Scene #7243:

Owner	Pose
Ben d'Tarkanan	The city of Sharn is the largest city on the continent of Khorvaire, but not in the way you might think. The city is perched atop, and in some cases carved into, a plateau overlooking the Dagger River, and its tributary, appropriately named the Hilt. This plateau is split into five sections by chasms so deep that a fall would not only be fatal, but long and in its own way agonizing. Among many other things, Sharn is called the City of Towers, and looking at one of two central portions of the plateau, it is easy to see why. Even in the eastern part of the city, where you first step through the gate, you are surrounded by them. This eastern part of the city is known as Tavick's Landing. It is where you would purchase means of flight within the city, had Ben not seen to that himself. This district is Sharn's gateway to the continent at large, and to the Multiverse--there is something resembling a train here, as well as a trade road leading out of the city, and of course, the Warpgate. Services for travelers such as inns and guides mingle with housing that is apparently built for those with very little. It becomes fairly obvious, fairly quickly, that these people are refugees of some sort. Even in its largest city, Khorvaire has much healing to do from the century-long war only two years past. Rising high above you, and extending far beneath you, the Landing expands vertically, as do all of the other districts. This is why the city is the largest in Khorvaire. You are on the ground level, for all that it matters in such a sprawling metropolis, in such a place where gravity is a suggestion. To the west, towards the city's center, lies the aptly named Central Plateau, which boasts the largest concentration of towers. Arranged with the tallest at the center, and a maze of bridges connecting them all, the varied roofs of the towers there imitate the peaks of a mountain. Some of those towers even float above the ground. Above even those, borne on a gigantic disk nestled in the starry night sky, is Skyway, itself an opulent, extravagant microcosm of the city, towers, walkways, bridges and all. That's what anyone will tell you, should you ask. When you bear your trinkets, each one selected with what Ben imagines your tastes in fashion to be (right or wrong), flying there is as simple as thinking of doing so. All you need to do now is find Ben's 'estate,' as he called it. He was kind enough to include directions, thankfully.
Guzma	Guzma's here. He originally came with the Trio, arriving at Tavick's Landing, but he sent the other three off to go explore, because they wanted to go see the cool city. Tupp will take care of them, they'll probably have COOL AWESOME OFF-SCREEN ADVENTURES. (Read: They're haggling for loaves of bread) Guzma takes his black skull-adorned trinket, squints at it, shrugs, wishes it was purple, and puts it on. Then, he jumps. Nothing happens. He jumps again. Nothing happens, and people start pointing. He jumps in their direction to scare them, and... Guzma takes off. He flies into the sky, dancing around, and almost hits a tower. Woops! He learns not to be reckless basically immediately, as he gets yelled at by the tower's occupants, and just laughs at them, before flying towards Skyway. If there's any other fliers with him, he shouts to them as he looks for the estate. "Yo, isn't this cool?!"
Edward Blackwell	Ill-fitting. Something drifting on the surface of the world. A leaf riding the currents of man and time. Eyes the color of wood after a fire wander through the crowds. Smoke thick with tobacco rolls off the white cigarette into messy brown hair. Acrid stink stands out with the white labcoat dusting the street. Tennis shoes draw curious stares. A tee-shirt reads 'LADY', flat and blue, bent over forward from the hunch. He got here early. Not the estate. The city. He's been wandering the streets with the expertise of a homeless man and the apathy of a rich one. People mutter at him in passing. 'He must be new.' 'He's strange.' 'Avoid him.' 'Cross the street.' The crowd takes notice of him and parts. So he turns down one of the alleyways. A veteran curls up on the corner. He's missing a leg. Edward kicks him on the way past and drops some copper in his lap. The man wakes up to find his leg restored and a white labcoat fluttering around the corner. The land is sick. The land is sick from war. He'd never seen a war before. But he knew its taste. Empty bottles on the corner. Cardboard signs slick with rain. Will Work For Anything. Veteran, Please Help. It wasn't the same. But it was the same flavor. The same taste. Overcooked meat and undercooked anger. Something taken off the pot too late, or too early. Dissatisfaction. Only when he's seen enough does he head up. The trinket's a pipe. It's funny. He's using it as an ashtray. He grabs onto it and flies up towards Skyway. The white coat drags around him in the breeze. Thin lips twist around the cigarette. "It's fucking windy," he says to nobody. When he lands, his foot snaps out and catches a passenger by the heel. The man starts to fall. Edward snaps his arm out. "Be more careful next time." He pushes the man back forward. The man falls on his face. Edward walks away. The man stands up to curse only to find his aching spine straightened. The land is sick. Silver towers. Glittering walkways. Sky-high city over sky-high city. A place the land doesn't touch. The wealthy turn up their noses. Too polite to mutter. Too polite to notice him. They ignore him with the practiced zeal of the elite. He, in turn, ignores them, save to knock a petty lord on his ass every so often. Lumbago and gout vanish on impact. Simple procedures. Simple problems. Everybody has the same problems in the end. All just meat waiting to rot. He pretends it's an accident when he knocks an old man's cane out from under him. The ashes come down on the old man's head and a wound ten years old blows away in the wind. He pretends it's a mistake when he shoves a young lady into the wall. He doesn't apologize. No need. The ache in her wrist is gone and he's in the crowd by the time she notices. The land is sick in little places. He reaches the state. He holds up the pipe. "Edward Blackwell," he says to whoever's in attendance. The pipe vanishes into rippling white. A cigarette comes out. A silver lighter, monogrammed. Too fancy for a homeless man. Snap, snap. A little flame. The ember takes light. You're fucking right he's going to smoke in here.
