With spring bringing warmth to the city, the main hall of Eswyndol has been opened up to let fresh air in. The guards at the entrance seem wary of unfamiliar faces, but if guests explain they are here for the feast, they are let in with little fuss. There is an abundance of food set out, and servants are moving around to fetch and refill drinks. Medeia is not far from the entrance, greeting people as they come in. "Hello! Welcome! Make yourselves comfortable. If you've brought a notable figure for the rest of us to guess, please let me know!"

Dolente, a mourning dove, Dolce, a collared dove arrive, following Cesare.

Theophania test

test

Of /course/ Cesare is here, and of /course/ he will participate in the game. "I'll be surprised if anyone guessee mine!" he says with delight, swanning in, a vision in crimson. "Lady Medeia, my darling, we match, and you look stunning as always. You know how I love you in red." He glides over to embrace her, pressing a kiss to her cheeks. "You even smell good. Is that orris? Orris, sea salt, and labdanum, perhaps? Delightful."

"Lord Haakon." If Haakon thinks he's escaping the cheek kiss, he is wrong. He gets kissed. And then Norah is bowed to, and greeted, and Cesare raises his eyebrows to see Jasher as well. "Your highness! Hello. How lovely to see you. Good evening."

Cesare has joined the line.

A blonde toddler makes their way up to each guest in turn, looking up at them with serious blue eyes. "Fuck," she intones gravely as she looks up at Cesare. Marquessa Norah turns red, as one would expect, clearing her throat and pretending not to notice. She returns the greetings and nods her head politely to Jasher. She keeps her eye on the toddler, who now is attempting to lick one of the cats. The heir to Eswynd Rock, ladies and gentlemen.

Tovell has joined the line.

2 Valardin Knights, Halcyon, an aureate stallion with a sterling mane, an oversized white goose with too much attitude and a predilection toward honking excessively, a feral Bastion kitten arrive, following Alantir.

2 Valardin Knights, Halcyon, an aureate stallion with a sterling mane, an oversized white goose with too much attitude and a predilection toward honking excessively, a feral Bastion kitten leave, following Alantir.

Jasher arrives at Eswyndol with a gait best described as relaxed, though his carriage assumes its usual militaristic stricture. He arrives with no particularly notable figure from history; in fact, he arrives completely alone, though no worse off than usual for it. While he bends at the waist to bow respectfully to his hosts, the expression resting upon his face is open, almost friendly, made so by the set of his lips into an almost-smile. "Good evening, Marquessa Norah, Lady Medeia, Lord Haakon." Beryl irises rest upon Theophania, an altogether unfamiliar face, and so he affords her the same respectful inclination of his head, sans personalized greeting, before pivoting upon a heel to claim a seat. "Sadly, I have no notable figures with me." Cesare sweeps into the room, so he amends his claim with, "...from history. Softest Whisper. Likewise." His eyebrows lift infinitesimally as though with expectation of something.

Theophania quietly enters past the guards, nervously attempting to fix her mousy hair with her ornamental comb and straightening her dress. She starts to walk towards the Marquessa, decides against it, then remembers her manners and turns back around again. She offers the Marquessa a polite, genuine, smile as she curtseys and says "Your grace, my name is Theophania Desmaris, a merchant and minister of coin for house Blanchard. I am honoured to make your acquaintance but I'm afraid that I have brought no noteworthy figure piggybacking in my mind." With that complete she goes around to the rest of the partygoers offering similar, polite introductions.

Tovell arrives, clad in glittering Crown and Swords-adorned rubicund, from neck to toes. At least he's stylish, in an extremely conservative sort of way? Or not; it's all in the eye of the beholder anyway. He bends an easy bow across the gathered fine folk. He soon sways aside to mention on a lowered word to Medeia, "I've a notable to have guessed after..."

That done with, Tovell washes his hands of any lingering business and soon sees himself to a seat.

The quip from Jasher receives a delighted, charmed laugh from Cesare - a slightly surprised one, that rings out across the hall like a bell, with all the clarity and golden tone of one as well. "I can lend you someone notable, if you like, though I remember distinctly that contemporary figures /are/ welcome. I fear if you wished to have the party guess me, you've both spoiled your opportunity and you may not know enough facts about me to dole out, however." He leans in a little closer and says something in a lower voice.

