AbyssalRoadTrip
patreon
Fluid - 28
🕑 Added 2023-01-25 11:50:13 +0000 UTCWith my instructions, all except the Royal Guard move to take seats, but I ignore the indistinct murmurs as unimportant despite the accusatorial tones some contain.
Their low conversation means I have to raise my voice to be heard, and I’m glad for Sarah’s briefing. “Royal Guard Captain Arodion, please have your command sit. The wards protect against violence, so they don’t need to go without eating.”
“Might we eat later, Lord Gailneth? Something might overcome the wards,” says Arodion, barely blinking at my use of his name.
“They’re sung wards tied into a True Song Crystal, Captain. If there is someone powerful enough to overcome them, then I assure you, we’ll all be dead. “
Only when Glingaerneth gives him a nod does the captain motion his troops forward. In sync, each strides forward and sits along the outermost table. When they remove their helms, they set them in reach on the table, moving carefully to minimise their armour’s plates scouring at the wood.
The captain reveals pale red hair with gold highlights in his shoulder-length locks. His position at the midpoint of the troop to the left is distant enough that I can’t properly make out his eye colour—light aquamarine or hazel—either is such a common colour for an uncommonly handsome face.
When the last of the elves is seated, I rest my hands on the table’s edge and sing. I know Sarah is likely expecting me to use the enchantments, but I want a fancier display than it would provide. The energy I’d invested during the afternoon was tiring, but that preparation made this show simple.
The golden glow above my hands is an illusion to cover the plates appearing from my Inventory. Streams of air and kinetic force waft settings of elaborate mithril plates, bowls, and goblets before each guest. Forearm-length diamond platters had been far easier to make, and I’d already loaded them with steaming dishes—both traditional elven cuisine and the spicy vegetarian dishes father loves.
Thoughts of home mixing with the fun of the music's deception shifts me back into my female Anar form somewhere along the way. As the last carafe made from carved rubies gently touches down, I sit down and smile at Sarah.
“Any reason you didn’t use the hall’s enchantments?” asks Sarah lightly.
I nod towards the stunned crowd, examining their food and plates with gobsmacked expressions. “Given how this evening has started, I wanted to have some fun.”
“Is it a night to sing for your supper, Gail?” asks Aggie, though she looks past me to Glingaerneth. “Or showing how little their wealth matters to you?”
“Absolutely,” I reply. The answer is equally valid to either question, and any confusion among those eavesdropping is fine. “Alfarr, how are things with the villagers?”
“Very tense. I’ve conveyed your assurances to the village council, but many await the next blow to land.”
“Extend my apologies again when you talk to them. I’ll do my best on their behalf,” I state.
“I made it clear to the villagers that I didn’t doubt you, Gail, but it's others' actions that are the issue,” affirms Alfarr.
“How hot is this rice dish?” asks Pitnari, thankfully changing the subject. He shoulder bumps into Aggie, reaching for the dish, effectively directing her attention away from Glingaerneth and towards those populating the closest tables.
“Father would find it mild,” I joke.
“Yes, but I’d prefer my mouth to like me,” replies Pitnari, and Glingaerneth stiffens beside me in surprise.
“You mentioned your heritage lets you shift forms, Gail. Which side do you inherit it from?” enquires Glingaerneth.
“It’s an ability from my mother. I’m told it's almost unheard of for a Solar to fall in love, let alone conceive a child.”
Glingaerneth’s gaze flickers past me, taking in the lack of surprise from the others. “Would I be correct that I’m the only one at your table that is a stranger to you, Gail?”
“Indeed you are, Glingaerneth.”
“Please call me, Aerneth. It’s not the typical name my close associates use, but that might confuse others.”
“Do they use Neth?”
Glingaerneth nods gracefully, slowly recovering her poise. “Most commonly.”
“Very well, Aerneth,” I reply, taking the olive branch.
