Finished [ClockHaven]＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙ Clockwork Masquerade *̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

[Moonberry]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚　·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　Clockwork Masquerade　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙　˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

The rain lashed against the tall, arched windows, streaking down the glass in frantic rivulets. Beyond the panes, the streets of Clockhaven were little more than a blur of gaslight halos and shimmering puddles, the city cloaked in a damp, unrelenting gloom. Inside the sitting room, the warmth of a roaring fire battled against the dreary night, its amber glow casting long shadows that danced across the wood-paneled walls. Brass fixtures gleamed in the flickering light, and the faint hum of a clockwork contraption—something small and ornamental—filled the silence like a heartbeat.

A woman lounged near the hearth, her damp auburn hair clinging to her temples in soft, curling strands. Her hazel eyefloas, sharp and restless, flitted to the clock on the mantle, where exposed gears ticked with mechanical precision. She wore a fitted vest over a crisp blouse, the fabric slightly wrinkled from the rain, and her high-waisted breeches were tucked neatly into knee-high boots. A pair of brass-framed goggles perched atop her head, the lenses fogged and forgotten. She sat with her legs crossed, one boot tapping a rhythmic pattern against the edge of the tiled hearth as she toyed absently with a small brass key.

In the center of the room, a low table was set with an array of warm baked goods—golden cookies, flaky pastries, and a small loaf of bread still steaming from the oven. A tiny figure perched on the edge of the table, nibbling on a crumb from a sugar-dusted cookie nearly the size of her torso. Illya’s dark green hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail that shimmered in the firelight, her pink eyes sharp as she scanned the room. The hum of her mechanical wings was barely audible over the storm outside, their delicate copper and silver components gleaming faintly.

“You know,” Illya said between bites, her voice small but pointed, “I could get used to this. Warm fire, cookies, and no one trying to kill us. Feels downright cozy.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” the woman in the armchair replied, sipping at a cup of tea with a pleased, somewhat dreamy expression. “Can’t you just picture it? A tall, brooding figure, dripping from the rain, his coat swirling behind him like a cloak—oh, and maybe a perfectly timed lightning strike as he steps inside. A proper hero for our little adventure.”

Illya raised an eyebrow, brushing crumbs from her hands as she hovered in midair on her mechanical wings. “You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”

“Well, of course!” Pella said with a grin, sitting up straighter. “We’re about to infiltrate the Coldiron estate, uncover a web of secrets, and bring down a family of corrupt aristocrats. It’s practically begging for a mysterious, dashing lead.”

Illya chewed on her biscuit for a moment, staring at the woman for a few quiet seconds. “All I’m hoping for is someone who can read between the lines. Agnus Coldiron looks and acts like a perfectly innocent citizen. But she lets it slip here and there when she thinks she’s in good company. If we can get some evidence from this auction, I’ll prove what her family does, and I won’t have to look over my shoulder anymore.”

Pella’s smile softened as she regarded Illya, setting her teacup down on the side table. “You’ll get there, Illya. If this detective is half as clever as they should be, they’ll see the truth.”

Illya stood up from her sitting position on the table, dusting off the crumbs from her outfit. “Thank you, by the way—for believing me, and for helping with all this. Most people wouldn’t. have afforded me the time let alone the monetary means.”

“Well,” Pella said with a wink, “it’s not every day a six-inch-tall fairy with mechanical wings shows up at my door with a story like yours. Getting involved with you is sure to find me in an exciting adventure, like the ones I've always read. How could I not get involved?”

Illya smirked, a faint warmth flickering in her expression. Before either could say more, a sharp knock echoed through the room, cutting through the storm outside. The attention of both the females went to the door. A hint of nervousness and excitement passing between them. "Come in Gerard!" Lady Pella called towards the door. As soon as she did, the door creaked open to reveal an older gentleman, his silver hair slicked back neatly and his suit immaculate. He stepped inside with a bow, his voice calm and deliberate.

“My lady, I have returned with the investigator sent by the guild. May I introduce, Miss Victorique Sopheana.”

Just as the detective was announced, a stroke of lightning lit up the room with a bright light. Pella blinked a few times as she gazed at the blonde gnome, a bit of disappointment passing across her expression. "Well there goes my Noir romance"

---

Elvario

Spoiler: The Request that Victorique received.

An urgent matter requires the skills of a sharp and discreet investigator. Evidence suggests that an influential aristocratic family in Widersia is involved in illegal activities, including the capture and trafficking of fae beings. Their public reputation as honorable citizens has shielded them from scrutiny, but those who know the truth cannot remain silent.

The task involves attending a high-society event under the guise of a guest to gather evidence of these crimes. The event in question may be used as a cover for a covert auction of poached fae. Successful candidates must be adept at infiltration, observation, and uncovering hidden truths while maintaining the appearance of a refined and unsuspecting attendee.

 

[Elvario]

Victorique Sopheana

Spoiler: Full Image & Source

Alternate art generated from:
Victorique de Blois

Mentions: Moonberry

With another part of her grand quest for learning about titles coming to an end, she'd planned to return to the Shire for a while and rest up. After all, she was rather tired and had a lot to digest. She also needed to figure out how in the world she'd plot an expedition to the first continent. That seemed utterly dangerous and bordering the suicidal.

She'd barely arrived in the Shire when someone handed her a letter. It seemed she was needed yet again. Perhaps her attempts to weed out corruption amongst the governing council had gotten her a bit too well-known in that regard. Sighing, she'd read it again to double-check. Infiltration was new to her, especially going in alone, but she was probably fast enough to get out of trouble if needed. A bit of pondering later, she decided she'd take the job.

The job surely started off annoying. Bloody rain. Bloody annoying. Ugh. She should've brought an umbrella, but she feared it'd lift her off the ground and have her fly off with it. In the end, she just accepted the late night shower. She'd surely be dripping from the rain upon entering at this rate.

Upon seeing whom let her in the house, she felt a pang of jealousy. A silver-haired gentleman servant? She really wanted one of those for herself. As she entered, she'd immediately recognise the one she'd be working for. “Oh... I see.” She'd mumble, as some things were falling into place. “You've found someone to help you get the ones that took your wings, then?”

She looked at the other woman. “I've already been introduced, so I'll skip the pleasantries and the... Noir romance...” She sneezed. Bloody cold, bloody water, bloody wind. “Right. I'll just get straight to it. From you, I'd like to know why you've gotten involved. If you've got a personal stake in bringing the other family down or anything alike, just tell me now so I know what to expect.”

Then she looked back to Illya. “As for you, what matters more for you. Your privacy or revealing the truth of what's been done to you?” She asked, as she already knew what first step she'd want to take for this investigation. Her straight-to business attitude might've been a bit more impressive if she wasn't shivering and soaking wet, dripping from the rain like wrung-out sponge.

 

[Moonberry]

The door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside, rain pooling around their boots as the storm’s relentless downpour clung to their cloak. Firelight flickered across the room, illuminating the droplets dripping from their hood and the faint shine of damp fabric. Illya froze mid-hover near the table, the crumb of a sugar-dusted cookie still clutched in her small hand. Her bright pink eyes widened in recognition, and a faint, wry smile tugged at her lips.

Gerard, ever composed, stepped forward with quiet grace. His silver hair gleamed in the firelight as he gently pushed the door closed with a soft click. “Welcome,” he said with a small bow before retreating into the hallway without another word.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Illya said, her tone light but edged with surprise. Her mechanical wings gave a soft whir as she hovered a little higher, tilting her head slightly. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again. Guess the universe likes putting us in the same room.”

Lady Pella, lounging comfortably in her armchair by the hearth, glanced up with a curious smile. “You two know each other?” she asked, her hazel eyes flicking between Illya and the newcomer.

“Oh, we’ve crossed paths,” Illya replied, folding her arms with a faint chuckle.

Pella arched a brow but let the comment pass, her attention shifting back to their guest. “You look like you could use something warm,” she said, gesturing to the low table laden with pastries. “Pastry? They’re fresh. And Gerard will be back with a towel shortly.”

