[center] [img]https://i.imgur.com/34hMkJF.jpeg[/img] [/center] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][color=#6A737B] Beorthmear (#6A737B) [/color] [color=#66705A] Inga (#66705A) [/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=#808080] Greyharbour, Several Months Prior [/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080] Lord Beorthmear occupied his favourite seat in his favourite room. It was a cushioned armchair, the carved wood beneath his hands heavily stylised seabirds and slightly worn to the touch. Located above the great hall, the solar was a place of peace and quiet, with a window overlooking the forest of masts in the harbour and the distant horizon beyond, coloured crimson by the sunset bleeding through the overcast sky. A northern wind had come down during the day, that now beat at the moored ships, and rain would soon pour over the spire, not unlike yesterday or the day before. He listened to the sounds of his wife moving behind him, and his eyes settled unbidden on a single mast on the outskirts of the harbour. It had been there for more than a full month now. He knew the ship, he knew its captain. A familiar anger bloomed in his chest, fingers tightening momentarily on the smooth wood beneath his hands. The anger was, however, too mixed up with relief to last. The frustration over his wayward son, however, was likely to never end. He had returned, yes, but not to claim his birthright. He sighed softly and banished the thought because it was not what he needed to think about, it was not, surprisingly, the main concern at the forefront of his mind. No, that had come more recently, with royal summons to court for festivities, and a gathering of all the great houses of the Ninefold. Marriages would be made, and alliances forged. Some Houses elevated, others left behind. By the end of winter, the future of the Ninefold might look very different. This was not something that had been done for a long time. Even under the old king, he did not remember the great houses bringing their families in full, only ever select representatives or parts of their family. Then again, he thought that only a fool would have brought his entire family to the court of late King Leoric. He had not been a good king. He had been dishonourable and made so many bad choices that ultimately led to his downfall. Even Beorthmear did not think Leoric’s end was undeserved, but his obligations had always been with him, not with Roric, Rowan or the rest, to whom he owed none. It was a reign that cast long shadows, even upon House Alfarling. He heard Inga pour wine into one cup, then a second. [color=#6A737B] “Did you read the king’s letter?”[/color] He asked, once he heard her steps approaching. He raised a hand, and his cup was placed into it. She rounded the pair of chairs, settling into her own. [color=#66705A]“No.”[/color] She said, [color=#66705A]“I never read the king’s letters.”[/color] She turned her eyes on him and gave him a look. Of course she had read the royal summons. [color=#6A737B]“Well. What did you think?”[/color] He asked, raising his cup to his lips. [color=#66705A] “We must go.”[/color] He knew it to be the truth, but he did not particularly like it. The sparring of the great houses had almost always been at a distance, especially in later years but out in the Kraken Sea, he always felt he held more cards than any opposition, with the royal fleet in his harbour and manned by his people. That fact would not change, but the game was different at the Black Citadel. [color=#6A737B] “Straight as an arrow. No worries at all?”[/color] [color=#66705A] “Nothing that changes what must be done. It will also be an opportunity for us.”[/color] Inga insisted, taking a small sip of wine. [color=#66705A]“The future will be decided there, and we will have a part in it, and forge our alliances there.”[/color] [color=#6A737B] “Yes, but do you not think the other houses will view us with some suspicion? We can hardly expect otherwise.”[/color] He said, certain that Rowan hardly favoured Salt Spire, after being the last supporters of Leoric. Was that not the reason that Rowan had not named him High Admiral, despite the fact most of the royal fleet was under Beorthmear’s command? [color=#66705A] “Do you actually know that?”[/color] She asked him, giving him a look that he’d seen a thousand times. [color=#6A737B]“No.”[/color] He allowed with a small smile tugging on his features. [color=#66705A]“No.”[/color] She repeated, with a certain amount of fond exasperation in her voice. [color=#66705A]“I believe the other houses will be far more interested in the future, rather than the shadows of the past. If that future demands a worthy fleet, then who do they think they will turn to?”[/color] She asked, the answer obvious. Ironcrag had ships, he knew that, but there were not as many, nor did he value their sailors as highly as his own. The Lost Coast may have enough ships to rival his own in number, but their calling was collecting coins through trade, not through boarding other ships. Their talent was in sailing fast, not blockading a port in rough seas. Beorthmear let the silence stretch between them. It was an easy and familiar silence, comfortable like well-used boots or this, his favourite armchair. They had been married for so long he could hardly imagine being without her now. She was a near constant presence, reassuring, and above all, trustworthy. He trusted her with all things; his concerns, his goals, and his plans. Then, she always did this thing, somehow finding a way to aid him, be it by a reassuring hand on his shoulder, or finding another pathway that he had not seen. They complemented each other, and now at least understood each other almost perfectly. It had not always been that way. Instead, like a tree on a weather-beaten hillside, it had grown taller through care and what seemed sheer will alone, anchoring itself in the rocks so that no storm could threaten to tear it loose. [color=#6A737B]“What about Cynric and Aelfwynn?”[/color] He asked. Cynric and Aelfwynn, his wilful children, so ready to tear each other’s throats out for pride alone, when they could dedicate themselves to their House. Neither of them was truly prepared, yet they were running out of time. His eyes passed to a distant mast in the harbour once more, and his thoughts passed to a once-favoured son. [color=#66705A] “I will speak to them.”[/color] Inga said. Now it was his turn to give Inga a certain look, somewhat doubtful, brows raised in surprise. [color=#6A737B] “Did you listen to your parents at their age?”[/color] He asked, because he knew that he never did. He had been a monster in many ways for his parents, the Nine bless their souls. He had constantly happened into trouble; fights, gambling, and even once disappeared for several months on a ship bound to raid the trading routes just off the coast of Karthos. That last event held more similarities to Athelric than he liked to admit. Inga had not been that much different in energy or temperament, but age had softened them and mellowed them. [color=#66705A]“Not particularly often, but it is high time they start. In any case, I will remind them that these events will decide their future, their family’s future. This is the time they must choose a heading, because there is a storm brewing. And they must choose how they shall face it.”[/color] [color=#6A737B] “There is only ever one choice. They must dare the storm.”[/color] [/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][b]interactions:[/b] none [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions:[/b] Rowan, Ironcrag/House Járnbjørn, Lost Coast/House Ganasen [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs:[/b] none[/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [center] [img]https://i.imgur.com/jUVwhqA.gif [/img] [/center] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=#b51024] Aelfwynn (#b51024) [/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=#808080] On the Bramble Weave, aboard the [i]Boreal’s Servant[/i] [/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080] In the aftercastle of the Boreal’s Servant, Aelfwynn stood silently hoping The Tempesteus Wind to conjure a breeze strong enough to banish the sweltering heat that made her clothes cling to her skin, and sweat prickled at her brow, leaving her irritable and restless. Still, it was better out here, than cooking within the ship where no touch of the breeze would reach. Yet even here it would have been unbearable were it not for the awning that covered the whole aftercastle, granting them shade and here at least, there was a suggestion of a breeze. This heat had only become truly oppressive once they passed the Vise and entered the Bay of Kings. Then, made worse by sailing into the Bramble Weave, each step of the journey bringing them further from the winds of the sea, enclosing them in mountains. That was it, that is what made the heat so unbearable – the lack of open space, like the open seas where wind roamed free, and the spray of sea came easy. Not here, on a piece of water that wove itself between high cliffs. It was unnatural and broke the winds apart. She turned her eyes astern and upwards to the peaks of the mountains that cornered them in the weave. Sunlight glittered off snow at its highest peaks, and as her gaze followed the mountainside. She saw steep cliffs where nevertheless trees clung to the mountainside, and outcrops and shifts in the rock had the dark stone rest in both light and shadow. It had a certain eerie beauty, she had to admit that, but to her, it was no rival to the open sea and the distant horizon. Then her eyes reached the shore of the Weave, and then, behind the Boreal’s Servant; The Wind’s Walker. A ship slightly larger than the holk upon which she currently stood yet easily kept pace. It was her brother’s ship, one of those he had convinced to sail east years ago. She saw him there, moving on the deck, proud and in command of his own ship. She deserved her own ship. Perhaps, so did her younger brother, so only she could sink it. She snorted softly to herself and watched as Athelric climbed the stairs onto his ship’s aftercastle. She didn’t understand why he had come. There was nothing for him here, he only gave father false hope that he would, in the end, perhaps marry. He wouldn’t, and he knew that, she knew that, yet here she was looking at him sailing his ship to the capital anyway. There was a reason she had let loose rumours of a marriage out east, and he had been privy to their creation. All forgotten now it seemed. [color=#8a5fbf]“Are you as angry with him for returning, as you are with me for existing, sister?”[/color] Cynric asked, with a particular emphasis on the last word. She spun to face him. He sat there, settled on the bench in the corner of the aftercastle’s bulwarks. There was a book in his hand, folded now around a finger that marked his place. No doubt it was just full of mindless illustrations, about as mindless as he. Oddly fitting. [color=#b51024]“I’m not angry with either of you, brother.”[/color] She said and briefly considered if she could drop Cynric into the waters below. She quickly realised that that wouldn’t do. It was too obvious, and the boy could swim, damn his eyes. Of course, that was no surprise. Every child worth their salt on the spire learned how to swim. Then again, it would be satisfying. She did not think Cynric had much of a chance amongst the other young lords to find a good match, let alone woo one of the princesses. He may have a pretty face, but he did not command a room like their father could, his talents with the sword remained politely disputed, by her in particular – and he was her baby brother. An unbidden memory came to her. Cynric had been no more than seven. A storm had battered Salt Spire for days, and the ships in harbour had all been tied together – and any mast not taken down had been shattered by the storm. He had come, asking if the storm would ever stop, or if it would wash them all away. She had laughed then, in honest mirth and comforted him. For many years, when they were still children, he had come to her whenever he was troubled or upset. Her heart softened. [color=#8a5fbf] “No no, of course not.”[/color] He said with a smirk, a false smile that never reached his eyes. [color=#8a5fbf]“That’s why every time you look in our direction; you huff and puff as if you’d conjure the wind to banish us to distant shores.”