says, nodding in affirmative at his own judgement. "Guess it makes sense. If you train them to do sneaky tricks that's what they'll do," he says - and he looks to prepare to spit on the floor before thinking better of it and swallowing. Krove's comment gets an extra glance as he considers it before nodding in agreement.

Amos flicks a notched ear and turns his unnerving gaze on Peter and Krove. He seems to consider their souls and whatever spots his milky, scarred eye might see on them, then turns his attention to Hildegard. "Snowmane," he rasps, "Old family, generally tied to the Longtails. Their family trees crossed from time to time. Like the Solaciouses and the Foxgloves, or the Schlaufuchs up north. Far as I know, old Hugo is the last of them. His dad got the family out of Firmament real quick after the failed coup. Imagine old Hugo is practically Thera'Doran, really."

"I see, I see," Hildegard says, stroking her chin with a thumb. "Why are all these down here, instead of up there, under his watch, if it's safer? Has he decided to make his return permanent, then? I suppose if he's not Longtail himself, he'd be free of immediate scorn... I could see it."

There's a dismissive snort. "Wouldn't be surprised if the concept was the same--failed revolution in Thera'Dor, needing a place to hide back here, now." Failed scheming and power-grabbing with no thought to any but themselves--Krove could see the family resemblence, at the very least. "So what is your connection to the estate?" The milky-eyed stare was a difficult one to face, though the surgeon was more interested in what could be done to augment fading vision, and make a quick bit of coin, than he really was in petty noble squabbles.

Peter gives a blank stare in return to the uglier of the two felines among them, scratching his chin as he considers any other artifacts he may rather see. He floats off among the others present, likely departing.

"After Flora was named highlady, I guess some of the stigma wore off," Amos waves around at the impressive collection, "Hugo moved back and took up residence here again. I don't know his security arrangements, but I guess that the crown has some vested interest in this collection and has pitched in a bit on security on condition that he have this little show." The scarred feline shrugs at Krove's question. "None. I got nothing to do with the Longtails or Snowmanes or any of 'em. I just like to check these things out to see stuff that's older'n me. Not a lot of those around anymore."

"Snowmane..." Hildegard turns the name over in her mind for a moment. "I don't suppose they have, or had, any relation to the Snowmarks, too, if he fled to Thera'dor?" She asks, looking towards the portraits once more. "I don't know about that, Krove. They are not all so bad, you know. Do not let the bad apples spoil the whole bunch for you. Some of them are entirely self-righteous pomps, though, I will agree."

Krove realizes he's perhaps a bit too bold in his speech, and tries to tone it down a bit. "Self-preservation is... hard to ignore, Madam Hildegard." He wasn't going to go beyond that, lest he get a faceful of fist. "But I imagine any noble family will breed with any other easily-accessed noble family--it's like a business contract, no? Keep the line going, both benefit, a partnership wherein your offspring are your bargaining chips." Okay, maybe he was bad at that.

"Nah," Amos rasps, "Far as I now, the Snowmane's kept to themselves up north. Far as I know, Hugo is the last of the Snowmane line. People're always gettin' me confused with Longtails on account of me bein' a LongTOOTH, but there's no noble blood in my tubes." He turns that milky eye on Krove again, and it does not seem that he has any trouble seeing the angry little deer. "Speakin' of self preservation, though," he says, "You might wanna remember this ain't the Freeswords' tavern or the Cliffside academy. Folks aren't so tolerant of that kinda talk out here."

"Not always that, either," The snow leopard says, looking towards Krove. She had seen what she needed to see. Now she only had to listen. "You still speak of them as if they are all the same. Some of them will bond and have offspring for that, yes. But not all. They ARE still individual Beings at the end of the day. You do yourself a disservice to not judge them as such."

He was more clever than he looked--and there had to be someone watching, clearly, to make that sentiment worth being voiced. He sheepishly retreats into muttering, and looking at the walls. "Quite right, quite right." Backwards, inbred, mouth-breathing, [UNPRINTABLE] nobles that they were. And yet, they were individuals--theoretically, they had the same ideas and desires as everyone else. "Would that I could expect the same." He has to come up with some sort of defense, a way to say he wasn't a revolutionary. Even if his words are dripping with sarcasm, he can say them, and hope for legal protection. "But of course, they are noble for a reason. Valorous deeds on behalf of the people. I should keep that in mind, and remember my place beneath them."

Amos snorts loudly at Krove's attempt at 'Humility,' and shakes his head. "Whatever you say, shorty." The old cat shoves his hands deep in his pockets and limps over to consider the paintings. "Reggie here was young when the coup happened," he rasps and jerks his chin at the portrait of an older looking Alessa, "Alessa there would have been about the same age when she STOPPED an attempt on the King's life. Funny how that works out."

Hildegard gestures towards Amos. "Just as he says," she speaks to Krove. "They are all individuals. They have goals. Some noble, some not. Some were for valorous deeds, certainly, but that does not put you beneath them. The Creator texts say as much, I do believe," she ponders. "But I am no priest to speak of it. I believe it was the Blackbacks, after all, that created the Soul Gem to help those poor Beings." She pauses for a moment, staring at Alessa's portrait. "Of course, another big factor is that it is not exclusive to nobility. The upper echelons of Cliffside are just as bad, and Shralesta can be a little inhospitable to outsiders, at time, due to their reverence. Strange how that works."

