Having been more than a little distracted when she left the office it takes Mystrala several seconds to realize that someone even more out of the dress code than her own high quality but simple black dress had arrived.  Likely the ripple of shock that there were two of them did it.  Stopping her progress to the door she does what very few present are likely willing to be seen doing, and stops to speak directly to them.
"Let me guess, you aren't really here for the party either?  But you might want to at least try for the dress code."

Bartimaeus bowed to the stranger. “I said very much the same thing to our host, and he would have none of it. ‘Clothe thyself in piety and thou art meet for the company of kings.’ Hauptvaul Chapter 7, yes? But possibly the several authors who wrote as Hauptvaul never attended a Tideswallow gala,” he laughed and bowed. “You are most generous to intercede on our behalf. I am Brother-Scholar Bartimaeus Gianakos of the Oghmanic Monastery of Q’kwarm.” He indicated the sailor. “This is Tegan, a traveling companion.

“I had intended to present myself to the representatives of other faiths, if in attendance. I don’t suppose you’d be able to point us towards them, Miss...?” he trailed off with the question hanging.

In reply to Mystrala (msg # 37):

~If there is a dress code for this sort of an affair, either official or unofficial (that is to say, one imposed by the expectations of the upper-crust sorts), I wonder why van Ellsworth intentionally clothed me in illusory garb that he knew would not measure up to what is expected?~

Not that it especially bothered Tegan. While he envied the power that these people wielded, he understood that he had little in common with them or their lifestyles -- which by and large were set on a foundation of quicksand and not solid rock, insofar as he was concerned. ~Most of these people are nothing more than sheep, all attempting to out-do one another in their gaudy finery, and their need to be seen as one of the "in" crowd. I take pleasure in being seen as one who is different from the likes of them.~

"And why would that be, M'lady?" he responded to the black-clad woman's chiding about his somehow being at fault for failing to meet the dress code. "Why is it that I should strive to be someone whom I am not?"
This message was last edited by the player at 17:48, Wed 16 Dec 2020.

In reply to Tegan (msg # 39):

Looking around the room, Tegan, you do notice that many of the other individuals present are in fairly nice, if not a little gaudy, party-going outfits. There are, however, several other sailors around the room in similar dress to the captain’s outfit you have been granted. They appear to all be of various makes and cultural origins, likely all hailing from different ports around the continent, but all seem to be of about a similar caliber... Bartimaeus’ attire, however, is wholly unique in the room. No other priests, clerics, or monks of any sort that you can pick out from the crowd here. As such, you suspect the your proximity to him is likely what’s attracting attention. And you do begin to notice eyes darting toward you as you pass by other party-goers now that the thought is on your mind...

While perhaps not expecting exactly that quote the preaching doesn't seem to catch Mystrala by surprise, or really draw any form of acknowledgment or recognition from her at all, the introduction however does in that she returns one of her own before addressing the real question.

"Mystrala, proprietor of Thermal Remedies, one of the best places for relaxation in the Entertainment District.  And no I do not know if any of those who attend this gathering follow a faith closely enough to qualify as a representative, they surely didn't come here for that purpose."

Along with the mention of her business she hands Bartimaeus one of the little sheets of paper a few inches on a side and not quite square that has all the information about Thermal Remedies he could possibly need, but nothing more.  Tegan's question receives an even simpler answer.

"Because that is what this gathering is all about."

"Ah! Possibly you've heard of them, Tegan," Bartimaeus said with relish, finding a subject to speak on. "There is a Plaebintot custom of parties where attendees wear spectacular clothing, and with them elaborate masks. There is but a single person privy to individual identities: the herald of the host, who inspects each guest to secure the grounds against impostors. Well, against any undesired impostors, that is.

"The purpose of the masks are obvious: anonymity. What is said may have been said by anyone; words spoken there pass in easy laughter where they might otherwise have incited a duel or caused someone to have an unfortunate accident. Declarations of amor fidelis pepper in among bawds and superlative excoriations. Prudential restraint, both in the vulgar physical sense and the ethical, finds itself rather loosened." With a puckish grin he finished, "What might frustrate you is the manner in which deceitful anonymity elicits a greater degree of unvarnished truth-speak than does open transparency.

"But, alas, no masks here."

He looked at the card Mystrala handed him. "A bathhouse... now, that would be something. Hot springs.  Possibly, even..." the smile faded from his mouth and his eyes unfocused into the far distance, "... an aid to -- to sleep..."

