Brigit's Flame - January Week 3 - Arrival
Phillip deftly plucked a glass of red wine from the tray of a passing servant and strode out of the ballroom. Now was the best time for a little work. The party was bustling, and most of the guests were engaged in their own entertainments. The older gentlemen had retired to the game room for the evening. The ladies and the young gentlemen were in the ballroom drinking, courting, gossiping, twirling each other around the dance floor. The adepts of the political game were making their rounds, milling about the party, engrossed in their plots and schemes. The party still held their interest, and very few had yet started to wander, looking for some new conquest, or for a private place to further ‘woo’ their lord or lady of the evening.
He pushed his way through a pair of heavy double doors and reveled in the quiet and calm that was to the other side. As the doors closed behind him, the cacophony of the evening was muffled and muted, falling to a rather tolerable din, which became a murmur, a low hum, with each step down the hall he took. The peace was a welcome respite, and soothed Phillip’s nerves like a desert oasis.
He made his way down the mazelike halls of the house towards the living quarters. He’d been to Lord Marwell’s magnificent home on another occasion, and had a general idea of which direction they were from the ballroom.
It wasn’t long before the furnishings began to trend towards comfort and the Marwells’ taste, rather than extravagance and showmanship. It seemed the Marwells liked their quarters much closer to the party than most of the nobility. It was not uncommon for a party to go on for hours after the lord and lady retired, therefore, most wished their rooms to be far from the din.
Phillip shrugged. It was much more convenient for him this way. Besides, he had his suspicions as to why the old womanizer would want his rooms so close by.
Drink in hand, Phillip strolled down the hall, stopping here and there to make closer inspections of a painting or a particularly striking sculpture. He couldn’t keep a rather self satisfied smirk from crossing his face as he perused the fine art like a collector at an auction house. Lord Marwell certainly did have good taste.
The artistry of an old painting portraying an armored man on a great white horse, stole his attention, and briefly his mind strayed from his task. He chided himself for the distraction. He was not strolling, uninvited, down the Lord’s halls, just to appreciate art, as lovely, antique, and intriguing as it was.
He focused his attention on the matter at hand, making mental notes as to where certain items were located and how they related to the rooms around them. He would need all the information he could memorize, later, when he sat down to draw his maps. It wasn’t as if he could just walk out of a party he’d been invited to and was the life of, carrying armloads of the Lord’s possessions. His acquisitions would have to come later.
He studied the dark oak door to the right of the painting. Leaning close and straining his ears to listen, he heard nothing on the other side. He shrugged his shoulders, opened the door, and walked in.
That, Phillip thought, was what separated him from the amateurs. Most would crack the door and just listen or peek in. In his opinion, skulking about just made people look guilty, should they be seen. Walking about as if one owns the place, or has a valid reason for being there, gives one much more wiggling room when it comes to excuses. If you didn’t look guilty, and apologized for being somewhere you shouldn’t have been, rarely did someone think twice about it. Even better, if you didn't look guilty, and did not apologize for being somewhere you shouldn't have been, those who didn't know better, would not think anything wrong.
The room turned out to be a small, simply decorated bedroom. There was little of any interest to him inside. Still, he took a moment to look out the windows, as he did in every new room, and mentally marked its location in relation to the grounds below. Quietly, he closed the door behind him, and made his way down the hall, taking stock of each room as he passed.
Several rooms later, he came upon a lavishly furnished sitting room. Just what he was looking for. Everything, from the exquisite paintings, to the richly carved mahogany and burgundy velvet armchairs, made Phillip smile. The heavily laden bookshelves on the far side of the room sealed its perfection. He quickly closed the door behind him, taking a deep breath, forcing himself to slow down and take proper stock of his surroundings, and not just rush to the prize.
