I can teleport everyone to the Council Chamber, unless people would rather I didn't. If anyone still has stuff they want to do IC before then, let me know ASAP.
Crud, I forgot to describe the council chamber. It's past midnight though, so I'll tackle that Wednesday night. In the meantime, I suggest the player characters take this opportunity to introduce themselves to one another during the pre-meeting period.
@Lumiere "I am expecting that I was expected?" Aark asked the guards. The blond one spoke up. "Yes, we explicitly expected your expectation. Shall I expressly expound some explanation, or expell all exposition to expedite your exploration?"
The guard laughed and shook Aark's hand. "My name is Sir Zedekiah Patronus, or, to express it expeditiously, Zed. The Council Chamber is through this door." He jabbed his thumb at the open door beside him. "Expect much exposition. Good luck to you, sir."
@Darkwatck01 Another knight in a metal deer helmet wordlessly stuck a letter in his face. Zed leaned away and nodded. "Mhm, that's the one. This way, sir. Have a good day."
@unicorgi A lady knight came in and asked for the Council Chamber. "Right this way. You're welcome."
@AtomicNut Upon seeing the Second Prince, the two guards struck a formal pose and saluted as he passed. "Welcome, Your Highness!"
@Pie Flavor Alexander soon found that really only the traveling merchants had any useful information to share; almost everyone else fed on rumors and hyperbole. Those in the know agreed that the dragon attack was significant enough to warrant stockpiling weapons and armor to sell. People were seeing nobles from all over the country teleport in, including many famous public figures. The consensus was that whatever was going down, it was going to be big.
Some names were dropped. Lee Roberts, Count of Brixton, was coming as an eyewitness. General Hedstrong, who once swore he wouldn't leave the northern front unless the world was ending, left the northern front to join the meeting. Duke Richard Carnagee of Durhan, Duke Edgar Mitchell of Gungar, and other national leaders were coming. So too were the heroes: there was Sir Rhayven Auric of the Darkmorne clan, Heir-Countess Ysabelle Runeglass of province Runglas, and a few foreign knights like Aark of Ispar and the mysterious Nebel Mesanychta.
And so, when Alexander Gallagher approached the two guards at Southaven Palace, Zed could not immediately place the older man. After a few embarrassing moments studying him, the guard exclaimed, "Gallagher! Of course, Sir Alexander Gallagher! My deepest apologies, sir knight. I meant no disrespect. The Council Chamber is right this way, sir."
@Rhiven Knight Finally, Rhayven Darkmorne arrived. Zed briefly explained where the medical ward was, and Rhayven left for the medical ward just as quickly as he came.
He beckoned for a nurse to find Doctor Hawthorne, and she came back with a tall, bearded fellow in a gray longcoat. Rhayven appraised the man and, satisfied, addressed him. "Doctor Hawthorne?"
The man shook his head and gave a sad smile. "I'm the secretary, so the nurses always come get me whenever there's official business. Doctor Hawthorne is this way." He escorted Rhayven into the ward and whispered to a diminutive young woman. Standing at only 5'4" with a slender build and soft features, it would have been easy to mistake her for one of the nursing staff, but her distinctive brass-buttoned lab coat pegged her as a certified Court Healer.
Rose Hawthorne.
"Yes?" Her innocent emerald eyes turned up to gaze at him.
"Your presence is requested in council," the knight said, unfurling a scroll.
She leaned in to peer closer at it.
Rhayven rolled it back up and stuffed it in a case before she could finish reading it. "If you would follow me please, Doctor Hawthorne," he commanded. He turned and made for the door.
Panicking, Rose glanced at her secretary. "Huh?"
The secretary pointed at Rhayven. "Go."
"Now?"
"Now."
Rose scampered after him, dropping a paper trail all the way to the door. "Wait! Hold up! I haven't finished- I haven't finished all my reports-"
He did not wait. He marched at a brisk pace toward the council chamber, with the doctor running behind him as fast as her perilous stack of papers would let her. Once they arrived, they retreated to a remote corner of the room and both leaned against the wall.
Rose hugged the stack to her chest and shut her eyes while she caught her breath. "Goodness! I only just met you. Aren't we moving a little fast?" Her lips puckered into a smirk before she kicked him in the heel. She finished signing off on a dozen more reports, stuffed them into her notebook, and stretched out her hand to shake. "I propose we do this properly. Doctor Rose Hawthorne at your service. Your name, Sir Knight?"
The knife thudded on the cutting board when Theresa pushed it through a potato.
"Child, what are you doing back there? Hurry up!" shrieked an old lady from the other side of the room.
