*Looks around at empty forum*
Eeerk
*blushes*
Guess I have to post something now... please don't hurt me
“Oh, he has the mother’s charms, and her intelligence certainly, but the father’s predilection for senseless violence. It is a serpent neath a flower that one, dangerous, very dangerous, aye.” The old man laughed gutturally, spat blood into his handkerchief, and sighed. “The Old Baron Dallaire would be very proud.” he said. “Eirun is a son worthy of him, Urquart. What I wouldn’t give to see what he becomes.”
The one called Urquart stared at him with dark, stony eyes. “His mother was a woman of the Corvusi, and that makes him my enemy. He may pass as a man, but his blood is as black with sorcery and heresy as that of any Corvusi scum.”
“Are then all of the Corvusi your enemies, Urquart?” The old man looked at him quizically, a half smile on his lips.
“Of course! What of it? Do you doubt my loyalties in this war?” The old man shook his head at this outburst, and stood, walking to the door before he turned and answered quietly. “When you are too narrow-minded, too hidebound to doubt your own? Do not flatter yourself, lord.”
The zealous youth was left smouldering in his own rage as the old man made his exit, too angry even to make a reply. The Corvusi be damned.
It was not long before dawn, and the youth who was the Baron Dallaire stared at its tentative beginnings on the far-eastern horizon with pale grey eyes and an expression of bored contempt. Half-formed shadows flickered across his fine, aristocratic features as the scenery raced past. In his left hand was a letter, and in his right a knife. He re-folded the letter, and cut a sliver of paper from one side with the knife, then repeated the process until the document was nothing but shavings in his hand. He then leant forward, opened the carriage door a little, and scattered them to the winds. He saw the trail of rich caravans in the dim light, bearing gifts for his forthcoming marriage, and he sighed.
“Sweet Fury, lady of ladies, when will this thing end?” He sheathed his knife, and leant back against the seat, half closing his eyes. The open sky remained impassive, and the god so called deigned to ignore his plea, refusing to lighten the burden now lying heavy upon his heart.. Dallaire sighed again, louder this time, and waited for the sun to rise with all of the impatience and cultured arrogancethat was due to his rank.
They said that the city of Emryss was beautiful, but that was a single word, only touching on the reality. It was perhaps the most incredible and impossible piece of architecture ever realised by humanity, and thus built in true human style, a living, magnificent, glorious tumour on the surface of the earth. The slums on the outskirts were extensive and unregulated, slowly leeching life and beauty away from the surrounding world, and their streets ran thick with filth, their stench pervading even where it could not be seen.
Today the citizens celebrated his arrival, the arrival of their future ruler, and Dallaire wondered not for the first time of the feelings of his betrothed as he waved to them. By the time the convoy had reached the gates of the palace complex, the noise was making his head hurt. and he felt unclean from breathing the air. It was not surprising then that he gave only the briefest time to the greeting of various officials before walking at a pace that was barely dignified to his quarters in the Eastern embassy, proclaiming that his journey had wearied him excessively before ordering a bath. Much to the aggravation of the bureaucrats, he refused to have servants attend on him, and allowed the presence of only one of his own bodyguards with him, a tall, robed figure of indefinite gender.
“The city is most remarkable, Hathir Ul Amara, just as you said. Tell me, is your nose not as keen as mine?”
The tall bodyguard sighed a commiseration as she lowered the hood of her robe. Eyes blacker than pitch stared out of the white face tinted with black and grey. “I prefer to consider it the smell of civilisation, Eirun Ul Dallaire.”
Dallaire laughed appreciatively as he sat down at the edge of the heated pool and pulled off his boots. “And we barbarians from the Eastern wastes would not recognize the value of such, no?”
Her black lips curved into a smile. “No indeed.”
“How long will you be staying in the city?”
“We will remain long enough to ensure that the alliance goes ahead as planned. There are rumours of factions in court that oppose the marriage.”
“News of a Corvusi prescence here could further aid their cause.” observed Dallaire as he pulled off his shirt. Spider thin scars ran on the inside of his arms from his elbows to his wrists, marring his pale skin. Amara shrugged. “That cannot be helped. They must be dealt with.”
“Then I will trust your discretion on that matter.” said Dallaire. He removed the rest of his clothes, folded them and lowered himself into the bath. His ashen grey hair turned almost black when it touched the water, and Amara watched him with something approaching pity. There was a long, elegant pause before Dallaire spoke again. “What do you know of the Infanta?”