"Nice to see you again, Sir Tovell," he offers with a dip of his chin, and to Theophania, "A pleasure to meet you, Theophania Desmaris. I am Cesare, Softest of Whisper House, and the protege of our hostess Lady Medeia."

Medeia's arms come up so that she can return Cesare's embrace and cheek kisses when he enters. "You are one to talk! Every time I see you, I am convinced some dozen broken hearts are scattered in your wake." She grins and then turns to Jasher, offering a curtsy. "Your Highness, so good to see you again. How is your arm?" When Tovell enters, the lady's head tilts. Cesare's naming of him brings a flash of understanding to her expression. "Sir Tovell Telmar, what a pleasure to have you here. Sir Corban is a friend of mine. If you have need of anything, please ask." There is a bow of her head to Theophania. "Welcome, please enjoy the evening." With a look around, she begins to turn to step toward the center of the room. "We'll start the game once everyone has a drink in hand!" A drink needs to be in her hand.

"Get away from me, you sick bastard," the knight hisses, swatting forcefully at a large, overbearing goose that trails behind him and nips viciously at his heels. He turns abruptly, matches the beast's soulless gaze, and -- thankfully -- the thing chooses to relent; honking defeatedly (victoriously?) as it waddles in the direction of the Crimson Square's gates. "Gods," Alantir continues, taking a moment to collect himself before entering Eswyndol's main hall. "Lord Haakon, Lady Medeia, Marquessa Norah," the Oathlander lists in greeting, dipping gaze respectfully and offering a semi-formal bow. "I'm afraid I've come as no one of significance. I intend to make up for this deficiency by being... sociable." A tall order, all things considered.

Apparently, Cesare knows exactly how to deflect a toddler looking for a reaction, and little Lady Oksana instead goes over to Tovell once it's clear that she will not be able to catch the cat. "Sword," she says approvingly. "Fight?" she asks hopefully.

Norah just smiles at her guests, a glass of wine in her hand. The Eswynders are more comfortable with having their children about than most noble houses, and Norah, not born an Eswynd, is still getting used to this. And getting used to her wild, wild daughter. "Lord Alantir! What a pleasure.

"It's rude to you because you treat the goose so disrespectfully." Is pointed out by the statuesque figure at Alantir's side, "And you come with someone notable but you can certainly make up for your lack of introducing me by being sociable." Clearly, this person did not get the information that costumed garb was not to be a theme in the guessing. With an elegant sweep of form in a willow bow is Medeia, Haakon, and Norah greeted, "Just beckon me up when the guessing is to start." A smile touches lips causing a shimmering uptick in otherworldly greens before the mysteriously clothed figure goes to find a drink.

Tovell flashes a crooked smile to surprised life with Medeia's warm greeting; he plainly wasn't expecting as much. "Why, well. It's my pleasure in turn, Lady Eswynd." He scatters eyes across her signet ring, and appears to surmise from there. "It would seem that I have only need for a drink, in the now..." Cesare, as well, receives that same warm expression and a returned dip of the head. Busy as the Softest is, he doesn't further intrude---and ANYWAY, there's a very important heiress who's challenged him to a duel. His drink collecting will have to wait. "Sword," he gravely confirms for the toddler, patting his peace-tied blade. He squats down, pointing toward her hip, "Where's yours?"

Theophania inclines her head politely at Cesare's introduction and, smiling, inquires. "Pardon your grace, protege? I know the meaning of the word but what do you mean by it?"

