Ian comes in with Zoey, mostly looking at his feet as he walks, but not entirely. He pauses to survey the room, taking in the paintings and the people with intense, almost unnaturally blue eyes. Gamely waiting to get hit with a big whopping dose of culture.

Duarte is standing near the entry way next to a donkey burdened with two large whicker baskets, one on either side. He is smiling, and bowing graciously to each guest as they arrive - thanking them for their attendance. "Lady Bisland!" he smiles - as the only person so far he has had pleasure to meet enters. "I am very grateful you came on such short notice."

Zoey peels off from Ian's side a little to offer her hand to Duarte. "Count Amadeo. Thank you for holding such an event. I'm quite looking forward to it." She indicates Ian. "Have you met Lord Ian Kennex?"

Duarte accepts Zoey's hand and brings it gently to his lips with a small bow of his head. Letting go he greats Ian, "My lord, a pleasure." He offers similar pleasantries to Grady and Isabetta.

A flicker of a smile plays over Ian's face. "Oh, we've met." He then remembers to bow his head respectfully. "It's good to see you."

Isabetta is quiet, her entry is subdued, she stays near the entry like she might take any moment to just leave, but for the time being she returns a polite nod and looks on thoughtfully, curiously really.

Grady wanders into the event. "I don't write poetry but I appreciate it," he says to no one in particular, but spying Duarte he steps over. "Count Duarte, good to see you again. This was your idea? I'm not sure how you slam poetry, but I'll admit to being curious."

"Of course! Lord Kennex. My apologies." Duarte says with a slight twinge of self-reflected disappointment. He motions Grady in. "It is a curiosity to myself, still. In the true spirit of Bravura the poetry is usually 'on-the-spot' - meaning there has been little if any advance preparation." He glances to the standoffish Isabetta and grins, motioning her further in with his hand, "It's okay, my lady. It's all voluntary."

Zoey smiles at Duarte as she retracts her hand. "I, too, confess to be an appreciator of poetry rather than a participant. But we shall see, perhaps."

Ian does his best to look polite and interested. "I'll be interested to see what slam poetry is like." He at least sounds honest about that.

"I'm glad to hear that," Grady comments to Duarte. "Involuntary poetry sounds terrible. Or like the name of a cover band of some sort."

"It's been said that involuntay poetry is the favorite tortue of the Inquisition." Duarte smiles. He steps nearer the center of the salon. "Please: be comfortable! We have food and drink (wine and whiskey mostly - and coffee)!" he motions to the buffet area. "And free seating - wherever you like."

Zoey looks around and stops before the Magister painting, her eyebrows raised. After a moment, she moves on and joins Ian at the seat of his choice. Grady is given a warm smile. "My Lord Deepwood, forgive me. I did not recognise you at first. Are you well?"

Grady frowns. "I thought that was tea and cakes," he says, but is almost immediately distracted. "Oh, what a nice selection of wine." Then he looks up as Zoey addresses him. "Lady Zoey, good evening to you! I am quite well thank you, though Jessa has been a little under the weather of late. And you?"

Ian also takes a moment to look at the paintings. He studies the magister painting thoughtfully, easing a bit more weight onto his cane as he does so.

"The artists of Bravura don't eat much." Duarte mentions. "So in keeping with their fine tradition of starving, the food consist mainly of crackers. Also in accord with fine traditions: a lot of alcohol and coffee." Duarte smirks.

Orathy checked dexterity + stealth at difficulty 15, rolling 54 higher.

Orathy slips into the salon staying along the back wall behind the furniture. He doesn't draw much attention to himself what so ever. One moment he is suddenly just there, standing with his arms crossed and shoulders leaning against the back wall.

A messenger arrives, delivering a message to Orathy before departing.

Zoey blinks at Grady. "Oh no. Does she need a Mercy?" she asks the man. Ian's interest in the paintings, however, distracts her. She turns around to inspect the paintings again and startles. "Master Rath," she says, easy smile sliding back into place. "Have you come to hear the poetry? I must say, you were magnificent at the last sip and spar..."

Isabetta slips out the way she came, quiet like, as though she wasn't kind of already noticed, she was, but she never said anything so probably forgotten about. Maybe.

