Drinks With Strangers

It's a bright and beautiful day at the Arcanist's Society which means conditions could not be better for the Honourable and Esteemed Professor Emeritus Basil Theodore Cunningsworth to cock it all up.
The gates were thrown open by an invisible force with a Strength score of 2, so, kinda just pushed enough for an entrance but totally lacking dramatic flair. In strode Basil T. Cunningsworth, in all his aged and venerable indignance, carrying with him a potion with a sun on the label and with the flickering of residual magic around the door following and returning to him once again. In a magically charged environment like this not even an Unseen Servant went unseen. "You there!" he said, pointing to the nearest individual that wasn't him. "Ready some tea!" Wow, nice way to talk to someone in charge, man. If they even were. "Shhh," complained Basil to his shoulder, upon which was perched nothing.
"EVERYONE!" Basil promptly erupted, loudly, and with all the quiet subtlety of a thrown grenade. "I shall be drinking THIS POTION!" he proclaimed, holding it aloft for all to see. "I know NOT what it will entail, presumably a fit of some sort and perhaps vomiting, hence the requirement for tea as tea is the universal calm. But I am here amongst all you PRESUMABLY LEARNED," two syllables because someone was hoighty-toighty, "individuals in case I, against all odds, pass unto the next!"

"...and demonss? Doess it ssummon demons?" asks the one coming out of the cafeteria. The CAFETERIA, a place rumored to possess ties to planar dimensions. The food, there, certainly resembles it. Squid soup, they'd said.
It'd come with beaks.
The sith-makar holds such a bowl in hand, and a spoon in the other. A beak floats in the center of the bowl. The...soup. Occasionally, it opens in a sad and slow manner. Occasionally, it closes. But...one takes such risks. He wears the cloth of Daeus today, tailored in Am'sheri fashion. A blade and axe at the belt, and those sorts of things that suggest, 'religious armored thu--' no, wait. Paladin. 
"If sso. You have thiss one'ss attention." Was that a joke? Must not be a paladin.

Sandy is here, of course, at the paladinner's invitation. Get it? Paladinner? In any event, she's seated with him and listening to what he's said and eyeing the rather unappetizing (to her) food that 's been involved. And then ... and then there's Basil. She's eyeing him. Eyeing him warily. BEcause, well... he's here. And so is the paladin. And she now has a slightly concerned look on her face. 
Because wizards, see.

The door swings open again a few moments later to admit Seldan, clad in an open-front robe of blue and silver over shirt and trousers of appropriate weight for the chilly weather, under a heavy traveler's cloak, with a heavy leather satchel over one shoulder. A thin silver headband holds his hair out of his face. He stops in the doorway, having walked in just in time to hear the proclamation, and lets the door fall closed behind him unheeded. He blinks a few times, frankly staring at Basil's performance.

His proclamation proceeding predictably, Basil unscrewed the cap of the Potion of Restoration and sniffed it. It smelled Holy, inasmuch that Holy was a possible scent and not a pure concept or source of power. How did one smell it, anyway? Perhaps it was merely Basil's imagination. "Or, it's clerical magic," he posited to himself. "Regardless!" he cried out, to no one in particular. He sniffed it again to be sure and decided to explain himself. "Twenty years ago I had a run in with Ergahil the Lich. A few Enervations later, and here I stand amongst you all, a shadow of my former talent! This ends today! Today, Navos returns my queries, today I recover from my malady, and today I might once more be able to taste the power that comes with being a learned," two syllables, again, he really loves that word, "master of the arcane!"
And with that, like a dock-rat who's only escape from his horrible wife was a bottle, Basil shotgunned the entire potion like a champ. There was silence, afterwards, for a moment, and then without further ado Basil collapsed into unconsciousness. Was he dead? Dying? Giving people a break from his voice? Or was his brain starting the process of rebooting after having a ridiculous number of permanent negative levels removed at once?

Svarshan stops, with the spoon halfway to his muzzle. Stops. Basil's collapse is enough to make him stop eating this delicious foo--horrors of the wizarding kit--food--THAT STUFF and he just you know, stares for a while.
"Ssa," he says at length, because--what corehent thing is there to say? And then, a scarleg who has seen well, Sandies set themselves on fire before, he lowers the bowl to the earth. Then, drops himself to fours and...ambles over there.
Ambles to Basil. And stops right nearby him. "Ssandy...this one thinks. You may have kin. ..." And just...stops there. Because...
...because he has no idea what in the seven hevens or nine hells what to DO, exactly.

