[center][hider=Prelude][h1]A Lion's Cub[/h1] Countless thoughts crossed the mind of Matthias Soleander as he lay in a pool of his own blood, his senses submerged in the horrors of the treacherous carnage taking place around him. His was a mind that had never truly rested, not even in his rare moments of placidity, and even now, even here, he could not help but think. And he thought of his wounds, of the traitors who had inflicted them, of the lifelong friends he was losing before his very eyes, of the reasons that could drive a patrician to betray everything and everyone in the Sonveld with a single act of savagery... but all those thoughts were swept away when one oft neglected part of his spirit, the most human part of him, reminded him that he had a son, who was still young, and needed his father. Some would have wept. Some would have screamed. He did neither. Instead, he rose. His body had never felt heavier. His legs had never felt weaker. But he rose all the same, and he reached for his rapier, and he thought of his son. [i]Thunder roared outside. In the Sonveld, all storms sounded like there were great lions roaring in the sky, beyond the clouds, reminding the land below which creature ruled supreme above all others. The Protector sat in silence, quill in hand, and stared at the flashes of pale violet light that would fill the windows of his personal solar. Sunlight had come and gone, yet his letter remained unfinished, the name of Alexandra only half-written. He glanced down at the expensive paper, and the quill broke in his hand as he squeezed it. So, for a moment, there was sound inside the solar. For a moment, there was life. And then it faded back into stillness. Grief could make corpses of the living, or so had Willemina once said, many years before, when the world had taken her own beloved from her. He could not deny she had been right, as he now found himself feeling that not a single inch of him had any of that spark that had always been there, from the moment they had all been brought to this world, which fueled the fires of the mind, the spirit, the heart and the whole body. Thunder roared outside. The woman who entered his solar was not a servant. There were no servants in the Sonveld. She did, however, work in the Sunstone, keeping watch of the halls and rooms during the night, preserving order in a way that only an unarmed woman of a certain age could. She had been here since his father's days, and had carried his brothers in her arms as babes. "Your excellency, pardon the intrusion..." She said as she held a new moving, whimpering bundle of cloth in her arms. She did not bow, because the patricians were not nobles, and the workers of the palace were not serfs. She did not wait for him to give her leave to approach, for she did not need it. She merely walked towards him, her every step as firm as her hold on that which he had almost allowed his grief to erase from his spirit. Her expression allowed for no dissent, even from the ruler of the Sonveld, as she stood beside him and presented the bundle to him. Matthias Soleander did not even glance at her from the corner of his eyes. When he spoke, his voice sounded as lifeless as he felt. "Why have you removed it from its cradle?" "No child should live its first few moments as an orphan, your excellency. Not if it has a father only a few rooms away." She said, and she did not mask her scorn or her sadness. "Hold your son, your excellency. Let him know he has not lost his father as well." He said nothing, but he did turn his face towards the woman, and looked at the little pink head that could be seen, peaking from the warm fabric. He realized he had not looked at his son, his wife's son, since the day of his birth. He had not bothered to see what he looked like, whether he was the spitting image of his father, his mother, or perhaps both at once. He had not wondered to himself if he would have Alexandra's beautiful brown eyes, or her button nose. He had not thought of his son at all. His son was pressed into his arms, and Matthias allowed it without a single protest. He only gave the woman a cold stare and a nod, and she departed with a nod of her own. The door closed, and soon thunder roared again beyond the windows, eliciting a cry from the child in his arms. At last, he allowed himself to look, to think of something other than his mourning, and he saw that the child had a bit of his mother in him. Not all, or even most, but some. By the time the bundle in his arms grew quiet, his letter was finished. Thunder ceased to roar outside.