True to her word, Gerard reappeared a moment later, a pristine towel folded neatly over his arm. He stepped forward silently, offering it with a small bow before retreating back into the shadows of the hallway.

Pella leaned back in her chair, her hazel eyes catching the firelight. “Why am I involved?” she began, her tone light but sincere. “The truth is, Illya and I met by chance. She was spying on the Coldirons, trying to eavesdrop on a conversation, and I happened to pick up the book she was hiding behind.”

Illya groaned, hovering a little lower as if the memory physically weighed her down. “I wasn’t hiding. I was... strategically positioned.”

“Strategically positioned to fall into my lap when I picked up the book,” Pella teased, her hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. “I didn’t hand her over, of course. I tucked her into my bag, excused myself, and headed straight home. Once we were there, I may have interrogated her a little. Friendly interrogation, of course.”

“Friendly interrogation,” Illya muttered, her wings twitching as she crossed her arms.

Pella ignored the comment, her tone softening. “When she told me what had happened to her—what the Coldirons had done—it all started to make sense. My family has worked with the Coldirons for years. I’ve seen strange things: tiny cages, shipments that don’t add up, ledgers full of numbers that don’t make sense. Agnes Coldiron always had an explanation, though. She’s... convincing, I’ll give her that. But I’ve always thought something was off about her.”

She sighed, leaning forward slightly. “I don’t have a personal grudge against them, but I believe Illya. What the Coldirons are doing is wrong. If there’s a chance to stop them—even if it’s just a small one—I want to take it.”

Her smile returned, faint but genuine. “And honestly, I’ve always had a taste for adventure. Helping Illya sounded a lot more exciting than pretending not to notice the Coldirons’ secrets.”

The fire crackled softly as her words faded into the air. When Victorique asked Illya her question, the tiny fairy hovered in place, her pink eyes glinting as she considered the question. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of her mechanical wings. Finally, she straightened, her voice quiet but resolute. “My privacy doesn’t matter,” she said firmly. “It’s the truth that matters. It’s not just about me. It’s about stopping them from doing this to anyone else.”

Her hands clenched at her sides, her small frame taut with determination. “Whatever it takes to bring them down, I’ll do it. No matter the cost.”

The rain outside continued to drum against the windows, a faint rhythm against the crackle of the fire.

---

Elvario

 

[Elvario]

Victorique Sopheana

Spoiler: Full Image & Source

Alternate art generated from:
Victorique de Blois

Mentions: Moonberry

She tried wringing out some soaked locks of hair when Illya spoke up. “It's not too much of a coincidence when you're asking for investigators at the highest level.” She'd respond with confidence that did not match her current soaked looks or her permanently short nature.

“That we have.” She replied on them having crossed paths. “I think you still owe me a croissant.” She'd add, her [Eidetic Memory] and the writer going through four RP's for it still having the once stolen food item in question clearly in her memory.

On the topic of pastries... it seemed she'd be repaid. “That I could.” She'd admit, as she observed the pastries with care. Flaky pastries, but not a 'real' croissant. Tssk. A loaf of bread? She looked around, but there didn't seem much to go with it. Odd. She settled on a cookie. Simple, but probably good enough. “Thank you.” She'd add, recalling to play nice a bit more. She could use some tea to go with it, but alas, she wasn't offered and she didn't want to ask.

Taking the towel a bit later, she'd dry herself off as best as she could. It certainly beat trying to wring her hair out. Sometimes she wish it wasn't as long as it was, but she couldn't bring herself to just cut it short either. She listened to learn why this woman was involved. It seemed luck was Illya's side.

The first bits of argumentation sounded convincing, but it was the last bit that seemed far more genuine. Victorique wasn't one to believe too much in altruism, the 'taste for adventure' argument seemed a lot more believable in that regard. Especially if she'd go up against someone she worked for and might loose out on some opportunities as a result.

A slight smile formed on her face upon hearing Illya's conviction. Even Victorique had a heart, somewhere in there, which was subject to seeing such a thing. Especially from someone even smaller than she was. “Alright. With such a conviction, I can only promise to give it my all.” She'd state, although she had to turn more serious soon enough.

“Tiny cages. Shipments and numbers that don't add up. I didn't hear the entire story, but I recall your wings got taken? You're saying she's been doing such things on the regular, I take it.” That much was easy to figure out. “Can you tell me how you ended up caught and what else you remember that you haven't told me yet. I want to know what to look out for. Don't hold back any details, regardless of whether they're gruesome or private. I've seen, heard and investigate enough to no longer be shocked by anything when on duty.”

 

[Moonberry]

Illya hovered silently, the hum of her mechanical wings filling the space like the whisper of a memory she’d rather leave buried. Her bright pink eyes dimmed as Victorique’s question hung in the air, pressing against her. She perched on the edge of the table, her small frame barely visible against the firelight’s flickering glow. For a moment, she stared at the crumbs scattered across the table, as though trying to anchor herself in the present.

“It’s... not an easy story to tell,” she began softly, her voice quieter than usual. Her legs dangled over the side of the table as she looked toward the fire. “I was a soldier once. Back when the war between the Fae See and the Eastern Empire was at its peak. I wasn’t anyone important—just a scout. My unit was tasked with reconnaissance along the border, gathering intel and staying out of sight. Or at least, that was the plan.”

Her wings twitched faintly, and she clenched her fists in her lap. “But plans don’t always go the way you want them to. We thought we were careful, but... we weren’t careful enough. I got caught. By humans. And one of them didn’t hand me over to his commanders. He kept me for himself.”

Her gaze flicked upward briefly, her pink eyes shadowed with pain. “His name was Angus Coldiron. He was the one who captured me. I was barely bigger than his hand, so he stuck me in a jar—one lined with some kind of magic or technology that drained my strength. I couldn’t fight back, couldn’t even focus. It was like the jar sucked the life out of me.”

Her voice grew quieter, trembling slightly. “He kept me in there for days. Maybe longer. I couldn’t tell—time stopped making sense. He’d watch me like I was some kind of specimen, talking to himself about how rare and ‘valuable’ I was. I couldn’t do anything but sit there and listen.”

Illya’s wings gave a faint, uneven whir as she brushed her hand over their mechanical edges. “Then one night, he let me out. For a moment, I thought... maybe he was going to release me. But I was wrong. He pinned me down on his desk, like I was some kind of butterfly he wanted to display in a case. He kept talking about how beautiful my wings were, how delicate.”

Her hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the table. “Then he started pulling. Ripping. He didn’t care how much I screamed or begged him to stop. He just wanted my wings.”

The quiet click of the door interrupted her for a moment, and Gerard stepped into the room with a silver tray. A porcelain teapot, steam curling from its spout, sat beside three delicate cups. He moved with his usual grace, placing the tray on the low table before pouring the tea without a word. Lady Pella glanced at him briefly, murmuring a quiet “Thank you, Gerard,” before turning her full attention back to Illya.

Illya closed her eyes, her voice cracking as she continued. “When he tore them off... something changed. The pain—it was like it burned through whatever that jar had done to me. It was overwhelming, but in that moment, I felt something else. My magic. It came rushing back, all at once. And I didn’t think. I just... reacted.”

Her pink eyes opened again, glinting with a mix of anger and sorrow. “The magic poured out of me before I even knew what I was doing. It wasn’t controlled—it was pure instinct, raw and wild. I don’t even know what spell I cast, but it was enough to kill him. One moment he was standing over me, and the next... he wasn’t.”

Lady Pella listened in silence, her hazel eyes fixed on Illya, her teacup untouched in her hands. There was no trace of the usual playful glint in her gaze, only quiet understanding.

Illya’s wings twitched sharply, and she let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t wait to see what happened next. The guards must’ve heard the commotion because they started shouting, coming after me. I couldn’t fly—my wings were gone. I just... ran. As fast as my legs could carry me.”

Her voice wavered, but she pressed on. “It’s not easy being six inches tall in a world built for giants. Every shadow felt like it could swallow me whole, every noise made me flinch. The corridors of that place were endless—massive shelves full of jars like the one I’d been in, crates stacked to the ceiling. It was a maze, and I didn’t even know which way led out. But I didn’t stop running. I couldn’t.”