Cantio	"How do all these buildings stand so high? I'm amazed that they could support such structures without them toppling..." Cantio's first observation of the city of Sharn just had to be a morbid one, but her expression is anything but. No, she has the excitement of someone seeing new, wondrous things with glee, even going as far as snapping pictures of it all on a small purple phone. Once she's done getting her fill of touristy picture-taking, she takes a moment to laugh at Guzma enjoying his stint in flying with the skull trinket. "It looks like you're having fun up there. Let's see..." She slips that phone away, and then she takes out a light purple clamp. Weirdly enough, it actually matches her color scheme. "So I just think about the place and...?" It couldn't be that different from flying normally. She takes a running leap off a railing, and then she's off! Screaming, momentarily, as she adjusts to being pulled along by the clamp rather than flying of her own innate control, but she eventually adjusts and manages to join up with Guzma after nearly crashing into the same tower. "It's different from what I'm used to, but to think that something like this could be made for anyone to use... This could be an amazing breakthrough!" She chatters excitedly, shifting around in mid-air to get a few good shots of Guzma as well as Edward when she spots him seemingly tripping someone. Best not to dwell on that too much. She's deliberately avoiding eye contact, too, even as she finally lands nearby at their destination. "C... Cantio. It's a pleasure to meet all of you."
Ben d'Tarkanan	In a compact, vertically oriented city like Sharn, one might be forgiven for assuming 'estate' to be a slight embellishment, since it refers not just to the mansion, but the grounds upon which it is built. Skyway is a decadent Sharn in miniature, which makes it all the more reasonable to assume that you host was just using flowery language. That is not the case. Five acres--five football fields. It is fairly modest, as land goes elsewhere, but for Sharn, in its richest district, there is no other word for it but palatial. The grounds bear a finely maintained lawn, replete with topiary, in defiance of the smoothed stone walkways which adorn most of the rest of the district. Following his directions, entry comes through a wrought iron gate bearing a crest which reads STONEGLADE, flanked by two grinning iron beholders, or through a dock which extends slightly over the edge of the enormous disk this district sits upon, likely for the personal airships of visitors. If the beholders didn't clue you in, the soft music of minstrels and the chatter of polite conversation should. Gathered on the front lawn, encircling a burbling marble fountain, there is an arrangement of socialiates, most from the nations of Khorvaire, but some from other worlds. All of them are wearing the finely-made clothes of their respective societies' ultra-wealthy, as uniformed servants bustle between them with offerings of varied hors d'oeuvres. These people are all here for Ben, or so it would seem, and though they strike pleasant conversation (Except with Edward), the man himself is absent. It isn't until you take a walk around the grounds, past topiary resembling majestic beasts and magical creatures, that you find him. Alone, in fine black clothes with gold trim, and a deep, rich red baldric which blends in with a cape of a similar hue. His back is to you. He doesn't notice you at first, until you speak, standing by himself on a dock meant for the airships of his guests. He is staring below... at the Warpgate. At his neck, just below his hairline, you see the faint traces of his aberrant, blood red dragonmark, like smoke fleeing flames. He turns, a wan smile on his face, a crystal glass of dark wine in his right hand. "Ho there, friends. I do hope the grounds are to your liking." He gestures with his mismatched left arm to the topiary. "Sculpted by a Phiarlan. Magnificent, aren't they?"
