Downtime Thread 1: The Performance at the Chatelaine's Private Feast

Downtime Thread 1: The Performance at the Chatelaine's Private Feast

To set the scene: The second day of the Festival of the Sybarites is waning. The last of the Voluptuaries, Hudolphus, a pioneer in small gluttony, makes his desperate run, having delayed out of terror to the last possible minute. His white hat bobs up and down as he runs across the twilit streets of the city, round stomach bouncing, following the less travelled ways, spreading pools of sweat staining his white robes. He has traveled far, approaching the west gate, only to have his hat snagged by one of the Salinger's irregulars, whose long hook shoots down from the roof of Ultan's shop. Dejected he proceeds, slumped and resigned, to the stocks as the street urchin's taunt him, rubbing fish grease into his hair and hurling dung. A long night awaits him with the others who were caught.

The ordinary citizens have recovered from their night of drinking on the lake sufficiently to drag themselves to Sprig's Feast in the Greensward of the palace. There, cheery lanterns light the way to tables laden with solid fare, casks of ale awaiting. Bawdy tunes from lutes struck by minstrels sound, and the laughter of prostitutes rings out. The people are here, lumberjacks rubbing shoulders with fisherman by the casks as they raise their voice in ancient songs, and carpenters lock arms with stevedores in the traditional dances of Rastingdrung--customs long predating the Ulimite Temple and the Chatelaine. Children run wild, having forgotten all rules, forming little gangs of miscreants, who wear bowls on their heads like helmets, and wield reeds like switches. They steal the pants from stumbling drunks, and overturn the soup onto the laps of guild masters.

Meanwhile, beyond the vine covered walls of the Chatelaine's inner gardens, the sounds of Sprig's Feast are only a distant undertone, and another meal is just beginning. Here, crystal lamps sit atop elegantly laid tables, with fine tablecloths and shining silverware. Already they are overflowing with decanters of fine wines, as liveried servants move discretely with silver platters holding the freshest blue oysters from Wolsdag, and escargot plucked from brackish waters at the head of the Yex River. This is only a taste of the pleasures to come.

There are many familiar faces from about the court: here the High Voluptuary murmurs to Aldice, Ultima of the Houri, as Volmoreaux Captain of the Storm Riders, jests with Almurek the beast master at the expense of dour Spaldiv. Nearby Guildmaster Quando of the Merchant's Guild reaches his pudgy, manicured fingers towards each passing tray. Nobles sporting the latest fashions--sadly a decade behind those worn in Viridistan--look with envy on the entourage Lord Vex. His black braided beard rests on his swelling green chest. He wears a high collared ochre robe, girt with a dragon skin sash that changes color with his mood. He stays close to the Chatelaine's side, speaking in undertones while they sip priceless spiced wine from his personal stores, a fine gift from his father to the Chatelaine.

A bell rings, calling these fine gentlemen and women to their seats at the table. As they take their seats, their attention is drawn to stage that has been erected to provide them with their entertainment, before dinner starts in earnest. A hush falls over their number, as the performance begins.

The stage is yours, Aleksandr Revzin