"...well,"
Sandy says after a moment, "He /was/ rather old. Shouldn't surprise me if he died suddenly after drinking the wrong thing." She eyes him, "What do you mean I have kin? I don't have any god damn kin. Don't be ridiculous." She's coming over to look down at BAsil. "Should I get the Mourners?" Because he's totally dead, see. That makes sense.

Almost at once, Seldan's satchel gets tossed carelessly to the floor with the thump and rustle of a bag containing mostly parchment and scrolls. He seems to have a bit better idea of what to do than Svarshan does, because he immediately strides over and drops to his knees next to the unconscious Basil, reaching to feel for a pulse, and then immediately looks around for the vial from which he drank. 
As he hunts for the vial, he looks up at Svarshan finally - and offers a small but genuine smile that holds both greeting and unspoken acknowledgement. "Dreamer's blessings on you, Darshan. Where is the vial from which he drank?"
GAME: Seldan rolls heal: (12)+9: 21
GAME: Seldan rolls spellcraft: (19)+10: 29

There is a pulse from Basil! Somewhere in that horrible wrinkled neck. There might also be crumbs. And beard. Ew. It's faint but it's there, much to the displeasure of countless individuals he's pissed off over the years. He's breathing as well. But again it's faint. He's either dying or sleeping so heavily a new parent is exceptionally jealous and might be living vicariously BUT WHO CAN TELL. Those of a magical disposition (read: should well be everyone here!) can tell something magical is happening.
The potion bottle has rolled away, like, a foot, because those things don't just escape at short notice. A bright cheery label of a sun, a smell that is most Holy, definitely clerical magic at work, here. And the contents? Well, it doesn't take a DC30 check to figure out it's Restoration. Who bottles Restoration?! Why not go see a BLOODY CLERIC?!

"...becausse he takess. Fool chansses." Of /course/ Svarshan says that to Sandy. It's said with a sort of friendship, though. Friendship. Odd friendship, that. He looks to Seldan then, really looks to him, and then pushes himself back. To two legs, and fetches the vial.
The vial'd rolled towards a group of arcanists. Men in robes, huddled together and staring. Confused, as to what to do--as one of their number had just declared himself to the gods, drank, and then collapsed upon the floor.
Svarshan scowls at them, and then grabs the potion. From there, he heads back to Seldan, and passes it to the other man's hand. "One hopess. You know what to do with. Thiss. It ssmells..." and he breaks off. One of his feet crunches on some of the crumbs that've fallen from the professor's beard.

"...so we're /not/ calling the Mourners?" says Sandy, a note of disappointment in her tone. She'd rather let them handle the mess and get back to... whatever it was she was eating. It was actually not half bad, even if Svarshan's was weird and worse in every conceivable way, right? She t hen kicks the lizard in the shin, watching the vial roll warily. "Someone ought to know what they're doing around here. Somewhere. You can never be sure with twizards." Her gaze goes back to Seldan.

Seldan wrinkles his nose at the crumbs in the beard, withdrawing his hand and taking the potion vial with a nod. He, at least, seems to have an idea of what to do, touching a finger to the inside edge of the vial, sniffing it, then touching it to his tongue. That seems to tell him something, he looks down at the unconscious form with a mix of revulsion and sympathy. "Restoration, though why he did not simply seek the temple for aid -" He lowers the vial, and stands, his comments tinted with the accent of the High Kingdom. "He lives, at any rate, though something is at work." A quick gesture and arcane word, a very simple thing, and the crumbs vanish from the man's beard, then from around him as well. "Let him rest - somewhere more comfortable."

I mean, you could call the mourners. But they'd be revellers. This is Basil T. Cunningsworth on the floor here. He's likely annoyed every individual from the north gate to the south by now with his inane stories and demands for tea.
Speaking of, the unconscious Basil hiccupped. There's his input. From out of a bush hopped a small bird, which in true bird curiousity opted to peck at the unconscious man's fingers, presumably in an effort to WAKE UP YOU OLD BASTARD. Nothing happened, he was as limp as ever. Shame.
Detect Magic would definitely the show the effects of something divine playing about in Basil's direction now. Of course Restoration itself wouldn't have taken quite so long to play out normally, but twenty years with negative levels? Sixty-something years of age? It's a wonder he survived. But boy oh boy was he gonna wake up with a crick in his neck.

