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OOC thread here.

His was a procession that looked more like a flock of peacocks, arrayed in their bright colors and strutting forth through the gates of Corontas. Today, they were greeted with the detestation of the peasantry, who hurled rotten fruit and offal at the son of the Usurper, a far more offensive greeting than most nobles of the realm would take. There were men in the procession, mainly the foreign cavaliers, who obviously wanted to charge the peasants for their offense, and then the knights and retinue armsmen who bore it in grim silence as almost their due.

Geoff had expected this much, as the son of an infamous regicidal traitor who was blamed, along with his sorcerous minion/master from the shadows, depending on the telling, warned his men not to break the ranks or 'give chastisement.' Of course, that was a convenient pretext; the peasants spontaneously decided to pelt a man that they probably wouldn't recognize by face or heraldry because he was the son of the Usurper.

There were men who probably put the fruit and veg in the hands of the crowd, precisely to provoke that sort of brutal response as a further indictment against him; starting a riot and a slaughter would certainly give fuel to what he expected to be a campaign among other nobles to strip him of his title and squabble over his Lakelands. The fruit-throwing was the sort of thing he expected from the less intellectually gifted of his opponents, or perhaps something one of the sly ones manipulated the duller ones into supporting; sending some fellows to put up the peasants to the fruity greeting, knowing that he'd look for the culprits and focus on those enemies.

But the lord who put the crowd up to the fruit wasn't the real enemy, merely an unwitting pawn manipulated by someone else; a person who no doubt wanted to put him at ease with a smile and honeyed words. A ploy to put him on his guard against the wrong people, then.

Indeed, the game was afoot, with the layers upon layers.

Geoffric Griffingtayne, Lord of the Lakelands, was not the only to come to the capitol, but he was probably the least expected, outside of those nobles from north of the Nachtwald. After all, he was the son of a traitor, and the walls of Corontas, only half-repaired, and the city itself, in execrable condition after the latest sieges to oust the Usurper, bore witness to that fact.

All the same, his procession moved forward with pride and even vigor as they trotted through, bearing his white eye on a green field proudly. They were a motley lot, not the traditional armsmen and knights that were the expected retinue of a powerful noble of the realm. Some had faces too swarthy and too aquiline for the region, and wearing their strange pointed beards, but they rode their bony, angular horses as if born to them and carried their lances lightly and well, cavalrymen born. Others were the more traditional knights, representatives of the lesser houses of the Lakelands, some of them houses that squabbled amongst themselves for Geoff's seat, at least until he'd come back from exile to settle his inheritance.

The summons called all the great lords to the realm, but one of the likely things to be debated amongst such nobility was whether or not to even allow Geoffric Griffingtayne, the son of Benard Falbrooke, the traitor, to retain the seat his grandfather passed onto him. The other thing to be figured out was the succession itself. Between Sigismund Langsheld, who was now of age and learned his ambition from his long stint as a hostage in this very place, and the other alliances forming up, there was every ingredient necessary for a war to start, and it seemed doubtful, to him, that there would be a peaceful resolution that was anything but a stay of execution for the realm.

The last time he'd been in this city, Berold Silvermane was king. And while the city itself was somewhat run down from the near-decade of warfare that decimated crops and impoverished the kingdom, Corontas had been a place of optimistic hope for the future. Now, returning years later from the Golden Cities south of the Sunsea, he saw a city grim and bitter, the hopes for the future dashed by the resumption of hostilities. And now, in this brief pause for breath between wars, it was bracing for the next civil war.

They passed through the outwardly beautiful, with the cobbled streets and the careful gardening, merchant's quarter, and Geoff got a good look at those who would no doubt profit the most from the brewing war for land and power. No doubt they would be a power more than ever in this struggle. They were prosperous men in sober clothing, with their wives dressed simply but well.

They hadn't been quite so complacently arrogant in their future before nor after the first war-- clearly, they'd gotten fat off the same fortunes that left the fields fallow and the peasants underfed. Soon, he had no doubt they'd be draped in silks and buying noble titles, not to mention nobility to do their fighting for them, like in the Golden Lands, where he'd done just that-- sold his sword and wits to merchant princes. And now he was dressed as one, eschewing obvious armor for a dandyish attire; admist the silk and the ornate sheath it was easy to lose sight of the knight's hand and a half sword, a heavy weapon with a straight crosspiece and extremely simple hilt that took real shoulders to wield.

One of these stern merchant family matrons, a straight-backed, proud woman coming into middle age with her hair up in a severe bun like a farmerwife, but with lace at her collar and cuffs, cast an insolent eye at him as if he were on his way out and she were on her way up. He merely returned the smile; golden-haired and tanned, green-eyed and with hard-handsome features, his was a smile that could melt the chastity belt off a maiden. Still, he wasn't smiling to charm the woman, but rather to mockingly acknowledge the thinking behind her glare. It was his typical answer to those who cast a disapproving eye upon him, starting with his late, reviled father.