[/i] The rapier had not felt as heavy in his hand since his first day of training, nor had his movements felt as sluggish since then. That, however, did not stop him from slashing at Anton Keelmanen's back, then stabbing him in the stomach as he turned around. Matthias did not wait for his body to fall to the blood-soaked marble of the floor, but he marched on, his free hand pounding a bleeding gash on his side. Jonathan was not too far away, an arrow head poking through his right shoulder, swinging his own rapier around, trying to cut his way to his uncle and patrician. Despite all the complaints he might have had about the boy's father, Matthias could never have thought of his oldest nephew as anything less than admirable. He had bravery, strength of spirit, and loyalty, and the Protector could only reward him in kind, piercing another Keelmanen's back just as he was about to deal a dishonourable stab to Jonathan's back. "Your excellency! Here!" Shouted young Bongani Imbasala as he severed Nikolas Muirmoran's hand with a third and final stroke of his heavily ornamented rapier. The Imbasala's patrician grandson was covered in deep cuts, his clothes hanging in tatters from his body. Matthias tripped on the body one of the young man's uncles as he tried to reach him, and he fell. A half-broken wine glass, covered in wine and blood alike, broke under the weight of his arm, the pieces piercing the skin and pushing into his flesh. Then, an arrow hit him in the back. Jonathan and Bongani growled with fury. [i]Thunder roared outside, but Matthias paid no attention to it, or the cold. A gold mine had collapsed, and men had died. The whims of the sky were not important. He read the letter from the mine's overseer meticulously, made notes on a piece of paper beside it, and now and then glanced at a map of known and potential gold deposits. He saw the little shadow on the wall long before he heard the tiny whimper, right in the space between a grand portrait of Thomas III and his family, and a rather underwhelming tapestry depicting a pride of lions chasing gazelles. The whimper, however, gave him pause. He turned around in his carved amaranth chair, and eyed the small figure standing on the threshold between the long hall and his solar. The head full of long blond hair was unmistakable, as were the bright green eyes that peaked from beneath the thick furs wrapped around its body like a cloak. Matthias' eyes narrowed, something that was commonly regarded as an ill omen. "Felix. You should be in bed." He said, and with the tinge of a lion's rumbling in his voice, and the deliberate tone with which he spoke every syllable, it all sounded like an indisputable statement, closed to any sort of discussion. That the boy either missed that underlying meaning, or knowingly disregarded, was something that Matthias was starting to grow painfully used to, much as it bewildered him. "Can't sleep. I'm scared." The Protector's five-year-old son spoke up, his almost mewling voice muffled by the furs. Matthias' eyes narrowed even further and he pursed his lips, while his fingers began to drum on his great desk's glass surface. Only the sound of the drumming reigned in the solar. Father and son did not move a single muscle more. They just stared at each other, until the boy finally yielded, and turned his eyes to the books on a nearby table, then a painting of merchants in a harbour, then the red stone floor. Satisfied, the Protector of the Sonveld rose from his seat and walked to his son with his head held up high. As he spoke, his face remained expressionless. "Very well. I shall have Bernharda bring us some warm milk." He said, marching past his son and into the hall, not glancing back once as he walked away. "I expect to see you on the window seat when I return, with a tome of your own choice in hand." Moments later, as the storm continued to rage outside, and Matthias began to suspect he would be hearing of floods soon enough, father and son sat on the window seat, an open book on the boy's lap. The two held their cups of warm milk differently, Matthias' grip more praticed and robust, but both drank the liquid at the same deliberate pace, in comfortable quietness. "Is thunder from Kammeth?" His son asked, breaking their unspoken vow of silence. "Is He angry?" Matthias humphed. "Perhaps. Although one wonders what He could possibly be angry about, and why His wrath is so aimless." Thunder roared outside, and Felix Soleander shifted in his seat, pressing his trembling self against his father's side.[/i] Growling, he tried to rise again. He failed. The butchery continued, and he lied there, forgotten, bleeding profusely. He growled once more, louder, and pushed himself up. Heavy and sluggish as they felt, his arms still had enough strength to get him on his knees, and as he mustered the strength to get back on his feet, he gripped his rapier tight. Old and wounded, the lion still had claws. It took long, far too long for his liking, but he rose, and he walked, and he fought. He held onto Jonathan's shoulder as they limped their way past friends and foes, shoving their rapiers at anyone who dared cross their path. Bongani followed them, covering their escape. The door was not too far away. Many more corpses lied on the floor when they reached it. Many of those corpses belonged to women and children. Women like his Alexandra, and children like his Felix. The door had been sealed shut from the outside. More arrows flew, and Bongani perished behind the two Soleanders, as Jonathan pounded on the carved wood, tried to kick it open. The next few arrows hit them both, and they fell. For a brief moment, Matthias wanted nothing more than to roar again. A lion should not die whimpering