Her small hands gripped the edge of the table as if steadying herself against the memory. “The guards were close—so close I could hear their boots pounding against the floor behind me. I ducked under shelves, squeezed through cracks in crates, climbed over debris. Everything hurt. My back felt like it was on fire where my wings used to be, but I didn’t care. I had to keep going. If they caught me, I knew what would happen.”

Illya paused, her pink eyes flicking toward Victorique for a moment. “I don’t even know how I made it out. Luck, maybe. Or desperation. I found a crack in the wall—barely big enough for me to fit through—and I squeezed myself out into the night. The air was freezing, and the rain stung against my skin, but I was free. I was out.”

Her voice grew softer as she stared down at the table. “I kept running, even after I was outside. The world felt so big and empty, and I didn’t know where to go. I was bleeding, freezing, exhausted... but I just kept moving. Until I couldn’t anymore. I collapsed in some alleyway in Clockhaven. I thought that was it—that I’d escape only to die alone in the rain.”

A faint, bittersweet smile tugged at her lips. “But that’s when Jebediah found me. He was closing up his shop for the night when he saw me lying there, barely alive. He didn’t ask any questions—just scooped me up and brought me inside. I remember him muttering about how I was ‘too stubborn to die,’ even as he patched me up.”

She reached back to touch her mechanical wings, their copper and brass components catching the firelight. “He gave me these. And he told me that if I wanted to stop running, if I wanted to prove I wasn’t a killer, I’d have to find evidence. Something to show that Angus Coldiron didn’t just hurt me—he tried to destroy me. He said he’d stand by me, defend me, but only if I could prove it wasn’t just my word against theirs.”

---

Elvario

 

[Elvario]

Victorique Sopheana

Spoiler: Full Image & Source

Alternate art generated from:
Victorique de Blois

Mentions: Moonberry

She's listen silently to Illya's story, only stopping to get some tea and to start sipping it. As Illya wrapped up her story, Victorique sighed. “You didn't mind your privacy being invaded, so let me just get this out of the way.” She'd head over to Illya to use [Information Overload] on Illya.

The [Appraisal] would likely feel rather intrusive, as it was a high enough grade to give away just about anything, especially in combination with all the other skills backing it up.

Information Overload – Appraisal B, Darkvision F, Eidetic Memory, Heightened Sense [Hearing/Sight/Smell/Taste/Balance] B, Perception B, Investigation B, Insight B, Energised B – Character takes in any information their senses pick up on and analyses them instantly. - Grade Be - 3 Post Cooldown

Yet it'd likely also allow for Victorique to sigh in some relief. “You don't have a [Murderer] title, that's a relief. If you were legally a prisoner of war, title-wise, you might've been the criminal. Seeing how you don't have such a title, we've got some evidence that your capture was not related to the war efforts. That will, in turn, also make it a lot easier to prove Angus Coldiron's wrongdoings.”

That was one concern lifted. She pondered the story a bit more. “Then again, titles and laws are not always aligned. We couldn't rely on compassion alone. We'd need to uncover enough evidence to really shock the public. To cause some outrage. The truth alone probably won't be enough. The 'shocking' truth would be.”

She thought a bit more. “Evidence wise, those pots alone wouldn't prove much, as they could be used for monsters, but they would help back-up a story. However... the wings might be undeniable proof. If we can find your wings, or better, all the wings he might've took from you and others alike, then have an expert confirm they are authentic Fairy wings, that might be the type of shocking truth that won't just get the truth out there, but that would get people riled up enough to force parliament itself to act on it.”

Taking the letter she'd gotten, she'd double-check she'd read it well. “It says Fae beings. Is there evidence he did similar things to others of our kind?”

There was another bit that intrigued her. “If the event I'm to attend is truly a covert auction, it means that there will be enough others in attendance that are guilty in our own ways. We'd either need to try get them all, or we'd need to make it more beneficial for them to abandon Coldiron. The latter option would, obviously, be a whole lot easier.”

That reminded her. “How influential is this Jebediah you mentioned?”

 

[Moonberry]

Illya sat perched on the edge of the table, her legs dangling as her mechanical wings gave a faint, restless hum. Her pink eyes narrowed slightly as she processed Victorique’s words, the tension in her small frame slowly unwinding. She tugged at the hem of her tunic absently, her gaze flickering toward the firelight dancing against the dark wood-paneled walls.

“Jebediah...” she began, her voice soft at first but gaining strength as she spoke. “He’s a low-ranking noble here in Widersia. No real sway in parliament or society, but he’s honest. If I can bring him enough proof—something undeniable that shows what the Coldirons did to me—he said he’d stand up for me. Speak out. He doesn’t care about the consequences.”

She hesitated, her fingers tracing a pattern in the crumbs on the table. “But he can’t do anything unless we find that evidence. Without it, it’s just my word against theirs, and we all know how that’ll go.”

Lady Pella, lounging in her armchair with her hazel eyes fixed intently on Illya, leaned forward slightly. “The evidence you need might be closer than you think,” she said, her voice tinged with thoughtfulness. “The event Victorique’s letter mentioned? It’s happening at the Coldiron estate. A masquerade ball. The perfect excuse to flaunt their wealth and charm while hiding their real dealings.”

She sipped her tea delicately, her gaze distant for a moment as if picturing the event. “But it’s not just a party. There’s a private room—a side area for their so-called VIPs. That’s where they hold their auction. The masquerade is just a front for what’s really happening.”

Illya’s pink eyes widened slightly at Pella’s words, then narrowed again as she nodded slowly. The glow of the firelight flickered over her small frame as she stared into the middle distance, her voice hesitating before breaking the silence.

“That... makes sense,” she said quietly, her wings giving a faint twitch. “When I was escaping the Coldiron estate, I ended up in this room... I didn’t have time to stop and look properly, but I remember.” She swallowed hard, her voice wavering slightly. “It was full of... things. Trophies. Shelves lined with jars, cases, and displays. Wings, horns, pieces of fae, like they were prizes he’d taken from others. There were so many.”

Her hands tightened against the edge of the table as the memory washed over her, vivid and intrusive. “I remember the shimmer of fairy wings—whole sets of them, all different sizes and colors. There were horns, feathers, scales... things I don’t even have names for. It wasn’t just me. It wasn’t just one or two. They’ve been doing this for a long time.”

She trailed off, her gaze dropping to the crumbs on the table as if searching for an anchor in the present. Gerard remained nearby, his silver hair catching the warm glow of the firelight. He stood silently, hands folded neatly behind his back, his watchful presence offering a quiet reassurance that seemed to steady the moment.

Lady Pella’s brow furrowed slightly as she leaned forward, resting her teacup on the saucer with a faint clink. Her voice softened, though it held a determined edge. “If that room is still there, we might be able to find exactly what we need. Your wings, Illya, and everything else they’ve taken from others like you. It would be damning evidence—enough to spark outrage, even among those who’ve turned a blind eye.”

Pella tilted her head slightly, her hazel eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “The question is timing. Do we sneak into that room before the auction begins, or do we try to get in while it’s happening? Either way, it won’t be easy. That area will be heavily guarded, especially if it’s where they’re keeping their so-called ‘merchandise.’”

Elvario io

 

[Elvario]

Victorique Sopheana

Spoiler: Full Image & Source

Alternate art generated from:
Victorique de Blois

Mentions: Moonberry

A low ranking-noble. That wasn't going to be all that useful. “What about you? How much influence do you think you're willing and able to exert if push comes to shove?” She'd ask Pella. She figured she might as well check how much support they could get from that one. She did seem to be more than a peasant, at least, judging from her servant.

“They must be rather confident.” Inviting extra people over to hide an illegal auction was a ballsy move. “Do we have any clue who the VIPs might be? I'd like to know whom I might end up making my enemies.”