This was most definitely Lord Marwell’s private sitting room and study. It was furnished all in his taste, without a touch of the feminine. The room was decorated in burgundy velvets and deep mahogany woods. Matching plush carpets covered the floors, except for in front of the massive, carved stone fireplace. Two comfortable armchairs sat a little way from the hearth, each with well worn, cushioned footstools. A heavy mahogany desk sat near to the bookshelves, and here and there around the room were shelves bearing various curios.
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Purposely avoiding the books, saving the best for last, Phillip wandered over to the fireplace. He tucked his walking stick under his arm, and leaned in, studying the various pieces of the lord's military past and hunting prowess, that hung over the mantle.
In the center hung an old map, faded and marked with the lines of a nearly forgotten campaign. Phillip, having spent some time as an assistant professor of history, wasn't even certain it was of enough note that he'd ever heard of it. Below that, hung three small, tarnished medals, minor tokens from battles long past. The lord’s favorite pastime seemed to be weaving tales about this battle where he’d saved a great commander, or that time when he lead his troop to a victory, won by the skin of their teeth. “You’d think they’d have come up with better medals for a national hero,” Phillip scoffed inwardly, “I’m starting to think the old fellow is a bigger liar than I am.”
He chuckled and turned his attention to the hunting trophies. On the mantelpiece itself sat a rather surprised looking pair of exotic birds, their brilliant plumage muted by a layer of dust and soot. Phillip resisted the urge to brush away the grime to see what their colors truly were. Above it all, was the abused and disgruntled looking head of Lord Marwell's prized bear. Phillip had heard the story of that bear more times than he could count, each time just a little bit differently. Seeing the head in person, the 'monster of a bear' looked much more like a cub, a yearling at best. He chuckled and tweaked its snarling nose before walking off to see what else he could find.
In the dim moonlight streaming through the window, Phillip peered into a nearby cabinet. Inside he discovered a rather fine collection of expensive wines. He grinned as he finished the contents of his glass in a quick gulp, and selected himself an old bottle with a rather battered looking label.
It contained one of the wines that he had never been able to afford, himself, but he had always had a curiosity about. It was a rice wine, from one of the furthest reaches of Esaria. He popped the cork with his teeth, and poured himself a small amount, replacing the cork and the bottle both carefully.
He took a long, deep breath, savoring the moment, and then, smiling, he took a sip… and nearly choked. He shuddered, mustering all of his self control to swallow the offending drink, and not spit it out on the carpet. Certain wines, it seemed, did not age as well as others. He sighed and poured the rest of his glass into the pot of a nearby plant. “Better to stay with the ones you know,” he thought to himself as he scanned the shelves for a less interesting bottle.
Eyes watering, and his glass brimming with a less detestable vintage, he at last let himself peruse the bookshelf. It was a large, double winged affair, with a number of tantalizingly antique looking volumes on it. He ran his eyes over the shelves, browsing the titles: novel, novel, inane poetry, architects’ guide to buttresses, healers’ guide to herbs, novel… And then he saw it, tucked back into a corner, dusty and most likely untouched for several years: Cirulne’s Notes on the Applications of Practical Alchemy.
Phillip reprimanded himself sternly as he fought the urge to simply pocket the book and walk out. That was a childish risk. The book would still be here later, and there was work to be done. Fighting inwardly for each step, he walked out of the study and continued his search.
The rest of the rooms held little of interest to him, no more than a small amount of jewelry or some loose coin. In one room, he had thought he found a genuine S’haldor sculpture. Upon further inspection, it turned out to be an amazing reproduction, and nothing more. It was so good, however, he wondered briefly whether the lord of the house knew it was a fake, or not.
As he mapped more and more of the layout of this floor in his head, he became convinced that somewhere towards the center had to be a room with no obvious entrance. The rooms flowed comfortably from one to another; well enough, in fact, that he didn’t notice it at first. It was only as he finished one loop of the rooms, that he realized there was a missing space in his internal map.
