Explosive Crème, and Tempers...

The group alights from the carriage, their peaceful picnic rudely interrupted with the discovery of a dead body.

The day is waning into early afternoon. The mood is sombre as they try to figure out what their next steps should be, they’ve left the castle guard in charge of dealing with the homicide. Nanny K suggests that she take Lucy to her room for a nap. Lucy agrees sleepily. Ooma decides to accompany them, uneasy at leaving Lucy.

Wik heads to Mr. Green, he wants his ointments tested. After the stories and tales he has spun for Lucy, he has a bee in his bonnet and the idea occurs to him that it is possible the alchemist, Mr. Green, may be able to confirm the potions are correct and will work; or not. Wik passes Morgan and nods as the pirate heads up, while he heads, down the stairs. Morgan grunts, preoccupied with his mission, his lips are moving as he talks to himself. Wik shakes his head.

“So, can you help me?” Wik asks Mr. Green, explaining the situation.

“I see,” he smiles peering closely at Wik, “This is not your normal colourings?”

Wik frowns deeply, “No, I mixed up some chemicals and they turned me these colours.”

Mr. Green nods, “Well,” he contemplates. Wik hands him the lotions he has been using to supposedly revert his colourings. “These are the products?” he confirms. “Okay, it will take me a few hours, maybe more, to figure out the ingredients.”

“That’s okay,” Wik announces taking a seat by the door and pulling out a dagger and a block of wood, “I’ll just whittle away the time; don’t mind me.”

“Y-y-yes. Okay then.” Mr. Green turns and start pulling out beakers and Petri dishes, lighting Bunsen burners and setting them up next to ones already bubbling and decanting. Mr. Green smiles at Wik, “I should have some answers for your friend soon on the contents of those vials he brought down earlier this morning.” Wik nods and goes back to whittling.

Martonis bids Lucy a good nap, and asks a passing page to direct him to the chapel; he feels the need to rest in his god’s presence for a time. He is shown to the chapel, “Mais, être désolé monsieur, the Bishop ne pas là.” The way he wrings his hands and appears nervous, Martonis is able to figure out that the pastor is not at the chapel currently.

“That is okay,” he reassures the young man, hoping he will understand him. “I’ll be fine.” He pulls open the elaborately carved Rosewood door and wanders in, closing the door behind him silently. The sun is spilling into the large building-within-a-building as enormous stained glass windows colour the interior in jewel tones. “Ahhh Pelor,” Martonis beams standing in the light, opening his arms wide.

Amaril lets the others know he is heading up to the library, “I want to locate some information on that – that, well, whatever that thing was we fought the other day!” He is shown to the library; it is just above the chapel on the third floor, in the opposite wing as their bedrooms. Not exactly gloomy, but sort of airless. Heavy, dark wood shelving and kilometres of books filling those shelves, amid curiosities and oddities placed decoratively between rows of books, or, occasionally honoured with a shelf of its own sort of had the effect of making one want to whisper, and feel apologetic as their shoes clattered on the gleaming hardwood floors.

Chairs sit beside high tea-tables and low cushioned stools. Lamps were set ready to light if the daylight from the one gigantic paned-window running the full length of the library, the view of the rolling hills to the North, failed.

He pulls a few books from the shelves after spending a good fifteen minutes peering at the massive selections and, being directed to the location where he would most likely find the information he is looking for by the diminutive, elderly woman wielding a feather duster moving about the shelves. He takes the books and sits in a tufted red-leather wing back chair, next to the window, opening the first tome, setting the others on a small table beside the chair. He peruses the information carefully, but quickly, flipping swiftly to determine if the book can reveal anything to him.

Setting the first aside and picking up the second he repeats his motions. He does this until he amasses a couple of scientific wood-bound journals complete with lovely colour illustrations, that he would like to read in-depth, and an even larger pile of books that were not what he was seeking. Just as he is considering he has all he needs, he picks up a small, blue hide-bound, ancient, hand written journal that intrigues him. “May I borrow this?” he asks the lady as she polishes the window panes.

