While the exterior of the warehouse was grimy and caked with settled fumes of the Lower Ward, the interior was well-ventilated, brightly-lit, and attempts were made at welcoming decor. Displayed on the walls and in various glass cases set around the main room was the Count's collection of art from the strange planets of various prime planes, most of which were decidedly alien to demihuman eyes.

Tables full of delectables were at one end, alongside several barrels of beverages, strong or not, with a server at the ready to pour glasses. A large hippo-like creature, one of the Count's acquaintances, had taken it upon himself to stand guard at the kitchen entrance - a ready excuse to have first sample of anything coming out of it.

Quiet, calm background melodies spread from a stage full of musicians at one corner.

Count Cauchemar himself was busy bustling about making sure all his guests had their fill of foods ("Have you tried the pickled achaierai eyeballs? Please do."), introducing them to new friends ("This is Dornston, monk of Ysgard. Ogre mage. Good listener.") or attempting to engage them on his art collection ("Take a look at these scrimshaw miniatures. Carved from naga bones, you know.").

All told there's about thirty others strewn about in small groups making small talk. Most are typical planar citizens: humans, tieflings, aasimar, githzerai; though there are a few other more exotic types.

Ruin has, in fact, sampled the achaierai eyeballs, and found the flavor quite good, although they were a bit chewy for her taste. At present, she's sipping wine from a cracked crystal goblet, and idly discussing a painting of a demonic creature with a githzerai scholar and a half-succubus artist who has a scathing tongue for the choice of pigments used in the creature's mucosa. Glimmer, meanwhile, settled herself in under the banquet table some time ago, where she is presently attempting to entice various guests into giving her treats.

Yet another soiree ...

The faun frequently wonders whether the Count really has a title somewhere, in some court, or did in some unknowable past.  Perhaps it's closer to truth that the wealthy merchant lord's family once had such a noble title and he's the one most closely in line of inheritance.  More likely, he finds it convenient, suitable, and lucrative to live the life of a wealthy, displaced noble-in-exile.  As he circulates with others through the room, Topaz keeps a running mental tally of who's speaking with whom, who's new and who the regular hangers-on, always present for these events.  These gatherings are fine affairs, after all.

While others circulate, sampling this or that, or pause to examine some bit of otherworldly art they're little possibility to comprehend, Topaz tends to the real reason the Rakshasa noble "invites" him.  The fey are few enough, even within their sylvan enclaves, but the faun is stalwart enough to resist the painfully mundane existence outside fey realms.  In such ways, he may be considered as exotic as exquisitely carved naga bone.  His purpose here is perhaps more subtle; he draws attention to himself as much as any of the Count's "court" or objets d' art.  Topaz discretely keeps those assembled  focused on the food, the art, and the drink, as well as the refined and cultured sensibilities of the gathering's host.

He makes introductions for which the Count has expressed his interest in occuring, artfully circumnavigates topics which will cause inappropriate disagreement, and steers boors into one another that they may spend their energy in pointless discussion away from others.  The faun is stunningly talented at the art, working the room to ensure engaging conversations and avoid topics the Count mayn't yet wish to occur, all while collecting rumors and deftly mapping the social landscape.

During a lull, the diminutive faun collects a pair of tiny flutes from the tray of a passing server, each containing a small measure of bubbly, slightly hallucinogenic beverage.  He approaches Ruin, offering first a flute, then his hand.  It's a social dance they've done many times before.  Should she accept, he slips her arm under his elbow in a signal to others that the conversation is more intimate, not for shared ears.

"M'lady Ruin," he says in a mellifluous baritone that belies his size.  "It does my heart glad to see you again.  I trust you're finding the gala as festive as I?"