[/color] The momentary softness in her heart left Aelfwynn as swiftly as it had come. A cruel smile stole itself onto her features. [color=#b51024]“I would banish you, at least.”[/color] [color=#6A737B] “That’s enough.”[/color] Her father’s voice a bark of stern command that rumbled across from the other side of the aftercastle, as piercing as the rain in storm. Just for a moment then, she saw a hint of what her father used to be, a captain standing upon his flagship in storm, with ships, sailors and warriors at his command. Then he was silent and returned to what he had become; less daring than ever before, mistaking caution for wisdom, age apparently having shattered whatever wisdom he once possessed. At least she understood why he had to come, and her mother alongside him. He was still the face of Salt Spire, its Lord and Commander. Let him represent the Spire, while she found herself a match that would make him see, that he was mistaken from the beginning about who would make for a worthy heir. [color=#6A737B] “We all have our part to play.”[/color] Yes, they did, only that her father had forgotten which part it was that she was meant to play. The Boreal’s Servant continued along the Bramble Weave, and the aftercastle returned to a silence that itched at her. Her brother continued to shift between pages while her father was silent, like a statue. Then she felt the ship turn. The Valley of Kings emerged from between the mountains, sprawling across the valley floor. It was much larger than Greyharbour, wealthier too. Yet Aelfwynn knew that beyond it, within the walls of the Black Citadel, her future would be decided, and where at last she would prove herself. Above all however, she felt the relief that they had finally arrived. Their journey had come to an end. It did not take long, once the capital had come into sight, to finally reach the harbour. On their approach the Hornbearer of House Alfarling, Thane Osric, climbed the forecastle and set the olifant to his lips. The olifant was decorated with silver, and the ivory carved with the sigil of House Alfarling, surrounded by more carvings of seabirds and waves. He sounded the Horns of Arrival – a longer signal than the Horns of Battle, yet shorter than the Horns of Death, and shorter still than the Horns of Birth. It was Spire tradition, to blow the horn on arrival, when battle was joined, or when death or birth came to one’s House. Length more than tone is what separated them. They had sounded the Horns of Arrival upon entering the Vise. Now, the Horns of Arrival echoed in the valley again, announcing to all who had ears to hear that the Alfarling had come. The sails were lowered as the two ships came into the harbour and expertly guided to their mooring places. Aelfwynn watched the process, though she had seen it a thousand times before, and would see it many thousand times more before she died. Sailors cast lines ashore to secure the ship, the mooring crew responding to the bellowed orders of their captain until the ships were secure in the harbour along the Bramble’s Weave, the banner of House Alfarling fluttering lightly upon the wind. Cynric closed his book, revealing the title to her sight – [i]Dynasties: the Lineages of the Ninefold[/i]. Of course, he had been reading something so dull, how incredibly like him, her brother. Disdain filled her heart, even as all of them stepped down to the main deck where they were joined by Thane Osric and a couple of marines. Thane Osric and the marines were armed similarly, each wearing a chest plate and helmet, the latter decorated with two feathers, one above each ear. Aelfwynn’s eyes flicked across the harbour as the gangway was set into place. There was a gathering of people along the docks. That was no surprise, since it was not every day a great house arrived, and so people came to gawk. The two marines crossed the gangway together with Osric first, followed closely by her father, her mother, and then Cynric. She followed behind them, and as they passed over the water between dock and ship – and she saw his feet on the gangway. Before she could reconsider, she kicked at his foot as he stepped forward. Cynric fell, first hitting the gangway with a soft huff. Then he began to tilt, and with a short yelp followed by a splash, he disappeared into the water below. He resurfaced quickly, sputtering with undignified outrage and wiping water from his eyes, [color=#8a5fbf] “You-”[/color] . He spat river water. [color=#8a5fbf] “You bitch.”[/color] She didn’t dignify his outrage with a response but merely crossed the gangway onto the docks, faced with their father and Osric stepping to the edge of the docks. Seeing how he was alive, and not actively drowning, their father glared at her. [color=#6A737B] “Have you lost your mind?”[/color] He asked, voice low and tight with anger. He stepped closer to her. [color=#6A737B]“I have half a mind to set you on that ship and send you straight back home.”[/color] He said, and once more she saw the flash of a man that he’d once been. Cynric had managed to swim to a nearby stairway that rose out of the waters, and as he came stepping up, water poured from his clothes. [color=#8a5fbf] “Very mature, sister.”[/color] He said as he shoved past her, stepping back aboard the ship. [color=#66705A] “Remember this moment, the next time you wonder why he passed you over.”[/color] Her mother said at her shoulder, her voice hardly louder than a whisper. [color=#66705A] “More importantly, do you think your future husband wishes to see his wife engaged in petty cruelties?”[/color] Aelfwynn said nothing, because there was no answer her mother would ever accept. She had already decided that Cynric was destined for greatness. In any case, even if it was cruelty, then Aelfwynn could not bring herself to regret it, not when it had been so satisfying. [/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][b]interactions:[/b] none [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions:[/b] Athelric [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs:[/b] none[/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [center] [img]https://i.imgur.com/qxk0HRO.gif [/img] [/center] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=#8a5fbf] Cynric (#8a5fbf) [/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=#808080] Arriving at the Black Citadel [/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080] Cynric’s surprise bath in the Bramble Weave had done nothing for his mood. Anger, cooling now, had been part of it of course, but not the worst of it. No, the worst was the burning shame. Not the shame born out of the embarrassment, even though that too had its string that made him wish he was back on the Spire. No, it was the shame coming from the fact it was his own sister that was beyond words. In that moment, he had wished such ills upon her that there was now regret in his heart. In that moment, he had truly hated her. He did not now, not truly. Yet disappointment and anger had worn the barrier thin. It was petty, and it was betrayal, and it had delayed all of them since his best outfit had been ruined for this occasion and he couldn’t arrive looking like a drowned cat and smelling of river-water. No, he was better than that, much better. [url=https://i.imgur.com/sDo1t2H.jpeg]Second-best outfit[/url] would have to do. At least he had been spared arriving before the royal family still soaked and dripping river-water. Now, his doublet was a deep-sea blue with a row of silver buttons down the centre of his chest, and decorated with silver-thread embroidery along the sleeves in the form of waves. Over his right shoulder, a deep-sea blue cloak emblazoned with the sigil of House Alfarling, and on his hip, a longsword without any decoration, but the steel buckles were polished to match the silver buttons. Atop his head, a flat hat further decorated with a sapphire pin fastening three colourful feathers in blue, red, and green. He supposed he was lucky that his sister had not tossed his luggage over-board. Despite all the storm clouds that now occupied his mind, the quick dip in the Bramble Weave had at least done one thing, momentarily saved him from the sweltering heat. Whatever relief that had been was quickly disappearing underneath the merciless sun. Yet, he preferred the ride up to the Citadel, rather than slowly being boiled in the carriage, rather than being forced to spend another moment with his sister, like his mother now had to endure. But at least, she may speak some sense into her. Doubtful, but rarely was he without hope. Then again, where sense failed, perhaps their mother’s anger would succeed. She had been angry. He had seen it in the lines of her face as he emerged from the Weave, the way her mouth drew together, and her brow had furrowed ever so slightly. Her voice wouldn’t have betrayed it. Their father, however, had only seemed disappointed, having chosen to remain silent on their upwards journey towards the Citadel. He rode just in front of Cynric, mounted upon his own horse of the same breed as Cynric’s and Athelric’s. Stubborn creatures, smaller than most horses but sturdy, willing to brave almost storm with a stoicism rare even amongst men. Still, [url=https://i.imgur.com/gTkgzxn.jpeg] his father came dressed [/url] in quite the impressive manner with a long houppelande in sea-green, its edges worked with a decorative wave pattern. The flaring sleeves revealed a striking red beneath. Similarly to Cynric, his father wore a sword belted at his waist. His hat held a single blue feather, held in place by a silver pin with star and waves of House Alfarling. A collar of gold rested on his shoulders, the gold making up the chains and set with sapphires and panels of enamel, every second one holding a star or waves in white on black. Cynric turned his head to look at his elder brother, a brother he did not actually know that well, since he’d been away for years. It was odd, having a brother who had been away for so long, that he now appeared a stranger, who nevertheless was oddly familiar. [url=https://i.imgur.com/oelTqCJ.jpeg] Dressed in a doublet of black and gold [/url], with matching cloak and hat, he practically shone in the sunlight. His travels weren’t very visible in his attire, but rather in his sun-kissed skin and the sword he wore, obviously of an eastern make. Athelric turned his gaze from the Citadel before them and caught Cynric’s eyes. [color=#A97142]“A few years ago, I saw a siege of a fortress of similar size.”[/color] Athelric said, [color=#A97142] “Grand walls, several high towers that each was manned by a one hundred men with bows and spears.”[/color] He said and tilted his head to the side. [color=#A97142]“How many days do you think it took, before the city fell?”[/color] Cynric hummed softly, turning his head up to look at the Black Citadel as he considered the question, even as they approached its gates. Gawking, his sister would call it, but neither of them had seen the capital, let alone the Citadel. He had to crane his head back to take it all in. The Citadel rose from the mountainside like something made by giants, rather than men. For the first time since entering the valley, Cynric felt small facing something so impressive, in a way that mountains and great seas are impressive, by sheer scale. [color=#8a5fbf] “A year? two?”[/color] Cynric guessed. [color=#8a5fbf] “Perhaps five?”[/color] [color=#A97142] “Five days.”[/color] Athletic laughed. Cynric snapped his head back to look at him. [color=#8a5fbf] “Really?”[/color] [color=#A97142] “Could have been eight…” [/color] He said, then offered a slight shrug. [color=#A97142] “You see, the besiegers found their way in through the sewers and then managed to capture a gatehouse – then the city was open.”