[piosenniel]

Maikafanawen’s post

Doralyn’s Autumn Masquerade party was the most renowned celebration in Minas Tirith. With her exotic fruits, rich wines, and impressive supply of roasts, no one who received an invitation refused. The Chambria residence was the location of choice for any festival party. The architecture of the Chambria Estate was completely different from anything else in the city. Everything from their flying buttresses to their front gate was specifically designed to fit Doralyn’s exquisite tastes. Two large dragon statues greeted the guests as they arrived in their fancy carriages wearing every yard of silk in the kingdom.

It was also known that the attendees of Doralyn’s parties, especially the masquerades, dressed to dazzle in multitudes of glitter, silk, and feathers. Tailors, seamstresses and dress shop owners from all over were given a surplus amount of work, and paid in large abundance of gold for the many costumes they produced for the Chambria parties.

Tonight Wren was splendidly attired in a glittering gown of greens and blues. Sapphires and emeralds were sewn on in interweaving patterns across the bodice and skirt of her intricate gown. Multi-colored glitter was attached to the skin of her arms, and throat, and around her already deep blue eyes. Even her dark blonde hair had been curled and elaborately woven with jewels, and ribbons. Dressed as the ocean, she was probably the most exotic woman at the party, second only to her mother. A small group of young nobles were seated around one of the tables, listening intently as she spoke innocently of regular gossip. Judging by her callow appearance, no one would ever guess she could better any of the present men in a contest of arms.

She twirled a lock of curled hair in her slender fingers as she spoke.

“And then, when I thought that she was finished, Yeowyn turned on Domnian and started ranting about the last party and the incident when he spilt his wine on one of her distasteful black velour slippers.” The young nobles grinned in unison, and some snickered at the thought of the over-ripe Lady Yeowyn screaming in her annoyingly high-pitched voice.

“Don’t laugh,” commented Domnian as he leaned forward, a thin smile on his lips, “it was good wine that was wasted.” The group burst into laughter.

“On the point of wine, I think this year’s is a bit sour,” said a voice from behind Wren. Lady Chambria’s friends joined in a collective smirk as Garnet, named after her rich red hair, joined the group. Her costume was of deep reds and oranges: she was the part of a phoenix this year. It contrasted nicely with Wren’s blue get up, and each stood out from the rest of the party. Angry with Garnet’s challenge, Wren counteracted.

“Oh I do apologize,” came Wren’s rejoinder, as she delicately touched the tips of her fingers to her neck, “perhaps, you can bring some of your family’s expensive wine to the next party?” The nobles snickered at the reply. Garnet’s parents were unsuccessful merchants, were being supported by Garnet’s older sister’s husband. Glaring at Wren, she lashed back.

“I just might. Tell me Wren,” she said eyeing her enemy’s ensemble, “when the weather warms, do you morph back to a sickly pink?” The nobles glanced excitedly towards Wren, waiting another comeback. Wren and Garnet were renowned archrivals, and their sadistic warfare was always counted upon to liven things up.

“Slither elsewhere vile snake,” remarked Ryndion as he came defensively to Wren’s side. Garnet ‘harumphed’ before turning on her heel to search for her escort. The nobles sighed disappointedly at the conclusion of the show. Ryndion was in the suit of a silver dragon, his coat was covered in silver plates, and a long cape of glitter covered silk trailed behind him. His long, light blonde hair was pulled back and the corners of his mouth were pulled back, displaying his deep cheek dimples. He was Wren’s number one wooer.

Delighted with the addition of another admirer, Wren gestured to a seat beside her and asked Ryndion to tell of the ‘marvelous scandal’ that occurred at the Green Banshee Inn two nights before. Before the young man was given an opportunity to begin his tale, a nervous silence fell over the usually mirthful group. Wren turned to see her father approaching, a grim look on his face. Not wanting the attention to waver she stood up and greeted him warmly.

“Ah father! Splendid of you to join us! Ryndion was just telling us of his latest adventure! Come won’t you sit—” Mauriace glared at the nobles sitting around her and they dispersed quickly.

“Cowards, all of them,” Wren mused. Her father rolled his eyes and turned her sharply to face his pallid expression.