He shook himself from his brief reverie and restored a smile to his face. "Sorry, but my mind lost itself in the promise of something not available in months aboard ship. I shall try to find the time, Mystrala." He finished matter-of-factly, tucking the card within his vestments.

He paused.

"Oh, what an idiot I am," he said quietly to no one in particular, and turned to Tegan. "Don't you see: we are not here to see anyone. We are here to be seen. I say, 'we', but that's clearly not true as you fit in right well, Captain. I, however, am an object of display." He turned to Mystrala. "And you approached to chat. Unlucky for you, I think.

"You're quite sure you want to be seen with me, do you? I do hope so, lacking a mask to conceal those lovely eyes of yours. These people," indicating the crowd, "will know you've chatted about something. No doubt many will explain it away as mere advertisement for your establishment... but others will whisper."

His voice lowered and his face grew serious. "This is not a masquerade, but now is the time for truth: is there any reason to think by approaching us you might have walked into a trap? Would our host have wanted you entrapped, my dear? Or," and his voice lowered again, "you may dispense with the banalities and say what you came to say."

Tegan pursed his lips and smiled as the high tide of Bartimaeus' verbiage washed over the Human woman and himself. ~Probably just as well that he is a bit windy,~ the Half-Elf thought to himself. ~The more he talks, the less 'tis needful for me to do so -- and that lessens the chance that I shall trip myself up with a falsehood.~

As Bartimaeus spoke, Tegan glanced around the room, noting the location of other mariners -- most likely real ones. ~Them I needs must avoid, lest it become quickly apparent which one of these is not like the others(?), just as in the time-honored children's game.~

Tegan's answered the woman's terse reply that was directed towards him with a shake of his head and an even terser one of his own.

"Sheep."
This message was last edited by the player at 17:57, Thu 17 Dec 2020.

Mystrala offers Tegan a nod to confirm his suspicion without the need to further delve into the point.

"There are many ships that come this way, and despite the nearly endless quantity of water they are exposed to most of the crew tend to appreciate some higher quality water once they arrive.

I have already spoken to the people here as much as I intended to, if you wish to be their spectacle you are welcome to it I am on my way out to return to my business and have no interest in their silly traps."

Bartimaeus shrugged. "If Lord van Ellsworth has no particular reason to want you discommoded, I'm sure you'll be fine. Pleasure to meet you. Good evening."

He turned to Tegan. "Well then. I think I see a path through the crowd to the buffet with few enough mariner types. Shall we make the attempt? It's been since the morning's porridge for me."

"Good evening to you, then, Lady Mystrala, if you are departing."

"'Twas a pleasure making your acquaintaince," he added, inclining his head in a semblance of a bow.

It occurred to him that he might be a bit too well-spoken for a sea captain -- and thus out of character for the person whom his garb made him appear to be. But he resolved not to change his manner of speech to one that was more in-character for a salty mariner. ~For doing so would merely  be a different sort of dishonesty,~ he reasoned.

When Bartimaeus spoke of their making their way over to the buffet, Tegan smiled. "A most excellent suggestion," he replied. "Let us hie ourselves o'er to the victuals."

On the way out Mystrala hands Tegan a copy of the same little piece of paper with the information on it.

"Don't be strangers."

As the others seek out their evening's entertainment she makes her way back outside the building, down the hill, and on her way out of the district.

Moving down to the ground floor, Bartimaeus and Tegan find themselves faced with a few options in terms of refreshments.

A large set of double doors lead to what is clearly a dining room of some manner. All sorts of wonderful smells waft out of it, the majority accentuated by a great deal of tomato, garlic, and herbs. Guests pass freely in and out, though only those inside it seem to be eating. No plates leave the dining room.

Alternatively, the music you had been hearing earlier (a grand performance by what appear to be a number of different players each taking the stage one after another) is currently playing from somewhere down the hall behind the grand staircase you descend to reach this floor. If it leads to some manner of ball room or dance hall, you’re certain there are more casual nature than the dining hall’s feast to be had there.

Finally, as you pass through the manor, you go by numerous servants carrying small trays and offering them to the guests to pick from. Simple meats, cheeses, breads, glasses of wines ranging for red, to white, to jet black in color. One carries what appears to be thin flutes of champagne, which one or two of the older guests take with some hesitation. Basic appetizers come around here and there while a few platters with more wine are set up on stands around the main hall where the staircase stands.

“I’ll be honest, Tegan: a seated feast suits my appetite. But if you’re concerned about questions regarding nautical expertise such an environment would be awkward to extract yourself from. You could, of course, simply tell the truth: ‘these are clothes only for the evening,” is both true and disarming of inquiry.

