[center][h1]A Welcome Fit for a King? Part One[/h1][/center][hr][center][h3][color=D2691E]M[/color]arlijn [color=D2691E]V[/color]aanse[/h3][/center][hr]
It was near to evening by the time that the plaza was full. The bells had stopped ringing and the marching band was gone. There were still crowds, but they knew better than to set foot on the patterned flagstones of the academy grounds. Instead, those were filled by six-hundred hand-chosen people and a particular species of nervous, anticipatory energy. 

Marlijn Vaanse sat on a bench, knees together, sweating like a pig in her fancy spellcaster’s regalia. Truly, she thought that expression daft, for anyone with the least amount of knowledge of animal husbandry knew that pigs did not sweat. That was why they wallowed in the mud. She blinked, distracted. There was some old lady droning on up there, looking distinctly uncomfortable speaking in front of a large crowd and, to Marlijn’s mind, eager to be back to her books and research. The girl felt bad for a moment and then pursed her lips, slouched a little bit, and played with the clasp of her cloak - positively unladylike. 

Her eyes darted about surreptitiously, taking in the people around her. She’d been warned of the way that things were done at this school: how they made the procurement of seating a royal melee, as if to signal a definitive end to the pomp and circumstance. Marlijn was quite sure that she had driven an elbow into some merchant girl in her pursuit of a good sightline. Positively unladylike, but it had bought her little advantage and she had still ended up separated from Owain and most of the other Eskandish. Lady Anesin and a couple of others were closeby at least, not that Marlijn much knew her or most of the Ath people. 

The others were a mix, and she was struck by their diversity. There were at least three - possibly four - Rettanese. In her entire life to this point she had seen maybe that many. There was an exceptionally short boy - she thought him more likely young than a dwarf - who would not take off his helmet, and she wondered why. [color=D2691E][i]Poor scared little fella.[/i][/color] There was a handsome roguish sort nearby, a pretty Kerreman boy, [i]another [/i]pretty boy from the west with an intriguing scar, and a quartet of Perrench girls clucking away like hens, though as she paid more attention, she noticed that the pale one in the middle was not quite as ditzy as her friends and the tall one on the right wasn’t really with the others. A rather plainly-dressed girl who looked to be Torragonese or perhaps Firrazi sat to her right, [color=D2691E][i]also a bit of an island,[/i][/color] Marlijn thought. Absently, she wondered about the boy who’d flung himself spectacularly onto the balcony full of Eskandish nobles. Her mother had come down to assure Marlijn that she was alright, if a bit shaken. Of him, she said it had been determined that he was a fool rather than a threat and that, while there’d likely be disciplinary action when they caught him, she doubted that it would be especially drastic. She’d said so with a particular sort of disapproval that Marlijn knew well. The girl had sniffed and nodded, making an excuse about having to get to the plaza, if only to dodge her mother’s incoming diatribe about allowing ‘lower sorts’ to school with the nobility.

Of course, once her eyes had completed their little walkabout, the young Lady Vaanse found it a chore to keep them off of the final member of the cohort sitting close to her: Leon Solaire. She’d practiced some of his spells, but they were difficult to master. She knew the music from his troupe, but little of their performance and, with him, it was all about the performance. She’d wanted to attend when she’d heard that he would perform in Inderhall, but mother had forbidden it and Owain had laughed at her. She would be attending Ersand’Enise with Leon now, though, so it appeared as if it were Marlijn who would have the last laugh after all. Would that Owain was nearby! How she would stick out her tongue and flick his fancy cravat up into his face with a bit of Kinetic mischief! Alas, he was not and the girl had to content herself with paying attention to this speech. She sat up and brought her knees back together, positively ladylike, just as it came to a close. 

Then, there was a moment of near-silence, despite the size of the gathered crowd. Trumpets blared. A crier stepped forward, his voice ringing out across the plaza with unnatural volume, courtesy of the Gift. “Their majesties, blessed of Ipte, Shune, Oraff, Eshiran, and Dami: the Monarchs of the Five Thrones!” Drums beat. The crowd cheered. Marlijn cheered too, of course.

