Varrock continued to lead them through the most evidently affluent region of Bartala yet. This must be the commercial and artisanal district. Everywhere were signs showing the tools of the goldsmith, the silversmith, the scales of a merchant company, the depictions of bolts of cloth or looms for weavers. Where the peoples of the first two tiers had lived in clustered blocks of dwellings, here it was far more common for modest standalone homes, mostly of only two stories, the lower for the business and the upper for residency. Also new to this tier was the presence of estates. Walled-off pockets of flagrant luxury behind which stood the sort of buildings that men created so that they could announce that other men were their lessers. Ulric saw little behind the walls, their metal scrollwork inlays being all but curved into a giant middle finger towards anybody who passed by. But, where a few servants entered or the master of the estate happened to be leading their procession into their bastion of self-importance, he saw magnificent gardens, fountains crested by almost lifelike statues or even complete panoramas, cropped lawns, entire stables the stalls filled by some of the strongest, healthiest of the Horselike riding beasts he'd seen yet, and more. So much more.
There wasn't so much of this in the Before, not like in the pre-collapse days when a corporate town would glitz like Vegas, before it was a nuclear sinkhole, and glam like Shanghai. Meanwhile, fifty kilometers or so down the highway, a city that looked like a refugee camp huddled, stinking of desperation and hopelessness. Things had gotten pretty bad there towards the end, especially once the famines hit. Amongst the Elves, especially in Irielhos, there had been little to no indication of personal wealth. Galed Uldin, a Master Smith of near legendary reputation for his craft, lived in a humble home whose only trappings of fortune were the precious metals and mana-rich materials strewn like litter around his home or bound up in some half-finished, maybe abandoned project, propped up against an overwhelmed bookcase. Within that smithy had been a dragon's hoard of cut gems, ready to hold some arcane circuit or rune binding, and stacks of ingots of the sorts of alloys that kingdoms might be founded on, or fought over. But then, Smith Uldin was a bit of an odd case, even amongst his odd kin. Even so, there was no comparison to the somewhat gratuitous displays here in Bartala.
Gods, even the city being carved out into distinct levels, literal geographical levels of wealth, was offputting. Ulric didn't know what would drive a man to compensate that hard but he was hopeful if he never found out. Which brought him to his next point.
"I cannot help but notice, Varrock, that you lead us, with certainty, to parts of the city I would not have thought you frequented. We met in a rather humble, if clean, well-maintained, and efficiently run, establishment in the poorest ring of this place. And you are constantly speaking of your ill means, but you did not even raise an eye to pass the exorbitant gate fees."
His somewhat mysterious drinking buddy waved the cost off, like the buzzing of gnats.
"I am old, pup, not senile. Just because I have not had the connections and surfeit of riches to play games with the magister-anointed artisans and use Prosper's gilded trade routes doesn't mean I do not remember them. That is what makes it sting all the more." Admitted the Elder Lupid.
Regret tinged Varrock's grumbling voice, and weariness that bespoke a long, losing struggle, "There was a time when my clan held an estate here, a local holding in addition to our traditional lands, from which we could take an active part in the trade games of Bartala."
The Beastkin recovered presently gruffing "But no more, and the Hells take it! My people remain free, if poor, and we are not beholden to the Magister's stamp, Prosper's silver collar to be worn around our necks."
Truthfully, Ulric had little to add to that statement. It was a sentiment he could sympathize with. Maybe, if he'd been willing to throw away all his ambitions for success within his career, he'd have found a happier path to walk, well, limp, through life. Misery he had not been required to cultivate in that old life, even though he had raised it well. More and more, Ulric was realizing that loneliness had not been required either, but that was a harder habit to change, given his love for quiet solitude. Varrock dared to lead his kin out of that trap, and suffered still the consequences for it. But, the old wolf, despite his growling and bitching, seemed happy with his choices. What more could a man ask?
Yeah, Ulric commented to himself, he could respect Old Man Varrock's chosen path and the man himself. They had come a little further along through the extravagance of the inner Bartala. Suddenly Ulric recalled another wolf-headed Beastkin, one for whom the meeting had been equally as unlikely, but ended on far worse terms.
He remembered then the mercenary leader he'd killed way back when in the canopy of the towering trees, a primordial forest in which he'd been reforged. Graus, he'd called himself, Graus Elf Bane, a name that held heavier meaning, now that Ulric knew what the Elf Bane was. Getting a name like that earned you a more Promethean punishment than a simple application of Ceraun to stop your heart cold.
"Varrock, not to imply that all Lupid clans know or relate to one another, but do you know of a warrior named Graus, brother of Vars?" Ulric asked lightly.
The Beastkin spat instinctively before locking his gaze on Ulric, predatory intensity about him. That answered the question fully but the old man spoke anyway, and with such venom as Ulric was unused to.
"That monster, and his even more monstrous sibling, can feed crows in the Hells for a thousand years and not repay their crimes."
Ulric blinked, nearly startled into sound by the Beastkin's uncannily parallel justice by devouring bird. He only nodded though.