Ian seems to have decided he's seen all of the painting that he needs to see, because now he follows Zoey's attention to Orathy and nods to him.

Orathy's eyes swing toward Zoey when the young woman spots him, hanging out in the back. That she recalls his name is intriguing enough to keep his dark eyes settled upon her, snorting, "Poe-et-rhay?" It sounds a little Forrest Gump like, but he is wearing his gold star. "That be all words bein said to say nothing, aye? Ain't so. Reckon I be here, to be seein that no picture hangers go missin eh?" He rolls off the wall a bit, "'Ave we met before?" Ian gets a look over, but Zoey is the one who has captured Raths' attention.


"We have not, Messere, no." Zoey walks right up to the Culler and extends her hand. "Lady Zoey Bisland. And this is Lord Ian Kennex. You fought our tablemate, Lord Valdemar Grimhall, that night."


Duarte looks slightly amused by the Culler. He moves to the buffet and pours himself a glass of whiskey, which is then cupped with two hands and kept at the level of his sternum. He manuevers around the furniture to the make-shift "stage" area and politely allows the guests to mingle and eventually welcome themselves to food, drink and seating.

Ian nods -- again -- when he's introduced, displaying his wealth of social skills, which include nodding, and nodding.

Orathy's expression turns a little twisted at the Messere, but it comes with some forced tolerance and maybe an attempt at a polite... cracking of a smile? No, that's not a smile but it's his best attempt. It's like a snarl instead. The hand extended to him is looked at and then grabbed with all the might he could offer her in exchange, clasping her forearm. "Ah. Young Grim, a good fight that were." His dark eyes turn toward Ian, then points a thumb at him as he looks to Zoey, "Wish more of you Silkies were like 'em, silent as the grave. Fucking shit, he might just be my favorite person."

Elizabetta, a lissome lady-in-waiting, 1 Grayson Guardsmen arrive, following Sabella.

Ian ... nods again. The gesture is as calm and serious as everything else that he does, but someone who was paying attention might have caught a flash of an ironic smile, there and gone in a moment, before he did so.

Sabella sweeps into the salon and she pauses, glancing around with slightly wide eyes. "Ah, I'm sorry, is this where people are discussing poetry?" She asks timidly. She looks as if she might want to back out of the room.

Zoey returns the gripped forearm grab with a bit of her own strength... just a touch. "Lord Ian does have that gift," she says with a twinkle in her eyes. "Well, welcome. You should probably help yourself to some refreshments." That's about the time she sees Sabella. "Sabby!" Zoey is all smiles. "You're in the right place." And she drifts over to the princess to press a kiss to her cheek. "Come sit with Lord Ian and I."

"Princess Sabella! A welcome surprise, your highness." Duarte speaks from his position before the seating arrangements. "Please help yourself to crackers and booze - in the traditional Bravuran style. We are about to get started."

"And coffee too." Orland reminds with a bit of a scowl to Duarte.

Ian follows along after Zoey and Sabella, clearly happy to let Zoey take the lead. He mostly watches his feet as he walks, and he's not limping, so it's really not clear why he needs a cane.

Orathy takes Zoey's advice and heads for the refreshments, already stinking a little like booze but then, a little more wouldn't hurt anyone.

"Princess Sabella," Grady greets the woman with a sweeping bow. "It is. Though more we've discussed art and...er... the sip and spar? Than poetry being spoken. Or slammed, for that matter."

Sabella follows Zoey, bemused, to where she and Ian are moving to sit. "Thank you Zoey, how are you?" She asks quietly, a shy look on her face as she settles in a chair. She smiles at Durate and glances towards the refreshments. "Perhaps later, thank you so much." She inclines her head towards Grady. "Well people do like to discuss hitting each other, I've noticed."

Ian eases himself into a seat. He keeps his cane close by so that there's no risk of anyone tripping over it, unless they're already all up in his personal space.

Zoey pours two whiskies and carries them over to where she will be sitting with Ian and Sabella. She hands one of the drinks to Ian and sips quietly at hers. "Hrm?" she asks Sabella. "Oh, I'm doing well. How are you, dear?"