in agony, a mad part of him told him. The man, famed for being sternly reasonable, always practical, was succumbing to the madness that filled the whole hall like a miasma. [i]"Go on. Pet her." Said Dumisani Imbasala, gently holding the blond boy's hand, guiding it slowly towards the lioness' side. His son's eyes had not narrowed one bit since the Imbasala patrician had told him he would get to touch a real lion. Even now, those emerald eyes were filled with disbelief, and a healthy bit of fear. Matthias stood behind them, watching closely. The lioness was a magnificent creature, bred within the gardens of Insimu Lezinkanyezi, always living in the company of humans. A truly tamed beast, if he had ever seen one, although his feelings on that matter were rather ambiguous. Matthias Soleander had spent much of his life firmly believing that lions were not meant to be tamed. His son squirmed in his wheeled chair just as he was but an inch away from feeling a living lion's fur for the first time. There was a nervous smile on his lips, and the elderly Dumisani barely suppressed a chuckle, although his dark face belied his amusement. Young Felix, only a few months away from his twelfth nameday, was nothing like his father had been at that age. Dumisani still remembered how nonchalant young Matthias had been about his first time petting a lion, at least until his aunt made some passing, and definitely false comment, about her late husband almost losing a hand to that lion. As the boy's bony hand met the lioness' soft fur, all tension vanished from the air with the relieved sigh that came from the Soleander youth. There was no danger. The lioness simply glanced at him, then continued to groom herself. "See? No lioness would dare hurt your cub, Matthias." Said Dumisani, sporting a wide grin as he patted his peer on the shoulder. He turned to the other Soleander, whose enthusiasm was beginning to show, as he leaned out of his wheeled chair and stroked the lioness' fur with both hands. He too was grinning. "I want one." He suddenly said, smiling up at his father, with tinges of playful mischief in his eyes. "No." Was his father's small, but monolithic reply. Like all his short answers, it allowed for no dissenting opinions, no further demands, and no honeyed pleads. "You may, however, have a cat." His son nodded, satisfied. "Agreed." The petting of the lioness resumed in full, as Felix scratched her neck and the back of her ears. Dumisani joined him, stroking the top of her head. As he watched the two of them, it occurred to Matthias that his son had grown quite taller as of late. Soon, he would be a cub no longer, but a lion. Later, as the two were reading in their shared solar in Insimu Lezinkanyezi, he wondered what sort of lion he would be. Would he remain, as he was now, fond of philosophy and poetry? Would his innocence grow into naivety or true virtue? Would he roar, even as he sat on a wheeled chair? Matthias was uncertain as to whether he wanted his son to change at all, but he knew beyond any doubt that he would, much like he himself had changed. He was broken out of his reverie as his son finished reading his book, carefully adding it to the growing pile he had already devoured during their journey to Insimu Lezinkanyezi. He let out a sigh, turned at his father, and smiled broadly. "I have reconsidered. I think I would rather have a bird." Since the passing of Matthias Soleander's beloved Alexandra, few had seen him smile. When he did, his smiles were small, brief, slightly amused, and usually reserved for his cub. The smile he gave him in return was no exception."[/i] Jonathan gave out his last breath as Matthias' sight began to clear again. With that breath came a dribbling of blood from his mouth, and Matthias stared. In his own mouth he could taste blood as well. The Sunborn dragged him to the middle of the hall, were those who had not died yet were being held. Above them all stood a middle aged Dawnbringer, with Dumisani Imbasala's rapier in his hand. The man had come with the Keelmanens, and Matthias had noticed a distinctly Heartlandish look to him. "Matthias Soleander, look upon the fruits of your heresy." Said the Dawnbringer, pointing the tip of the rapier at him. "You, who would claim for yourself an authority higher than that of the gods themselves, have witnessed the just wrath of Kammeth Himself... but you may still redeem yourself in his eyes." Matthias spat a mouthful of blood on the floor and looked up, straight into the Dawnbringer's eyes. He looked at him with his green Soleander eyes, and his look contained everything that had made Matthias Soleander who he was: pride, strength, dignity. Matthias Soleander, the stern man, the pragmatic leader, the committed patrician, and the formidable Protector. Matthias Soleander, the ever-grieving widower and dutiful father. When he spoke, his voice did not waver. It rumbled menacingly, like a lion ready to pounce its prey. "My son... will kill you. All of you." "Your crippled kitten will face Kammeth's justice as well, soon enough." Said the Dawnbringer, leaning down until his face was inches from his own. "Kitten?" Matthias