But the merchants were for another day; ahead lay the soaring arches and towers of the Garden Palace of Corontas. Despite the airy demeanor he affected, he was already anticipating the battle ahead; he'd spent years in the Golden Cities, and found upon his return that Tathelas was more like places like Daramalsh and Tarqaba than before; poisoning and assassination, something Tellar Brunic introduced into the realm with the killing of Berold Silvermane, was becoming de rigeur in the kingdom. The old fashioned method of using an archer or a man with a blade was, of course, always a factor but now it seemed positively in fashion.

With the kingdom up for grabs, so many nobles in one place, and with so many houses, including his own, without an heir, he had little doubt that he was trotting into the lion's den.

((OOC: All players' leaders, yes, are summoned to the Garden Palace.))

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"There is something feeble and a little contemptible about a man who cannot face the perils of life without the help of comfortable myths." - Bertrand Russell

The Baston of The Ruk was meet with a similar hostility from the peasantry, but also an air of curiosity.

Not many expected nobility north of the Nachtwald to actually accept the summons and even less were prepared for the Rukfolk to send a noble contingent. The imposing group which surrounded Lady Kitharoth ignored most of the scornful acts as they made their way toward the Garden Palace. As Baston of Ruk Lady Kitharoth had every intention of following through with the summon, as inaction from her fellow leaders before had taught her to act swiftly and soundly in tremulous times such as these.

From her lofty perch atop a noble horse, Lady Blak was quite the apparent lady of the northerly bunch. The fine leather of a long greatcoat hung tight to her small frame, the furs that aesthetically lined the collar and cuffs a symbol of her high rank. Her face was hidden by a wide brimmed shepherds hat with a midnight veil, and her feet graced with riding boots. Another noble rode near her dressed in similar fashion save for the veil, but the sneer on his face was sufficient enough.

"We are not welcome, my Lady." he managed to grimace as a particularly gooey fruit smack against his mount.

Many others among the Ruklanders shared the brewing anger of Jasta Inglewood, the lean noble men who rode alongside their Baston, Kitharoth. They were a tough and brawny people, the men having long beards and longer hair, the woman tattooed just as her male counterpart would be. Their dress was of the fashion of Ruk, wool, fur, and leather being cornerstones of it. They carried weapons of war openly, as much for defense as for a deterrent to any attacks, while chainmail and armor covered many a man.

"What gave you that impression." Lady Blak responded dully, her statement laced in sarcasm.

A pale hand emerged from the length folds of the greatcoat she wore, and promptly snapped in a signal of some sort. Two hounds emerged from somewhere in the procession, held in check by two brawny clansmen by chain and collar. Being far from friendly the dogs soon cleared a respectable and convenient path for the Ruklanders.

Lady Kitharoth herself looked ahead to Corontas, ignoring the merchants they passed along the way. Where as the peasants openly jeered at her, these of higher standing subtle glared at them in contempt. Shunning them of attention brought a small grin to Kitharoth's face, but her veil hid any satisfaction from the ill-mooded merchants as they swiftly passed. She presented herself in such a fashion as to remain mysterious and aloof, yet calculated and sure. This made any noble hesitant to sully her name, at least within earshot.

She could only wonder what the future held in store for her and her people.

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The Tunrogin escort walked down the streets of Corontas. If one one could really call it an escort. It consisted of only three men. An archer with a bow as long as himself, a soldier with two broadswords strapped to his back, and Foshint.

Foshint wore a battered suit of royal armor, without the helmet. A tattered cloak to go flowing behind it, and a longsword strapped to his side. His guards were equally un-intricate, but did not wear cloaks. On each of the men's shoulder pads, was stamped the Tunrogin symbol, as well as one on the back of Foshint's cloak. The three did not even bother to bring their mounts through the center of the city, but instead had left them at the gates. Whispers shot through the crowd as the three march through the crowd. The three men waved and smiled, and the crowd split a path for them. Foshint could hear the whispers and conversations throughout the crowd,

"Why does he bring only two-"
"I hear he fought off an entire army with only a hundred-"
"What? He's glorious? Look at him! He's a-"
"It's a sign of respect. He likes being the-"
"I say he's a dim wit. All the other lords brought loads more men."

About half way through the city, one man finally cheered out for him. Suddenly the crowds burst out in a mixed shout for cheer, joy, and tad bit of booing. Some of the crowd began throwing food at them, and the large man to Foshint's right, caught a melon, showing it to the other two,

"Look sir, still good!"

The man said it loud enough for the entire crowd to hear, while still seeming to address Foshint. The three men burst into laughter, and Foshint wiped off a rotten fruit from his already dirtied armor. The few who had thrown these thigns stopped, and silently sulked back into the depths of the cheering crowds. The tall and lanky archer point at the next set of gates that were coming up,

"We're almost there, sir, should we make a grand entrance."

Foshint nodded with a glee-filled grin, "Indeed, Thorshir."

He stood up straight, and walked with the biggest and goofiest smile any of the crowd had ever seen,

"Now then, Thorshir! Gornig! We have a meeting to attend!"