"Huhurrrm," the sith-makar says, after what seems like much thought! It comes with a slow, warm sort of humor. A curl of smoke from the muzzle as Svarshan leans down--inhales the air over the fallen professor.
And settles back, again. "One has not ssmelled ssuch magic ssince..." Svarshan begins to say. And then, he is kicked. In the shin. He goes quiet for a moment, and then, "Ow," he says. "No...not the Mournerss. Not yet."
A moment longer, and he crouches down, and lifts the aged wizard. Well, he's had experience lifting kids and younglings--so at least he is not BITTEN, nor KICKED. And, wounded warriors from the field. 
At least he is not PUNCHED.
Well, at least not YET. One waits to see, at least--what mind Basil may be in, or if, once he wakes. If he does, at that. At least. Such acts might be considered a sign of health, might they not?

"Probably because he's a wizard and is too insane to do things the proper way," says Sandy, "So... restoration magics, then. What's he trying to restore? He seemed rather addlepated to begin with. Did he run into an Umber Hulk?" She leans down, sniffs once. Her nose wrinkles. When Svarshan says not to summon the mourners, she just sort of sighsw. Heavily. ANd looks like she might punch Svarshan on general principle.

"A good question." Seldan suddenly frowns, as if remembering something. "I cannot say - but, is the restoration magic the only thing at work?" He looks between Sandy and Svarshan, then lowers his eyes, his thoughts his own. "I had best be sure. If -" Distinctly unhappy at something, he makes a different arcane gesture, speaks a quick word, then peers at the unconscious form. Something is clearly bothering him.
GAME: Seldan casts Detect Magic. Caster Level: 10 DC: 14

Well. One has LIFTED the fallen, magic-riddled wizard. A foolhardy act, a decent one--a selfish one, to get such a breadcrumb ridden sight out of the foyer?
One might hardly tell, except it's a paladin who'd done it. A paladin who'd...made a joke. How gauche. Can one be sure it was a paladin at all?
Svarshan holds still as Selden leans forward, to do his own version of sniffing-the-wizard. And, "Careful," he says in rough undertones. "One almosst inhaled. Half a ssandwich from the. Beard."
He has no answer to Sandy's question, but it's a good question.

There's nothing strange about Basil's form itself, if you ignore the floating mass of an Unseen Servant nearby, bereft of orders and hanging idly. The bird, popping along after the lizard paladin? Paladin. The bird popping along after the lizard paladin was another story entirely, seeing as it was, well, entirely a magical construct of a type familiar to wizards everywhere. Because, well, it was a familiar. A small thrush bird seemingly very interested in the fate of the unconscious old man. That was new.

A bird has arrived! 
Sandy eyes the bird, of course. She eyes it warily. You never know where one of those things will find a place to poop. She then loks towards Svarhsan, shrugs her shoulders at him. "Needs a bath," she agrees, firmly. She's waiting for verdict from those more schooled in the healing arts than her. Experience she might have, but not necessarily the ability to discern what needs to be discerned.

Seldan's entire bearing relaxes, the frown fading as he studies the body. "No, it is only the restoration. The bird - I think it his familiar." His eyes flick to it, then relax as he makes an arcane gesture to dismiss the effect. "Yes, I see that." _And the gods only know what else besides,_ his bearing and wrinkled nose reads as he makes note of the crumb-littered beard and likely clothing as well. He seems to be trying not to look revolted, and only half-succeeding. "Perhaps the Soldier's Defense? I know not how long he will be out for, but someone should look after him."

Svarshan looks to the bird and his expression shifts--scales shifting, reshaping themselves, subtly. As much as scales might, when not animated with the extras of enforced puppet strings. Then, Sandy says, 'a bath' and those strings pull, forming a smile on one side.
He grips the wizard and then crouches, lowering them both. "Ssa," he says to the bird. "You are. Navos' child. One will. Carry you. Both."
"And perhapss. He poopss on me. That iss. All right." A father has seen worse.
The diaper never catches, well, everything. 
"...the Ssoldier'ss Defensse? That. We can do," he says in response to it being chosen. He remains where he is though, waiting for the bird to pick its path.

He wasn't exactly dishevelled, but Basil was certainly the type of person to treat bathtime as a young kid fad that will pass in a couple of years, yes he smelled and yes he had crumbs in his hair. Don't... don't ask any more questions. The clerical magic in Basil's form was fading now, and from his nose emerged a snore. Now he was just unconscious as his body had a nanna nap in the arms of a giant lizard person. The thrush (no jokes please) popped about on the ground, up and down, a magical entity bereft of its other half and at a loss for what to do. It gave a look to the other human in the picture, then the giant lizard person, and tilted its head in the best way a bird could say 'Fuck if I know'. 
Which was good because Basil stirred.

