History on Display - RPLOG
Participants
Date
20/2/480
Log
The Snowmane manse is not the largest of the homes populating the castle district, but it is artfully designed and immaculately maintained. Hugo Snowmane, the last scion of the Snowmane line, has spent much time traveling abroad and has only recently returned to Firmament and his family home. In a show of magnanimity and in an attempt to show willing with the good people of Firmament, he has put a number of his family's treasures on display for the public and welcomed any and all into (part) of his home. As long as they wipe their feet first.
Though it felt like a name she should recognize, Hildegard couldn't quite place it. All the same, she was happy to pay the house a visit, smoothing down her vest's hem as she arrives. Perhaps she would see something new and exciting, the likes of which she hadn't before! She was doubtful of that, but it should be a fun visit all the same.
Gathering intelligence on the upper elite might be worthwhile--especially if trying to navigate the political scene while keeping your head firmly attached to your body. There were rumors enough to wake the dead, when it came to what the Nobility did, but rumors are not evidence. So, the water deer physician ends up wiping his hooves a bit--he could just pretend this was a private collection on display, and ignore the hereditary nature of the estate. Hopefully he could, at least.
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!"