“You are supposed to be getting ready to leave for Bree!” Sighing reluctantly, the young noble lady passed Mauriace and left the room. She glanced back just in time to see Garnet speaking flirtatiously with Ryndion.

I swear one day that I’ll truly get the best of that over-dressed siren, and put her to shame for good! Sour wine, hmph!

Her father led her to the parlor, just outside the main ballroom.

“Wren, the meeting in Bree is really important.” Wren wrinkled up her nose in mock disgust.

“Bree? Important? That’s an oxymoron for you.”

“Please Wren, be serious! This is serious.” The lady sighed dramatically and toyed with one of her extravagantly long pearl strings. Mauriace gave her a stern look.

“Are you going to travel as the daughter of Ulmo or will you change?” Pouting like a little girl who didn’t get the right doll for her birthday, she turned and walked slowly towards her chambers.

“NOW WREN!” Bellowed her father. Laughing, Wren took the stairs two at a time to her richly furnished bedroom. She put her gloves onto her mahogany desk, and unbuttoned the back of her dress, tossing amidst the embroidered pillows that were heaped on the richly designed carpet. Her room was right out of any fairy tale. Satin and silk were everywhere: the drapes, the curtains around her bed, the blankets on her bed. She enjoyed her wealthy lifestyle. Little did she realize it was all about to change.

***Two weeks later***

Wren was standing outside the Prancing Pony, soaked to the bone and angry: very angry. The meeting she had left the Autumn Festival Masquerade to attend had been cancelled and rescheduled in a month back in Minas Tirith. So here she was, standing outside the Prancing Pony with nowhere to go, except home, but that would take another two weeks on horseback, and it had been just her luck to learn that her horse had become lame due to a snake bite. The worst part was that she was short on money. She owned just enough to either get a room, or buy a new horse. The woman decided that without a room she’d freeze to death, and if things came to the worst she could gamble for a horse. Her breath unfurled in a silver wisp.

Sighing, Wren pushed open the heavy inn door and walked inside. She sauntered over to the main desk to speak with the innkeeper. Letting down her hood she offered her most seraphic smile, doing her best to charm old Butterbur. His gaze was unwavering, greatly disappointing Wren. Doing her best to look as ravishing as she could in her soaked clothes and hair. Failing to seduce him into giving her a lower rate on her rooms she told him that she was a marvelous entertainer and that the inn looked like it could use some livening up. Agreeing, he said that she’d have to pay for her room tonight, and if she did well, he’d give her half off. Consorting reluctantly, she ambled up to her small, and drafty room.

She closed the windows, and got a good fire going in the fireplace. She aired out her bed and hung her clothes up to dry. Donning a loose white shirt that tied low, and a dark green skirt, she took her flute downstairs to pay for her room.

A place was cleared towards the center back of the room, and she was given the floor to entertain the group of swarthy men travelers. Keeping her wits about her she began to play an exotic tune on her flute. Her skirt swayed in rhythmic patterns, as she began to dance. Soon, conversations had wavered and all the eyes were upon Lady Chambria as she entertained at the Prancing Pony. The thought almost made her interrupt her performance with a laugh. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a man sitting by himself, his green eyes downcast and blank. Scruffy blond hair framed his handsome features. His aura was mysterious. Re-devoting her concentration to her dance, she finished it up with a magnificent twirl, leaving the viewers spell-bound. Smiling enchantingly, she made her way to the desk where Butterbur gave her a seventy-five percent discount and applauded her performance. Pocketing the money, she made to go back up to her room.

Her eyes, however, had settled back on the mysterious man in the corner.

“Butterbur?” she gestured towards the old innkeeper, still watching the man, “who is that man yonder there by himself?” Old Barliman shrugged.

“Calls himself Rangar. Has been here for a while. Quiet though, and doesn’t cause trouble neither, which I’m thankful for.” Wren nodded and ordered a tankard of ale. Grasping the handle in her slender hand, she paid and made her way across the room to find a seat. Batting away eager hands, and threatening drunken grins, she took a small table close by this Rangar, and buried herself in her drink while listening to the scattered story tellers and conversationalists.

[ April 26, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]