Edward Blackwell	Parties were foreign animals. The way he moves tells the story. The hunch of a tall man pretending to be short. One hand in his pocket. Wedding ring on the finger touching the smoke. Disinterested, lazy walk. He's been to maybe five in his life. Maybe. Two birthday parties for someone else. Two school dances. His own wedding. He doesn't greet people, but he does annoy. The pungent smoke lingers in the air as he passes through the crowd. He grabs hands and shakes them with a common man's vigor and a noble's lack of enthusiasm. A smile that doesn't meet his eyes. No name, no introduction. Fingers squeeze a laborer's grip around soft hands both lady and lord alike. He just wanders away. Elbows clean up. Joint pain disappears. Most will attribute it to the garden air. No one could do that. Not without a Dragonmark. Maybe not even then. Maybe it was a miracle. They'll convince themselves it didn't happen. The man in the white labcoat will be cut from their minds. A strange servant wandering the grounds no doubt. A curiosity. Entertainment! A clown, of course. A strange clown in white. A commoner, how droll. How droll, they'll say, and lock the wonder away. Their thoughts drip in his mind, ripples on an ever-flowing river. Intrusive and obnoxious. They're trying to ignore fear. Ignore pain. Ignore suffering. He can't deny them that. He'd want to do the same. If he had to look down out of gilded towers to streets full of misery he'd want to pretend they weren't there, too. No judgment. Just healing. When he's had enough of listening to their thoughts he wanders out to the grounds. The topiaries get a few passing glances. Neat. He stops at one of them. Stares at its face. Blows smoke into the leaves. It needed some smoke in the nostrils. Needed some fire in its eyes. By the time he finds Ben he's practically shuffling. The cigarette's almost out. Annoying. "Sure," he says, looking up at the topiary, "Nice." One hand goes out to slap Guzma hard in the back. Knock the glass out. His other hand puts out the cigarette on Guzma's head. Ash seeps into wounds. Rolls out of wounds. Wounds roll out with the ash and blow away on the wind. "Don't know what they are," Edward says as if he didn't just slap a man in the back of the head and put out a cigarette on top, "But they're nice, I'm sure." He flicks the cigarette off into the grass and lights a new one. "Edward Blackwell." They know who you are by now, Ed.
Guzma	Guzma doesn't like parties. Nobles, society, mingling and acting like they mean anything because they have money and power. He's not ignored, but that's probably because of the fake gold chains and jewelry he wears. A Multiversal noble, they likely think. Oh, if only he was as great as us. Guzma rolls over to the dock to meet Ben, not wanting to be in this clownshoes society world. Suddenly, he gets shoved, and before he can react and shout, there's a cigarette being put out on his forehead. It burns. "AGH! WHAT THE-" And then, the cuts are gone. The sting is gone. The pain, gone. "What- what the hekc did you just do!!" It's a mix of anger, frustration, and excited shock. And then, he shakes himself off instead of decking Edward, and talks to Ben. "Yo! It's ya boy, Guzma!" He glances towards the topiary. He doesn't quite get it, but he nods a little. "What's a Phiarlan?"
Edward Blackwell	"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Edward says as he takes a drag from the new cigarette. "I just mistook your hair for an ashtray, that's all."
Cantio	Cantio's getting just a bit of stage fright at the sight of so many more people coming, presumably, to see this Ben person that's invited herself and several others to see what it is this new stranger has in store for the Multiverse. She manages to make small talk with the strangers eventually, at least, although she does linger closer towards Guzma and Edward by virtue of their voices actually being familiar. Cantio herself certainly looks Multiversal, if not necessarily noble due to the bright colors and lack of frilled clothing and jewelry. At least Ben himself sounds pleasant enough, if a little strange looking as she spots that marking on his neck before anything else. "Oh, very much. It's quite nice here, and I can't imagine the work that went into getting these flying devices working for anyone to be able to use..." She sounds excited already, tempered somewhat by Edward hitting Guzma on the back and somehow fixing his superficial wounds. Something to ask about later, definitely. "Phiarlan? I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the name, Sir... Ben, right?" A beat, and then Cantio dips into a more formal curtsey. "My name's Cantio, Drive Core Candidate of Cadenza. Thank you for having us."
Ben d'Tarkanan	Sharn is also called the City of Eyes. There are many upon Edward, silently judging, tracing from the haggard medicus to his host on the peer, whispering about Lord d'Tarkanan and his unusual company. It is a kind of patronizing appreciation. How noble Lord d'Tarkanan is, to accept a vagrant, to give him 'a taste of the good life.' Edward is, in otherwords, absolutely right about how he'd be received. Not that it matters to Ben. He has one of those rare smiles, gentle and unintruding, that believes in you without overpowering you, that understands you without revealing you. "Eddie, old chap, Big Bad Guzma... and Goodlady Cantio, was it? It's my pleasure to have you." He gives each of his guests the full weight of his attention, offering a handshake to each. "Artists," he says, of House Phiarlan. "And dancers, minstrels, actors. The very best of our world, you understand. Forgive my poor reception, I was just... reflecting." His thoughts do seem to indicate that, Edward will note. A certain yearning, whenever he looks at the gate, a quiet sadness at the veterans and refugees which live in cramped homes around it. Not sympathy. Empathy. "Sharn is a beautiful city," he says. There is a 'but.' It doesn't come. "We're situated on a confluence of magical energy from an elemental dimension of air. It's what makes our levitation magic possible here, but outside the city, your trinkets are just that." He spies with an approving smile that you all received them. "How did they do?"
