parrischantris

OOC: In memoriam

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 04:16:05 GMT

What is your concept, in a nutshell?: Parris is Duke Chantris, a genial, ambitious, avaricious, amicable servant of the dark powers. To outsiders, Parris can seem like something of a bumbler, but it is a carefully crafted image. He is an unusual Chantris -- tone-deaf, without much in the way of musical appreciation. And, thanks to his turn to the dark side, he is a thief of other people's Words.
Where is your home? Who is your family? What's your relationship like?: Parris has been Duke for some time. His wife is Majalis; they were married as the result of some political machinations that went askew, trapping them both unexpectedly. Parris is most fond of his wife when he is having an affair with someone else; Majalis is most fond of her husband when he's just survived one of her frequent attempts to assassinate him. They have several children together, whom they dote on and manipulate.
What significant event just happened to you? What do you need to do now?: The death of Parris's daughter Penelope (by his first wife, Majalis's sister Iolanthe), along with Stuart Feldane, resulted in a shift in his household. It has tipped Majalis over the border of dubious sanity, a situation which Parris has exacerbated by siphoning off her Words over time. He has grown more daring in his trafficking with the dark of late, covering his disappearances into the depths of the harbor alleys by playing them off as a poorly-hidden affair.
What are your long-term goals for your character?: Parris has grand ambitions for his House and for his family. He'll try to manuever his children into advantageous positions (whether they like it or not), clamber up onto the top of the heap and stay there, and try not to be gorbled by the powers with whom he traffics.

A Feast of Birds

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 00:28:38 GMT

Aviary - House Chantris

It is the dark of the night, and Parris is in his private aviary within House Chantris. The aviary is private because no other Chantris really wants to deal with Parris's birds, and it has been soundproofed, insofar as enough wood and cloth can do the job, in order to contain their screeching. Over time, it has evolved into Parris's workroom, and thus the soundproofing also has the useful side-effect of sparing the rest of the household from Parris's renditions of popular operas. Conveniently, it is thus also a highly convenient place for dark rituals.

The object of Parris's attentions this evening appears to be a lamp. Specifically, it is an illustration of a lamp; a large tome is lying open upon his worktable, and the lamp gleams attractively upon the landscape depicted in the book. Parris studies the open book, and a wind seems to ripple through the landscape within.

In a distant land, a man that was once Vizier to the Noor of Alhambra is spilling the blood of a Cibolan villager over an altar. It is not the first such sacrifice; it will not be the last. His hands are slick and red, his eyes grim and black.

Parris carefully unrolls a scroll of vellum, upon which runes -- a True Name -- have been meticulously inscribed. "Silence!" he imperiously commands his 'parrots', who have been singing the Throat-Slashing Sextet from the latest opera seria in six-part dissonance. With a squawk and a flap, the birds settle down, and turn instead to savaging a dish of raw meat. He takes a deep breath. He stretches out his hands. He shakes his sleeves out. And then, ever so cautiously, yet stentoriously, he pronounces the Name.

In Cibola, the shadows have grown deep and long with the falling of the sun. In Cibola, the man sacrificing natives over an ancient temple frowns, eyes narrowing. And in Cibola, that same man turns to motes of shadow and fades to another place.

Upon the page, the bright brass of the lamp tarnishes. Words flow across the page, and Parris reads them aloud, reaching down as he does so, as if he expects his hands to enter the page, and pull the lamp forth. "And so it came to pass that Lord Parris of Chantris summoned forth the man known as Jabir of Alhambra, by his True Name, as commanded by his Masters, who had assured him that this Jabir would grant him the greatest reward that he had yet to receive at their hands. The lamp, which he had so struggled and sacrificed to obtain, was near at hand. He took it up, and so brought the vizier to the shores of Amber."

In Chantris, the lights are low enough that shadows dance across the floor with the flickering of flames. One of these grows long and manshaped, then takes on depth and definition. In the aviary, so carefully prepared, an Alhambran appears in darkness and blood. "Why have I been summoned here?" he asks with a deep voice, airy in its nature. The wind stirs around them.

