[h3]The Palace Courtyard[/h3]

Vigil's tail swings out, his retribution carried with it; the resultant divine smite catastrophically evaporates the cloud of Tralaya until there is merely a faint green misting left to fill the air, nary a feather nor beak left to clatter to the ground in the wake of the celestial explosion. The silence that follows is deafening. The rain had stopped with the clatter of Vigil's blow, and the sky finally parting to reveal the sun and blue beyond the oppressive coverage of cloud; twas still morning yet, though light was just now showing its supremacy over the darkness. Without this constant patter of rainfall, the silencing of the cries of the Tralaya was further impactful; the disappearance of the sound of combat yet again significant; but even the droning beat of the Great Swarm's wings was gone, their ilk fading into the dark coverage of the clouds and disappearing entirely.

But the Silence is not alone; there, too, goes Amaryllis. Her starry form gliding across flagstone and garden bed alike, her druidic energy flowing off her in a tide of power brokered by her heavenly transformation. Those who yet live feel the touch of the Everbloom thus; those who perished find their repose to be gentle and blessed by overgrowth; and in the end, as Amaryllis returns to her base form, she can feel satisfied that she has made a difference to those present. Even Ser Pyke, who for but a scratch- now cleansed and healed by her powers- wickedly across his brow, which had cascaded his own blood over his eyes, seems to be impressed in his own quiet way with the display of these would-be heroes.

For, indeed, even those other companions yet gathered had proven their worth. Tomas Smithson still stands, a veritable pile of broken bodies amassed within the reach of his heavy hammer. Crimson's blade is slick with green ichor, silently buffing his armor with a cloth to try and dispel a heavy coating of Tralaya blood which, accompanied by feathers, made him a comical figure. Alison Waltone's composed figure is betrayed by a single tuft of her silvery hair, which breaks ranks in rebellious defiance to cascade down her forehead, slicked with sweat, as she thumbs her medallion with closed eyes; smoke curls off her fingers, as if the medallion's surface was cooling the intense heat of her flames. Even the Noctem woman had broken her hidden position, and can be seen taking long spidery steps through the field to retrieve her arrows; each lodged in a body, all unbroken and true.

"Alright." Pyke says, pressing the flat of his longsword to his cloaked shoulder. With a simple tugging motion he cleansed one side of the blade, then with a twist of the wrist he repeated the motion and wiped the blade clean in full. "I can see that the Gods saw fit to tell me to hurry up. Very well, let's get you people inside."

During the brief, yet chaotic, combat the Royal Guards fought well; their ranks, while initially overwhelmed, held steady, and their armored bulk stemmed the tide well save for the few swarms that encroached onto the inner courtyard. With crossbow and blade they held the walls, and the palace lays untouched within. At a gesture, the trumpets blare their victory into the air- and once again, horns sound out their calls across the city.

[hr]

[h3]The Market Plaza[/h3]

"Oi. I'm not little." She says defiantly, whilst simultaneously tugging the Behemoth to a stop. "I'm Gen, and this is my cos- 'e goes by Regis." She taps upon the Behemoth's snout, and he releases her from his teeth. She sags initially but regains her footing, leaning herself upon him of her own accord rather than being dragged.

"...[sub]Can't trust[/sub]...[sub]Maybe okay[/sub]...[sub]Du'Eld[/sub]..." The Behemoth's low, growling, voice emanates between fangs, whispering to the girl but impossible to truly conceal; such was the weight of the voice of this youth. The girl shakes her head and looks up at Dag'Tyr, her harsh and piercing eyes softening somewhat.

"Naw, this is a nice mister, propa type. Not a lousy sort at all." She declares suddenly, before nodding and letting Dag'Tyr see to her wound; it was a simple cut, truly child's play, and simple for Dag'Tyr to bandage and make right. The Behemoth sits at the entrance of the alley, watching Dag'Tyr with mistrusting eyes, but soon his fur bristles and his spines rise-

"Oi, I found 'em, they're over there." A voice calls, making Regis whirl about- but he warily backs into the alley and retreats to hide behind Dag'Tyr, nosing Gen to her feet, as four Guards enter the alley entrance. "You lot-" one in a crested helm begins, her subordinates chattering in quiet voices behind her; [sub]...Girl?...Beggars and thieves...Truly played?...[/sub]-"Are to come with me, the Royal Guards have decreed that anyone with merit is to be brought to the Palace. You fit the bill. Ser Pyke's given authority to forgive any small crimes, so the girl and cub can  be forgiven for their looting." She says firmly, looking to Gen- who sticks her tongue out in return. It was clear that she'd be fleeing and taunting right now, if not for her wounded leg-

And so it was that Regis, Gen, and Dag'Tyr were escorted to the Palace as well.

[hr]

[h2]The Audience Chamber[/h2]

The Palace of Fenhall was grand, but not ostentatious nor gilded. It bore a regal air, but one of an honest sort; a history of rulership and knighthood filled this place, rendering it noble intrinsically with little need for excess decorum. Tapestries hung from walls, trophies and portraits too, but they were of a sincere sort and gave a life to the stones of this place that otherwise would be cold and unwelcoming. The Palace seemed alive from within, from generations of voices and footfalls, and the newcomers had, inadvertantly, joined its story as cells in its veins on this day. After a brief holdover with a castle doctor, Amaryllis, Iris, and Vigil find themselves joined by Dag'Tyr; his accompanying youngsters finding their reclusive place within the greater group as well, Regis once again in awe of Vigil, but Gen scrutinizing Alison Waltone like one would a suspect mole on their person. Alison puts on airs of aloofness, but it is clear to the wise amongst you that she is insulted by such intense staring and unspoken accusation.

