In Vino Praeposterus

Redwater Wines, Alexandros countryside

How hard could this be? Otho Redwater had put out a request for security for an upcoming wine-tasting at his estate and winery. Snooty and supercilious he may be, but his gold will spend just as well as any other fellows. If only he didn't come off as a pretentious git...

The winery is a sprawling affair, connected to the Redwater estates. It's clear where Otho's family made their money, judging by the serried ranks of grapes planted and monitored with exacting care. Carriages roll up to a relatively new building, disgorging a number of gentry and well-to-do merchants.

People are filtering into the large dining hall on the estate premises, the room dominated by four large casks at the far wall. Interestingly, there are arcane markings chalked onto each cask, as well as on the floor around them. A long table runs the length of the hall, stacked with light snacks to clear the palate between sips of wine, as well as hosting a large number of small wine-tasting glasses -- not heavy tankards or elaborate goblets, these are closer to shot glasses in size.

After the last job, Warrick needed something a little more straightforward with less mortal danger. So here he was, in this Winery to play security. He's dressed for the part, in his blackened scale mail with a large crossbow dangling off a strap on his side.

He could at least deal with snooty nobles, he thinks to himself as he stands within the dining hall with his helmet under an arm. A handful of the snacks were pilfered earlier as watches the procession with a bored expression on his face. Monch.

The hardest part of this job, Aragos had already decided, was that drinking the wine himself was probably out of the question. He looked over at the casks of wine longingly, but with more than a touch of curiosity as well. What manner of wine needed or even had arcane symbols written on them? Why write them on the floor? None of his business really. The paladin of Vardama was decked out in his black-lacquered armor, the symbol of Vardama clearly written on his chest.

In truth his attention was less on those entering and who likely paid him little heed, but more on the person that he'd come specifically because of. His eyes slid over to Gramarye. If there was one person that he was willing to endure a night of merchants and nobles drinking for, it was her. He stood on the furthest edge of his designated 'zone' just so he could be a little closer to her.

Gramarye is at least nicely dressed. The war golem wears a fine red dress with a sash of deep-blue silk wrapped around her waist. She looks maybe more like a party-goer than a hired eye.

Except for the part that she's 6 feet and 10 inches tall and made of bronze, and the fact that she has chosen a rather... inconvenient space in the middle of the dining hall, forcing people to walk around her.

"Analysis: this precise location is the ideal vantage point for oversight from the ground level," Gramarye intones to Aragos, the 'blink' of the lights in her obsidian eyes serving as the replacement for a faceplate that's lacking in moving parts--

Someone steps on her foot. Her head pivots just a little in the direction of the nobleman who does.

"Initiating social protocol," Gramarye intones again. "That was very rude. Please deliver an appropriate apology for this grievance, considered a moderate social infraction, promptly."

The noble who just stepped on Gramarye's foot -yelps- and jumps a little. "Ah! I thought you were part of the decorations! So sorry, so sorry..."

The fellow scurries off, practically bleating like a sheep, as other nobles and well-to-do ne'er-do-anythings wander in. Most seem to avoid looking at the adventurers on duty, though a couple meet their eyes and nod politely: a young man with a wild shock of red-and-gold hair, and an older man with curly dark hair, both well dressed but with that indefinable air of being lionhounds among the lapdogs.

Otho Redwater himself is flitting to and fro, chatting with guests, dressed in a garish green and yellow ensemble that really doesn't compliment his bald head and jutting nose and chin. He's got a voice to match, slightly reedy, and prone to snide comments. He can be overheard in fact, talking to one matron. "Yes, of -course- I've heard of him. Pfft. A dilettante and amateur. Wine is in my blood, ten generations! I'm sure he's got some clever little tricks, but only a true sommelier and grower of the grapes can create a masterpiece of wine and wizardry."

Warrick idly does his rounds, stopping vaguely near the two others contracted for this job. "At least they're feeding us," he idly comments, eyes drifting to each of the patrons as they move in. Him fighting a chuckle back at the sudden apologizing to their Golem. "Very rude indeed. Name's Warrick Retzner by the way."