Parris continues to read from the book. The basso profundo of his voice is loud and steady. "Jabir of Alhambra demanded to know his summoner's purpose, but Parris, confident of the summoning circle that he had wrought and the spells that he had laid into the place, and in the ritual that bound the vizier to the Book and to the lamp, did not yet deign to answer."

Parris asides, in a tone of easy good humor, as if he were talking to a fellow at a pub, "Just a moment, old chap. I shall be with you shortly."

Parris continues on with, "The Chantris Lord began to speak the final ritual of binding." More words, arcane, unspoken for aeons, ripple from his lips. In a corner, a purple-beaked bird wars with a bright-orange counterpart over a bit of meat. Squawking angrily when the orange one snatches the gobbet away and slurps it down whole, the purple bird launches itself from its perch, in search of some other source of food.

With a derisive snort about the youth of arrogant nations, Jabir steps towards Parris. His own rituals begin to flow from /his/ lips. "That which was bound for the arrogance and pride of a would-be king deserves to be let free." His bloody hand, serpentine knife of sharpened bone, is raised, the showmanship of a stage magician making sure it catches the light to best effect.

Parris seems to consider the knife to be worth a snort of amusement. Indeed, while the moonlight catches the blade quite fetchingly, Parris's words seem to form a barrier between Jabir and himself, a shimmer of power in the air. "The vizier threatened his summoner," Parris reads, "but the summoner bore him no heed. The summoner continued to read from his book, until one of his birds interrupted-- NO!" This last word is shouted, as a flurry of winged fury descends upon him. The purple one, as always, has mistaken Parris for the most viable source of food. "BRAWK! Knives in the dark! BRAWK!" screeches the bird.

The knife comes down, its arc of descent perhaps slow in the perspective of the Chantris Lord, but not in what would be called real time. It is a blow aimed for the heart, to worm its way between ribs while words of vile rites spill in measured cadence from Jabir. They are words Parris should understand. They are a promise of immortality, in its own way. They are a call for Death to come as well.

Betrayed by his birds for the final time, Parris's expression reflects his shock, as the invisible hand writing in the book records, "--interrupted his ritual, affording the vizier a chance to strike a deadly blow. No mercy would there be for the Lord of the Book." Parris's heavy, ponderous body falls leadenly in the midst of his own summoning circle. The birds squawk cacophonously at the scent of blood.

With the dagger twisting deep, working its way not just to the heart but shredding through, Jabir continues his chant. One hand cups the back of the Chantris Lord's head, lowering them both down to the ground with a look of tender gestures.

Parris lies, unmoving, unbreathing, blood pooling around his body, the birds flocking eagerly to the scene. They seem to have the wisdom to not regard the vizier as a source of meat, however -- or perhaps they are merely reserved in anticipation of the feast to follow.

Death is given passage, and it comes in writing. For in Parris's blood Jabir spells out his ritual on the floor and walls, coming back to dip his 'pen' often. His eyes remain the dark tint of necormancer engaged in his work, until he knows what he's started can't be undone. "Immortaltiy? Tell me your name, Chantris, and I will give you a life unending."

The disembodied, discombobulated spirit of Parris breathes out, "Oh dear. Dear me. This is somewhat unexpected."

Jabir smirks at the corpse, or perhaps the ghost. "Then enjoy your evening, Summoner."

The spirit of Parris fades away. The birds, with a shriek of joy, go to the feast that they have been anticipating ever since they first made Parris's acquaintance.

Morning, the day before the Feldane ball

Wed, 28 Nov 2007 05:23:16 GMT

November 27th, 2007: Parris gets a morning visit from Dulcinea.

Dulcinea of course knocks on the door to the suite. But she also calls, "Father?" In her hands an armful of papers as if she means business about business.

The door swings open when it is knocked on. Inside, Parris is at the center of a bird-tailor fusion. There is squawking, a blur of brightly-colored bird feathers, and some screaming. The cloud of birds trying to discover a new food source, and the cloud of tailors trying to beat them off does not seem to overly perturb Parris, who is standing over a bunch of new suits in black, and holding them up one at a time to himself while looking in a mirror, while periodically admonishing, not very forcefully, "Knives! Chastity! Don't do that! Bad parrot!"