“Oui!” she peers closely at the book. “Ahhh, zee ancient spell book.” She smiles conspiratorially with Amaril. “Such a lot of zee nonsense!” she shakes her head. “Magic, pah! Beaucoup se faire avoir; treeks,” she translates, “to amuser les enfants.” She winks.

Amaril nods sagely, “Yes ma’am. It would be nice if it were real.” He forlorn, barely able to contain the smirk he feels about to erupt.

“Ah well, zee tricks, there are entertaining, n’est pas?”

Amaril nods, as he places the book in his rucksack, “Yes ma’am. Thank you.” He decides to locate Martonis, to see if he might be able to translate the document, wondering what an ancient spellbook is doing in a modern, well, to him modern - castle?

He first goes to the chapel, and finding it empty, he decides probably Lucy’s room would be the best place to locate Martonis, but before he starts down the stairs, he is stopped by a lovely maid with flowing black hair who speaks quietly to him, her eyes welling with tears as she explains her plight and begs that he might help her.

Amaril is taken by her beauty and unusual shade of her eyes, “I will see what can be done, my dear. Let me talk with the rest of my party and I will think about this.” He pats her hand and she nods before disappearing off down the hall to attend her duties, and Amaril continues down the stairs.

In the meanwhile, Morgan has made his way to the kitchens. He stops just inside the vast white room, observing the busy, noisy production as people, all dressed in white, scurried about, some clearly apprentices, (as they were ordered about by others and set to the menial tasks such as peeling root vegetables or stirring a pot hovering over a large fire).

A young boy, maybe nine or ten, comes over to Morgan. “Puis-je aider, monsieur?” he asks.

Morgan looks at him, his brow furled as it takes a few seconds for him to decipher what the boy has probably said. “Yeah, I’m investigating the incident that happened a few days ago.”

The boy looks confused, “Zee in-see-dint? We’ve ‘ad no ‘in-see-dint’?”

“When everyone fell asleep?”

The boy looks embarrassed, “Oui, monsieur. We got in zoooo mush trubble for zat. We only had zee small drink of zee wine.”

“Wine?”

The boy clearly uneasy, explains a case of wine was delivered to the kitchen with a note elucidating it was for the staff; a reward. “We were suppose to wait until zee kitchens were quiet, but Childes insisted we need not wait! He opened zee case an' filled a glass for everyone. He said one glass would not hurt us. We could celebrate later with zee rest, or so he said.”

“Who is Childes?”

“La viande cuisinier, Monsieur.”

Morgan nods, like he understands. “Who is in charge here?”

“Chef Francois, Monsieur,” he turns his gaze upon an average height man, with a tall white hat who was, at that moment, barking one of the cooks for some infraction.

“Thank you,” Morgan tells the boy, handing him a few copper coins.

“Oh non, monsieur, non,” he waves his hands gently. “Ce n’est pas necessaire.”

Morgan insists, “Keep it safe for me, and if you have a great need to spend it, you may do so, okay?”

The young boy looks at Morgan like he is a god, “Merci beaucoup, monsieur.” He slips the coins in his apron pocket. “Merci.” He watches as Morgan makes his way over to Chef Francois.

Morgan, incensed at how the Chef is riding the young cook and interrupts. The Chef turns, his face red. “Yes?” he asks his anger barely under boiling.

Morgan puffs up and gruffly intones, “Listen, we’re heard some talk that you’re mistreating the staff in here.” Morgan’s eyes look to the young man who has just received a tongue-lashing.

Chef Francois puffs himself up, all five-foot six-inches of him, and stares at Morgan. “Who are you to come into my kitchens an' speak like this? I do not mistreat my staff! Ask them! Any of them!” he waves his arm and looks about the room his manner indicating that he will gladly cut the tongue from the mouth of anyone so foolish as to describe his iron-fist control of the kitchen as mistreatment.