Theresa studied the cut she just made. This was growing more difficult by the minute. Her arms wobbled, her focus drifted, and her knees ached. But everyone was counting on her. There could be no stopping now. She dabbed her face with her elbow and turned the potato to cut it lengthwise.
"I can't hear you!" the old lady shrieked again.
Her mother Agatha had to be about 93 now, right? Surely God wouldn't hold it against her if one of the nails in her rocking chair happened to come loose.
"Don't make me come back there, girl!"
The knife edge thudded again on the cutting board. Theresa bowed her head and turned it slightly to put the woman in the corner of her eye. "You seem eager enough," she muttered back.
"What was that? Say it louder! I ain't an elf!"
Theresa dropped the potato chunks into the pot, laid the knife aside, and tossed her apron on the counter. "If you're so eager to come back here, then why don't you cook dinner while you're at it?"
The rocking chair stopped creaking. A moment later, the withered old hag stormed into the kitchen. She pinched Theresa's ear until the woman yelped for mercy. "Ow ow ow my ear, stop!" "Don't give me yer lip, Theresa May Foster. Go git your man; I'll finish this mess."
Theresa slipped outside nursing her ear. Agatha crossed her arms with a huff and surveyed the kitchen. "That rebellious rabbit, making me do all the work. Wish Miles was here to give her a good paddling." She leaned over the stove to look inside the pot. Potatoes and assorted herbs swirled inside, cut with her daughter's usual meticulous precision. The fish and the carrots remained to be prepped.
She picked up the knife and looked at it like she'd just drawn Excalibur. She looked at the carrots. Agatha steeled her nerves and made to cut them. The edge of the knife rested atop her prey.
The carrot snapped. One piece fell on the floor, and the other fell in the sink.
"Dag nabbit!" She picked up another carrot and tried again.
Both pieces spun and fell on the floor.
As did the next two.
With a loud grunt to the universe, she squatted as far as she could and picked up each one until her face turned red with exhaustion. Once all the pieces were safely in the pot and boiling the germs away, she muttered a "screw it" and dumped in all the remaining carrots whole.
The last batch of ingredients she had to prepare was none other than her old nemesis, the one ingredient that most grossed her out ever since she was a little girl: fish. She hesitated, holding up the knife as if to commit a murder.
The front door opened, and one by one the rest of the clan filed in. First came the young children, about two dozen or so, five of whom were Theresa's. The rest belonged to Agatha's four sons, who came in next with their wives. These were big, hulking men who needed their protein for grueling farm work. Skipping the fish maybe wasn't such a good idea.
Finally, Theresa and her husband Timothy came in, both looking a little tousled. "What were you guys doing out back?" asked Jasper, Agatha's second-oldest. Timothy shrugged. "Stuff." Theresa unfolded one arm and waved. "Hi, I'm Stuff." "Oh my god." Bobby threw up his arms. "Seriously, ma?" She sat down in a chair Timothy pulled out for her and retorted, "Until you interrupted us to ask where the hoe is, yes." Their daughter Reid snorted back a laugh. "Don't you say it, young lady."
Agatha looked on as a playful back-and-forth began over a topic entirely too mature for anyone under 30. With the whole clan waiting on her for their dinner, the matriarch began to sweat.
She looked at the fish once more.
Its beady black eye stared back at her, daring her to plunge the knife.
She imagined cutting it out and snipping the nerve. The old woman almost hurled her lunch. How was she supposed to clean and gut one fish, let alone thirty? Agatha set the knife on the counter and started scheming up ways to fob this off on someone else.
A gentle hand touched her on the back. She turned to see Theresa standing beside her.
Agatha remembered when her matriarch, the venerable Lydia Warren, would praise Agatha's cooking, and everyone would thank her for the wonderful meal. She remembered gathering and preparing hundreds of ingredients with such efficiency as rivalled the palace's fastest cooks. She remembered poring over books and experimenting with countless different recipes.
She used to be good at cooking.
Agatha wiped her eyes. Theresa cleaned and gutted a fish and handed her the meat. "I need help. Can you dice this for me please, ma?"
The old woman eyed her. As a rule, the matriarch didn't accept pity. It was weak. Only the cowardly evaded responsibility for their actions. But...there was nothing cowardly about helping someone who asked. It was her daughter's job anyway.
So Agatha seized the meat, gave one last glower of defiance, and sliced it. And as mother and daughter worked together to finish the clan's dinner, the tension between them faded away, and something else, something warmer, took its place. That night, after the two women put their families to sleep for the night, they looked at one another and decided.