Date: Starting Reneca 31st ------- Location: St Loomis, Fountain Square, Town Hall Building
The heavy bronze doors of the town council building in Fountain Square are open, and heavier guard presence in the square signifies that some events are ongoing.
(Pomeroy): The single very heavy bronze paneled door that usually guards the main entrance is open, allowing entry onto the modest lobby of the St Loomis town hall. Simple wooden benches sit ranged around the oak-paneled walls of the room, allowing visitors a place to cool their heels while waiting to have their business heard by one of various town functionaries. Far more ornate than the main entrance, large double doors of carved and highly polished mistwood allow entry into the main meeting chamber to the east.
Hallways branch off to south and north, leading deeper into the mysteries of local governance -- but these hallways are guarded by the town watch today, who sternly observe the passage of any foreigner in particular.
The main meeting chamber contains a hall where people might bring their questions and requests before the town council, and further benches for audiences to attend to the ongoing affairs. This hall is headed by a large, semi-circular table set on a slightly-raised platform and headed by the mayor, with councilmembers gathered in seats on either side. The hall provides a long space to form a line before that large table, benches lining either wall in dual rows. Due to the raised position of the council table and the acoustics of the arched ceiling, the speech of the councils travels loudly through the chamber.
After much background chatter and gathering all morning, Pomeroy finally stands from his seat on Mayor Ascot's righthand side and declares: "The town hall begins!" He offers a pompously-benevolent smile. "As a particular note, as we have foreigners amongst us here, I will provide ongoing translation services to the Ruvic language!" And he does so, repeating himself again in Ruvic, as the initial announcement was spoken in Ilexi.
The snooty mayorial assistant turns his gaze to those waiting in line, and announces the first: "Captain Larth, of the Town Watch!" Then, he stands by, apparently at the ready to spew Ruvic translations for whatever might next be said.
(Ascot): Having arrived later than the rest of the council, Mayor Ascot was nevertheless on hand just in time to take a seat and wave a hand at his assistant to signal that he might begin the meeting. Now Ascot sits in his place at the head of the table, gazing out over the assembling crowd with the distant and slightly weary expression of one who wishes he could be somewhere else. His face only assumes a trace of animation at the occasional entry of well-dressed and important-looking attendees who must be people of wealth and influence around the town.
(the St Loomis town council): The Town Council, eleven members in all, sit around the table in attitudes as varying as their age and appearance. One older middle-aged woman with a sloppily arranged wimple casts a vague smile out over the meeting hall as if she were offering a welcome to friends she only half-remembers. Two elderly men, one sporting wild tufts of grey hair about his balding pate, the other with only a few thready wisps draped across his spotted crown, converse in low tones and chortle like old cronies until Pomeroy calls the meeting to order. The youngest member of the council, a mousy-haired fellow in his mid-thirties, sits with his arms folded across his chest and a restless air, and keeps casting nettled glances over at the mayor.
But as the hall fills up, and Guardsmen Larth is called to speak, each member of the motley council turns their attention their way with interest.
(Matthew): A large, bear-like man with a broad round face and twinkling honey-brown eyes sits near the front of the room, taking in the scene as if it were the greatest delight in his life to be right here, right now. He is dressed in good silks and finest couranty wool, with a flame orange silk stole draped across his big round shoulders, yet those nice clothes have a rumpled look upon him and don't seem to fit quite right despite the clear skill put into their tailoring.
As he sits on the bench, twisting his bulky body about to see everything around him, he exudes a happy benevolence that encompasses the entire room, and tips a nod and a knowing smile to each person who catches his eye, like someone sharing a small secret joke with the entire world.
(Tighearnach): Positioned to one side of the meeting chamber's doors, a rusty-haired youth in a Mistwatch uniform seems to be representing that organization as an additional guard for the occasion, with an older town watchman as his partner. A gleam of nervous excitement in his blue-green eyes gives away something of what he feels to be present and on duty at the council meeting today, and he looks to be trying out his best impression of the St. Loomis lighthouse as he stands extremely upright and stiff near the entry.
(Larth): Larth steps forward towards the raised table, chainmail jangling after each heavy stomp of his boots. "Honored town council," he addresses the gathering, with a tip of his head for each member, and finally rests his gaze on the mayor. "Mayor Ascot."
Then, the guard-captain heaves a grim sigh. There's a vague weariness in his expression, and he seems to have purposefully overlooked nodding to the snooty mayorial assistant. "I've apprehended two criminals," states Larth. "Dockworkers, brawlers at Keely's. They beat and robbed one of the foreigners, who is supposedly a noble of his own lands." Despite this detail, the guard-captain still doesn't seem impressed, just cold and dry. "Thodden of Sleithdale and Niloly Fletcher now await their sentences in a cell."
He pauses, allowing just enough time for the gravity of that sentence to sink in for the council, and then goes on, "Their crime being that they stole forty-some silvers from this heathen lord, I charged them with returning the sum. But unfortunately, Thodden and Niloly, being of red-blooded Ensorian stock, thirsty for a good brew, have already whiled away these..." A snort. "...earnings, and..." He shakes his head, tongue clicking once.
Another pause, then... "This would be no matter, but as noble blood is involved, Alisayde or not -- I propose to the council that we substitute each silver owed for an hour in the stocks." Spreading both gauntleted hands in a slight shrug, Larth asks the council: "Fair?"
(Fadila): Dressed in her best Fadila enters the hall. Her head with its many braids bows in respect as she whispers a greeting in crisp, fluently spoken Ruvic. Once she has greeted the notables, she finds a space to sit. Her hands fold in her lap and she sits, quite properly, eyes attentive upon the crowd.
(GM): OOC: Fadila just rolled finesse by itself, coming up with 46.