Edward Blackwell	It's not a wild, vagrant handshake. Just a handshake. Strong grip. Nimble fingers. Abnormally strong? Abnormally nimble? Hard to say. Certainly stronger than it ought to be. Those arms look weak. Those hands look weak. But that grip is powerful. "Too fancy for me." Edward knocks a bit more ash into the pipe. "Too expensive. Here." He taps out one of his brand. They're pretty cheap. Those long fingers pass it over to Ben. That monogrammed silver lighter comes out to light it. "Supposed to bring a present, right?" "Sent me a smoke-pipe. Give you a smoke-stick. Fair's fair." There's a sense that 'too fancy for me' is true of the city, as well. That the words are draped over Sharn and trinket alike. A microcosm in a microcosm. "It's a nice house," he says after a bit. There's a tiny, tiny bit of awkwardness under the surface of a man who otherwise does not give a damn about how he's received. That much is obvious - he has some reason not to care, some means by which he is separated from the rest of the world. Or he cares entirely too much about being separate from the world. Hard to say at a glance. Hard to tell with his stance. "So." A sigh of smoke rolling out of thin lips. "What do you do at one of these?"
Guzma	Guzma shakes his hand firmly, with a knuckletap if Ben can understand that. It might take a second if he's completely out of the loop. Guzma steps over to look down at the gate, and then looks back to Ben. "How long has that beent here?" He's not asking about the gate. And then, he answers Ben. "It worked well enough. Fit my style. I've never flown like /that/ before, so it was pretty cool." And then, Edward gets a laugh. "You eat, mingle, pretend you care about other people. It's the worst! All the TV shows make it out to be great, but, really, why would you ever want to be around people who don't give a crud about you?"
Cantio	Shaking Ben's hand carefully, there's definitely a sense of anxiety from the pinkest and purplest member of today's group. Not from having to shake his hand or anything, since she did actually have a firm grip. Perhaps it's she saw something earlier? She's calming down, at least, even though she's still wary of looking directly at Edward. "An artists' paradise, then? I might have to visit them as well sometime. My home is renowned in my world for its music, but seeing how other worlds' music has developed is always a great learning experience." She replies with some visible excitement in her eyes, although Ben's comment about his own reception leaves her puzzled. "It wasn't poor at all, sir. Especially since you have so many people to attend to." She glances over towards the crowds from earlier for a moment, but her attention soon shifts back when he brings up the downsides of the flight trinkets. She brings out the clamp, squeezing it a few times out of reflex. "It performed quite admirably. It's shame they don't work outside of this city, but... Perhaps they could be modified?" Cantio suggests, her eyes lighting up once more. "Maybe with a small internal battery, or a portable and rechargeable pack that could be refilled outside.... This could bring flight to a whole new audience that never could have imagined it." A moment later, and she steps back with a quick bow. "Sorry! I got a little.. Er. A-anyway." Clearing her throat, she quiets down while looking between Guzma and Edward with considerably less anxiety from earlier. It's not gone, but it's less. She even manages a laugh. "Politics, too, sometimes. Other times, it can help reassure the people that their leaders are doing their jobs right... Somehow."
Ben d'Tarkanan	Ben smirks at Guzma's response to Edward's question. His answer is quite different. "Why, anything you like, Eddie. Enjoy the food, the wine, the music, the night air, the company... in fact. Come," says Ben, gesturing with his free hand. "I'll introduce you all to the other guests. They'll /love/ you," he says, ignorant of Edward's reception, Cantio's apprehension, or Guzma's indifference. Or perhaps in spite of them. He is already walking, his arms (one slightly longer than the other) ushering you as if he were a long lost friend, trying to get you to try something new. He is... deceptively strong for his size. "Your attention please!" he calls, lifting his glass. "Yes, yes," he says as the chatter quiets down. "You can get back to eating my food and drinking my wine in a moment," quips the finely-dressed lord with a crooked grin. This sends a little wave of quiet laughter throughout the partygoers. He has their attention, and only the burbling of the fountain for competition--even the minstrels have stopped playing. "Lords and ladies, gentlepersons, may I present the reasons we are gathered here this eve, my esteemed friends from across the Mutliverse. Of the Concord, The Lady Cadenza, Her Honor Cantio." Referring to one by the name of the land they hail from is apparently quite the honorific, as there is a series of impressed murmurs. "And Big, Bad Guzma, conqueror of Archdragon Peak, slayer of Wyverns!" From this, another, and a round of polite applause. "Last, but certainly not least, Master Edward Blackwell, a healer of such miraculous talent as to be the envy of all of House Jorasco." One of the partygoers, an owlish, round man with a waxed mustache, blinks. "You mean to say... was that you, Master Blackwell?" He looks left, then right. "I shook his hand," announces the noble. "My arthritis cleared right up!" This draws an excited wave of chatter, and Ben looks with a smile towards his Multiversal guests. "Players! Something lively, please. Something to celebrate the excellence of our honored guests!" At some point, he slipped the cigarette into his mouth. It makes him look rather dashing, like a noble from the old world stepping into the roaring twenties. As the minstrels play and the party kicks into a more lively, raucous affair. "Sorry to put you all on the spot, friends but a guest in my home deserves the very best," he offers by way of apology. "What kind of music do your people play, Lady Cantio?" She's gone from Goodlady to 'Lady.'
