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It was raining the day of the Count's luncheon.
Lady Hartmore sniffed as she looked out the window, glaring at the precipitation like it had just insulted her pedigree. Which it very well might - those whispers dogged her constantly, reminding her of her tenuous place amongst the Mendevian nobility. That was part of the reason she agreed to attend this function, despite the incredibly inconvenient location. She wanted to prove her worth to the upper-crust of her homeland. Not to mention it was being hosted by a social pariah who was only tolerated because of his distant relation to the Queen. There wasn't likely to be any tongue wagging about her when Daeran Arendae was not only present, but hosting.
A quarter of an hour before the luncheon was to begin, she summoned her maidservant to hold her umbrella whilst she walked the two blocks over the address she had been given. Not an easy endeavor, as the maid was almost a foot shorter than her. The umbrella wobbled most unpleasantly as they hurried through the streets. A few stray raindrops landed on her shoulder mere feet from their destination, but she decided against publicly reprimanding the girl. She had more pressing matters to attend to.
They were ushered into the foyer a fashionable ten minutes late, then led a short distance to a sitting room. As her maid scurried off to make herself useful elsewhere, Lady Hartmore took in her surroundings. The room was tastefully decorated, if small, and the company milling about was more than respectable. She almost breathed a sigh of relief - the Count was known for his less than reputable choice of companions, and it was rumored to have gotten worse during his time in the Crusade. None of the rabble seemed present, which was one worry off her mind.
Shortly after she walked in, a man detached himself from the crowd of assembled dignitaries and made his way over to her, extending his hands as he did so. “Lady Hartmore! What a pleasure to see you here!” Baron Rothwin was known for three things - his devoutness to the Church of Iomedae, his sizable contributions to the Crusade, and his inability to shut up about either. It was safe to say that Lady Hartmore was not as pleased to see him as he was to see her, but sadly, she could not afford to be picky about allies.
The last few months had been disastrous for Mendev’s nobility, and the only reason none of them had found themselves deposed of their standing in society was because of the timely intervention of the Knight-Commander upon her return from the Abyss. Which is how they all found themselves here, called to this demon-infested backwater to offer what assistance they could to the Crusade cause.
“How fortuitous to see you too, Baron. I was rather afraid of what sort of guests Count Arendae might invite to this little soirée.” Lady Hartmore gave the Baron’s proffered hands a squeeze before letting them drop. She wasn't being entirely untruthful - for all his faults, the Baron was at least tolerable. The rest of the guests were middling acquaintances of hers at best, and judging from the glares they shot her, not inclined towards furthering relations.
“I was worried, given his reputation, that I was about to find myself in the middle of the Count’s latest prank or scandal,” the Baron said, giving voice to a doubt of her own, “But now that I know I’m in the presence of respectable company, I find myself growing optimistic. Is it possible this endeavor has finally made him come to his senses?”
That earned a scornful laugh before she thought better of it. “I suppose anything is possible, but considering his behavior at the Ascendance Day mass before last, I highly doubt it.”
The Baron had opened his mouth to retort when the errant host swept into the room himself. Daeran certainly didn’t look any different from the last time they’d had seen him, save for the fact he seemed to be entirely sober for once. Small mercies, she supposed. His grin was still sharp enough to cut, the glint in his eyes promising nothing good for whoever he decided to make his next target. And judging by the way he surveyed the room, that would be them.
“My esteemed guests, I apologize for keeping you waiting.” Not a single note of remorse tinged his voice. Lady Hartmore decided to dignify his apology with a sniff, despite the fact she had just arrived herself. Daeran ignored her, continuing, “As I’m sure you’re aware, the Crusade is facing a bit of a hiccup in its supply chain. Since we quite recently restored order in Nerosyan and returned all of your titles, ill-deserved as they are, I'm sure you can understand we expect a sizable commitment from all of you. To show your gratitude.”
The impertinence! Before she thought better of it, she said, “You mean to tell me the Crusade has mismanaged its funds, and you expect us to bail you out all because your commander had the common sense to not disturb the status quo?”
“No, Lady Hartmore, what I mean to tell you is the Crusade is expecting recompense for having to go through the trouble of bailing you out of problems of your own making. Though if you have a problem with that, we can gladly reverse the decision. After all, someone is always on the rung below you on the social ladder, just waiting for you to fall.” His expression hadn’t changed, but his voice oozed contempt, the gleam in his eye murderous. “It won’t matter one whit to them how you fell in the first place.”
A chill settled through the room as the threat sunk in. Baron Rothwin held up his hands in placation. “Now, now, Count Arendae, I’m sure such drastic action won’t be necessary. Tempers are still running a bit hot after all that’s happened over the past few months, and I’m sure Lady Hartmore meant nothing by what she said.” She decided to add ‘coward’ to the list of things Baron Rothwin was known to be.