Though the Thrax prince has taken up a seat, he's well within earshot of discussions carrying on around him, and is able to more or less converse with the attendees at an easeful volume as he's addressed. A flask of rum is deftly withdrawn from a pocket sewn into the inner lining of his vest, the cork pulled from its mouth with an audible pop, and its contents swirled around the inside in such a manner as to suffuse the immediate area with its astringent scent. "I know enough," he counters Cesare with understated confidence, and after returning a private word to him, raises the flask to his lips for a sip. "Sir Tovell, good evening," Jasher says as he recognizes the man, then turns to address the woman who thoughtfully introduced herself. "And Theophania, a pleasure to meet you. Prince Jasher Thrax." Immediate introductions aside, he's afforded the opportunity to properly respond to Medeia's thoughtful inquiry. "All mended, and in large part thanks to your aid, my lady." Before more can be said, the woodland creature appears and commands the better part of his attention. What registers on his face can be described as intrigue; his hand lifts to scratch thoughtfully at his gizzled chin.

One of Medeia's brows lifts curiously as she turns to look toward the entrance and the commotion about a goose. "Prince Alantir, it is a distinct pleasure to have you here." Her lips curl into a bright, gently teasing grin as she holds her hands out at her sides, palms forward and fingers splayed. It is the gesture of one who is saying 'there won't be any trouble.' Her gaze flits to the masked figure, seeming to have some recognition of who is under the costume but not saying anything. "I think I may have to come up with another prize just for the effort you've gone to, my lady." There is a quick wink before Medeia is settling back into the drink-collecting and game-starting. "Alright! Thank you all for being here this evening. The rules of this game are fairly simple. Someone will present a few clues - no more than three - about the identity of a notable contemporary or historic or legendary figure. The rest shall write down their guess." SHe motions to her assistant, "Klavdiya will distribute parchment and writing implements. I'll collect guesses at the end to score them and announce the winner."

The toddler goes wide-eyed and her lip starts to quiver. Then she remembers! She toddles off and comes back with a toddler-sized wooden sword. "Fight," she repeats, smacking the sword against Sir Tovell's rubicund-clad knee. She hasn't learned the finer points of duel etiquette yet. Or any etiquette.

Norah, for her part, takes a seat at one of the long tables, eager to watch the game. "I don't have much of a sense of whimsy or fancy dress. Haakon would say that I don't know how to have fun at all, I think, but that simply isn't true," she remarks to Alantir and his mysterious plus-one.

"I saved that goose's life. If not for me, he would ended up seasoned and smoked on some huntsman's silver platter," the Valardin retorts, offering companion a temperamental narrowing of gaze before they slink away to pour themselves a drink. "The pleasure, Lady Medeia and Marquessa Norah, is always mine. Good food, good drink, and good company. A welcome relief during cold spring and winter nights," he muses, attention shifting to take in and potentially identify familiar guests. A small smile pulls at the corners of his lips when he spots Jasher. "Prince Jasher Thrax, my better in the ring -- it is good to see you again," Alantir calls, slowly making his way across the hall. Once within reach of the sailor's table, he motions toward an empty seat. "May I join you?" Voice then lowers, likely for comedic effect. "I'll tell you who came with me."

Theophania has joined the long feasting table.

"I mean that she's my patron, of course," Cesare says to Theophania with the hint of a smile. "And I am not a 'your grace;' as all Whispers, I am a commoner like yourself, though I am flattered." He tilts his head to hear Jasher's aside in response, and the expression it provokes might be described as mischievous, if it weren't so thoroughly muted by placid calmness.

Nonetheless, he takes parchment and pen, one for himself and one for the prince, from Klavdiya as she passes, handing a set off to Jasher. "I assume you're at least /guessing,/" he murmurs. Less question than statement. And a bit louder, in Medeia's direction: "I put liniment on him, it clearly had some sort of wondrous properties, or perhaps my hands do."

Ting! Tang! Tong!

The toddler's wooden sword plinks noisily off of Tovell's knees. The knight chuckles, laughs, and nods along with her efforts. "That's the spirit! Why---" His tone drops toward conspiratorial as he settles toward the ground in to utter a lowered wondering toward the child.

...That matter done with, he soon stands once more to make way on over to the table: He'd best capture up a quill and parchment before they're all gone---and a chair to go with it! The distraction has kept the Oathlander from getting around to the pouring of drink, and the place before him remains glassless, mugless, and flaskless.