Guzma	As Guzma's led to be introduced, he should hate this. He should despise being paraded around, used as clout and status. But... No. He loves it. They're acknowledging him as powerful, with respect. He's not just 'the Multiversal noble'. He's the big bad Guzma, slayer of wyverns. That's a true thing he did, and he's getting the respect he deserves. So, he flashes the crowd a thumbs up as soon as Ben's done speaking, and then shuffles off for Edward to be introduced, talking to Ben in the process. "Hey, thanks. That feels pretty good. They gotta respect us, y'know?"
Edward Blackwell	A ghost. A ghost all in white. A fluttering sheet in the window at night. Something that passes through the world against all reason. Dark eyes wrapped in shimmering translucence. Ghosts are never really around people at all, are they? "Dunno. Don't watch TV." The embers dance up the cigarette more. "Waste of time." Dark eyes land on Cantio. Her reflection on the surface of a still pond. A gaze right through her. Right past her. "That's a waste of time, too." And then the drop. The ghost on display. The light shining through transparent form. Ghosts don't last on display. Ghosts never remain. You flick the light on and they disappear. They vanish with the sun. Light only lasts in darkness. Edward's fingers tighten around the cigarette. It bends in half. His hair falls over his eyes. People mutter about him. Wonder. Fascination. Fixation. They'll start wondering how he did it. Fingers twitch in his pocket. They'll wonder how he did it. They'll start making up stories. They won't forget, now. Nobody forgets a miracle when you show them one. Nobody forgets a miracle when you prove it exists. And everyone wants to replicate a miracle, don't they? His voice is tense. "Don't know what you're talking about," he says to the owlish round man, "Did I shake your hand? There's so fucking many of you. And all of you alike. I couldn't possibly remember. You must've imagined it. It's probably just the air. It's a nice garden. Does you good to walk around." The words have no power but to that owlish little man. To everyone else they're nothing but words. To him they are a drumbeat. They take the mindless dance of nobility and spin it to Edward's tune. They whirl into his mind. Dig in. A worm. A crawling, digging worm. "I'm just a physician. I couldn't do something like that. d'Tarkanan's just being nice. How would I heal you with something like that? Don't be a fucking idiot." Maybe it'll be enough. To sew a seed of doubt. To make them wonder and mutter and think, perhaps, that d'Tarkanan is just being nice. If nothing else, he's rude enough. People don't want to believe in rude. But the change in his stance says everything. His hunch deepens. His fingers in his pocket tighten. He sucks down the broken cigarette in a single breath and flicks it to the side. Three more pop out. He lights all of them at once. Smoking like a chimney. And those dark eyes, vanished under that mop of hair. "Don't be fucking idiots," he repeats, his voice harsh, his tone unkempt and downright rude. Sink back, Edward. Into the cruel. The crude. The harsh. Take the light away so the ghost can return. He'd attack Ben right here and now if he could. His stance says that much. But he can't. And he won't. So he just stands there. Smoking. Hoping it's enough.
Cantio	Hearing herself referred to in such a respectful manner already has Cantio's heart skipping a beat, although she maintains a polite smile and waves calmly at the crowd following the introduction. She even chuckles lightly at Edward being recognized for his apparent medical exploits (and hides her own surprise at that somehow working) as well as Guzma soaking up that attention. The music, meanwhile, has Cantio closing her eyes and soaking thatin herself. It doesn't take long for her to start nodding lightly with the beat, even humming along for a moment to a song that doesn't exist, before snapping back to reality when Ben speaks to them once more. "It's not a problem at all, Sir Tarkanan. Although I wonder if this sort of introduction should have been reserved for my sister... Oh! There's all sorts since we have something to listen to almost all the time, but in terms of specialties..." Before she can get into that, though, her attention is diverted to Edward being positively terrifying. Although her face only betrays a hint of that terror, it's easier for the few standing closer by that her knees are shaking. Really, what's she even supposed to do in that sort of situation?
Guzma	Edward flips out. Guzma backs away, and immediately can tell from his body language that he wants to deck Ben. But...that's not who he goes to aid. He steps in between Cantio and Edward. He saw her knees shaking. He knows Edward isn't going to hurt Cantio, but she's scared, so she might as well want the support. "Yo. That's not cool."