humphed, and he almost seemed to smile fondly, lowering his eyes to the blood-soaked floor. "No... He is a lion's cub. He... is a Soleander." He looked up again, one last time, and his smile was undeniable, and it was filled with pride and the promise of retribution. "He... is... my son." Growled the Protector of the Sonveld, and he spat in the Dawnbringer's face. The Dawnbringer flinched, enraged, and lashed out with the rapier, shouting some incomprehensible nonsense about Kammeth as the fine steel cut through Matthias Soleander's throat. He could feel the blood filling his throat and rising to his mouth until it overflew, and then he was drowning. Had he been able to speak one last time, he would have whispered Alexandra's name. Much of Insimu Lezinkanyezi burned that night, including parts of the gardens, killing Dumisani Imbasala's favourite lioness, as well as a solar in which a patrician and his son had once shared a smile. Gerard Soleander screamed when the news reached him, and he pounded the glass surface of his desk until it broke and shattered into countless little pieces. His hands were left scarred for life. It was said that Willemina Soleander did not say or do anything when she was told. She just sat on a chair in a gallery of the Lion's Grave, and stared at the sky from dusk until dawn. Matthias' only son, his bright and sensitive cub, did not eat for days, and spent the nights sobbing curses at everything and everyone. When a thunderstorm came to the Sunstone, he entered his father's solar, tore books and paintings to shreds, and sat in the window seat, trembling under his furs, until the storm passed.[/hider] [hr] [h1]The Sonveld[/h1] [img]http://img00.deviantart.net/06d3/i/2011/154/5/8/sunset_on_savannah_by_syntetyc-d3hyh6n.jpg[/img] [h2]The Sunstone[/h2] [sub]Theme - [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IJiHDmyhE1A]Our Father[/url][/sub] [b]2nd of Gerna | 1200 AU[/b][/center] [hr] The large herd of gazelles fled from the lionesses, away from the small cluster of trees, through the pale green of the field. In the sunlight, their coats shone almost as blindingly bright as the pond not too far away. The rhinoceros sleeping under the tree was, surprisingly, the most difficult to depict. The shadows made it difficult to perceive its more detailed features, and the artist had never painted one before. Half a dozen other artists had taken advantage of the clear sky to come out from the Sunstone's gilded halls and recreate the landscape's wild beauty in their canvases. Beneath the gardens' lemon and orange trees, as many poets and philosophers spoke to one another in hushed tones, while holding books and scrolls in their hands. From the nearby gallery, where the air was cooler, a musician from Dreiben composed his masterpiece, note by note, searching for that one melody that would never be forgotten. The rest of the gardens had been claimed by a multitude of children for their own games. Their joyful shouting was the morning's melody, everything else being little more than background noise. The palace's gardens had always been open to all the children of the surrounding cities, as a gesture of gratitude from the Soleanders to the community that had made them patricians and built them their grand and beautiful home. Beneath one of the larger orange trees, a few feet away from the red balustrade that separated the gardens of the Sunstone from the wilderness beneath, a small group of philosophers sat around a small gilded table. Their debate was not particularly heated, but there was a certain tension to it, due in no small part to the comely young man who had suddenly joined them. There was a frailty to his look as he sat on a carved wheeled chair, yet his ornaments spoke of great power, and his voice had a gentle underlying rumbling to it. He delivered his thoughts with pure enthusiasm, devoid of any hesitation, yet fits of coughing interrupted him every so often. Taller than many of them, he wore a pristine white tunic, and attached to the neck of it was a golden brooch, but neither added much bulk to his slender frame. "Only reason in its purest form, uncorrupted by the vices of the material, can help one elucidate the truth, your excellency." Said the young Silvanus Coultren of Riffleford, smiling with satisfaction. The debate, though it had stretched through most of the morning, had not lacked for richness. As he continued to speak, his fingers tapped on the cover of an old tome. "Crescentius Julien proved as much with his examination of how the understanding of the world possessed by some barbarians only grew larger and deeper when they abandoned their explorations of the wilderness, and instead dedicated themselves completely to pondering in seclusion, in the company of their spirits alone." Felix II Soleander gazed at the stack of books and scrolls on the gilded table, and produced a small, warm smile of his own. "It is true that Crescentius Julien observed as much, yet even he admitted that perpetual seclusion could lead to our reason festering, lost within the terrible spiral of its own spiritual vices." Some nodded in agreement, while