Duarte smiles and speaks up. "Thank you all for attending on short notice. Spur of the moment, wine, friends and art is truly in Bravuran fashion." He lifts his glass. "Bravura is a small holding on Nilanza, home to many artists and inventors whose works are admired all over Arvum and exported to this very fine city of Arx." He gives for introduction. "The Poetry Slam and Open Floor Night is a tradition. Poetry is recited off-the-cuff, as it were, by participating members of the audience. It is custom for the acts to be judged only by their peers : those who participated. Amongst the group of performers a winner is selected and the prize is the proud knowingness of accomplishment. They are a funny lot in Bravura." A beat, "Also customary is for the finishing act to select the next act at random - but I will spare anyone their stage fright and open the floor to volunteers." He points his glass to the large selection of booze and the minute selection of nutrition, "As you can imagine, as the evening wears on, the poetry becomes...rather slurring and hilarious. I will volunteer to go first. Please hold the booing, but not the applause." he jests.

Rath grabs not only one glass, but two glasses, and a bottle. He moves to where Ian has made himself a seat and puts the glasses down with a thud in front of the man and then the bottle. It's unopened. It needs to be cracked and he upnods that if Ian wants to do it himself to check the cork, he could. Otherwise, Orathy twists it open and pours them each two fingers of whiskey.

"I'm doing well Zoey, thank you for asking." Sabella replies, leaning in to gently bump shoulders with the other lady. She casts a sideways glance to the whiskey bottle, a slightly surprised look on her face. "I think I'll get some coffee."

Ian gives Orathy an inquiring look when he sits down. He doesn't seem to feel a need to inspect the cork on the bottle.

Orathy then sets a glass in front of Ian, as he takes a seat, with a brow lifted for Duarte's words.

Zoey takes a long sip from her whiskey, drinking about half of it in one go. Her eyes close for a moment and a smile crosses her features. "Any time, Sabby. And go get some coffee. We'll still be here."

Ian looks at the empty glass. Looks at the glass that Zoey just poured for him. Looks at the glass. Then he looks at the stage for a moment, shrugs, and downs the initial fingers of whisky in a drought, with an ease that probably does his Thraxxian ancestors proud.

Sabella crosses the room, and she assembles her coffee in a cup carefully, plenty of cream and sugar. When she comes back to sit next to Zoey, she watches Ian's strange drinking ritual with some amusement. "I can see where this night is heading."

Duarte clears his throat and shoots his whiskey, followed by a violent shake of his head, then a thoughtful tapping of his chin. He smirks at a hint of inspiration and then begins.

"The light casts a shadow! An outline of you. It's darkened hue a more fitting image of your soul, unlike the lightened facade of your make-up which provide's just a shield of gossamer before your tortured gaze." Duarte croons, dramatically placing the back of a hand to his forehead, "And I dreamt of you! A vision of perfection that could never be attained. With every daring grasp you floated further into a dreary distance - a sticky dark that would never end." He moves a few steps back from the audience. "Evil? No. To be evil is to attend, and you are ever absent. A true mystery of a woman who finds comfort and mirth in solitude. Whose only love is the macabre tales of a world in which you play no role. To know you - fully - is to attain a loneliness that cannot be described. And to hold a foolish desire that can never be fulfilled. And still I yield, and wait. For the contrast of your soul against mine brings me the most powerful gift the gods have given to men: hope." He takes a bow signifying that was the end of it.

Zoey just finishes her whiskey and then claps politely for Duarte's performance. She leans over to Ian and murmurs something quietly.

Ian waits JUST a moment after everyone else starts clapping to applaud, himself. Because that's really the only way he has to judge that the poem is over. He makes a soft remark to Zoey.

Chief Rin Redreef arrives, following Catalana.

Catalana arrives, following Wash.

With Rath this close, there's no doubt about it, the Culler hears every word that Ian says and looks suddenly surprised that Ian has a tongue. He makes a scoffing noise then, before he pours them another round, two-fingers of whiskey once more for Ian and then himself.

Ian sits with Sabella, Zoey, and... Orathy at a table. There's a bottle of whiskey between himself and Orathy. Apparently he came for the poetry slam and stayed for the drinking contest?

Zoey gives Ian a smile and gently nudges his shoulder before looking back to Duarte and Sabella. Suddenly, there's the sound of more people, and her face lights up to see Wash and Catalana. She motions for them to come sit nearby before rising and getting herself a larger glass of whiskey. Rath and Ian apparently have a thing going, and she won't intrude.