Turn in line: Cesare

"Well, your hands, my salves?" Medeia grins at Cesare. "A winning combination for the healing of a prince." Then she snaps her fingers and says, "And with that! We begin. Cesare, my dear protege, start us off?" Then, noting Tovell still has no drink, "Someone get the knight a drink!" Several servants jump quickly in his direction.

Someone wearing a shimmering, thorny woodland circlet has joined the line.

Theophania blushes in embarrassment a little, despite her best efforts. Seeking a little bit of comfort in the presence of another Oathlander, even one of far greater station, she tucks parchment under her arm, collects two glasses of wine, and offers one to Tovell. "Your grace, could I offer you a drink in exchange for the honour of your company?"

Cesare nods, clearing his throat and projecting his voice clearly enough that everyone will be able to hear. "Clue number one: This person is known primarily serving as an Aspect, but later fell to the Abyss. Clue number two: This person is referenced as having wings touched by flame. And clue number three: Her greatest foe and the one who brought about her downfall was the Lady of Corruption."

Having thoroughly inspected the costume donned by the mysterious lady, Jasher allows his attention to be thoroughly recaptured by conversationalists present. First, to the Whisper seated so conspiratorially close to his side to do precisely what his position so aptly espouses, the prince turns to respond in an equally hushed tone of voice. When that is concluded, he adds in a natural volume, "Yes, I am guessing, albeit poorly." The flask is corked and tucked into the pocket of his vest before accepting the offered parchment and writing implement and placing it on the table before him. "Prince Alantir, my better in the art of socialization," he greets with a measure of amusement laced in his tone, "Good to see you, as well. Please." A hand gestures out to the as yet unclaimed seat at his side. "That would be cheating, and I /do/ actually look forward to guessing incorrectly; one cannot be skilled at all things, after all. On that note, I'd be happy to spar again, at your convenience." As Cesare initiates the guessing competition, the prince shifts his attention appropriately and listens with intent.

Tovell has but the time to settle and square up a pen before he's corralled in with drink-pushing servants---the lot of which Theophania beats out with the pre-poured glass of wine she carries in hand. He bobs an easy nod and tilts a warmed smile toward the slight woman. "Of course. Sir Tovell," he offers his name and gestures to an empty seat which abuts his. He squints up hard with the three clues Cesare spells out; the Oathlander's stuck gears practically grind out loud. He scribbles a little doodle across the front line of his parchment.

Norah's progeny takes a long moment to consider Tovell's whispered words: she eyes Norah the whole while. A mischievous grin takes hold: the cat's a thing of the past, there's a shiny new Knight to bother. In short order another round of Ting! Tang! Tongs! ring out from the battering the seated Oathlander receives. He seems to have been expecting as much, and offers the toddler a hand up and into his lap. Some scrambling later, that goal is achieved.

Why did the Knight invite a toddler to the big kids table?

Theophania returns the smile and takes a seat. She listens intently to the clues but shakes her head, smiling to herself ruefully and quickly writes something on one sheet, waits for it to dry, and folds it.

The prince's invitation is, of course, accepted. Alantir sits, the weight of platemail adding unnecessary strain to the seat selected, and brings his right elbow to rest atop the table's surface. He glances between Jasher and Cesare, a single brow raised, before the Softest Whisper offers three clues to the guests assembled. Needless to say, the Oathlander hasn't the /slightest/ idea who the man is attempting to represent -- himself exceptionally ill-versed in the realm's history and its many persons of significance. He glances pleadingly toward distant silver-haired companion, eyes conveying complete and utter confusion, likely in hopes that they would be able to provide assistance.

Turn in line: Tovell

Medeia looks at Cesare, listening to his clues and tilting her head thoughtfully. "I am suddenly /extremely/ grateful that I am scoring your answers instead of playing." A good natured smile lights up her expression as she thanks him for his part in the game. "Alright, next will be... Sir Tovell? Can I steal you from Lady Oksana for a moment?"

Jasher writes his guess down on the parchment and folds his hands over it, as though expecting someone to peek it. When the prince flanking his left side wordlessly implores him for help, he does not relent, though the right corner of his mouth twitches with amusement.