Upon hearing about how he'd gathered Fae trophies, she did get a shiver. She was a Fae, after all. “Do you know if he was the type to catalogue things? If we're going up against someone influential with equally influential friends, we'd need something that'll undeniably tie it all to him. Something they can't brush off as falsified or planted. Contracts, perhaps, especially magical ones, with parties he'd use to source these materials, would probably be ideal. If we'd just have the items themselves they might claim those were never his to begin with if we were to take them on their own... I doubt we could prove they are in his mansion directly. Unless you'd have some device to record and picture that room with?” She just recalled this was Widersia. “Or to record sound with. That would also be rather useful. I could smuggle such things in using [Pocket Dimension] magic.”

She clicked her tongue. Getting into the area might indeed be tough. “Recording the auction itself might work as a start, but if we were to want to play it safe and get evidence from within that room... Hmm...” She clicked her tongue. “I could fake wanting to buy something? In fact, if you get me the funds for it, I could even make an actual transaction. I'd try to bluff into getting some time alone to browser, or maybe one of you could try distract the guards so that I'll have some time alone to record or snoop for more evidence?” She was willing to take such a risk to get a job done.

 

[Moonberry]

Lady Pella tilted her head slightly, a slow, amused smile touching her lips at Victorique’s direct questioning. She lifted her teacup, taking a small sip before setting it back down with deliberate grace. The firelight flickered in her hazel eyes, but the mirth in them was fleeting—beneath her usual playful demeanor, a quiet resolve had settled.

“You’re right to ask,” she admitted, lacing her fingers together as she leaned forward. “My father is Baron Pella. He’s currently in the process of establishing a factory—one that will mass-produce steam-mobiles. It has the potential to be a major industry here in Widersia, but it’s still in its infancy. He’s working on securing investors, finalizing patents, and, most importantly, making connections with the right people.”

She let the words settle for a moment, then added with a measured tone, “And yes, Count Coldiron is one of those people. I don’t know the extent of my father’s dealings with him, but I do know they’ve met more than once. Coldiron has influence, and my father has ambitions—it’s not a stretch to say they’ve done business together.”

Her expression darkened slightly, and she tapped a finger idly against the porcelain of her teacup. “That said, I’m not my father. I won’t stand by and be silent while lives are being toyed with.”

She lifted her chin slightly, a smirk returning to her lips, though it was sharp-edged now. “Regardless of his preferences, I have enough personal connections to smooth things over for my family—at least for myself. I’m not afraid of a little political fallout. But I am interested in taking Coldiron down.”

She glanced at Illya, her expression softening just slightly. “I want to help you. Not just because it’s the right thing to do, but because I refuse to let people like Coldiron believe they’re untouchable.”

She picked up her tea once more, taking another sip before continuing. “As for getting into the auction... that’s already handled.”

Illya’s pink eyes widened slightly as Pella leaned back, her posture effortlessly composed. “Because my father is working with Coldiron, I received a personal invitation to the auction.” A flicker of amusement returned to her gaze. “Apparently, I’m an ‘esteemed guest’—though I imagine that has more to do with money than anything else. It’s an exclusive gathering, and the auction is not something one can simply walk into. It’s private, discreet, and likely held in a room well away from prying eyes.”

She turned her attention back to Victorique, her lips quirking. “And that’s where you come in. You’ll be attending as my plus one.”

Illya’s wings gave a soft whir as she processed the plan, nodding slowly. “That explains how we’ll get inside,” she said, glancing between the two women. “Once we’re in, we’ll need a way to actually find the evidence. If Coldiron keeps records—contracts, documents—those would be solid proof. But if we can’t get those, then we need to get into that trophy room.”

She hesitated, her expression tightening slightly. “I only caught a glimpse of it when I was escaping, but I remember the layout vaguely. It was a private room, set apart from the others. If it’s still there, it’ll likely be heavily guarded. But if we can get in...”

Lady Pella hummed in thought, her fingers drumming lightly against the arm of her chair. “The best time to slip away will be during the auction itself. If we can distract the guards or cause some kind of diversion, that could buy us time. Victorique, you suggested posing as a buyer? That could work—if you make a purchase, they might allow you a private moment with the merchandise. That could give you a chance to snoop.”

Gerard stood quietly by the side of the room, his watchful gaze shifting between the three of them, awaiting any further request. His presence was steady, a quiet reminder that despite the dangers ahead, they were not entirely alone in this endeavor.

---

Elvario

 

[Elvario]

Victorique Sopheana

Spoiler: Full Image & Source

Alternate art generated from:
Victorique de Blois

Mentions: Moonberry

Victorique clicked her tongue. The lady herself wasn't a noble of her own right, her father might be in cahoots with the enemy. That was not a great start. Her words were fancy flare to Victorique, whom was focussing more on the details. “That will make this more challenging.” She'd admit. “We'll need any scrap of evidence we can get our hands on. The more direct the better.”

She'd nod at being the plus one. Then she recalled. Wasn't that normally for dates or business partners? “What's the excuse we'll be going by for knowing each-other and me being your plus one? I'm afraid I'm not the greatest at deception.” She'd warn ahead of time.

“Yes, I can convince them I'm interested in the wares well enough without lying. I'll just have them misinterpreted me as a buyer so they can believe what they want to.” That was her plan, at least. She got a tad annoyed. “So... my earlier question. I take it you don't have any device that could save imagery or sound here, then? That'd be ideal to have as proof as well. To back up that we found what we found in their original places. No matter how much time I have to snoop, I need a definite way to tie what I find there back to Coldiron. Anything short of a magical contract or something that shows its in his own 'trophy room' might fall short when going up against high-up nobles.”

There was one other thought. “Seeing how they took you alive, how likely might it be there's others alive in there? If we can free a victim to have testify, I'd be sure to help us sway public opinion a lot.” It was perhaps a bit of a harsh manner to speak about it, but she was being rather straightforward, cold and professional when it came to cases.

She sighed. “Mind if I smoke?” She asked, as she'd pull out her pipe and tobacco. She wanted to at least enjoy some of the taste to calm her nerves down before they'd be getting into the thick of things.

 

[Moonberry]

Lady Pella exhaled through her nose in an exaggerated sigh, tilting her head back against the plush chair. Her hazel eyes flickered toward Victorique, a playful glint cutting through the dim firelight.

“I must say, this wasn’t exactly what I pictured when I imagined my plus one,” she mused, idly swirling the tea in her cup. “I was rather hoping for a tall, dark, and brooding inspector—a tragic past, a penchant for long coats, maybe even a well-timed lightning strike behind him as he arrived.”

She let out a wistful sigh before smirking. “But I suppose a distant cousin will have to do. It’s not unusual for the nobility to bring along obscure relatives—especially those from far-off lands. No one asks too many questions when they assume you’re part of some complicated bloodline dispute.”

She lifted her teacup toward Victorique in a half-toast. “Congratulations, dear cousin. Welcome to Widersia’s aristocracy.”

Illya snorted, shaking her head as she hovered just above the table, arms crossed. “Right. Let’s just hope no one asks too many follow-up questions.”

Her expression sobered slightly as she turned back toward Victorique’s line of questioning. “As for tying this all back to Coldiron... you’re right. We need something undeniable. I don’t know if they keep ledgers or magical contracts, but if they do, they’d be in his private study or somewhere close to the auction room.”

Illya’s wings gave a faint whir as she lowered herself onto the table, sitting cross-legged. “I didn’t have time to look for records when I escaped, but I do know they were organized about their collection. It wasn’t just a messy trophy room—it looked cataloged. Like they knew exactly what they had and where it came from.”

Her voice faltered for a second before she pressed on. “And you're right. I was one of the lucky ones. Coldiron wanted me for my wings, but he also wanted me alive when he took them. I doubt I was the only one.”

She hesitated, gripping her knee tightly. “There could be others still in that estate. Maybe caged, or restrained in some way. If they’re planning an auction... it might not just be artifacts or trophies they’re selling.”

The thought sent a chill through the room, settling heavily in the spaces between them.