Ben d'Tarkanan	"Indeed they do, old chap," says Ben to Guzma. He claps him amiably on the shoulder with the paler of his arms. "You shall have to bring her along next time, Lady Cantio, and we'll see to it she gets a fitting introduction of her own, no?" He grins, continues to make conversation with Cantio, engaged, eyes locked upon her as she begins to speak of her passion for music. "...Lady Cantio?" It is then that he notices. A pall falls over the crowd, Ben absolutely included, as Edward berates one of his guests, then several. They manage to shrug it off, the seed of doubt successfully planted. The little man goes and wanders off, as he was told. To everyone else, Ben is just being nice. Right now, even as conversation resumes, Ben is staring, not at Edward, but the ground, trying desperately to work it out. I don't understand. I did everything right. That in itself might be insulting. The silence from Ben is only a few seconds, but in the context of a social gathering like this, might as well be a year. Did I offend him? Is he not proud of his success? I mustn't pry. I mustn't take offense. Whatever this is, I must bear it nobly. Ben returns to the world after staring into his wine. He takes a generous sip, only to find Edward standing as if he were about to throw a punch. "Please forgive my overstep, Eddie. I sense I've tarnished your honor in some way. How may I make it up to you?"
Edward Blackwell	A glimpse of those eyes. Those eyes. Those eyes. Those eyes. Those dark eyes. Those terrible eyes. Hidden under a layer of hair. Hidden under a mess. Hidden under a mask? Deep eyes. No longer dead earth. A yawning chasm. A widening chasm. Those eyes! How terrible those deep, kind eyes! How terrible to see such a gaze without malice or hate! Such kind, terrible anger! No man should have eyes like that. No man should have eyes so dark and full, such raging, uncontrollable kindness. Not on his own behalf? Those are not the eyes of an insulted man. Of a man who has been wronged. Those are not the eyes of someone who cares about himself. No, no. That man has not cared about himself in a long time. His appearance says as much. Perpetual stubble. Poor posture. The stink of tobacco seeped into everything he wears. He has not been insulted since he became homeless. To see such eyes. So angry, so kind, on behalf of someone else. Why? The head tips down. The hair falls back in front of his face. The angry mercy vanishes. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says again to both Guzma and Ben, his tone tight, his fingers tight, his hand shaking around the cigarettes. "No idea what you're talking about." "I just hate the spotlight." Fingers twitch around the cigarettes again. Something more than that. He's lying, but about what? "Casts the wrong shadows. Long shadows. Distorted shadows." His voice is tight. "Thanks. You're trying to be nice." "I'm shy." No he's not. "I'm real fucking shy. Hate the spotlight. Hate the center of attention." Ghosts can't hide in the spotlight. His anger fades as the man wanders off. As the crowd starts muttering that Ben's just being nice. There's an audible sigh of relief as the tension vanishes from his body. That raging kindness disperses with the wind. He looks at Cantio. Such kind eyes. Such a sad, kind smile. "Thanks for trying to be nice," he says again, and it's empty words, fitting an empty party, fitting an empty garden. "...so what do you do?" He asks Cantio. He's trying to be nice, now. Trying to let her feel at ease.
Cantio	Guzma steps in, and confusion replaces the fear of things suddenly escalating to fisticuffs. Doesn't he normally fight with creatures rather than his fists? She's only heard of both of these men's fighting styles, but she does't have quite so much time to process that before Ben starts staring at his wine, trying to de-escalate with an apology, and Edward looking right at her. She sees it. Sort of. She's not sure what it specifically is, but it doesn't strike her as outright hostility towards Ben himself. Even that clenching of his hand when Guzma steps in doesn't strike her as a threat in retrospect, oddly enough, and it takes a social eon/three seconds for Cantio to calm herself enough to finally answer. "I h... Um. Manage the general affairs of my home country along with my sister." It's not technically lying about her actual role that way, and it lets Ben stay truthful! "And... I make music sometimes. Machines, although that's more of a hobby." She speaks calmly. Softly, even. The anxiety is still certainly there, but it's being suppressed heavily. She even smiles back in that friendly, yet awkwardly anxious way. "What about you? Sir Tarkanan, Mister Blackwell, Mister Guzma? Outside of work, even."
Guzma	The fighting dies down. Guzma steps aside, and sighs. He watches Edward carefully. The man's a liar - a bad one. He knows this because he sees himself as a liar, too. He can see through Ed's anger easily. But, he doesn't want to ruin Ben's party. Guzma answers Cantio's question when she asks. "I run Team Skull. It's a gang of people the world have rejected. People who have nowhere else to go, creating their own way in life. We're the best, yo. We're carving ourselves a niche."