Alfarr samples the rice dish before him and snorts. “It’s warm, not steel melting.”
“I guess that counts as mild,” rumbles Pitnari.
I can hear the smirk in his tone, but I don’t take my gaze from Glingaerneth until she gives me a nod of acknowledgement. Taking a sample from the closest platters on the main table, I try not to laugh at Sarah, eyeing the closest carafe.
“You seem fascinated by the carafe, aunt Sarah,” I remark, wondering what game she’s planning to play.
It's time to smack them with the obvious because Sarah’s reply comes in the draconic tongue, not the Andúnë’s dialect we’ve been using. “It would make a fine representation for this evening's memory.”
The sibilant language has Glingaerneth clearing her throat. “That Power before was Dragon Fear.”
Sarah’s smile shows far too many teeth. “I had to negotiate with the local authority for guesting rights. Already my visit here has proven worth the token the local gold wanted.”
“You can add them all to your hoard afterwards, auntie. I’ll make more,” I say.
“One would be lovely, Gail. Even dragons should be moderate in their expectations.”
Before Glingaerneth can reply, I release my floor harp onto the ground behind me and set its enchantment to work. As the ethereal notes of an Andúnë piece ring out, more mithril instruments follow, and their enchantments entwine—each playing the song with a proficiency I’m still trying to match. Silent Song lets me send them to the dance floor’s midpoint without a note being missed.
The Mana-filled enchantments draw the attention of every elven Wizard and Bard in the place—except for Yngvarr.
“No drums?” asks Aggie, changing the subject. “I remember hearing you play the drums.”
“Unfortunately, they don’t suit Andúnë compositions,” I reply.
Sarah shrugs and lets the topic change persist. “You could thin the metal to pitch them higher; not every drum needs to be a bass rumble.”
“Heresy, I’ll tell Moradin on you,” I quip, and Glingaerneth clears her throat in surprise when his awareness touches the table. I’m not sure she realises it entirely, but she felt something walk over her grave or eyes suddenly watching intently.
Sarah pokes a serving of venison she’d just claimed. “Name dropping?”
Laughing, I shake my head. “He knows I love him. He and his wife are more fun than the Summer Court.”
Her pulse throbbing in her throat, Glingaerneth takes a long, disciplined breath, eyeing me warily. “You say that so casually. Do you spend so much time amongst the divine realms?”
“I was born on a Heavenly Plane and grew up in the company of celestials and petitioners. It was an odd day I didn’t see at least one divine being—sometimes I’d mingle with dozens. I’m not averse to crowds when it's suitable,” I say and motion towards the horde in front of us. “This is not suitable.”
“There were so many opinions bandied about the court over the last few days, but you might remember I advised King Sailatar on the delegation size the first day,” notes Yngvarr.
“I remember the recommendation of a single person to meet Gailneth and get to know her,” admits Glingaerneth. “Though I don’t recall you mentioning you knew Gailneth, Prince Ýridhrendaer.”
“Yet I mentioned the fate of Guild Master Imhotep, who also sought to control Gail,” chides Yngvarr.
I catch his tone's edge and give them both a calm smile. “My apologies for where I’ve steered the conversation. Let’s save the delegation discussion until after dinner, shall we?”
“Of course, Gail,” replies Yngvarr, nodding politely as Glingaerneth echoes his words.
With their acceptance, I turn my attention to Glingaerneth. “I hope the accommodation will be restful, Glingaerneth. Though I understand some are having trouble perceiving what is in front of them. Do you believe they’ll be able to remedy that?”
“Many things are not what they’re accustomed to,” agrees Glingaerneth. “For example, you said this song is an Andúnë composition, yet I’m unfamiliar with it.”
Despite my dig, I’m glad she changed the topic. “A problem with learning from celestials is you can pick up knowledge lost to mortals without realising it.”
Glingaerneth nods. “Perhaps we can help you understand the current Mortal state within our realm and culture.”
