Tibias led the group down a long hallway. The deep red and yellow floral wallpaper made the dimly lit area seem even darker. They past several doors, leading to various Council chambers and offices, but they were of little interest to them. They stopped before a plain wooden door, surrounded by batted black fabric. Tibias opened the door, revealing a coat room that was already crammed with formal outer wear and hats. Conversing voices filtered in from an adjoining room. Having nothing to deposit in the room, Tibias continued across the space to the open doorway.
The room beyond was a fairly large event hall. A bar stood at one side, surrounded by thirsty attendees. A table laden with appetizers sat in the center of the space. Fifty or so tables were scattered throughout the room. Still, all of this was difficult to see behind the crowd of people that filled the room, standing or sitting in small groups. Everyone there was connected to the Council. Tibias easily identified the Council members in there elaborate formal robes. Matao’s subordinates were likewise identifiable in their silver and bronze armor. With the exception of the individuals only now entering the room, everyone was human.
This reception was the first event of a formal funeral ceremony that would take several days. The group from Boston split up as they entered the room, mingling with the other guests. Tibias approached a group including several high ranking members of the Council. Behind the ceremony of the event, it was all politics. There were only so many supplies and positions to go around. Everything came down to connections. The right or wrong word or action at an event like this could pave the way for success or failure. It was a pathetic show of honoring a man’s life.
Tibias let the obligatory small talk fade out as he scanned the room with his one good eye. Sherah sat at one of the tables off to the side of the room, nursing a drink. Several other people had joined her at the table, but, despite their overly polite overtures, the dragoness did not join in the conversation. They were just trying to earn points with a reaper, supernatural or not.
Royal stood near the food table, munching away. Tibias conjectured that the food served more to distract the elf from the disapproving glares than to satiate any hunger. Royal didn’t have any sort of rank to hide behind; no one needed to be in his good graces, though they did muster up a forced politeness when he met their stares.
Kole was the only one of his coworkers who didn’t seem uncomfortable in the formal setting. Then again, could Kole even feel social discomfort? The Grim Reaper was speaking coolly with several members of the Council. They were probably discussing business of one sort or another; Kole was not well versed in small talk. Rather than being in awe of his superiors, the Council members were obviously intimidated by him.
Keera stood docilely a step behind Kole, bearing almost no resemblance to the skilled warrior Tibias had fought beside only the day before. She kept her head and eyes down, only daring to look up occasionally with the flick of an eye. Unlike with Sherah and Royal, no one tried to disguise the dislike, distrust, and disapproval they felt for the angel. Tibias could only imagine the words they were using to refer to her: it, thing, monster.
In shock, Tibias realized that his hands were clenched in fury, just itching to punch someone. The demon blood must still be affecting me. It’s the only logical explanation. He continued to rationalize for a moment before coming to a conclusion. I need a drink. Excusing himself from the conversation, he made his way to the bar. After nodding a greeting to the bartender, a young human man of about twenty, he ordered a glass of Sharpe Butter-Scotch and took a seat at the bar. The experienced drinker finished it quickly and ordered a second. Thankfully, the drinks were free. Tibias had a feeling that it was going to take a great deal of scotch to get through the next few days.
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