He finishes his morsels, opting to fold his hands in front of himself. But he simply closes his eyes as one can see the faint eye roll behind the lids as Redwater gives his snide opinions.

For one moment Aragos considered how much trouble he'd get in for picking one little nobleman by the collar and shaking them like a musical instrument. Thankfully the personage in question seemed to actually realize the error of their way and was quick to move on. Which left Aragos idly watching the casks of wine out of the corner of his eye once again. It was sure to be a good vintage at a shindig like this. Probably worth more than he'd paid for his armor when all was said and done.

As Warrick makes his way around, Aragos nods politely to the other man, but only half paying attention. One might be forgiven for assuming his attention was being paid to his job. "Aragos." He states without offering his surname, but he did give a little tiny bit of a glance. "Nice kit."

"The apology is sufficient for acceptance," Gramarye responds, even as the nobleman slips away from her. "Social interaction concluded."

On the subject of food, Gramarye responds, "You both are permitted to have my share of the food. I do not require food and drink like a creature of flesh does. Should I attempt to do so, I risk unnecessary and frivolous damage to my mainframe."

Still, she doesn't move from her spot. "Modification of introduction protocol for new subject: Warrick Retzner. I am Grace Reason Amity Miracle August Revelry Young Earnest--designation GRAMARYE. I am currently on duty as security for this event and am capable of arcane implementations of defense."

Then she adds, "Aragos is a valued customer at my shop." It is high praise coming from her.

GAME: Gramarye rolls Spellcraft+2: (19)+10+2: 31

Otho is clearly pleased with the turnout, and walks over to where the large wine casks are mounted. Ceremoniously, he pushes the tap into place with a small grunt of effort, grinning as it drives home through the barrel lid.

"Goodness, Otho," says one of the guests, an older woman. "Isn't that dangerous? Shouldn't you have one of these, erm, people..." waving her hand vaguely in the direction of the adventurers, "handle it?"

"Nonsense, Ardelia," Otho says. He shifts on his feet to turn towards her. "This is all perfectly safe, everything is under control!"

And then when he turns back, he shifts again -- and his foot scuffs the chalk markings around the casks.

Warrick nods in return at the name, a bit a flicker of a smile crossing his lips at the compliment. "Thanks. Can say the same to you," he returns, folding his hands to rest on one of the metal arms of the large crossbow that dangles.

He softly chuckles at the idea of a golem eating food. A brow quirks up at the introduction, the Eldanar man amused. "Noted, and pleased to meet you Gramarye, Aragos."

Overhearing the conversation about them, he looks over his shoulder to watch the employer go about getting a cask tapped. A sigh escapes him as he returns back to watching the crowd.

Having had most of his attention on the casks, Aragos can't help but notice the smudge in the magical chalk circle around them. His eyes narrow and he folds his arms over his chest. It might seem like he's relaxing, but the truth is quite the opposite. It palaces his hand very close to one of the innumerous daggers placed about his person. If Warrick was the warrior he seemed to be, he'd doubtless noticed that Aragos effectively bristled with daggers; not even mentioning the paladin's massive greatsword.

_Blink. Blink._ The lights in Gramarye's eyes do exactly that, flickering as her head pivots in the direction of the casks. It's not too long after that when she announces:

"The markings on the casks correspond to certain summoning spells associated with the conjuration school of magic, as well as a confining magic circle spell. Do not disturb the chalk markings."

The benefit (and downside) of being a war golem is not caring much for whether or not you're about to embarrass anyone, because-- "Safety is important," she reminds all in attendance.

There's a funny little gurgle from the cask Otho is standing at. Like a giant with a tummy problem. Otho frowns, peering at the cask, and reaches out for the tap. Fortunately, he is not standing in -front- of the tap, because abruptly it is -blasted- out of the barrel like a crossbow bolt, sizzling past Otho, taking a tray of appetizers off the table, and punching a neat crater in the wall.