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"There are two things infinite: The universe, and stupidity, and I'm not sure about one of them." - Albert Einstein

The day was creeping slowly towards its zenith, and the crowds were growing restless beneath the relentless gaze of the sun. At first they had gathered to pelt the traitorous Usurper's son, but, when no reprecussions had materialised, they had grown bolder. Now, the dignified processions of nobles from all corners of Tathelas, had merely become target practice for the dissatisfied masses. A rare opportunity to vent their frustration upon their high and mighty betters who had brought once-proud Tathelas to its knees. There was a mood of carnival in the air and the moment was sweet to savour. As one procession followed another through the sticky barrage, the crowd grew bolder and bolder.

The crowd rippled at the end of the long road leading to the castle gate, signifiying the arrival of yet more nobility and their entourages. The air echoed with the clattering noise of ironshod hooves on the cobbles. Metal glinted in the sun, and the crowd, strangely subdued, drew back as riders passed through their midst. They rode five abreast, their faces obscured by glinting iron masks, battered into the snarling features of beasts and demons. Tall and proud, they seemed otherwordly, alien, for who knew what resided behind those cold visages? But these were men, these hard, grim warriors from the north. The crowd whispered their name with fear and awe.
The Vorreiter. The Black Knights of Hafgang.
For Bolvangar had answered the call.
The men were fully armoured, as were their steeds, glittering in the midday sun. Long metal horns extended from their helmets, and they wore great black cloaks. Although they carried no lances, the Vorreiter exuded arrogant brutality in their poise, high on the saddles of their mounts. They moved with grim purpose through the hushed crowd, the steeds moving in perfect formation. For these were the deadliest heavy cavalry in Tethelas, mercilessly trained and disciplined to butcher any who stood before them, equipped with the finest armour and weapons the outrageous taxes inflicted on the Hafgang serfs could muster. Tales of massacres and whole villages put to the sword by the Vorreiter were common, and they had forged a legacy of terror for themselves during the two regency wars that would last for generations to come.

Cvasta was enjoying the fear in the eyes of the stupid peasants that ogled at them in slack-jawed awe. This was how miserable serfs should look upon their masters. He sneered at the noble families that had gone before him, bowing their heads under the humiliating rain of rotten fruit like some lowborn criminals being punished for stealing a loaf. It was a disgrace, that peasants should behave in such a way. Worse than that, it was pathetic, and proof enough to Cvasta that the Southern Houses were clearly too weak and incompetent to subdue even their own peasantry.
He rode at the head of the column of fifty Vorreiter, the mighty order of knights who served the Bolvangar Household, and felt a feeling of cold satisfaction that it was his warriors that had cowed the abusive crowd without even lifting a finger in threat.
It was likely many of those in the crowd had relatives or friends who had been lost to the swords of Hafgang's armies. For although the Langsheld Alliance had never reached as far as Corontas, House Bolvangar's forces, and most specifically the Vorreiter, had been the vanguard of every brutal campaign launched against their foes.

Cvasta had watched in disgust as the Tunrogin escort had passed before him, a pitiful three men. It had been Cvasta's father, Kodaiv Korda, who had put the moronically grinning Tunrogin Duke's father to the sword, and devastated his lands. He had watched them walking on foot in their soiled clothing through the masses, laughing and joking. In fact, Cvasta had heard that the Tunrogin House were infact originally filthy lowborn themselves, so it was only fitting they writhed in the much with their fellows.
The Baston of the Ruk had gone before, and Cvasta gave her credit where due. Fellow northlanders, Cvasta had fought his first campaign against the clansmen in the first Regency War, little more than a boy himself. The Ruk had been instrumental in staving of Bolvangar attempts to increase their holdings across the north. Hard men, and canny fighters indeed. Still, a little over-concerned with such foolish ideals of "chivalry" and "honour".
As for Duke Griffingtayne, well, there was a hard man to judge, thought Cvasta, as he rode. Son of the Usurper, and therefore naturally predispositioned to be an ally of Bolvangar, it seemed however the new Lord of the Lakelands had little in common with his father. one to watch, murmured Cvasta.

"You said something, mighty Herzol?" came the growl of the only other unmasked Hafgarian, riding beside Cvasta. The Vasamar, supreme commander of the Vorreiter, was an intimidating man. Scarred heavily down the left side of his face, with a thick black beard, he contrasted starkly to Cvasta's clean shaven, pale complexion.
"Muttering to myself, Bleda." Replied Cvasta, addressing his second cousin in person. Bleda grunted in assent.
A movement flickered in the crowd towards the column of Vorreiter, catching Cvasta's eye. A youth, little more than fourteen years, burst out of the press of people struggling to move out of the way. He and Cvasta locked eyes, and the young Herzol could see a wealth of sorrow and grief in the young man's expression. In his hand the boy clutched a rotten tomato, and with rising anger, Cvasta realised his intent.
"Murderers!" The youth screamed, pitching the tomato, which splattered up the barding of Cvasta's warhorse, staining the hem of his royal blue cloak. It was the signal many of the crowd needed, and, inspired by the boys courage, added their bitter shouts and projectiles to the barrage.
Cvasta hissed in rage at the sheer impudence of these disgusting creatures. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword. Seeing this, the Vasamar raised his arm with a roar.
"VORREITER! Swords up!" The sound of rasping steel as blades slid from their scabbards was painfully loud even through the angry shouts. As one, the Vorreiter burst outward into the crowd. They screamed their warcry, a bass roar that seemed to rise up and over the shouting crowd. The swords rose, shining in the sunlight, and fell, and all of a sudden the air rang with agonised screams of pain and terror, and bright arcs of red rent the air ironically reminscient of rotten tomatoe juice.