Exhales a breath as mind churns over possible answers, ticking through a brain that over time has collected far too much. There is a glance towards Jasher at his curious look, features utterly still much like a left alone pond before gaze shifts towards Alantir with an idle shrug of shoulders - a smirk to lips suggests that there isn't any strong feelings about not providing an answer to the goose scorned Prince.

"Of course," Tovell smiles toward Medeia. He lifts Oksana from his lap and rises from his seat to address the gathering---though not before leaning to deposit the heiress on the table before himself. She's still got that mischievous look, trawling that naughty eye right on down the line of faces she now levels with.

Tovell begins, "Firstly, this Dame was a Knight of Solace; one who did not seek renown, but instead proved herself through what she did, and how she carried herself..." In parallel with the Knight's recitation of facts, the toddler takes off with a marauding intent. Her wooden sword swings out in swings toward inkpots and drinks alike as she takes off down the table seeking to---apparently---do as much damage as she can before she's caught.

Though hiring a toddler to distract may count as cheating in some folk's books, Tovell continues to list off his facts as his hired Dame puts to work: "Second, she bested traitors who came to kill the Queen of Roses; she sacrificed herself on that day, for her Queen." More sword swinging, stomping, and trouble likely follows the marauding toddler.

"And, finally, the sword she held that day was the Queen's own sword. That same sword was passed on in her name, and continues to be held by the Lord Commander of our Sovereign's Own today." The man finishes without a flourish, and simply settles back and into his seat once more.

When Oksana begins her march of terror and destruction down the long table, Norah shoots one of her men-at-arms a Look. He knows what that means. The toddler squeals in protest as she is picked up like a rugby ball and hauled bodily from the table and taken upstairs to Baby Jail. Er. The nursery. Can she prove Tovell was behind this? No. He has plausible deniability. But she SUSPECTS.

Theophania has a sharp eye and manages to save her wine and paper from the Toddler's assault but it is a close-run thing given their proximity. Once the bite-sized marauder has passed her by she settles into listening to the charismatic knight, sipping her wine as her parchment lies abandoned. Once he is done she murmurs something to Tovell.

By the time Tovell has finished stating his third clue, Cesare is already writing down his answer in fluid, elegant script on his parchment. He peers over at Jasher's with raised eyebrows, as if he's trying to cheat, though he clearly is not, as he doesn't make any effort to change it. Though he does lean over and doodle something - a little dueling sword - on Jasher's page.

Turn in line: Someone wearing a shimmering, thorny woodland circlet

"Hm." Medeia listens to the clues, barely even noticing the baby rampage - she's been desentized by her time in Eswynd, it seems. Or by being a midwife. "Thank you, Sir Tovell." She gives him a nod of gratitude before looking toward the masked figure. "My lady?"

Jasher tap tap taps the tip of his pen against the parchment as he considers the clues, then writes something down. He offers a mild shrug to Cesare, as though to hint that this one might be a stretch, and thus a loss.

There is a quiet moment where a sip of whatever drink was found is briefly imbibed before the tall, lean figure moves with a deft calculation towards a central location to better address everyone present. For a moment there is a composed stillness, hands seemed to have gone still at sides as if moving them in a specific pattern might invoke something unwanted, "I'm known as the Huntsman of the West." A pause, chin lifting a fraction causing the ripple of silvery strands that suggested a timeless quality to dance at hips, "I created the famed sword Red Thorn and gifted it to the Torchlight Knight." The deep verdant hue, saturated by the combined collection of woodland tones, swept over all those present with a deep weight, "I was bound in chains and enslaved against my will. I swept across the Oathlands, wreaking havoc and destruction without any thought for what I was doing. It was the sacrifice of an old friend that my will was restored and my mind finally made my own."

Alantir channels his uselessness into something marginally productive: drinking. In a single swig, he drains the contents of one of the mugs provided by a particularly eager Eswynd attendant. By the time Tovell has completed his three clues, the prince has polished off another. "I do not believe we have been formally introduced," the prince says quietly to Cesare, not keen to interrupt the competitors mid-presentation. "I am Alantir Valardin. For whatever it is worth, I was unappreciative of how quickly House Grayson dismissed your findings and theories at the meeting held at the Highlord's request." He gestures between the Whisper and Jasher. "How do you two know one another?" When a familiar voice sounds from the center of the room, the knight is momentarily distracted -- his gaze fixed firmly upon her frame and a pleasant smile highlighting otherwise unkempt but handsome features.