(Fadila): After listening to the council Fadila rises nervously, gettin in line to await her turn. She stands respectfully, watching the others gather and listening to the talk about the stocks. Reflexively she shivers, her hands clasped to show she had nothing hidden in them. Her perfume bottle is peeking from the tunic she wears. Sighing she glances down at it, then her eyes observe the rest of the gathered throng. Her quietly murmured, "Please song." In Ruvic might be heard by those around her but its quiet enough to not disturb those speaking already. She doesn't fidget. Indeed her form would be seen as standing gracefully, head bowed respectfully as she awaits her turn.
(GM): OOC: Fadila just rolled finesse and linguistics, coming up with 38.
(the St Loomis town council): The councillors murmur amongst each other at the mention of a heathen noble lord, seeming vaguely discontent and unsettled. But after a few minutes, they seem to concur, and then look to Mayor Ascot to wait his reply to Captain Larth.
(Ascot): The mayor listens to Captain Larth's report with a moue of faint distaste, while giving a few fastidious dustings to the puffy sleeves of his jerkin as if this could detach the clinging taint of both Alisaydes and Ensorian ruffians from his person. Glancing around briefly at the council with their murmurings, he then returns another vague glance to Larth as he agrees anticlimactically, "Yes, well, I'm sure that's fine," while meantime is attention is caught by Fadila's rising. He stares at her for a moment before cutting his eyes away from this foreign creature who is clearly beneath his notice. Despite the fact that he just as clearly noticed her.
(Larth): Bringing both hands together with thump-muted clang, Guard-Captain Larth offers Mayor Ascot a deep nod. "I shall do it now," he states, and turns to stalk out of the hall. There's a brief expression of vague distaste spared for Fadila, whether or not he notices the nobility of her own bearing.
(Pomeroy): A particular expression rests unhappily on Pomeroy's face: one of consternation, but of the constipated sort. He stares silently after the departing Guard-Captain, then purses his lips in an uncharacteristic frown. After a quick look towards Mayor Ascot, though, he returns to his duties -- looking to the one next in line, who happens to be Fadila. "State your name and business," he calls to her, first in Ilexi, and then in Ruvic. It only takes a couple syllables for his snooty, self-assured manner and tone to make a comeback.
(Fadila): Bowing deeply to the mayor and his assistant Fadila rises speaking as she paces forward, hands lifted to show she means no harm. Her lilting soprano lifts over the general chatter of the hall. In crisp formal tones she says, "I am Fadila Alheta." "I am a member of the Banu Anzul tribe of the Salawi." "I wish to ask for a permit that I might open a perfume stall within the market." She worries her lip before continuing. "I have a sample of my work which I may show you at your request my Lords and Ladies of the council." She says this last but with a bowed polite inclination of the head. "I have a gift for mixing scents, that one might wear, to bring a nicety to oneself." "Just as one puts on one's clothing one might put upon oneself scent." "Just ask clothing shows one's wealth and position, scent may do the same." "I wish to bring then a business, to those who may wish for some, a luxury that some may crave." "Upon my word my Lords and Ladies of the council I do not jest, and my skill is fair." Her crisp Ruvic is marked by diction, clear enunciation of her words as if she has some education behind her. Indeed her formality is painful in its exactitude as she continues, "Having a permit to sell such I was told was necessary to ply my wares." "As I have said." She stops, rigid, only nervousness marked by which she rings her hands once, twice, before they settle again, clasped as before. "I respectfully await your judgement or questions you would have of me." "I work as some may know at the inn, and will continue to do so." "But this venture may bring class to the town, if you would so deem it allowable." She bows her head and says, "I have nothing further to say, unless you wish to ask questions or test my perfume for yourselves." With that she steps back, head bowed for whatever happens.
(GM): OOC: Fadila just rolled finesse and education, coming up with 52.
(Yasin): The stout and burly foreigner known as Yasin enters the hall just as the meeting is about to start. He isn't exactly the picture of stately governance. With unkempt hair that is clearly too long, fresh soot obvious on his apron and about his hands, and a few pockets on said apron unclasped, a few hammers and tools visible, he gives the appearance of having just rushed over from the farrier's. He pauses before crossing into the building and takes a moment to brush some soot off of his apron and hands.
Taking a breath and flexing his hands nervously, he then crosses the threshold and finds an unoccupied seat near the back of the meeting chamber, offering a nod and smile to those he recognizes.
After Fadila goes to stand in line, Yasin looks about, and then with an expression of mild trepidation, he rises to stand in line behind her. His hands idly -- or maybe nervously -- brush down the length of his apron as he stands there, observing and waiting.
(Letetia): As Fadila begins to speak her business towards the council, a statuesquely lovely lady seated close to the middle of the hall sits up a little straighter -- as much as she can do, given how very straight and refined her posture was already -- and fixes her gaze upon the foreigner. Oddly, she's seated all by herself, with an empty space on either side of her, though this does have the benefit of allowing her ample room to spread out her beautiful brocade skirts. Though she doesn't appear quite surprised by the outlander woman's request, intent interest kindles in her eyes during that short speech, and she nods to herself as if having discovered something she'd been looking for from the start.
Raising her chin up high, she swivels her head towards the platform on which the council sits -- and the mayor too. It's he whom she pins now with her gaze, icy-green eyes staring at him with great force and, perhaps, a hint of meaningfully pointed ire.
(GM): OOC: Letetia just rolled command and intimidation, coming up with 64.
(Ziyad): Ziyad quietly enters the town hall, careful not to disrupt the proceedings with his tardy arrival. He glances around for a place to sit, offering a friendly nod to those he recognizes who are already in attendance. He quickly slips over to the first suitable seat that he finds somewhere in the middle benches, neither too far to have his view obstructed much nor close enough that he'll be in the immediate view of the town council.
Faintly ink-stained fingers brush idly at the purple calico of his thawb while he listens to the latest petition. He must have made an effort to clean all his clothing before attending the event, since there isn't a single hint of dust or grime on them. Wrinkles are harder to get rid of, so Ziyad keeps trying to smooth them out.