Dulcy walks into the room the very picture of an Amber noblewoman. You couldn't guess she was the product of Parris and Majalis and knew all about poisonings and other dark things what with her blonde waves curling beneath her chin and the train of her camel colored skirt so perfectly trailing two inches behind her. "Thankfully there you are, father. I see you're going to the ball, too." Dulcy ducks just in case that bird was aiming for her, but this does not seem to perturb or surprise her.

Parris turns from the mirror and beams genially at his daughter, saying, "Of course I am, my dear. I do have the utterly perplexing problem of what to wear, though." There are many new black suits being displayed for Parris's pleasure. They are not notably different from the many black suits he already owns, or, for that matter, from each other.

Dulcinea finds a chair a safe distance from the birds and sets the stack of papers down. "I'm sure you'll find something for tomorrow, father. I'm going with Errol of course, and Cyrus is going with Lady Taleyn." She doesn't mention Lorenzo or Mother. "But there was some unhappy correspondence from that horrid man Prince Benedict."

Parris says magnanimously, "Indeed, my dear. You will be pleased to know that I have decided that some touching is permissible under the circumstances. Since there is dancing, and so forth, and it will only be proper." He performs a minute inspection of a embroidered doublet.

Dulcinea sits down on the arm of the chair and laughs, certainly amused, "I'm glad for that, and I hope also you don't mind me leaning on his arm while we walk down the road together." For a moment distracted by the idea of Errol.

Parris looks up from the doublet. "Oh. Oh, dear me," he says in a tone of grave, if genial, concern. "Leaning. Leaning. We cannot have that. That might border on scandal. A matter of surface area of contact, you see, my dear. Too much of it inflames the brain."

Dulcinea grins at her father, the shadowy dimples appearing at the corner of her mouth. "Maybe so, but then, there do need to be heirs at some point, no?" Oh, the impertinent raised brows.

Parris dusts off the doublet with unnecessary vigor. The screaming and squawking continues largely unabated in the background. "Yes, of course, of course. But that will be after the marriage, hmm? Once you are married he can touch you as much as he likes. Certainly Thursdays after brandy or some such. More often in the beginning when the production of an heir is in question, I suppose, but I shall not dwell on that, else I should have to thrash him at the thought of it."

Dulcinea laughs very warmly, not bothering at all to hide her amusement. She might think Parris is teasing her. Or she might just hope so. But this fades when she glances at the stack of correspondence and says, "Father. Benedict wants to take our men for hte war. He's only asking for what he took before, but we have less. Our income will be impacted. Not to mention the taxes the crown sees as a benefit of trade."

Parris tries on a doublet, peering worriedly at the mirror before he turns in a circle, asking, "Do you think this doublet makes me look square?" Everything Parris wears makes him look square; he's built like a box. "As for the Prince, tell him no. I see no invading army at our doorstep. Let someone else be the fool who sacrifices to fight the phantom."

Dulcinea says, "You look quite dashing, father, though I think I like the black one better. The one without all the embroidery since the embroidery gives too much texture around your middle." She picks up a letter, "I wrote to him and reminded him that trade would be impacted by this and he wrote me back an insulting letter. He begins by addressing me as the Duchess, when he knows full well I am no such thing. The prat. And then..." She reads. Dulcinea reads. Dear Duchess, Thank you for your prompt reply; I am aware of the situation as pertaining to themanning of ships. No doubt you will understand that as all of the great Houses of Amber are in the same situation, I must press all equally. Do not make the mistake of thinking that because a battle is won, the war is over. I attach again the appendix of the roster of those units that fought in the Battle of Kolvir. Please note them for accuracy. For the time being, this is all that will be required.

Parris takes off this doublet. "James!" he calls, drawing the attention of a tailor who is trying to wrestle a green and yellow parrot off his shoulder. "Perhaps something different in this same black? A few less buttons, shall we say?" James's reply is swallowed in a renewal of the avian scuffle, though, so Parris turns back to Dulcinea, saying, "Well, this is a fine pickle. He is conscripting our men, is he? That will not do at all."

