Post by Laurnath on Feb 13, 2021 8:43:48 GMT 10
Warning: Drug Scenes.
If The Silken Moon could be classified, it would be sedate compared to The Hidden Forest.
Glantri City liked to evoke visual representation with it's precinct names and private venues. This was not just a name on the outside of a giant mansion on the pretty Blue Awning District - reflecting blazing lights onto the canals. You have to have a key, a patron or a lot of money to get in.
Tatienne digs in her pack for one of her pre-counted bags of gold as she reaches the doors and is stopped by the Half Ogre on the stairs who just points at her and waves her in.
Perplexed, Tatienne slips through the open doors and examines herself carefully. Perhaps the new proper hip sheaths for the borrow swords? Looking in the mirrored hallway and examining her appearance carefully. Still wearing the sleek gold leather and heeled boots, now with appropriately matched holsters, her hair pulled back with a strapped leather and metal headband - sharp spikes creating a sunburst crown of sorts. She all but smacks herself in the forehead as she remembers her stupid nose jewelry, the black spade glimmering there. Patron marking right on the face. Obviously.
Turning on her heel and resolving to get to work, running through the names in her head and considering where and with whom they would be at this point in time.
Passing by the two nooks, stocked desk and shelving. One that would take your cloak, pack, weapons or hold your belongings. The other, a very telling miniature store of whips, chains, knives and a veritable alchemical stock of personal mixtures for very public use. Giving a polite shake of her head as she walks past, clicking heels down the hallway towards the deafening noise beyond. Where the light gives up, so the patrons can show off their abilities.
As always there is a flutter of anxiety that starts in her stomach and works its way up to her throat and stills her breath for a moment. A swallow and then a sharp intake of breath as she shoulders through the heavy doors and is almost knocked back by the sheer otherness of the space in front of her.
Dark, absolutely no predetermined lights. Throughout the vast stone room, fully matured trees are tearing into the stone floor and seem to have just forced their way up through the elegantly tiled pictograms. Each one giving a notated spot to meet or socialise for specific groupings, proclivities and financial tiers. The gnarled roots offering a not so private spot for those who recline and imbibe the various illicit substances available.
Momentarily stuck in place by the openly low ranked Jinxers snorting 'Trick' powder off each other's bodies and then casting whatever spell it contains. Arguing over whomever got a higher circle spell. Others just pleased to manage a cantrip, staring awestruck at the ability to have the magic that they so desire, ill gotten or not.
Tatienne swallows her bile and skirts around the entrance trees. Somehow she is always sickened in a new way by her own kind. Desperation breeds a certain lack of decorum and foresight.
Her strategic retreat seems to be not required, as the usual suspects keep their distance. No wandering hands sticky on her leather suit, no absent and casual following with shouted offers over the deep, bone vibrating sounds of the tribal drums and otherworldly androgynous Coloratura of The Vocalist. All the performers being shrouded in anonymity for their safety and reputation. The enchanted space of the stage, not only offering a barrier of protection, but of an amplification of sound.
For a moment, she allows herself to absorb the music and let it still her painful anxiety. A wash of calm infects her being. Whether it is magical, alchemical or purely emotional - Tatienne is unconcerned. Working The Hidden Forest is always a mixed bag of experiences. Fully covered, she is rarely if ever recognised from any of her other work. Safety in numbers in the world of the performers, the hired help, the skilled of no fixed address. She swallows her anger and avoids touching her deck box whatsoever. Death may flit among these others, but now is not the time for distraction.
Turning her head away from a group of half dressed revelers, smoking Lotus from long over-elegant pipes - sparking them up with their cantrips. Their eyes are glazed, the gelatinous way they meld into the roots of their chosen tree. Unable to fully turn their head and speak to one another due to the reduction of their muscles and focus. Hoping they cannot see the disgusted flare of her nostrils as she avoids the sweet perfumed cloud of smoke.
Edging the room, but avoiding looking into any side corridors, private rooms or stairways - aware of the hope of prying eyes for them, her own are affixed on getting closer to the higher caste. To push towards the tables with cut glass decanters of liquor with gold flakes and gems within. To those who don't need to carry something so plebian as gold coins on their person. The discovery of the obvious message of holding her sword pommels and how it clears a path is welcome and blossoms a warmth from her spiked boot toes, all the way up to her glossy curls. Like an electric shock of awareness that despite her deep loss of her working family, it was not all for naught.
Making it past the obvious demarcation line and small step between the haves and the have nots. Her sober nature and glistening gold attire marking her as capable of being predator or prey.
One in the line of guards there holds out a board with parchment, ensuring she signs off on the simple rules:
And as always. Tatienne signs. Watching the raise of the brow as she marks House Delacroix. After all, it makes absolutely no sense.
