RP:A Duplicity of Role

Part of the Questionable Honor Arc

Background

This rp is incomplete. As I am unsure if it will be completed I wanted to post what I had.

Jerica had worked to do her part in the deal with Thistle, and soon found herself embroiled between investigating Haut Monde and a new mission laid at her feet by the Assassin's Guild...

NPCs played by Thistle.

Uptown, Cenril

Jerica walked down Congressional Way with barely a sound from her slippered feet. The hem of the full skirted day-dress she wears whispers softly over the satin footwear. Jerica appeared quite bored as a fan is snapped open and put into use to clear the air of stench. The rich brown of her hair had been styled in the latest fashion just as her dress was with the scalloped neck line and frills of lace at the shortened sleeves. Maybe she should have had a parasol to finish the look but Jerica didn't want to appear too austentatious with her new roll as a recently inheriting heiress of a vast fortune. Any reputable Lady of the Haut Monde wouldn't have been caught dead without one, nor without an escort. Luckily Jerica had that as well in the form of northmen wearing none-too-comfortable livery she had hoisted upon them in preperation of this infiltration. These men were loyal to her; given over by Eboric a while ago and having learned that their Lady was just as adept at taking care of herself as they were of looking after their Leige's woman. A time or two that had caused a bit of conflict but they had since learned, small she might be but a pushover Jerica wasn't. And that's where we are now; with Jerica strolling down Congressional way trying to look appropriately bored.

Una itched. She scratched as she ran, catching a lump under her ragged fingernails and flicking it out and away. Fleas were the worst, but it weren't so bad, because she had an inner. Roe had gawped all fly-catcher at her, and she'd tweaked his nose before shooting off. Cuz she had an important paper to deliver, this time. Important enough to get her high-steppin' to Congressional Way, believe it or not, and she was all in it! No matter how tricked the man who'd given it had been, the gold'd been all sorts of real, and it had her teeth marks to prove it! Hers! In her hand! Una grinned as she dodged through the pretty skirts and tailored suits, ignoring some startled gasps when she got too close. Lifting from them fancy folk took some skill, and she'd try her fingers at it right solid, but she figured she'd better finish up this delivery. Gold was gold was it, but Una could sniff out danger at twenty paces and she weren't no twitter-tongue to take a chance on the note. She slowed as she searched through the skirts for the description she'd been given, ignoring for the moment the molassas dreams of wearin' one for her -own- some day, no matter what Roe said she'd look stupid in 'em. She'd shown him what she'd thought, and he still wore that black eye! She spotted her quarry as she walked, and picked up her feet to get over there smart quick! Una was sure good at being quick, if nothin' else. The lady was sure short though, and Una knew that because she wasn't as tall or near as tall as most adults, but she knew she'd be as tall as this lady some day. The men around her smelled dangerous, and Una wrinkled her nose as she slowed and stopped well out of their reach. "Got ink f'yer hands, lady," she said, and held up the paper. It was fairly nice stuff, and sealed with wax. It bore the greasy marks of her fingers, and the wrinkles of her grip, and she hurried to smooth it against her leg. A few more marks were added to its pale surface, but Una held it out again, grinning. "Paid me pretty gold t'see it true. Said you'd slide me another, if I was quick. 'N I am!" Her grin grew wider, showing off several missing teeth. She held up her other hand, palm up.

Jerica blinked down at the child who approached. She really didn't have to look very far down at all. The fan twitched even quicker at the stench the girl brought with her and then she was talking and Jerica had to puzzle out what the words strung together translated to. That wasn't all too difficult either.Someone had paid the little chit to bring her a note. The seal on the wax, when Jerica got a look at it, brought a widening of her kohl lined eyes in surprise. Those brutes trailing behind suddenly seemed to be crowding the assassin's back and she scowled at them over her shoulder before delving into a hidden pocket to retrieve a piece of gold and laying it in the messenger's hand with just the tips of her fingers to avoid touching the grubby surface. "Thank you," Jerica murmured before using the same thumb and forefinger to pluck the paper from the greasy mess of the girl's other hand and tucking it without care into the same pocket she had withdrawn the payment from. Sniffing caused the bridge of her nose to wrinkle. "I dare say, child, someone should give you a proper dunking in the river so us decent people don't have to smell you. Run along now." Jerica waved her hand dismissively at the urchin before pulling her skirt in to avoid coming into contact with filth and heading back towards the Inn where she could read the note in private. Already her heartbeat had tripled in pace. What, she wondered, could the guild want her for this time?