Dulcinea says, "He is conscripting our men, and our finances will suffer. Of course, not as much as the crown will since there will be so little to be taxed." Plus, Dulcy simply does not like Benedict and thwarting him pleases her. She says, "James, make father's buttons shiny. That way there will be a nice longer line up and down instead of sideways." Of course, Dulcy might not realize that the birds like shiny buttons.

Parris exclaims, as if this is a revelation, "Shiny! I've nothing shiny yet. Yes, do, James. Like little mirrors. If I am especially fortunate they shall reflect the, ah, shall we say, hidden treaures of my dance partners. Almost scandalous, really." James's reply is muffled by a raucous caw of, "Chastity is a virtue!" from the usual parrot. Brisky, Parris moves on, stating, "Now, this matter of the Prince, that will not to do at all. Simply instruct our men to stay at their jobs. Let the Prince come to us if he wishes to protest it."

Dulcinea says, "Well, Lord Addison Feldane, who is counsel to the crown, advised me that," she ducks again, but it is possibly only a spray of feathers, "...that the crown may take more men if we don't give over some. But I have to agree with you, I see no army on our doorstep, and what is more, our troops aren't meant for walking down black roads. They're meant for defending ships. They'll be the first ones dead!" Upset now, "Just food for crows!"

Parris says soothingly, "Now now, my dear. Do not vex yourself. It will make your face swell and that, my dear, is entirely unattractive and you do not wish that the eve before the Ball. You might press your case to the Regent, of course. I do think he likes a pretty face, and while it would not be appropriate for you to use your... wiles," he continues with a little shudder of distaste, "he might be persuaded to see reason."

Dulcinea says, "Yes. The Regent smiles at me, and every other woman, with a fair degree of frequency. And it's that kind of smile, not the benign, fatherly kind of smile. I will go see him, but I have to be careful else he'll take all of our men. And while I don't think we'll be immediately affected, we cannot sustain that kind of thing over a long period of time. But better talk to Corwin than Benedict."

Parris beams benignly, and claps his fleshy hands together. "Good, good. Then it's all settled. Go on, my dear. Go back to your embroidery or your horse or your young man. After you've seen the Regent, of course." He shakes his head, muttering, "My, my. So much to do. And not a thing to wear to do it in."

Dulcinea says, a little reluctantly, "Well. I'll try then." She leans, picking up her paperwork, "And there are going to be shortages all over Amber. I'll have to make sure we hoard the next shipment of coffee and so on. The prices are going to skyrocket!"

A family dinner

Wed, 03 Oct 2007 22:14:14 GMT

August 9th, 2007: Just another evening in Chantris.

Majalis is still standing, even though everyone who has drifted in to dinner so far has taken their seats. She is not quite pacing the periphery of the table, even though she does repeat her steps often. There are merely things to be adjusted. A stray flower in the table arrangement, the position of a water glass: all rather normal behavior for her until everyone whom is scheduled to appear has appeared -- or the Duke has had quite enough of it and bids her to sit.
Majalis says, "Bother," she remarks, as the clock chimes eight. "Has Lorenzo changed his mind about coming?""

Dulcinea wanders in a little late, the hem of her gown six inches in dried mud and her hat hanging behind her back on its once-neat strings. It really was, once, a nice hat. She seems a little out of breath when she answers Majalis, "He wasn't in the entry hall."

The Duke does not appear on time, but his forthcoming appearance is heralded by a loud BRAWK in the hallway. It's one of Parris's parakeets, or at least a monstrosity of a bird that he insists is a parakeet. "BRAWK! Knives in the dark! BRAWK! Knives in the dark!" comes the squawk.

Majalis drifts to Dulcinea, and offers an understanding pat to her deceased hat. "Apparently. Though I do believe your father has arrived. I will call for the soup to be brought." Which is the hint for the servant who has been patiently trying not to go mad while the Duchess orbits the table to disappear and tell the kitchen staff to produce said soup.

Dulcinea, trying to untie the knotted hat strings pushes her chair out with a foot. She lifts her eyes to say, "Good evening," to her father, and a glance at the bird, "Is something wrong with him? He looks pale." Maybe her way of teasing her father about The Bird.