The crowd broke and ran, leaving a score of mutilated bodies in their wake. Cvasta saw the youth's eyes widen in fear and realisation as Cvasta bore down on him. A moment before Cvasta's blade tore his head free from his shoulders in one massive swing. He fell back, gouting blood. Cvasta spat into the stump of his neck.
The masses of peasants had retreated to a safe distance now, and watched the Vorreiter as they smoothly moved back into formation. They were silent, other than a few cries of anguish or pain, and stared at Cvasta with wide, terrified eyes. Like rabbits, Cvasta thought, allowing himself to smile outwardly for the first time that day. He unconsciouslly ducked his head as his horse passed into the shadow of the great gatehouse that loomed above them, marking the end of their journey.
For Bolvangar had answered the call, and Cvasta and come to Corontas.

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Dove's Bane - Lord Abbas

Tyvil and the men of Dur'gaz were one of the very last groups to enter the city for reasons that were very obvious.

For one, their lands were far from the heartland of the nation. The Austberg mountains could hardly even be seen from this distance, large as they were, and the roads that led to them became increasingly more difficult as the journey went on. This in itself would normally be enough to make travel between the mountains and the heartland difficult, but it was not all: The men of Dur'gaz, armed with massive flanged maces and garbed in their cumbersome attire, had come on foot. Only a select few had the luxury of riding hard working mountain horses, and then only because they were symbols of Dur'gaz themselves.

The men were tired, Tyvil Fordom less than the rest, but they did not let it show. They entered the city with their weapons on their shoulders and their hoods over their hoods, one-hundred Cloaks striding in rows of four, white on the left and black on the right. At the front of their ranks flew the symbol of Durgaz, the simple, even blocks of black and white, of The Brother and The Brother, of the Twins.

The procession repeated verses of the Holy Text of the Twins as they marched, speaking first in the tongue of the Dwarves and second in the tongue of man. As one, they chanted. As one, they were. Harmony exuded from them.

"... Ger dul an storn a yrvin moss nee stor hwii graetes dragon..."

"... For he who falls and simply must should fall with utmost valiance..."

"... a ef grae moss no fel e tuen'e, van low dul thriif no hwii gret."

"... and if death need not be the course, then let him live without remorse."

Tyvil smiled as he listened to the chanting of his warriors, awed himself by the fervency of their words, the utmost faith they seemed to radiate. To him, it seemed, the people of Corontas held that same awe, though perhaps for different reasons. Of course, it was almost arrogant to think such -- but he believed it was so. But by their faces, by the silence they held which would have better fit a vigil, he would swear they felt some measure of awe for the warrior-priests of Dur'gaz.

However, he knew there was something more to it... He could not yet place it, but something oppressive seemed to hang over the crowd. They would not pelt his people, for his people were simply too foreign for them to have an opinion of, but there was... something else. Whatever it was, it put a wrenching feeling in Tyvil's stomach.

"The men are respected," came a voice beside him. Tyvil turned to see who it was. There, astride a gray mare, was his bodyguard and military advisor, Captain Abruin Greywatch, a man whose less-than-average size deceived opponents into thinking he was weak. He was the head of all matters military, his voice second only to Tyvil's, and he was a good, stalwart man, if slow to accept the faith.

He was also Tyvil's close friend.

"Aye, they are," said the High Priest. "I am glad it is so. I had feared that there would be some sort of mockery of our ways by the cityfolk, but it has not been so. Yet..." Tyvil locked eyes with his advisor as they rode, lowering his head slightly. "There is something amiss. I have felt it for some time. The people are frightened."

"Of what?" asked the Captain. That was when they both saw it.

Blood was on the streets, and it was no accident. There were still a few young men -- and women -- groaning as they strained to keep awake, their bodies torn and mangled by the vicious strokes of blades. They were tended to by friends and strangers alike. These were peasants and serfs, commonfolk who had been ripped apart in some wicked fit of rage.

Tyvil felt his own anger rise at the sight, but he quickly suppressed it. Fury did not calm storms. Instead, he dismounted, saying to Abruin, "Get the healers, please." The priest pulled back his hood as he approached the wounded.

The first he reached was a crying woman, her arm twisted in a grotesque way, her other hand pierced with a blade. She could not be older than eighteen and was obviously with child, yet her attackers did not care...

"Hush, child," said Tyvil, "it's alright. Be calm. Look at me." Fordom let his voice be soothing and calm, slow and encouraging as he urged the girl to peace. The girl did so, barely managing to keep her voice to a whimper, and Tyvil reached out, touching her forehead lightly. Shortly afterwards, both his own personal physicians and those Cloaks trained in healing were around him.