“What say you?”

In reply to Bartimaeus (msg # 49):

Tegan smiled at Bartimaeus' suggestion. "That is a good idea. If I find myself uncomfortably close to lying myself out of a situation -- 'tis amazing how easily little white lies that harm no one roll trippingly off the tongue, is it not -- I may put it to good use."

He nodded to the cleric. "My thanks for turning your very agile mind to aiding me in what could be a very tricksey situation, given my recent oaths."

His smile broadened. "Methinks that for you, associating with me is like unto having to deal with a companion who is too slow-witted to avail himself of the many ways to talk himself out of a . . . sticky situation . . . that reveal themselves to you."

Squaring his shoulders, the Half-Elf nodded his head in the direction of the dining room. "After you, good sir."

Bartimaeus nods and says, "Flattery. I'm familiar with your type of devotion and respect it, even if it is not my own. But earnestness has eyes of its own to see that I am blind to. Many paths up the mountain, hmmm?"

He accepts Tegan's invitation and walks into the dining room, keeping his eyes open for a maître d.

In reply to Bartimaeus (msg # 51):

Behind the double doors, the dining room proves to be about what you had expected. A massive table spanning the length of an exorbitantly huge rectangular chamber. The table appears to seat over a hundred guests, easily, but currently there are only about 40 or so actually sitting down at it. Many more are milling about in the corners of the room, by the door, the windows, near a large aquarium structure (nearly the same size as the doors you just stepped through) set into the wall where two dozen likely-delicious lobsters are rest beneath a school of extremely diverse salt-water fish.

The table itself is set with an array of dishes served on shining silver platters. Veltria’s numerous culinary cultures are all represented quite well here, with dishes you recognize from every part of the continent you’ve been to and many you don’t. Pasta and grilled dishes, teaming with scents of tomato, garlic, and herb dominate the scene; likely harkening back to either the master of the house’s homeland, or that of some guest he is aiming to please the appetite of. Yet you see a little bit of just about everything on offer here and could easily find a place for yourselves beside virtually any dish you are in the mood for. The present company, of course, may prove more or less pleasant depending upon it, though.

At the back of the room you spot a trio of servers bringing fresh goblets, plates, and utensils from a steam-filled kitchen just behind a set of free-swinging doors. Inside it, as one passes through, you can see a bizarre display unfolding as pots and pans tend themselves. Dishes wash themselves. Most every cooking station and sink (of which there are an obscene number) appears to be completely untended; yet still working at peak efficiency. A single man in a traditional white chef’s outfit is strolling back and forth amongst them, inspecting the work, but never raising a hand to effect it directly. Then the door finishes its swing and the view to the kitchen is cut off once more.

"Temperance wept at such plenty," whispered Bartimaeus at the sight of the feast. "And it looks as if we are to seat ourselves. Let us trust to luck, or fate, if you prefer? to find dining companions: I think I see a platter of Southern Veltish chicken-pepper hrajoski over there with a few open seats. Let's see if that dish lives up to its reputation."

He walked over to the open seats and asked the diners, "May we join you?"

In reply to Bartimaeus (msg # 53):

As Bartimaeus spoke, Tegan had been standing with his hands on his hips, gawping at the goings-on in the kitchen. To him, magicks were a wondrous thing -- oft-times a dangerous thing -- wielded by flinty-eyed old wizards who had just as soon turn you into a newt as look at you. And to see magicks put to such a commonplace, workaday use as preparing meals in the kitchen . . . well, the young Half-Elf's mind was having a difficult time wrapping itself around a lifestyle where magicks were seemingly right at one's fingertips, available for even the most menial tasks.

After a moment it dawned upon Tegan that Bartimaeus was speaking to him. "Southern pepper-chicken Rajowski? Sounds . . . interesting." ~ . . . and with a lingering aftertaste of magicks, methinks.~ As a matter of fact, Tegan did wonder if he would be able to taste any magicks that might have seeped into the dish. And if so, what might they taste like?

Tegan would prefer to have sat by himself off in a corner, but he supposed that isolating himself in such a social setting might have the unwished-for effect of calling attention to him. And so it was that he allowed Bartimaeus to lead him over to where other diners had already seated themselves and were seemingly enjoying the Pepper-Chicken-Whatever.

He pasted a neutral -- nay, mayhap somewhat bored -- expression on his face as he glanced elsewhere, awaiting a response to the cleric's inquiry.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:34, Thu 24 Dec 2020.