“Jobanzaggah, sixth of his name: Emperor of Belzagg, Defender of the Faith, keeper of the Ivory Throne!” Marlijn craned her neck to get a look at him, of course, nearly rising to her feet, positively unladylike. A tall man, young and powerful, with skin as dark as coal and an immaculately trimmed beard, he strode purposefully across the stage, leopardskin cape fluttering behind him, bare biceps bound in gold bands and inlaid with fine gemstones. He set himself upon one of the five chairs at the centre of the stage and waited.

“Horik Vinderborg of Oleften: Emperor of Eskand, Master of the College of Electors, keeper of the Verdant Throne!” For all that Jobanzaggah was a large man, he was positively dwarfed by Kejser Horik. Near seven feet tall and perhaps four hundred pounds, he lumbered across the stage, long grey beard bound in bracers of gold and ivory swaying as he walked. Marlijn suppressed a sour face. [color=D2691E][i]Not emperor of [b]all [/b]Eskand,[/i][/color] she reminded herself. Good King Johann had [i]just [/i]as much claim to the Verdant Throne.

“Rouis, eleventh of his name, King of Perrence and the Perrench people, Warden of Ciero, Crisia, and Miatto, Protector of the Faith, and keeper of the Crystal Throne!” Rouis was not as large as the other two men, but he seemed somehow larger. He strode grandly across the stage, scepter in hand, nose raised high in the air, long, curly brown cascading luxuriantly over his shoulders, and the puffy, illuminated silks and velvets of his clothing inlaid with gold thread and resplendent in the late afternoon sun. His beard and mustache were perfectly oiled and Marlijn imagined he could fairly [i]impale [/i]someone with them. Two attendants held the ends of his cape and lifted it out of the way as he took his seat.

“King Sancho VIII of Torragon, keeper of the Iron Throne.” Like the words announcing him, the man who walked across the stage and placed himself beside Rouis was spare and spartan. He wore brown riding boots and loose white clothing embroidered with patterns in gold thread: incredibly expensive, but practical first and foremost in the subtropical heat. He was clean-shaven with maybe a day’s worth of stubble, his short grey hair combed back and mostly hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat surmounted with a leather band, a single ruby, and a couple of colourful feathery plums.

The fifth man - and they were all men - nearly didn’t wait for the crier. “Prospero Malatesta: Doge of Revidia, King of Segona, Tan-Zeno of Ersand’Enise, and keeper of the Radiant Throne.” Even many of the Zenos onstage rose and clapped. The crowd certainly did. Dressed in a fine red tunic, hands clasped behind his back, Prospero stopped, pivoted on a heel, and inclined his head to the crowd in thanks before taking his seat.

Next were the representatives from other nations and, as exciting as it was to see this many royals in one place, Marlijn honestly couldn’t understand how this was relevant to their learning. Could the Zenos not have held a separate celebration - after everyone was fed and rested - for the introduction of the monarchs?

Queen Silke of Kerremand was in attendance, but few countries sent their rulers unless, people whispered, they were making a play for one of the thrones. Mostly, it was a gaggle of dukes and duchesses, emirs and emirahs. There were even representatives from distant Rettan, Nashibansek, and… she couldn’t pronounce the other one - the one that started with the ‘X'. They were here only as observers, however, as was the President of Joru: Atundo Yibozo.  

It was moments after he’d taken his seat, kept prudently separate from the Belzaggic emperor, that Marlijn felt something brush against her arm. She looked up but there was nothing. Blinking, she started to turn back to the stage, but there indeed [i]was[/i] something. Perhaps it was because she was a fledgling illusionist herself that she spotted it: a glimmer of motion - the semicorporeal outline of a hand, and for only the barest of moments. Feeling a warning prickle on the back of her neck, the girl reached out for energies but, in such a dense crowd, it was near-impossible to sense an individual.

[color=D2691E]“Hey,”[/color] she prodded one of the students nearby, [color=D2691E]“did you see that?”[/color] She half-stood and her eyes darted about. Then, there was a flash of movement up on stage. She glanced around beseechingly, ready to raise her voice, but was stopped short. It was so brief that she wasn’t sure that she’d imagined it - it couldn’t [i]possibly [/i]have been real, after all: a [i]colossal [/i]surge of energy onstage, like nothing she’d ever felt before, like nothing she’d ever even imagined [i]possible[/i]. Then it was gone, in a fraction of a second, like a blinding flash of light that leaves one staggering in its wake. 