He turned the corner, planning to walk once more around the rooms, looking for hidden doors or any obvious ones he might have missed, when he heard a sound from down the hall. He stopped and listened closely, his mind already sorting through excuses, his body ready to step quietly into the room beside him, if need be.
It came again, a resounding smack, followed by a feminine giggle, and the deep rumbling laugh of Lord Marwell. Phillip shook his head and stifled a laugh, his pounding heart beginning to slow. It seemed his suspicions as to the closeness of the lord’s chambers were correct.
Thinking quickly, Phillip swallowed the last few sips left in his glass, and assumed a swaying, drunken pose. He shifted from foot to foot, grimacing and groaning as if in pain, and making a show of opening each door and glancing in briefly.
Lord Marwell rounded the corner, a young, redheaded woman slung over his shoulder unceremoniously. Her skirts had made their way up over her hips, and with great fortune for Phillip, their sheer volume covered over the entirety of the lord’s face. He laughed and slapped the girl’s bare rump again, eliciting another round of giggles. Down the hallway they came, navigating blindly and drunkenly by bouncing off the walls every few steps. The state of the lady, and the lord’s codpiece, hanging now by only one strap, gave no question to the fact they were heading for one of the bedrooms.
As they neared, Phillip closed a door in feigned frustration and moved on to the next. He cursed loudly and slurred, “All these rooms! How can one of them not be th’ privy! M’Lord Marwell! Y’ve come t’save me! Where’s th’ privy, a chamberpot… Somethin’?”
The lady on Lord Marwell’s shoulder giggled again, this time at Phillip’s predicament. The lord himself just gave Phillip an irritated wave of his hand, gesturing back the way he came.
Phillip slurred out a thanks, and made a show of stumbling down the hall, after taking another good eyeful of the lovely lady’s shapely bottom and long legs.
He sighed in relief, wishing for his pipe to calm his nerves after that little close call. Alas, that was at home on his night table. He would have to settle for the smoky haze that was the gentlemen’s game room. Perhaps a game or two would find him some further good fortune. At the very least, the politicking, gambling, and tall stories going on in there, would be much less risky, and more relaxing than his current endeavors.
He made his way down the hall, committing the layout to memory, trying to push the tantalizing book from his thoughts, and readying himself for the much simpler leg of his evening.
He pushed his way through a pair of heavy double doors and reveled in the quiet and calm that was to the other side. As the doors closed behind him, the cacophony of the evening was muffled and muted, falling to a rather tolerable din, which became a murmur, a low hum, with each step down the hall he took. The peace was a welcome respite, and soothed Phillip’s nerves like a desert oasis.
He made his way down the mazelike halls of the house towards the living quarters. He’d been to Lord Marwell’s magnificent home on another occasion, and had a general idea of which direction they were from the ballroom.
It wasn’t long before the furnishings began to trend towards comfort and the Marwells’ taste, rather than extravagance and showmanship. It seemed the Marwells liked their quarters much closer to the party than most of the nobility. It was not uncommon for a party to go on for hours after the lord and lady retired, therefore, most wished their rooms to be far from the din.
Phillip shrugged. It was much more convenient for him this way. Besides, he had his suspicions as to why the old womanizer would want his rooms so close by.
Drink in hand, Phillip strolled down the hall, stopping here and there to make closer inspections of a painting or a particularly striking sculpture. He couldn’t keep a rather self satisfied smirk from crossing his face as he perused the fine art like a collector at an auction house. Lord Marwell certainly did have good taste.
The artistry of an old painting portraying an armored man on a great white horse, stole his attention, and briefly his mind strayed from his task. He chided himself for the distraction. He was not strolling, uninvited, down the Lord’s halls, just to appreciate art, as lovely, antique, and intriguing as it was.
He focused his attention on the matter at hand, making mental notes as to where certain items were located and how they related to the rooms around them. He would need all the information he could memorize, later, when he sat down to draw his maps. It wasn’t as if he could just walk out of a party he’d been invited to and was the life of, carrying armloads of the Lord’s possessions. His acquisitions would have to come later.