If The Silken Moon could be classified, it would be sedate compared to The Hidden Forest.
Glantri City liked to evoke visual representation with it's precinct names and private venues. This was not just a name on the outside of a giant mansion on the pretty Blue Awning District - reflecting blazing lights onto the canals. You have to have a key, a patron or a lot of money to get in.
Tatienne digs in her pack for one of her pre-counted bags of gold as she reaches the doors and is stopped by the Half Ogre on the stairs who just points at her and waves her in.
Perplexed, Tatienne slips through the open doors and examines herself carefully. Perhaps the new proper hip sheaths for the borrow swords? Looking in the mirrored hallway and examining her appearance carefully. Still wearing the sleek gold leather and heeled boots, now with appropriately matched holsters, her hair pulled back with a strapped leather and metal headband - sharp spikes creating a sunburst crown of sorts. She all but smacks herself in the forehead as she remembers her stupid nose jewelry, the black spade glimmering there. Patron marking right on the face. Obviously.
Turning on her heel and resolving to get to work, running through the names in her head and considering where and with whom they would be at this point in time.
Passing by the two nooks, stocked desk and shelving. One that would take your cloak, pack, weapons or hold your belongings. The other, a very telling miniature store of whips, chains, knives and a veritable alchemical stock of personal mixtures for very public use. Giving a polite shake of her head as she walks past, clicking heels down the hallway towards the deafening noise beyond. Where the light gives up, so the patrons can show off their abilities.
As always there is a flutter of anxiety that starts in her stomach and works its way up to her throat and stills her breath for a moment. A swallow and then a sharp intake of breath as she shoulders through the heavy doors and is almost knocked back by the sheer otherness of the space in front of her.
Dark, absolutely no predetermined lights. Throughout the vast stone room, fully matured trees are tearing into the stone floor and seem to have just forced their way up through the elegantly tiled pictograms. Each one giving a notated spot to meet or socialise for specific groupings, proclivities and financial tiers. The gnarled roots offering a not so private spot for those who recline and imbibe the various illicit substances available.
Momentarily stuck in place by the openly low ranked Jinxers snorting 'Trick' powder off each other's bodies and then casting whatever spell it contains. Arguing over whomever got a higher circle spell. Others just pleased to manage a cantrip, staring awestruck at the ability to have the magic that they so desire, ill gotten or not.
Tatienne swallows her bile and skirts around the entrance trees. Somehow she is always sickened in a new way by her own kind. Desperation breeds a certain lack of decorum and foresight.
Her strategic retreat seems to be not required, as the usual suspects keep their distance. No wandering hands sticky on her leather suit, no absent and casual following with shouted offers over the deep, bone vibrating sounds of the tribal drums and otherworldly androgynous Coloratura of The Vocalist. All the performers being shrouded in anonymity for their safety and reputation. The enchanted space of the stage, not only offering a barrier of protection, but of an amplification of sound.
For a moment, she allows herself to absorb the music and let it still her painful anxiety. A wash of calm infects her being. Whether it is magical, alchemical or purely emotional - Tatienne is unconcerned. Working The Hidden Forest is always a mixed bag of experiences. Fully covered, she is rarely if ever recognised from any of her other work. Safety in numbers in the world of the performers, the hired help, the skilled of no fixed address. She swallows her anger and avoids touching her deck box whatsoever. Death may flit among these others, but now is not the time for distraction.
Turning her head away from a group of half dressed revelers, smoking Lotus from long over-elegant pipes - sparking them up with their cantrips. Their eyes are glazed, the gelatinous way they meld into the roots of their chosen tree. Unable to fully turn their head and speak to one another due to the reduction of their muscles and focus. Hoping they cannot see the disgusted flare of her nostrils as she avoids the sweet perfumed cloud of smoke.
Edging the room, but avoiding looking into any side corridors, private rooms or stairways - aware of the hope of prying eyes for them, her own are affixed on getting closer to the higher caste. To push towards the tables with cut glass decanters of liquor with gold flakes and gems within. To those who don't need to carry something so plebian as gold coins on their person. The discovery of the obvious message of holding her sword pommels and how it clears a path is welcome and blossoms a warmth from her spiked boot toes, all the way up to her glossy curls. Like an electric shock of awareness that despite her deep loss of her working family, it was not all for naught.
Making it past the obvious demarcation line and small step between the haves and the have nots. Her sober nature and glistening gold attire marking her as capable of being predator or prey.
One in the line of guards there holds out a board with parchment, ensuring she signs off on the simple rules:
- All actions beyond this point are confidential
- Creditor accounts must be paid within 45 days
- Death must be consented to
- All blooding must be consented to
- No permanent deals can be made in this space
- All breakages must be paid for
And as always. Tatienne signs. Watching the raise of the brow as she marks House Delacroix. After all, it makes absolutely no sense.