Unlike his fellow foreigners, Yasin and Fadila, he seems content to simply sit and keep his ears open for new developments, instead of bringing up any requests of his own.
(Ascot): Just a moment ago the mayor had been idly fidgeting with the links fastening his meticulously neat shirt cuffs, expression distant and preoccupied, but then he feels The Stare. And under the force of that awful gaze from the statuesque woman, Ascot quails.
Darting a wide-eyed look over at the council and sitting up rather straight himself, he exclaims abruptly, "Now now now, no need to debate this, sirs and madams! St. Loomis needs a good perfumer, every goodwoman in town knows it. No place can consider itself truly cultured without a perfumer, and we've a great lack of them at the moment, there hasn't been anything like one since Mistress Sylwen passed, and that was nigh on eight years ago now, and there's nothing to be got from abroad these days, no. We really shouldn't delay on this matter, our wives and daughters are depending on us to take this important-- this important st-step." Perhaps now seeing the council members also staring outright at him, his babbling stutters to a halt.
"Ahem," he says, not so much a throat-clearing as a wordless plea of atonement. His pale blue eyes dart nervously towards the imposing woman in the hall, a wan placatory smile twisting his mouth. "Ah. You gentlefolk may handle the, er, the details," he concludes, with a limp wave of one hand at the council.
(the St Loomis town council): The wimpled woman was about to speak towards the mousy-haired fellow, usual murmuring deliberations coming to pass, upon Mayor Ascot's sudden exclamation. All eleven members stare at the mayor for a moment, and then a few eyes turn towards that statuesque lady. Finally, the other elderly man clears his throat and raises his voice towards Fadila, speaking Ruvic as she had been: "Young miss, once you have paid the licensing fee of twenty wafers, deliverable to the St Loomis town council, you are free to commission a stall of whichever sort you may prefer from any carpenter in town and hawk your wares at the Market Square..." He turns a shaky gaze towards the mayor's assistant, and lifts a hand in a 'move along' gesture.
(Fadila): Lifting her head as the stir goes round the hall to the statuesque lady her head bends in deep respect seeing her as the one who has the council members quite uneasy at the stare. She recovers herself then. Her gaze falls upon the council as she draws out her coins. She debates what to do. But she walks forward placing the 20 wafers on the table before the council. Her head lifts, her shoulders straighten and she says rather carefully. "My lords and ladies of the council, I thank you for this oppertunity to do this." "I am glad to be of service to the people of this land." "I thank you and bid you a good day." With that she places the stacked coins upon the council table. She nods, bowing, and steps aside, "If there are any questions I shall be available." She then makes way for other petitioners of the council by sitting down. Her eyes landing on the statuesque lady whom she smiles at shyly. She looks as though she hasn't fully processed the excision. Only the lack of coins in her pouch shows her she has gained their permission. She sits down quietly enough. Dignified to watch the rest of the meeting.
(GM): OOC: Fadila just rolled composure and education, coming up with 43.
(Letetia): At this outcome to the first petition, the apparently fearsome woman's mouth curves into a small, pleased smile, which settles on Fadila for just a moment. There's the tiniest inclination of her head, and then she faces forward and clasps her hands together in her lap, looking entirely composed once more.
(Sitra): Slipping into the hall, the rather tall foreign woman does her best to be subtle about her arrival, even if it may be a rather difficult thing - given how she stands out amidst the locals.
Casting a quick look about, she is soon shifting over to find a spot to observe the proceedings rather than entering the line to speak. Mild curiosity settles across her features, a hand idly resting against the glass pendant she wears while looking over the council and those hosting the meeting.
(Pomeroy): Observing with a faint curl of his lip that might indicate a subtle grimace, the snooty mayorial assistant eventually nods back to the elderly councillor and looks at the next person. It's Yasin.
There's a flicker of recognizance in those twilight-blue eyes, and finally Pomeroy speaks in a slightly-more courteous manner than he did to Fadila, but still first in Ilexi and then Ruvic: "State your name and business to the council."
(Yasin): Yasin steps forward, nervousness apparent about his person as he looks to each of the council members. There's an awkward moment where he seems unsure whom to settle his eyes on, looking first to Pomeroy, then to Mayor Ascot, then to various members of the council. Eventually, he settles his honey-brown eyes on the elderly member of the council that had just spoken to Fadila.
His introduction seems to at first mirror Fadila's. In a bass-baritone that is shaky at first, he says in lightly-accented Ruvic, "Good day... lords and ladies of the council. I am Yasin, of Alheri. Thank you for the hospitality of the town. I am currently serving as an apprentice under Master Smythe, on Silver Street."
There is a pleasantness and fluency to his vocabulary that may seem at odds with his appearance. The shakiness seems to work itself out of his voice as he finishes the introduction, and he says more calmly, "Master Smythe and I are working on a... plan to improve the safety of the mine. Wooden supports to be installed to brace against the rock, to reduce the occurrence of rock falls. To prevent injuries."
"We wished to only raise awareness of this project to the council and the town, and are not asking for any aid at this time. If any wish to discuss the matter, uh, we'd be very pleased to do so. If any of the town wish to lend their hand -- it will probably be labor intensive, so any hands are of course welcome -- please do seek me or Otty Smythe out."
His little speech done with, a little nervousness seems to settle in once more, as those eyes once again flit to the various members of the council. "Uh. Otherwise, thank you very much for your time listening." He dips his head to the council and he stands there, waiting.
(GM): OOC: Yasin just rolled magnetism by itself, coming up with 30.
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf has been lingering in the back of the town hall and appears to be writing in a leather tome. To any glances at the pages from those nearby, some quick sketches have been completed. They put their supplies away and stand in line. Their hands are ink stained, and their clothing looks new and unwrinkled, similar to local styles. They aim an encouraging look to Yasin
(GM): OOC: Ighlaf just rolled acuity and painting, coming up with 82.