If only quiet offers of help had been how they’d introduced themselves.
“I understand the Andúnë composer of this piece spent a few centuries working in the court of the last Anar queen. Perhaps some of his other pieces survived?”
Fortunately, Glingaerneth is happy to take my cue and discuss music, though the conversation leaves the others somewhat cut off. The isolation has benefits since Yngvarr and Alfarr seem pleased to catch up, though I’d prefer to join Sarah, Aggie, and Pitnari talking about events in the north.
The elven wines of the Arborea Plane have the chatter from those within the hall steadily increasing in volume. I use Silent Song, setting the carafes and platters aglow from time to time to replenish the wine and food. The few elven females take advantage of the continual music to use the dance floor, while the males seem content to dine and talk. Throughout the meal and our conversation on music, Glingaerneth has been taking only measured sips of the wine.
“Many are in their cups,” murmurs Sarah after the feast has gone on for hours.
“I know. I guess they’ve overdone it with the Arborea wine.”
Sarah smirks. “Heavenly wines are potent for mortals regardless of species. Most would pay a fortune for them, but it's almost like you can create the vintages out of thin air.”
Glingaerneth warily eyes the empty carafe beside me. “How are you sober? Did you have something else in your carafe?”
“Same wine, I don’t get drunk,” I say, giving some people on nearby tables pretending inebriation a smile. “Will you monitor those dining, aunt Sarah?”
“Of course, I said I’d help," Sarah acknowledges, the last wine from her carafe providing a half cup that she waves idly at me.
“Would you like a refill?”
“No, that’s alright. When are you planning to run meals?” asks Sarah, turning slightly in her seat.
“Three times a day: before dawn, noon, and evening. The normal enchantments will remove leftovers once I stand; part of the reason I didn’t use them tonight.”
“I’ll secure some platters in case people miss a meal,” replies Sarah. “Perhaps because they're nursing a hangover.”
Her smug smile almost has me laughing. “Will you come along to the village in the morning? I’d like to introduce you to Priestess Irene. She’ll know which families most need a helping hand.”
“A hand up, not a handout?” enquires Sarah.
“I’d prefer to help them improve their situation long term, though they might need an initial boost,” I admit.
“Aggie and Pitnari, will you help keep an eye on things here?”
“Expecting trouble?” asks Aggie cautiously.
“The wards would put anyone violent in bubbles above the dance floor. I’m more concerned that it’s a potent wine, and someone might overdo things,” I reply. “I considered it safe while I was here to monitor that people didn’t imbibe too much; leaving them alone is something else.”
Aggie nods in understanding. “Not just going to hit them all with a Neutralise Poison?”
Her suggestion gives me pause, and a few quick songs fill my cleaned carafe with a suitable potion. “They’ve earned their hangovers, but a large Potion of Neutralise Poison is now in my carafe; provide it to whoever you think needs it.”
“Well, that’s one way to blow away a liquid lunch,” mutters Sarah.
“Shall we go have our discussion, Aerneth?” I enquire and motion towards the archway I arrived near.
“Are you leaving the others out of it?” asks Glingaerneth curiously.
“Few beside yourself are sober; shall we see what concerns they represent?”
A ghost of a smile dances on Glingaerneth’s before she nods. “And if all the factions who scurried through the Portal behind my delegation aren’t represented?”
“That isn’t my problem,” I state firmly, motioning to Yngvarr to say seated. “Retire whenever you wish, Yngvarr. I’ll tend to this mess. I thank you for your efforts—their attitude towards you is disgraceful.”
Message globes streak away towards sober songs, picking out two of the elders I’d kicked off my table, scattered individuals, a few couples on the dance floor, and fifteen guards, including the Captain.
While Daerchon isn’t among those I called out, Litthor is, and his amber gaze regards me warily. I wait until all those I messaged gather in before speaking. When the Captain approaches, I get to confirm his calm eyes are aquamarine; though, like the other guards, his open-faced helm is back in place.