Theophania is leaning forwards, propped up one arm. She is clearly fascinated by the speaker. She seems even more fascinated by the story however, and leans further forwards particularly at the mention of the Oathlands. At the strangers mention of a moving sacrifice of a close friend, a thoughtful look crosses her eyes. But amidst all of this her parchment lies completely discarded.

Tovell continues to turn his parchment into a collection of poorly-wrought doodles. Anyone trying to cheat off of the Knight would find little useful information... Though they may just as well surmise that he isn't much of a Jayus worshiper. He bends ear to consider what THeophania whispers to him. There's an appreciative grin and bob of the chin, "...Why, we're on quite the same horse, Miss Desmarais."

Perhaps its a shift in the wind... Though an echo of soft melodic chimes comes into the hall with it the tall and young Rivenshari lord. Full of color and nearly a skip in his step adding to the jingling that emits from the many bells upon clothing and in his hair. Mattheu offers a sweeping bow to Medeia, with nod towards Cesare and Haakon as someone else he recognizes, "Lady Medeia. The winds held me up in another direction of the city. I don't have a tale to share, though am interested in what clues have been offered."

"Prince Alantir, that's very kind of you to say," Cesare says with a small smile in Alantir's direction. "You're correct, we haven't been formally introduced. I'm Cesare, Softest of Whisper House, which you have doubtless heard several times by now. Prince Jasher and I...well, I suppose we met rather by chance, finding ourselves frequenting the same circles, and found that we share an appreciation of challenging and thoughtful conversations." He glances to Jasher, perhaps to see if the Thrax prince would deem that an accurate assessment. "I'm impressed, I don't think I know this one."

Medeia gives the masked figure a small burst of applause for the performance-like quality of her clue delivery. As Mattheu enters, she gives him a welcoming smile. "Lord Mattheu, if you would like to join in, please speak with Klavdiya, she can recount the clues for you. Find a comfortable place to sit and help yourself to food and drink." Then she's looking around at the guests. "Would anyone who has not gone like to share? Or, would someone who has gone like to share another? I want to be sure everyone is satisfied before I give some clues, too."

The line has been dismissed by Medeia.

as the stranger finishes their recitation and Medeia opens up with applause, Theophania quickly joins in, her clapping continuing on for a solid few seconds after the lady's own has finished. She supposes, "That was beautiful, if so short. I can only wonder at the true beauty and tragedy of that story's full nature."

Jasher does not write anything down for this particular personality, but that does not seem to perturb him too greatly. "I do not know this, either." The pen is laid down upon the parchment to signify the end of his guesses, and then he turns his attention briefly to the conversation passing between Alantir and Cesare. When the former inquires after their acquaintanceship, the prince allows the latter to perfectly describe its origins, though he does add, when Cesare looks askance, "That is the gist of it. I look forward to finally meeting your notable person, without the mask." The parchment page laid out in front of him is folded in half, then quartered with precise movements that ensure the edges neatly align. Then, he lifts his beryl irises to observe Lady Medeia with a degree of expectancy.

There is a little smile that touches lips, moving back to earlier position in an idle stance in which drink is taken up once more. There is a casted glance towards Theophania, offering a cant of head in idle thought before speaking aloud in response, "I would never be able to do it full justice." A dip of head is given before attention shifts towards Medeia.

Mattheu has joined the long feasting table.

Mattheu looks to Klavdiya and has a quiet word with her then in a soft jingling nod he finds a seat at the table to grab a small handful of nibbles while listening to the masked one tell their clues.

Seeing no one jump to offer another, Medeia moves to replace the masked figure in that central spot. "Very well then. I have two. The first: He was dominus, then labeled a heretic. I think that is the only clue I'll give, that's likely an easy one." One side of her mouth quirks in wry humor. "The second: He had a sister who embraced the Abyss, and he followed her to save their people. He begged Death for a chance at redemption. His birth name is not the name he is best known by."