The staff quickly go back to their tasks vigorously, their demeanour indicating that if you DO ask, please DON’T ask THEM!

Morgan goes on, questioning the man about the wine and his whereabouts when it was consumed.

“Ahh, zees lazy shifters. I was at zee markets, and when I return I find zee staff muddled and zee Scribbles iz just coming from zee kitchen, he iz holding a vin bottle asking me what iz zee meaning of it! Zay drink zee vin too mush! Lazy shiftless...”

Morgan continues questioning him and asks about the ledgers, “Has everything been accounted for? I was informed a case of wine was delivered for the staff as a gift?”

“Pah!” he spits, “There was no wine for them. They thought they could steal from the cellar!”

“Yes, well, I’d like to see the ledgers for myself.”

“Are you accusing me of somezing?” The shorter man puffs his chest even further out and marches forward trying to intimidate Morgan.

Morgan raises an eyebrow and pulls himself to his full height, “Is there something I should be accusing you of?”

The Chef grabs a large kitchen knife from a surprised cook and points it at Morgan, “Get out of my kitchen!”

Morgan calmly stares back, “It seems like you might have something to hide.”

The Chef, spins, pushes the cook aside and begins hacking the vegetable in front of him.

“You’re going to serve those to a six-year-old queen?” he taunts the Chef, who, seething takes a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling. “I’d like to see the books.”

“Fine!” he drops the knife and stomps his way to his office, pulling out a ledger and turning it to a page a day or two before the incident. “There, look all you want; I ‘ave nozing to hide!” He stomps back out of the office leaving Morgan to study the ledger at his will.

After a short while, Morgan discovers three cases of wine missing and confirms this as he takes inventory of the supplies in the larders. He questions someone about the wine, and the label and, although the label is Monet, they seem to see something slightly different. “Is this the same wine you always use?” He remembers seeing it around the town in various venues, usually under lock and key. After confirming the staff probably would not have noticed anything weird about the wine, he firmly believes the Vizier, the head chef, or that witch Ichabod is behind this!

While in the large cold storage room where barrels of flour, racks of product and burlap sacks filled with vegetables resided until needed by the kitchen staff, he notices, on the wall, what appears to be the outline of a doorway. A barrel, and a few sacks sit in front of the faint rectangular depression. Taking his scimitar, Morgan carefully etches a small ‘x’ unobtrusively near the corner at the bottom.

Nodding, he exits the kitchens, satisfied with what he’s learned. Or thinks he’s learned. The Chef explained the missing wine with an impatient wave of his hand, “The Vizier is looking into that. It is hiz problem not mine. I, for one, blame zis lazy lot.” His eyes skim suspiciously over his staff.

Morgan leaves and, after determining everyone is most likely visiting Lucy’s room, this is where he goes.

Ooma and Nanny K, sit, enjoying a pleasant pot of mint tea and a plate of temptingly moist cakes and sweets. They chat quietly, in the ante chamber just outside of Lucy’s bedroom.

“So what can you tell me about the death of Lucy’s parents?”

Nanny K takes a long sip of the tea. “It was very sad. His majesty was out hunting. A glorious day for it. The queen was overseeing the preparations for a celebratory feast, we all knew the King would have a successful hunt. Only this time he returned on a cart. He’d been shot. The arrow pierced through the back of his armour and into his chest. The alchemist, not Monsieur Green, the one before him, Monsieur Brown, did all that he could, but in the end it was not enough and he died of his wounds.”

“And the Queen?”