The group is fed, cleaned, given wine, and in short order brought to the Audience Chamber.

A great hall if ever there was one, its long and steeped architecture rises thirty feet to a high backed throne of dark wood- a kind that Amaryllis would know to thrive in the Heartlands, known as Goswod- which itself is backed by stained glass windows which cast their multicolored light into the room, the newly revealed sun radiantly broadcasting its warmth upon the audience and its host. Reds, blues, purples, and greens cascade across the room, painting the history of the Royal Family across the hall and its warmly lit long tables. Clear to all, an iconic presentation of the Storied Prince Braedan, brandishing a broken blade skyward towards a hollow sun, rises prominent among the windows, its light falling squarely upon the throne.

Where Mildred, dubbed The Unready, sat. She was a slight woman. Pale, her skin tone giving one the impression of poor health, though her eyes and expressions were strong. She was wearing a dress of white, the silver crown of Fenhall upon the thick braids of her raven hair, eyes as brown as freshly tilled earth falling upon the entering Heroes. Her lips, a somewhat more envigored hue of her pale flesh tone, were drawn into a stately expression, one of authoritative calm. She remained silent at first, appraising those who entered.

Ser Pyke speaks as he climbs the stairs to the Princess' side;

"I present to you the Princess Mildred, Eighty Second of her Line, descendent of Braedan, inheritor of the Blade of the Dale, lawful ruler of these lands, and living symbol of the accord of the peoples of Aesithas." He declares in a bold, ringing, voice that fills the hall like warm mead; it was a voice practiced at these things, and Pyke fit naturally behind and to the side of Mildred's personage like a shadow fit to a person. He belonged there at her side, just like she belonged there in that throne, and the sun belonged in the sky.

"At ease." her voice came clear, the voice a soft one, a gentle one, a voice that was perhaps, once upon a time, kind and timid but had learned to demand respect. Whilst it could not shake the softness of a youth, it was a voice that brooked and beckoned one to listen in a gentle, guiding, manner in contrast to Pyke's commanding presence. A hand gesture reveals her intentions to dismiss formalities for the time being.

"Allow me to speak my piece first, then I will welcome questions and information. I am the Princess Mildred, and I understand my rule to be one of tragedy and disaster. My father's untimely death, my youth, the land's turmoil, it has eroded away that which once made our peoples great and Aesithas a jewel of the Gods. I will admit my shortcomings, I have never tried to hide from them. I know my flaws... But I also know my strengths."

She rises from the throne and walks to the top stair, her white dress billowing around her elegantly.  Her slight frame was given a spectral air by the flowing white garment, her every movement accentuated by the billowing of the fabric. She gestures broadly over the group.

"I have released a decree beckoning heroes to my service. My rule is weak- but it is just, it is right, and it is the true rule of the Dale. I need your aid. Too long has trust in Fenhall eroded, for too long have the peoples of Aesithas grown apart and forgotten their alliances to one another- my people included. We have abandoned the Everbloom, who in turn has shunned the Dale, and even the Kin of Du'Eld are now isolated and lost to us- Until this day, I had not seen a Zephyrite in Fenhall for many years! Oh, auspicious day!"

She clasps her hands at this cry, casting her gaze heavenward.

"The Gods are looking out for us, truly! A gathering here of all Aesithas' people, it is truly a sign! I see the Noble Behemoths have come to answer my call as well! A blessing indeed! Oh joyous day! I have a series of tasks, rumors and quests each, that I wish you to embark on in my name. My patronage comes with lodging here in the Palace; it will be a safe haven in your travels, you will always be welcome here so long as you carry the good of Aesithas in your hearts. My goal is to revive trust in the Crown, and through that trust rekindle the spirit of Aesithas and reforge the Alliances of Old. Many blame me, or my father, or my grandfather, for the state of things now- and I will not ignore the truth in those words!- but I cannot help but feel there is something nefarious at play; the Tralaya are resurgent, the seas grow dark, the lands shortsighted and blighted and neglected- The work of The Enemy, no doubt! That is the second part of my request; in your travels, as you complete my tasks, seek evidence of the Lord of Shadow's influence. The beasts of the Land Beyond have always been a threat, but attacks such as the one today are growing more frequent and dangerous."

She pauses now, the reverie of her monologue fading. Her expression returning to that of the regal calmness as she sweeps her gaze down at the gathered adventurers.

"But you know these things already. You have lived these lands just as I have. Coin will be provided for services rendered, and as you prove yourselves to be just and righteous, I will permit access to the other amenities and powers of the Palace. I have spoken long enough; I grant  the floor to you, my would-be Champions. Speak freely. Once all have had a chance to speak their part, any who remain will be given my tasks."

She pauses, her gaze on the children. Pyke steps forward and whispers something to her; her eyes widen slightly.

"Truly?" She speaks, turning her head to look at Pyke. "Very well, they will be given rooms as well. The children will remain here in Fenhall for the time being, I have a need to speak with them privately." she adds as an addendum to her previous statement.