"Chance meetings are always the most opportune. No matter the person, you'll rarely struggle to learn something new about them," the Oathlander reasons, reaching forward to collect Jasher's parchment and pen. He scribbles an answer upon the sheet, this in reference to the silver-haired woman's mysterious identity, before wordlessly returning both objects to their owner. "The most I can contribute, unfortunately. Still, I wish you the best of luck," Alantir murmurs, rasping gauntlets good-naturedly against the table surface.

Paxton the Party Pigeon arrives, delivering a message to Mattheu before departing.

Listening to the clues there is a moment of contemplation, a taciturn countenance before brows rise with a sudden revelation. Leaning over Alantir to reclaim parchment and ink filled pen, the guess is scrawled on a piece of parchment, "I adore chance meetings." Is murmured before back straightens to fix attentions forward.

Mattheu looks to the table to find a small grape or nut to feed to the pigeon that has landed on his shoulder. "Hello Paxton." He murmurs softly to the cooing bird, then taking a small note tied to the birds leg and whispering softly to the bird before it takes off and circles the room before finding its way out again. "An amazing set of clues, from you all. You're far more learned of these people than I am to know, a wonderful means to remind me I should study better of the Compact."

Paxton the Party Pigeon arrives, delivering a message to Mattheu before departing.

Jasher appears as though he is going to reach out to reclaim his parchment from Alantir, but then realizes his intent and relaxes his tense posture some. A knowing look passes to the prince, and when he is no longer looking, takes up the pen and scribbles the third name out. He doesn't cheat! The parchment is then handed off to Medeia with all of his hard-earned clues written down.

Medeia and Klavdiya move around to collect parchment to score the guesses while the guests are given the chance to eat, drink, converse. The lady steps over to one of the tables and pores over each parchment, schooling her expression in one of neutrality - though a few doodles make her giggle. It doesn't take too long before she is moving back to address the gathering. "This was quite the challenge, and there is a clear winner. Thank you all for playing. The five different figures were, in order: The Peregrine, Dame Jurica, Oberion Thornweave, Marach the Apostate, and Shale." She gives everyone a moment to think about their responses and consider how they did, then announces the winner. "Cesare, you had three correct guesses - missing only Oberion. That makes you the winner! Prince Jasher was second, and everyone else each only had one."

Paxton the Party Pigeon arrives, delivering a message to Mattheu before departing.

Theophania takes hasty note of the mentioned names, likely to quest after them later. Smiling, she takes up her goblet in anticipation of a toast to the hostess(es).

Cesare's expression is one of surprised delight. "Well, I am glad to share the information with everyone - these old stories, whether true or allegorical, are often valuable for the lessons they teach us. In this case, the Peregrine's tale was one of pursuing an ideal with singleminded purpose, past the point of advice and reason, to the point of self-destruction. I think it's a lesson certainly worth considering, though there are also pitfalls in striving for balance if it means constantly toeing a line, rather than adapting to each circumstance as it comes." He smiles brightly for a moment to Medeia. "Thank you, Lady Medeia, this was enjoyable. And thank you to the mysterious Oberion! It's a name I've heard before, but never known enough about to place it. And also a devastatingly lovely outfit, if I may say so."

Someone wearing a shimmering, thorny woodland circlet checks composure at normal. Someone wearing a shimmering, thorny woodland circlet is successful.

As the answers are given there is a nod here and a snap of fingers there but it's the last that causes a pause, eyes glancing down at the drained drink. Drawn from what could be assumed as a lament at lack of alcohol, attention shifts towards Cesare with a nod of head, "I just hope that he doesn't hear that I've done this." Is mused upon, an exhale of breath before lithe, battle scarred fingers ease up to tease at the circlet that has remained too long atop head. A shake of that starlit crown is met with a pleased sigh, "You were excellent at guessing all of those but for a Whisper it is not too surprising and is a credit to your calling."