Marlijn blinked to clear her head. The speaker onstage - Arch-Zeno Harachorra - paused to glance behind him. The two oldest men there - Giacomo the Crow and the Paradigm himself, Hugo Hunghorasz - may or may not have exchanged a brief look, but the Zenith was still smiling, Joshe Intaba and Riu Kai-Tan looked positively unbothered, and… Ardredelle Latvar looked uncomfortable and rather sweaty, but Marlijn supposed it was the heat. The air was still muggy and humid and even Arch-Zenos were still human, after all. She shook her head to clear it. What had she imagined, again? Had she thought something was wrong? [color=D2691E][i]What a daft idea.[/i][/color] She supposed that spending all day out in the sun could mess with you.

To improve matters somewhat, Karan Harachorra paused and smirked at the students conspiratorially, and then at the five monarchs behind him. “Lords and ladies,” he intoned smoothly, “would I be amiss or perhaps presumptuous in asking whether you’ve had enough of speeches for one day? Whether you’ve been a bit too long in the sun?”

Marlijn giggled at his delivery. [i]She’d[/i] certainly had enough. She had literally hallucinated a minute ago, though exactly what her hallucination had been, she could not recall. At least the sun would dip below the buildings shortly and bring some welcome relief from the heat. Already, shadows stretched long and jagged across the flagstones. “I believe it would be to the benefit of all were we to shift the festivities surrounding the five thrones to tomorrow and focus on our students this evening so that your majesties could receive the undivided attention that befits your station.”

He received five nods from the five kings and the girl found herself liking them better, even Horik. “Now, with their majesties presiding - surely a sign of the Gods’ favour -” Marlijn noticed that he didn’t say ‘Pentad’ “- I propose we get to the part that you’re really all here for: the assignment of masters.”

Her heart beat a bit faster. She glanced around herself, failing to suppress a grin. The manner in which masters were chosen at Ersand’Enise was ancient and mysterious. She knew that the Zenos kept profiles on every Biro admitted. She knew that they used the Gift. She knew that interests and strengths played a role, but there was more to it and nobody knew what. 

Zenith Upta stepped up to the speaker’s lectern and gave out a series of orders. Excited chatter filled the air. The hundred Zenos in the first rows of the plaza rose and gathered at the foot of the stage: some of the greatest mages alive, all masters of their craft, and she was to [i]train [/i]under one. They formed two lines, ready to march up the stairs to either side and, quietly, with a certain sort of restless energy, Marlijn thought, Joshe Intaba stepped down from his high place to join them. “Arch-Zeno Joshe Intaba,” called Claresse Upta, “Please select your apprentices.”
[hr][center][url=https://imgur.com/gallery/6gaOsQK][h3]Zeno Profiles[/h3][/url][/center]
[hider=Opportunities Outside of Normal Interaction][list][*]Any female below the noble class can choose to be the girl who Marlijn bumped.
[*]Anyone can choose to respond to Marlijn regarding them.
[*]You may exchange a brief body language interaction with a monarch or receive a written message delivered by one of their agents.
[*]Anyone can respond in brief to Marlijn's exclamation.
[*]Based on what is realistic, you can choose your reaction to the strange moment. However, for unknown reasons, you are unlikely to remember exactly what it was.[/list][/hider]
[hider=Master and Apprentice Groupings][list][*][b]Zeno Mozaru:[/b] Nerio Luchessi, Vyrik Oldenrath, Pan Yimu, [i]Marlijn Vaanse[/i]
[*][b]Zeno Fades-in-Moonlight:[/b] Ilannaq 'Anna' Sigmundottir, Leon Solaire, Carmillia Carbonneau, [i]Jomurr Ikon III[/i]
[*][b]Zeno Zemana:[/b] Mayu Iovina, Karim Nazeri, Seung Eun-Ji, [i]Manfred Hohenfelter von Meckelin-Thandau[/i]
[*][b]Zeno Afraval:[/b] Onarr Yidlob, Linnah Aranda, Anesin Bjelke, [i]Penny Pellegrin[/i][/list][/hider]