(the St Loomis town council): The council hears Yasin's well-spoken announcement, though not without suspicion. There are some approving nods at the mention of the name 'Otty Smythe', which apparently garners a fair deal of respect. Some murmuring commences. In the end, they look to Mayor Ascot, as though expecting him to make a proclamation on this matter.
(Ascot): Slumped in his chair, the mayor still looks somewhat prostrated by the lingering effects of The Stare from the woman down in the audience seating. It takes a moment after the council looks to him for Ascot to rally, drawing in a deep breath and blinking at them bemusedly. He casts a glance down at Yasin, brow furrowing in the faintest hint of dismay at having to deal not just with a barbarian, but a smudgy sooty laboring barbarian at that.
Pinching the bridge of his nose lightly, he nevertheless declares in sonorous tones, "Yea, let it be as this man says. We are pleased that Goodman.. Yah-sin of.. Aleery, and our own Master Smythe, have agree to pursue such necessary projects to the prosperity of the land. The Mayor and the Council agree that such measures as you shall undertake will help to strengthen the mines of St. Loomis, and thereby the town as a whole." Somehow he manages to make this sound rather like it was his own idea rather than some independent smith-driven initiative. "We thank you for this update on your plans and progress."
He concludes with a gracious inclination of the head towards the petitioner, seeming to signify that he is finished displaying his magnanimity.
(Yasin): There's the slightest hint of annoyance about the young apprentice -- a narrowing of his eyes, perhaps -- as the Mayor gives Yasin that look of dismay and pinches the bridge of his nose. But that seems to fade almost immediately as Ascot declares some agreement with the proposal, and Yasin begins nodding in cadence to the Mayor's speech. In fact, the young Razmani doesn't even look bothered that the Mayor declares this approval with an air as if it was his own idea -- he smiles, instead.
"Thank you, Mayor." He says, dipping his head to Ascot. Turning his head slightly to regard the council again, his eyes settling briefly on that elderly man, he says with another dip of his head, "And thank you, Council."
No doubt seeing this as a sign for him to leave, Yasin turns to head back towards the seats, giving Ighlaf an encouraging smile of his own while he passes the artist in queue.
His eyes happen to land upon Ziyad, and he manages to find an unoccupied seat near the man, sitting down to observe the rest of the proceedings.
(Pomeroy): After waiting for Yasin to leave the queue, Pomeroy lets his attention rest on Ighlaf. There's the twitch of a brief smile. "The artist," he says, only in Ruvic -- as though simply self-satisfied that he was able to recognize them himself. The next phrase spoken is first in Ilexi and then in Ruvic, and accompanies a gesture towards the council, palm lifted in genteel invitation. "Name and business."
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf nods towards Yasin and awaits their turn. They step forward at the beginning of Pomeroy’s words, with their arms held loosely at their sides. They incline their head in greeting, "Good day. I am Ighlaf the artist.” echoing Pomeroy’s wording with a twitch of their lips. Their voice is pitched low and steady.
“My mastery is some variety of art, including sketches, designs, and painting.” Their gaze flickers around the council, “As I have been welcomed within your town with opportunities. I would like to offer lessons to any townsfolk that may have interest, with the additional aim to assist any public areas that art, or some amount of paint may be desired.
Ighlaf’s expression twists slightly as they mention casually, “Areas as the clinic, or similar. ” They pull a page from their satchel. Any brief glance at the page shows viewers a sketch of the council, which they turn towards the circular table. “It would assist me in familiarizing myself with the local paints newly purchased in preparation of commissions. My thanks for your time.”
They then give a brief bow, and stand waiting for a decision.
(Grandin): The Quartermaster of the nearby Mistwatch fortress steps through into the council, wearing a uniform much like that of the young guard partnered with a town watchman near the hall's entrance -- but with some additional armaments that give him the appearance of higher rank. He nods to Tig with a brusquely severe air, and moves to stand at some position behind Ighlaf in line. Under one arm, he holds a rather large package. This pliable grey folder of leather, at one end, can be seen to contain several sheafs of mixed parchment, vellum, and even good Caliphate-made rag-paper. Despite his obvious importance and local privilege, Grandin Harkenson makes no attempt to cut in line or shove the artist aside. Instead, he stands in an orderly and patient manner, waiting his turn.
(the St Loomis town council): A couple of the councillors appear to have heard of this foreign artist, and the others exchange some questioning looks. Murmuring commences once more, but several are vaguely distracted, for a moment or two, by the arrival of the Mistwatch quartermaster. Eventually the quiet conversation ends, and everyone is apparently once more awaiting Mayor Ascot's magnanimous public declaration of the council's concurrence.
(Ziyad): Ziyad gives Yasin an encouraging smile when his friend settles down in the seat next to him. A tentative reaches out to give the burlier young man's shoulder a quick clasp with his hand and leans over to murmur, "I think you did a good job introducing the mining project. I hope we'll start hearing from people who'd wish to contributor soon..." He pans his keen gaze across the council chamber, slightly lifting off his seat for a better view, before settling back to murmur again. "Hopefully, Sayyida Firo's idea will also be approved when she presents it. I couldn't catch sight of her in this crowd yet."
The young man folds his hands primly on his lap and resumes watching the proceedings. His gaze is curious while he waits for a response to Ighlaf's offer. Then, it sharpens slightly with deeper interest when Grandin steps into line behind them.
(Tighearnach): Unable to stand any more at attention than he already is, all Tig can do when Grandin enters is gives the Quartermaster a crisp martial salute while continuing to stare dutifully straight ahead. After his commanding officer moves off to stand in line, though, Tig's gaze follows him with a muted air of nervous anticipation.