[/color] Athelric explained and glanced towards the Citadel. [color=#A97142] “Makes you wonder, if this place has a sewer.” [/color] Cynric turned to look back at the Citadel, and he wondered not about sewers but rather how much time was spent to build this fortress in the mountains? How many more castles could have been built, if this wasn’t built here but in the Valley? He supposed it was moot, since it was here and there was no shortage of forts, including at the Vise, and in many ways, the entire peninsula was just one large castle, its mountains serving as better protection than any man-built fortification ever would. His thoughts were interrupted by the Horns of Arrival, the signal echoing in-between the walls of Citadel and mountainside. Cynric dismounted in the courtyard beyond the gates, and then a storm descended. Pages appeared from nowhere and porters seized trunks before they Cynric had any time to even give it a thought. A citadel steward exchanged quick words with his father, directing retainers, marines and servants alike. As always, any good steward knew precisely where everything should go, and where everyone belonged, if only to make their own lives easier. Horses vanished towards the stable, and their luggage disappeared into corridors. His sister and mother emerged from the carriage, each dressed for the occasion of meeting the royal family, and festivities besides. Whatever anger he still felt for Aelfwynn, even he had to admit she made for a striking figure in an [url=https://i.imgur.com/yjg0Pxk.png] emerald gown [/url] with flaring and cut sleeves, the gown worked with brocade with patterns combining both waves and floral patterns, whereas the fabric that covered her arms had gold brocade with waves and seabirds. Around her neck, a gold necklace, set with emeralds. His mother was dressed in a high-necked [url=https://i.imgur.com/fIp7zhg.png] sea-blue gown[/url] with intricate brocade in silver thread, in the forms of waves, stars and seabirds. The gown had flaring sleeves, and atop her head she wore a blue and silver bourrelet. She didn’t spare a moment before quick steps carried her towards her father. Cynric hesitated only a moment before he closed the distance to his sister, instead of standing there alone in the small tempest of servants. He looked into her eyes, searching for any sign that she was sorry for what she had done. He didn’t find it, nor did he find any sign of the cruelty he’d seen previously. [color=#b51024]“You look good.”[/color] She said, a small, amused smile tugging on her features. An obvious barb but he saw no cruelty in it then. [color=#8a5fbf] “Despite your efforts.”[/color] He said, voice measured, not finding it as amusing as she did but unwilling to rise to the barb. [color=#b51024]“I never doubted you in this, at least.”[/color] She said with a low chuckle. [color=#8a5fbf] “I wish you’d realise we are not enemies and that you’d work with me, not against me.”[/color] He said sincerely, but his frustration bubbling to the surface. Aelfwynn smile faded. [color=#b51024] “You’re not my enemy, Cynric.”[/color] She said, and there remained some obvious affection in her eyes, but Cynric felt how it was poisoned or diluted. [color=#b51024] “Father is the blind one and given you all that I wanted.”[/color] [color=#8a5fbf] “I didn’t ask for it.”[/color] [color=#b51024] “No. But I didn’t stop deserving it.”[/color] She insisted. Cynric breathed in sharply, not blind to the less-than-veiled insinuation that he did not deserve it. Anger once more flared in his chest. It was the same argument every time, as if he had stolen something from her, as if he had schemed for the title when he had done nothing of the sort. He wanted to argue, to remind her – once again – that it wasn’t true. Yet he knew that it would change nothing. There was a brief pause. Aelfwynn seemed to see his struggle written across his face. She reached and placed a hand on his shoulder. For a moment, there was genuine affection in her eyes. [color=#b51024] “I will say this,”[/color] she said. [color=#b51024] “I won’t throw you into any more rivers today, baby brother.”[/color] It was a poor apology, perhaps the worst apology he had received but it was likely the closest that Aelfwynn was to offer. Against what was likely his better judgment, Cynric felt the corner of his mouth twitch, his anger slipping away. For the briefest moment, he saw his sister as he’d known her, years ago. Then the moment passed, swallowed by the greater concerns that awaited within the Black Citadel, besides which his squabbles with his sister suddenly seemed a small problem. For the moment anyway. [/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][b]interactions:[/b] none [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions:[/b] the royal family, briefly. [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs:[/b] none[/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [center] [img]https://i.imgur.com/34hMkJF.jpeg [/img] [/center] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=#6A737B] Beorthmear (#6A737B) [/color] [color=#66705A] Inga (#66705A) [/color] [color=#8a5fbf] Cynric (#8a5fbf) [/color] [color=#b51024] Aelfwynn (#b51024) [/color] [color=#A97142] Athelric (#A97142)[/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=#808080] In the Great Hall of the Black Citadel [/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080] Beorthmear led his family and household into the great hall, and as he cast his eyes about the hall, the first realisation that struck him was that they were the last to arrive, bordering on late. A result of delays caused not by the wind or any storm, but the petty rivalry between Aelfwynn and Cynric. They looked at tomorrow as if they were to live forever, allowing their squabble to define them and rule their actions. They did not understand that blood is what had to unite them, to guide them, and to inspire them. Blood, alongside love and unbridled ambition, could alter events in truly unexpected ways. When rivalry turned against blood, its fate altering quality was lost. As days became years, and years became centuries, strong bloodlines survived battles, expanded their sway, and showed their enemies not to test them. The squabbles between siblings did none of these things, only creating a chink in the armour that protected them. He was certain that amongst the Houses they now stepped, there were many that understood this fact, but also many who did not. His children had to understand and he would teach them, or this place would. This place – the great hall, the court, the citadel itself, was in concept no different to Greyharbour, except that no room in the old keep was like this, expanded well beyond what practicality demanded. In Greyharbour, pride and wealth showed itself within the extent of the practical, in the details more than the scale. Then again, Greyharbour had never hosted all the Great Houses to their fullest extent, nor needed to do so. There was also another difference at the heart of this place – it was the chessboard, it was the battlefield – the place where all the rivalries of the great houses came to be played out; it was the royal court. Beorthmear had been here before, many years ago. He had been here as a young man and during the time when Leoric was still King. The arches had not changed. The walls had not been torn down, only to be put back up. The stone was no different. Yet, the feeling within the citadel was different than he remembered it to be. Somehow lighter, brighter even than the last days of late King Leoric. As Beorthmear guided his family and household to stand on one side of the hall, he wondered if it was due to his own age that the feeling had shifted, or if it was due to the different king that inhabited the citadel. One sign that it was the latter was perhaps that they had arrived just in time, no doubt in part due to the king’s patience. [color=d6d6d6]“Presenting Princess Rhea Storvane… Escorted by the King’s first born son and the Captain of the King’s Guard, Declan Storvane.” [/color]Lord Dunstan said, marking the moment that the game began, the moment all the Great Houses and the royal family had been waiting for, however much they either dreaded it or eagerly awaited it. Lord Beorthmear spared a glance at his own children, uncertain how much eagerness or dread they held for the events to come. Aelfwynn he thought, the most wilful of them all surely treasured the opportunity. Cynric he felt was too uncertain about his own place to be eager. Athelric however, for him there was a new light of hope in Beorthmear’s heart. His attention returned to the members of House Storvane, as they found their ways to the dais, first the children, and then the King and Queen themselves. The King spoke and House Alfarling listened. Beorthmear did not think that Rowan saw either old friend or trusted ally in himself, but rather a supporter for an old foe, the tyrant that they had weathered, and thus a reminder of the past. Nevertheless, Rowan, he thought, was wise to see past old shadows to see an honest vassal as well. Beorthmear, for his part, welcomed the call for honest conversation and new friendships. Yet, he knew Inga’s thoughts without even looking in her direction, and she was right, that there would be plenty of deceit and enemies made along the way all the same. Beorthmear made no move to be amongst the first to claim the floor. For him, for Salt Spire, for the Alfarling, that was not necessary and he was no close confidant or friend of the King. So, he waited with patience and grace, and the simple certainty that their time would come soon enough. That was that. Certainty is what always marked House Alfarling and if a thing was certain, there wasn’t any need to be first. Instead, Beorthmear and the other members of House Alfarling attended to the introductions of each House, and the repeated royal introductions with due attention. House Kenra came first, as loyalists often do. The appearance of Valerius was by all appearances an accident, and it was the King’s favour that it was not one taken as a slight. Then again, Rowan had the reputation to be a good man, and were he not, only fools alienate their own loyalists. Rowan was not a fool, rather a man whose first reaction was kindness, not scorn, and this quality came on display again when House Al’Seran came forward, and made a singular mistake, potentially a damning one. Yet, Rowan had an ability to wash it away. Beorthmear knew kindness, in some, was a detriment. However, for Rowan, kindness and grace invited unity around the man, unlike the late King Leoric who had only ever inspired division. This was worthy of some admiration, whereas the Queen’s response was more akin to an unsheathed blade – distasteful. Lady Inga watched the exchange between House Storvane and Al’Seran with some interest, because it showed her things, some obvious, some less so. Most obvious was how the Queen responded to even the suggestion of disrespect – by responding in kind. No surprise there of course, it was only in line with reputation. More notable was the Princesses. One taking after her mother, the other her father. This was as clear as the day following a storm. Princess Rhea had all the potential of a peace maker, not unlike her father, to inspire with grace, rather than attempt to impress pride. Then came Einarr and the sons and daughters of Ironcrag. By reputation, the Lord of Ironcrag was a hard and difficult man, but he had followed Rowan into rebellion without any hesitation, for no reason that Inga had ever understood. To her, Einarr and Rowan were opposites in many ways. Nevertheless, in response to Ironcrag declaring for Rowan, House Alfarling and the royal fleet had burned Malmvik and portions of the Ironcrag fleet had been sunk or captured by ships flying the black and silver. Similarly to House Kenra, the introductions went about as expected, until the Queen decided to raise the question of Emil nearly being trampled to death. The young man was obviously alive, nor did he look terribly injured. The Queen’s demand for an apology, where none had been demanded and the King had already thanked Emil, was a scene of petty cruelty inflicted on the girl. Inga tilted her head to the side, to see the reactions of her own children to this display. They all tried to discipline their expressions, but she could read them easily enough. Athelric’s brows were ever so slightly raised in surprise. Cynric’s mouth was a thin line of distaste, whereas Aelfwynn turned her eyes away from dais at that moment. Good, she had not raised cruel children. Inga’s eyes returned to this most public scene of the Queen’s humiliation of her own daughter. She took a deeper breath and breathed out slowly. Why was the Queen humiliating her own daughter? Inga suspected she knew why, and it was a two-fold reason, but she wasn’t yet certain. Nevertheless, Rhea apologised and Inga thought she had done it well, yet the Queen undermined it with venom. However sad it was the Princess suffered in this moment, ultimately, Inga felt certain that this would never humiliate Rhea as much as it humiliated the Queen herself, because public cruelty never came across well, and the Phorian Queen had shown her claws, publicly no less. She almost wished to thank her. Almost. When House Ganasen came forward next, Beorthmear regarded them carefully, as a