Those grubby fingers closed over the gold and made it disappear before Jerica fully had time to draw the hand back. She scowled at Jerica, mimicked, "Run along now," in her best stupid-adult voice she could come up with, and shot off as Jerica was turning away. Those skirts and suits were so boring and thickheaded, what'd they know? She made extra-special-sure she caught her hand up in something that promised to be real full of coin -- see? stupid! -- and by the time she went screamin' out of Congressional Way, she was runnin' so fast, she was sure she'd be able to gorge herself for weeks! Months! An' get new shoes for hern', Roe, and maybe Genna too. If she wasn't actin' like a twit.

Jerica didn't pay any attention to the urchin once she was gone and the slight weight of the note tapped against her thigh all the way to the Inn where she had taken the most expensive room much to the delight of the proprietor. She even paid on time with a little extra to keep the maids out. Two of her guard stayed outside but one was likely to follow; the self appointed captain of Jerica's personal retinue of soldiers. She ignored him for the most part, tossing the fan carelessly atop the dresser scattered with useless empty perfume bottles and some yellowed doily meant to keep the wood free of dust and stains. All in all, in a city like Cenril, it wasn't half bad for a room. To keep up appearances she was going to have to buy a house eventually. For now, it was acceptable for a newly rich young woman to stay in while she made the rounds of parties and balls to make needed connections. Her hand didn't even shake as she pulled out the note, broke the dagger embosed seal and scanned the words written in non-descript writing. Jerica wouldn't be likely to tell who had written the orders contained in the expensive paper. A frown marred the smooth skin between her groomed brows. Jerica frowned and sat on the edge of the bed. The note was held in her hands a moment before being dropped onto the duvet, "This just complicates things."

When it came to talking, the deed was usually left up to Orn. Such was the price of leading the Lady's men, and though he had no compunctions about arranging proper details to see to her safety -- no matter how capable she was, no man or woman could be alert all the time -- or about doing what it took to remove any threats, at moments like this he found himself some discomfort. In all the months he'd been at her back, he still hadn't got her figured out, not to the point he felt complete ease in divulging his opinion. Half his opinions had been ignored upon their first assignment to her, but he constantly found himself giving it anyways. She'd proven more than worthy of their loyalty, and in turn that meant talking sense into her, damn it anyways. He moved into the room, turning so that he could look at both her and the door while being nearer to the door and any possibility of danger. "What is it," he said in a tone so flat the question sounded like a statement. Already he was preparing to tell her to see his side of things, and it showed on his face.

Jerica looked up at Orn when he asked the question. She knew it was one despite how stoicly it had been delivered. She picked up the note, "The guild has assigned me to take out one of the Haut Monde and tomorrow night's ball." Only one house threw a party or ball a night and anyone who was anybody was invited. To not be invited meant that your house was very low. Being new and a novelty, Jerica had received every invitation to be coveted. "There isn't much of a choice here. I do it and show proof or the Guild disavows me." Which meant she would be a rogue in the world of death. And knowing the secrets she did, a target. Orn as perhaps the only other person she would have divulged even her membership to; and the consequence of not following through on this job. Jerica worried the inside of her cheek with the edges of her teeth.

Orn did not bother to hide his disgust. First it had been the costumes, of which he'd argued the need for such pointless cloth and 'grooming', and then the parties. He cared not for the pathetic city and its warren of people like rats waiting for the cat's paw to come down upon them. Except there were no cats, so they bred and sullied the streets. He hated the city, and if it hadn't been for that witchy ebon-haired woman he might have hoped Eboric would have scourged it clean, but she'd done something to him. And now he had to behave. He wished for his axe, and not the useless pointy bit of metal such "retinue" of Jerica's new role were allowed to carry. He could probably snap the thing over his knee. "No," he said, his axe-hand clenching into a fist. He pressed his lips together, and glowered at her in mute mutiny.