"She's cold," said Tyvil to the nearest of them, grabbing the man by the arm and pulling him towards her. "Attend her." He rose, giving the woman a bit of a smile, hoping to cheer her up; surely, it couldn't work. Yet it did, it seemed, make her a bit braver, and perhaps that was enough.

"I want a head count taken of the wounded and the dead," said Tyvil to Greywatch, who also had returned. "I want them helped in whatever way possible. And I want to know who did this."

"It was the Bolvangar bastards!" yelled a nearby peasant boy, a thankfully unscathed youth. "'ey killed 'em, those who was close, jus' came and started killin'!"

"Why?" The High Priest was patient as he allowed the boy his say. Suddenly realizing just who he was speaking to, the same boy began to stutter before finding the courage to speak again.

"We was throwin' fruits and veg's, and they attacke' us for't! They bloody came and killed for't!"

Tyvil closed his eyes, a sigh escaping his mouth. "Captain Greywatch, there is one more order that I have for you. Take the rest of the Cloaks with you and continue on to the castle. Inform the court that I shall be tardy, as I am busy attending peasantry slaughtered by Bolvangarians, and that when I arrive, I shall be happy to give details on the matter."

Those were bold words he spoke, he knew. He had been tempted to call the killers 'Bolvangarian dogs'. He knew he couldn't. However, this act was uncondonable; there would be reprecussions for what had been done here -- damn that Lord Cvasta -- and if he were not punished for his actions, then, at the very least, he would be spoken against, and very verbally. Tyvil was known for giving speeches, and he had a speech planned for Cvasta.

But, for now, there were wounded to attend. The court had to wait.

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FACT:

The Duke of Ansberg rode up on the meeting place, choosing the route that avoided the fruit-throwing beggars, mostly by meandering through the streets of the most upper-class of districts, the Duke and his ninety lancers, plus their retinue, and his servants, and more in tow. A train, all told, of nearly five hundred. Ninety knights, plus their two squires each. A servant too for each of the sires, plus the Duke's personal household servants, several of his advisers, and some of their servants as well, came. It was a full retinue that made its way, and perhaps one of the largest all told within. Corontas was abuzz with activity, nobles gathering on their balconies, their discussions which invariably turned to the gathering of nobility in the city wafted down to street level and into Pierrick Aethle's ear. The Duke grinned and rode onwards until he came upon the appointed gates and he and his knights, his retinue, their retinue, and all other mounted men dismounted in turn. Only those that had fallen ill during the trek halfway across the continent and were too infirm to leave the carriages kept their feet far from the stones that paved the district neither showed themselves nor stepped out of their sanctuary.

At the gate that separated this summit from the rest of the nobility, the Duke looked to the guards that stood there and, without a single word being spoken, was admitted. The retinue as well came through at the Duke's insistence, and the servants were shown the place for their masters, the ill were tended to at the appropriate place as the wagons with the party's food were ushered to the party's quarters, the Ansberger delegation insisting on bringing its own source of food and wine for all meals but those offered as a requisite part of this Diet of Corontas as the Duke already called this meeting.

Before allowing himself to speak to anyone else save the servants within the place, and careful to avoid contact with other nobles invited, the Duke retired at once to his quarters, and was delighted to see that already his wardrobe was in order and unpacked. A quick change from his travelling garb into one of his finest outfits ensured that no longer did he look the part of a middling pilgrim, but instead of his proper place, that of a foremost leader amongst men. With it all done, the Duke left his offered quarters and went to the main gate, seeing to it that he would come across the others that sought to speak here. Other nobles already had arrived there, as had the Ansberger knights, men-at-arms, squires, and several of his advisers, already mingling with the foreigners. Things, he was certain, would become interesting in due time.

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My Card

The City of Lumis was bristling with life this afternoon. From the platoons parading through the military quarter, to the frantic merchants all trying to undercut each other in the market, it was shaping up to be another busy day for the citizenry. Indeed, it was almost difficult to tell that the temperature was far below freezing level, with the number of men and women socializing in the streets.

On the palace grounds, however, things were quite different. There was not a peasant to be seen, nor a single barker. Something important was happening, though. Something that would overshadow anything else that would happen in the City, that day. Four of Lumis’ most renowned nobles, whose combined wealth was quite considerable, awaited their untimely end. King Lumis I, who emphasized loyalty above all else - something that could be considered ironic, considering his history as a rebel, had sentenced them on the spot. They had been caught plotting crimes against the government - or so it had been said.

Svien, however, was not overlooking the results of his orders. He was locked away in his personal study, positioning various flags on one of his many maps, coordinating strategy as if he were a child playing a simple board game. He knew all too well, though, the importance of any sort of decision, and the possible consequences of anything that could be considered aggressive by his neighbours. On the day that he consolidated his power within the newly founded “Kingdom”, he had issued strict orders to all soldiers he could contact through runners not to cross over into other’s territory. Not even a single scouting trip was to be allowed.

“Release arrows!”, shouted a man , outside. Following this, the unmistakeable twangs of multiple bows. The execution was done. Svien smirked, content with his actions.