man may eye his opponent in a joust. A small smile tugged at his features when Lord Zaid claimed no wave or wind could unsettle them. There was little doubt that they were a naval house, their ships were soon just as common as his own on the Kraken Sea. During the war, their ships had been exceptionally stealthy, and fast besides. He wondered if Lord Zaid, and by extension all of House Gansen were as crafty and quick as their ships. House Velmorra was next, and it was obvious from the onset that they, much like House Kenra, did not come as mere vassals, but as dear friends and close companions. They were greeted like family. The thoughts that he had voiced to his wife months ago resurfaced. What possible trust would be extended their way, when the competition was this? Yet, the Lord of Salt Spire pushed the thought aside, having long since placed his trust in Inga’s judgement in matters such as these. She had a different vision of these things. The much more familiar House Tyrcell of Harrowfield was the next to step forward, led by Lord Tern. Beorthmear had never liked the late Lord Hamil, who had been so prepared to sit on sidelines rather than acting in favour of the oaths he had sworn, or at least oppose Leoric in the name of conviction. Lord Tern on the other hand, had always struck him as a more reasonable sort, even back then, and now Beorthmear counted House Tyrcell amongst his friends. House Varrow had an almost lazy certainty about them that Beorthmear appreciated, were it not for the fact he held no trust for them. Daemric had declared for Rowan rather than following in step behind their former liege. The shadows of the past did not herald the future, but those who betrayed one master will not hesitate to do it again, especially after they had been rewarded. There, he thought, Rowan’s kindness may have failed him. Then again, only a fool alienates their own supporters, and that the Varrows had been. Cynric Alfarling was quiet, not only because it was expected but because there were too many eyes in the room the moment he stepped into it, even when they were not focused on him. Yet. Once it was time for House Alfarling to make their introductions, those eyes would be on them, on him. The mere thought of it made his stomach clench, and his heart race. He forced his eyes from one person to the next, confirming to himself they were not all looking at him – and slowly he was able to relax the white-knuckled grip on the pommel of his sword until he merely rested the palm of his hand upon it. His gaze wandered from face to face, to the sigils worked into their clothing and to the banners that hung from the walls. He knew every one of them – not the faces, but the sigils, the lineages and the histories. He had read of them in genealogies and histories of the Ninefold. Now the names had faces, and the faces came with voices and wills of their own. Somehow, that made the hall seem smaller and made the dynasties of the Ninefold far less distant. He took a deep breath, doing his best to calm himself, and he was thankful in that moment that Athelric and Aelfwynn were both here, to claim their own portion of attention once their time came. When Princess Rhea and the King’s son came down the stairs, he was glad that all eyes turned their way – though he felt a certain amount of sympathy for the two of them. There was little question that Cynric enjoyed the attention of people, but not when there was so many, their opinions and thoughts hidden behind silence and formality. Then Cynric saw Rhea’s smile brighten, before a quick laugh escaped her, hidden then beneath a quicker hand. It was impressive, in a way, that she found her laugh amongst so many eyes. The sight of it, the sound of it, summoned a small smile on his own features because a bright smile and a laugh were like the sun coming through the clouds. Princess Maeve and Prince Dorian descended next. One had an undeniable elegance and grace that was the other side of the coin to her sister. Prince Dorian, however, stole Cynric’s attention away from her, an effortless charm practically emanating from the man. Briefly, Cynric met the Prince’s eyes and wondered if that was the way to face the eyes of so many, by brazenly drawing the attention. The King and Queen came next, and then the introductions began and as House Kenra came forward, Cynric quickly noted the attire of Valerius, and after his story was told Cynric only had one thought; poor man. He had Cynric’s sympathy as well as his admiration in handling the situation so well. Cynric only had to think back on his own coerced dip in the Bramble Weave. He wasn’t so certain that he would have remained so steady, underdressed in the face of so many, and the royal family besides. The introductions went on, mostly without cause for concern, though there were moments that resembled grey skies before a storm. For now, however, the stormwinds remained little more than a breeze, and that calmed him. He did his best to follow the introductions and slowly began to consider his own future. He supposed a match with a Princess would be ideal, and no doubt that is what his mother wanted. However, his eyes passed across the members of the other Great Houses. Surely, there was potential opportunities amongst them as well, Ganasen, Velmorra, Kenra, Varrow and the rest besides. He supposed even Tyrcell was a potential option, though he suspected it wasn’t the first match his mother would suggest. Time would tell. For now, he resolved only to keep an open mind. There were more possibilities here than he had imagined. Aelfwynn was attentive to the introductions, but her eyes shifted between the different Houses, doing her very best to understand each of them. In this, she thought she was much more akin to her mother than she liked to admit, always considering her options and the options of others. Nevertheless, she thought she understood what this ceremony was, what these months would be, were akin to the seabirds of Salt Spire; they all presented themselves as the birds with the best nest, the finest feathers, and the strongest wings, only in more complicated a fashion. Briefly, she entertained the idea of Dorian as a match. He had comforted his sister in the aftermath of the Queen’s cruelty, showing the warmth of his father was present in him as well. That was a good thing, and certainly he was handsome. However, what worried her was the uncertain amount of ambition in the man. She knew what she wanted – a partner, not just to help her rise, but a partner in truth. Indeed, not unlike what her parents seemed to possess. Surely, this would only be possible with someone who sought the same and had ambition in their heart. Perhaps all the discipline had gone to Dorian’s elder brother, now a glorified soldier, and all the ambition to the Princess, whose proud poise took after her mother? Then, there was the fact of Dorian’s reputation. But there were other choices for her. She hardly had to turn her head to see such a choice across the hall, her eyes passing across the members of House Velmorra as they retreated from the throne. Two sons, and she was certain both would attempt to seek a match with a Princess, but she wondered if House Storvane would be so willing to only connect with one house, which would leave for instance, one Velmorran son without a match. This wasn’t true only to House Velmorra of course, and any House that secured a match with Storvane, and had another son, could potentially be ideal, each with their own strengths. Athelric Alfarling stood furthest most away from the rest of his family, his stance open and relaxed. He met the gaze of anyone that would look his way, a smile easily coming to his features. He smiled openly at the display and introduction between the royals and the lordlings all, but in truth, he had no interest in the game that would be played here except for the small part he wished to gain from it. His father harboured high hopes, no doubt, but that was his father always, and why he hadn’t learned from Athelric’s previous escape, he did not know. Secretly, he held a disdain for the theatre of court, the dishonesty of it all. How many lies had already been told? How many hatreds, loves, and secrets were hidden behind these formal bows and formal words? All suppressed in the name of politeness, and the resultant lack of honesty. He was guilty of the same crime of course, but that was the way of the world and him opening himself up to be gutted like a fish was hardly going to help matters. No, it was simply a shame, and he’d play the game for what he could get out of it. One way or another, he’d have his ships and make a more honest world elsewhere. He knew he had something of a reputation, as an adventurer, but there were darker rumours as well. Let people believe what they wished, he thought, and any interest it garnered was only a good thing. His father turned his head to look over his family and Athelric knew that was their turn before he said it. They were the last House to come before the throne. [color=#6A737B] “It is time.”[/color] Beorthmear said, somewhat needlessly, and stepped forward into the centre of the hall. Athelric had always had disagreements with his father, but in moments like this, he always admired his father. He moved with certainty and ease, not necessarily born out of pride but rather the certainty born from commanding men on ships. This place was a lot of things, but it was no ship in storm, which was a more challenging proposition, and so, he moved with ease. His mother, ever his father’s shadow strode to be on his father’s right side. In contrast to her husband, she was short, almost small. Those that did not know her, in person or by reputation, may even be forgiven for describing her as appearing inconsequential, if only ever in contrast to her husband. Her steps were certain, her spine straight and there was some amount of elegance around her still, though age was taking its toll on her. Cynric seemed to steel himself, visibly straightening himself before following into his position on his father’s left. The façade was composed, but he recognised the way his fingers traced the pommel of sword, instead of merely resting. He knew the expression well, the eyes forever wandering, taking in every face and every corner of the hall, too restless to be wholly calm. Aelfwynn on the other hand brought a smile to Athelric’s lips as she took up her position on their mother’s right. She was very much like their mother, though Aelfwynn would probably try to hit him, if he suggested as much to her. She stepped with that same certainty of her parents, her mother’s elegance and the calmness that their young brother attempted to find. Athelric came last, taking up position next to Cynric as they approached the throne. He looked up to meet the gaze of each royal, if they looked his way. Behind him, the hornbearer of House Alfarling, momentarily seemed as if was about to reach for the carved and silver decorated olifant at his belt, then seemed to think better of it. The Lord of Salt Spire took a step forward as he spoke in greeting. [color=#6A737B] “Your Majesty,”[/color] Beorthmear said formally, before bowed deeply. His left hand remained on the pommel of his sword, while his right removed his hat from his head in a sweeping motion that accentuated the flaring sleeves of his houppelande. [color=#6A737B] “House Alfarling was most honoured to accept your invitation, so that we could come and gather here today. Furthermore, it is an honour to be able to present my House, to yours.”