Heavy Is The Crown

Dellebron

Even as Felicia steps forward, one of her mother's aides, a thin tanned woman with a black bob, whispers something quietly to her. The Dellebron's face flickers to something akin to irritation before quickly falling into icy neutrality. She listens impassively for a few moments, blue eyes turning to Hilda. Grudgingly, Felicia nods, whispering something in response, and heads towards the room specified.

With that, Dellebron Hilda hobbles forward, a wide, benign smile on her face.

"I will speak for the Dellebron. My son, Cines, shall be my aide,"

Cines himself starts, spattering the woman next to him with a liberal amount of his drink. Muttering, he hands the glass off to her, smoothing down his now stained shirt.

"Yes, yes, of course," he hisses loudly, shuffling, stumbling to Hilda's side.
 
Tristan

On returning to his family, Tristan rolls his shoulders, as if checking empty sheathes for the memory of half a dozen daggers.

"I promised to go and face the Dragon for us, and I will not need to be reminded of that."

Tristan's face, impassive, betrays little of his thoughts.

"I nominate Edel as my aide, if that is acceptable both to her and to you all? Lochlynn and Helena, I would trust both of you at the meeting, but I need her knowledge of the refugee lands and statuses."

He shrugs and a pair of slim books fall into his hands, having been tucked inside his tunic.

"How fitting, that the final battle of the war sees me armed with ink, paper, and wine. I wish she could have seen it."

He glances up sharply.

"Should anyone bump into Lezek Arcule, please give him my regards, and tell him that if we are both alive at the end of today, I would love to meet him for rotgut roulette."


The thought that surfaces in Tristan's mind, borne on a current from the murky depths of his odd little heart:
I promised you a day would come when you would laugh again, Edel. Come with me, and we'll find it.
 
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Edel

The only indication of Edel's surprise is a momentary widening of her eyes, gone as quickly as it appears. She acquits herself quickly, smoothing out her skirts.

"I-... Thank you, Elder Tristan," she says formally, inclining her head with a respectful tilt. "I assure you, I will recount whatever information you need by rote,"
 
The Meeting

Imperus sits at the head of the table. Apollyon and Griffith sit immediately to Their right. Talia and Guillaume - a stocky man with flowing silver hair - sat on the left.
Lybar Agnetta, shrugging off her stylish coat to reveal a surprisingly plain dress that nonetheless looks a touch inappropriate sits beside the Olimak. Christoph, wearing a high-collared leather jacket that buttons only at the bottom of his chiseled abs, sits beside her.
Yrva Alistair, joints whirring and clicking, sits beside the Lezek, and Shalta - her skin like opaque glass the colour of the deep sea - sits beside him.
Two spaces remain.

The Banquet Hall

Almost everyone takes a drink and browses the tables, but there's still a distance between the Inquisitors and the Ascended. Eyeing each other warily. Everyone discussing events in little groups, perhaps strategizing for the necessary diplomacy ahead.
Lezek Arcule excepted - he offers your family a polite wave and smile from where he leans against a table of glasses, bottles, and bowls.
 
Dellebron

The Meeting
Hobbling slowly, Hilda waves off Cines extended hand as he tries to help her into seat.

"Appreciated, Cines, but not needed," she chides softly. "I am hardly so infirm so as to be unable to sit myself,"

"Uh- Of course Mother," he stammers, taking a seat next to her. He dabs at his glistening forehead with a moist handkerchief, his wide wall eyes glancing across the others at the table.

The elder Dellebron looks to those still unseated, primarily the Hulbrad, and beckons for them to come and be seated.

"Come now, I know it may be the namesake of your house, but such dawdling ill becomes us,"

The accompanying smile is surprisingly free of venom, as is her voice. It almost sounds as if she is merely playfully bantering.

The Banquet Hall
The Dellebron contingent stays close together, save for Lars, who blatantly distances himself from his fellows.

Felicia grabs a passing wine glass, though her twin and nephew seem to be content to observe the congregation.
 
Tristan

As if startled into action, Tristan moves from stillness into motion, and glides forward to take a seat. He idly hooks out a chair and as if by happenstance manages to catch and pull the seat next to it, in one smooth motion arranging for Edel the seat beside himself.

"Hello Hilda, Cines. Thank you for your patience."