Lady Pella set her teacup down with a decisive clink. “If we can find someone still alive, they’d be the best witness possible. Nothing sways public opinion like an actual victim standing in front of them, telling their story. No noble, no matter how well connected, can handwave that away.”

She leaned back, crossing one leg over the other as she considered Victorique’s earlier concerns. “But getting into Coldiron’s study or that trophy room won’t be easy. We need an excuse to be somewhere we shouldn’t be. A diversion, a false lead... or, better yet, a reason to need to see his records.”

She smirked suddenly, her eyes gleaming. “You know, Victorique, if you’re planning to pose as a buyer, what’s stopping you from requesting documentation for your ‘purchase’? The nobility love their paperwork—it makes them feel legitimate, even when they’re doing something heinous.”

She gestured vaguely with one hand. “If you convince them you need a bill of sale, or proof of authenticity, they might take you somewhere that has those records. And if we happen to be watching...”

Illya nodded in understanding. “Then we’ll know exactly where they keep their documentation. We won’t have to go in blind.”

Gerard, who had remained silent and unmoving near the fireplace, cleared his throat lightly. “And if I may, my lady,” he spoke in his usual calm, measured tone, “a great deal of Coldiron’s business runs through Clockhaven’s merchants. If we’re searching for financial records or ledgers, it is possible some of them do not remain in his estate, but are held by his trading partners instead.”

Pella turned to him with interest. “You mean, if we can find the right merchant, we might be able to track down a paper trail before we even set foot in the auction?”

Gerard inclined his head. “Precisely. The Coldiron family does not operate in isolation. If they are selling something, someone is handling the finances. And if we can find that person...”

Illya brightened slightly. “Then we might have evidence before we even go to the masquerade.”

Lady Pella leaned back in thought, a smile curling at the edge of her lips. “Now that would be interesting.”

She turned back to Victorique. “What do you think, cousin? Do you have a preference—snooping at the ball, or sniffing out Coldiron’s money before we even arrive?”

The fire crackled, casting long shadows along the walls. Outside, the rain continued its relentless assault against the city, as if echoing the storm still brewing beneath the surface of their plan.

---

Elvario

 

[Elvario]

Victorique Sopheana

Spoiler: Full Image & Source

Alternate art generated from:
Victorique de Blois

Mentions: Moonberry

Seeing how neither of the other two told her 'no' with regards to smoking, she assumed she was allowed and lit up her pipe. Inhaling and exhaling tufts of smoke whilst listening to their replies. She scoffed at the first remark. “Sorry to fall short.” She didn't like that statement. “You've got one of the best, rather than one from a fantasy.” She'd remark next. “A distant cousin? Sure.” She wasn't sure how well that'd fly, but she didn't know any better alternatives. Well, she did know one option, but she didn't wish to try it. Or even suggest it.

“If they ask follow-up questions, I'm fairly sure I can tell them it's complicated without having to directly lie about it.” She might not be the most deceptive, but she was persuasive, so perhaps she could bend and stretch the truth as far as possible to make up for it.

“If they are small enough, I might be able to free them and smuggle them out using [Pocket Dimension] magic.” She'd suggest, on the idea of there being other folk that might still be caught.

She'd nod at the suggestion of wanting a proof of purchase. “That's a great idea. I can do that.” She already had some fun scenario's to use in order to back-up such a claim. She wouldn't be lying either, in that she wanted to see solid evidence.

She clicked her tongue upon hearing the butler's suggestion. “Should we get caught, in a worst-case scenario, we'd at least be able to talk our way out of it to the police afterwards. Assuming we won't, as I'm not planning to get caught, it would allow us to know better what to look for in the little amount of time we'd have.”

She sighed. “We would risk alerting them that someone is prying into their business. We'd have to be quick, efficient and unsuspicious about it all.” Weighing her options, she'd come to a conclusion. “Let's go after the merchants first. Ideally, it'd also give us some more clues about what to bluff about to demand a proof of authenticity as well when we go in for real.”

 

[Moonberry]

Gerard, ever the silent observer, stepped away without a word as Victorique lit her pipe. A moment later, he returned, placing a silver ashtray beside her with quiet precision. He remained standing, hands folded behind his back, before speaking.

“If I may, my lady, there is a merchant who may be of interest—Elias Varnham.”

Lady Pella raised a brow. “The textile merchant?”

Gerard nodded. “Officially. But behind closed doors, he handles discreet transactions for Widersia’s elite. If Coldiron has records of his dealings, Varnham will either have them or know where to find them.”

Illya’s wings gave a soft whir as she processed the information. “So he’s a broker. If we want some proof of Coldirons dealings , he goig go be a good start.”

Pella set her teacup down. “Then how do we get him to talk?”

Gerard glanced toward Victorique. “If she is to pose as a buyer at the auction, it would be wise to establish her credibility beforehand. Varnham only does business with those he considers worthwhile. If she approaches him as a collector in search of something... rare, he may open his doors.”

A slow smirk crossed Pella’s lips. “Ah, I like this. If we play it right, he may reveal more than he intends.”

Illya folded her arms. “And if he won’t talk?”

Pella shrugged. “Then we give him a reason to.” She turned to Victorique with a playful gleam in her eyes. “So, cousin, how do you feel about an aternoon shopping trip?”

Elvario

 

[Elvario]

Victorique Sopheana

Spoiler: Full Image & Source

Alternate art generated from:
Victorique de Blois

Mentions: Moonberry

Smoking the last of her tobacco till the flavour was gone, she'd empty it out in the ash tray. It sounded like a more concrete name arose, Elias Varnham. A good one to try dedicate to memory. “Shopping trips and long-lost family time, how fun.” She'd sigh, debating the plan. “Well, let's go. I'll figure out how to convincingly sound like I'm wanting to buy something without having to flat-out lie, somehow.”

Even so, she couldn't help chuckle a bit at Pella's words. “Although 'giving him reason' to reminds me more of the thing some friends of mine would say. When brandishing their axe, gathering up their thugs, frying up their foes or casting rays of lightning.” She did recall how many scary friends she had, just then, how odd.

 

[Moonberry]

Gerard, ever efficient, stepped forward without needing to be told. With a polite bow, he gestured toward the door. “If you are ready, my lady.”

The storm had lessened to a drizzle by the time they stepped outside, but the air was still damp, carrying the scent of wet cobblestone and the distant hum of Clockhaven’s ever-turning gears. Waiting at the base of the steps was a sleek steam-mobile, its brass plating gleaming faintly under the dim streetlights. The engine let out a steady, rhythmic hiss as steam vented from the undercarriage.

Gerard opened the door, standing with practiced patience as Lady Pella slid in first, stretching out luxuriously against the velvet seats. Illya fluttered in afterward, settling lightly on the armrest beside her. Once Victorique was settled in the mobile, Gerard shut the door and stalked around to the drivers seat.

With Gerard at the wheel, the steam-mobile jolted forward the moment the doors shut. The ride was bumpy, the carriage shifting roughly over uneven stone streets, each dip and rise sending a faint rattle through the cabin. Illya braced herself instinctively, grumbling under her breath, while Pella leaned lazily against the window, unbothered.

“You know, Victorique,” she mused, idly adjusting her gloves, “if we’re to be convincing at this little outing, you ought to look the part. What do you think? Dark, elegant? Or something with a bit more flair? I personally think you could pull off something in deep green—gives that whole ‘dangerous and mysterious’ aesthetic.”

Illya rolled her eyes. “We’re not actually here for dress shopping.”

“No, but we must keep up appearances, darling.” Pella grinned, tapping her fingers idly against the seat.

As the vehicle turned a corner, she reached into a small satchel at her side, withdrawing two sleek devices of polished brass and tempered glass, each adorned with fine etchings. She handed the larger of the two to Victorique, then held up the smaller one for Illya to inspect.

“Take a look at these lovelies.” she said smoothly. “They’re a little something from the Duchy. Not on the market yet, but I have a friend in the research division.”

Illya peered at the device with curiosity, turning it in her small hands. “What does it do?”

Pella’s smirk widened. “It captures a moment. Just one. You power it with magic, and it records exactly what’s in front of it for a brief instant. You can play it back later, as many times as you need, but only that one moment.”