“She was broken-hearted of course. Though, when the King returned on the litter she was a stalwart of strength. Ordered everyone about; tore linen dressings herself! Sat up with him for two nights until she succumbed to a mysterious intestinal ailment. She never recovered; she died two days after the King, leaving Lucy as the heir to the throne. She was only a baby. Some thought her cousin, Francois, (he’s next in line to the throne should anything happen to Lucy) was better suited to take over until Lucy came of age, but in the end the Vizier remained and Francois headed out on his adventures. We sent Lucy to Madame Edith as is the custom among royalty. Edith can be counted on to bring a child up with manners and knowledge, in as normal environment as possible. I have never met her, and the Vizier was set against it, calling the custom archaic and detrimental, but the council over-ruled him and he gave in. In fact, my cousin escorted the babe to Edith’s along with a contingent of soldiers and nursemaids, of course.” She sat back and drank some tea.

Martonis perks up. “Your cousin?”

Morgan and Amaril join the tea party, quietly so as not to awaken Lucy.

Nanny K nods, nibbling a biscuit. “She is an adventurer and has made the journey a few times with various other well-to-do children.”

“It’s too bad she isn’t here. She might be willing to carry a message to Edith.”

Nanny brightens, “Oh, I’m sure she would. She lives only a few kilometres from here.”

“Could we send a messenger to her? Would she come?”

Nanny K takes another sip of her tea. “What if we went to visit her? That way we won’t have prying ears listening in.”

“An excellent idea Madame! Excellent." Martonis praises the Nanny. "I look forward to meeting your cousin.”

Nanny K nods, “I’ll arrange it so we may leave right after breakfast in the morning.”

They all turn their heads as they hear the sound that sounds like the cooing of a small dove, and Lucy peers around the door, sleepily rubbing her eyes. “What are you arranging?” she asks as Nanny rises.

“A trip for tomorrow. Would you like to visit Antoinette? You remember her, don’t you?”

“Marie?” Lucy exclaims. “Yes!” she says happily as nanny leads her back into the room to wash and dress, spouting questions too fast for nanny to respond.

In the meantime, while Morgan is busy in the kitchens and the others are pursuing their ambitions, Wik is chatting with the alchemist, who, as they chat notices the beaker with the lotion that Wik has been applying more or less faithfully, twice daily, bubbling up and the contents spilling over. He turns and gathers a small amount of it, performing various tests before turning back to Wik. “You’ve been using this on your skin to remove the colour?” at Wik’s affirmative nod, he shakes his head. “I do not believe it will remove the dye, it is plain soap.”

Wik’s eyes widen and then he gets a wry look on his face. “It figures.”

Just as he says this a loud pop and sparkles appear in the other beaker and the chemist moves quickly, but not quickly enough as the container explodes sending blobs of crème everywhere. As soon as it settles down, Mr. Green turns to Wik, “You use this in your hair?”

Wik nods, peering from behind the chair, “Y-y-yes.” He says cautiously.

“I would advise a good scrubbing in a bath, this stuff is explosive! Get near a flame and your head could go off like a Roman candle! You go bathe while I clean this mess and finish up these tests. I’ll see if I can’t create a formula that will fade the dye/ You go.” He is looking at Wik’s head nervously, like it might explode right there!

Wik, nodding, a little nervous himself, goes quickly and, finding a maid along the way, requests a bath be brought immediately to his room.

Amaril, as soon as Nanny heads into the bedroom with Lucy brings out the spellbook he’s found. “I found this upstairs in the library. The librarian says it’s full of magic spells. I was wondering if you can read it?”

Martonis takes the book and his eyes light up! “Yes, it’s a spellbook alright. Wow, ancient! I wonder how it got in the library? Can I keep it for a while? It will take me a few days to read through it, but there might be some interesting spell here. Good find!”

We leave our party enjoying afternoon tea, or a splash in the bubbly water…

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XP: 250 each; EXTRA-XP for those who write a story (with the Tavern at its centre...); journal entry (of usefulness); or an insight into their character’s back\forward story... 50xp X character level, for one entry per week…

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un-edited video version

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war is dreadfully expensive...

fledgling Dungeon Mistress,

khrys...

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