Ben d'Tarkanan	His smile turns apologetic. His surface thoughts turn against him. Fool. Charlatan. "I see. I shall keep that in mind, Eddie." He tries to maintain the friendliness. He sounds smaller, despite his efforts. He offers an inclination of his head, one final gesture of apology. Lord d'Tarkanan clears his throat, and takes another, generous sip of wine. Not so much that it's gauche, but certainly enough to make it clear he's trying to put that behind him in a not-so-healthy way. He is beating it down with drink, rather than facing it. "Well, outside of work I'm a man about town, as you can see." He smiles wanly, gesturing to the party around him. "Most of the time, even that is related to some personal project or another, this little get together being a rare exception." "I have my own personal aims, but I am still a member of House Tarkanan. I provide the usual house services; we find lost things or lost people, and we are passing fair mercenaries. House Deneith may have us beat in pure brute strength, but our aberrant marks give us a kind of versatility they could only dream of." He swells with pride at that, beginning to lick his wounds. "Naturally, I also train the more junior members of the House, that they might learn to safely control their marks--as do we all." Guzma's description of Team Skull causes him to brighten visibly. "I knew there was a reason I liked you, Master Guzma. House Tarkanan is /mmuch/ the same. We've clawed a position of respect for ourselves, and done it in Khorvaire's largest city, no less."
Ben d'Tarkanan	Ben finishes his wine, setting the glass on the rim of the fountain. It is all but forgotten. A moment's silence as he returns his attention to the conversation, and something that Cantio had previously said returns to his mind. "Lady Cantio, might I ask after your specialty, within the arts? I find off-world music to be a most stimulating pursuit."
Edward Blackwell	"Nothing," Edward says at her question. His smile is lopsided. Bitter? Hard to tell. "I work. And then I work. And then I work some more. I like my work. I don't need to do something outside it. A hobby is for someone who doesn't like what they do, right?" His posture's back to normal. Well. 'Normal.' It's still the hunched-over posture of a tall man tring to be small. "That sounds like a hell of a responsibility. You like doing it?" He's asking both of them. Both Cantio and Guzma. 'That sounds like a hell of a responsibility.' Leading people sounds like a hell of a responsibility. He scratches the back of his head like he's an awkward teenager. It's to make her feel better. He's being nice. Making it seem like he's socially anxious, too. Not making fun of her. Maybe he was socially anxious at one point. His movements are too...accurate. And he mentioned that all he does is work, right? And the wedding ring glittering on his finger. "Shit, I don't envy that." He straightens a little. He glances over at Ben. His face is blank. "I don't envy that, either, huh? That's a lot of work." He smiles. It's an earnest fucking smile, too. Either Edward is an amazing actor (very doubtful, unless even that angry kindness and those quick, angry lies were acting, which, possible? Doubtful.), or he's just that fucking earnest. "Honestly...it's amazing what you guys achieve." It doesn't sound patronizing, coming from him. "You made a name in a giant city. You made a world sit up and hear your name not for what you are but for what you did. They'll remember you forever. Genius comes and goes, right? A genius dies and everybody's sad for a while and then the next one comes along. But something ambitious, people remember forever. In a hundred years they'll be talking about both of you." The underlying text is clear. I hope no one is talking about me in even one year.
Cantio	Cantio's breathing a little easier when calm returns to the party, and she listens closely to Guzma speaking of Team Skull, Ben speaking of House Tarkanan, and Edward speaking of work. Somehow, she doesn't look particularly surprised by their answer specifically, although Ben's question gets the first response. "I guess it would have to be... Piecing the music together? I'm not as good at improvising and creating new songs out of nothing as my sister is, but putting the pieces together, arranging them into a whole, tweaking the timing of the different notes... It's satisfying." Indeed, she does perk up a bit when she says that, almost as though she's forgetting what had nearly happened moments ago. Edward's question gets a somewhat more resigned tone, but not without Cantio keeping thatsmile going. It's helped quite a bit by those little motions, as though she wasn't quite as versed in noticing just how practiced it might ook to someone with more worldly experience. "It is, it is. I... It's what I was born to do. If I'm going to do it, I might as well do it well, right?" She does't sound resentful, at least. That's just how it is for someone like her.
Guzma	"Yeah, I like doing it." Is what Guzma replies. "They're like family. Even if they can be a bit dumb sometimes." Smash-cut to Tupp, Rapp, and Zipp fleeing a bakery with three loaves of bread. The large Warforged bodyguard chases after them. Smash-cut back to Guzma. "You think they will be talking about me, huh?" Guzma says, smiling. It's a hollow smile. He eyes the wedding ring. He notes it in the back of his mind. Guzma doesn't like Edward at all. But he doesn't make it clear visually he's planning something. He just needs to figure out /what/.