(Firouzeh): Among the benches of townsfolk, the woad blue veil sported by a chubby little old lady can be spotted patiently watching most of the day's proceedings. Those early enough to catch her cane-clunking arrival witness her warmly greeting a freckled guard with a perhaps embarrassing, grandmotherly familiarity before she settles herself in a central seat. With each presentation before the hall, she pays rapt attention, nodding along with the speakers and offering warm, encouraging smiles to anyone who catches her eye. Despite how terribly foreign she might be, her demeanor is relaxed, as if trying to force a sense of belonging to herself.
Courteous murmurs of “Excuse me, dears” and “If I can just skooch on past” are directed at anyone with enough guts to share the bench with her when she eventually decides to make her way to the line.
(Ascot): Rather than having any chance to be soothed by the retreat of the grubby foreign smith, Mayor Ascot is immediately confronted with yet another foreigner! He does listen more attentively this time, but the pinch of fingers against nose only becomes more pronounced as he does so. When Ighlaf wraps up their presentation to the council, the mayor mutters something under his breath in what might be Cateni, then rather dramatically drops his hand to the table.
"Master Ighlaf the artist," he intones, with a droning lack of enthusiasm. "As our fine town is open to you, and allows all within it to pursue trades beneficial both to their own livelihood and to St. Loomis, you are free to offer lessons in your craft to any who may desire such." His tone implies that such persons must be few and far between, if they should even manage to exist at all. "If you were to desire a shop or stall for your labors, of course there would be a fee to be paid for that. But otherwise you may freely pursue your profession, and teach it to others, as you choose."
"As for... the clinic..." He pauses to clear his throat quietly, a look not dissimilar to Ighlaf's own now curling his mouth. "Although it provides useful services to certain people, it is perhaps overdue for... a new coat of paint." Ascot nods, agreeing with himself in a murmur, "Yes, a new coat of paint, that would surely be appreciated by even by the most uncouth ruffians." More loudly and grandly, he declares, "It is agreed by both Mayor and Council that the dockside clinic shall receive a new coat of paint, to be furnished by Master Ighlaf, Artist. Any additional projects in other public spaces will of course need to be put forth for consideration individually." And that seems to be that.
(GM): OOC: Tighearnach just rolled composure and dissembling, coming up with 10.
(Tighearnach): When that grandmotherly lady enters the room and greets him with such kindly familiarity, all Tig's martial discipline suddenly goes out the window as his face breaks out in a warm boyish grin at her. It takes only a split second, however, for him to be realize the horrific lapse in Duty he's just committed, and he quickly schools his face back into militant passivity. The blush on his freckled face somewhat mars the effect, though.
(Yasin): Yasin watches with clear interest and maybe a little note of concern as Grandin enters the chamber.
The burly smith spies Firouzeh once she rises to make her way to the line. "Oh, there she is," Yasin says in a barely-audible, but clearly relieved, voice towards Ziyad, gesturing with one hand in the direction of Firouzeh. Whatever other comments he may wish to make about the proceedings, he seems to keep quiet, and focuses instead on watching.
There's a broad smile on his face, though, when the plan for a new 'coat of paint' to be administered to the clinic is approved. He gives Ighlaf a reassuring grin, whether or not it is observed by the artist or lost in the sea of seated faces.
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf notices the individual standing behind them as they listen to Mayor Ascot and doesn't dawdle with their reply. "I will send that fee, then. And update the look of the clinic. They give one more bow before stepping back. "My many thanks to the council and yourself." They walk away, claiming a bench nearby Yasin and Ziyad, missing the look from Yasin. They look pleased.
(Yasin): After Ighlaf takes a seat, and before Grandin steps up, there is a brief moment where Yasin raises up slightly and tilts his head from side to side, searching the audience. Whether due to the crowd or some other reason, he doesn't seem to find what or who he's searching for, and he returns to a normal, seated position, a concerned frown on his face.
(Pomeroy): "Quartermaster Grandin Harkenson, of the Mistwatch Guard," heralds Pomeroy loudly when he sees the next man in line. There's a bow of his head in greeting, then a squaring of shoulders, and his nose thrusts arrogantly into the air with the grand pretentiousness of his manner. "The council knows on what business you are here, sir. Pray speak at will."
(Grandin): Quartermaster Grandin Harkenson steps forward. He clears his throat, shifting the grey leather folio forward and lifting to set it upon the edge of the council table with a hefty thump.
"Good town council of St Loomis," he begins, addressing them in Ilexi (though it is, of course, translated by Pomeroy, whom Grandin ignores -- save for leaving long, considerate pauses within which this translation may be voiced). "As you have known, since I recommended that the foreigners be allowed within the walls...
"I've been collecting reports. And while within these reports there are some differences in level of detail, there are no incongruencies or contradictions."
A frown marks his stern features. "I do not believe these foreigners are liars, nor that they are the cause of any of our recent woes. They are genuine victims of the same affliction as ours, come to our shore as innocent. Those are my findings."
He makes a gesture to the grey leather binding. "These are the originals of the reports collected. I would submit them to the town council so that copies might be made for your records, as I am given reason by the monks of Windhaven to believe that this visitation from foreign lands might be a matter of historic importance."
With that, Grandin Harkenson delivers a long and solemn look towards the Archbiscop, before returning his focus placidly upon the members of the council and Mayor Ascot.
(Zahir): Zahir enters, silent and fashionably late. He has made no effort to adopt the local customs of dress, wearing the same stiff and sumptuous clothing he always does; a strange, tall figure carrying a carved wooden box and looking exceedingly foreign.
(Inaya): Not far behind Zahir, there's a massive, scarred Salawi who's plainly come in just for a stickybeak. She makes no move to sit down, and indeed makes a bit of a roadblock of herself, just standing in the doorway, being huge and in the way, with an axe slung over one shoulder as though this is an entirely normal thing to be carrying openly into a town hall meeting. Like the Amunati, she's also made absolutely no concessions to life in An-Sor, and wears her Jalanit-style crop-top choli, belly exposed, and those bright orange patterned sirwaal, and no shoes at all.