He had delivered a crippling blow to the nobility of Lumis, all the while setting himself up to be seen as hero of the lower classes. So far, his vision was falling into place.

--

Sirisn looked nervously over the crowd that had been gathered around him. The courier came with two messages to the court, neither of which he anticipated would be well received. He cleared his throat, and began to shout out.

“I have come to you all today, to officially declare the independence of the Kingdom of Lumis!”, he declared, amidst the murmuring crowd. Removing a wrinkled piece of parchment from his cloak, he continued. “Multiple counter-revolutionaries were captured and executed by the King, to protect the citizens of the City. I have brought with me a list of these disgraceful men and women,” He cleared his throat once more. “Baroness Tienith Lightwarder, Count Kalthoris Stormclaw, Baron Arenovth Halcorecen, and Sir Oronok the Blessed.”.

As the crowd began to work itself into a quite visible anger, the runner finished his announcement with one last message.

“None of you have the right to condemn these righteous actions; it was ordered by the King himself, and he can do whatever he pleases! Good day!”, he yelled, attempting to push his way out of the crowd.

Day Seven of the Conclave, Corontas Royal Palace

Geoff was with many of the nobles, of his generation at least, who came to the conclave; everyone poised for action and treachery. But seven days in, it became evident that the older men of the kingdom, the same sorts who dithered in the days before the First Regency War, were in ascendancy as they brought proceedings to a snail's crawling pace. There were a lot of them; house nobles, he was shocked to see, came in three varieties; very young heirs without experience, old men who were regents for the young men or took their houses from retirement who missed the war due to their age, and then the few who were roughly his age. The last category was part of the 'lost generation' who bled out during the wars.

The Garden Palace was so named for its open keep structure and lush grounds once inside the rampart walls; there was columnwork and vaults, large windows and other things to bring breezes through the palace. Corontas, the town, sat along an intersection of several rivers, and the Palace itself on its own island, albeit with many bridges and roadways built into a marshy sort of area. But the breezes carried in off the water. The old Royal Palace itself, unlike the rest of Corontas, fared well in the years of fighting, and the same servants seemed to be in attendance as they always had; they'd served two royal dynasties, and now waited to see who would head the third.

Geoff couldn't help but think that there would be no such way he'd ever trust such men and women; and he didn't. He'd brought servants to his quarters with the guards, all natives of the South, but for the sprinkling of knights and other native advisors that came about; but these were faces known to him. The swarthy outlanders, in their lamellar armor and with their curved swords were seen as an exotic flourish, but they had a much more practical purpose, in the end. They looked different and spoke a their native tongue, as did Geoff, and that prevented others from easily penetrating his apartments.

He didn't trust the food in the palace, nor the people that served it. He knew that plenty in the palace, made cynical through the intervening years, were selling to the highest bidder, particularly now. He wondered how some of these people ever could bring themselves to trust one of them, or if they'd even thought it through. There were baskets of fruit and goblets of wine and mugs of beer to be had, but he didn't touch them, nor the roast meats and other things the palace kitchens provided. He merely sat in the wooden chair he occupied, leaned back with a creak to show that he wasn't given much consideration, all in all.

They'd given him a pretty awful position near one of the back corners, with a window nearby to distract him with the gardens. Servants glided by with the amenities and were waved off by his armsmen; veterans of the wars in the Golden Cities of the South with hard eyes shooting out from under the brims of their strange helmets with the thick cheekpieces and prominent flaring neckguards. They were a somewhat colorful and exotic lot of varying skintone given proper livery to wear over their mish-mash of armor for the occasion, but with their more familiar curved swords at their waists and southern halberds in their hands. Even then, some wore scarves around their necks and tucked into their collars to keep the armor from chafing.

He himself wore a deep-necked, loose green silk tunic with golden embroidery upon the hems, cuff and collar, and an emerald in each ear, his hair worn with a bang to conceal a scar across his forehead that also served as a reminder that he didn't want to give people. He worked hard to create the indolent appearance of a useless fop, albeit one with a lean frame and wide shoulders; he did his ensemble justice enough, and was undoubtedly much cooler than those around him; it was a hot summer day, and he was well dressed for it, even if he had to eschew a cloak and heavy jewelry in the process. He had the golden hair of his grandfather's line, the green eyes and the lean features that gave him a boyishness, or at least mischeviousness, that he didn't necessarily feel these days. Particularly these last seven days.

The room was vaulted, with a high ceiling, and decorated with art pieces and statuary, though some of it had seen better days. Perhaps with the death of the Usurper, the standards of the servants were slipping as they were more busy with espionage than the proper work of a servant. It carried sound, well enough, not there was much to actually be heard that was of worth. It was empty rhetoric, meant to waste time.