Edward Blackwell	"What you were born to do, huh." Edward's smile widens a little. "Yeah. I can understand that. Definitely. Like I said. I've been obsessed with medicine since I was a kid. It's what I was born to do, too. And either way you've got lives on the line." Edward looks at Guzma. He smiles. It's such a nice smile. And just like that, there's a thought in the back of Guzma's mind. It feels so natural. Like it came from him. Like it came from Guzma himself. It even has Guzma's voice. 'If I go after that guy's family, he'll break everything I love. Holy shit. Holy shit, yo.' Images flood into Guzma's mind. Fingers being broken off - broken, not cut, physically snapped off at the joint. His arm being ripped out of its socket. The Team Skull logo splattered and torn apart. And then, horrifyingly, the fingers are put back on with no more effort than it takes him to breathe. The arm is slapped back together. All with those terrifying eyes full of raging kindness. That part is true. Edward is, indeed, that kind. He won't kill anyone. But holy god will he make Guzma regret it. And when he opens his eyes, there is the tremendously awful thought that creeps into the mind. He could make you feel all of it twice over if he digs it into your brain. But he just grins and pats Guzma on the shoulder like it's nothing but a nice garden party. "Chin up. You'll be famous. You're the kind of guy who won't let anything stop you, right?" "Big Bad Guzma." Another pat. "I'm rooting for you, guy." And that, too, is earnest. He really, really is. He really, truly, actually does believe in Guzma. He really does want Guzma to succeed. How fucked-up is that, that a person can have that kind of dichotomy? That a person can smile so readily and mean something so earnest after showing someone such a horrible scene? After letting someone know that he could make that person feel it right now? God. Either he's a monster, he's insane, or... Or he really is that kind, and he's just trying to make sure Guzma doesn't piss him off? It's...really hard to tell. "Anyway. I should get going. Nice party, Ben. Thanks for hosting. Got work to do. Nice meeting you, Guzma, Cantio. See you around." And then he just kind of shuffles off out the gate.
Guzma	Guzma is smiling one moment. The next, he's stunned, visibly. It's probably the proof Ben needs, if he needs any - that reaction isn't fake. He's disturbed. And then, Edward says something, but it filters out of Guzma's mind, as he tries to clear the thought. Something about how he's rooting for ihm. The guy who won't let anything stop him. Guzma turns to yell at him, but Edward's already leaving. Guzma turns it into hate. Something to remember. A new rival, as he turns to Ben and Cantio. "Yeah." "Nothing's gonna stop me."
Ben d'Tarkanan	Ben blinks, confused, but pleased to see that his slight has been forgotten. He smiles back. Is it fair? For him to accept Edward's praise? Surely, to do so would cheat the man, when he will accept none from other people. No matter what happens, bear it nobly. "Thank you for your kind words, Eddie," he says simply, bowing his head respectfully. "To tell you the truth..." Still smiling, he inclines his head backwards, towards his guests. "I believe I may be as a carnival attraction, to these people. They come, hoping at the back of their minds that my mark might suddenly render my home to ashes, or rouse beasts from the depths of Khyber. They /want/ to remember people like myself and Master Guzma, not for our success, but for our fall. For the simple hubris of yearning a better life. It is a sad, cruel way to live--but we intend to keep standing. They will have to do the pushing themselves... won't they, Master Guzma?" He places his left arm upon Guzma's shoulder, giving him a firm, friendly pat. "Safe travels, Eddie. Come back /anytime./" Elsewhere in the city, bells ring, chiming the late hour, loudly enough that only the most soused of carousers might deny its coming. Some of those people are at this party. It's easy to drink, when it's not your wine. One by one, the partygoers file away into the night, laughing and flying in uncoordinated loops and twists as they float back to the warpgate, or to their homes, leaving Guzma, Ben and Cantio. The grounds are silent, in their absence, and littered in places with the trash his guests threw upon his lawn. If he is bothered, he doesn't show it--but it does, at least, speak to his opinion on those nobles attending from Khorvaire. Perhaps he was right. But he doesn't care. "You shall have to share one of your arrangements with me, Lady Cantio. For now, I believe we might all take after the other guests, and retire for the night. Will you be requiring an escort to the Warpgate, my Lady?"
Cantio	"Tell me about it. Even just the one can be a handful." Cantio replies to Guzma's talk of family members being dumb, although she's much too polite to say it outright. It's entirely possible she can't even bring herself to think that, either. Not on purpose, anyway. At first, Cantio's all smiles when Edward encourages Guzma. Why wouldn't she? After that initial awkward start, he's certainly come off as a nice enough, if highly eccentric person. Guzma's sudden shift, though, and his words over the radio have Cantio clenching her jaw moments later as well. If nothing else, she's getting better at maintaining her composure in more social settings. "G... Good night, Mister Blackwell." It's about all she can manage, the uncertainty still audible in her voice to keener ears even though she's pretty sure nobody but these three would even notice or care. Afterwards, there's a bit of mingling here and there, but not as much as she would normally. Even as a guest, she can't let loose too much, and eventually... "Definitely, Sir Tarkanan. I'll bring over something next time. I think I'll be alright heading back home, thank you. And thank you so much for the invitation. It was a great party, so I know my sister'll love to come next time. As for earlier..." That uncertainty returns. "... There has to be a reason for it. All that... Everything he did."