This is secondary, though, as suddenly wine is gushing out of the barrel, much to Otho's dismay. "Oh no! Help! Quick, get buckets!" And then there are loud cracks as suddenly the lids of the other barrels are punched open, brilliant red-violet wine gushing out onto the floor, causing the guests to back up in shock as it floods the room, filling it rapidly to a depth of a couple inches.

And then the wine ripples ominously, and something starts to come up...

GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+5: (12)+5: 17
GAME: Telamon rolls 1d6+3: (5)+3: 8

Something rises out of the red wine, and so too, do Gramarye's eyes... become red.

"Enemy identified. Initiating combat module," she intones, her voice dropping an octave. "Objective: subdue the enemy."

Her head pivots in the direction of Aragos, and she takes a few labored steps over to the paladin. "Initiating combat assistance. Applying: strengthening magic." Her hand goes out to touch the paladin on the shoulder, and the Vardaman is infused with a light, blue-colored spell that washes over him and... makes the muscles feel _stronger_.

It's about four feet tall, and it looks like a wave that won't crash. Vague shadows suggest eyes and a mouth, as the thing foams across the surface of the wine with startling speed, chasing after Otho. The obnoxious vintner flees, running past Warrick and out the door, and the alcoholic conjuration vents its anger on the former guardsman, slamming a pinot-noir punch into Warrick as it gurgles with fury.

GAME: Warrick rolls weapon1+1: (9)+7+1: 17
GAME: Warrick rolls damage1+1: aliased to 1d10+0+1: (6)+0+1: 7
GAME: Telamon rolls 1d2: (1): 1
GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+5: (17)+5: 22
GAME: Telamon rolls 1d6+3: (2)+3: 5

Warrick wasn't particularly one to know much of what was going on, but if half his experience was worth anything, he does note how serious Aragos was. A Mourner, perhaps? Or something more serious? Or an Absolutioner? He's yet to meet one of those. Gram's warning gets him to perk, however. Conjuration? Summoning? Something might come, and a hand is reaching back to unsling his crossbow.

Everything happens briskly, from Gramarye's dangerous tones and magic, and suddenly being slammed by a wave of liquor: and not the fun kind after several shots! "Agh!" he grunts, shoving it back and pulling out his large crossbow. "Everyone out!" he barks to the party goers as a bolt flies out to splash into the wave.

The second one rises up, another wave of wine and anger. Truly, the grapes of wrath have come to pass. Gliding swiftly after the partygoers, it catches sight of Aragos and Gramarye, and some spark of intelligence flickers in that vague suggestion of a face. The scent of wine is heavy in the room, a bouquet that wouldn't be unpleasant if it wasn't trying to kill you. The swing of a liquid arm, a glancing blow against the paladin, as the wine ripples around the feet of everyone present.

GAME: Aragos rolls 1d6: (1): 1
GAME: Aragos rolls 1d20+6+2: (11)+6+2: 19
GAME: Aragos rolls 1d10+7+3: (1)+7+3: 11

Aragos places a hand on his chest even as the other draws the giant sword from off his back. The blue-black blade shines with menace as he intones. "Gramarye, get behind me." A flicker of white light flashes in his palm but quickly dies as his hand lifts to grip the blade with both hands. He hasn't the time to heal himself well, so the blow from the wine-fiend remains mostly intact.

Purple eyes narrow, and his blade swings in an arc to slash at the thing. The blade seems to pass smoothly through, and he doubts that it does much damage in truth. "GET OUT OF HERE YOU FOOLS!" He roars at the nobles and merchants, hoping to move the bastards along a little faster. What a waste of wine. "Fucking hell."

GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+5: (12)+5: 17

"Direction acknowledged." Gramarye does indeed step back at Aragos's direction... and gathers magic in her hands. "Distributing arcane missiles--"

And then the magic rips out of her hands in the form of two small arcane missiles that, despite their size, finish off what the intimidating man started by sinking into the entity and rendering it inert with a flash of blue light.

"Arcane ordnance distributed. Target neutralized. Locking onto new target." Gramarye's head pivots onto the creature attacking Warrick.