“Captain Arodion, I plan to discuss matters with the delegation and faction representatives. I’m unsure if you’d like to attend or monitor the banquet hall with your sober guards. Do you have a preference?”
Arodion inclines his head. “With your permission, I’ll attend with a guard for each representative to ensure the King’s honour is maintained.”
Giving him a nod, I address the gathered nobles. “You’ve been selected as candidates because you remained sober. Since I have only a vague idea which factions are present, please determine among yourselves who will be your group’s sole representative.”
A few of the nobles immediately incline their heads to me, then repeat the gesture to Litthor before withdrawing. One silver-haired lady from the dance floor—her house crest delicate stitching among her silver embroidery rather than magically impressed—looks wide-eyed at my announcement and her gaze darts among those that remain in disbelief. Her hands clutch nervously at the outer layer of her lilac gown which matches her eyes.
“Is there an issue?”
Nodding politely, she motions to the others. “My father’s alliance doesn’t have a representative, Lo- Lady Gailneth,” she replies, nearly fumbling about what needless title to use.
“Then you are now his representative. Please let them know I will not be permitting an exchange of representatives,” I reply. At my pronouncement, her skin pales, and I take pity on her and look among the group. “Let me be clear this discussion will not be a formal affair, nor is there any certainty that any binding agreements will be forthcoming.”
“Then what is the purpose of the discussion?” asks Glingaerneth, taking my pronouncement calmly.
“Your factions haven’t gotten off to a good start with me, but I’ll give you this chance. The discussions will be ongoing, with the nominated representative and guards only in attendance. They can openly raise faction concerns and hopes, and I will be the sole determiner of who I cooperate with regarding those matters. Questions?”
Glingaerneth’s eyebrows lift. “Ongoing?”
“As much as I’d like this to be handled expeditiously, I expect some or all of you will dance around and drag things out,” I reply. “If a faction raises an item and no one provides valid counterarguments within three days, then I’ll consider them. I’ll negotiate with the requesting faction if I agree with the request. Any further questions before you select representatives?”
“Might we bring a scribe?” asks a male at the group’s rear. “In case we desire to consult with others on matters, it would best to have a proper record.”
“I’ll give the representatives a memory crystal of each session,” I confirm, and my casual offer of the magical items causes a stir.
“And if there are matters the representatives wish to discuss privately?” asks a male with short dark blue hair that’s common to the Isil but not Andúnë.
“If there are matters you’re not prepared to bring up before others, then I doubt I’m interested,” I state. “However, negotiating the conditions for my help, or if I wish clarification on a matter, will be in a closed meeting. At that meeting, only the representative and one other member from their faction will attend.”
The news they can bring in help to negotiate causes various shoulders to straighten.
“What if all groups agree with a request?” asks the same blue-haired male
That any of them is hopefully enough for unity has me relaxing a fraction. “If you have a unified request, we’ll discuss it as a group, but I will only negotiate with one person.”
When no one else has further questions, I motion to the exit. “We’ll use the open glade directly down this path. Determine your representatives from among you, or you’ll boycott your group attending completely—no second chances.”
With that, I head down the path behind, and a few nobles move to catch up—Litthor is oddly the fastest. Quickly drawing level with me, he slows to match my pace. “You are unusual, but you’re not as old as Yngvarr tried to make out, are you?”
“I’m the oldest flesh and blood Anar you’ll meet and old enough to have been adventuring for some time,” I counter.
Litthor purses his lips momentarily, and they twist at a bitter thought, “My apologies for assuming the etiquette applicable in your home.”
“I hear your words. In many cultures, an apology's worth is determined by one's actions.”
“You are very direct, aren’t you?” asks Litthor.
I try for my mother’s fierce smile, and though I feel like a fraud, he flinches.
“Then what restitution might I make?”