“Not much more than yourself, I would think. She is a younger than you.”
Dallaire nodded slowly. “That is all anyone knows, it seems. It stands to reason.”
“The Infanta is an important person.”
“Yes. For tenfold centuries the Cyan Line has united them.” Dallaire looked at Amara, who shrugged.
“We have considered the possibility.”
“But the holy war would continue.”
Amara nodded. “With greater fervbour than before, in grief for the loss of their beloved ruler.”
“From those who would brand us demons.” Dallaire ran a hand through his hair, idly shaking his head. “Tell Abayomi to send a missive to my sister. Tell her that I am well.”
“She worries for you, then.” Amara pulled up her hood to cover her face once more.
“My sister always worries for me.” said Dallaire. “Now, go.”
It was not until that evening that the Baron Dallaire made his entrance upon the court of Cyan, but it was an entrance made in extraordinary style. It was between dances and the nobles were gathered at the western end of the hall, where the massive crystal stone window looked over and above the city, and then past it to the sea that streched far beyond the horizon to the edge of the world. The sun had just set and the lights of the harbour and the ships twinkled alongside the stars in the sky. The hall itself was lit by both lights suspended in the ceiling and embedded in the walls, and these lights were constantly attended to, the structure of the decoration made such that it was very much one with the walkways of the people who served it. The Earl of Thibualt had just made an amusing comment regarding the economy of Inon, and the Duchess of Pelzar had laughed far too loudly in an attempt to impress her unwilling suitor, the exceedingly handsome yet socially inept Raeyuivar Tozan.
Then darkness.
The stars, the boats, the lights in the hall all winked out in the same instant and not one person in the court could see beyond their own noses. There was a confused muttering, quckly rising to a panicked commotion, and several ladies began to scream.
Then laughter.
From the east side of the hall, a dim light emanated, slowly illuminating a tall, slim figure with pale grey eyes and hair, dressed in midnight blue trimmed with desert gold, and looking every inch the eastern magician. He raised one hand, and the lights reilluminated the hall. The herald, unpreturbed by this unusual arrival, cleared his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the lately arrived guest of honour, the Baron of Dallaire.”
Highly amused, the Earl of Thibualt began to applaud. The others followed his lead, and Dallaire bowed a courtier’s bow as he moved to join them.
Eeerk
*blushes*
Guess I have to post something now... please don't hurt me

“Oh, he has the mother’s charms, and her intelligence certainly, but the father’s predilection for senseless violence. It is a serpent neath a flower that one, dangerous, very dangerous, aye.” The old man laughed gutturally, spat blood into his handkerchief, and sighed. “The Old Baron Dallaire would be very proud.” he said. “Eirun is a son worthy of him, Urquart. What I wouldn’t give to see what he becomes.”
The one called Urquart stared at him with dark, stony eyes. “His mother was a woman of the Corvusi, and that makes him my enemy. He may pass as a man, but his blood is as black with sorcery and heresy as that of any Corvusi scum.”
“Are then all of the Corvusi your enemies, Urquart?” The old man looked at him quizically, a half smile on his lips.
“Of course! What of it? Do you doubt my loyalties in this war?” The old man shook his head at this outburst, and stood, walking to the door before he turned and answered quietly. “When you are too narrow-minded, too hidebound to doubt your own? Do not flatter yourself, lord.”
The zealous youth was left smouldering in his own rage as the old man made his exit, too angry even to make a reply. The Corvusi be damned.
It was not long before dawn, and the youth who was the Baron Dallaire stared at its tentative beginnings on the far-eastern horizon with pale grey eyes and an expression of bored contempt. Half-formed shadows flickered across his fine, aristocratic features as the scenery raced past. In his left hand was a letter, and in his right a knife. He re-folded the letter, and cut a sliver of paper from one side with the knife, then repeated the process until the document was nothing but shavings in his hand. He then leant forward, opened the carriage door a little, and scattered them to the winds. He saw the trail of rich caravans in the dim light, bearing gifts for his forthcoming marriage, and he sighed.
“Sweet Fury, lady of ladies, when will this thing end?” He sheathed his knife, and leant back against the seat, half closing his eyes. The open sky remained impassive, and the god so called deigned to ignore his plea, refusing to lighten the burden now lying heavy upon his heart.. Dallaire sighed again, louder this time, and waited for the sun to rise with all of the impatience and cultured arrogancethat was due to his rank.