"What makes you raise the spectre of that dog of Prosper?" Asked the Lupid pointedly.
A few answers flickered and vanished, most of them sidesteps or evasions. He settled on truth though. First, because Varrock had earned his regard, and you did not offer half-truths to men or women you respected in serious affairs. Second, because it would be interesting to hear the response.
"I met him, once, and killed him. He was leading Valin and Jormun in the act of harming an Aes'r child." Ulric said, without emotion.
Now it was Varrock's turn to be surprised.
"Really!? A pup like you? No, no, I believe you young hunter." Varrock exclaimed, a bit more enthusiastically than his usual grumble, before Ulric could even object to being subjected to doubt, or being called a pup, both of which were, perhaps, valid.
Without delay the Wolfkin continued, a bit more composed, "It's just that, last I'd heard, that one and his clan of hired swords for the Gilded Thrones were doing their best to wake the gods' ire with atrocity across the borders. I must admit though, that it sounds like a thing he would have taken part in. He was known for worse."
That was true, of course. Graus had been deep inside Orlethrem, and had, thanks to an artifact that allowed scrying into even the depths of Iriel, led a band of mercenaries to kidnap Lumyt'seit Iriel, son of Bald'rt, Heir of the Deep Woods Elves. They'd killed the boy's friend in the process of taking him and beat the child viciously as well. Ulric had been crouched, hunting the smaller, safer creatures of the canopy, in one of the normal-sized trees that parasitized upon the massive branches of the god trees in the [Forest of the Forgotten] when the group had come through. They'd, for reasons that defied logic, stopped their flight to attack two Greater Beasts that had nearly killed one another fighting over a third Greater Beast's corpse. Madness. Hopeless greed. But it had thinned their numbers and given Ulric the chance to use his bow to even the odds even more, shooting from high ground into their backs. He was no Elf, but Ulric had been taking his food with little else for months by then and they made themselves easy targets.
"Then his slaying was a good thing?" Ulric asked, his own heart settled on that matter long since, but just cementing his certainty about Varrock's attitudes.
He liked the old wolf, but he'd only known him a day.
Varrock's cheerful laugh would have terrified people in Ulric's old world but he was long since used to the Beastkin's fearsome features.
The Lupid gave a hearty slap on Ulric's back that almost staggered him, unexpected as it came, and the Elder announced jubilantly, "His slaying ends a taint on my entire people, Ulric. We are all of us who are not contemptible, relieved that he is gone. Maybe I'll point you in the direction of his foul brother and hope for similar results."
Ulric had been trying to hide his identity, somewhat, so he'd been using his Surname, Einar. In all the hubbub of the common room and more than a little sauced, he'd slipped and offered his given name to Varrock, not that it mattered because the crotchety geezer never called him anything but "pup", "young hunter", or the like. It was an acknowledgment of sorts, from the Elder man, of a matter of great respect. The suggestion that Ulric might go and punch the older brother's ticket as well was fairly amusing.
"That is good then." Ulric said, slowly.
He was still unaccustomed to the casual acceptance of manslaughter but some folk just made it easy to be glad they were dead and not a tragedy at all to have been a part of getting them that way.
"I would have to confess," he spoke solemnly, "That I did not know much of the Jormun-Lupid when I came to these lands. My people do not frequently find themselves in proximity to these stretches of Varda. I was afraid that there would be a condoning of the actions of that one. He presented himself as an honorable man might, though I only learned of his savage history later."
Which was, you know, a massive understatement considering that none of his people had ever even heard of Varda, knew of its people's existence, or even, maybe, occupied the same galaxy. Werewolves were myths, Elves were Fae legends, and all the rest was pure fantasy.
Varrock eased his companion's worries thusly, "Some would. They should go to join him wherever he receives his reward for the lives he destroyed. Most would not. The Lupid clans are fierce and to be an honorable warrior is a calling many choose, but to bathe oneself in the blood of innocents and the unarmed is to be less than persons. Any who condones or engages in such action is a beast in spirit, if not form."
That was good. Because Ulric considered it open season on genocidal assholes and war criminals. He'd rather not have had to add entire clans to that roster.
"But enough of such heavy things, Honored Warrior, we are arrived at the scene of my undoing." Announced Varrock, in his usual grumble.
And they were. A large pavilion opened up, its wide double doors thrown open and inviting to the participants of the event. It was in the fashion of doting parents a lavish affair. Banners hung, streamers of silk flew from poles, flowers of exotic nature were scattered here and yonder, and the square was dotted with low tables surrounded with cushions, which Ulric was guessing was the norm for the Lupid clan from which Varrock hailed. The old wolf was definitely understating his position, the decoration of this venue was not that of a pauper. Serious coin alone was invested in the floral arrangements, many of them would have almost had to have origins far distant from Bartala or intentionally green-housed by a professional hand. Speaking of which, a flower like a tall, intensely blue and violet lily closed its petals around a flitting form, like the jaws of a bear trap, the recurved spikes hidden by its whirls of color, as it snapped up a bird straying too close in midflight. Ulric jerked his hand back from the similar plant he'd been about to touch and glared at the smiling Beastkin next to him. Bastard.