Jerica 's delicate features softened in sympathy at Orn's refusal. She knew how much the captain hated the city. He didn't spare many words but the man's very attitude said more than words ever could have. "No? Orn, I don't have much choice in the matter. It's a simple assassination in a public place." A place with lots of people who continually stab each other in the back both figuratively and literally. "What could go wrong?" Plenty now that she thought about it. It would have to be something like a poison slipped into Nadezhda's drink. She didn't like Dez anyway. The woman was too proud and flaunted, it seemed, every piece of gaudy jewelry she owned at every opportunity. Getting up from her perch on the edge of the bed, Jerica closed the distance to Orn and rested a hand on the tensed forearm. "I'll have you to watch out for me, right?"

Orn's forehead creased, the lines well drawn by time. "Jerica, Lady." He stopped, and shifted where he stood. He'd more than proven himself, his scars and his survival had seen to that, but her confidence in him only made him sure of his responsibility to steer her away from the venture. "You've taken a role." He gestured at himself and her, and his voice dipped low; he was gruff at the best of times, but now he was fair growling at her. "Take another, what then? Risk both. Don't do it. Do this killing, and quit this game. I do not like this. It isn't our way."

Jerica pressed her lips together tightly and crumpled the letter in her fist. He was right in so many ways but, this could further Nas's mission as well. The letter from Eboric sat in the nightstand drawer next to the bed. He had charged her to work with the woman as well. The guild commanded her loyalty as well. So many pieces of herself spread out and still, "My roll won't be affected. You know how I operate, Orn. Probably better than anyone. I just have to slip something slow acting into Dez's drink and let her do the rest." It should be that easy, shouldn't it? If the woman didn't drink, Jerica could always make some excuse to get the bitch alone and do it up close and personal. Her least favorite. "It may not be your way but it is mine. I have a job to do."

Orn took a step back from Jerica, and looked down upon her with disapproval. He folded his arms. "Yes. Too many jobs. I have told you this. You don't know what the result will be. I do not want you there to find out." He looked at her, and shook his head. His expression gentled by a hair, though he still looked like a craggy mountain. "I do not like this nest of snakes. Every time you play these games, I like it less. Can you not see the danger?" It was as close to pleading as he ever got.

Jerica slanted a look up at the mountain of a northman who really did look quite ridiculous in the get-up he had been sort of forced to wear. "You have told me many things, Orn. When have I ever listened?" Jerica tried a smile, for his benefit. It felt fake on her face. She knew she was getting in too deep. Both with the Haut Monde and the guild. One of them was going to break, or she was. And Gods would be damned if it would be Jerica. One still gloved hand smoothed over the bell of her skirt. "As for danger? I see it everywhere and in every shadowed place." Tenebrae's words came back to her and it was hard to suppress a shudder and subconsciously she glanced at the hem of her dress; perhaps checking for the stain of blood prophesied by the vampire. At least Aethelric was safe in the land of his father. Putting aside such distracting thoughts, the assassin draws a breath and sets her chin at a familiarly stubborn angle, "I've made up my mind, Orn. You can follow and support me or you can be dismissed. The choice is yours." Jerica raised her dark brown eyes up to meet those of the Captain's in silent, stubborn, challenge.

Orn's expression became rather ominous, though it was only his equivalent of a scowl. He gave her silence then, as was his way, and engaged in a staring contest with her. Some days, though, it mattered not that he could go without blinking for longer periods of time, or that he had more patience than she did in the staring. When it came to their interactions, and the oaths he'd sworn both to the Aethling and, in time, those he'd sworn for Jerica, she was the water to his stone. It didn't matter whether or not she had his patience; she wore him down into the paths she wanted them all to follow. In the end, there was nothing he could do to stop her. She knew it. He knew it. If he had been a woman, perhaps he would have accused her of cheating with such a ridiculous statement, but as he was but a simple warrior he chose to rest on his dignity, and the truth. "You dishonor my oaths with such words," he said, the rumble of his voice quiet. "If you are determined in this, I will follow. As I always do. Speak of your plans."