“If I need to tell you, you have learnt nothing that makes your apology meaningful. Should I give you a hint?” I ask, listening to Arodion and Glingaerneth following behind us and their focus on the conversation.
Litthor nods. “When you are still learning about another, observation is important but a hint, as you say, would be welcome to avoid further missteps.”
“You're seeking to apologise for the least offensive part of the day. The elders taking my table was presumptuous, but I had Sarah provide no clear guidance to test what you all would assume.”
“I didn’t address your aunt disparagingly,” Litthor protests softly, his words a mere whisper.
“So you can perceive that other matters merit an apology? In my eyes, you enabled each other's offensive behaviour. You didn’t come alone, Litthor, did you?”
“Lip-reading, as you noted recently, is a useful talent, but we were already here, and it would have been a weakness before the others,” explains Litthor, still speaking in a soft tone.
“Not a Skill usually gained by wizards. Does that come from your Ranger, Scout, or Scion training?” I ask. “Though I guess it could also be from your Prestige classes.”
“You’re very well informed,” allows Litthor.
“I can hear the music of your flesh and Soul,” I note, and Litthor’s expression freezes. “Among trusted individuals, I tend not to listen for such information.”
“Being able to read lips in a room warded against spells is a useful Skill,” Litthor replies, the inflection in his tone giving nothing away. Yet, the energy within his music slides about with frantic energy.
“Yet that doesn’t mean it comes from Scion.”
“My mother had me learn the Skill before gaining any classes,” admits Litthor.
“A Hound Archon working with my mother taught me many infiltration skills to broaden my first options.”
Litthor doesn’t even blink. “It is oddly ironic that a Solar gave birth to an Anar or Sun Elf in High Elven.”
“She and my father make jokes about it. You’d think I’d have some siblings after them ‘knowing’ each other for fourteen hundred years.”
“Children are a precious gift among the Andúnë; not all become blessed.”
“All life that can strengthen goodness in the Titan’s realm is precious; the only thing I find ugly is letting evil flourish when you have the strength to stop it. Yet your gathering disparaged a couple’s love for each other despite their work to make up for an Andúnë evil,” I say. Contemplation of the abyss’ cruel melodies lets my tone become ice, and I unintentionally flow into a male state. “Evil that many Andúnë scions happily ignored when sent the Summer Court’s visions.”
Litthor exhales in tight frustration at my judgement. “The visions were too cryptic.”
“Yet not so cryptic that a band of four couldn’t find the vision’s location among the wildness of the north,” I state. “Did you ignore them when you received them?”
“Effectively, yes, I prioritised other concerns,” blurts Litthor.
His admission eases my tone, and I let my smile return. “At least you’re honest about that, Litthor. You should know I singled you out among the elders because you were the only one with the Scion Class at my table.”
“Do you always become male when you’re aggressive?”
“Only when I want to shake sense into someone. Before you assume further, I'm always female if I want to kill something. My mother’s spent half a million years slaying demons and devils, plus other things.”
We walk a hundred metres in silence, and that peacefulness lets me relax into my female Anar form.
Litthor coughed almost delicately when the clearing I was aiming for came into sight. “Are you certain other Anar haven’t been reborn?”
“Absolutely. A curse brought two others back to the realm and the Titan had drawn in my Soul. The Titan only recently agreed to ‘consider’ letting other souls return. However, the conditions for their rebirth still need to be met,” I explain, hopefully letting the facts mislead him for longer this time.
“Has Julia freed herself from that curse?” Litthor asked carefully.
“No, she has not,” I reply, wondering where his questioning is going.
“But she’s made progress in escaping?”
“An extensive amount of progress, but the goal is still far away.”
“Then please extend my family's best wishes for her journey. Yngvarr once enquired about the Markings of Royal Shame. Is it true she was once Orhêthurin?”
“You’re very well informed about Yngvarr’s enquiries,” I reply. “Why would you extend your family’s best wishes?”