Parris looks pre-henpecked when he puts in his appearance. "Good boy," he tells the bird, while struggling to both prevent it from putting out one of his eyes, and look casually dignified in a Dressed For Dinner sort of way. He attempts to shove the bird at the servant bringing in the soup. "I think he just," he says as he wrestles the bird to arm's length, "needs to be fed."

"Fed to what, dear?" Majalis inquires, pleasantly. She is smiling, at least.

Dulcinea glances at her mother as she sits, dropping the hat to the floor. As if to change the subject, "What's for dinner?"
Dulcinea puts the napkin in her lap neatly despite the stragly strands of hair here and there, and the warm face. Maybe she ran in from the barn.

Parris manages to foist the bird off on the soup-serving servant instead; it wraps its talons around his shoulder in a way that results in a familiar wince upon the servant's face.
Parris goes to stand behind his usual chair. He says, over-politely, "He needs to be fed meat. I'm sure Clarence can chop some up."

Majalis remains standing, her chin tilted at her husband. She does not comment about the bright green feather now stuck to his cuff in the wake of the bird's being escorted out into the hall, assuming that 'escorted' could be used to describe the servant's bravely transporting the creature hallwards after he deposits a white china tureen upon the table. "Carrot broth," she asides to Dulcinea. "And roast suckling pig in a sweet orange glaze. I believe there may be berry trifle in lieu of the lettuce." Her nose wrinkles. "It looked somewhat fou ... ah, Lorenzo!"

Dulcinea is sitting in her chair for dinner, her face a little hot as if she's been running and her hat on the floor beside her chair. She is more on the bedraggled side at the moment.
Dulcinea, asks, just when she notes Lorenzo's arrival, "May I have the carriage tonight?"

Parris is standing behind his usual chair. He looks rumpled in the sort of way that it takes a lot of money invested in fashion, a contentious carnivore of a bird, and possibly an assassination attempt to achieve.
Parris waves a hand floridly. "Everyone sit." Solicitously, and theatrically, he pulls out Majalis's chair for her. A glance at Dulcinea, then: "What do you need the carriage for?"

Lorenzo straightens rather rumpled clothing surreptitiously and slides into his usual chair. "Apologies for the tardiness, mother."

Dulcinea must mean The Carriage with the coat of arms and so forth. She picks up her spoon, not quite twirling it between her fingers, "Well I thought it would be good to drive down to the harbor tonight and have a good view of the moonlight on the water."
Dulcinea says, "Good evening, Lorenzo," pleasantly enough.

Lorenzo flashes a quick, questioning look over at Dulcinea, eyebrows arched, before returning to a composed but smiling face, saying, "Good evening, Dulcinea."

Majalis is standing near where Dulcinea is seated. She is smiling, which may mean that she's been feeding her beloved husband's birds nibbles of the hair he leaves in his comb and suggesting that they have more of it if they like when he returns to the house. "Forgiven," she tells Lorenzo, after bussing his cheek. She does sit. Everyone is now accounted for.

Lorenzo eyes the tureen somewhat suspiciously, sniffs, and sighs.

Of course there have been rumors of a Certain Prince having pulled into port this morning. Rumors that are unconfirmed.

Parris takes his own seat, his bulky frame squeezing out between the delicate wooden bars of the chair. "The docks are full of criminals at night," he proclaims.

Dulcinea says, "Well," dipping in to the soup, but not tasting yet, "That's why I need the carriage, so I don't have to walk around. Besides, Lorenzo will come with me. And bring his sword."

Lorenzo flashes a quick, questioning look over at Dulcinea, again, eyebrows arched, again, before agreeing, "Yes, that's right. My sword."
Lorenzo clears his throat. "Mother, how was your day today?" he asks politely.

Parris interrupts with, "We live on a mountain. Can't you see the moonlight from up here?"

Lorenzo smiles politely at Parris. "Well, father, what do you do near the docks in the evenings. I hear you returning at quite the late hour some nights."