"Yeah, the Soldeir's DEfense is probably a good idea. Why don't I just..." 
And then BAsil is stirring, of course, so Sandy just sighs. "WElp. Too late /now/," she muters. She keep[s an eye on the bird because, you know, it's best to beware them when they're about like this. "Maybe we can have the Arcanists cart him off to a room?"

Seldan blinks as Basil stirs, and glances at Svarshan. "If he wakes, it may be best to set him down, lest he startle and fall. If not, the Soldier's Defense seems best. Let them tend to him." _And clean him up_ hangs unsaid. He watches the man, intently.

"One may. Assk." Svarshan tilts his head to the side. And--settles Basil onto the earth as carefully as one might a youngling. 
Seven hatchlings. More, probably, by now. But at least seven, and an elderly wizard, well. At least there is no pooping.
So much cleaner, even if the sith's senses are doubtless screaming to him about the bath. 
So he settles the wizard on the earth, and takes a step back. A blade appears, laid casually across the calf-and-ankle. And Seldan might recognize it--a blade of a holy thing, of holy senses, as one remembered, half-seen in a mostly forgotten fever-dream.
Or others might recognize, he's crouched near Sandy. Perhaps he does not hate her, despite the kicking. Perhaps, not completely. Just, you know. Mostly. That whole frenemies thing.

And so it was. The stir became a roll as Basil T. Cunningsworth moved around on the floor, trying to get comfortable, his unconscious mind not rationalizing that this was not his comfortable bed back at Rune, trying to resolve the contradiction, failing, and issuing an emergency reboot to resolve the issue.
"...ecause it MUST!" erupted the unconscious Basil. And then suddenly he wasn't. His eyes were wide, staring at someone's shoes. "CLERIC!" he called out, to no one in particular. "I could have seen a cleric! Twenty long years WASTED! The rot! The nerve! Ohhhhhh that Ergahil! How dare he befuddle me so! Why I haven't been so befuddled since..." Basil was straightening up, his back and shoulders popping from age and possible incoming arthritis, "since..." and for the first time the fuddy-duddy was at a loss for words. "Actually I don't think I've ever been so befuddled!" Well, yes, Basil, twenty years with negative levels is a long bloody time. "Quiet you," he hissed at the bird, then blinked. He closed his eyes, opened them, closed them, opened them, then said, "Tea."
Pause.
"TEA, PLEASE!"

"..." 
Sandy stares at Basil for a moment at the outburst. She takes it in. She look sat Svarshan. She looks at Seldan. 
And then she bursts out laughing because what else are you gonna do at this?

The blade, Seldan does indeed recognize - sort of not really, as if it is somehow familiar and not. He lowers his eyes, but that is short-lived as Basil awakes and starts to rant to - nobody. He is left dumbfounded by the sudden outburst, his entire look one of blank, confused shock. All he can do is frankly stare at the man, lost for words.

The sith-makar drops his hand to the hilt and slowly, puts it away. The blade. /That/ blade, marked by protective magics. "Tea," he says, voice warm. 
He does not move a while: clearly digesting this. Or perhaps slow. Or perhaps, imagining sunning himself on a comfortable rock, far away from here.
Well. Eventually, he does get up. Stands, rather. "One will. Sstay here," he says, companionably. "If ssomeone will. Ssee to the. Tea."

"Wait, no, dispense with the tea, I'm sure there is a pot brewing at the inn."
What a deliciously un-Basil thing to say.
Pulling himself to his feet slowly, and ignoring the little bird that was popping around at his feet, the Honourable and Esteemed Professor Emeritus Basil Theodore Cunningsworth brushed himself off, because the floor was dirty. "The fog. You see," he said, starting a lecture as he was wont to do, "for twenty years my mind was clouded. Enervation. It is a nasty, nasty thing. But today I have conquered it. It took me years, but what more can you do when you are forced to sip from an OCEAN," and there go everyone's eardrums, "through a small paper straw! So behold! I have returned, clear of mind and thought and as such, I have reading to do. For within the mind of a Wizard is a ravenous maw of knowledge, you all know this," not everyone here are wizards, Basil, "shhh," was his next word, to the little bird that had flitted up and perched on his shoulder, "where was I? Oh yes. The cavities in my mind are free once more, not clouded by doubt, and I have arcane literature to peruse, and power to tap. I bid you all good day!"
Marching to the gate out, reaching forward with his Unseen Servant to push it open, he turned and said, "I said good day!" And with a little chirp from the thrush, he was gone.