Hungry Gamer vs. Selah (The Dinner Party)

[Hungry Gamer]

A mansion. A huge mansion in the middle of a small meadow. The mansion appeared to be four stories tall. It's field was decorated with many different kinds of flowers, statues, and pathways. Around the back was a large garden, filled with trees and flowers. There was also a large pond, full of fish, bugs, and many other wildlife. It was an old mansion, one that was well kept, and allowed only the rich and the most sophisticated to stay.

Daruz Mito was just that kind of person. He was a person that loved the highly decorated halls of the mansion. He loved the statues and paintings of himself that littered the walls. And he loved the classical furnature, that brought life to the large home.

These material goods may be destroyed, however. Daruz was expecting somebody, a challenger. He had no idea who this person might be, but nonetheless he was prepared, and very excited.

Daruz walked into the dinning hall. It was filled with servants, preparing a large feast. Just because he was about to fight, didn't mean that he couldn't serve his challanger. The table was filled with all sorts of food and delicates from other countries. The smell of the freshly baked apple pie tempted the Demonic Half Angel, but he wouldn't dare dig in before his guess appeared.

The man brushed his blonde hair out of of his face, and looked out a nearby window. He saw the cresent moon, one of his own signs of good luck. Daruz quietly laughed to himself, tonight was going to be a very exciting night.

[Selah]

It had come upon a wash of midnight clarity, between the nebulous fingers of a Domerii, while she sat among the heady opulence of the Dome gardens, wrapped in a pelisse: an invitation.

To the Señorita Cavallero
Greetings,

It is to my supreme pleasure that I invite you to participate in a tournament, and afterwards to partake in a celebratory repast. That, of course, shall depend upon the nature of the battle. The said tourney will commence in the house of Daruz Mito, located in the centre of meadow - which meadow, I shall leave to the discretion of the Dome. I hope you shall accept the proffered challenge.

Best wishes,
A friend.

Mencha was curious.

She ran her hand across the vellum, felt the impressions that the ink and pen had made upon its yellow ivory face. It was a beautiful letter - the calligraphy played in rich, elegant strokes along the cream - as well as a mystery - the missive was the first of its kind Mencha had received since she'd first set foot in the Dome.

She made up her mind without abundant consideration.

"Would you be so kind as to fetch me my pistol and sword?" she asked, with an inclination of the head. It was only through instinct that she recalled the domerii's presence.

"Of course," murmured the spirit. It was a dry, imperturbable murmur, resigned in the lightest sense - Mencha, in her months here, had learned to ignore this, and so ignored it now.

"Gracias," she replied.

It had been a day of traditions, and Mencha still wore the Spartan white clothes of her teaching routine - nothing differed beyond the pelisse, which she had contrived, mostly due to the Dome's munificence, to obtain. She pushed the cobalt fabric back now, rising as she did.

"Your things, miss," said the domerii.

"Oh--!" Mencha startled, gritted her teeth. And despite the months she'd been here, she had not yet accustomed herself to the silent approaches of the spirits. It nettled her.

She accoutered herself, jamming the pistol into her belt, belting the scabbard that contained her sword.

"It might be the first door you come to, heading left," said the domerii.

"Yes..."

It was an irritation to admit, but such guidance was often best followed.

Mencha left the gardens, turning left at the foyer and stopping before the first door she encountered. The handle had been burnished - this she noted vaguely, as though it were in a dream; she could smell the polish, too heavily applied for comfort - turning it, she pushed open the door and found a meadow spread before her. A house gleamed beneath the crescent moon, some meters distant. It was a different moon from that which had thrown its wan glow over the Dome gardens.

Mencha let the door fall shut behind her; made her way among the wildflowers toward the lighted centre. Something rolled in her stomach, dimly uncomfortable - excitement, no doubt, lined with sentiments less sinister than she was prepared to credit it with. Mencha was not a person to be excited - events, she reasoned, were ordered, fated - there was thus little need for excitement, as such only served to unbalance the humours. But at present, her doctrines had died with the Dome's slivered moon - this was beyond the ordinary, an occasion to tickle the senses, the wit.

She shuddered expectantly.

Mencha was greeted at the door by the concierge - he and his scrupulous apparel were the first visions she garnered of the house.

"I take it you are Señorita Mencha, guest to my lord Daruz Mito?"

"Yes," she breathed.

The door swung backward, and light spilled profusely from the vestibule. Mencha stepped inside - the floor was marble, and the clicks from her heels broke in bold waves. She began to remove her pelisse.

"Concierge - don't tell me - that's her, right?"

"Yes, my lord..."

Someone was hastening toward them. Confidence and mastery echoed in every vibrant step; Mencha's head snapped up, eyes wide. Her exhilaration fell from her like a discarded cloak - its departure had come too late, and left her only half-possessed of caution. Enthusiasm had made up for an initial loss of prudence, but she was abandoned. It came to her, suddenly, as the figure approached, that this hasty descision of hers might have been somewhat unwise.

She found Daruz Mito, when he was close enough for inspection, to be unlike any man she had yet seen.

He was tall - taller than herself, anyway - and well-favoured in the most vigorous sense of the term. He was dressed all in white - this, along with his golden hair, gave him the appearance of having been carved from gold. Cavalier elegance was drawn into every line of his comportment. Mencha was astounded.

"Welcome to my mansion," he said. His smile was insouciant.

"I--"

"May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"

"Mencha."

She had forgotten the formalities.

"Brilliant!" He laughed; every cell lent itself to the manifestation of his utterance. "Oh yes, this is just brilliant."

His smile became mellow.

"Won't you follow me?" he asked. "The dining room is this way, where the feast has been laid." His accents, had they been a river, purled.

Mencha's breathing was coming faster. Her enthusiasm had been thoroughly chased away, replaced by an ominous roll of feeling...

"I think," she said, lying a palm upon the hilt of her sword, "that the tournament starts now... no?"

Daruz inclined his head, his cryptic smile arching with it.

"As you wish," he said. "As you wish."

OoC: ::violins::