[/color] The King descended the dais one last time, his smile just as wide and welcoming as it had been with the first house for the last as well. Rowan was no fool, he knew the history between their two families well. Battle made allies and enemies of the lot of them, it was the way of war. But in the end, when it mattered, House Alfarling pledged fealty and came into the fold. Now, whether or not his wife agreed with his decision to spare Lord Beorthmaer was irrelevant. His first decree as the new King of Aethoria was not going to be following in a tyrant’s footsteps, executing anyone that defied him. In the end, the Lord had pledged himself loyally and not shown to be otherwise in the decades since. Rowan could feel the eyes of his counselors and trusted advisors who advised against him inviting House Alfarling, but where they stood tense and unsure, he greeted them as he had all others. Because this was the time of new friendships and alliances, and the death of old feuds. When his feet settled firmly against the stone, level and eye to eye with Lord Beorthmaer, the King bowed in humble greeting. [color=dbbc77]"Lord Beorthmaer, House Alfarling,"[/color] he greeted the head of the house, clapping his hands lightly together before letting his gaze drift to every member with the same unbridled welcome. [color=dbbc77]"The honor is all mine. I am grateful that you were able to make the journey. I do hope your family will not be too displeased being landlocked with us for the following months. The Weave is beautiful, but it is no ocean,"[/color] he mused with a soft chuckle that made it sound like they were almost old friends, not two men that once stood on opposite sides of a war. [color=#6A737B]"No sailor worth his salt is ever deaf to the sea, Your Majesty," [/color] Beorthmear said with a wry smile. [color=#6A737B]"Should any of us become distracted by its call, the blame shall lie only with old habits alone. It shall never be a mark against your company nor your hospitality." [/color] He said, inclining his head to Rowan. Rowan waved it off like he had every confidence that they would become fast friends and there would be no shortage of revelry and feasting to entertain them all during their stay. [color=dbbc77]"I do not believe we have had the privilege to meet one another’s families. Allow me the honor of introducing you to my family."[/color] The King stepped aside as to not block the view of his family that remained patiently atop the dais. His left hand swept through the air, palm open and upturned, as it directed their attention toward the Queen. [color=dbbc77]"My beautiful wife, and the Queen, Valenya Storvane, formerly of the Phorian Coast."[/color] The Queen slowly stepped forward until the hem of her skirts brushed the edge of the top step. While her expression and temperament had lost some of its tact throughout the course of the introductions, her poise still remained firmly in place as she lowered herself into a perfectly executed curtsy. Her face remained stoic and unchanging, endeavoring to hide the displeasure at the sight of House Alfarling standing before her, welcomed as openly as the Lords they fought alongside during the war. It was dishonorable and disrespectful to the men that fought for them. This man, this [i]Lord Beorthmaer[/i], should have been beheaded along with any other Leoric loyalists. Yet there he stood, like he had earned his place through blood and honor as the Lords that stood behind him had. She said nothing, but there was a distrustful sharpness to her gaze not unlike harshness that reared its head toward Lord Al’Seren, or even her own daughter. As she slowly retreated to her place, the King’s hand moved toward his son who stood opposite her, leaning a shoulder against the throne with one thumb lazily hooked in his ornate belt. [color=dbbc77]"Dorian, my second born son, and heir to the Ninefold."[/color] When he was mentioned, Dorian pushed off the throne and made his way to the top of the steps like he had for every other introduction. His thumb slowly slipped free from his belt as his hand rose to press against his chest before he lowered himself into a deep bow. While standing back upright, his gaze swept across House Alfarling. He took in the youngest son and the daughter first, noting how they presented themselves as nearly every other Lord and Lady that approached the dais with the expected poise and presentation that someone like his mother demanded. But then his eyes settled on the eldest son, on the way he seemed, relaxed, open, and entirely unbothered. His skin was tanned from life on the sea, or perhaps from life beyond whatever Aethoria had to offer. There was something curious beyond that smile that tugged at his own adventurousness and the baser desires he often busied his time with. For a brief moment, something almost imperceivable and gone in a breath passed across Dorian’s face as the corner of his mouth curled into a curious smirk. [color=846d49]"It is a pleasure to meet you, my Lords and my Ladies."[/color] He bowed his head one last time, letting his gaze find the eldest son once more before he turned and made his way back to where he stood beside the throne. If Rowan had noticed the exchange or not, his expression did not say as he beckoned his daughters forward with a warm smile and a gentle wave of his hand. [color=dbbc77]"And then my lovely daughters, Maeve and Rhea."[/color] When motioned forward, both women stepped forward in the practiced unison like they had throughout the evening. As each of their names were mentioned, their fingers curled lightly around their skirts before lowering into a polite curtsy with their heads bowed. While Maeve’s face remained an emotionless replica of her mother’s, Rhea—despite the humiliation her mother had been determined to burden her with—smiled with a gentle warmth that mirrored the open sincerity her father exuded effortlessly. Maeve might have had the same judgements and reservations their mother had, but Rhea merely saw another family that needed welcoming in a strange new place surrounded by people they likely didn’t know. [color=#6A737B] “It gladdens me to make the acquaintance of your family, Your Majesty. You have raised a fine family, of whom any father might be proud." [/color] He said warmly, pausing only briefly to let his words settle. [color=#6A737B] Now, Your Majesty, permit me the honour of introducing my own family.”[/color] [color=#6A737B] “My wife, Lady Inga Alfarling.”[/color] He said, and Inga stepped forward curtsied, low and proper, before raising her gaze to each member of the royal family in turn, her expression composed. She was perfectly courtly, slow and measured in a way that could be seen as impressive for a woman of advancing age. [color=#66705A] “Your Majesty, I look forward to the enduring friendships that will be forged during our time here.”[/color] She said, her voice calm and warm, motherly, almost reassuring. [color=#6A737B] “The Tanist of Salt Spire, my son and heir, Lord Cynric Alfarling.”[/color] Beorthmear went on. Cynric stepped forward, his face serious, his nerves carefully in hand. He executed a well-practiced bow, removing his in a sweeping gesture. It was deep and respectful. He straightened, glanced almost instinctively toward his father, then turned his attention back to the royal family, and the royal children in particular – Rhea, Maeve, Dorian. He took a steadying breath. [color=#8a5fbf] “It is an honour, Your Majesties.” [/color] He said, his voice measured, though quieter than he intended. When his eyes settled upon Rhea, he remembered her laughter, and despite himself a small smile found its way onto his face. [color=#6A737B] “My beautiful daughter, Lady Aelfwynn.”[/color] Beorthmear went on. Aelfwynn stepped forward and executed a near-perfect curtsey. It was elegant, though not quite as measured as her mother’s. She inclined her head respectfully before rising with effortless poise. Her gaze moved from Rhea to Maeve, and finally to Prince Dorian, lingering on him for a heartbeat longer before lowering her eyes once more. [color=#6A737B] “Lord Athelric Alfarling. My son.”[/color] Beorthmear continued. It amused Athelric that his father found it necessary to remind everyone – including Athelric himself – that he was indeed his son, as if it were a demand for him to heed. Still, he stepped forward and bowed, deeply, but quickly, making a sweep with both hat and cloak. He straightened with an easy, broad smile that showed his teeth. [color=#A97142] “Your Majesty, as my father has said, we are most grateful for your invitation.”[/color] He said and inclined his head toward the King. [color=#A97142] “It is an honour to accept your hospitality, though I believe that hospitality and generosity is best repaid in kind.”[/color] He said, pausing for a heartbeat, [color=#A97142] “If it pleases Your Majesties, allow me the honour of presenting gifts from my House to yours, freely given and without expectation.”[/color] A single brow rose as Rowan’s attention turned solely to the eldest Alfarling son. He studied the young man for a moment, before looking toward his Lord father curiously. There was no malice or distrust behind his expression, simply a bewilderment that caught him by surprise. His smile widened, curling sharp and bright into the thicket of his beard. [color=dbbc77]"Your family’s presence is gift enough, but it would be rude to refuse such kindness. I, along with the rest of my family, greatly appreciate your generosity."[/color] Only with the King’s blessing did he turn, ever so briefly, towards some of the Alfarling household servants who had accompanied them. They seemed to scurry with covered items, as Athelric turned his attention back to the members of House Storvane. Athelric awaited them for a brief moment, knowing what items they carried, most taken in unwilling trade, aboard ships taken by boarding. [color=#A97142] “Your Majesty, in my voyages, I have had the great fortune to visit the most distant ports of Myr and Zamar.”[/color] He said, and it was no lie. Two servants came forth carrying what was a small table with a covered item atop it. They set it down with care. [color=#A97142] “In Myr, the most educated men in the world have devised great wonders.”[/color] He said, and with a gesture of his hand, the item was unveiled. The object was about the size of a large lantern, fashioned in worked brass and bronze into the likeness of a many-spired temple, its towers decorated with silver and gilt. At its centre a circular dial of engraved metal, with a single hand to move across its face. Behind it, delicate gears turned in plain view. [color=#A97142] “A mechanical table clock, Your Majesty,.”[/color] He said with a polite bow of his head. [color=#A97142]“The newest of its kind.”[/color] The King stepped forward, extending a single hand toward the ornate device with some hesitance, as if it were some sort of witchcraft or perhaps out of fear of breaking the fine craftsmanship with the work-hewn roughness of his hands. [color=dbbc77]"How marvelous,"[/color] he mused with a curious smile. [color=dbbc77]"I shall have to task Lord Farraday with learning its inner workings so that I might one day utilize it properly. It is quite something to behold."[/color] Rowan had only motioned his hand toward the table and royal servants who had all but disappeared along the far edges of the Great Hall manifested. Three in total stepped forward, two taking up the table while the third kept the clock steady, then carefully carried it out a servant’s entrance, where it would find its way to the royal bedchambers before the feast had concluded. Athletic’s gaze shifted to the Queen, and another servant stepped forward, holding a small jewelry box. [color=#A97142]“Your Majesty, please accept this small gift.”[/color] He said, and the servant opened the box to reveal a small collection of Phorian pearls. [color=#A97142] “Whatever sacrifices had to be made, your memories shall forever be your own. I hope this small piece of the sea shall be a reminder of that now distant coast of once your home.” [/color] Athelric said, his voice measured, his smile easy and accompanied by another polite bow of his head. The Queen did not step toward the edge of the dais a second time, instead craning her neck forward to look beyond the stairs, around her husband toward the modest box held by a servant. [i]Pearls.[/i] Her expression was unchanging aside from the small shift of her jaw, rising just slightly enough that her gaze now glided down the slope of her nose to the man beneath her. Phorian pearls perhaps, but pearls nonetheless. They were unremarkable. She had far more extravagant and ornate jewelry, and while the gift was forgetful, his words were not. The young man spoke as though he knew her, knew how homesickness could sink into the bones like rot and fester until death took her. He knew nothing of her memories, of her life before crossing the Kraken Sea as a prize of war. She had half a mind to descend the stairs and smash those very pearls beneath her heel, but she did not. She only gave the smallest nod of her head in acknowledgement before letting her attention move elsewhere. Rowan’s shoulders tensed while his smile began fading every moment that passed where his wife was silent and ungrateful. He drew in a sharp breath, forced his warmth to return across his tired features, then met Athelric’s gaze instead. [color=dbbc77]"They are lovely. My wife merely aches at the mention of her birthplace. Please forgive her."