“Other texts we found mention an ancestral link. Though its nature was unclear, the writer’s awe for her was not. As for being informed, word on such matters circulates with those interested in our history,” explains Litthor. “There is much we’d like to learn from it.”
“Perhaps you should look to learn from more recent mistakes as well,” I counter.
Stepping out into the glade at the path’s end, I let a song spill forth and create a delicate-looking long oval table made of mithril, only high enough that one needs to kneel at it. When the glow fades, Litthor looks over the burnished metal and the thin black leather cushions I put in place to mark out spaces.
Kneeling at the head of the table, I sit back on my heels like my father and auntie Am. Memories of sitting beside my meditating father and watching the leaves drift on the river let me relax, and I change to the Wood Elf form I’ve used to avoid further shifts.
When the six representatives and guards gather in the room, I motion towards another exit. “There are areas for refreshing oneself that way, for those in need, now or in the future. We will begin after everyone is comfortable.”
Many make use of my invitation, including the guards in shifts. When everyone has returned, the guards stand around the clearing’s boundary while the six representatives divide themselves, three to a side.
Litthor must have been moderate in his drinking as before the others scattered, he was already sitting cross-legged along the curve to my left. Glingaerneth, upon her return, sat opposite him, sideways to the table, facing me.
“As I said to Glingaerneth, please call me Gail or Gailneth; I prefer to forego titles regardless of who I’m talking to. As I mentioned to Glingaerneth, a Solar conceived me, but I should also note my father is an Immortal.”
That he is a Human Monk who earned his Immortality will stay unmentioned.
My statement provokes various shocked reactions and questions, but I stop them with a raised hand.
“I’m not answering questions about my family; the provided details were to clarify how I alone was reborn. Knowing the requirements for parentage for an Anar to be reborn by a non-Anar is why all Anar initially left the Titan’s realm. Please go around the table introducing yourself and the group you represent for my benefit. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other better as time progresses. Glingaerneth, are you here representing only the King, or the Tower as well?”
At Glingaerneth's confirmation of both, I motion to the male with dark blue hair who asked questions earlier.
Like most of them, his silk clothing matches his eyes. The layered robes, secured with loose ties hung ajar at the front, show the shirt and pants he wears beneath; all his clothing is shades of dark purple laced with gold and mithril patterns. Despite the oddity and the decent enchantment in the silks, he has no house crest among the runic patterns.
“Maition Elden, representing the School of the Arcane.”
Just like that, we have one faction Daerchon hadn’t mentioned.
“A houseless Elf?”
“Cast out by my family for improper choices,” Maition says drily, without bitterness in his tone or song, though there is a sharp glee. “Much like your Yngvarr was before the King’s desperation to secure an alliance. However, my improper choice was magic over any marriage at all. The detailed reasons you’d have to get from my former mother.”
“Maition,” sighs Glingaerneth, not looking in his direction nor showing her pain.
“I already knew of Yngvarr’s situation and the threats against his family’s titles that the King issued unless he returned. Let’s continue.”
My words cause a flare of distress in Glingaerneth's gaze, but I’ve no intention of asking the reason with how slippery her intentions feel. Even Maition and Litthor’s pleased smiles don’t make me regret exposing the King’s distasteful behaviour.
The silver-haired lady opted to sit sideways at the table, mimicking Glingaerneth. She clears her throat nervously before she begins. “Ellother Roquentar, my father’s alliance are minor nobles that handle most of the trade outside the kingdom. They don’t have a fancy name or heritage to claim.”
With most of the nobles that invited themselves being male, it's unsurprising that she and Glingaerneth are the only other ladies present—when I count as one. Though Litthor’s lips tighten at her introduction, Maition and others merely nod.
A second faction, and one that has me wondering how much of their profits it cost to be minor nobles.
Ellother inclined her head quickly at the end of her introduction. After returning the gesture slowly, I gesture to the male across the table from her—another of the elders I’d kicked from my table.