"Thank you." Duarte says with a bit of an embarrased blush darkening his caramel cheeks. "And welcome to the new arrivals! The boy Orland will fill you in on the rules." He scans the audience, "Master Orathy, would you like be nex....oh!" Duarte holds up a finger, "I forgot we will be taking volunteers and spare you all the full experience of random selection." He smiles to those attending, "Who would like to present next?"

Wash didn't dress up for the occasion, he's preceded by Serrah, his ghost-writer, and probably the way he heard about this event. He leads Catalana by arm as if they were attending on the King's court. "Oops. Looks like we're late."

"Being late is also of traditional Bravuran style." Orland says as he walks off, having imparted the history and rules of the poetry slam.

The thing that Ian and Orathy have going on? It's called drinking a bottle of whiskey in silence. Oh the harmony! In any case, when Duarte points to him to be next for the poetic wagging of tongues, Orathy scoffs and takes another drink, muttering, "Ain't really understandin none of what he be talkin about."

Since she was already in tow with him, she'd still be tagging along to this event. Leaning against the man who's arm she was attached to, she'd look inside. Those steel blue eyes blinked as she looked inside. "...oops...my fault..." Cat chuckled softly as she nudged Wash on to lead the way.

Sabella lights up when she sees Catalana, waving to her as she shifts to make room for her and Wash. "It's good to see you, both of you. I hope you're well?"

Wash curves around behind the viewers to get to the libations, pouring liberally for himself and Catalana. "This is supposed to be good for the creative juices." He assures her. "And the alcohol doesn't hurt."

Ian is, indeed, doing the silent drinking thing with Orathy. He doesn't seem to be in a special hurry to get through the bottle, drinking along at what, by Thrax standards, is a leisurely pace. He nods to Wash and Catalana when they come in, though.

Grady claps. "Well, that was interesting," Grady comments. "Nicely done. May I be so bold as to present a counterargument?" Now he steps forward.

"To be a woman is to be a mystery. Unknowing, I glanced upon you. Seeing, without understanding - I looked and thus I loved, but did ever a love form so true as without the knowing of the thing most beloved? Thus in study do I spend my days, and in understanding now my heart beats ever. From truth, understanding. From understanding, love. In love, peace. And in peace I remain."

Grady takes a florid bow and then shrugs. "I'm not sure I got that right, but I rarely miss the opportunity to speak well of my heart."

Duarte applauds loudly! "Bravo! My lord. Bravo! You now own the happy task of selecting the next presenter!" And with that, Duarte hastily trots from the "stage" to the whiskey and pours himself a shot....Then another.

Waving, Cat made her way over to Sabella. Staying quiet she would chuckle as she sat next to her until she could speak softly. "We're good. How are you?" Leaning over she'd give her a hug then.

Grady shakes his head. "No, no. You said volunteers, remember? Involuntary poetry's the name of the band." He grins at Duarte then.

Zoey drains half her whiskey again before delicately lowering the glass. She is not going anywhere. Nope.

Wash applauds lightly against his wrist so as not to risk spilling his drink. He glances at Catlaana and then back at Grady expectantly. He circulates over to Duarte. "Bravura? I've never had the pleasure of casting anchor there. Is it nice?"

"It looks nice and smells of coffee." Duarte answers between whiskey shots. He coughs in Grady's direction and covers with a hand to his mouth. "Excuse me -- yes! Who wishes to go next?"

Ian sits with Zoey and Orathy, so that's an interesting collection of people. There's a bottle whiskey between Ian and Orathy. Because only an Islesman could walk into a poetry slam in a fancy salon and somehow wind up in the back of the room going through a bottle whiskey with some rough, sketchy looking guy. It's a gift. He waits until everyone else has started clapping for Grady and then, now that he's sure the poem is done, he claps too.

Sabella returns Catalana's hug and leans in to speak to her quietly. She casts a nervous glance around the room, waiting to see who volunteers.

Taking that drink from Wash, she'd blow him a kiss then as she turned back to Sabella. Right now? She's trying to be invisible. Poetry? Not her thing. Laughing softly she'd lean back in to whisper. Catalana would put a hand on her shoulder as she responded.