[/color] Athelric had his doubts that was the reason for her silence, the reason why her face was more like cold stone than anything resembling thankfulness. He didn't fully blame her. No, he had almost expected it. He trusted his mother would be proud, for once. Nevertheless, once King Rowan had spoken, there was only one response. Athelric inclined his head in a respectful manner towards the King and Queen. [color=#A97142] “My Prince!”[/color] Athelric said, now turning his attention to Prince Dorian, meeting the man’s eyes. Yet, unlike before no servant stepped forward carrying a covered gift nor did any attendant come with one in his hands. [color=#A97142]“I hope you will forgive me, that I was unable to bring your gift with me.”[/color] He said, a small smirk playing around his features. [color=#A97142] “In the next hour, if it has not already arrived, a galley will moor in the harbour, having sailed up the Bramble Weave.”[/color] He said, the smirk spreading into a wider grin. [color=#A97142] “She is yours.”[/color] He declared, extending his hands in an easy gesture, almost as if presenting the ship itself. [color=#A97142] “I hope she serves you well, whether she carries you to the Spire or beyond, or no further than the Bramble and the Bay, and always with fair winds.”[/color] He said, holding the Prince's gaze. Dorian’s face brightened with an excitement that had been absent since the moment he was dragged back into the Citadel by his brother earlier that day. The single loose curl that rested against his cheek bounced as a chuckle rumbled in his chest, sounding remarkably close to his father’s own laugh. He shook his head in disbelief as his gaze drifted to the far side of the dais where his brother stood at attention by the wall. They exchange a brief knowing glance that shared an entire conversation before he looked back toward the Lord before him. [color=846d49]"I must confess, my Lord. I have never been aboard a ship."[/color] His shoulders raised in a small shrug like it was obvious given where he lived and the fact that he was a royal, so he rarely left the valley. [color=846d49]"You must share some of your knowledge during your stay so that she does not turn into an expensive river decoration."[/color] Athelric chuckled. [color=#A97142]"Then we'll have to ensure she doesn't become one."[/color] He said, inclining his head. [color=#A97142]"I remain at your service, Your Highness. It would be my pleasure to show you what I know."[/color] He said, a knowing smile lingering on his face for a heartbeat longer before he turned his eyes to Princess Maeve. [color=#A97142] “Your Highness,”[/color] He said as he offered a polite bow of his head to Princess Maeve. [color=#A97142] “Like your father’s gift, these come from the ports of Myr and Zamar.”[/color] He said, as a servant stepped forward from behind him, unveiling a collection of scrolls and books, some obviously of the series, others not. [color=#A97142] “Illuminated volumes, scribed by the Scions and Masters of Myr. Some written in tongues I do not comprehend, but great treasures all the same.”[/color] He declared, gesturing to the leather-bound volumes, amongst which lay also a few scrolls, likely of considerable age. After all, who used scrolls in this day and age? Athelric didn’t rightly know, and when he’d glanced through the volumes, the two or three he’d actually been able to read had seemed interesting enough. Just not interesting enough for him to actually [i]read[/i] them. The rest had been in scripts he could not fathom, or needed the understanding of some foreign tongue to not become gibberish when read. Still, such things were valued by some, even if they were beyond his own comprehension. At first, Maeve’s interest was piqued. Would she receive pearls of her own or other fine jewelry like her mother? It only seemed fitting for a Princess afterall. She noticed how whatever the servant was carrying was more substantial in size and her brows rose. Then the veil was lifted, revealing books and scrolls and whatever other texts… parchment and ink, leatherbound. What use was that to her? Unlike her mother, she was unable to hide the wave of displeasure that crossed her face, while Dorian beside her stifled a laugh behind a cough and the butt of his hand. [color=2d5a32]"What in the nine hells am I supposed to do with a bunch old dusty books,"[/color] she muttered only loud enough for her siblings to hear, disdain visible in the sneer that curled her lips and furrowed her brows. Meanwhile, Rhea had shifted to the tip of her toes, leaning one way and then the other as she tried to get a better view of the various books. She was much too far away to read any titles, but she could see vibrant colors, gold leafing, and intricate bindings unlike anything she had ever seen. Her brows rose curiously as an intrigued smile curled at the corners of her mouth. [color=10636f]"Imagine what’s written on those pages,"[/color] she whispered with quiet wonder. She studied them for a moment longer before looking over at her sister with genuine intrigue. [color=10636f]"Uncle Dunstan could help you translate them… It would be like a mystery."[/color] There was a second where the girl inside of Maeve nearly slipped free, the girl that was once an older sister, not a woman seeking advantage and a powerful marriage. She nearly told Rhea to take them if they interested her so much, but then something darker and far more ugly twisted in her stomach, like a poison that had long since taken root. She couldn’t—[i]wouldn’t[/i]—let her sister have them, if only because that would mean Rhea would receive two gifts and her none. Instead, she did her best to force the most appreciative smile she could manage, while mumbling a response beneath her breath. [color=2d5a32]"I would rather drown myself in the Weave."[/color] [color=#A97142] “Princess Rhea.”[/color] He said, moving on to the next royal family member. He smiled warmly, and extended a hand to the servant that came forth, revealing a bird upon a wooden perch. A hood covered its eyes, keeping it calm. [color=#A97142] “A mountain falcon from the southernmost peaks of Volskor.”[/color] He said, looking at the bird with fondness for a heartbeat. It was almost black, yet as it ruffled its feathers, their colours shifted with a metallic sheen, each feather shimmering with various shades of blue. [color=#A97142] “I feel certain that she shall find herself at home here, amongst the mountains of Thornvale.”[/color] He said easily, offering a bow of his head. Unlike the rest of the Storvane House that had retained some level of decorum throughout the presentation of their gifts, the moment the bird was brought forward, Rhea’s eyes widened with unbidden delight. Athletic hadn’t even finished what he was saying and she was already grabbing handfuls of her skirts, hurrying to the edge of the dais, and down the stairs. She stopped several feet away, not wanting to scare the creature in her own excitement as she approached. The rest of the distance was closed slowly like a woman who was all too familiar with the handling of delicate, easily frightened animals. Her hand slowly rose and a single fingertip ran along its feathers. [color=10636f]"Male, no doubt,"[/color] she commented softly, pointing towards the glimmers of rich colors whenever the feathers caught the light just right. [color=10636f]"He’s beautiful,"[/color] she added with a grateful smile as she looked over at Lord Athelric. While the Queen and Maeve’s reactions left the King more tense than he cared to be, seeing his daughter’s excitement reignited a gentle warmth and admiration that bloomed across his face. He watched her with the sort of unspoken pride that only a parent could have. When she was truly lost petting the falcon with the same affection she showed her horse, Rowan turned his attention to Athelric and the rest of the Alfarling family. [color=dbbc77]"You could not have chosen someone more deserving. My daughter has a deep love for all of Lacra’s creations."[/color] He took a slow step toward Rhea and placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder. [color=dbbc77]"I shall send word to the aviary and have them gather all that you require."[/color] Rhea nodded her head in acknowledgement and looked back toward Lord Athelric once more. [color=10636f]"Thank you, my Lord."[/color] Her smile widened with a brightness that had been snuffed in the wake of her mother’s harassment. She gently squeezed her father’s arm, then grabbed handfuls of her skirts and ascended the steps of the dais. Athelric inclined his head to Rhea with a warm smile. He was glad the bird had, after all, gone to someone who truly deserved it, and would care for it. It was a mighty creature, deserving of it. Then, after a moment's pause. [color=#A97142] “Captain Declan.”[/color] He said at last, his voice respectful. [color=#A97142] “I can not imagine offering a finer gift than one that has already served me faithfully.”[/color] He said, and unbuckled his own sword belt, and lifted it from his hip to hold it before him. [color=#A97142] “It is my hope that it shall serve you, and your House just as faithfully.”[/color] He said. The sword was slightly curved, rather than straight. Its scabbard was worked with brass and bronze fittings over leather which itself had been tooled with geometrically complex patterns. The hilt itself was functional with a lightly outward curving cross-guard of polished steel, a grip of wrapped silver wire, and a pommel, etched with lions. Declan had long since settled back into the role of remaining unseen like a servant, but ever vigilant. He stood at the far edge of the dais, with his back to the wall and his left hand resting upon the hilt of his sword. He watched his family receive their gifts with a quiet smile that curved unnoticed behind his beard. While not all of them were grateful, seeing the delight on most of their faces made his own happiness grow. He had assumed that was the end of it, the gifts and the introductions. The Captain had started rolling his shoulders and adjusting his armor, preparing for the migration from the Great Hall to the Ballroom, when the sound of his name cut through the soft rattling of his plate. He looked up with furrowed brows, curiosity plain as day across his face. For a moment, Declan wondered if he had simply misheard, but then he saw his father’s proud smile followed by his hand motioning him over. He drew in a deep breath and nodded his head, before crossing the dais and descending the stairs. Even if he thought this had to be a mistake, he never stood above those stationed above him. When Declan settled upon the stone ground beside his father, he leaned forward into a proper bow, lowering his head in deference. [color=42557d]"Yes, my Lord."[/color] The Captain’s gaze fell to the Lord’s belt as he began to unfasten it. His eyes widened slightly and on instinct he nearly reached out, insisting that Athelric must have been mistaken, that he was simply a guard and undeserving of the gift. But then to his side the King never looked happier seeing someone acknowledge him as more than just the Captain, because even after renouncing his title, his father refused to treat him as less than his son. Declan drew in a sharp breath and shifted slightly before bowing his head a second time. [color=42557d]"I… Thank you, my Lord. You are far too gracious. I hope to wield it well."[/color] He slowly reached out and wrapped his fingers around the leather sheath. Before he had the opportunity to overthink the complications of abandoning his position momentarily to take the sword to his chambers because it was not regulation, his father had motioned over a servant with a kind smile. [color=dbbc77]"Would you please take this to the Captain’s chambers."