Dinner Etiquette 101

The sharp click of Aramaeus's wickedly curved talons herald his arrival,
each step languid as he strolls in, exuding grace and absolute self-confidence in equal
measure. Reptilian eyes of deep, vibrant magenta settle upon Majestadt as the pale
viscanti approaches, tail swaying sinuously behind him. Lifting a hand, he crooks an
amethyst claw at Majestadt, saying, "Come with me."

A bloodhound pants heavily, his tail wagging enthusiastically.

The elegant chords of chamber music reach your ears from nearby, the rich notes each
stately and crisp.

Majestadt's smile falters subtly as he stares up at you. The smaller viscanti's expression
bleeds into uncertainty as he first glances quickly around the library in an effort to
ensure he is actually being spoken to, before he then carefully closes the book before him
and tucks it away in his pack. With a little shrug he stands and trails after the taller
man.

Majestadt begins to follow you.

Pausing only long enough to ensure that he is being followed, Aramaeus
turns on his heel, the opalescent scales of his tail glittering with a dazzling array of
pastel hues as it arcs out behind him, the blade flicking up perilously close to
Majestadt's face as he strides off.

Aramaeus's steps do not slow as he ascends the glossy black stone steps
to the imposing mansion, a viscanti servant dressed and masked entirely in atramentous
hues stepping aside and bowing as he opens the door for the pale man and his companion.
With a polite thanks and a nod to the silent servant as he passes, steps into the foyer of
the abode, the footfalls of his scaled feet echoing as he turns left, and proceeds into a
richly appointed dining room, furnished all in dark, opulent shades. Making his way to the
head of the polished table, which has been set for two, Aramaeus seats himself in a high-
backed chair and indicates the place opposite him. "Sit."


Majestadt's eyes widen subtly as he steps into the estate, a quick feral grin offered to
the servant along with an almost inaudible, "Thank you," as he passes. He trails as
closely as he dares behind you, ever mindful of the other's tail, while his eyes sharply
dart to and fro. The little viscanti nearly runs into his host at the sight of the table
set for two, his expression slacking into something nearing disbelief as he looks from the
chair to you. His mouth opening and then closing, he slowly moves to the indicated seat,
his brow subtly furrowed as his gaze sweeps over the other. Then, carefully, the wane
viscanti takes a seat as if expecting to be scolded any moment. "Are we having dinner," he
croaks out with a nervous, flighty laugh.

The passionless slits of utter midnight of Aramaeus's pupils do not leave
Majestadt until he sits, and only then do they shift away as he picks the napkin up from
where it waits upon the table, draping it neatly across his lap. "That is typically what
one does in a dining room, at a table set for dinner, yes." The alabastrine viscanti
flicks the edge of a curving claw against an elegant wineglass, a clarion chime sounding
throughout the room - which only barely begins to fade before two servants glide
soundlessly in, bearing trays of covered plates. Wearing blank black masks that have been
polished to a mirror sheen, the two are dressed immaculately, and move with a precision
and professionalism that is utterly without fault. A bowl of steaming, richly red soup is
set before the two diners, the servants pausing only to pour crystal-clear water into
their glasses from frosted decanters, then vanishing as swiftly as they arrived. Aramaeus
makes no move to begin partaking of his soup, his cold gaze weighing Majestadt for a long,
piercing moment. In a level, smooth tone, he inquires, "Have you been instructed in proper
table etiquette for high society?"


A soft, bewildered "Ah," spills from Majestadt's lips at your remark, his rust-flecked
gaze darting from the place setting before him to his host. He blinks once at the chime,
his head tilting subtly to the side before realisation strikes in the form of the
servants, before another soft thanks is whispered awkwardly. Making absolutely no effort
to move, his hands settled firmly in his lap and seeming to shrink into himself under your
gaze, Majestadt gives a little shake of his head as he answers with a soft, abashed, "No."
Appearing more and more self-conscious as he stares at the soup before himself, a subtle
red blossoms over his wane face.


