[b]The Most Serene City of Deauxerr[/b]
[b]Deauxerr Proper[/b]
[b]The Flamenois Palace[/b]

King Stefan II was, above all, a reticent and kindly man, as jovial as he was portly – and, indeed, the king was extremely portly. He was the type of monarch who would have been altogether too happy to neglect his duties and wile away his time in a garden, and to the extent it was there, in a small and floral courtyard of his palace, nose deep in the biting smells and bursting colours of a well-tended garden, that a knock on the door drew the careless king from his hobby and planted him most firmly in the world of reality. Only half turning to the door, he gave only a half wave, and went back to plucking with tender, if stubby, fingers at the thorns of a particularly vibrant flower, gently removing each green knife with a soft “och” and “ah” of appreciation as the de-thorning continued.

It was only on a second knock that it hit Stefan that, actually, doors are most certainly not transparent, and his distracted wave had been about as noticeable as an invisible fish swimming through an invisible lake shouting “I’m invisible” over and over again. With this newly discovered knowledge, then, Stefan diverted his whole attention to the heavy wooden door and adopted his regal voice, a slow and deliberate one which tickled his throat to use, and called out “You are recognised”, before quickly picking a rather noticeable piece of dirt from his walrus moustache.

Into the room strode a finely dressed man, one whose entire form seemed to battle with the shabby and dirty king. It would not be incorrect to say that this tall and angular man, with an expression so reminiscent of a hawk it would make you feel no more than a mouse, was a person of great warmth. Instead, he devoured the warmth and colour of any room he entered; he was a great vacuum, a colossal sponge, a prim and proper prick whose humour was only one level above terminal illness in its propensity for being utterly dull and completely unwanted. There was nothing about the pale pallor of his skin, or the rigidly styled black mess of his hair and goatee which could ever suggest to even the kindest of people that this was a person with whom you would want to be friends, and as the king unconsciously sucked in his gut and squirmed beneath the penetrating glare of the man’s eyes, Stefan suddenly considered that his life would be far easier if he were a hermit. Standing up then, to better meet the man, Stefan wobbled over to the far taller man, and, smiling broadly, clapped his hands together in a messy clasp that sent a small plume of dirt into the air, while also dirtying the man’s pristine white gloves.

“Dubois! Come in, man, come in! What’re you doing here? No, don’t say a word yet, you old sausage, what- what- what- have you seen Eleanor yet? She’s sung your praises for hours since your last visit,” a partial lie. In fact, Queen Eleanor had spent several hours vomiting after a poorly cooked meal during Archbishop Matthieu Dubois’ last arrival; Stefan was never quite sure the visit and the vomiting were totally unrelated. 

For his part, Matthieu was quite ready to be dragged around the small enclosed garden of the palace, being pushed and pulled from one ornate marble pillar to the next with all the cold formality that the Archbishop of Deauxerr could muster. Eventually, however, with his white robes thoroughly soiled by the king’s grubby hands and his red stole rather crinkled, the king stopped parading his archbishop through his white-walled gardens and smiled regally. “Go on, then, Dubois, tell us what you came here for.”

“Your Majesty,” he said in his piercing tone, coupled with a deep bow, “a message came from the Holy Stomian Empire. The Consul of the League received the missive and had copies sent to you and the Kings of Aden. I’m sure that the other cities have received a copy also, though I struggle to see any of them responding.

The letter given to us is from Doge Rudun, and it is calling for a council of leaders of the Haloist faith.” 

Passing the letter towards the king, Stefan read the message with a worried expression. He gave his round head a soft shake, scattering from his short blond hair a loose film of dust. “Oh dear… This sounds remarkable, doesn’t it? As head of the League’s faith, I suppose I should go, shouldn’t I? Oh dear oh dear, oh dear oh dear… Thank you archbishop, that- that- that- would you send a reply? I’ll write it, I just need you to send it. Excellent, wait outside my door, I’ll have it with you in a jiffy.”

With an apprehensive twirl, the king strode away to a small corner of the garden, where stood a large canopy under which there was a writing desk covered with paintings he had done. Pushing them aside, he took a quill and a blank sheet of paper, and, writing in the Deauxerran dialect of Stomian, engineered his reply, not eager to begin the preparations for his trip to the Empire.

[quote]Dear Doge Rudun;
It is a delight to be invited to your feast, and, standing as the Princep of the Deauxerran League, as well as King of Deauxerr, it is with great privilege and honour that I would very much like to accept your invitation with all grace.

Hoping this letter finds you in good health,
His Royal Highness, Defender of the Faith, by the Grace of Our Lord Atos, King of Deauxerr 
Stefan II[/quote]