Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 15, 2011 18:04:03 GMT -5
I rode to our familial home with a strange and rather complete sense of trepidation. Would I find the home downtrodden? I expected not – with our staff decimated or disappeared in the mayhem of the plague, my mother had used her contacts to ensure that a maitre d' would at least stay on the premises.
His name was Robert Gravel, and I'd never met the man – I was told it was a L'Agnacite name, and I drew no conclusion from the generality.
Upon crossing the gate into the estate, I found the garden poorly tended – a tree had been probably smitten by winds, and broken branches lay scattered in grass that was much too long. The flowers which Cascata loved to admire were growing in uneven patches, some of them entirely eradicated, and weed mingled with precious plants everywhere. I sighed and called out.
“Is anyone there?”
There was no answer for a while, until I heard a commotion coming from the main receiving room.
“m'here, here,” a man was calling, and he sounded drunk and confused, “Lord Gravel of the Stregazzas, the keeper and the liver, hmmmmm?”
I felt my hands tighten into fists, and crossing the patio with a few quick strides, I grabbed the man by the collar and set him to his feet. He stunk of piss and vomit, and I tried not to think that I'd been in such a state in the past as I fired into his eyes my utter discontent.
“Do you know who I am, Monsieur?” He looked at me, and blinked, and seemed not to know. “I am the Duca di Belafonte, and you, I'm afraid you have outstayed your welcome.”
With that, I escorted him out, not caring for a greater fuss, and threw him off the premises with a handful of ducats well worth a severance pay. “And don't come back,” I screamed as I locked the gate behind me.
I returned up the steps and into the home, side-stepping the mess he'd made in the common room and ignoring to the best of my abilities the unsightly amount of empty bottles lying about.
Scouring the property, I came to a few conclusions:
I sat at my old desk, wiped the dust in a liberal gesture, and started calculating the cost of a semi-permanent stay at the Cockeral, then the cost of two servants. One would do, another would be better. This meant I'd have to do some work too, a perspective which I found... oddly soothing. I'd developed a taste for manual work in Carthage, and would enjoy it, so long as there was no whip involved.
Wryly, I spared a thought for Mirielle, and wondered what she would think. Ah, she was already taking hold of my mind once more. Still, this was my home and I had come to reclaim it. I set out for the Cockeral, retrieved my saddle backs, paid my due, leaving an address behind, and returned to a sad and dusty home which I would strive to make alive again.
That night, I slept with the window open, my bed bare and my mind filled with the noise of the city. On the morrow, I would head back to Night's Doorstep and look for much needed help.
His name was Robert Gravel, and I'd never met the man – I was told it was a L'Agnacite name, and I drew no conclusion from the generality.
Upon crossing the gate into the estate, I found the garden poorly tended – a tree had been probably smitten by winds, and broken branches lay scattered in grass that was much too long. The flowers which Cascata loved to admire were growing in uneven patches, some of them entirely eradicated, and weed mingled with precious plants everywhere. I sighed and called out.
“Is anyone there?”
There was no answer for a while, until I heard a commotion coming from the main receiving room.
“m'here, here,” a man was calling, and he sounded drunk and confused, “Lord Gravel of the Stregazzas, the keeper and the liver, hmmmmm?”
I felt my hands tighten into fists, and crossing the patio with a few quick strides, I grabbed the man by the collar and set him to his feet. He stunk of piss and vomit, and I tried not to think that I'd been in such a state in the past as I fired into his eyes my utter discontent.
“Do you know who I am, Monsieur?” He looked at me, and blinked, and seemed not to know. “I am the Duca di Belafonte, and you, I'm afraid you have outstayed your welcome.”
With that, I escorted him out, not caring for a greater fuss, and threw him off the premises with a handful of ducats well worth a severance pay. “And don't come back,” I screamed as I locked the gate behind me.
I returned up the steps and into the home, side-stepping the mess he'd made in the common room and ignoring to the best of my abilities the unsightly amount of empty bottles lying about.
Scouring the property, I came to a few conclusions:
- Any and all who lived here, Riva included, had either left, fled or died;
- The house held no trace of death, suggesting that if there had been any, one had seen to it being cleaned raw;
- There had been little to no looting, but some vases were broken, confirming that the drunken sop I'd just thrown out had been left to his own devices too long;
- I would need help bringing the house back to a state of minimal decency, help which I perhaps could not afford.
I sat at my old desk, wiped the dust in a liberal gesture, and started calculating the cost of a semi-permanent stay at the Cockeral, then the cost of two servants. One would do, another would be better. This meant I'd have to do some work too, a perspective which I found... oddly soothing. I'd developed a taste for manual work in Carthage, and would enjoy it, so long as there was no whip involved.
Wryly, I spared a thought for Mirielle, and wondered what she would think. Ah, she was already taking hold of my mind once more. Still, this was my home and I had come to reclaim it. I set out for the Cockeral, retrieved my saddle backs, paid my due, leaving an address behind, and returned to a sad and dusty home which I would strive to make alive again.
That night, I slept with the window open, my bed bare and my mind filled with the noise of the city. On the morrow, I would head back to Night's Doorstep and look for much needed help.