Another Way To Travel
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_A beautiful day on the water, and the party never ends.
They're a ways down the river from Peltarch. Lady Cassandra Je'laan's floating feast-revel-party-orgy-concert is one of the hottest social spots in town these days, in large part because it ISN'T in town and there's no danger of suddenly finding yourself in a siege being shelled by Strauss Organs instead of fondling a drunken debutante while eating sausages on sticks.
Everyone is here!
Okay, well, a lot of people are here.
Casca is here. She's chatting up a muscular hinnish acrobat and eating a puff pastry. She's not quite drunk, and is enjoying the party immensely.
Miranda Greywing is here. This is a bit of a novelty; you don't often see the shortest magistrate at social affairs of this nature, at least not since the war. And bringing THAT up is generally not advised. She's trading innuendo with Lacey, of Wilting Flower fame, and has probably had more wine than is good for her.
Von Ulgath is here, and is telling the most DELIGHTFUL jests. A circle of cronies surrounds him.
Miramie Snydders is here, a shy young thing at her first unchaperoned social event, radiant in a white gown and awkwardly moving from group to group. Everyone is nice to her and agrees she'll loosen up when her nerves wear off.
Odrim Hollowmoon is here; he's deep in discussion with a Damaran merchant, holding forth on the difficulties of aerial navigation. He seems quite the animated old geezer, and he frequently shows a mouth of blinding white teeth. His wife isn't there today, to the regret of many, particularly the many who like beautiful women in expensive gowns.
Merci Elf-Friend is here; well, she's in a secluded, curtained alcove with one of Lady Je'laan's cousins, practicing the world's oldest profession. She has a poetry reading scheduled on the main deck in an hour.
And the Rat-Master General is here, alive and somewhat drunk, surrounded by raucous off-duty Defenders and city employees throwing her a Welcome-Back party. They say it was a difficult raising and a close thing, but she returns to duty in a few days, and the party seemed like a nice thing to do. It's been a great success so far.
The barge sculls down the river, a wooden shell of laughter, music, clinking glasses.
The Rat-Master General takes another gulp of wine, laughs at a comment about someone's arse, and marvels at how clean her hair is for a change. And these little sausages on sticks. Things are-
She stops in mid thought, stares at the serving gigolo across the way.
Then she lurches to her feet with a roar, nearly upsetting the table as she does. Her hand whips out to draw her sword. She hasn't brought it, and instead she just winds up spilling an entire pitcher of hot wine down Miramie Snydder's dress, causing the girl to scream in pain and shock and tear frantically at her decolletage.
"THAT'S HIM!"
The serving gigolo freezes, which is to be expected. Then he draws a rapier and a poniard, which is not.
And then in a blur of motion he is lunging for Odrim Hollowmoon's back, blades extended.
There is a long, slow moment of shocked screaming, oaths, and everyone thinking how somebody really ought to do something.
Except Odrim Hollowmoon, who does do something, which is twist around fast as a cat, point the palms of his hands at the oncoming blades, and laugh a deep, rich, amused laugh.
And then lightning comes from him, arcing, crackling, eye-hurting bolts and streamers of electricity, gushing out of his hands and slamming into the swordsman with the force of a hammer.
The screaming doubles as the smouldering, spasming, blackening serving-man is hurled the length of the deck, leaving a trail of ashes and a horrible burnt odor in his wake. People dive out of the way. Miramie Snydders has torn the front off her gown and, hysterical, is diving for cover. Sadly, she's diving into Merci Elf-Friend's alcove.
Casca almost chokes on her pastry and jumps on a chair to get a better view of the fireworks.
Miranda and Lacey cling to each other, presumably in fright.
The drunken clump of Defenders and rat-catchers is yelling and feeling really dumb for not having brought swords.
And then the blackened corpse is skidding to a stop at the far end of the barge, twisted, smoking blades falling from charred, bony hands. The lightning ceases.
Odrim tucks his hands in his pockets, favors the stunned party with a blinding smile, and resumes his conversation with the now thoroughly terrified merchant.
In the alcove, Merci and Miramie are having what sounds like a old-fashioned hysterical slap-off. Calming pleas from the Je'laan punctuate it.
The whole thing puts a definite pall over the party for at least ten minutes, until Von Ulgath tells a particularly CLEVER jest. I mean, after all, it was just the Help._
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Ever since hearing of the excitement with the floating barge Belma'r has been booking trips with the party. Sampling and critiquing food getting drunk and spouting about slaads and if there are going to be any more fun assasins on bored.