Movement from the opposite side of the room caught all of their attention. A servant - no, a tiefling - had walked into the room. He was dressed in dark leathers that seemed most out of place for household staff, so she could only surmise he was an acquaintance of the Count’s. She suppressed a shudder. It was bad enough that Knight-Commander Ariadne was one of the fiendish rabble, but that Daeran Arendae had sunk so low as to allow more of them into his retinue…and that was to say nothing of the rumors that he was using several of them, including the Commander herself, to keep his bed warm. It was outrageous - sheer lunacy! - and she had half a mind to storm out this very instance in disgust. But no part of her doubted his willingness to follow through on his threat, and so, she stayed.
The arrival of this tiefling did provide one unexpected benefit, however. As soon as he entered the room, Daeran visibly relaxed, his wrathful gaze simmering down into a much more familiar gleam of mischief. While she was relieved to no longer be the subject of such intense ire, her guard could not be completely let down. Nothing good had ever come of such an expression on his face.
“Well, it would seem this discussion will have to take place over lunch.” The grin on the Daeran’s face made this prospect seem much more ominous than it should have been. The Baron audibly gulped next to her, but no one protested, shuffling single-file into the room that had been indicated to.
It was a charming, if slightly quaint, dining room. A long table, covered in a simple white cloth that upon closer inspection had a thread count to rival even the finest of upholstery in her own home, sat in the center, laden with a feast fit for royalty. Now this was how one showed respect! It smelled positively divine. A part of her itched to uncover the plates and dig in, but unlike the master of the house, she was not willing to forgo her manners.
Daeran made them wait to be seated until everyone had entered the room. Then, when they were all standing by their chairs, eager to try the delicious meal he had provided, he glanced at someone and cocked his head towards the empty chair next to him. The tiefling from earlier walked in and without so much as a by your leave sat down. Lady Hartmore let out another huff of indignation. No manners, the lot of them! She was further scandalized when she saw the Count’s face - not only did he seem disinclined to call the wretch on his rudeness, all his hard edges seemed to soften in what could almost be called fondness.
Lady Hartmore dearly wished she had thought to bring a fan. The sheer silliness this afternoon had already proven to be was almost too much for her poor nerves!
At last Daeran sat, and so did the rest of them. Servants rushed in, taking position by each dish but not touching the cloches yet. He was frowning as he surveyed them, so theatrically it set her teeth on edge. Of course he was up to something. The only question was, what?
“We seem to be missing a dish,” Daeran said after a moment, eyes going to the servant nearest him, “Tell me, where is the centerpiece?”
“It needed a bit more time in the oven, sir,” they responded. Was it her imagination, or did they just exchange a smirk?
Everyone at the table tensed, unsure how Daeran was going to handle this setback. To her surprise and consternation, he just shrugged. “Fine. I’m starving, so we’ll just have to start without it.”
With that, he rose to his feet, eyeing each of the nobles at the table in turn as he raised the wine glass at his elbow. “My dear guests, I must confess when I learned you all were coming to Drezen, I was at a loss. After all, mighty as this fortress may be, it lacks a certain panache to entertain with. How ever was I to convince such esteemed personages to do their civic duty and send us much needed aid, with so little amenities with which to provide them?”
There was a biting undercurrent to his words, no matter how forlorn and contrite they were at a surface level. Something told her the Count had thought these things several times about his own predicament, but that he had no problem lording it above their heads. She had half a mind to call him out for it, return veiled barb for veiled barb, but Baron Rothwin decided at that moment to chime in, “Oh, it’s not as dire as all that! Sure, the city is a bit…lacking in the entertainment department, but we’re also at war, with the Abyss of all places! I’m sure we all understand that such sacrifices must be made, for the good of the country?”
He glanced around at the rest of them, clearly hopeful they’d echo the sentiment. A few of the others did murmur halfhearted agreements, but Lady Hartmore was not among them. She held her tongue, but narrowed her eyes at Daeran when his gaze fell upon her. He returned the look right back, looking for all the world like the wolf in a fairytale, intending to gobble them up when the moment was right.
“I’m so glad you think so, Baron.” His tone was almost sickly sweet, practically dripping with poisoned honey. “Because, you see, just as I was at the depths of my despair with what to do with you all, a brilliant idea came to me.” At this, the servants’ hands went to the handles of the cloches, all looking to him in anticipation. “If I’m to make you all see the worth in supporting the Crusade cause, well…what better way than to give you a taste of how we’ve been living this past year?”
With a flourish, the coverings were removed from the food. All of them seated at the table, save the tiefling, gasped and paled. One of the other noblewomen shrieked. Lady Hartmore felt she might faint herself.