others grumbled their dissent. "Your excellency, are you asserting that the empirical is fundamental to the elucidation of the truth?" Questioned Leopold Elegrand as he held a small orange, which had interrupted their debate a few moments before by falling from its tree branch and onto his head. "Perhaps..." Answered Felix II, his smile turning mischievous for a moment. "Though I might need more empirical experience to reach a definitive conclusion." The comment prompted some chuckling from Silvanus, and amused smirks from some of those present. There was a brief period of silence, and Felix II used it to relish the perfume of the orange and lemon trees, carried over to him by a gentle breeze. His long golden hair swayed gently with it, and it was one of the many soothing pleasures of the gardens. The sound of wood hitting stone behind him caught his attention, and that of the gathered philosopher. Turning their eyes towards the sound, they saw two women, one young and one old, approaching them them. Willemina Soleander, the revered patrician of the Lion's Grave, had arrived, and she demanded to be noticed. Her granddaughter, Claudia, the sister that Felix II had always wished for, held Willemina's arm as they walked side by side past the many artists, philosophers and children scattered through the garden. Both women wore dresses with the Soleander colours, and let their manes fall down their shoulders freely. The philosophers born in the Sonveld greeted the two of them as was expected of them, holding each woman's hand for an instant and giving them a polite nod. Some's hold on Claudia's hand lingered just slightly longer than on Willemina's, but that was to be expected. The foreign philosophers, on the other hand, rushed to bow before them, eliciting an exasperated scoff from the plump elderly woman as she moved to stand beside the young Protector of the Sonveld. "Dear lads, I am no queen, you are not my serfs, and you are in the Sonveld. Your courtly reverences have no place here." Willemina intoned, her grip on her amaranth cane as menacing as the fierce look in her eyes. "If another one of you bows in my presence again, I shall strike the lot of you." The Protector chuckled, and then those fierce green eyes were upon him, unsoftened. "And you, my dear, should be inside, resting, and trying to pay some attention to the correspondence you receive." She said to him, her voice rumbling much like his, before sitting on a gilded chair beside him. Felix II reached for her hand, which she allowed with a sideways glance. "Dear aunt, I apologise." He said, leaning forward in his wheeled chair, reaching for one of the books on the table. "Would you care to join us in our discussion?" Willemina scoffed again. "Not before lunch, and not before we discuss those." She nodded at a few unopened letters on the table, trapped beneath the books. Felix II had all but forgotten about them, entranced as he had been by the many small delights that had filled his morning. It all had distracted him from the sudden bouts of physical ailments that had always been a part of his life, and from his often burdensome duties as Protector and patrician. "You know of their content." He asserted, instead of asking. Willemina often learned of important matters before he did. That much had not changed since the days of his father's rule. "News and rumours always reach the Lion's Grave quicker, for some reason." Said Willemina, picking one of the letters up, the tip of her finger caressing the wax seal on it. "All for the better, I should say. Otherwise, we would lose precious time, of which I have far less than you do." Their green eyes met as she handed him the letter, and he spared an apologetic look for the gathered philosophers. They understood his intent well enough, and departed. Only Claudia and Felix II's personal guard remained, the young woman taking a seat of her own across from the two patricians. She played with some leaves that had fallen on the table's marble surface. The letter was finally opened and read, and the look in Felix II's eyes became an ambiguous blend of many emotions and thoughts. His great aunt did not let him dwell on them for long. "Taramyth had the decency not to amass too much power and responsibilities, so the void that must be filled is not as large as..." She hesitated for a moment, pursing her lips. She glanced at the young man beside her, a part of her still struggling to accept the fact that he was no longer a boy. "Well... as large the void your father left. A poor choice on your part, as Arch Elector, may not spell doom for the whole continent." Felix II lifted his eyes from the paper. The grief in them was mild, a grief born from solidarity, rather than a sense of personal loss. He had never met the Emperor in person, and from what he knew, the man had barely been a proper ruler, letting others govern in his stead while he sailed the seas. Nevertheless, a man had died, and the continent had lost its sovereign. Foremost among his emotions, however, was uncertainty. He was Arch Elector, but he could send someone to speak on his behalf. A part of him thought