The pressure of Aramaeus's unwavering regard grows steadily throughout
Majestadt's discomfiture, not so much as a shadow of expression daring to creep onto the
pallid man's handsome visage. A low, bass sound vibrates in his throat for a moment as his
lips press together minutely, the very faintest of exhalations breathed out from his nose
as he instructs, tone precise and crisp, "Pick up your napkin with your left hand, unfold
it twice, and place it squarely across your lap. If you are not absolutely confident in
your ability to eat the soup without spilling any, utilise the second napkin, and tuck it
into your shirt, at your throat, so that it covers your chest."


Majestadt presses his eyes closed a moment, his chest stilling as he holds his breath and
then eases it out as silently as he can manage. Lifting his gaze to you once he has
finished speaking, the small viscanti reaches out slowly with his left hand to take the
instructed napkin and place it in his lap; he fusses minutely with the fabric, unfolding
it there and then smoothing it best he can with a low, mumbled, "I can eat soup." That
accomplished he looks back to the table, his brow furrowing as he takes note of multiple
spoons on the table. Instead of moving, he quietly waits for his host to further instruct
him, his face yet red with embarrassment.


In a voice of utmost calm, without the barest sliver of a threat in the
rich velvet of his timbre, Aramaeus says, "If you spill so much as a drop, I will be
displeased with you. Take care not to overestimate yourself out of pride." Still, he makes
no move to take up a spoon of his own, instead watching Majestadt with cat-like focus.
"Which spoon do you believe is the correct one for this course?"

Majestadt flushes darker beneath your words, his dark gaze falling to his lap with evident
crisis for a bare moment, before he manages to gather himself. The barest tremor evident
in his hand as he moves it, the smaller man picks up the second napkin and unfurls it
carefully to tuck it into the front of his blouse. Unable to quite meet your gaze at the
question posed, Majestadt's mouth opens briefly to protest, though it's quickly choked off
as he thinks better of it. Instead, he stares silently at place setting before hesitantly,
slowly, crossing his left hand over his body to touch the tea spoon. His brow furrowed, he
looks up for confirmation or denial of his choice.

As comforting as an alligator waiting motionless in stygian waters,
Aramaeus's gaze betrays nothing as the other viscanti suffers in silence. When the napkin
is taken, however, he dips his chin a fraction in approval, noting, "A wise decision. You
will need to work on hiding your discomfort. The reddening, and the trembling hands are
the most obvious tells, so we shall deal with them first." At the choice of spoon, he
shifts his head back and forth the scantest few degrees, the gesture of negation
accompanied by an utter lack of expression. "No. That is the tea spoon. The one we use for
soup is to its left. Pick it up. Let me see how you hold it."

Majestadt asks with a touch of incredulous disbelief, "How do you expect me to just stop?
I'm not purposefully trying to blush you know." That spoken, he looks down to the spoon he
has touched, his expression shifting minutely in disappointment before he shifts his hand
to the left to the second spoon. "What," he then asks in confusion as he looks between the
spoon in his hand to you, the bulk of the metal resting on his forefinger.

In a cool, implacable tone that is utterly absent of sympathy, Aramaeus
answers, "Practice, self-control, and composure. Showing weakness makes you a target, and
a vulnerable point to any that are associated with you. If you wish to remain in my
company, or to do your sister proper honour, you will learn." Deep, pink-tinged red eyes
shift to glance momentarily at Majestadt's grasp upon the spoon, before flicking
immediately back to the other man's eyes. Selecting his own implement in an almost dainty
manner, he holds his hand up demonstratively, explaining, "Every detail of dining has its
correct expression and mode of conduct. Thumb over the end of the handle. Cradle the
weight of the spoon in your two forefingers, slightly curled. Do not grip tightly, nor too
loosely." Instruction delivered, he waits, watching the smaller viscanti expectantly.