The sumptuous scents, which she had been certain belonged to only the finest of cuisine, instead wafted from food so bizarre she wasn’t entirely sure it was worthy of the name. At one end of the table sat a casserole dish, the rice inside giving off a faint, ominous glow. It was quite at odds with the salad next to it, which seemed to sparkle as if its vegetation were made of glass. On a plate next to them were a small pile of fried fish, each with far more eyes and fins than a normal fish should possess. Some even seemed to have - Iomedae help her - fangs.
At the other were several soups. One seemed to be made of moss or mold of some kind, bubbling in a manner more fit for a swamp. Another a dark color and thick consistency that promised nothing good about its contents. Next to that was a plate of omelets, each garnished with what appeared to be a…wing of some sort. There was a casserole that she was fairly sure had hair. And directly in front of her, another soup - this one complete with a giant, ugly snout that did not belong to any swine from this plane of existence.
Daeran had followed her gaze, that smug smirk of his widening. “Straight from the nalfeshnee that had made himself master of Drezen in my dear cousin’s absence. I did want to have him roasted over a spit and laid out as the centerpiece, but alas, that proved to be an idea beyond even my fortune’s capabilities. Still, I believe I acquired a suitable substitute.”
Another servant had arrived, carrying a large tray with what she presumed to be the centerpiece. On it sat a fried dretch, an apple perched in its ugly, misshapen mouth. It was placed down directly in front of her. She raised a shaky hand to her lips in an effort to ward of the sickness rising in her. She glanced at the Count, and then at his tiefling companion, who was eating what appeared to be a sandwich. When he noticed her stare, the tiefling reached down onto his plate and retrieved a small, red-skinned hand, waving it at her cheerfully.
Silence fell over the room as the assembled nobility gawked at the meal. Daeran was no longer smiling, though he still seemed endlessly amused by the situation. His voice was high and giddy, practically bouncing out of his seat as he asked, “Is there a problem?”
“This is…Count, this food is…not what we were expecting, is all.” Even Baron Rothwin’s pandering could only go so far. He looked green around the gills as he poked an omelet with his fork, wincing as it emitted what was unmistakably a tiny scream.
Daeran cocked his head, eyes widening. “Why ever not? The Worldwound doesn’t exactly have rolling green hills and pastures, Baron. What did you think those of us in the Crusade were eating, so far from the agricultural industry you’re all so accustomed to?”
Lady Hartmore trembled. Gods damn him, he was right, and he knew it too. Whoever thought putting a snake like him in this position was a good idea? Of course he would find a way to turn an unpleasant truth against those who should have never felt its sting!”
“Now, let’s dig in.” As he said this, Daeran unfurled his napkin, delicately draping it across his lap before picking up his wine glass and giving them all his most brilliant, genial smile, “And discuss how you can help the Fifth Crusade overcome this most egregious of trials.”
“You didn’t.”
Later that evening, Knight-Commander Ariadne sat at that very dining table. In front of her was a warm piece of skullberry pie, a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting over it. Most of his guests had quite lost their appetite by dessert, so plenty of food was left over. Unlike the high and mighty members of Mendev’s upper crust, Ariadne had an iron stomach. She also liked to show Daeran when she found a particularly “cute” berry. It was one of the many reasons he adored them.
“Of course I did. When have I ever passed up an opportunity to make my peers squirm?” Daeran casually swirled his wine as he said this. Beside him, Woljif was having yet another helping of food, snickering under his breath as he no doubt remembered the reactions he bore witness to this afternoon.
Ariadne was trying her hardest to fight the grin tugging at her lips. It only widened Daeran’s. They were so cute when they tried to admonish him for something they themselves would have done, given the circumstances!
Finally, Ariadne gave up, all but laughing as she asked, “But why a dretch? It’s not like we eat them either. Gods, can you imagine the taste?”
“That’s exactly why I chose a dretch! Not to worry, no one ate any of it, including myself. I just thought it would send a point.”
“And?” Ariadne raised her fork as she spoke, a skullberry speared on the end of it. It was misshapen in a way that made it look like it was giving him a cheery grin.
“And we have more than enough support to make up for the hole in our supply chain.” With that, he grabbed her hand, raising the fork to his mouth and popping it in. After her savored the sweet treat and swallowed, he added, “Now that they believe the crusaders are forced to eat gruel made of minotaur milk and bacon carved out of babau, the nobility are more willing than ever to help us in our cause. Honesty really is the best policy after all!”
For a moment, Ariadne looked about to argue. After all, no one in the Crusade had it quite that bad. But after a moment, she shrugged. “Fine. If I get real strawberries out of it, I’m not sure I care how you got them to agree.”
“I knew you’d see things my way. Now, let’s discuss the feast we’ll host when we rescue cousin Galfrey from Iz. I’m thinking that spread should include something a touch more…exotic. How do you feel about snake?”