A brief bit of discussion going on across the table suddenly quiets as you two approach the spot you’re aiming for. The individual directly to the right of your intended seats turns (Human, tall, a man looking to be perhaps in his mid 40s and aging fairly gracefully), gives you a quick cursory glance, and nods with a sort of half-interested smirk.

“By all means. Plenty of room, after all.” He nods again to Tegan specifically and adds an obligatory “Captain.”

Then he returns to the conversation he was having with the pair of diners to his right. Those across the table from you continue with their silence; clearly attempting to eavesdrop on your introduction and appearing slightly disappointed when the guest beside you offers nothing more than this perfunctory response.

The seats are yours to take and the meal yours to partake in as you see fit.
This message was last edited by the GM at 03:48, Thu 24 Dec 2020.

"Our sincere thanks," Bartimaeus says, "but my companions' clothes are representative more of the distance traveled than profession, and the opportunity to savor our host's kitchens ought never be passed up." ~~ No need to distress the poor fellow so soon, ~~ he thought.

Sitting and noting that none of the other diners speak up, he closes his eyes and folds his hands in a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

After finishing his offering he moves the platter of hrajoski towards him and Tegan. "It's braised in a wine-creme with a variety of peppers. If you have no palate for spice, try the dark meat, and have plenty of currant rice and fjulja along side."

He looked up at the guests across the table, still paying slight attention to them, though the fellow on their right was engrossed of conversation of his own. "Good evening! Brother-Scholar Bartimaeus Giankos, at your service. Tegan and I," gesturing to his companion, "are delighted to savor the kitchens of our host. But please, if you would guide newcomers: I am led to understand that a rhulinese is the best pairing for hrajoski... shall we expect a waiter, or is there a more direct way to summon Southron wines?"

In reply to Bartimaeus (msg # 56):

Two of the individuals across the table from you (a half-orc woman who can’t be more than 20 and an older human gentleman who looks to be a similar age to the one seated beside you) exchange a glance as you sit down, and a similar one as you speak in their direction. It is a contemptuous look, the sort you’ve seen (and perhaps yourself given) more intelligent sorts give to those they feel are beneath them. But there is a sort of pity to it as well. As you get to the asking them about the wine, the half-orc favors you with a half-smirk and, raising one hand over her head, immediately snaps her fingers. A serving woman soon appears, whom the half-orc motions over to you. With a nod she offers “New to the game then? And not just in town for the market I presume. Then a word of advice. If you wanna thrive here, you have to assert yourself. And be willing to make your wants known.”

The human beside her adds his own slightly tilted nod and instructs the server to bring a carafe of southern wine as well as the “house special.” He then turns his attention to the two of you. “You certainly make for an interesting pair, I must say. No trouble standing out, for what that’s worth. So... If I may be so bold, what brings such as yourselves here? Surely not trade; not by the look of you, your self-admitted status amongst the scholarly breed, nor, and I mean this in the most positive of ways possible, your ignorance of decorum here tonight. So what then would draw a scholar and a disguised roguish sort to an event such as this?

The server soon returns with your wine. A deep, burgundy in one carafe and a jet black, almost inky-looking liquid in the other. As they are set down, the half-orc draws your ear once more. “What my colleague here is trying to get at is that he and I have a bet going. I got an idea why you’re here. He’s got his. We wanna see whose closer to the truth of it...... So. What’s your angle in Tideswallow?”
This message was last edited by the GM at 07:46, Thu 24 Dec 2020.

In reply to GM (msg # 57):

Tegan took an instant dislike to the Half-Orc female and the Human male who were already seated at the table. Mayhap 'twas the look that they gave the two newcomers -- Tegan remembered seeing others like it plenty of times during his youth when those who thought themselves too good to be seen at a lowly blacksmith's shop favored the commoner working the forge with a snooty attitude and some "See to it right away" instructions about what needed to be done -- as well as some ridiculous imaginings as to why their order simply *must* be moved to the front of the line.

He took a seat at the table and let Bartimaeus do the talking. Pursing his lips thoughtfully when two different sorts of wine were brought out by the server, he made no move to choose one. Tegan was certain that every single one of  van Ellsworth's vintage's were superior to anything that he had ever tasted, so he was perfectly content to let the cleric take first choice.

The Half-Orc's and Human's patter about their having made Bartimaeus and Tegan the objects of a bet only increased the Half-Elf's annoyance with the other two. He would like nothing better than to thrash the both of them, and he gave a moment's thought as to whether their host would be wroth with him, or would admit to being amused by the unusual entertainment.