(GM): OOC: Tighearnach just rolled composure by itself, coming up with 11.
(Tighearnach): As that axe-bearing foreign woman looms into the hall and plants herself squarely in the doorway, Tig's composure slips again to allow a look of shock and horror to plant itself on his face. Although he again makes a quick recovery, a strong hint of distaste and dismay lingers in the set of his mouth as he moves from his spot by the door.
Stepping firmly in front of Inaya, he tells her crisply, "Weapons are not allowed inside the Council Hall, goodwoman. You must either allow us to confiscate your axe for the duration of the meeting, or else I am afraid you must depart. By the hallowed tradition of countless generations, this is so." Despite the fact that he has to look up at Inaya to deliver this ultimatum, Tig doesn't look intimidated by the looming outlander, but he also looks quite stubbornly prepared to uphold the apparently ancient customs at all costs, appearing utterly immovable.
(Sitra): Sitra has been idling among the crowd a good while now, listening to the petitions and observing the proceedings with quiet intent. It's the Quartermaster's arrival that most catches her interest, the foreign figure straightening to better catch sight of the man and his folder.
Most of the announcement doesn't seem to surprise her, though mention of 'historic importance' has her furrowing dark brows and quirking her lips into a thoughtful frown, though whatever ideas are produced she yet keeps to herself.
(the St Loomis town council): Some murmuring occupies the council as usual after the Quartermaster's speech... but then, Inaya's massive form in the door with that axe draws their distracted stares. Everyone watches, with many a worried frown, as the young Mistwatch guard intervenes.
(Inaya): Inaya just looks rather bemusedly down at the young Mistwatch guard as he gives his ultimatum, one scar-split eyebrow arched upward. She doesn't respond for several seconds, the silence spinning out as she sort of looks him up and down assessingly, seemingly not at all threatened. "This?" she asks finally, lifting that axe up off her shoulder to peer at it, then down at Tig again. "Is for cut tree. Not weapon." She speaks in thickly-accented, broken Ruvic, her voice almost nothing more than a coarse whisper, which sort of ruins her otherwise intimidating demeanour.
(the St Loomis rumormill): Several dough-pale faces amongst the audience stare at the humongous foreign woman with her scandalously-bare midriff and definitely-dangerous axe. Whispers fill the hall, some of the more panicky ones making the susurrus even louder than the council's usual murmuring. One particularly-aghast young lady erupts in a thin shriek, pointing a finger at Inaya just as the axe is lifting. She wails some warning in Ilexi.
(Pomeroy): The snooty mayorial assistant stares across the hall towards Inaya. He holds up both hands, clearing his throat and attempting to call out some things such as "Good calm, good peoples!" and "Hearken to the law!" but apparently is unable to summon sufficient words in either Ilexi or Ruvic to speak over the rising hubbub.
(GM): OOC: Pomeroy just rolled voice and dissembling, coming up with 47.
(Tighearnach): Tig shakes his head at Inaya, very firmly. "An axe is a weapon, goodwoman, even if it is more commonly wielded against trees than men." Now that he's so fully focused on carrying out his Duty in the face of clear and present danger, he appears more composed than before, and the growing hubbub around him only seems to focus his attention further. Still looking rather far up at the towering outlander, as if she were a particularly mighty tree herself, he goes in a tone that remains calm even as it brooks no argument. "Though your ways and ours may differ, in the town hall you must follow ours. If you do, you are welcome here. If not..." There is perhaps the tiniest bit of a gulp from the recruit, but he pushes on. ".. If not, you will have to go back outside."
(Firouzeh): Certainly unheard amidst the chaos stirring within the chamber is a drawn-out sigh from the foreign old woman in line. The ‘terror’ of an axe-wielding, crop-top-wearing giant seems more of an inconvenience to her than anything as she retreats into massaging the bridge of her nose between pinched fingers. Whatever journey of searching for the willpower to wait it out seems to occupy her for the time, unmoved to even open her eyes and glance up at shrieks from the affronted crowd or attempts to regain control from snooty mayoral assistants.
(Sitra): Sitra also looses a gentle sigh at all the hullabaloo amongst the locals, not seeming to find the axe-wielding Salawi all that threatening. Drawn from her thoughts now, she shuffles over to join those who might remain to be heard, even if it seems the Council might be a bit too concerned to hear from her.
So for now, she just stands patiently and seems content to try and wait out the chaos.
(Inaya): Inaya looks pretty impassive, as she ever does, but if anything there are traces of amusement to her expression. "You must hold careful. Kiss it," Inaya tells the (relatively) little Mistwatcher, beginning to offer that axe forward slowly, tenderly, like an infant more than a tool-what-might-also-be-a-weapon.
And then at the last moment, before he can make a grab for it, she seems to change her mind, and slings the thing back onto her shoulder with a smirk. She bends in a half-bow, and says in Ilexi that's somehow better-pronounced than her Ruvic, "Second thought, I go. Is a very good axe."
And with that she turns and saunters her way back out, for all the world as though terribly satisfied with herself.
(the St Loomis rumormill): The audience breaks out in several concurrent babbling conversations, hectic and shrill along with gruff and angry -- that young lady clasps both hands to her throat and nearly swoons sideways off the end of the bench when Inaya's axe rises to her shoulder again -- but finally, some of the chaos ceases in the massive axe-woman's wake. All that noise descends to hushed whispers, as most look towards the council once again, as though to wonder what may be proclaimed next.
(Grandin): The Mistwatch Quartermaster has half-turned to view the ruckus, but does nothing save courteously stand there. When the large foreigner saunters off with her very-good axe, Grandin offers a gruff nod of approval to Tig, and then shifts his focus back to stare with calm expectation at Mayor Ascot.