Tristan's voice is soft, thoughtful. He sits straight up, glances up and down the table, offers a sad smile to Agnetta, and a sober nod to the others present. For just a moment he meets the gaze of Apollyon*. For a moment, a heartbeat, there is Tristan, the layabout, the errant scholar, the writer of letters with novelty inks, the drinker of wine.

Disregard.

Tristan allows instead the weight of expectation to fall upon him. The others at the table would have barely known his name before the war broke out, but by war's end those in opposition found a brutal warmaster, armies bolstered by sublime supply and perfect positioning rather than by any supernatural blessing. What kind of mind are they expecting?

The Warmaster looks to the Dragon, and his eyes weep pure darkness, subliming into the air.

"I look to these talks, to the demand for peace and law. I see my own obsolescence. I crave it...but I must purchase it with wheat and books, with doctors and teachers, and my House restored. Shall we make a treaty?"



*Failure to protect. Failure to foresee. Too slow, too late to seize command and do things the way they needed to be done. Failure to win, to force peace upon the unruly Ascended.
One murder. One abandonment.
 
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Edel

Carrying nothing of the presence of her uncle, Edel nods gracefully at Tristan's arrangement of the seat next to him. She sits gracefully, watching her kin demurely, carefully avoiding any acknowledgement of the Dellebron across from them.

Though her face is as still and unlined as that of a dolls, were Apollyon to gaze upon her, no doubt he would see the traitorous feelings that harried her thoughts. Of being unable to help. Of being a burden. Of last words, unheard and unspoken.

Still, she looks to Tristan to set their path, intending to speak up when needed, and with insights should they be required.
 
The Negotiation

Imperus tents Their talons.
"First, I must insist that all parties take one year to stabilize their claims from the war - and then forfeit them."
There is a murmur of dissent, but Olimak and Lybar nod approvingly.
"You may offer the inhabitants of seized land your rule when the year is done," They continue, "but the mortals are to be allowed self-determination. I know for some of you this may be a bitter pill, but it is to my mind the best way to hedge against a conflict such as this arising again."
Talia is clearing reigning in a temptation to interrupt.
"This is an unacceptable cruelty to our Wise Cousins," she says, nodding toward Tristan. "I must insist reparations be made."
"I concur," Apollyon says. He make deliberate eye contact with Imperus. "None of us have suffered such a loss."
Surprisingly beneath him, one might think.
They look to the Hulbrad.
"This is inarguable," They say. "How would amends be made?"

The Party

Lybar Wolfgang, eyes a vivid green, no evidence of steps beneath his long robe, drifts over to you. Pius, his brother, looms over his shoulder, all teeth and elbows.
"Hail to thee, Wise Cousins," Wolfgang says, with a polite bow. His face ripples into a mask of perfect misery. "My deep condolences for your loss - Tythus was a dear friend of mine," he adds.
Your eldest uncle, no children, former warmaster. Slain by Kali at the Battle of Erstwhile Peak. A complete fluke, by most accounts; Kali could not have possibly known it was him when she threw a javelin across the raging battlefield and struck him, disguised as a rank-and-file archer while a body-double stood outside the command tent.
 
Tristan

His face remains calm as he returns Their gaze.

"The House of Hulbrad has lost our home, our library...our elders. We retain an army, we retain the potential for new strongholds, and we have ideas and hopes for the future, but at present, our ability to convert manpower and footholds into permanent and productive strength is limited."

He breaks into a boyish smile.

"In the end, it is a base limitation. We lack incomes sufficient to rebuild quickly enough. We retain the Black Couriers, and we have some remaining trade links, but to attempt to rebuild based purely on that business would be cripplingly slow. I have no desire to see my House survive the war of Infernals only to be reduced to penury or banditry or throttling mortal lands with taxes. So I would rebuild to our strengths. I will deploy my army and have them turn their hand to masonry, carpentry, and policing of trade roads. I ask for coin, to purchase tools and canvas, provisions and wagons, and above all else, to buy time in which we can work."

From under his tunic, he produces a tightly folded map, which unfurls like a delicate origami flower in reverse to reveal the outline of the south-eastern quarter of the continent.

"The lands we currently hold and patrol contain woods and quarries. Those lands include both the territories we held before the war, and lands garrisoned by the end of the conflict. In addition to our holdings of old, I ask for a boon in relation to the new lands. We must return their administration to the mortals dwelling there at the end of one year...but I do so crave the wood and stone of one year's harvest."