He is an exception to the males' clothing matching their eye colour. Despite being a similar fashion to Maition’s outfit, the cut and colouration differ. The three layers of robes are bright purple, yellow, and red hues, while the shirt and pants are sky blue. None of them matches his auburn hair or mint gaze.
“Rúcinion Inthavros, some refer to the group I’m with as isolationists, but we merely focus on keeping our communities safe without aggressive actions that would risk lives for little gain.”
“By ignoring the wolves at the door,” grumbles Litthor, so low under his breath that the others can politely not react.
Nodding politely to the next member, I take in his simpler clothing style, perhaps taking his cue from Glingaerneth that less is more. The burnt amber of his silk shirt blended with the deeper red of his loose pants tucked in soft leather boots. His eyes match his clothing, amber irises having a red starburst radiating from the pupils. Though the mithril threads in his clothing are overkill, the runes they’re used in seem to be for focusing additional Mana through his sword arm.
Returning my gesture with a respectful nod causes scores of thin silver braids to dance about his shoulders. The starburst in his gaze burns momentarily, drawing my attention to his Sorcerer Class and its affinity with fire.
“Tarlanc Naldóra, I represent the revisionists. Many will tell you we seek to return across the sea, but that is incorrect. We seek ways to bring our people back to the cultural heights we once possessed.”
“Hearsay and tales retold repeatedly can distort many things. Litthor, I hope you are among those who find merit in going last?”
Litthor nods politely before he speaks. “Litthor Turcotur, I represent the border lords seeking to keep the threats out of elven lands, despite others working to weaken our focus. In the last centuries, our retreat from the northlands has caused losses among the snow elves, whose borders we used to help support.”
“Thank you all. As I mentioned, these discussions will be ongoing, though not without some conditions. Not a cost, but a mixture of necessity to spare others pain and distress, and to place a structure around everyone’s expectations.”
“First, tomorrow you’ll begin arrangements for the rest of the elves to return to the Andúnë, lands minus some exceptions. The principal exception is the faction's preferred negotiator if that is not the representative. It will be up to this group if you permit other interests to have one person remain, but they will not directly join these discussions. I will hear the concerns from any of you they can persuade to present such concerns.”
Arodion eyes narrow speculatively. “You made no mention of guards.”
“No, I did not. I’m sure they’ll have tallied your arrival accurately; the same number will depart. Afterwards, I’ll bring those nominated to remain on duty directly to the Demi-Plane if Lady Glingaerneth believes my wards insufficient. It wouldn't have been an issue if the King had sent a moderate number—say six—as bodyguards for Glingaerneth.”
“Why is that?” asks Ellother.
“Do you refer to the departure, the exceptions, or the guards?”I ask, keeping a soft tone to try and avoid offence.
“I had meant the departure,” replies Ellother with an embarrassed smile. “I’m sure my father will be happy to negotiate for the presentation of suitable matters.”
Nodding, I motion to the closest guard, in his uniform plate armour and royal colours. “The group’s arrival has raised concerns with the local villagers, given the Royal Guard unit’s action during the Gods’ War-”
“There were circumstances beyond their control,” protests Arodion.
“How it came to pass doesn’t change the locals' fear. Especially since the Andúnë Queen at that time enabled that manipulation. Or is that incorrect?”
Arodion swallowed whatever he wanted to say and nodded sharply. “She did.”
“How would you all feel if a force able to slaughter your family arrived on your doorstep without warning? Especially a force associated with the same people who had put other villages to the sword in the recent past? Each of the guards might as well be a giant for the threat they represent physically to the average villager.”
Ellother goes pale and puts a hand to her stomach, but others don’t seem to share her sympathy.
“They did worse to each other,” comments Litthor.
“They would worry about any other kingdom’s armed force being near, but elves have a reputation for coldness in their dealings in this area. That combination isn’t a good thing even without recent historical events.”