(Tighearnach): Tig's ears redden noticeably at that first reply from the axe-wielding foreigner, perhaps in anger as much as embarrassment this time. His jaw clenches as she first holds the axe out towards him, then snatches it back and slings it onto her shoulder again, but he gives no response to her final decision other than a sharp nod of military precision. As Inaya exits the council hall, the young recruit expels a long breath through his nose and crisply resumes his post, gaze settled fixedly on the hall once more.
(Ascot): Unlike many others in the crowd, Mayor Ascot shows little sign of fear after that first initial shock of seeing a giant poorly-clad axe-wielding foreign woman tramp into the council hall. Instead, the look of mild distaste that has marked his face for most of the meeting only deepens profoundly, and with a curl of his lip he mutters something under his breath.
"Good people of St. Loomis," he declares to the crowd, as he also now rises to his feet, "please calm yourselves. Recollect that we are within the hallowed sanctuary of Governance here, where the force of arms holds no sway. We are civilized and peaceable folk, and impervious to insult by those who do not know better. Indeed, we cannot expect outlanders to understand our ways; we may only lead by example. Now, let us put this unsightly incident behind us and be about our business once again."
With a gracious nod to Grandin he tells the man, "Thank you for your report, Quartermaster, it was quite informative." Then, with another nod around the table, he takes his seat again. "Council. Pomeroy."
(Grandin): With a nod to the Mayor and one last long stare at Archbiscop Covenderry, the quartermaster turns along the line to stride out of the hall. He does not pause next to Tig.
(Pomeroy): The snooty mayorial assistant drops both hands, then folds his arms. He adopts a perturbed and somewhat-put-out expression. Eventually, when the situation resolves and Mayor Ascot speaks his name, Pomeroy shifts quickly into a more attentive posture. "Yes, Mayor Ascot," he says, in Ilexi alone -- then looks to what remains of the line. Firouzeh, Sitra, and perhaps Zahir? He's in the hall, neither sitting in the audience nor exactly standing in line...
Regardless, Pomeroy lifts his voice and focuses on Firouzeh, who was behind Grandin. "Your name and business, please," he states loudly, affording her the slight gentleness and respect in tone that an elder might require.
(Ziyad): Ziyad turns his attention away from the entrance with a weary sigh, having watched the unfolding the drama occurring there like too many others in the audience. He attempts to give Firo an encouraging smile once she's called up, although the visibility of the gesture is hampered by distance and whether his target is even looking in his direction at all.
(Firouzeh): Firouzeh musters up her best 'everything is fine' smile as she hobbles forward to address the Council.
"Thank you, dear," she offers first to Pomeroy earnestly, but with a slight edge that suggests reservations about either the addressee or earlier events, betraying her efforts to be truly heartfelt. Though the elder is no Mistwatch Quartermaster by any stretch of the imagination, what she lacks in size, she makes up for with her projection.
"My name is Firouzeh, though most call me Firo... Feero, or Feroozy here, usually. I come today to request support for a project. One that, under the advisement of the Church and community, might serve to provide food for those with less stable means of providing for themselves. By profession, I am a chef, and it is my belief that it is important to support community efforts to feed those in need. Many of my fellow refugees here have also pledged support in various capacities if we are able to procure space and approval."
Those first few words come out a bit tight, but by the nicknames, she has delved into a more comfortable cadence, gesturing loosely as she speaks. Her gaze never quite settles on one member, pausing here and there. "With your permission and acknowledgment, Council, I would like to continue working on plans with those who might be most helped and come forward at a later time with a trajectory for how to proceed."
With that, she dips her head into something between a nod and a bow and steps back to await a decision.
(Zahir): Zahir studies the room, the council, the crowd, the familiar faces, clutching his box a little more tightly through the ebb and flow of consternation over the axe wielding Salawi. Firouzeh's petition proves a more useful primer on the proceedings than Inaya's and he shuffles into line behind Sitra, offering a brief smile and a dip of his head in greeting and trying not to create any further disruption.
(Sitra): Sitra seems to change her mind, gaze tracking after the departing Quartermaster a moment before she exits the line with an apologetic smile to the mayor and council.
Not appearing to wish to take away from Firouzeh's presentation she tries to slip back into the crowd and allow the others to take her place in line.
(the St Loomis town council): Some murmuring among the council proves to be ongoing for some time now, enduring through some lunchtime proceedings and then resuming.... and then they appear to await Mayor Ascot's presentation of their joint deliberations.
(Ascot): Whatever it takes the council so long to discuss, Mayor Ascot seems to find it only of marginal interest, as he sits through the proceedings making minimal interjections to the discussion, and spending rather more time casting skeptical looks out over the crowd. Most of these looks seem directed at the foreigners among the audience, as if in the wake of the barbaric axe display the mayor were having some second thoughts about having treated the other outlanders' demands so leniently. But finally the council seems to have arrived at some conclusions, and Ascot clears his throat to call the probably rather wearied audience's attention back to the platform.
"Goodwoman... Firaroza," he begins, looking vaguely annoyed for a moment to have been given such an outlandish name to begin his address with. "The council has given your petition great consideration--" (rather more than it was worth, his tone suggests) "-- and we are all of us agreed that it would be very well for you to continue to put on such feasts as you have already gained a name for in our lovely town. If any others among the citizenry besides our upstanding Goodwoman Donna should wish to open their homes or places of business up for the hosting of such feasts, we have no wish to stand in the way of such endeavors."
"However," he goes on, "if you should wish to establish a shop or stall of your own, or seek partnership with another tenant to host a business at some other structure or site dedicated to the purpose of cookery, you will of course need specifically to petition the council with the particulars of place, partners, and purpose." He smiles, looking pleased with this alliteration. "If you are, on the other hand, more interested in providing food as a charitable endeavor, to grace the lives of the less fortunate among us, we strongly advise you to speak with the Church -- perhaps you might even prevail upon the good Archbiscop to hear you out." The good Archbiscop receives yet another pointed glance in his direction, though whether he is actually paying attention this time is anybody's guess.