that it was the better choice. His uncle Adrian, and his patrician accomplices, were gathering strength somewhere in the deep wilderness. The man himself had not been seen in his estate for weeks, and his letters fell only a few words short from promising an armed rebellion if Felix II did not step down as Protector and patrician. Another part of him, the dutiful one, that had been nurtured by the principles of virtuous rule, thought otherwise. He was the Protector, the person tasked with speaking on behalf of his fellow patricians, and the communities of the Sonveld, and he could not afford to cower within the Sunstone. Willemina would not have expected anything less of him. "I can protect the Sunstone in your absence, my dear." She said, and there were tinges of something warm in her tone. "Stephan will gladly lend a hand in keeping Adrian at bay if I need him to." "I am still surprised that you simply call the Vaelander patrician 'Stephan', grandmother." Said Claudia, flicking a leaf into the air. It glided for a time, then fell at the feet of one of the guards. The older woman smiled. "Stephan and I have been friends for many decades, sweet Claudia. Furthermore, I would feel quite uncomfortable referring to a man with whom I have spent so many nights of passion by his pompous full name." The two younger Soleanders did not restrain their chuckling, and neither did she, as she felt the temptation to join them. "I hope that, one day, the two of you can marry a person half as lovely as him." Claudia scoffed, and for a moment she sounded just like Willemina. "Grandmother, be subtle." "I am too old to be subtle, my dear." Retorted Willemina, leaning back on her chair. Behind them, a group of little children threw a remarkably large orange back and forth between them. When it finally went flying into a wall, and exploding into a splatter of fragrant juice that soaked a nearby guard, she chuckled again. She remembered seeing many Soleander children play the same games, with the same results. "Now, sweet nephew, I assume you have made a decision on the course of action you will pursue, so I would suggest we have lunch." Indeed, Felix II had made a decision, and though he felt anxious about it, he smiled and nodded. As the three Soleanders entered the great palace, the Protector's wheeled chair carefully pushed forward by one of his guards, he gazed at the gardens and the wilderness below, and at the still unread letters he now had on his lap. After lunch, his life as Protector of the Sonveld would resume, and the philosophical spirit he possessed would give way to the virtuous tyrant that the world required him to be. [hr] While Matthias Soleander had been a man fully committed to his role as a tyrant, he had quickly learned the value of delegating. His son, Gerard had found, was no different. Once his aunt Willemina had departed, the young Protector had resumed his duties and began to make arrangements for his journey to Lalrial. Gerard had his objections to that journey. Strong as his nephew's spirit was, his body remained weak, and long travels to foreign lands could be most unkind to people in such conditions. And while he understood the rationale for personally attending the Imperial Summit, it would inevitably embolden his rebellious brother, and Gerard had no desire to lead a punitive expedition against his own kin if circumstances became even further complicated. Nonetheless, regardless of his reservations, Gerard obeyed his nephew and, with lunch concluded, he proceeded to write all the necessary letters. Foremost among them were an expression of mourning in the late Emperor's honour, a perfunctory response to Diende Tribal, and a note summoning Zola Thusini, the required artist, to the Sunstone. The Chalarensis request had taken both Gerard and his nephew aback, albeit for entirely different reasons. For Felix II, it had prompted an ethical dilemma over whether it was correct to help those known to be lacking in virtue. For Gerard, it had raised suspicions. The Chalarensis and the Soleanders did not have much shared history, but both families were certainly aware of each other, and each other's history. Gerard was not certain he wanted a valued artist, and specially Zola herself, to live in service of the Chalarensis. As he finished the last of his letters and put his quill back in his place, he contemplated his late brother's solar. He had not expected Felix II to part with it, let alone insist that his youngest uncle took over it, but perhaps his decision had been his way of dealing with his grief. The decision, however, had done little to lessen Gerard's own grief. In the past few years, he had barely touched any of his brother's books or trinkets, and he had chosen to bring in a new desk, rather than use Matthias', to do his work as justiciar. Looking at it now, Gerard saw that much of the solar had gathered a lot of dust, and it hurt. Perhaps a lot less than it would have four years before, when the wounds of loss were still wide open, but it hurt nevertheless. It hurt, because even now, with the dust literally settled, the Sonveld still had not found peace, and the