exit, stage e a s t

( And now for a beautiful interlude featuring the party's witch Karsa and an especially plump, smug pigeon chasing her legs on the Senate steps. )

- go. You hear me? ( The pigeon only comes closer. ) No! No food. No food. You hear me? No. ( Fireball? Fireball. A startled pigeon briefly flies away, while Karsa cackles. Finally, she returns to the pendant. )

You. What are you doing? Not speaking. Not organising. Fools. Why do you never speak? Mouths too busy? I put mustard seeds in them. I put brine. We make pickles. At least we know.

( A pause. ) I am told you are... kingmaking. Wonderful. Very wonderful. I am delighted. If you think this makes you special, I step on your backs.

I know the choices: Caius Justus. A tyrant who is not dead, but that can be helped. Messalina. She is dead. No one helps that. And the man without opinion, Caelius Silvanus. So he says, delay the vote! Always helpful, to say nothing concrete. Someone must have stepped on his back.

Talk and decide among yourselves. You cannot work at odds, or what one hand does, the other undoes. And you are stuck no where, doing nothing. ( Another pause, while the pigeon appears impudently in the horizon, and she sends a warning shot towards him. ) Except for me. I am eating pigeon.


( ooc: this is your convenient post to give your character's $0.02 on whether to support:

— undead lady Messalina, who wants to gain the elite Hand army of Ephes
— the despot Caius Justus, who wants to keep the Hand for his own design
— Caelius Silvanus, who wants to put off the vote

...during the upcoming polls. Please feel free to threadjack — Karsa will only be commenting sparingly. You can have your character factor all this in when submitting threads about swaying votes, if you like! )

( The party's second, more elusive, revived witch appears on everyone's devices — enjoying a steaming, bubbling bath, in a sign that comfort is only unattainable for the unattractive. )

...now, aren't you beautiful, my sweets? And so many more than before, and lively, your flesh teeming with... youth.

This one is only an honoured and unworthy servant, so spare a moment, won't you? There's nothing to fear, I hardly bite, unless... have we still... virgins, each way the eye sees? ( Short, knowing laughter. ) We must relish in innocence.

( If her smile were thinner, it would be the ghost of the party's coin purse. )

Of course, this isn't why I would presume to take up your time, no, not your Hatisse. I only wish, with utmost respect, if I may. A humble warning.

( Her voice briefly ices, while she picks up a diminutive sponge to slowly, sloooooowly rinse her right arm. )

Here, in this gods-forsaken quaint little pedestrian village, where husband is uncle and brother and of the same blood as goats, you do not cross paths with... true witches, no matter what they name themselves. 'Ladies' of... 'lakes.' Remember, the clumsiest, easiest sorcery is the elements, and if they rule water, in a land of waters, don't be impressed.

( Briefly disgusted, as if she prepares to spit out a soured thing: ) They're hedge witches. Primitive, barely trained, and of course, your Hatisse is the daughter of a school, and so perhaps there is the lightest... prejudice, but may I say. Time is not the work of witches who, if rumour is to be believed, can do no better than play in puddles. There must be more. Something or someone.

( And now for an interlude where Hatisse raises herself from the bath, and much of the more risque parts of her body are strategically covered in foam. )

Now... we are friends here, all friends, friends of convenience, but friends. And Hatisse has shared what little was hers to give. But this is a land of the dead, and she cannot do more for you, if she is unknowing. Tell me, my sweets: how many of you are mired in death? How did you come to it?