Sebastian had heard that there was going to be some sort of poetry thing at Argento Watch, and so he heads on over after taking care of his business for the day. He slips into the salon and is quiet, observing there for a moment or two to see if anyone is performing. Once he's sure that he's not interrupting, he makes his way further in.

Wash lifts his glass and heads for the stage. "The subject appears to be women...?" Wash asks suggestively.

"Or any you may wish, my lord." Duarte calls back, on his way over to Sebastian, to fill the man in on the proceedings.

Orathy continues to ... drink beside Ian. It's likely he's not paying attention to what's being said by poetic artists, but rather letting his dark gaze sweep over those who attend. He spots Sebastian soon enough and upnods to him, though he remains sitting, drinking. He's drinking a lot faster than Ian.

Realization dawns in Ian's eyes when Wash says what he says, like he knows what's going to happen next. He mutters a curse word under his breath and drains his glass.

Wash takes position in center stage and relaxes there for a moment, seeming to slouch on thin air next to him as he quietly looks over the room. He fixates on Catalana after a bit and only shakes himself free of that reverie after a too long silence. He seems to remember his drink, a stiff bourbon and he lifts that to his lips. Only when he's delicately whet his whistle does he clear his voice to speak.

The Tiniest Donkey intrepidly ventures deeper into the room and stands next to where Orathy is sitting.

Zoey looks at Ian with the curve of a brow.

Catalana saw her husband took his spot on the stage. A smile tugged at her lips but that brow raised as she locked her eyes on him.

Orathy checked composure at difficulty 15, rolling 1 lower.

Sabella glances from Catalana to Wash, taking a small sip of her coffee as she waits for watever made Ian swear.

Orathy checked strength + brawl at difficulty 15, rolling 26 higher.

The donkey, sensing danger, flees!

The Tiniest Donkey have been dismissed.

Orland grumbles and chases after the donkey.

Orland have been dismissed.

Ian distracts Orathy by way of topping up his glass, before pouring more for himself.

Orathy side glances at... a donkey? It's a slow motion realization that there is an animal near him. A flea bitten animal. It triggers the Culler. But before he can do more than try to BOOF the animal with a foot or a fist, it runs off. The distraction of more booze, does it's trick. He grunts and turns back to it.

"She's quite simple to some, but complex to me
Above she's curves and lines and cloth. Below there's just as much to see.
To touch, and feel and grope with hands in darkness blind.
And in the darkness holes, and lines, and knots to find.

Some are ignored, and others despised.
But for each a single person prized.
Slim and sleek, wide and broad...
Their beauty does not every person awe
Beauty is not a treasure bought, but earned when diligently.... sought
Touch and feel, and care and heart.
Only then will you find the part
...the better part...
That which lies beneath..." Wash's gaze has transferred to the walls as if he is looking through them.

Sebastian inclines his head to Orathy with a bit of a smile, but doesn't interrupt his drinking. He finds himself a seat not far away and gives his attention to Wash as he speaks within the cleared space for the performers.

Zoey continues to sip at her whiskey as she listens to the Lord Poet Admiral rhapsodize. She sips here and there, occasionally looking at Sabella and Catalana, sometimes at Ian an Orathy. Sometimes the rest of the patrons.

Orathy looks down at his glass and wears an odd look on his face, as if he were guilty of something. Then again, he was who he was, he's entirely guilty of something, like drinking.

As is the tradition of Bravura, Count Duarte takes another whiskey shot and walks? Scoots? Whatever - he uses his legs somehow to make it over to Orathy and sits. His empty glass nudging the Culler's arm expectantly.

Listening to Wash, a smile tugged at her lips before she would look around. Giving Ian and Zoey a wave before sipping her drink....she'd then look around at the others, giving a nod.

"And when you find, beneath your feet, the warm safe deck, of she you love
You'll understand, you'll finally see, the love they're always speaking of.
It's not a crime to name a ship, a boat, a dingly or a sloop

After a woman.
They complement us, protect us, bear us up, and bear our progeny forth.
They arry our children to distant shores and our memory to distant places.
A man may shed his blood, but such flows are staunced and wounds will heal.
But the sacrifice of a woman is not blood but body.
And if the storm breaks upon us, it is the ship that bears the load, and the body that will...
give us not peace, never peace... but hope."