conflict had come from within their own bloodline. And now, the Emperor of all Ethica was dead, and his nephew would have to play his part in deciding the future of the continent. It occurred to Gerard that most of Felix II's predecessors would have likely abstained, or voted for a doomed candidate. Not his nephew, however, and probably not Matthias either. As soon as the wax was warm, he sealed every letter with the golden flower and crown of thorns that were the symbols of the Sonveld, and let out a sigh. [hr] Somewhere in the most remote corner of the Sonveld's untamed lands, a small citadel stood, long deprived of a community and patrician, now inhabited once again. Two thousand men filled its abandoned buildings and gardens, and three oliphants stood by the dusty walls, feeding on fresh hay. From the the top of the highest tower, the banner of the Soleanders flew. On top of its roaring head, the red lion wore an elaborate golden crown. Within, Adrian Soleander sat on a carved wooden chair, wearing a crude crown of his own on top of his head, surrounded by a handful of patricians and foreigners. His armour was polished, and his sword was sharpened. [hr] [center][h1]The Heartlands[/h1] [img]https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/8f/09/18/8f0918d58c6a0ee35afb4f963fa4164f.jpg[/img] [h2]Lalrial[/h2] [sub]Theme - [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=izYrFFyY0O4]Storms[/url][/sub] [b]12th of Gerna | 1200 AU[/b][/center] [hr] The caravan of ornamented carriages moved through the streets of the great city like a procession of creatures of many colours. They were made from all sorts of woods and silks, with plenty of gilded details, with red, green and gold dominating above all others. There were no oliphants in sight, but the more knowledgeable onlookers had no trouble recognizing the fine sort of workmanship that could only be found in one place in the world. And so the people of the Imperial capital knew that the Sonveld had arrived. Within the carriage at the fore of the caravan, surrounded by silks, cushions, books and treats, the Protector of the Sonveld sat alongside his cousin and the Dovelder artist named Zola, gazing upon the crowded streets from a small window. Buried beneath warm sheets, he coughed lightly as sights both overwhelmingly grand and disturbingly miserable appeared before his eyes. Felix II's father had visited Lalrial twice in his life, and had never had much to tell his son about it, other than predictable complains about the frivolity and undue sense of entitlement that, in his view, ran rampant in the Imperial court. Places such as this were as far removed from the world he had been born into as he could imagine. Leaving the savannas of the Sonveld behind, watching the untamed wildnerness give way to forests and rolling hills, had had a far more profound effect on him than he had imagined. He had always been aware of the Empire, its shadow looming over every important decision his father had made as Protector, but only now, by abandoning his homeland, and witnessing the world beyond with his own emerald eyes, had he understood his circumstances, his responsibilities, his place, in the world. For some reason, this understanding did not frighten him. Rather, it excited him. It fanned the flames of his spiritual passions, but also broaden the horizons of his sense of duty. And he wanted to be a part of this great moment. The journey itself had not been pleasant, but he had survived, and Claudia had found ways to comfort him when his health had worsened noticeably. Now that they had arrived at last to Lalrial, he felt like basking in his small victory, at least as soon his coughing fit ceased. Zola had originally had a carriage of her own, provided by the Imbasala patrician, but halfway through their journey, Felix II had insisted on spending more time in her company. After all, she was the author of the one portrait of his parents that the young patrician had always cherished the most. Kept in the main dinning hall of the Sunstone, it showed his father and mother on the day of their wedding, both of them smiling placidly while holding each other's hands. That painting was the only depiction Felix II had ever seen of his father that actually showed him smiling. She was at least twice Felix II's age, yet she had always possessed an aura of youth that often spilled into her work. The Imbasala's had been swift to offer her patronage when they first discovered her talents, and her only work for the Soleanders had been little more than a wedding gift from a lifelong friend. As a respite from politics, his conversations with her had been a much needed balm for his anxious spirit. "I wonder what this Diende Tribal wants of me." The artist said, breaking the silence that reigned within the carriage. "I have never painted for foreigners." "Grandmother was quite clear on her opinion on the matter." Said Claudia. "Probably something shoddy, bordering on scandalous." "Age has made her mistrustful of strangers." Interjected Felix II without taking his eyes off the streets of the sprawling capital, feeling a clenching in his heart