Just about then the burns that he had suffered earlier in the day sent a twinge of pain down his torso and reminded him that he was not at his best. ~Plus, after the way things went over at the Archives earlier today, 'twould not be wise for me to become known as a hot-headed troublemaker,~ he quickly concluded.

And so it was that the response to the Human's nosy inquiry was a flat stare and a "Ask me no questions, and I'll tell ye no lies."

~Actually, that is more true than these two annoyances realize.~

“Angle? Haha. Funny you should say that, for angles are, in point of fact, our angle.”

Bartimaeus poured a glass of the burgundy.

“Perhaps you’re familiar with astrogation? You see, the epicycles of firmament orbit our sphere in regular and predictable patterns, though there remain persistent errors within the formulae developed to describe those orbits. The further predictions made of tonight’s sky will be magnitudes more erroneous in a century or decades old formula compared to one developed recently. This means our conceptual model of the Spheres is wrong. We simply don’t know how it’s wrong.

“The models are developed through observation and calculation, from known elevations on the surface at specific times of night. This course of inquiry keeps one awake at nights. Mmmm, delicious,” he said of the wine. “Those locations, distances, and elevations generate angles. Tideswallow occupies a part of the world where my order’s information is outdated, and so here I am on sabbatical. In a year, one hopes, I shall return with the correct angles. Thus armed, we may better know our world, our Sphere, and ourselves.

“And no, we are new to Tideswallow and its peculiarities — the game as you say — but then, I’ve navigated a few proposals past the Tenure Review Committee, and I wish that on no-one.

He swallowed a forkful of chicken and his eyes closed in bliss. “Delightful.

“Has the wager been won?”

In reply to Bartimaeus (msg # 59):

The human man pours a bit of the red for himself and raises his glass toward Tegan in a terse gesture of respect. “Not one for silly games? I can appreciate that. It does put you a bit more toward my end of the bet, for what its worth, as well.”

The two listen to Bartimaeus’ explanation with some interest; feigned or otherwise it’s difficult to tell for sure. The half-orc briefly interjects here and there, though primarily to the human next to her. “...Acolyte of Oghma...” “...a stargazer...” “...plenty of time...” “...right time of year for it...”

There’s a pause toward the end of the introduction as the pair seem to be weighing your words against their own expectations. A chuckle passes from one to the other. The half-orc speaks up, finally, her mood bordering somewhere between amusement and subtle fascination now. “Perhaps not an outright winner, no... but I think you’re a bit ahead here, Winsel.”

The human nods a bit at that. “For this one’s part, certainly; can’t say as either of us were far off on that one. But our captain friend here is still a bit of a mystery. Something of the wild card that might still push this in your favor, Jess. So do tell me. For my part, I’d wagered you, good sir, to be some manner of artisan; staking out the competition. A stoic, taciturn type. Hands hardened by a craft. Certainly not the sort to work the front of any business, given your supposed disposition toward dishonesty. Not a trader either, in that case. Someone who does the actual work. A builder or smith of some manner. Somewhere in that vicinity? If not, I’m afraid Jess here has me beat.”

---

Upon finishing your meal, you now have 12 additional Temporary Hitpoints and are immune to fear and poison until your next long rest.
As Bartimaeus finishes his description of himself, you both notice one of the individuals a few seats down immediately stand up and leave the table, making their way out toward the main hall. (Hadn’t realized you both have the same passive perception until now.)
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:07, Fri 25 Dec 2020.

In reply to GM (msg # 60):

Insofar as he knew, Tegan had never even glimpsed a black wine before, let alone tasted it -- not that he was much of a wine drinker. His taste ran more towards the various ales, and he admitted to a fondness for a dark, heavy, Dwarven ale. ~Eh, mayhap the black wine is the Dwar ale of wines. I think that I shall test that theory.~

With that thought in mind, he poured himself a goblet-full of the darker wine as he listened to the patter of the Human who, for better or worse, was apparently going to be one of Bartimaeus' and his dinner companions.

Trying a sip of the dark wine, Tegan regarded the man evenly. After a moment's silence that came close to hanging heavily over the table, he replied to the fellow's latest suppositions.

"I have," he began, turning the Goblet of wine in his hand and continuing to gaze at the Human, "at various times, been an apprentice smith -- not a master, by any means -- who worked with metals . . . mainly arms and armor . . . and a soldier."
This message was lightly edited by the player at 17:33, Fri 25 Dec 2020.