He studied the dark oak door to the right of the painting. Leaning close and straining his ears to listen, he heard nothing on the other side. He shrugged his shoulders, opened the door, and walked in.
That, Phillip thought, was what separated him from the amateurs. Most would crack the door and just listen or peek in. In his opinion, skulking about just made people look guilty, should they be seen. Walking about as if one owns the place, or has a valid reason for being there, gives one much more wiggling room when it comes to excuses. If you didn’t look guilty, and apologized for being somewhere you shouldn’t have been, rarely did someone think twice about it. Even better, if you didn't look guilty, and did not apologize for being somewhere you shouldn't have been, those who didn't know better, would not think anything wrong.
The room turned out to be a small, simply decorated bedroom. There was little of any interest to him inside. Still, he took a moment to look out the windows, as he did in every new room, and mentally marked its location in relation to the grounds below. Quietly, he closed the door behind him, and made his way down the hall, taking stock of each room as he passed.
Several rooms later, he came upon a lavishly furnished sitting room. Just what he was looking for. Everything, from the exquisite paintings, to the richly carved mahogany and burgundy velvet armchairs, made Phillip smile. The heavily laden bookshelves on the far side of the room sealed its perfection. He quickly closed the door behind him, taking a deep breath, forcing himself to slow down and take proper stock of his surroundings, and not just rush to the prize.
This was most definitely Lord Marwell’s private sitting room and study. It was furnished all in his taste, without a touch of the feminine. The room was decorated in burgundy velvets and deep mahogany woods. Matching plush carpets covered the floors, except for in front of the massive, carved stone fireplace. Two comfortable armchairs sat a little way from the hearth, each with well worn, cushioned footstools. A heavy mahogany desk sat near to the bookshelves, and here and there around the room were shelves bearing various curios.
{C}{C}
{C}
{C}{C}
{C}
Purposely avoiding the books, saving the best for last, Phillip wandered over to the fireplace. He tucked his walking stick under his arm, and leaned in, studying the various pieces of the lord's military past and hunting prowess, that hung over the mantle.
In the center hung an old map, faded and marked with the lines of a nearly forgotten campaign. Phillip, having spent some time as an assistant professor of history, wasn't even certain it was of enough note that he'd ever heard of it. Below that, hung three small, tarnished medals, minor tokens from battles long past. The lord’s favorite pastime seemed to be weaving tales about this battle where he’d saved a great commander, or that time when he lead his troop to a victory, won by the skin of their teeth. “You’d think they’d have come up with better medals for a national hero,” Phillip scoffed inwardly, “I’m starting to think the old fellow is a bigger liar than I am.”
He chuckled and turned his attention to the hunting trophies. On the mantelpiece itself sat a rather surprised looking pair of exotic birds, their brilliant plumage muted by a layer of dust and soot. Phillip resisted the urge to brush away the grime to see what their colors truly were. Above it all, was the abused and disgruntled looking head of Lord Marwell's prized bear. Phillip had heard the story of that bear more times than he could count, each time just a little bit differently. Seeing the head in person, the 'monster of a bear' looked much more like a cub, a yearling at best. He chuckled and tweaked its snarling nose before walking off to see what else he could find.
In the dim moonlight streaming through the window, Phillip peered into a nearby cabinet. Inside he discovered a rather fine collection of expensive wines. He grinned as he finished the contents of his glass in a quick gulp, and selected himself an old bottle with a rather battered looking label.
It contained one of the wines that he had never been able to afford, himself, but he had always had a curiosity about. It was a rice wine, from one of the furthest reaches of Esaria. He popped the cork with his teeth, and poured himself a small amount, replacing the cork and the bottle both carefully.