Jerica flushed with guilt, and the color made the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and the rise of her cheeks stand out. She did not apologize however. "The plan is simple. I have a few herbs that combined properly will slowly weaken and eventually kill Dez hours after the party ends." This was how Jerica worked. With herbs and poisons mixed just so. "All I need is access to her wine glass or a way to be sure she gets the correct glass, if I have to try random dumb luck. Getting access would be easier than blind dumb luck." Mostly Jerica was talking to herself and mentally ticking off a list of what she would need. It would have to be potent enough that a small amount could be stored in one of the jeweled rings with a secret compartment she had. Jerica almost snapped her fingers, "Orn, I have it. I know how I'll do it." It would be at the ball her plan would work. She just had to pretend to like the woman enough to offer a glass of wine to her. "This will be simple. Trust me."

Orn watched that flush, and he shifted back to neutrality. He was satisfied his own point had been made. He was also satisfied that, as a leader, she did not feel compelled to apologize for her own tactics; she would learn, and grow, and adjust. To apologize for something relatively minute would be to show weakness, which Orn could not allow her to do. She learned quickly. He approved of her. Sometimes though, he thought as he watched and listened, she tread on that approval as if she thought his opinions might change. Jerica still had much to learn; even Orn's wife could not sway his mind once he'd decided to hold to an opinion on a matter! So he did not bother to tell Jerica that he did not like her plan. She already knew. "If you are thinking of a method of delivery, I must ask that you use me. Or one of your other guards. I will not have any suspicion falling upon you."

Jerica immediately shook her head in refusal of the offer, "You can ask. If you can ask, I can refuse and I do. Refuse, I mean." Standing, the petite woman began to pace. Her slippers whispered lightly over the carpeted room and seemed to be having a conversation with the swish of her skirt every time she pivoted to go the other way along a narrow and short path across the width of the room. Jerica was still planning, "No, it has to be this way. My ring is too small for you anyway," she glanced tellingly at Orn's hands with their gnarled and calloused fingers. "Not even your pinky is small enough." Jerica smiled at the thought of a ruby set in gold with a tiny hinge sitting on the warrior's finger. Even in her own mind it looked silly. "You'd have to dress up like a Lord, Orn. I don't think anyone would buy into that." Jerica shook her head and began pacing again. "This will work. It has to work." Jerica needed it to work or both games would be lost.

Orn watched Jerica as she moved, disgruntled but unwilling to show it. Yes, she had learned, and it was only his own fault if he found it especially frustrating when it was his suggestions and recommendations she refused. "As you say," he said, quiet, and stared towards the far wall with what grace he could muster. He'd look, to Jerica's practiced eye, rather on the sullen side. "But I will not leave your side. If I must play servant, I will remain near." And, as if to ensure his wish was not countermanded, he changed the subject. "When?"

Jerica answered immediately while a small and knowing smile played around her painted mouth. "The ball, tomorrow night." Oh, Orn played games very well. It was one reason she relied on him so much. "I am going to need a moment where Dez and I can have time alone and I can offer to get a drink for us. Can you arrange it? Maybe after one of the dances?" Jerica was very sure that if anyone could it would be Orn.

"This is at the. . ." he paused, his struggle with the foreign names not at all visible but for the pause. "Jernigan Estate? And they have hired Haut Monde for entertainment." He thought of what he remembered of that place, its landscape. "The Jernigan ballroom has niches. Nadezhda Kornev is young. Many will want to dance with her. When she is tired, draw her to one of the niches. I will make sure you and she are not disturbed.

Jerica nodded. "Yes, very good idea." Jerica hoped no one wanted to dance with her. It would just make things difficult and it seemed all the young men, and a few of the older ones too, were always trying to get her to dance. Maybe, this time, she would have to give in with grace or make herself look suspicious. Jerica grimaced at the thought. Not that she couldn't dance but she'd seen quite a few ladies limping off the dance floor after dancing with some of those would be suitors. "Do me a favor and don't let young Vieupont near enough to ask me to dance. I value my toes. Without them it's hard to run."