She glanced toward Victorique. “If this answers your earlier question at all? I've got two more for back up to use at the event.”

Outside, the streets of Clockhaven stretched into the distance, the store they were heading toward growing closer with every jolt of the steam-mobile’s bumpy ride. The city loomed around them—liights flickering against metal and stone, gears turning somewhere beneath the streets, and the distant chime of a great clocktower marking the passing time.

---

Elvario

 

[Elvario]

Victorique Sopheana

Spoiler: Full Image & Source

Alternate art generated from:
Victorique de Blois

Mentions: Moonberry

A smile showed when she noticed the steam mobile. They were pretty cool, after all. Not mecha or airship cool, but still cool. She was clearly trying to hide that enthusiasm to be more professional. She was also clearly not the greatest at doing so. Her earlier words of being bad at deception shining through as pretty legitimate concerns. She'd jump up to get in and hop into the seat next.

The next bits caught the halfling utterly off-guard. “I don't already?” Was her first question. “I... eh?” She couldn't recall... wait, she could recall the last time she went clothes shopping with someone. It'd been kind of fun but also pretty awkward.

She sighed. “If you think it's needed, I guess we can just go with whatever you think would work.” She didn't want to endanger the mission, but she wasn't exactly eager either. If anything, she was a tad nervous about these types of things.

Taking the glass gem-like thing, she'd listen to the explanation. Only to get concerned. “Wait, wait. It uses magic? I... I'm afraid I ehh... I know I'm Fae and all, but I... I don't have magic. At all.” It was rather embarrassing to admit. “I'd need to try learn it on the spot, find an external source of magic, or I'd be failing to even use it.” She felt like she was already falling short. This time in a more figurative manner. “That said, if we would capture the room itself, perhaps even with Agnes Coldiron in it, we'd be having perfect evidence against her.”

 

[Moonberry]

Illya perched on the steam-mobile’s armrest, turning the brass device over in her hands.

“Don’t worry about the magic,” she said, pressing a hand to her own. A faint shimmer flickered across its surface as it whirred softly to life. Then, with a small gesture, she reached out and tapped Victorique’s device, sending the same pulse of energy into it. “I’ll charge yours before we head in. Easy.” Lady Pella stretched luxuriously, smirking. The steam-mobile rattled over the uneven cobblestones, the vehicle’s suspension struggling to smooth the ride. Illya huffed, wings fluttering in irritation.

“Remind me why this is better than flying?”

“Style,” Pella answered simply, adjusting the lace of her gloves as the vehicle slowed before Varnham & Co. Tailors and Fine Imports.

A deep blue awning stretched overhead, golden lettering polished and refined. Gas lamps flickered against the darkened glass, illuminating an elegant display of eveningwear.

Gerard stepped down first, opening the door.

“Shall I remain with the vehicle, my lady?”

“No, come inside,” Pella said smoothly, slipping an arm through Victorique’s. “Your presence is always invaluable.”

Illya hovered just behind them, tucking herself into the folds of Pella’s coat—better to stay unseen.

The bell above the door chimed softly as they stepped inside. A subtle blend of polished wood, fine leather, and exotic fabrics lingered in the air. The boutique was lavish but restrained, its decor speaking of old money—wealth that didn’t need to be loud to be noticed.

Behind the counter, a sharply dressed man with silver-streaked hair turned to greet them. His waistcoat was tailored to perfection, his cravat crisp and pristine.

For the briefest moment, his polished expression faltered. His gaze flickered to Victorique—a barely perceptible hesitation, the smallest shift of his brow—before smoothing back into professional neutrality.

His eyes moved to Pella, lingering in recognition.

“Lady Pella,” he greeted smoothly, bowing slightly. “A pleasure to have you in my establishment. How may I assist you?”

Pella released Victorique’s arm, idly glancing around the boutique before returning her attention to the shopkeeper.

“Elias Varnham runs an impeccable establishment, as always,” she said lightly, fingers drifting over the nearest fabric display. “I’m looking for something suitably elegant. You wouldn’t happen to have a catalogue of your finest evening wear, would you?”

Elias nodded, retrieving a leather-bound catalogue from a polished display table. He laid it before her with careful precision.

“Of course. We carry only the finest imported silks and custom-tailored gowns. I trust you’re in need of something for an upcoming event?”

Pella flicked through the pages lazily, feigning only mild interest.

“Something quite exclusive, in fact. A masquerade ball.”

She let the words settle, watching for the flicker of recognition in his expression.

“And of course,” she continued, turning a page, “I’ll need an alteration specialist. My dear cousin may be small in stature, but she still deserves to be dressed in the height of fashion.”

A teasing lilt colored her words as she cast Victorique a sideways glance.

Elias inclined his head, hands folding neatly behind his back.

“I personally ensure every garment meets my standards. Precision is paramount—especially when working with… delicate proportions.”

Pella hummed in approval, turning the pages at a leisurely pace. The first designs were as expected—luxurious gowns in emerald and midnight blue, sleek velvet tailcoats, silks embroidered with delicate clockwork patterns. The craftsmanship was impeccable, boasting imported fabrics and intricate beading.

Then, she flipped to the next section—and paused.

The illustrations took a disturbing turn.

At first glance, the designs followed fae-inspired trends—flowing fabrics, ethereal textures. But then, the details sharpened.

The winged accents on bodices looked eerily realistic—delicate veins and translucent membranes too intricately drawn to be simple embroidery. Some bore jagged edges, as if clipped rather than crafted.

Further in, masks appeared—crafted with what looked like real satyr horns, twisted into elaborate shapes. The catalogue described them as "a rare, ethically sourced keratin," yet the fine ridges and natural imperfections suggested otherwise.

Illya’s tiny fingers curled into Pella’s coat.

It wasn’t proof. Not yet.

But the attention to detail in these sketches was too precise. Too real.

Pella’s gloved fingers traced over one of the illustrations, lingering just long enough to make a point.

“Oh my,” she murmured, voice light but unreadable. She turned her gaze toward Elias with an easy, pleasant expression.

“What an… interesting trend.”

Elias, ever composed, merely offered a faint smile.

“Ethereal styles have taken Widersia’s elite by storm,” he replied smoothly. “A fascination with fae beauty, one might say. My clients prefer authenticity in their ensembles.”

Pella’s smile didn’t falter, though something in her hazel eyes darkened.

“Authenticity,” she echoed, turning another page with deliberate ease. “That’s quite the claim. You must have remarkable sources.”

Elias inclined his head slightly.

“Discretion is the mark of a superior tailor, my lady.”

The words were polite. But the way he said them—the casual confidence, the way he made no effort to deny anything—left something unspoken in the air.

Illya remained silent, wings twitching beneath Pella’s coat.

This could all be an elaborate imitation. A harmless trend.

Or it could be something far worse.

---

Elvario

 

[Elvario]

Victorique Sopheana

Spoiler: Full Image & Source

Alternate art generated from:
Victorique de Blois

Mentions: Moonberry

“Alright, thanks.” She'd state to Illya. With the fairy this close, it was suddenly clear how small she was, as even Victorique noticed it. Size was thing she never really thought about that much unless she was annoyed at things being too large. Thinking of someone being small was definitely new to her. How odd.

It was equally odd to enter a clothing store for the sake of a mission. She sighed upon seeing the man falter. “I'm not a child. I'm aware there aren't many things my size in most stores. I'd still like to browse.” She'd repeat three lines she'd come to know by heart. Those were a few things she needed to make clear on many occasions.

Upon the mention of the name, she'd start planning. That seemed like a go-ahead for trying to get some documents. Now to figure out how to subtly ask for them or snoop for them. She was debating her options, deep in thought, but even so, the height joke pierced through her thoughts like a lighting strike on a bright day. “I'm not that short, you know. I'm actually pretty tall for a Halfling.” She'd retort. Despite her earlier admission, her pride always got a little hurt when such things were mentioned.