He took a long, deep breath, savoring the moment, and then, smiling, he took a sip… and nearly choked. He shuddered, mustering all of his self control to swallow the offending drink, and not spit it out on the carpet. Certain wines, it seemed, did not age as well as others. He sighed and poured the rest of his glass into the pot of a nearby plant. “Better to stay with the ones you know,” he thought to himself as he scanned the shelves for a less interesting bottle.
Eyes watering, and his glass brimming with a less detestable vintage, he at last let himself peruse the bookshelf. It was a large, double winged affair, with a number of tantalizingly antique looking volumes on it. He ran his eyes over the shelves, browsing the titles: novel, novel, inane poetry, architects’ guide to buttresses, healers’ guide to herbs, novel… And then he saw it, tucked back into a corner, dusty and most likely untouched for several years: Cirulne’s Notes on the Applications of Practical Alchemy.
Phillip reprimanded himself sternly as he fought the urge to simply pocket the book and walk out. That was a childish risk. The book would still be here later, and there was work to be done. Fighting inwardly for each step, he walked out of the study and continued his search.
The rest of the rooms held little of interest to him, no more than a small amount of jewelry or some loose coin. In one room, he had thought he found a genuine S’haldor sculpture. Upon further inspection, it turned out to be an amazing reproduction, and nothing more. It was so good, however, he wondered briefly whether the lord of the house knew it was a fake, or not.
As he mapped more and more of the layout of this floor in his head, he became convinced that somewhere towards the center had to be a room with no obvious entrance. The rooms flowed comfortably from one to another; well enough, in fact, that he didn’t notice it at first. It was only as he finished one loop of the rooms, that he realized there was a missing space in his internal map.
He turned the corner, planning to walk once more around the rooms, looking for hidden doors or any obvious ones he might have missed, when he heard a sound from down the hall. He stopped and listened closely, his mind already sorting through excuses, his body ready to step quietly into the room beside him, if need be.
It came again, a resounding smack, followed by a feminine giggle, and the deep rumbling laugh of Lord Marwell. Phillip shook his head and stifled a laugh, his pounding heart beginning to slow. It seemed his suspicions as to the closeness of the lord’s chambers were correct.
Thinking quickly, Phillip swallowed the last few sips left in his glass, and assumed a swaying, drunken pose. He shifted from foot to foot, grimacing and groaning as if in pain, and making a show of opening each door and glancing in briefly.
Lord Marwell rounded the corner, a young, redheaded woman slung over his shoulder unceremoniously. Her skirts had made their way up over her hips, and with great fortune for Phillip, their sheer volume covered over the entirety of the lord’s face. He laughed and slapped the girl’s bare rump again, eliciting another round of giggles. Down the hallway they came, navigating blindly and drunkenly by bouncing off the walls every few steps. The state of the lady, and the lord’s codpiece, hanging now by only one strap, gave no question to the fact they were heading for one of the bedrooms.
As they neared, Phillip closed a door in feigned frustration and moved on to the next. He cursed loudly and slurred, “All these rooms! How can one of them not be th’ privy! M’Lord Marwell! Y’ve come t’save me! Where’s th’ privy, a chamberpot… Somethin’?”
The lady on Lord Marwell’s shoulder giggled again, this time at Phillip’s predicament. The lord himself just gave Phillip an irritated wave of his hand, gesturing back the way he came.
Phillip slurred out a thanks, and made a show of stumbling down the hall, after taking another good eyeful of the lovely lady’s shapely bottom and long legs.
He sighed in relief, wishing for his pipe to calm his nerves after that little close call. Alas, that was at home on his night table. He would have to settle for the smoky haze that was the gentlemen’s game room. Perhaps a game or two would find him some further good fortune. At the very least, the politicking, gambling, and tall stories going on in there, would be much less risky, and more relaxing than his current endeavors.
He made his way down the hall, committing the layout to memory, trying to push the tantalizing book from his thoughts, and readying himself for the much simpler leg of his evening.