The wine-creature -- maybe it's a spirit of wine? -- gurgles at Warrick's crossbow shot. Evidently it didn't like it, as it slings another arm made from the fruits of Redwater's estates at Warrick. Fortunately, the clumsy blow misses the target.

Ripples can be seen spreading across the wine that's flooded the hall, even beyond the usual sloshing of combat...

GAME: Warrick rolls weapon1-2+1: (7)+7+-2+1: 13
GAME: Warrick rolls weapon1-2+1: (9)+7+-2+1: 15
GAME: Aragos rolls 1d6: (4): 4
GAME: Aragos rolls 1d20+6+2: (10)+6+2: 18

Warrick looks over his shoulder at the others as the people clear out, but he blinks as Aragos and Gramarye deftly deal with the problem. With excessive force. But he's got more pressing issues at hand, him bringing up his crossbow to block the wine-creature's slam as she shoves it off. He licks his lips free of the fermented grape that splashes on his face. "Can you just..." he grunts, cranking the winch on the bolt twice as two more shots go out, but its hard to aim center mass on something that isn't solid.

GAME: Aragos rolls 1d10+7+3: (9)+7+3: 19
GAME: Gramarye casts Hydraulic Push. Caster Level: 3 DC: 15
GAME: Gramarye rolls 1d20+3+4: (3)+3+4: 10

Aragos slams his hand on his chest a second time as he rushes across the intervening space between him and the one still attacking Warrick. This time he has more time to heal himself and the light lasts longer than a flicker, and the blade scrapes along the ground through the wine as he slashes it up and across the last of the wine-fiends. What ARE these things? It doesn't matter. They're a danger. "OUT GRAMARYE!" He says weapon flashing through the wine and the fiend splits around the black-blue weapon. It falls into the wine on the floor as if it never were. "You too Warrick."

He'd hold for long enough for them to exit.

GAME: Gramarye rolls 1d20+3+4: (13)+3+4: 20
GAME: Warrick rolls weapon1-2+1: (14)+7+-2+1: 20
GAME: Warrick rolls weapon1-2+1: (5)+7+-2+1: 11
GAME: Warrick rolls damage1+1: aliased to 1d10+0+1: (9)+0+1: 10

"New targets acquired," Gramarye announces in that octave-too-low tone as her red eyes quickly assess the situation. But then Aragos makes the call for her to fall back.

"Combat module: designated tactical commander is: Father. Emergency protocol dictates that I can overwrite with a new subject. Aragos, do you accept this emergency designation?" Her voice returns to her normal pitch for names, it seems, but then she intones some arcane syllables and blasts the wine-entity in front of her with a rush of watery-wine, shoving it back to Aragos for him to take on.

GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+5: (11)+5: 16

Warrick gets ready for another smacking, but hearing Aragos run up gets him to reflexively pull back as the sword carves into the wine creature. "Thanks!" he grunts. Heeding the advice, he steps towards the exit. "Covering!" he barks out, shooting tow more bolts out, one missing the far target but the one on Aragos finds its mark.

He casts a side glance at Garmarye. What were they on about?

The crossbow bolt slams into the wine-creature, and even with a fluid form it shudders as the shockwave of the bolt passing seems to cause it to lose cohesion. It flows forward, its fists clenched, and another blow goes -just- shy of Warrick's face, smelling of the kind of thing you'd drink at the Rosalian Rose -- assuming you could get an invitation there.

GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+5: (11)+5: 16

The second wine-monster surges forward, redolent with wonderful scents that are sadly wasted here and now. A wave-like arm swings wildly at Aragos, but the paladin deflects the blow off his sword as the gurgling, burbling thing tries to pummel him with no success.

GAME: Aragos rolls 1d20+6+2: (5)+6+2: 13

Gramarye's voice cuts through the fight, and as he ducks the blow from the wine-creature to his side his weapon nearly slips out of his hand - utterly ruining his next swipe to try and keep the creature from attacking Warrick. Father.

Blood.

So much blood.

The screaming.