Dulcinea takes a bite of the soup and gives this long, "Well. The docks are suppose to be interesting tonight."
Dulcinea shoots Lorenzo a Look.

Parris says, "The birds need to be fed," before slurping his soup.

"Ah, a full moon's night near the harbor," Majalis sighs. "I remember..." She purses her narrow lips briefly, and selects another subject. "Mercifully mundane, dear, but you are kind for inquiring -- Dulcy? You should call at House Fell this evening before you travel to the harbor. The twins may wish to accompany you."

Lorenzo says, "The twins?"

Dulcinea says, "Happy to, mother," taking Majalis's remark as a strong Yes.

Lorenzo says, "The twins are babies."

Majalis tests her soup and finds it a little too warm for now. "Babies?" She blinks slightly at Lorenzo. "Then those were not the Fell twins whom accompanied you ... oh! My apologies."

Dulcinea looks up from her own soup, "What? I thought you meant those twins with the red hair. Are there other twins?"

Parris, by contrast, has only enthusiasm for his soup, but seems blinkered by the turn in the conversation.

Lorenzo says, "Yes, those are the twins, Mother. They act like babies."
Lorenzo says, "Constantly whining, complaining."
Lorenzo says, "Going on about this, and that."
Lorenzo says, "Like dumb birds chattering away."

Dulcinea now seems a bit perplexed herself, and sents the spoon aside, looking impatiently at the door the servant will come from when he brings the rest of dinner.

A thought blatantly crosses Majalis' face, but she chooses to look toward the hall instead of commenting upon it. Perhaps the servant being chased by a bird is sufficiently distracting. Fortunately, it is not the servant in charge of ensuring the roast makes it to table.

Dulcinea says, "I heard one of the Princes has come home."
Dulcinea picks up the spoon and has another bit of the carrot soup.
Dulcinea adds, "I don't know which one."

Parris rubs his hands together happily, at the appearance of the roast. He picks up knife and fork, holding them upright against the table. "I suppose that's good. Called home to deal with all the trouble in the forest, I assume."

Dulcinea replies, "Leah," her friend, the daughter of a rich merchant, "Leah says it must be Prince Caine, but the ship isn't flying his colors."

Lorenzo tastes the soup, makes a face and pushes the bowl away.

"Afraid your hair will turn red, dear?" Majalis jests, gently. She waves a hand at the servant, in the customary gesture for 'take that bowl away'. "Or are you not experiencing the intestinal difficulties that your father has been enjoying lately?"

Lorenzo makes a pained expression at Majalis. "I prefer to live that much longer, Mother."

Parris, who has thus far obliviously survived Majalis's previous efforts to poison him, does not seem to have let it spoil his appetite. "Excuse for a late-night snack, eh?"

Dulcinea says, "Well, I like the carrot soup."

Lorenzo makes another pained expression, this time, directed at Parris.
Lorenzo mutters under his breath, ".... one big happy family ...."

Majalis gives Parris a warm smile. It might even reach her eyes. "It is a full moon tonight," she notes. "I could have a picnic packed for the gardens after Dulcy and Lorenzo have departed for their harbor adventure."

Parris picks up his wine glass, and raises one eyebrow. "I suppose I can attempt to experience my intestinal difficulties earlier in the evening."

Lorenzo says, "I thought the moonlight provided too many witnesses."

Parris plucks the feather out of his shirt-cuff, and lets its float to the floor. "Moonlight has its advantages. And there have been such interesting shapes flying across the moon lately."

Lorenzo looks up from his plate, completely focused. "What kind of shapes?"

Dulcinea glances between her parents, and though she's a grown woman and too old to roll her eyes at her parents, she looks a bit wry.
Dulcinea says, "Things that look like men."

"I suppose I shall endeavor to ensure you remain awake long enough to muse upon them after our picnic," Majalis comments, as she sets her soup spoon aside, and starts in on her portion of roast. It is a sizeable portion, one almost as large as Parris'. Unlike he, she simply fails to gain weight. "Unless they are rather attractive shapes."

Dulcinea says, "I wonder if they could swoop down and take someone away."

Lorenzo says to Majalis through a mouthful of roast, "I'm sure that Father knows where all the attractive shapes are."