"And so, I do move..." droned on old Aldon Holthor, the man who inherited Lothric Griffingtayne's control over the Conclave of Nobles and called this Grand Conclave to establish who the next king would be. He was well past his prime, but his son, the Lord Brand, fell in the battle of the Mistwaters; Geoff remembered, because he'd been the man's squire. He could look to the grandson, see his father's face and remember the life ebbing from him in the middle of the frigid stream, the jagged stump of a broken lance sticking awkwardly from his breast as he coughed blood trying to say something. It was the eyes that got Geoff, watching them throughout, as the man expired. Early war, back when massed cavalry charges were the rule, and infantry just thrown in masses at each other.

But he opened his eyes and Aldor, a fossil by anyone's reckoning, continued to drone on about procedure, and the other old fossils, for there were many who wanted to make their voices heard, brought up points of petty contention.

A student learned far more ardently from failure, pain and humiliation than success, he found. And in here, pain was certainly the teacher; he was able to see how others were reacting to the situation and gauge accordingly.

There were two real contenders for the throne; Sigismund Langsheld, who by rights was Overlord of the East, though the Overlordship had been defunct for years, was young, ambitious and apparently able enough by all accounts. He had a saturnine countenance, lean and watching with an eyebrow cocked. Despite that, his eyes were dark, seething and intent. He'd been a boy at the end of the first war, and a hostage ever since, the threat of death and intrigue his inheritance. The death of Berold Silvermane was something like liberation for him, except Langsheld lands, for they'd been a great house once, were sliced into smaller bits and given away to the victors. He was in a slow process of reunification, but many were whispering that perhaps the days of Silvermane and Langsheld were done. Perhaps it was time for newer houses, strongly led houses, to take the seats of power, instead of tired old men and green young boys.

Tired men and green boys described Aldor Holthor and his grandson Elryn, nominally Hand of the West, a title that was not quite as done in as Overlord of the East, but getting there with the attrition of the last two wars. The boy was even younger than Sigismund Langsheld, and visibly bored with the proceedings; it was apparent that the wizened old man, leaning on his stick and wheezing away, was the brains behind the operation. Elryn was the choice for status quo, a repudiation of younger houses and those in the ascendancy.

Geoff watched all this as a pariah, a near-leper. Thanks to his father's own actions, even though he was legally and technically his grandfather's heir, he was left out of the politics. For now. He still watched carefully, and had men like Styr the Manservant, Barlas Tyl-Dath, the man who served as his primary advisor in stewardship of his lands, and Viro, his personal mage and another advisor.

It was Styr, a man of empty eyes and blank expression, who laid a hand on his shoulder and whisphered as a man in unfamiliar livery came in and announced the secession of "The Kingdom of Lumis."

The room was shocked into silence, before a roar rose up, as various men and women all spoke at once; Geoff, instead of saying anything, got the attention of his armsmen and made a 'grab and pull' gesture at the man from Lumis; once the tumult settled, there would be a discussion.

--

The tumult took longer to settle than was proper, largely due to the fact that no one felt the need to shut up at anyone's command.

Eventually, it was Aldor Holthor who spoke first, flushed with anger, "How dare your leader send you here and throw this ATROCITY in our teeth? I demand an explanation!"

Sigismund Langsheld, silent and brooding for days on end as Aldor Holthor droned and tried to bore the room into declaring Elryn the rightful heir to the throne by distant bloodline, seized the opportunity to show leadership, particularly as this kingdom lay in lands he had some claim to.

"Hold your gas for a minute, old man. You have had your week, I shall have my minute."

Cries of agreement went up, largely from others of an age. Before old Lord Holthor could stop stammering an enraged response, Sigismund Langsheld, claimant of the title of Eastern Overlord, though the title was no longer in use since the First Regency War, stalked to the emissary from Lumis, held between two guardsmen who'd taken him from the Griffingtayne men.

"You tell your King that I am coming for him." Sigismund Langsheld looked back to the others, "The rest of you are welcome to help me do justice if you wish."

That, of course, produced another great roar through the room and an argument over authority...

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"There is something feeble and a little contemptible about a man who cannot face the perils of life without the help of comfortable myths." - Bertrand Russell

Tyvil Fordom had arrived late, but he'd arrived in time to hear the announcement from Lumis and the arguments that spewed out since that point. Disorder in court and in smaller ones he had seen before -- but this chaos...

"This madness is stifling," he whispered to the Captain. "It better suits a circus."

"You'll see a lot more circuses than this one in days to come, I believe," he replied. Though his elaboration was drowned out in the nobles' roar, Tyvil had to agree whole heartedly.

The priest-lord considered his own position and power in the current affairs. He was a minor lord of little power but some influence. His lands were not central in any way, nor were they desirable or valuable. In truth, he would fare better speaking before a crowd of the peasantry to earn their support than before the flock of peacocks before him; still, that was no way to change a nation or settle a dispute as ugly as this. The military might of Dur'gaz may sway a few battles, but it was no vast army he commanded, nor was it an army of veterans anymore. Many of the veterans had long since returned to their homes to stay...

In short, his power lay completely in his ability to apply logic and morality to the matter through his ability to speak. But with so little influence to back up his words, he feared there was little he could do to change the tides that were beginning to rise in the room. He was certainly not to be a leader of nations -- such was not the destiny of a priest -- but, perhaps...