His breathing catches in his lungs as the image flashes before his eyes. Wine like blood flowing through the room. So much blood. That little body broken. His hands! HIS HANDS!

His voice growls out of his lips, his purple eyes narrowed to the point of darkness, something wholly beginning to take hold of him. Her strength is in him. Her power.

He should have died that day.

"YES."

Who's to notice amid the wine sliding down his face, if a tear joins it? Who's to know, that his voice is gruff with anything more than bloodlust? "SING FOR ME VARDAMA!"

GAME: Gramarye rolls 2d4+2: (7)+2: 9
GAME: Warrick rolls weapon1-2+1: (7)+7+-2+1: 13
GAME: Warrick rolls weapon1-2+1: (15)+7+-2+1: 21
GAME: Warrick rolls weapon1-2+1: (1)+7+-2+1: 7 (EPIC FAIL)
GAME: Warrick rolls damage1+1: aliased to 1d10+0+1: (8)+0+1: 9

"Designation has been accepted. I will accept your directive: Father."

The word in Gramarye's proper voice rings out as she takes up the amulet she always wears in her hand. "Father, arcane ordnance incoming," she announces, before unleashing two more bolts of arcane energy from the necklace, surging forward and eliminating the target that she pushed into Aragos's reach.

"One target remains, Father. Please provide your directive." It's said as easily as anything. After all, she's programmed this way--to work with her Father.

GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+5: (19)+5: 24
GAME: Telamon rolls 1d6+3: (2)+3: 5

Surprise flashes across Warrick's face at Aragos's sudden fervor. This battle was pressing, yes, but this was wine? Regardless, the fierceness confirms in his head: yep, this was an Absolutionist. "Let her sing!" he grits his teeth, throwing two more bolts down range to slam into the last remaining rampant winery after Gramarye's volley. "What did I stumble into...?" he murmurs to himself at the exchange, racking another bolt in. <Goblin-talk>

GAME: Aragos rolls 1d20+6+2: (17)+6+2: 25

The last standing wine-creature -- wine-emental? -- takes a crossbow bolt, staggering it. But it doesn't come apart just yet, instead striking at Aragos with a fist made of a proper vintage. A shame, too; it was a good year for that one.

GAME: Aragos rolls 2d6+7+3: (8)+7+3: 18

Aragos has eyes only for the visage before him. A demon. A devil. A FIEND.

"Exit Gramarye!" It's almost secondary. The blow that slams into the side of his head does nothing to clear his vision. It only turns more red. He remembers this pain. Deserves this pain. The blade is in his hand. It sings, and Aragos begins to intone.

"The warm sun is falling, Falling The bleak wind is wailing, Wailing Bare boughs are sighing, Sighing Pale flowers are dying, Dying! The year ends and all things are,

Dead!"

The words come with the singing of his blue-black blade across the elemental-thing's neck and it falls to ribbons of wine, sloshing as Aragos speaks the dirge. He hisses and backs toward the door, eyes scanning for a foe to fight. Any foe. Anything. But everything is dead. "Yet I remain."

And then, suddenly... there's silence. Well, not entirely. The drip of wine, spattered all over the hall, pooling around your feet. The place absolutely stinks of it. In fact, it'll need to be deep-cleaned. Fumigated. What a mess.

One of the nobles -- the one with dark, curly hair -- looks back in, holding a sword -- but when he sees everything is still again, he lowers it. "Well," he comments. "That'll teach me to leave the sword in the carriage. You'd think I'd learn... are you all right, friends?"

Gramarye is already making her way to the door closest to Aragos when the final slice comes down from Aragos. Her head pivots in the direction of the Absolutionist, and when she sees that there are no longer any enemies...

Her eyes revert from crimson to their usual obsidian. "Exiting combat module," she announces. "Mana capacities: approximately 20 percent remaining of regular capacities. Assessment: no damage to mainframe; fully operational. Now updating memories."

There's two blinks in her eyes before her head pivots to Aragos's direction, and she takes a few steps over to him before she stops--

And reaches her hand out to him. "Father. Please present me with an assessment of your physical, mental, and emotional wellbeing."