It must be whatever Mattheu said to that pigeon, or the food he fed it, as it comes back not a second time but also a third. Each time a swoop through the hall then landing upon Mattheu's shoulder while Medeia is announcing the winners, then Cesare telling his story of his mystery person. "A well thought out game indeed." He pops another handful of nibbles into his mouth, sharing some with Paxton again. "My sister would think me half mad if I didn't extend an invitation to our celebration coming up. There's to be a prize..." He grins, "It is not me, my Aunt made sure that it would be a good prize." He laughs at his own jest of himself. Then looking over with a melodic nod towards the thorny woodland circlet. "A fine feat, I only knew of Oberion. The others are a distant concept to me."

If Jasher could betray any deep expressions of surprise, he would for this particular result. "Huh," he murmurs, and then turns to listen to Cesare's explanation of The Peregrine, a name that he himself has not been able to forget. "Congratulations," he says to the Whisper, and then shifts in his seat to properly observe the woman personifying Oberion Thornweave. He appraises the costume, now, with greater knowledge, and seems to appreciate it all the more for it.

A glance is cast in kind towards Jasher, a brow checked with a wry smile forming, "We have already met before but it was too brief perhaps for you to place me." Attention is paid towards Mattheu as eyes now unaided by the helm of surrounding color rest ethereal blue on the Rivenshari, "Thank you."

"Congratulations, Cesare. And how particularly noble of you, Prince Thrax," Alantir says, this a belated response to Jasher's decision to scratch an answer from parchment. "Lady Brigid Inverno, if you have not yet been introduced," he adds, waving his gauntlet toward the previously costumed dragoon. The knight stands and offers the woman his seat. "We both know you'll refuse, but that's no excuse to refrain from offering."

"Perhaps I will do another version of this sometime..." Medeia falls thoughtful for a moment, the wheels spinning in her mind about ways to make it better. She looks up as Klavdiya hands her a slim folio. "Right! The prize. Take this to the bank, my dear, they'll know what to do." The folios is placed lightly on the table in front of Cesare, her fingertips atop it to slide it to him. She doesn't lift her hand until he's claimed it. When she looks up, it's to offer a smile to Brigid. "As I suspected." Then, "Thank you all again, sincerely, it is always such a joy to host these gatherings and get to offer you a chance to lighten your mood."

Cesare murmurs something to Jasher a scant few seconds before Alantir repeats it aloud, and then throws his hands up with a laugh, just in time for Medeia to pass over a few folios, which he looks at and says, "Ah, yes, I imagine they will. Thank you, my lady, I'll see these invested well."

Theophania lifts up her goblet and exclaims politely, her smile vibrant "Thank you kindly for bringing us all together, and giving us fine stories my lady, and a toast to your health."

The Dame of Solace chuckles, "Of course I'm going to decline but it does you a credit to at least offer." At the smile from Medeia is one returned in kind, sincere in it's rare form, "I figured you would but I can't help but be secretly pleased that I was close to being unrecognizable. Thank you for being an excellent hostess and giving us a reason to step into the past."

Singing bells make their chimes known to the room as Mattheu stands up, grabbing another small handful of fruit from the table. "Lady Medeia. Everyone. I hope to see you at the Rivenshari expanse soon. We'll be having a night of entertainment." A nod to Medeia, "Thank you for the invite. I'll work on what the Compact believes to be appropriate time in the future."

Norah is overheard praising Medeia.

Mattheu has left the long feasting table.

Jasher inclines his head politely to Lady Brigid having received her identity from at least two reliable sources. "I'm impressed by your dedication to playing the part, my lady. If you have the time, perhaps you might be willing to share what you know about your muse with an ill-informed prince?" he inquires politely enough, though the nonpartisanship evident in his expression suggests that whatever answer she provides will be acceptable to him. The pigeon flaps overhead and follows the Rivenshari lord out of the hall, which directly prompts his beryl eyes to squint just slightly enough to betray his objection to its presence in the first place. It is a short-lived reaction, and is followed up with a perfectly composed, "Lady Medeia, thank you for hosting. A most entertaining evening, all around." Alantir manages to elicit a half-realized smile from the otherwise staid Thrax prince. "I came here to lose, and I meant to abide by it. You're very thoughtful, though. I hope you will not be so quick to bend when next we meet in the ring."