Glingaerneth cleared her throat when the Captain went to answer. “The King wanted me to have a potent force to warrant your attention. After we completed negotiations, they were to help search for the key you seek.”
“It seems Hasusar’s assistant needs a bricked-up mouth, or are you going to say Yngvarr shared that?” I ask, allowing frustration to leak into my tone.
“No, the information came from the court’s contact at the Adventurers’ Guild council,” interjects Litthor, and he gives Glingaerneth a frosty smile. “He was advised you didn’t remain a member, so the information was no longer in confidence.”
Hasusar’s assistant playing games or direction from the Grand Master? Something to keep in mind.
“I found the previous Guild Master’s conduct offensive, and they had little to offer me. That said, a team of local people are helping me; I am not open to changing that,” I state, trying to be a matter of fact.
“Surely more help to search such an area will benefit?” asks Glingaerneth.
“If I’m not present with the group, they could walk over the top of it and not notice. The key is made of True Song Crystal, so there is no Mana to detect. There is a spire of crystal at the heart of this Demi-Plane—see if you can tell me where it is,” I say and move on before any can interrupt further.
“Second, I will allow three hours a day for these discussions, mid-afternoon or early evening. The more you waffle, the longer this will take. You should know that I might grant you nothing, especially if you present continual requests regarding things you want but don’t need.”
Rúcinion straightens and gives me a curious smile. “How would you determine that?”
“Genuine needs are universal, not driven by an individual's politics. If all of you genuinely favour a request, I will weigh my consideration appropriately. Since I believe most of your requests will have political aspects, Ellother, would you start?”
Ellother looks at me wide-eyed as if I had thrown her to a Dragon. “I will need to converse with my father. His purpose for bringing me was, he had heard you were here alone and suggested you might need a lady-in-waiting. He deemed such might prove enlightening.”
“I’m rather self-sufficient, but if you wish to get away from home, speak to Sarah afterwards. She’s only here to establish a household structure for me; after that, I'm sure she’ll get back to crafting weapons for killing demons,” I say, and Ellother’s discomfort turns to pleased surprise.
The others among the group murmur at my mention of Sarah’s crafting.
“Are you going to warn Ellother your aunt is a Dragon?” enquires Glingaerneth, drawing everyone's attention, including mine, with her casual question. I wonder if she wanted to share the shock Sarah gave her.
“I thought everyone had picked up on that. Oh, my aunt is a Diamond Dragon—a variant species—so she likes to be orderly, with rules and routine followed,” I say and turn my attention back to Ellother. “Be careful, Ellother; Sarah might talk you into becoming an Artificer since I can tell you’ve yet to select from your Class vision.”
“A Dragon,” squeaks Ellother.
The rest of those gathered vary between fear and curiosity.
“I didn’t say it would be a normal household.”
“Being included in these discussions might open up many options; I can’t imagine many on the cusp of adulthood ever get afforded such a diplomatic opportunity,” notes Litthor.
“Thanks for reminding me, Litthor. Ellother, there will be no requirement for an Oath to be offered, and I wouldn’t accept them. That is nothing against you, but weird things can occur with my accepting oaths.”
“Weird things?” enquires Glingaerneth.
“I didn’t infuse the Guildhall with dimensional energies without reason; my accepting an oath of service from a Human boy almost ripped his Soul apart. I had to take extreme measures to prevent its obliteration.”
The owlish blinks I get from them were worth some of my headaches.
Comments
Glenn Wright
Correct. The Lome consider her the titan's executioner, for various reasons. Where as the sunset elves thought of her as essentially 'one of' the keepers of the Anar King's honour.
Gopard
Thanks for the chapter! Indeed "weird things" happen when she accepts oaths! ;) I wonder if the elves are ever going to find out who "Orhnethurin" really is, other then the "executioner" I mean? They also don't know that Gail is the Anar Queen yet, right? So, there will definitely be many opportunities for them to be shocked by some random casual revelation! :)