Let it be so, he thought to himself. Then, he rose to his feet, quiet and calm. He waited for a lull in the roar -- he was lucky, for many of the yelling men had to stop to catch their breath -- and then began to speak.

"Why should we sally forth our armies against a single city-state of little to no importance until the present date?" he asked, his hands folded together inside his robes, unseen. His hood hung over his head as he raised it, his red beard pointing out somewhat like a finger. "Why should we do so now when there is such an instability amongst us that we cannot even allow our fellow men to speak their voices in an orderly fashion? In such a state of affairs, my fellows -- we would be foolhardy to destroy an enemy whilst we might well destroy ourselves."

The last sentence, of course, was not meant to elicit a pleasant reply from anyone. It was meant to stir up the feelings of anger still well brewed at the moment. Tyvil raised a hand. "Some amongst you may feel a certain rage, unbridled and unchecked, welling in your chests. This is precisely the discord, the instability of which I speak: Noble sirs, we are just as willing to turn on one another now as we are this upstart realm that has forsaken our unity. We are not united, as of now. That which ties us as a nation, a people, has been split in twain by a thus far unseen hand, perhaps many hands, and we cannot but suffer for it if we are not as one."

At this, the man removed a hand from the folds of his robes and pulled back his hood, glancing about the room with a sad gaze. "I am but a humble priest, and I have no inclinations towards ambition. I would not aspire to become a leader of man. What I shall do is attempt to sway you all to do one thing: Choose from amongst us a circle of men or a single man that is strong of arm, of heart, and mind, and, behind him, seek to unite us as a single nation again. We must not descend to the level of brigands and the like, lest we become as petty as our Lord of Lumis; we must keep from tearing ourselves into two parts as best we can, or else we shall find ourselves with blades at each others' throats."

That was the simplest of it, for Tyvil. He had seen only a part of what resulted from the great wars that plagued this land in the past, and he did not want to see it again. He knew, of course, that he likely spoke in vain -- but he had to speak.

"And let it be known, too, that our stability is threatened further by the willingness of certain noble sirs amongst us to act ignobly." At this, Tyvil leveled his sight onto the lord of Bolvangar, Cvasta. "There are those of us who would strike down those peoples of another lord even in this time of shaky peace for naught but their pride and to assuage their anger. They are children. Yet these children go unpunished, unhindered in their acts. He who would punish these men who murder our people -- the same people that till our fields and serve us loyally --, he is a man I would follow."

The priest felt he had spoken much -- perhaps too much. A great sigh escaped him, and, without much show of ceremony, he slid his hood back over his head and sat down. Weariness crept over him.

__________________
FACT:

Foshint sat in his seat looking like an annoyed dog, one that had been prodded with a stick one too many times. He sat with each of his guards sitting at his sides. He wasn't in this arguement much, but he had enough concern about it that these men yelling at each other made him grumble. Not only did he grumble about the dispute, but he grumbled at the fact that he had a closer seat, in which he could hear and see them better. Not that one usually complained about getting a closer seat to the higher men in the land, but Foshint saw it as pitiful.

He saw no point in arguing so pointlessly about he had more power. Who was fancier. Who had a deeper blood line. It was pitiful. He watched as another roar lifted the crowd, and he was tempted to demand silence amongst the crowd of imbeciles. Tempted, not enough for him to actually do so.

Thorshir leaned over to Foshint, and obvious look of glee on his face, "I bet if I loosed a single arrow from my bow, this entire stand of idiots would silence immediatly."

The two laughed a bit over the comment, and Gorning looked over at the archer, flexing his plated arm, "An arrow is nothing to punching a hole in one of their chairs."

The three laughed together, and a few of the men around them silenced themselves to look at what was so funny. At this, Foshint just looked at them with a sly grin, and waved rather dramatically. A couple of the higher-ups actually shivered at the gesture, and quickly turned their attention away.

Foshint chuckled silently, and looked straight ahead, giving neither Gorning nor Thorshir more attention than the other, "I bet I could yell and get half the room to become silent. That's all it takes."

Gornig punched his leader in the shoulder playfully, "Twenty gold pieces say you can't."

Thorshir looked over at the two and grinned, "Fourty that it makes them yell louder."

Foshint grinned, "You guys are SO on. Fifty that it silences at least ten of the fools."

Gornig and Thorshir both nodded in agreement, and Foshint stood up, almost nervous at not knowing what to say.

Suddenly it rushed to him, and his voice boomed throughout the room, echoing as most of the room silenced in astonishment or fear, "SILENCE! YOU YAMMERING FOOLS ARE GIVING ME A HEADACHE! THE VERY LEAST YOU COULD DO IS TAKE TURNS ON WHO YELLS OUT THEIR NONSENSE. NO EITHER SHUT UP, OR SAY SOMETHING IMPORTANT!"

Foshint sat back down smoothly, and payed no attention to the blinking eyes that were staring at him in anger, astonishment, and fear. He held out both hands to his guards, and grinned at the sound of jingling coins beings pulled out of coin bags.

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"There are two things infinite: The universe, and stupidity, and I'm not sure about one of them." - Albert Einstein