Dragon's Gate

[Topaz]

“I need a curator slash janitor slash tour guide. Do you have any idea where I might find such a multi-talented person?” The Baroness of the Eighth Ring slid into a chair at the ring side table.

Brigath sat up a little straighter, only mildly surprised. “What, not ‘Baroness available for dueling,’ and ‘Good evening. How are you?’”

“Perhaps later. There’s no official here yet anyway and I can see you’re fine.” She winked jovially.

“No. I'm afraid no person like that comes immediately to mind.” Brigath regarded the fairy. There was an excited air about her. Whatever news she had must be significant, for she hadn’t even stopped at the bar for coffee as was custom for her. “Are you trying to tell me the fountain is finished?”

“No. That is, you already knew the fountain was finished. You just haven’t seen it yet. You should, you know. It’s magnificent.” She waved her arms accentuating her descriptions. “The dragon body arcs way up. His maw, slightly open, is this close to the fairy on the rim. They put something in the water to make it ever so blue and as it cascades down from claw to claw into the pool everything sparkles. They plated every scale individually – took forever. But no, all the renovating is done; no more leaky roof, stuck flu, cracked or moldy walls, or the like. The first of the showcases is set up, too.”

“Let me guess, the one to hold the three-time Overlord’s burned uniform?”

“No, he hasn’t sent it yet. I put the dolls in this one – Rix, Dalamar, and Zaradda. I’ve yet to find a pair of those anatomically correct Amaltea and Xenograg dolls. Oh, look, an official. Would you honor me with a duel?”

At Brigath’s nod Topaz went to secure a ring.

[BrigathC]

A mop-headed youth ran up to the side of the Dragon's Gate museum in the dim light of dusk, rolls of paper tucked under one arm and a bucket carried in the opposite hand. He dropped his burdens to the ground with a furtive glance in both directions. Seeing no one, he quickly opened one of the rolls, pulled a brush from out of the bucket and slathered the back of the paper with a sticky paste. Another glance and he was rapidly slapping the sheet on the wall and smoothing it out. As soon as he was sure it would stay, he pulled stick of charcoal out of a bag at his waist and scrawled across the front:

"Wednesday, April 12 at 9PM
ONE NIGHT ONLY"

Then he gathered his load back into his arms and ran off into the growing shadows, looking for another blank space on which to spread his message.

[Topaz]

Topaz stood back to admire the latest addition to her museum exhibits. The curator had done a fine job preserving and framing the poster. It did dwarf the Atrebla logo, though, that was mounted to the left.



Brigath had also generously donated two dozen signed copies of the poster for her to sell in the museum's souvenir shop. This museum was going to make a profit yet, she smiled.

[Alais d Nitesong]

The poster was mounted in a good location, and the likeness had been rendered very realistically. A smile curved her lips as she read the caption.

"Och, Brigath, yer' gaein' tae be e'en more famous wi'in th' walls o' th' city laddie."

The Sorceress then faded from sight to return to the blackened isles.

[Topaz]

Topaz's first Krondonian Rapier.
The basket hilted rapier was forged by Dexter Montoya and presented by him to Topaz upon her reaching the rank of warlord. The rapier served her until it broke in a street duel with Tyr. Tyr was later proven to have been one of the people actively involved in Dexter Montoya's assassination.

The fairy sighed softly when she had finished reading the brass plate. "I guess this means I will now have to part with this plate."

"While you are the Baroness of Dragons Gate it remains yours in a way. And after, you can come visit the museum anytime you want to have a look at it, ma'am." The curator offered.

[Topaz]

An elven messenger from Nitesong arrives with a long box at the Museum. He has been sent to present the package to Lady Topaz.

He explains to her that this gift for the museum is the dress that was worn by Alaisia, the wife of the 13th Overlord of DOS, Lord Valmion of Questrion. The lady Alaisia was the mother of the current Nightsong Heiress, Lady Alais Graham.

Inside the box is the formal attire worn by Alaisia for the challenge match for the overlord's title between Lord Valmion and Vixxenish. Lord Valmion defeated Vixxenish to become the 13th Overlord. The dress was worn one time, and has never been seen since that night.

The dress is cloth of silver in a high necked design that sported a silver lace overlaying the bodice of the empire waisted gown. The shimmering silver lace graces the high collar, the bust, the long sleeves that trailed to a point at the wrists. From the empire waist to the floor the cloth of silver is embroidered in royal blue. The embroidery is intricate renditions of elven designs that is heavily embroidered at the hem line, and thins as it approaches the waist, as a forest gives way to the sky overhead. There are glittering gems littered in the silver as though stars were just beginning to shimmer in a twilight sky.

The skirt of the gown is flowing and trails behind about a meter.