"Things with wings," Parris answers. "I guess they'd be attractive if you went for talons and deadliness." He shoots a brief glare at Lorenzo.

Dulcinea gives Lorenzo another Look.

Lorenzo ignores the glare and continues to eat a rather alarming amount.

Dulcinea may be the only one in the family with a normal appetite.
Dulcinea finishes what she took, and says, "Excuse me, I think I need to go call the carriage and get cleaned up."

Parris says helpfully, "Try not to get mugged, sweetheart."

Majalis chuckles. "I suppose I shall need to remain awake," she asides to Lorenzo. "Else your father will have one of them sitting on a perch in the hallway. You know how his heart wanders after deadly birds."

Parris remarks blandly, "I look like prey."

Dulcinea says, "I won't, father."

Majalis looks from Lorenzo to Parris. "You should wear hats more," she advises. "You have a head that was made for hats."

Dulcinea rises and hurries out. But she returns for her hat, then leaves even faster.

Lorenzo snorts at Majalis' comment. "Not just deadly birds." He looks over at Parris. "It's the distressed ones that he seems to need to rescue as well."

Parris blinks first at Majalis. "Hats? Her? Or me?"

"You, dear," Majalis tells Parris. "It seemed that your charming bird might have been trying to eat your hair. Is that a new trick you have taught him, or have we already had that conversation?"

Parris cuts his meat into neat little strips. "It's your sister that keeps insisting on taking in the distressed ones," he says to Lorenzo.
Parris has a sip of wine before he gestures at Majalis with the wineglass. "We might have had that conversation, but after a century, who remembers?"

Lorenzo reaches for a second helping of roast.
Lorenzo looks to Majalis. "This is not ... specially seasoned, is it?"

Majalis puts her fork down and reaches into her left sleeve. She pulls out a slender journal whose deep green cover shows the mark of having been thumbed open on a routine basis for at least a decade. She opens it to its faded ribbon marker and begins to page backwards through it. "Sweet orange and clove," she comments, without looking up. "The lettuce did not survive tonight's seasoning. Wretched troubles in the forest ... one cannot get good produce anymore."

Parris blinks at Majalis over the rim of his wine glass. "What are you talking about?"
Parris belches, and reaches for the wine bottle.

Lorenzo ahs for a moment. Then starts in again.

"The lettuce turned to mush. It was -appalling- ... ah, ha!" Majalis looks up from her little book. "We did speak about the birds' appetite for hair. The last occasion was at breakfast, two fortnights ago. The breakfast that you arrived at after such a long evening at the docks, remember?"

Parris says vaguely, "Oh, that breakfast." Obviously not remembering in the least bit, but the long evenings at the docks, whatever they've been, have kept his mood genial and the birds hungry.

Lorenzo says, "You keep such long hours, Father. Perhaps I could assist you some evenings."

Parris replies blandly, "Life has its little duties."

Lorenzo says, "It is the son's responsibility to assist his father in his old age."
Lorenzo drinks.

Parris snorts, and puts down his wine. "You could go give a concert."

Majalis chuckles. "Lorenzo, dear, it would likely take a good stout whip to drive your father away from those duties. If you would like, I could loan the one my driver uses."

Lorenzo adds drolly, "Mother, dear, I believe that Father already possesses a collection of said devices."

Parris says just as drolly, "And your mother doesn't loan out her personal one."

Lorenzo chokes.

Parris looks smug.

"It has some sentiment attached to it," Majalis comments. "Should I call for more wine?"

Parris clears his throat. "Probably a good idea."

Lorenzo coughs a bit, and nods, "Please," he says once, rather hoarsely. Clearing his throat again, "That would be lovely, thanks."

The servant who may have drawn the short straw this evening disappears into the hallway, head already ducking to avoid any random bird attacks, and bolts in the general direction of the wine cellar.

Lorenzo watches the retreating back of the servant. "We seem to run through household staff rather quickly."

Parris says obliviously, "We do send them off with nice pensions."

Lorenzo sighs. "I should best be after Dulcy. She's apt to find another wounded bird and try to nurse him back to health."