Orathy takes the bottle that had been sat between Ian and himself, to pour Duarte a drink after the expectant nudge. He does lean over and mutter something to Duarte.

Wash pauses for a long time, then tosses back the rest of his drink and bows. He's finished, whatever half-baked thought that was just churned out is still churning in his mind, but for now, he's done verbalizing it

Zoey claps politely for Wash and then knocks back the little that's left of her whiskey.

Ian looks a little surprised when Wash finishes in... he was talking for a while, but Ian seems to have been expecting it to go on longer. He applauds.

Sabella sets her coffee aside and claps for Wash. She glances towards the refreshments and eyes some of the other liquor set out.

Clapping softly, Cat would smile then as she slid over to make more room for Wash. Leaning against Sabella playfully, she'd give her a wink.

Duarte leans in to hear Orathy, his eyes searching the scene before him. He lifts his shoulder into a shallow shrug, looking unconcerned about what was said. He stands, and belated applauds Wash, "Lovely! I believe next is Lady Bisland" he says, before sitting down.

Wash refills his drink and and claims the seat Catalana has saved for him. His gaze is still elevated and slightly distant. He's reviewing what he said, maybe critiquing his rhyme scheme.


"Ohhhh no."

Zoey looks over at Duarte and wags her finger reprovingly. "No, I'm afraid not, my dear Count Amadeo. I've not had near enough to drink to even attempt discussing what it's like to be a woman."


Leaning over, Cat placed a soft kiss on his cheek then as she nodded. "That was beautiful.." Her elbow nudged him playfully then. "...you look displeased at it."

"Of course not Lady Bisland. You must opine on what it means to be a man. It is only fair." Wash chides before draping and arm behind Catalana and whispering in her ear.

Zoey gives Wash a look. "I would not presume," she demures. "I'm quite happy sitting here listening."

Duarte skips up to the 'stage' - a bit of whiskey spilling over the rim of his glass as he does so. "Okay!" he pronounces. "I shall takes another turns." He cups his whiskey and looks to be in deep thought.

"Avast yonderage of thine echoing eyes doth I revere.

"And supple ear holes for to hear.

"If work is not otherwise near -

"Please do the kindness of fetching me a beer."

He blinks and grasps for more words, but then decides to bow instead. "Okay - who shall be next?"

Sabella gets to her feet, claping when Duarte steps away from the stage. "That was rather clever." She says, turning a smile to the folks present. "I do have to get home though, I hope you do this again soon, please." She pulls her cloak on and curtsies before she slips out.

"If we are going from women to alcohol..." Wash muses out loud. "... I shall begin to feel like I have wandered into a trap laid specifically for me."

Elizabetta, a lissome lady-in-waiting, 1 Grayson Guardsmen leave, following Sabella.

Leaning in a bit more against Wash, Cat turned her head to listen. Smiling, she would nod a bit. "...still good."

Ian shakes his head to Zoey when she murmurs something to him, and says a few words in return, before taking a sip of his drink.

Orathy stands up from the seat he had been sharing, a little wobble, but he manages to wander over toward where Sebastian was.

Sebastian seems content to watch from where he sits, a little bit amused perhaps, but entertained as well. He gives a bit of applause for Duarte's verse, and then looks up to smile to Orathy as he approaches, little wobble and all. He chuckles at whatever is said to him and reaches out to clasp the man's shoulder.

Zoey gives Ian a brilliant, relieved smile and inhales. Seemingly satisfied, she leans back in her seat and looks around the salon for the next poet.

"Seeing none - I shall draw the evening to a close." Duarte smiles. "As is the Bravuran tradition, we will forget to vote for a victor. Should you have been moved to lend your support to beautiful, aesthetic Bravura, please see the donkey before you leave." He bows graciously, "Thank you all for attending! Do feel free to stay and mingle and drink the rest of the booze. Huzzah!" He lifts his glass and sips from its remains.

Orathy reaches out to Sebastian and puts his heavy hand on top of the Lord Pravus' head and ruffles his hair! Then with an upnod toward the door, it looks like Orathy is going to be making his way out.