He balances a quill point down on the parchment, spinning so very gently. Its point touches one edge of the Shaydensea.

"We have thoughts concerning a new home, and we lust after the potential to replace our library. Much knowledge was lost, and we shall build a secure storehouse for its renewal."

He looks back to Talia, Apollyon, Imperus.

"The confirmation of our old lands plus a year's harvest of wood and stone from the lands we hold now. Coin to support us while we rebuild. These are my requests."
 
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Edel

Edel listens to her uncle carefully, her face still. As Tristan finishes, she takes a deep breath and raises her head to speak.

"I would wish to make an addition to my hallowed elder's requests," she started, the clearness of her voice not betraying any measure of the roiling anxiety within her.

"As was mentioned, we are building back from the loss of our library. Our collected bodies of knowledge, dating back to time immemorial, wiped out with the loss of our home estate. Elevating ourselves to that same level of learning again would be incredibly difficult, at least to keep us upon the level of our peers, especially with the loss of so many of our most studied,"

Hands folded at her waist, Edel makes sure to keep them clasped, to stave off the trembling no doubt coursing through them.

"So I would posit that we be allowed access to the works crafted and recorded underneath Djuke Hecate, to research and document until the years forfeiture."
 
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Helena

The artist methodically strokes her wineglass with a long needle-like fingertip.
Her attention fluttering between the various parties.
At Lezek Arcule's wave, she responds with a gentle gesture, halfway between a wave back and a beckon. Tipping the flute in his direction as acknowledgement.
At Wolfgang's intervention however, she openly smiles, "You knew our dearest departed Uncle?"

Departed was about as concrete a term she was willing to use in the current circumstance. Departed was broad enough. Vague enough. Departed still left... wiggle room.
 
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Lochlynn
Lochlynn answers Arcule's wave with a nod of his shrouded head. He takes a flute of wine from a passing tray and plays with it more than Helena as he sips only a little and contemplates the newfound language from before. His contemplation is distracted by Wolfgang's comments.

"Ah, yes, Cousin Wolfgang, our thanks for your condolences," he answers with another nod of his head, "but do please tell us how you knew our Uncle. I too would be heartened to hear of it."
 
The Council

Imperus nods.
"I therefore strongly suggest a donation of funds from each House. This will not be enforced - but it will be remembered. Further, the held lands must be compensated for this harvest, but I leave the details of that particular arrangement to you."
A ripple of nods follow.
"Further, the forfeiture of these lands or their decision to accede to the stewardship of House must be recorded. To this end, Throne would offer employment to Hulbrad - are you willing to co-operate with the Inquisition to monitor the exchange period and mediate any resultant treaties, for all parties present?"

There is tension in every party but the Olimak. Solon makes eye contact with Edel and makes a note - her request will no doubt be revisited once this agreement is set.

The Party

Wolfgang presses his palms together at his waist, fingers pointed down.
"In peacetime, Tythus and I spoke at length of how to avoid war. He was a genius at his craft and I credit him wholly with the House of Sighs survival - my siegeproofing designs grew from our discussions of how to dissuade such barbarism."
 
Tristan

Tristan nods deeply, approaching the border of a bow.

"It is my great pleasure to imagine a future enriched by the works of a renewed House Hulbrad, a future in which, eventually, all of our cousins may enjoy the benefits of an investment in law and scholarship. I shall be pleased to furnish capable scribes and honest mediators. Hopefully the outcome of a warlike period is that all of that practice will make us very skilled in the art of forging peace once more."

I wonder, who will approach us behind closed doors to request that records and accounts be scripted just so very slightly in their favour? Will they think that their donation of coin will weight the priorities which we bring to bear on this task? How many might then think this part of the sinecure that the Dragon offers?



Do they know how much of a double edged sword this shit is?

He glances to his aide, and murmurs very softly.

"Thank you Edel. So consumed am I with coin and stone and sword that I was late to ask for the page. Disgraceful. I shall have to exile myself to some manner of monastic college."
 
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Edel

The barest quirking of the corners of her mouth is the only sign of her mirth.

"I should hope not," she murmurs in reply. "I would not trust the others to run the House, regardless of your dreadful ignorance of paper,"

Turning her attention back to the assembled elders, she nods her head a degree more than Tristan's gesture, and sits down quietly.
 