[/color] Declan let out a quiet, awkward laugh as he nodded a silent thanks to his father, then gave one last bow before returning to his post. Athelric met this one last bow with one of his own, before he retreated to the rest of his kin. That was that, and he thought he'd done his House a favour. The obligations of this ceremony had been met. Whatever came next, he suspected, would be considerably more enjoyable. [/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][b]interactions:[/b] House Storvane [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions:[/b] House Storvane (Rowan, Valenya, Rhea, Maeve, Dorian); House Kenra (Valerius); House Al’Seran, briefly; House Járnbjørn (Einarr, Emil); House Ganasen (Zaid); House Velmorra; House Tyrcell (Tern); House Varrow (Daemric). [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs:[/b] mjolnir [/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [center] [img]https://i.imgur.com/qxk0HRO.gif [/img] [/center] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=#8a5fbf] Cynric (#8a5fbf) [/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=#808080] Black Citadel, Great Hall & Ballroom [/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080] The House of Alfarling approached the ballroom together with unhurried steps. There was no purpose in rushing. They were not commoners scrambling for the day’s catch. Their places would wait for them, be they first or last to enter. Nor, Cynric suspected, was it any accident that House Alfarling happened to intersect with House Tyrcell on their way. In front of him, his parents exchanged greetings with Lord Tern and Lady Sable, while Athelric leaned close to Araminth, perhaps to see the young Hector. Branwen and Aelfwynn stepped closer to one another and Cynric saw easy smiles before he turned his eyes on Corbin, a warm smile already blooming across his features. He felt a sudden surge of confidence and ease when faced with these familiar faces, confidence that only moments before had seemed to abandon him. [color=#8a5fbf] “Corbin,”[/color] he said, his voice carrying a warmth like the heat of the summer day. His gaze passed to Junia, and her bright smile was responded to in kind. [color=#8a5fbf] “Lady Junia.”[/color] He said, almost formally, and dipped his head. [color=#8a5fbf] “It is a joy to see you again.”[/color] He said, his eyes passing between the two of the Tyrcell siblings to whom he felt closest. Junia remained as bright as ever, and her mischievous countenance was hardly muted. Corbin, by contrast, was quieter, but no less welcome a sight. He was practically always a pleasant sight, with a gentle smile, bright eyes and wavy hair – and he was the only person that he thought truly understood him. There had only ever been one occasion when Corbin had truly driven him to anger. The tournament, when he had surrendered over a damned butterfly, despite holding the advantage. He pushed the memory aside before it spoiled the reunion. [color=#8a5fbf] “Both of you look very well-prepared for all the feasting and courting.”[/color] He said, leaving it unsaid he felt nothing of the sort. In this place, he already felt that he was out of his element. [color=#8a5fbf] “In between all of it, I fully intend to steal some of your attention and time, to catch up at least.”[/color] He said with warmth, before looking to Corbin. [color=#8a5fbf] “And I missed my favourite sparring partner.”[/color] The response came in a flurry of satin as Junia swept over him to adorn the air beside his hollowed cheek with kisses. She'd been nudging her siblings since spying black and silver in the rabble and barely containing herself from shocking them from behind. [color=#38AAC7]“Don't be so delicate with us, Cynric,”[/color] she chided, her pupils blown up in a way he knew was trouble. [color=#38AAC7]“Our reunions were once so eager we'd part with lumps on our heads.”[/color] She glanced to the others: their parents exchanging sentiments of genuine friendship, Amarinth with a smile that was battling against saying something that would ruin the occasion as she introduced Hector to Athelric, and Branwen, trying to mime to Aelfwynn that she had been sworn to silence while her eyes kept darting to Athelric with a hopeful, residual fancy from girlhood. [color=#38AAC7]“I [b]beg[/b] that you be my brother this evening, this one won't be any fun tonight. His nerves are smearing all over my dress.”[/color] Corbin was yanked by his teasing sister, pulling him out of the cooling sense of relief he felt in Cynric's presence, and back into being very afraid. Cynric laughed as Junia swept in like a storm, before he could so much as think to protest, not that he could likely find it in himself to do so. Affection was met with greater affection, warmth with greater warmth. The last of the tension he had carried ever since he had entered the Black Citadel left him, like a weight lifting from his shoulders. He caught her hand, holding it for a brief moment. [color=#8a5fbf] “Ah, but Junia. What would people say, if we greeted one another by knocking our heads together?”[/color] He asked, and drew her to a stop. Bowing over her hand with exaggerated gallantry and mock formality, he brushed a light kiss across her knuckles. [color=#8a5fbf] “We’d be all lumps and bruises for the evening, should our eagerness overtake us.”[/color] He said, and another quick laugh escaped him. Some things had not changed. Cynric glanced between the siblings. [color=#8a5fbf] “I doubt he’s the only one with nerves tonight.”[/color] He said. Finally, his eyes settled on Corbin. Whatever humour Junia made of it, he thought he saw that same familiar unease that Cynric himself felt, in the set of his shoulders, and his eyes in particular. [color=#8a5fbf] “You’re in good company.”[/color] [color=#CE796B]“June-”[/color] he cut his frustration short, as his voice cracked, and he had to clear it. He looped his arm in hers and grinned, genial and crooked. [color=#CE796B]“It [i]is[/i] good to see you, friend. We will make the time. I need someone to practice with before this... long season of jousts and tourneys swallows us."[/color] He didn't voice his distaste exactly, but he already sounded fatigued at the idea. He nudged Junia lightly. [color=#CE796B]"Take her for a dance later, won't you?"[/color] Corbin earned another warm smile, and Cynric rested a hand on his shoulder. [color=#8a5fbf] “It is settled, then.”[/color] He said. [color=#8a5fbf] “We’ll steal what time we can, before the lists claims us both.”[/color] At the mention of dancing, he turned his eyes back to Junia with a quick grin that came easy. [color=#8a5fbf] “Of course we will dance.”[/color] He leaned his head towards Corbin, and lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper, almost certainly loud enough for Junia to hear. [color=#8a5fbf] “I fear refusal is a much more dangerous prospect.” [/color] Cynric lifted his hand from his friend’s shoulder as the brief reunion with House Tyrcell came to a quick end when the clump of nobles reached the doors of the ballroom. The two Houses split apart to join the procession. Beorthmear and Inga went first, followed by Athelric and Aelfwynn. It was probably for the best that his brother escorted Aelfwynn, lest she begin hissing. Cynric followed them, alone, and the momentary confidence he had felt vanished, leaving him as uncertain as before. Then he stepped into the ballroom he had only ever heard described. Gawking, his sister would call it, but was this place not worth gawking at? And he found that he did not particularly care what Aelfwynn would call it. He realised that the place defied his sense of proportion, but he could not decide if the cave was within the hall, or the hall within the cave. His eyes followed the water that spilled down the walls into the pools. It was magnificent, and completely absurd. Reaching the tables and the press of bodies, he tore his eyes away from the display and searched for his own seat. He found it disappointingly fast near the end of the table. He looked up the table, noting how Rhaevyn of Varrow helped Maeve into her seat. She wasn’t so far away as to preclude conversation, but she wasn’t close, and Rhea was seated even further away, let alone any other Lady. He stood for a moment, resting one hand on his seat as he cast a glance over his shoulder towards the high table. He saw his parents, seemingly at ease and taking up space with a certainty that Cynric wished he felt. Having confirmed the royals at the high table, and that both Princesses were seated, he lowered himself into his own. He settled his hands on the table, nodding politely in thanks to the servant who poured his wine. Only then did he let his eyes wander across the decadence on display, from polished silver to the ornate furniture made all the richer for the velvet and silver. It was all as it should be. A king ought to bring out his best when receiving his vassals. He breathed in the scent of the food and realised that despite his nervous disposition in the moment, he was hungry. The dishes looked every bit as delicious as they smelled. Especially the pastries. Sparing only the necessary time, he began filling his plate. Food was never a bad first move. Even then, Cynric knew he ought to speak. This was where the true games began, yet he had no opening move. He did not know Maeve, nor any of the first-born sons seated around her. Certainly, he knew of them, but knowing a name was never the same as knowing people. Corbin sat far away, and Cynric had never enjoyed forced conversations. So, for the moment, he remained quiet. Yet he wasn’t blind, and observation cost nothing. He saw Maeve’s focus shift away, and he followed that particular look up the table, where the Ironcrag heir poured wine for Rhea. Pouring wine for a Princess was certainly an opening move, but Cynric would have thought Elrik would pour for Maeve, not Rhea. That was curious, but he paid it no further heed, until Elrik rounded the table with servant in tow. [color=#5B90B5] “The Princess’s first, and then Lord Rhaevyn’s.”[/color] Elrik said, letting the servant pour the wine and Cynric saw the muscles in Maeve’s jaw tense. Now, that was certainly bold. It was a declaration of some proportion, and as opening moves went, it spoke volumes. Boldness was certainly Ironcrag in a nutshell, but the sight of it, the fact that it even happened, seemed to suddenly release the tension in him. He fought the laughter that came bubbling up, unbidden as sin. It resulted in an undignified choking sound, and he forced himself to look away. Dreading his amused smile being seen, he raised his goblet to his lips, hoping the spectacle of it, his goblet and plate full of food would be camouflage enough. He’d rather be thought choking. He set his goblet onto the table and took a deep breath, attempting to steady himself and recast his amused expression into something of amused embarrassment, which wasn’t too far of the mark anyway. All of this was ridiculous. There was nothing wrong with courtesy, yet any affections offered before acquaintance felt strangely insincere. Cynric understood the ground that might be gained by such gestures, but they struck him as eager. Too eager. Observe first. Speak second. Only then decide whether someone was worth drawing closer to. [color=#2d5a32] “My Lords, I must thank you all for making the arduous journey to be here. I must confess, I have never left Thornvale.”[/color] Maeve began, and Cynric gave her his attention. [color=#2d5a32] “But I’ve always wished to travel. What are your homelands like?”[/color] The admission surprised him. Surely a princess of the Ninefold ought to know something of each hold. Perhaps she had not been permitted to travel, but first-hand knowledge was not strictly necessary to know of of a place. He wondered whether it was merely a question of courtesy. What would any of them tell her that she did not already know? Everyone knew Salt Spire was a wind-beaten rock. He was relieved she had not looked his way first. If this is what passed for courtly conversation, then those games could wait another minute. The jam pastries, however, could not. Cynric reached for one without the slightest shame. [/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][b]interactions:[/b] House Tyrcell [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions:[/b] Rhaevyn, Maeve, Rhea, Elrik [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs:[/b] cabbageangel [/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [center] [img]https://i.imgur.com/FigyGUA.gif [/img] [/center] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=#A97142] Athelric (#A97142) [/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=#808080] Black Citadel, Ballroom [/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080] Athelric guided his sister as they made their way towards her seat, which proved to be close to his own, unlike Cynric’s, who they had left behind further down the table. So, as the first-born son of Beorthmear, Athelric found himself seated no further from Princess Rhea than Emil of Ironcrag. Some men might have taken offence at that. Athelric could not find it in himself to care. Cynric was Tanist. Let him have a go amongst the heirs of the Ninehold. [color=#A97142] “So,”[/color] He began, his tone easy and casual. [color=#A97142] “I was meaning to ask. How much did you have to do with what happened at the harbour?”