Philosophy was so, so very tempting to discuss openly--but he'd been sensibly reproved, and could ill-afford to get himself in more trouble. "Society gravitates to those who have, and those who do not--" Whatever the thing to have was, whether tangible or intangible, remained to be seen, but he could at least defend his home. "The texts do say that we are equal--so then, why do we constantly strive to stratify? Why is--" Okay, maybe he couldn't do that without getting into more trouble. "I can say I've seen little different inside of one being to another--Inside, we're all the same, at least." That was diplomatic, right? And surely the Cliffside practice of autopsies wasn't.... entirely frowned upon---right? Not that Krove was going to rob graves, but--but there was so much interesting to learn, to help people! It was just locked behind the skin.

Amos rolls his eyes, both good and bad and turns his back on the philosphers, instead turning to pace the length of the hall. While many beings are looking at the ornate objects and oddities in the cases, the old tom cat seems more interested in the cases themselves, stopping every now and again to rub a thumb over the grain, or leaning in to examine a joint carefully. So strange.

Conversation and debate was a great cover for her attentions, which, to an observer, looked rather like she was simply taking in the artifacts. In truth, she was more interested in the building that housed them. Windows, doors, lock styles, amount of security personnel, the garb and equipment of said security, flooring, rug presence... Any number of perfectly mundane and trivial things. "I do not know. That is a question for the Beings both rich and poor to answer. Why is it that many go out of their way to avoid offering aide? Regardless of status in life."

"Fear." He says, very quickly. "And greed." That wasn't dangerous, right? He could claim no such interest and caution in examining artifacts as the others. He was a cantankerous little whippersnapper, after all. And 'Shorty' was more than happy to provide a quite loud distraction. "It's because it hides the real issue, the need to grow. When we hide behind our past accomplishments--or our ancestors'--" he slides that little dig in, hoping to get away with it, while he rants and raves, "We seek to excuse ourselves from continuing in the Creator's path laid out for us."

He fingered his own soul gem for a moment, hardly daring to admit he owed his very life to nobility.  But that wasn't to nobility--but to one person.  "We all must continually strive!  None of us can afford to simply.... let our destinies be chosen for us!  That is not the way, is it?"
 
The gallery has no actual windows. All of the warm light here is provided by ingeniously placed candelabras and a pair of chandeliers, probably with a bit of clever mathemagic involved. There is also a high skylight in the ceiling. As far as security goes. . . well, unless you count the Zebra servant and a few others like him, there does not really seem to be any security at all. It looks like a pair of town guardsmen have been placed at the entrance to make sure no one tries to wander off with anything, but there are no other guards. There is a door at the far end of the gallery and two others leading deeper into the house, no doubt locked.
 
Hildegard snaps her fingers, wagging the fore after. "There you have it. Right there at the end. Not letting our destinies be chosen for us." She exhales, eyeing the skylight for a moment, squinting at the light it lets in before she looks back towards some of the artifacts in the cases. "It does not take an Academy trained Being to look at me and notice wealth. But I was not born to it. Far from it. We all find a path to walk. Noble and common like. Is the Being born to a ritzy family, who never asked for it, and does not seem to do much to help the common good, really much worse than the street rat swiping money from a worker at the dock?"
 
      That was another interesting question, but Krove felt he could answer that.  "Certainly.  Ability may be identical, but circumstance is a factor as well."  A child who swipes a coin for bread is surely less culpable than the brat who cares not of a home being demolished to make way for larger palace gardens.  "My training holds me accountable for lives in a way your business never could--my capabilities are different, but not greater, than yours.  Likewise, you can do so much more than I could hope for, with your bounteous resources."  Of course everyone ought to be judged by their choices, but there were some things which just didn't add up.  "I highly doubt anyone in a noble home has ever needed to look malnutrition in the eye, and wonder which of their children would eat today."  
   Of course, intrigues and alliances could spill blood far more often, as the portraiture here so plainly told.  But there was a fundamental difference.  "I doubt the Rite of Meal was ever truly practiced by a Good."
 
Amos saunters up and lays a hand on Krove's head. "Not in over four hundred years, shorty," he rasps, "And neither have you. Now, if the pair of you are done checkin' out the history, why not take this philosophy show on the road and make room for some more folk to wander through?" The scarred cat ushers both Krove and Hildegard toward the door as a new wave of curious beings arrive, making the place a bit cramped.
 
"Yes, probably for the best. I think I have seen everything," Hildegard says with a gentle smile, turning to make her way out. "And while they may not have to do that," she calls over her shoulder, "They do have to deal with problems in their own world. Some of which can be just as bad, if not worse."
 
     There was a fundamental difference between intrigue and starvation--one was by mortal design, the other a sorrow of the Creators. So it was that Krove didn't hesitate to snort, even as he was being ushered out.  He made no resistance, having only found disappointment--as well as some truly beautiful and impressive art, as a result of this expedition.  "Doubtless, Madam Hildegard!  That's your field of aid, not mine."