as he watched a small girl, dressed in filthy rags, begging in a corner. "But I am not ignorant of his dynasty's past. Some caution would not be unwarranted." That principle, he thought, probably applied to everything in this city. The caravan continued its journey with no incidents. The Protector's entourage, comprised of a handful of patricians, artists and philosophers, was protected by a few Knights Solar and habeldiers, the latter gladly provided by 'Stephan' as, apparently, one of his many personal gifts for Willemina. Felix II did not dwell on the matter. The Soleanders had never owned any property in Lalrial, and neither did their patrician allies. Gold and diamonds, however, had easily provided them with a modest manor for the duration of their stay. With some time left to spare within its rooms, the men and women of the Sonveld rested for a few moments, and Felix II prepared for the pre-summit party taking place in one of the Valariens' estates. His finest wheeled chair, made of beautifully carved amaranth wood and green silk, decorated with gold, had been brought as part of his luggage for the occasion, along with a fine green tunic and cloak, with matching gloves. Not much later, a single carriage quietly left the manor and returned to the streets of the great city, surrounded by the Knights Solar and Vaelander habeldiers. The sun continued to shine bright above and, inside the carriage, Felix II Soleander placed the tip of his fingers on his Protector's brooch, the symbol of his position as the sole legitimate ruler of the great sunlit fields of his homeland. [hr] "His excellency, Felix II Soleander, Protector of the Sonveld and Patrician of the Sunstone!" Bellowed the servant-herald as he tried not to stare at the young man in the wheeled chair. The janitor had barely succeeded before him. The young man in question had never heard his name spoken in such fashion. The position of Protector was held in high regard by the patricians, but few had any tolerance for pompous presentations, and only the arrogant ones enjoyed having their titles being spoken of in the same tone as those of foreign nobles. Nevertheless, Felix II Soleander's polite smile did not falter. All the contrary, it widened at the sight of the opulent beauty that now surrounded him, and of the people who had already arrived. For a brief instant, he almost felt at home, although he had a most peculiar feeling that the Sunstone's gardens and halls had never possessed. A Vaelander habeldier pushed his chair forward, and Zola walked beside him, far more lost in the decorations than he had been. There was a judging look in her eyes, as if she were examining the frescos in the portico for unforgivable flaws. Felix II, on the other hand, shifted his attention towards a loud voice, and ignored the stares from the less discreet of those present. He had suffered his fair share of stares when he had been presented as candidate for Protector. An elderly man, as it turned out, was causing a stir among those present while addressing a younger woman who, as it turned out, was the host of this gathering. A Valarien princess and aspiring Empress, being publicly disrespected by an older person of lower rank. That was something Felix II was painfully familiar with, but he knew not to directly involve himself in the scandal. With a nod of his head, he had the habeldier bring him a glass of wine, which he drank in small sips, then had him take further into the courtyard. He held his head up high, like a proper Soleander, and kept his attention on the argument taking place, until he noticed a certain man. Felix II's father had had few good things to say about his encounters with Ethica's feudal nobility. Two of such things had been his first and second impressions of a certain Valarien man. A young but promising kuman on the path to becoming inquisitor, his father had praised Terminus Valarien's commitment and prowess. And he had described the Valarien prince well enough for Felix II to recognize him. "Forgive me, sir, for bothering you, but might you be Terminus Valarien?" He enquired, smiling up at the man from his wheeled chair. "My father, Matthias Soleander, spoke well of you." He allowed himself to glance at the continued polemic, which now included an imposing Caernavir woman, who could only be the Queen-Mother herself. Felix II had not met her, but his great aunt had. Her opinion on the mother of the ruler of Gwethydd had been mixed, to say the least, with criticisms aplenty, yet brimming with respect. "Had such a man spoken to my father in such terms, he would have been banished to the wilderness." He said, more to himself than to the Valarien man. Indeed, Matthias Soleander had barely tolerated needless pleasantries and sycophancy, but he had shown a fearsome disdain towards gross expressions of disrespect. Felix II remembered how, at the age of six, he had watched his father calmly sentence a patrician's son to spending a night in the wilderness, without any weapons, for calling another patrician a "fat coward". Years later, his great aunt would claim that the patrician's son had lost a foot to a crocodile.