Orn actually cracked a smile. It wasn't one meant to be terribly reassuring, since he knew exactly what she was talking about. "If you approach those experienced, it is likely they will ask you to dance. If I break the young Vieupont's arm for approaching you it will look bad."

Jerica winced and chewed on the inside of her cheek thoughtfully, "Very well. I'll do my own avoiding. We wouldn't really want you to look like the guard you're supposed to be." At the end there was a bit of a teasing note at Orn's expense. Sometimes, she felt like they were more than Lady and servant or guard. Of course, it wasn't as though Jerica wasn't used to getting closer to people than they would have liked her to get, in any manner but usually not always bad. "It's settled then." It wasn't asked like a question, "About halfway through tomorrow nights ball, I will get Dez away to one of the little alcoves with the excuse of needing a break, offer to get us a drink and simply poison hers. It's simple and there is little that can go wrong with it."

Orn frowned down at Jerica, and shook his head. "If this was home I would break the arm of any man to approach you. Here you have told me we follow these rules. This event is one where you talk and dance. Why would I interfere? If I did, they would say I accuse him of being dishonorable." He would have said more, but she closed the matter with a delicate finality that was, Orn had to admit, adroitly done. He still disagreed. He bowed in the silly fashion of the Cenrili gentry, and let her see the edge of mockery he held for their customs. "Do any preparations need to be made?"

Jerica says to Orn gently, "If this was home, I would have my Lord to accompany me to these silly things. If this was home, I wouldn't have to be playing games." Of course, she was speaking of Eboric and missing him terribly by the morose note to her voice. Clearing her throat, she cheered up, "But this isn't home, Orn and so we must do as we must. The only preparations needed is my gown pressed and the herbs mixed, which I will do shortly before we leave. The fresher the mixture the more potent it is. Other wise, I don't think we need to make this job overly complicated."

Orn nodded. "As you say. Did you wish to return to Congressional Street, or remain here until the morrow?"

Jerica shook her head, "No, there is nothing there I need to do now. We'll remain in until tomorrow and the ball." Jerica was suddenly very tired and she pressed the back of her hand against a yawn that managed to escape. All this planning and plotting really took a lot of a woman. "Would you see that a maid comes to get the teal gown to be prepared for the Jernigan Ball? I think I'm going to take a nap." And get her poisons ready to be mixed the next morning. She was just paranoid enough that she didn't want even Orn to know where she hid them.

"I will see it done," Orn said. He retired from the room without another word, and as he left there was no more evidence upon his face that they'd ever had a disagreement. Everyone had their role to play, after all, and Orn would never present dissatisfaction with Jerica to the men placed under his command. He could and did, however, hope and pray that one day she would feel all of them worthy enough of her trust that no such duplicity would be necessary. A hope, Orn was sure, that was not in vain.

Jerica breathed a sigh of relief. She was tired, she hadn't lied, but there were things yet to be done. Jerica had found the little cubby not long after taking occupation of the Inn's best room and had made use of it to store her ever-present pack. Inside were the tools of her trade: the small cross bow, the miniature blow gun and poisoned darts and several carefully wrapped packages with herbs that in small doses could heal and in larger kill. Mixed, those herbs were a potent but slow acting toxin that attached the brain and nervous system. It would send the victim into convulsions and then coma, leading to death with in hours or minutes depending on how strongly Jerica mixed them. The low dresser was just right for spreading out the ingredients along with a mortar and pestle. Jerica measured and ground the dried leaves and flowers into a fine powder that could easily disolve and remain as effective in wine as water. This powder was carefully siphoned into the hollowed space beneath the raised ruby of her ring. Before the maid even arrived for the dress, Jerica had this done and was laying in bed feigning sleep until she finally did drift off.