Majestadt stares helplessly for a time at you before he utters a soft, abashed "Oh," in
response. His rust-flecked gaze studying his host's expression for a time, he eventually
shifts his attention to how you holds his spoon. Carefully adjusting his grip to properly
hold the utensil, he once more looks to you for a bare moment, the rust-red flecks in his
eyes catching the light with the movement, before he turns his attention down to the soup.
Stilling for a moment, his memory scoured for past information, the small viscanti
eventually dips the spoon into the soup, carefully scooping it away from himself before
holding it posed above the bowl to ensure it does not drip, a questioning look offered as
he remains silent.

Despite the smooth air of utmost civility that Aramaeus conducts himself
with, there is the distinct impression of inching out across a frozen lake, each hesitant
step sending ominous sound reverberating into the abyssal, frigid depths that await below.
Cold as a sculpture carved from icy marble, the artful planes and curves of his fine
visage remain impassive throughout Majestadt's efforts, until the spoonful of soup is held
aloft. With a minute dip of his chin, Aramaeus elegantly proceeds to spoon some of the
rich, steaming red liquid up to his lips, where he sips it in a quiet, dignified manner,
his eyes never leaving Majestadt. This done, he grows still, gleaming silver spoon poised,
clearly waiting for the other man to follow suit.

Releasing a breath he didn't realize he was holding Majestadt relaxes moderately despite
your scrutiny of his actions. His hand trembles for a bare second before he manages to
correct the action and steady his hand, the spoon brought to his lips and sipped at - much
to his relief none spills. The pallid viscanti then blinks owlishly, a quiet, "This is
delicious," spilling past his lips as he looks at you.

The faintest smile curves Aramaeus's exquisitely formed lips as he
inclines his head in acknowledgement of the compliment. "I do not cook anything less than
the most delectable dishes." Partaking of another spoonful in a luxuriously unhurried
manner, he mentions, in an off-handed fashion, "You did not check for poison."

Majestadt utters a surprised, "I didn't know you cooked," in reply. His expression
thoughtful at the new information, he stills at the off-handed remark. "I'm sorry, what,"
he asks incredulously, the spoon in his hand slackening somewhat as he stares at you for
confirmation of a joke.

Placidly, Aramaeus responds, "There is a great deal you do not know about
me." The regal figure does not hurry to repeat himself, turning his gaze from Majestadt to
his soup as he takes three more mouthfuls of soup. In a perfectly calm tone, he instructs,
"Do not drop your spoon. Learn to hide your surprise. You let your mouth blurt out
whatever it likes when you are taken aback. It is a poor habit." Finishing his soup at
length, he sets the spoon down - The moment the faint 'chink' of silver settling atop
porcelain rings brightly throughout the room, the two servants slip soundlessly in,
stepping up to left side of each of the table's occupants. Hands folded upon his lap, the
pallid viscanti watches Majestadt dispassionately, asking in a mild tone, "Mantrell, how
many guests have we poisoned to date?" The slender, trim figure beside Majestadt speaks at
once, in a melodious, beautifully mellow voice, hands clasped behind him. "Seventy three,
my lord. Forty seven fatalities, thirteen permanent ailments, and thirteen temporary." At
this answer, the pale lines of the young noble's lips curve up in a small, enigmatic
smile, his reptilian gaze studying Majestadt, their luridly red depths unreadable.

Majestadt flinches subtly beneath the correction, the smaller man leaning back in his
chair somewhat as if to put distant between himself and his host. He merely stare
forlornly at the meal before him, the boy's expression surprisingly stoic as he listens to
the tallied poisonings noted in detail. "You've been busy," he remarks hoarsely; possibly
beginning to hope the soup -is- poisoned, he wordlessly resumes his meal, his actions as
careful and precise as he can manage. Once he has finished the soup the viscanti places
his spoon within the bowl, his expression momentarily uncertain before he turns the handle
facing to the right.