Dellebron

Hilda rolls her jaw, chewing thoughtfully on the idea posited them.

"I commend the offer to help overcome the horrific loss of life, lands, and lore, without the indignity of charity or pity," she says aloud. "Dellebron, of course, will lend aid, as it is only proper to show solidarity in the wake of such tragedies, and put to rest any foul conduct that occurred between us during the war,"

She pauses, wetting her lips, and tapping a small staccato on the table with ringed fingers.

"But..."

A beat of silence rolls out, pulled tensely between one word and the next.

"It seems unfair to hold only Hulbrad, the... Inquisition, and the mortals themselves, to the rigours of reconstruction. To hold them accountable, even so slightly, with such a burden, even as a presented as the olive branch that it is,"

"After all, how can we, a people descended from the divine, turn our hands away from the scars we have wrought on the land? Surely, each of us, should have some small weight of responsibility to uphold, alongside the honored Hulbrad?"
 
Dellebron Party

A bony shoulder collides with Helena suddenly, a hard shove that culminates in a cold dampness spreading across her front and side.

"Oh. My apologies," announces a low voice, brimming with smug satisfaction. "I didn't see you there,"

Dellebron Felicia, inclines her head slightly, a completely empty wineglass in one hand, drained of even the barest trickle. Her lips are curled in a smile, clearly belying the falseness of her statement.

"Ah, a Hulbrad. That explains it," she continues, peering at Helena as if seeing her for the first time.
 
Helena

Hulbrad have been noted to be statue-like in many ways. Either from mannerisms or from their ascensions. Some a lot more than others. Helena was never what most would call statue-like. She was too animated for that.
But for the few mute seconds that passed between herself and Felicia, she could have been carved from fine bone china, still and pale and even with the pale blue filigree paint. Now stained with clashing red wine.
She holds her breath for what seems an absolute eternity. You can practically hear the cogs turning. Then, like a clockwork doll clicking to life, finally raises her head, expression wide and beaming.

"Oh my, you know, you're right!" she practically simpers, "No wonder you couldn't see me! This colour scheme just isn't working. A dress of wine red would work so much better!"
The words made the universe in close proximity shiver, her long, thin hands reaching to pluck at the gossamer ether, and snag it's fraying edges in her needles. Coalescing the trailing thread of thought into a dense shimmering fibre. Her hands became a blur of activity, wrangling the filaments into a deliate cloth, before the shape of a dress took shape. A sultry number, the same rich mauve as the wine that has ruined the previous.

New wardrobe now complete, in one smooth motion, she removes her previous, stained attire. Unabashed by any audience she may have, and dons her new one, giving a perfunctory twirl to test it.

"There we are, isn't that better?" she flourishes, "You where right, this does suit me better~ Thank you~"
 
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Dellebron Party

Felicia's expression grows ever more fixed as Helena speaks, becoming little more than a polite rictus glaring out from behind the Dellebron's cold eyes.

"Glad I could help, cousin," she hisses through her teeth. "Your creativity is certainly something that the Honored Hulbrad cultivate quite well,"

Twirling the glass around in her hand, Felicia's face slowly loosening as she watches.

"The color does do well. I suppose it would match the crimson mists of the Shaydensea, when you go visit your father, Cassius,"

Again, that cruel smirk shows itself as she makes a show of looking around.

"Strange. He seems to be absent,"

Felicia looks Helena squarely in the eyes.

"I do hope he's okay,"
 
Helena

For a moment, she is literally struck dumb, too caught to even draw the breath to retort, but when it finally comes, it is shuddering, and it sticks as a painful bubble in her throat, clenching painfully at vocal chords.

"Really? ... Really?" she finally hisses, "This is how you're playing this? Are you that starved for attention?"

Her vision swims, realising that Felicia's face was becoming smeared, and only when she blinked, did she realise she was crying. Fat, make-up smearing tears, rolling down her pallid face and tangling in her weightless hair.

Despite being literally naked only moments before, she felt more exposed than ever.
Her long talons scrape back her hair away from her matted face, and she sniffles, despite the ... no. No effort to hide it.

She openly draws another loud, drawn, shuddering breath, glaring at her opponant.
Fine. Have your fucking attention.
 
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