The Jernigan Estate, Cenril

The Jernigan Estate sat on the outskirts of Cenril, north of Beloy Street. The Jernigan family was one of renown within Cenril, being old money and having held the reins of power on and off before the Preklek invasion. Its lands were not extensive, but they were large enough to be notable even among Cenril's elite. The front drive was paved smooth, leading into a large roundabout in front of the manse itself, with a fountain perched in the middle. Stables were prominently displayed to the right of the building itself, one of the forebears having been quite fond of horses, and the family having maintained that interest since. The building itself was wide, set perpendicular to the main road in. It's style of architecture was not the oldest Cenril had to offer, but it was becoming archaic in its own way. Different styles of brickwork done in a light and dark cream gave it a delicate striped appearance, offset by the tall dark windows set at regular intervals. As a whole it was a very regular, orderly sort of building, precise and grand in scope. The roof at either side of the building was rounded, while the roof in between was slanted up into points, leaving room for small and pretty round windows at its highest rooms. It was considered to be a lovely building, and one from which the Jernigan family were known to host immense and delightful balls, as well as the occasional salon. During the height of the social season, it was one of a handful of places where those considered worth anything were invited for massive social affairs.

The carriage Jerica had ensured was rented for this night of revelry was uncomfortable for the small amount of space allotted to the three of them inside. Orn had chafed and repeatedly asked Jerica to reconsider, but she had remained firm: to bring all of her guard with her would have been to insult the host of the ball. An escort and a servant was expected, certainly, but no one would be fooled by the dress of the Northmen: that they played the roles of servants was accepted, but everyone knew they were more than that. They were too broad of shoulder, too thick of arm to be mere servants. And so Orn had picked his best man, Skuli, to accompany himself and Jerica. Orn was the escort, Skuli the servant. Orn was allowed what they termed a 'rapier' while Skuli had to make do with what weapons he could get away with under his clothing. While the number was not small, it was still not near as useful as a proper sword, axe or mace would have been. But, it would have to do. Skuli remained silent as they rode, staring out the window while Orn stared mutely at Jerica. He was worried. The closer they got to the Jernigan estate, the more he worried. Once this thing was done, he would exhort Jerica to forget such nonsense as contract killings, perhaps take leave of Cenril all together. It was a despicable place, and unworthy of her. The carriage slowed, and stopped. Orn opened the door to see what the matter was, and the footman hurriedly came over. "The walk is yet too great for a lady to make, sir. We must wait our turn to drive up before the estate. Please." The man's words were nearly nasal in intonation, and dripping with some horrid arrogance. Orn glared at the man, who impatiently gestured back into the carriage. Orn settled back in with a roll of his shoulders and a growl in his throat. His look clearly stated that he didn't like it. Any of it.

Jerica bounced and swayed to the counter movements of the carriage. It was a small space but more so because of her companions than her own deminutive size. More than once her knees had come into contact with Orn's. The argument before they had left still remained a bitter residue on her tongue. The ruby locket-ring was twisted around her right ring finger in a habit of fidgeting that gave away the anxiety she always felt before an assassination. Or a performance. That this was going to be both made it doubly worse. Jerica looked out the small window as the scenery passed but she hardly saw any of it, even by the torches provided along the walk way. Beyond the small rounds of light that revealed a neatly and evenly trimmed lawn and well kept drive, all was in shadow. Anyone or anything could be lurking out there. When the carriage stopped, she thought to call Orn back from opening the door then shrugged and decided not to. Once he was seated again, the Lady Rosaletta Banccello would never stoop as the chastise the help in front of others. Once the Captain sat down again Jerica looked at him with a frown, "Stop looking at me like that."

Orn would behave once in public. He'd never destroy what she'd built for herself by behaving other than how he needed to in front of others, but right then within the privacy of the carriage he was restless and brooding. At Jerica's words he looked out the window he was next to, opposite the one Skuli looked out while studiously failing to hear or see what words or looks passed between his superiors. At another time, Orn knew Skuli would have several smart comments to make, but Orn and Jerica weren't the only two on edge. Orn knew Skuli well, knew the younger man feared his ability to protect Jerica should anything untoward happen. It was a new role for all of them, but they'd adapted as they always had. It was part of why Eboric had given them over to Jerica. "I apologize," Orn said, the words so utterly stripped of tonal influence that there was no inherent meaning to them, just the words. The carriage inched forward. Skuli started jiggling his foot. It made the carriage vibrate. A harsh order in their native tongue got Skuli to stop, but the silence between the two men that followed was, on the whole, oppressive.