They said that the city of Emryss was beautiful, but that was a single word, only touching on the reality. It was perhaps the most incredible and impossible piece of architecture ever realised by humanity, and thus built in true human style, a living, magnificent, glorious tumour on the surface of the earth. The slums on the outskirts were extensive and unregulated, slowly leeching life and beauty away from the surrounding world, and their streets ran thick with filth, their stench pervading even where it could not be seen.
Today the citizens celebrated his arrival, the arrival of their future ruler, and Dallaire wondered not for the first time of the feelings of his betrothed as he waved to them. By the time the convoy had reached the gates of the palace complex, the noise was making his head hurt. and he felt unclean from breathing the air. It was not surprising then that he gave only the briefest time to the greeting of various officials before walking at a pace that was barely dignified to his quarters in the Eastern embassy, proclaiming that his journey had wearied him excessively before ordering a bath. Much to the aggravation of the bureaucrats, he refused to have servants attend on him, and allowed the presence of only one of his own bodyguards with him, a tall, robed figure of indefinite gender.
“The city is most remarkable, Hathir Ul Amara, just as you said. Tell me, is your nose not as keen as mine?”
The tall bodyguard sighed a commiseration as she lowered the hood of her robe. Eyes blacker than pitch stared out of the white face tinted with black and grey. “I prefer to consider it the smell of civilisation, Eirun Ul Dallaire.”
Dallaire laughed appreciatively as he sat down at the edge of the heated pool and pulled off his boots. “And we barbarians from the Eastern wastes would not recognize the value of such, no?”
Her black lips curved into a smile. “No indeed.”
“How long will you be staying in the city?”
“We will remain long enough to ensure that the alliance goes ahead as planned. There are rumours of factions in court that oppose the marriage.”
“News of a Corvusi prescence here could further aid their cause.” observed Dallaire as he pulled off his shirt. Spider thin scars ran on the inside of his arms from his elbows to his wrists, marring his pale skin. Amara shrugged. “That cannot be helped. They must be dealt with.”
“Then I will trust your discretion on that matter.” said Dallaire. He removed the rest of his clothes, folded them and lowered himself into the bath. His ashen grey hair turned almost black when it touched the water, and Amara watched him with something approaching pity. There was a long, elegant pause before Dallaire spoke again. “What do you know of the Infanta?”
“Not much more than yourself, I would think. She is a younger than you.”
Dallaire nodded slowly. “That is all anyone knows, it seems. It stands to reason.”
“The Infanta is an important person.”
“Yes. For tenfold centuries the Cyan Line has united them.” Dallaire looked at Amara, who shrugged.
“We have considered the possibility.”
“But the holy war would continue.”
Amara nodded. “With greater fervbour than before, in grief for the loss of their beloved ruler.”
“From those who would brand us demons.” Dallaire ran a hand through his hair, idly shaking his head. “Tell Abayomi to send a missive to my sister. Tell her that I am well.”
“She worries for you, then.” Amara pulled up her hood to cover her face once more.
“My sister always worries for me.” said Dallaire. “Now, go.”
It was not until that evening that the Baron Dallaire made his entrance upon the court of Cyan, but it was an entrance made in extraordinary style. It was between dances and the nobles were gathered at the western end of the hall, where the massive crystal stone window looked over and above the city, and then past it to the sea that streched far beyond the horizon to the edge of the world. The sun had just set and the lights of the harbour and the ships twinkled alongside the stars in the sky. The hall itself was lit by both lights suspended in the ceiling and embedded in the walls, and these lights were constantly attended to, the structure of the decoration made such that it was very much one with the walkways of the people who served it. The Earl of Thibualt had just made an amusing comment regarding the economy of Inon, and the Duchess of Pelzar had laughed far too loudly in an attempt to impress her unwilling suitor, the exceedingly handsome yet socially inept Raeyuivar Tozan.
Then darkness.
The stars, the boats, the lights in the hall all winked out in the same instant and not one person in the court could see beyond their own noses. There was a confused muttering, quckly rising to a panicked commotion, and several ladies began to scream.
Then laughter.
From the east side of the hall, a dim light emanated, slowly illuminating a tall, slim figure with pale grey eyes and hair, dressed in midnight blue trimmed with desert gold, and looking every inch the eastern magician. He raised one hand, and the lights reilluminated the hall. The herald, unpreturbed by this unusual arrival, cleared his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the lately arrived guest of honour, the Baron of Dallaire.”
Highly amused, the Earl of Thibualt began to applaud. The others followed his lead, and Dallaire bowed a courtier’s bow as he moved to join them.
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