The realistic drawings sure made it seem like they were in the right place. Victorique wasn't great at lying. Yet bluffing. That she could do. “Discretion? Pfft.” She laughed. “These don't even look like the real thing. Don't let him fool you. You'll look like a clown wearing these badly faked things.”

She scoffed. “Honestly, it's wild they allow this fakery. Cheap imitations like these really take away from the luxury brand, you know?” She shook her head. “Let's just go. You said there were some actually interesting things from my homeland, but all I'm seeing is cheap knock-offs.” She'd turn around, grabbing her pipe as if to leave and get ready to smoke away the frustration.

 

[Moonberry]

Elias Varnham’s polished demeanor never wavered, but there was something in his sharp, assessing gaze that suggested he was weighing his options. His fingers traced the edge of the catalogue, his movements slow and deliberate as though considering just how much to say.


“Ah, my dear lady,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. “You underestimate the lengths to which true artisans will go to capture beauty. Fae aesthetics are... difficult to replicate, but I assure you, the craftsmanship here is unparalleled.” He flipped a few pages back in the catalogue, as if inviting them to reexamine the designs.


“Of course, discerning collectors such as yourself prefer certainty. Our clientele expects authenticity, not mere imitation.” Lady Pella’s expression remained relaxed, but a keen interest flickered in her hazel eyes. She drummed her gloved fingers lightly against the countertop.


“Oh, I don’t doubt that your customers demand the best, Elias,” she mused. “But you know how these things are—when something seems too perfect, people start asking questions.” Elias’s gaze flickered toward her, a subtle shift in his expression—too quick to read before he turned his attention back to Victorique.


“Those who ask too many questions often lack the eye for true refinement,” he said smoothly, his tone casual yet pointed. “I cater to those who recognize quality when they see it.” Victorique’s earlier dismissal had clearly struck a nerve, but Elias was too refined to let irritation show. Instead, he maneuvered the conversation like a skilled merchant, carefully balancing between denial and invitation. Lady Pella’s lips curled into a slow smirk.


“A shame, really. I would have loved to see a piece of your collection up close—just to appreciate the craftsmanship, of course.” Elias let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.


“Ah, my lady, you flatter me. But as I’m sure you understand, exclusivity is the foundation of fine taste. We do not put such things on casual display.”

“Ah, my lady, you flatter me. But as I’m sure you understand, exclusivity is the foundation of fine taste. We do not put such things on casual display.” The words were polite, but his tone held an edge—testing, watching. Illya, still tucked into the folds of Pella’s coat, tightened her grip on the fabric. Her wings twitched ever so slightly, their mechanical components shifting noiselessly. She wasn’t sure what unsettled her more—the eerie precision of the catalogue’s designs or the way Elias maneuvered around their questions with such effortless grace. Pella let the silence stretch just a little longer before she hummed, flipping another page in the catalogue.


“Of course, of course. Perhaps another time, then.” There was a pause before she closed the leather-bound book with a soft snap.


“In the meantime, let’s move on to something more immediate. I do need a gown for tonight’s masquerade.” Elias’s smile returned, this time more assured.


“Naturally. Allow me to assist you in finding the perfect piece.” The conversation had veered back to safer waters, but the undercurrent of tension remained. They had his attention. The only question now was how far they could push him before he started pushing back.

---

Elvario

 

[Elvario]

Victorique Sopheana

Spoiler: Full Image & Source

Alternate art generated from:
Victorique de Blois

Mentions: Moonberry

It seemed Pella took over most of the conversation, whilst Elias didn't take the bait she'd thrown out. How annoying. Seeing how things wrapped up again, without her involvement, she wasn't sure how to proceed for a moment.

Until she was. “A masquerade at the Coldiron's, nonetheless.” She'd add. Her plan was forged. “I'll give it to you straight. If I want to be taken serious there, they should know what I'm about.” She look up to stare directly into Elias' eyes. “If I'm to be taken serious there, despite being Fae, I need something that won't leave them a shred of doubt about what I stand for. Something that catches their eyes and allows me to make some more... useful, deals with them.”

'Useful deals' being deals that would provide the evidence needed to arrest them, of course, yet she balanced bluffing carefully against lying. As for a bluff alone, she was able to make it an [Ultimate Argument].

Ultimate Argument – Persuasion B, Law B, Eidetic Memory, Energised B, [Evolved] title. - Character formulates an ultimate argument to confront someone with. +1 Effectiveness against other Fae. - Grade Be - 3 Post Cooldown

“I was told you'd have exactly what it takes for me to fit in perfectly, yet all I'm seeing thus far is an attempt to avoid showing any legitimacy. If I'm to be caught with fakery, you can rest assured I'd never be taken serious again, so let's not waste time here. Give me something that you can guarantee is legit or admit that you don't offer any such thing to begin with so we don't have to waste our time here.”

 

[Moonberry]

Elias Varnham’s expression remained carefully composed, but Victorique’s words settled between them like a blade pressed just close enough to threaten. His gaze flickered, reassessing, recalculating. Then, after a beat of silence, he inclined his head.

“It is not often I encounter a client so… particular about authenticity,” he murmured, tone as smooth as polished glass. “It seems you are more discerning than most.” With a deliberate motion, he gestured toward a discreet hallway tucked beyond the main showroom. Velvet curtains lined the narrow corridor, the flickering glow of gas lamps casting shifting shadows along dark wood paneling.

“This way,” Elias said, his voice light, almost casual. “For those with a refined taste, of course.” Lady Pella smirked, resting a gloved hand against her hip before stepping forward with an effortless grace. She said nothing—her expression was one of idle amusement—but the glint in her hazel eyes was anything but passive. Gerard lingered near the entrance, his sharp gaze sweeping the boutique, a silent sentinel.

Illya took her chance.

As the trio moved, she slipped unseen from the folds of Pella’s coat, her small frame darting low with practiced silence. [Stealth] F Her wings barely whispered against the air as she zipped over. In a single, fluid motion, she reached Victorique’s side. Climbing into the folds of the halflings clothes, to try and touch the device needed to record.

A pulse of magic flickered from her fingertips when she finally found where Victorique had stored it. A quick and controlled transfer of energy. The charge settled into the device, bringing it quietly to life. Illya didn’t linger. The moment her task was done, she vanished back into the folds of Victoriques clothing.

At the end of the corridor, Elias reached a set of polished double doors. The brass inlays curled like ivy along the carved wood, catching the low light. His hand hovered over the handle for just a breath before he glanced back toward Victorique.

“I trust you understand that what you are about to see is not for those of idle curiosity.” There was something weighted in his words, a test, an invitation laced with unspoken warning. Then, with a smooth turn of his wrist, he pushed the doors open.

The private showroom was an extension of the boutique’s opulence, elegant, curated, and hushed in its luxury. Rows of mannequins stood in stately stillness, dressed in evening finery. Gowns spun from iridescent silks shimmered under the dim glow of gas lamps. Tailored suits bore intricate embroidery of gold thread, their craftsmanship impeccable. But it was not the clothing that drew the eye. Beneath glass cases, delicate, near-translucent wings rested on black velvet, their fine veins and shifting colors too perfect to be mere imitation. Rings, brooches, and elaborate hairpieces adorned with fae horns lay in careful arrangement, the twisting ridges polished and set into intricate gold filigree. The attention to detail was unnerving.

Victorique wouldn’t have to guess, she could feel it. These were not designs inspired by the fae. These were pieces taken from them. Illya tensed within the folds of Victoriques clothes, her fingers clenching the fabric. And yet, the displays were not the only thing of interest.

Against the far wall, a polished desk stood, its surface unassuming save for a few neatly stacked ledgers. Their bindings were pristine, their placement casual, as if referenced often but never out of place.

Beside them, a silver tray held a neat collection of folded receipts and order forms. One bore a faint smudge of ink, and even from a distance, the name Coldiron peeked through the script. A locked cabinet stood just beyond the desk, its brass keyhole gleaming under the low light. Unlike the showroom, this was not meant for display. This was where secrets were kept. Elias stepped forward, his gloved fingers ghosting over one of the glass cases, his expression carefully neutral.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” he mused, his voice measured. “True beauty is rarely understood by the masses. Only those with the right appreciation know how to preserve it.” He let his words linger, then turned his gaze toward Victorique.
“And you… what is it you truly seek?”