The jewelry includes a sapphire and mithril ring, a sapphire broach worn at the throat, pinned to the high collar, and a sapphire and mithril hair comb.

The last article in the box is a folding fan of silver lace that matches the bodice of the dress. The ribs of the fan are made of an unusual white wood, carven with the same elven designs at the hemline of the skirt.

The messenger then departs the museum, leaving the old gown with the Museum's Curator.

[Heathrdi]

:: the tall dark and dusty traveler wanders into the museum looking around w/ curiosity at all that has changed since he last set foot in these parts some 6 years ago. He dusts off his kilt, adjusting his belt and sporan and shaking the dust out of his plaid. Removing the dragons head pin that holds back his hair he shakes it out also and then pulls it back again::
:: Looking admirably at the items on display he reaches into his sporan and pulls out a soft silver pelt. Stroking it several times and remembering his fearless companion of the past he lays it on the counter for the curator who looks questioningly at the stranger::

'has been a long time since Ive been in these parts... 'an Id like ta make a donation in honor of the Lady Topaz. I knew her as Tiny and spent many an hour in tha basement of the Inn.

:: the cutrator looks from the stranger to the pelt and then back in curiosity::

Don' worry friend tis not roadkill. Tis the pelt of Hobber a silver mit ferret. He was a long time companion of mine and spent many a night scampering through the basement wreakin havoc as I called tha duels, and workin as a liaison ta tha lovely single ladies. He passed and I could not part with him until now.

Give ma regards ta " Tiny" for me

:: he nodds in thanks and farwell to the curator and exits as quietly as he entered::

[Ashin Arinathe]

She was an Angel. Promise was her perfume, and her smile was the entire World. I couldn't shake the memory of the day she walked into my office, tears in her eyes. Those pretty eyes. Eyes like fire embers, long since cooled and turned to ash.

I liked ash. Nothing to do with my name either - hell, I barely even thought of myself by my first name anymore. Detective Arinathe - I was the hottest young P.I. around, and that's what brought that sad, little girl to my office. Actually, I was neither hot, nor was I young. I was new to the scene, a botch-job, and I was hardly in the prime years of my life.

But that little girl needed me. That's all this was. All it could be. Besides, I was old enough to be her grandfather, and she was old enough to still have cooties.

Get her out of your head, old man. Too much daydreaming's keeping you from doing your job. It's been a week, and still no leads on the man she needed me to find. Still not a goddamn clue as to ...

Wait. Two steps backwards. Is that? ...

Mr. Arinathe, how unbelievably stupid of you.

[Ashin Arinathe]

He slipped down the color-forsaken alleyway, tipping his grey hat downward to keep the steady rain out of his face. His thoughts wandered to the girl, to the Beast, and to the man who had eluded him for a week now. He'd almost shot a man at the Crooked Hook the night before, after getting slugged a good one for asking him if he was related to the janitor in the photograph he had been carrying around.

He still had to improve on his tactfulness.

After too many hours of lonely walking and thinking, Mr. Arinathe got his first sign of good news in a week. He stepped backwards twice, splashing particularly hard into a Godless puddle of rainwater and filfth.

He looked at the poster on the wall.

He took out the photograph from his wallet, not caring at this point whether or not the rain warped the delicate paper.

He looked at the poster on the wall. Again.

He'd found his man. And akin to his recent fortune, Brigath(that was his name, it would seem) had been right under his nose the entire, long week.

He tossed the photo into the air, turned back towards the street, and popped two of those pills, from his pocket, into his mouth. He then began the long walk home.

The photo of Brigath drifted slowly downward, like a feather, finally landing in the slimy puddle.

[Moyrloch Silverwing]

Still tall, still lean, and still crotchety in his old age, the Scottish conjuror wandered his way through the renovated city, winding this way and that, and found himself in front of the Dragon's Gate Museum.

"Well, mine ol' teacher. T'would seem ye've done exceptionally well fer y'self."

He walked in, having to be careful not to grace the archway with the top of his head, and spoke directly to the curator as he reached into his cloak.

"Lad, I've come tae understan' tha' th' esteemed Lady Topaz is th' highest patron o' this 'ere establishment. If ye please, gi' th' wee lass this token of an auld friend's well wishing, and a reminder o' th' follies o' youth."

From within the cloak, a scarred and pitted greatsword hilt was procured, the wide blade seemingly melted away a finger's width from the crossguard. The insignia on the hilt still shone with newly-minted brilliance, being an embossed bird's wing, plated in silver.

With a jaunty whistle brought forth by the relief of a burden long borne and suddenly uplifted, the old man left the building and walked away, his path oddly enough taking him near a good majority of the city's less-favorable gathering places.