Rubbing his hands together, perhaps in anticipation of the end of his speech, the mayor proclaims, "To sum up, you are welcome to seek willing partnerships among our own citizenry to pursue your aims, whether of business or charity, and we are certain the Church would be willing as well to aid your work by assisting in the distribution of any food items which you should wish to have donated to the poor who are ever among us." He gives a nod and a decisive flourish of one hand. "The council has spoken."
(Matthew): For the longest time the be-stoled and bearish man had been distracted from all other affairs by staring off through the doors after Inaya, seemingly quite struck by her as he murmured to himself in what sounded like mild amazement. After that, in the course of the council's extended deliberations, he might have been thought to be nodding off but was surely really just meditating instead. Now, though, as the mayor himself looks in his direction, Archbiscop Matthew Covenderry -- for this must be he -- perks up and beams a smile towards the front of the room, first at Ascot, then over at the grandmotherly petitioner. "Yes, yes," he murmurs in a genial rumble, "always happy to help, indeed."
(Firouzeh): The long wait seems to have little effect on Firouzeh, however prudent it really might be for her to have things hurried along at such a ripe age. Instead, she waits in polite, idle existence until being addressed by name... sort of. The mispronunciation does earn a fleeting nose scrunch, but whatever disgruntlement the Mayor might have earned is washed away by the agreeable terms. A
"Thank you Mayor and Council," she offers, giving each a dip of her head in turn. The Archbiscop gets a much warmer gesture of the same with his agreement. She and her cane then clunk their way back to being an audience member after a reassuring smile is passed back to Zahir. Instead of worrying any locals about the prospect of a foreign seatmate, she squeezes in next to Ighlaf.
(Yasin): Yasin, who had been watching the preceding events with some awful combination of deep amusement and light terror, settles back into his seat as the business of the meeting continues. He watches Firouzeh's presentation to the council with interest, even leaning forward in his seat, visible tension in the intensity of his lean and his gaze. He seems to relax at the relatively positive (even if relatively non-committal) response to Firouzeh from the Mayor, but he tilts his head and seems to study the Archbiscop, Matthew, with interest as the bearish man speaks.
Yasin gives the elderly woman a friendly grin as she takes her seat, then settles back in to observe the rest of the meeting.
(Zahir): Zahir smiles back at Firouzeh's reassurance, which is welcome evidently, if short lived, as with Sitra's departure he finds himself suddenly at the front of the line. He glances around the room, scanning one last time over the occupants before he lets his attention settle on Pomeroy and shuffles forward the barest half a step.
(GM): OOC: Zahir just rolled composure by itself, coming up with 31.
(Pomeroy): The snooty mayorial assistant peers over his own upraised nose towards the tall Amunati man who edges forward so slightly in his sumptuous garb, and frowns suspiciously. There's a glance about -- wasn't a different foreigner in line next? But he doesn't seem to notice Sitra, who excused herself so quietly during Firouzeh's presentation, elsewhere in the audience, or make the connection.
Perhaps all foreigners look enough alike to him that he assumes some kind of nefarious heathenish shapeshifting on Zahir's part, or even a nebulous practice of blobmosis wherein multiple foreign masses are absorbed into one.
At any rate, there's barely much of a pause before he clears his throat with a light 'hem', and raises his voice in the usual grand manner to call first in Ilexi and then in Ruvic: "State your name and business to the council, if you will."
(Zahir): What Zahir lacks in poise he does not make up in charm. Mercifully for him he's pretty poised. A stiff bow, not too deep, and he introduces himself in heavily accented but textbook fluent Ruvic "Zahir ibn Musa."
"I seek audience with the... Arch-bis...cup," he states formally, faltering around the unfamiliar word. One hand temporarily leaves the box to gesture, a wave indicating the council chambers as he explains "I was told he should be at this... council."
(GM): OOC: Zahir just rolled magnetism by itself, coming up with 17.
(the St Loomis town council): There are a few confused exchanges of glances among the town council, and their bewilderment is likely clear without any words needing to be spoken or translated: What does a foreign heathen have to seek from the Archbiscop? Perhaps the Mistwatch quartermaster's previous words have paved the way for some potential musing, though, as a couple gazes flicker towards the door. After a moment, though, everyone on the town council is looking towards the bearish and genial be-stoled man...
(Matthew): The archbiscop looks positively astounded by this request! "A heathen!" he exclaims in his sonorous rumble. "A heathen, seeking an audience with the archbiscop!" Rather than finding this audacious or outrageous, instead the man seems quite delighted by this clearly novel situation. "Yes, yes, by all means," he agrees, his answer carrying from his bench near the front of the hall without his needing to make any special effort to project. "No need to trouble the town council over such a thing, no indeed." But this breach of what he apparently deems commonsensical behavior only seems to tickle him further. "Send me a courier, young fellow, and we shall work something out, yes we shall." He doesn't even seem to care what the audience is for, it's just so interestingly unusual!
(Zahir): Zahir studies the Archbiscop for a moment, then bows toward him, more deeply this time, in thanks, acknowledgement, or both. The precise sentiment may remain unclear, as, business concluded, the heathen departs, without another word.
(Pomeroy): The snooty mayorial assistant looks at the empty line, and around at the audience, who seem to be generally dwindling away, exhausted by the long proceedings of the town hall. He glances over at Mayor Ascot, and after a short word or two, he turns to the gathering of remaining townsfolk. "This public meeting is concluded!" he announces, in both Ilexi and Ruvic -- then follows up with a short prayer in Ilexi alone, with a recognizable mention of "Dionos" and "St Loomis".
Murmuring fills the hall as people talk quietly to each other on their way out, already gossiping about the proceedings.
(GM): OOC: The scene fades to black.