That's _one_ way to ask if your father-figure is okay.

Warrick raises an arm to block the splash of wine going across the room, him dropping down to a knee to let a bolt scan the room for anything else coming in. The echoes of that dirge echo in his head as his crossbow lowers. A light sigh escapes him. "Clear," he states in a rote manner, getting to his feet. There's a moment where his face laxes as he watches Aragos hiss. Something familiar. "It's over, Aragos. You did the Harpist well," he nods to him as an offering to reel him back in.

It takes him a minute to parse what Gramarye says, but he gives the tall golem a small nod. "Good." Father? It was something he'd have to ask about later when tensions weren't so.

The noble peering in is given a look over his shoulder. "We're fine, nothing bad. Just... give us a minute as we collect ourselves," he requests.

Aragos didn't answer Gramarye. He wasn't here. Wasn't now. It wasn't wine he was smelling, but something equally crimson. Father. He was choking on blood. He could taste it. The paladin couldn't find something to fight. Couldn't find something...

Gramarye was at his side and he felt his body sway under the combined weight of having failed to heal himself and the memory that was draining his battle-rage quickly. Warrick's words dropped him completely. He'd done Vardama proud? When?

He felt himself suffocating. All he had left was that man. Otho. He'd kill him and then... "Gramarye." Her name was hollow. "Hit me. As hard as you can. Now."

The man at the door catches sight of Aragos, and frowns. Picking up on something. He glances back, and says, "Jaguar, I think I'm gonna need you here..." Then the nobleman begins striding forward, tossing his sword carelessly onto the table as he approaches Aragos and Gramarye. "Easy, now. Why don't we go outside, get some fresh air?"

Following behind is a curious-looking war golem, mostly glossy black, but his left arm and left leg are unfinished, almost skeletal in appearance -- clearly replacements. The golem's head has a vaguely feline cast, with a single armored visor and a shimmering crimson eye that moves back and forth. "Just relax. We're here to help, sirs and ma'am."

Gramarye pauses. There's actually a blink in her eyes again, something that seems profoundly more... human than she really is known for. War golems, of course, are capable of this, but she is an inherently rigid and orderly person.

And then the light stops bouncing in her dark eyes. She raises her hand. There's a slight twitch to it, even before the nobleman approaches. Uncharacteristically so. Her movements are always precise and exact.

"Father's orders override all protocols," she says to all present.

And then she adds, in a voice that is... far more emotional than her usual neutral tone of voice: "Good night, Father."

The hand slaps hard into Aragos, taking his consciousness and giving him the peace he asked for. For a time.

She turns to the war golem and the lord, curtsying gently. "Initiating social protocol. If you will excuse me, I must escort Father to a place of healing."

And so she goes to gather up Aragos from the floor. She whispers nothing into his ear. For she knows that there is no one listening. The singer needs his rest. The father needs his rest. Even a golem can understand that much.

Warrick is mildly on edge as Aragos doesn't back down just yet. He'd been there before. But every person was different. Some needed words. Some needed a touch. Some needed a-

He blinks. A punch? Well, every person /was/ different. And the golem delivers! And down the Absolutionist goes!

The Eldanar rubs his face. "Serriel gives me an iota of understanding..." he murmurs to himself before turning to the people that fill into the room. Warrick chuffs. "What part of 'give us a minute' do you not understand?" he frowns at them, then barks out in a manner that all guards do as he steps forward to the crowd. "Clear the way! Injured! Move! Quit lollygagging!"

Jaguar fixes Warrick with an offended look. "Now really, there's no need to be rude--" And then Mikhail taps the war golem on the shoulder. "The man said 'make way'. Let's help them get outside." With that, the pair move ahead of Gramarye and Aragos, nudging the braver nobility out of the way so the adventurers can get out of the hall.

Outside, Otho Redwater is wringing his hands. "I don't understand how this could happen! The bindings should have held everything in flux! It would've been perfect..." Clearly, he knows he's in trouble, judging from the other nobles giving him the stink-eye.

-End