Jerica paused a moment in her fidgeting to grin at Orn and give a slight shake of her head that sent ringlettes swinging and bouncing over her bare shoulders. The teal gown dipped lower than could be considered modest, but among the elite it was thought to be rather..prudish. It nipped in nicely at the waist and flared out into a fuller bell of a skirt. Matching slippers hugged her feet. Really, there wasn't many places to hide a weapon but tucked into the garter snug around her thigh, Jerica wore a thin bladed dagger. That along with the poison in her ring she was as armed as she was going to get tonight. The hairdresser had just about had a heartattack when Jerica suggested using a stick in her hair. Not that Jerica could have told the poor stylist it wasn't really just a dirty nasty stick. Small diamonds glittered strategically in the dark canvas of her hair, making the points seem like miniature stars. The affect was stunning next to her paler complexion and the contrast of rubies at her throat, drops in her hears and circling her wrist and finger. Anyway, Jerica was going to say something to Orn but she was interrupted when the carriage came to a final halt after many starts and stops. A footman opened the door and stepped aside expectantly while another unfolded the steps leading from carriage to ground.

Somehow, that grin pulled one in answer, though Orn's was on the whole much fiercer. If Jerica had truly been the woman he was escorting, he would have insisted on some sort of shawl or other method of modesty; Eboric's lady she might be, but she was part of their small family while they were away from their kin and kith, and in that regard he viewed her as something like a niece or younger cousin. And as chaperone to a place where indiscretions were typical for the upper society, it irked him he could not be much of a barrier between her and the other young wolves. Capable she might be, but he knew the minds of young men. He would never trust her to them when she bared so much flesh. It had been easier to quietly agree the night before when he had forgotten just what passed for clothing in the city. It had been what sparked their argument earlier that morning. But to see her smiling at him, he couldn't help but soften: she was a beautiful young woman, and he was proud of her as any male relative would be of his own. As protective, too. Orn was out first, and Skuli second. Skuli remained off to the side, unobtrusive with a mild, forgettable demeanor that was absolutely necessary to Cenrili servants. None of the men, Orn included, could pull it off as well as Skuli did. Orn held out his hand to Jerica. "Lady Banccello," he said. The game had begun.

The stairs leading up to the estate doors were wide and grand. The doors were manned by servants who held them open for guests when applicable. Money had been expended for magelights in that entrance area, and they glowed a soft blue light that made everyone look paler, and the elaborate gowns of the ladies and justacorps, cravats and breeches of the men look all the more elegant and extravagant. Through the door was the entrance hall, vast and lit with more magery. The lights were gentle and complimentary, casting soft shadows and causing the crystal of the chandeliers to glitter and throw darts and small rainbows of light down across the floor. The interior was done with polished, rosy marble along the walls, set off with gold embellishment. The floors were made of a rosewood wood with intricately woven blue rugs across the floor. It was incredibly intricate, almost to the point of being ostentatious -- but that was the modern style, and it was impressive in its own way for its richness. The entryway opened into the main hall, with twin curving staircases leading up to a balcony that lead off to the separate wings of the house. For the ball, however, the doors leading to the ballroom up at the top were swept open, and the guests were too polite to go off wandering without permission. Through the doors was the ballroom, a huge and open room with an upper balcony around its border, leading to a set of doors to an outside balcony overlooking the lands of the estate. There were two staircases, one at either end of the long room. The balcony was made of white stone, the walls done in green and embellished with various decorative mouldings. The floor below was wooden, set with a beatiful pattern over which figures already danced. At the top of the near staircase was the herald, whose loud voice carried the names of the new attendees down to the floor below as they made their descent. At the far end, Haut Monde had set up around the staircase. Near to them were tables laden with food. Along the walls, beneath the balconies, were the niches set into the walls, luxe padded bench seats with curtains that could be drawn across those wishing a more private repose. Along the balcony soft chairs were set evenly spaced, with a few love-seat couches for those who wished to rest and chat.