"I ever am," comes the casual response as Aramaeus accepts a slip of
paper from the servant that waits at his side. He glances at it only in a very cursory
manner before he hands it back, with a crisp, "Disappointing. Three fingers and a tongue."
The black-clad servant bows slightly, stepping over to the side of the room where a small
tray and a polished silver dome sit. In sure, practiced motions, she sets the paper
aflame, ensuring it is burned beyond legibility, before she sets the lid atop the tray,
stepping over to retrieve Aramaeus's bowl and gliding out once more. Majestadt wins a
small nod of approval at the position of Majestadt's resting spoon, which is whisked away,
and almost immediately replaced with a sumptuous dish of artfully arranged vegetables,
pureed potato, and a mouth-wateringly juicy selection of various meats - Those upon
Majestadt's plate having been considerately sliced into bite-sized morsels.

Majestadt idly observes the servant as she comes into the room, his motions noticeably
slowing at the body parts ticked off casually. Though he does not audibly comment, a look
of remorse is cast after the servant as she leaves the room to presumably carry out the
directive. His attention is soon pulled back to the meal, relief evident at the sight of
the pre-cut meat. With a faint tilt of his head, his eyes pressing closed for a moment in
deep consideration, he hesitates momentarily before placing his hand on the middle fork
for fish. "This one," he asks quietly.

With the patience of hidden things that await the unwary in the depths of
night, Aramaeus watches every flow and ebb of expression on Majestadt's face, giving no
sign as to his reaction to the other man's emotions or unspoken opinions. Silence hangs
heavily in the air for a brief moment, following the softly delivered question, then,
"No." Lifting his left hand, the alabastrine aristocrat lightly taps the tip of his
foretalon against the stem of each fork, bouncing up and across in an elegant, liquid
manner, from the left. "Salad. Fish. Dinner." Tipping his head towards Majestadt
curiously, he inquires, "What do you wish to have as a beverage in accompaniment?"

Majestadt blinks once at the listing of the forks, an almost inaudible, "Why are there so
damn many," spilling past his lips before he quickly purses them together. Looking up from
the forks as he shifts his hand to the appropriate utensil and grasps it lightly between
his fingers, he tilts his head curiously at the question. Allowing his gaze to cast
askance at the nearby glass of water, he slowly questions with evident confusion, "Is
water not appropriate?"

A slow, deliberate lidding of Aramaeus's eyes is the sole physical
response to the muttered complaint, the gesture somehow conveying a withering sense of
disapproval. "For each utensil, a purpose. It is a show of good education and social
standing that one can fritter away funds on cutlery, and know the precise manner in which
each is used, when, and so forth. Every tiny facet of life is an expression of power, no
matter how subtle." The displeasure clears like a passing cloud obscuring a pale, wintry
sun as he answers evenly, "No. Continuing in the vein of the previous point, displaying
that you are aware of what the proper beverage is to have with each specific meal shows
fine social graces. In addition, your knowledge and selection of specific vintage, brand,
or variety of said beverage is a show of your taste, and can be a statement in itself -
You can be traditional and classic, bold and daring, or otherwise provide biting
commentary upon the quiet affairs of those present."

A low, aborted noise sounds at the back of Majestadt's throat at the withering look. He
stares for a moment at the meal before him, the fork in his hand quite carefully replaced
on the table to lift his left hand to rub at the side of his face. Gathering his thoughts
for a moment, he answers with chagrin, "I've only ever had water and tea." The young man
looks for a moment to the glasses once more, his voice quiet when he utters, "I'm sorry I
don't know any of this." With a glance back to you he manages in a somewhat louder voice,
"What should I have, then?"

"Do not touch your face at the dinner table." The admonition is delivered
without bite or heat, nor is there any hint of either upon Aramaeus's visage, his
composure unruffled. "Tea is a topic for another time. As for apologies, you owe them only
to yourself - You should have sought out and studied this, if you wish to climb the social
ladder. You are fortunate that I am willing to teach you." Once again flicking his finger
against the rim of his goblet, and thus summoning Mantrell and the as-yet unnamed female
servant, Aramaeus asks of nobody in particular, "Appropriate drink to have with a
selection of braised meats and crisp green vegetables." At once, the woman at his side
lists, "Shallachian red, year 467 preferred, Vintner's Regret, any modern vintage. In
present company, as guest to my lord, Dragonsblood, Winemaker's Reserve, year 362."