[/color] He asked. He had only seen the aftermath, when Cynric climbed the steps with water pouring off him. Aelfwynn turned her head towards him. She tilted it ever so slightly and for a heartbeat, he thought she might lie. [color=#b51024] “Most of it.”[/color] [color=#A97142] “May I ask why?”[/color] He asked, as he let go of her hand. [color=#b51024] “I already spoke to him about it.”[/color] Athelric rolled his eyes as he pulled out her chair. Briefly, he glanced towards Cynric who sat quietly further down the table, goblet in hand. It was strange seeing him again. In Athelric’s mind, Cynric had remained the gangly boy he’d left behind years ago. Instead, he had returned to find a young man. Stranger still was whatever [i]this[/i] was that had grown between Cynric and Aelfwynn in his absence. When he had left, they had bickered no more than most siblings. Whatever this was, it was something else. Once Aelfwynn was seated, Athelric leaned down slightly. [color=#A97142] “Fucking excellent, that.”[/color] He muttered, the profanity slipping out as naturally as breathing. [color=#A97142] “Did you actually think any of it through?”[/color] [color=#b51024] “Did you speak to him?”[/color] She asked. [color=#A97142] “No.”[/color] He gave a small shake of his head. [color=#A97142] “But I wasn’t born below decks.”[/color] [color=#b51024] “He knows how to swim. He’s fine.”[/color] She said with a shrug. Athelric breathed out slowly, frustration creeping into his voice. [color=#A97142] “I know that. That’s not the point. It was unnecessary.”[/color] [color=#b51024] “I don’t see why you care.”[/color] She said, [color=#b51024] “When are you leaving again? In a month, in a year?”[/color] She asked, knowing better than most that he never wanted to remain on Salt Spire. It was true enough. He wished to be back at sea with the wind at his back, and more ships by his side. Still, he didn’t like what he saw between his siblings. [color=#A97142] “He is my brother.”[/color] He said, and whatever differences the three of them had, surely that meant something. [color=#b51024] “Now you sound like father.”[/color] She said, turning her head away. [color=#A97142] “You know better than that.”[/color] He said, but left her be, making his way the few steps to his own seat. Zhara Ganasen was seated between him and his sister. Athelric knew more of House Ganasen’s ships and merchants than he did of the family itself. Nevertheless, Zhara was actually a name he had heard more than once across the many ports he had visited out west. Sailors spoke of her more often than they did the heir of their House. [color=#A97142] “Missing the sea, Swordfish?”[/color] He asked her, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He snorted softly at his own joke, before a grin spread fully across his face. [color=#A97142] “That’s where I belong anyway. Out on the waves, beneath the stars.”[/color] He said, turning his attention towards the food. [color=#A97142] “Still, I won’t complain about a royal invitation.”[/color] He said and reached for a platter of roasted pheasant, helping himself to a portion before holding it out towards Zhara. [color=#A97142] “Nor will I complain about the wonderful food.”[/color] He said, and doubted he needed to explain himself. Anyone who had spent months at sea knew there came a point where even the best ship’s cook surrendered to salted meat, hard biscuits and whatever else could be kept from spoiling. A feast like this reminded any sailor what fresh food could taste like – one of the few reasons to make port. A servant filled Athelric’s goblet with wine, earning an easy smile and a quiet, [color=#A97142] “Thank you,”[/color] from the corsair. He lifted the goblet, gently swirling its contents before raising it to his nose. He breathed in its aroma, then took a measured sip. A pleased hum escaped him. During his years abroad, he had quickly developed a fondness for Karthosian wines, and it was a pleasure to find them served here. Their vintners understood how to develop a pleasant bitterness alongside pleasant notes of spice. Athelric continued to fill his plate and turned his eyes across the table to the familiar faces of Junia and Corbin Tyrcell, the two of them flanking Emil of Ironcrag. All three earned an open smile. It was curious to find a young man and woman where he still expected the children he remembered. He listened to Junia complain over the seating arrangement, and briefly his thoughts wandered to their older half-sister, Araminth. She was still doing her best to steer them, even now, years later. Perhaps it had grown easier to set them upon the right course, though Ahtelric had his doubts. This thought, had him make a note in his mind, to ask her how one best herded younger siblings. Whatever had taken root between Cynric and Aelfwyn needed pulling out before it became a permanent. He found himself feeling a measure of sympathy for Araminth. As the years had passed, it seemed she had only accepted more responsibilities and made sacrifices he himself had never been willing to make, and actively sailed away from. [color=#A97142] “What about your Uncle Arren?”[/color] Athelric asked around an amused smile. [color=#A97142] “Wasn’t he perfectly pleased with his betrothal to Lady Eula?”[/color] He cut in between the Tyrcells and the Járnbjørn with an easy charm. In truth, he knew nothing of the match, fairly certain it had happened after he had left Salt Spire. His eyes shifted to Corbin and he offered him an almost apologetic smile. [color=#A97142] “Your brother is right, though.”[/color] He continued, returning his attention to Junia. [color=#A97142] “In any case, would you, dear Junia, really leave me here alone with your brother to suffer my tales of distant shores all by himself?”[/color] He paused long enough to take a bite of pheasant before lifting his goblet to his lips. [color=#A97142] “So,”[/color] Athelric said, looking across at Emil. [color=#A97142] “How did it actually happen? You ending up beneath the Princess’s horse, I mean. Didn’t hear them coming or did the horse simply decide it preferred your company?”[/color] He asked with an easy smile, genuine curiosity and amusement in his voice, rather than any accusation or challenge. Whatever grudges existed between Ironcrag and Salt Spire belonged to their fathers, and Athelric had spent too many years at sea to inherit quarrels he had never fought. [/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][b]interactions:[/b] Zhara, Junia, Corbin, Emil [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions:[/b] Emil, Rhea, Cynric, Araminth [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs:[/b] none [/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [center] [img]https://i.imgur.com/jUVwhqA.gif [/img] [/center] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=#b51024] Aelfwynn (#b51024) [/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color] [color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [color=#808080] The Black Citadel, Ballroom. [/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center] [indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080] Aelfwynn held the momentary frustration of her brother in her mind. What, exactly, was she supposed to do, did he think? Just make peace with him? Accept that she was somehow lesser than her baby brother? As if he were somehow more deserving than she. The thought was absurd. Did she not deserve some vindication for that? She set aside the frustration then, like a dirty cloth. Despite that, Athelric’s words lingered in her mind, joining her mother’s to slowly gnaw at her. She turned her attention up the table, in part to distract herself from her own thoughts. Prince Dorian was speaking to Saphira after helping her into her seat. She couldn’t hear their words, not well anyway. Moments later, he crossed to the daughter of Ironcrag, offering the very same courtesy there. She wondered what they thought of him. Surely, they had heard the very same of the Prince as she had. Did they think they could change him, or did they accept it? She was certain that he held qualities, beyond title, that were admirable. For instance, she had seen him comfort her sister in the great hall. She wasn’t certain, however, that kindness made up for certain faults. Thus, she remained wary of him, at least in her mind, until there was greater certainty. She heard her brother then. Swordfish? By the Nine, what was he thinking? He wasn’t, of course. He had simply forgotten he was no longer amongst sailors, but in the royal court. She turned her head in his direction, then after a heartbeat leaned ever so slightly closer to Zhara. [color=#b51024] “He spent near a decade away.”[/color] She murmured, almost conspiratorially. [color=#b51024] “Court hasn’t quite reclaimed him, yet.”[/color] Her gaze shifted again, this time to Branwen Tyrcell who was seated closer to the Prince. The dullest of the Tyrcells was seated closer to the Prince than Aelfwynn Alfarling. Aelfwynn took a breath and breathed out slowly through her nose. Perhaps Junia had a point as it came to the seating arrangements. But this was not an accident. It had the Queen’s hand all over it, and her mother would surely have told her it was yet another example of the Phorian Queen sinking her claws into the Ninefold, but at least she wasn’t so far from the Prince as to preclude any conversation. Nevertheless, Bran wasn’t undeserving. She was intelligent, much more so than she ever appeared. She merely needed a reason to unsheathe the steel she possessed. Aelfwynn decided then, that she’d encourage her to do so, assuming Bran wouldn’t bore her to death talking about wheat, rye, or whatever the next thing was. Then both Bran and Dorian seemed to choke, on food and wine respectively. Perhaps Junia was right to bet her dessert someone would die. By the Nine, this evening may prove to be a long one. [color=#846d49] “You all look radiant in your family colours,”[/color] Dorian said, pausing only long enough to spear a piece of meat. [color=#846d49]“Or so I presume. I never quite mastered my lessons,”[/color] he said accompanied by a wry chuckle. Now it was Aelfwynn’s turn to nearly choke. She turned her eyes on him, sharp as drawn steel, focused and intense. She could not decide whether he was serious – whether he truly did not know the colours of the Ninefold, or whether he simply spoke before thinking. Neither possibility inspired particular confidence. [color=#846d49]“It would appear that I have no idea how to hold a conversation with so many beautiful women.”[/color] He said, and Aelfwynn wasn’t so certain that she at all disagreed with that assessment. But at least it was said with enough easy charm to disarm the slights of his previous words. The Prince was not without charm, that much she recognised. Charm was useful, desirable even. Yet there were dangers in abundance. A man who delighted equally in every woman he met might, in time, delight least in the one he married. She listened idly between bites of food to Zahara’s response. Aelfwynn wasn’t particularly certain that she agreed with the woman’s assessment, however true or false it might prove to be, but this was hardly the time to challenge it. For a heartbeat she considered joining the conversation, even educating the Prince as to the colours of House Alfarling. Then she let the moment pass. To correct him was to expose him, and that would be uncouth. If he had merely been joking, the point was hardly worth making. Instead, she glanced down the opposite side of the table. She found, with some disappointment, that the only other Lords nearby were Emil Járnbjørn and Corbin Tyrcell. One was a second son, the other, someone she had known for years. She turned her head back towards Dorian. [color=#b51024] "Every student excells at something, Your Highness."[/color] She said mildly, offering a small smile. [color=#b51024] "What lessons did you favour?"[/color] [/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent] [center][sup][img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img] [color=808080][b]interactions:[/b] Zhara, Dorian[color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]mentions:[/b] Cynric, Saphira, Selja, Dorian, Branwen, Zahara, Corbin, Emil. [color=2e2c2c]...............[/color] [b]collabs:[/b] none[/color] [img]https://i.imgur.com/9qIY4OK.jpeg[/img][/sup][/center]