---

Elvario

 

[Elvario]

Victorique Sopheana

Spoiler: Full Image & Source

Alternate art generated from:
Victorique de Blois

Mentions: Moonberry

She'd scoff. “Of course.” She was a bloody detective. Of course she was more discerning than most. She felt insulted (for real) that he'd think her to be any less than that. “Now we're talking.” She'd state, following him as he told her he'd show thing for those with a refined taste.

During the sudden arrival of Illya, Victorique did her best to keep a straight face and not mention anything. Even though the fairy moving around in her clothing was tickling her and causing a slight. “Huhhuh..” Sound, which she muffled in no-time by rasping her throat instead.

“Please. As if I'd have the time for idle curiosity.” She'd state. Which was true. She had some investigating to do. No time for being idle. Hoping that the recording was roughly at eye-level, she look around. She knew she could [Appraise] them, but that'd not give her the recorded proof needed.

“Hmmm.... From up close, they certainly look more legit than in the catalogue. I'm almost inclined to believe you.” She'd state, throwing him a proverbial bone to edge him on to give her last shreds of evidence. “Such amazing attention to detail.” She'd state, suppressing the chill running down her spine to the best of her extend. What type of chamber of horrors had she walked into?

“You can say that again.” She'd reply to the claim that 'only those with the right appreciation know how to preserve it' when it came to true beauty. “What I truly seek? It's pretty simple.” Her bluff would need to be picked up even more right now. “If I want to be taken serious by the Coldirons, despite my race, I need something that'll impress even them no? I feel like you know what I'm talking about. Perhaps something that can help me show we're on the same.... team? Something they'd recognise.” She was really carefully balancing the line between bluff and lie.

 

[Moonberry]

Elias Varnham stood poised in the center of the room, his gloved hands clasped behind his back as he regarded Victorique with quiet amusement. The weight of her words had not gone unnoticed, and now, it was time for him to respond.

With a slow, deliberate turn, he gestured toward one of the mannequins. Draped over its frame was a gown unlike the others—deep midnight silk, the fabric so fine it seemed to shift between black and blue with each flicker of light. Silver thread traced intricate, winding sigils across its surface, their patterns unmistakably fae in origin.

“For one looking to impress the Coldirons, subtlety is wasted,” Elias murmured. “This piece is for those who wish to be recognized.” His fingers ghosted along the embroidered fabric, the silver catching the light like veins of moonlight frozen in silk.

Lady Pella, standing just beside Victorique, let out a soft hum of approval, though the sharpness in her hazel eyes never dulled. “You do know how to tempt a woman, Elias,” she mused, fingers tapping lightly against her hip. “But a gown is nothing without the right accessories, wouldn’t you agree?”

Elias chuckled. “Naturally.”

He turned toward a nearby display case and lifted the glass lid with careful precision. Nestled within the black velvet interior, a pair of earrings glistened under the showroom lights—delicate, ethereal, and almost too perfect.

They were small. Too small.

Translucent, gossamer-thin, their faint iridescence catching the light like fragments of captured starlight. They were shaped like wings.

Not designs inspired by wings. Not mere artistic imitations.

Real. Wings.

Illya’s body went rigid where she hid within Victorique’s coat. A sharp, shallow breath caught in her throat, so soft it could not be heard—but Victorique would feel the change. The way the small hands gripping her coat tensed. The way the air itself seemed to still.

They were her size.

Elias held the earrings delicately between his fingers, letting the light illuminate their fragile structure.

“These,” he murmured, “are one of a kind. The perfect accent for someone of your… standing.”

---

Elvario

 

[Elvario]

Victorique Sopheana

Spoiler: Full Image & Source

Alternate art generated from:
Victorique de Blois

Mentions: Moonberry

“Seems like we're talking now.” She'd nod, upon Elias bringing her directly to a 'crown piece' in the room. “She's right.” She'd add to what Pella said.

She felt her stomach twist and turn upon seeing the 'jewels' to go with it. Thankfully, she was Composed (B) and had some mental resistance (Mind Shield B) to resist the urge to show it or to just vomit on the spot. She couldn't, for the life of her, fake a smile. She could, however, twist her words well enough to show 'appreciation'. “Wow. That does seem like its genuinely legitimate.”

She frowned. “Then again, this is the Coldiron's we're talking about. If these are just some A-grade fakes, I'd be the laughing stock of the party, you know?” She wasn't wrong about that one. “I'll admit, I don't have a good enough eye to know for certain. Don't you have anything even more legit? Or a way to prove it? You can imagine why I'd not want to caught with fakes. Neither for the life, nor the death of me.” She'd explain her precarious situation.

The reasons were a lot different than he could imagine, but that's where her [Ultimate Argument] and persuasion hopefully made up for her lack of Deception.

Ultimate Argument – Persuasion B, Law B, Eidetic Memory, Energised B, [Evolved] title. - Character formulates an ultimate argument to confront someone with. +1 Effectiveness against other Fae. - Grade Be - 3 Post Cooldown

 

[Moonberry]

The shopkeeps carefully measured expression did not falter, but the slightest flicker of something—a calculation, a weighing of risk—passed through his eyes. Victorique’s words pressed against the unspoken tension in the air, the kind that only those in the business of secrets could recognize.

For a moment, he held his silence. Then, after a beat, he exhaled through his nose in quiet amusement.

“You are thorough, I will give you that,” he murmured, rolling the delicate earrings between his fingers before setting them back onto the velvet lining. His gaze drifted toward the gown once more, as if admiring his own craftsmanship. “But I do not deal in imitations. Only those with the most discerning taste ever lay eyes on these pieces, and I do not entertain doubts lightly.”

With an air of exaggerated patience, he turned, strolling toward the polished desk at the far end of the room. The ledgers sat in neat stacks, pristine and orderly, but one in particular seemed to draw his attention. A single volume, bound in dark green leather, the spine marked with elegant, gold-embossed lettering. He traced a gloved finger along its edge, then flipped it open.

Illya froze where she hid beneath the desk, pressing herself into the shadows as his footsteps drew closer. [Stealth] F

Victorique would see it before anyone else—the way his fingers carefully sought out a specific page, a precise entry. He wasn’t flipping through idly. He knew exactly where to look.

Elias ran his eyes over the crisp ink before tilting the ledger slightly toward her, just enough for a fleeting glimpse.

The Coldiron name stood out immediately, penned in looping script beside a dated transaction. A recent acquisition. A private exchange.

The inked details were vague—but not vague enough to hide what it meant to someone who knew what to look for. A shipment. A supplier. A deal. The numbers scrawled beside the notation suggested a sum far larger than a single set of wings or a pair of horns.

“These materials,” Elias said smoothly, as though discussing nothing more sinister than fine textiles, “are acquired with the utmost discretion.” He let the words settle, meeting Victorique’s gaze with deliberate patience.

“If I did not trust my sources, I would not stake my reputation on their quality. You understand, of course.”

A casual flick of his wrist, and he closed the book with a quiet snap.

Illya’s heart pounded. She could still see the wings that had been held up a moment before in her minds eye. She wasn't close enough to see if they were hers...but they had been the right size.

Carefully, she edged forward on the desk, fingers reaching toward the scattered papers on the tray nearby, perhaps hoping to find some other possibly glimpse of evidence.

Elias, still watching Victorique, tapped a single finger against the cover of the closed ledger.

“You are not the first to ask for proof,” he mused, voice a shade too light. “And I suspect you will not be the last.”

His gaze drifted to Lady Pella, his smile faint, knowing.

“You do keep interesting company, my lady.”

Lady Pella’s lips quirked slightly, her gloved fingers brushing against her chin as if considering.

“I find curiosity is an admirable trait, Elias. Those without it tend to… miss opportunities.”

Elias chuckled softly, but his fingers had not moved from the ledger.

---

Elvario