"It is a very…lively, event." Ulric deadpanned.
"Just so, pup, just so. But I could not allow my granddaughter to suffer an ignoble joining when she will suffer a fool of a husband." Replied Varrock with a droll tone and a slightly raised brow.
Those wolfish muzzles were surprisingly emotive, when you learned what to look for.
He wasn't sure how much of the décor might be some sort of trap for the unwary, so Ulric resolved not to touch anything lest he lose a finger to a tablecloth or some nonsense. Just when enough "normal" presented itself to him he went and forgot how magic suffused this land, warping it into barely recognizable reality to his preconceptions. Varrock had spared no expense for his daughter's daughter.
And lo! There was the blushing bride and her soon-to-be groom. She wasn't blushing, of course, and he wouldn't have been able to tell beneath her full sable coat regardless. What she was, was a prime candidate for Ms. Wolf. If he had to guess, the young lady stood nearly a hand above his own head and was almost as broad across the shoulder as he was. Her gown must have cost a fortune in area of coverage alone. It shimmered, revealing in its sheer form-fitting nature and color that a tailor of great skill had spent great effort, and collected a commensurate amount of coin, to create it. The young Beastkin's muzzle widened, bright white predator's teeth revealed when she saw the approach of her grandfather. A slim, if well-defined, arm hooked around a substantially less impressive, though even more luxuriously outfitted male, whom Ulric supposed was the betrothed, and pulled him along in her wake.
This picture of Lupid beauty hauled her catch along to present them both for Varrock's review, the girl joyful, and the boy intimidated. Old Man Varrock's gruff exterior must not have been a secret, nor his sharp tongue.
"Grampa! You are finally arrived!" Flounced the lass, gushing on her special day.
Varrock, for his part, was melted substantially by the presence of the girl, and in a feat of strength, Ulric didn't know the aged man had in him, lifted her up in a giggling whirl before setting her down easily. Huh. Pretty spry.
"Grampa, stop it, you mustn't," complained the girl without heat, "You'll muss the dress! And it's sooo pretty, you shouldn't have been so lavish."
Her false protestations and obvious joy in the gown made it clear that Varrock had his coin's worth to please the girl. The old man's teeth were showing at his granddaughter's lifted gaiety. They continued showing, but a slight lowering of the corners of his mouth indicated a less than thrilled attitude towards the younger man in tow. Ulric barely merited a brief flash of curious eyes before the powerfully athletic lass closed on her doting ancestor.
The Lupid bride to be slugged her granddad in the arm like a welterweight boxer and she chastised with a flash of low growl, "Now don't be like that Grampa. Erswinn has been looking forward to meeting you, don't be dragging him over rocks on first sight."
It was amazing that, despite a few octaves difference, the girl managed to echo her grandfather's tone perfectly. Twitching slightly, Ulric saw the wolf ears of the young lad, already low in deference, drop a notch even lower in embarrassment at being championed so loudly, in public, by his fiance.
Oof, Ulric remarked to himself, poor lad. He tried not to wince, even as Varrock absently rubbed the forming bruise on his bicep.
"Hurrumph! Very well daughter of my daughter, I will be charitable. For you. Well met, Erswinn, son of Dalus, may the Twins shine over your hold." Varrock greeted, with a slight dip in his muzzle being as far as he could bring himself to be polite.
The Wolfkin lad perked up a bit and returned the greeting, hesitantly smiling, more from nervousness than anything else, "Thank you Grandfather Varrock. May the Twins shine over your hold, and the rains nourish your grass."
It was another one of those ritualistic things, absent any meaning to the ones that spoke them other than fulfilling the basic necessities of civility. It did inform Ulric that the binary stars overhead were considered good fortune and the rains that had beat down on him during his errant navigation across the plains were not always guaranteed, or you wouldn't have to wish for that to happen as a token greeting.
Varrock shuddered slightly at being referred to as the young Lupid boy's grandfather, and Ulric clung to neutrality as hard as he could. If he started laughing now, he might not be able to stop.
Perhaps the wedding would not be as dry as he'd feared.
"And who might you have brought to share in this our celebration, Honored Elder?" Asked the somewhat lanky young Wolfkin, his head coming just shy of Ulric's chin.
Where before the milling Lupid kinsman of the two clans had been largely ignoring the group out of a sort of manufactured privacy, there was now a host of questioning and thoughtful attentions directed toward the four figures. Ulric was the only Valin amongst the group and might as well have been in a chicken suit for all that he was out of place. The out-of-place former Earthling wasn't exactly sure how he should introduce himself and was rescued trying to come up with an explanation by Varrock.
Gesturing his way with a jerking thumb, the Lupid said simply "Picked him up on the way in and kept him handy before he could run over any innocents in the streets."
Which drew a coughing snort from Ulric and a shared roll of eyes with the granddaughter.
"I am called Ulric, and I made recent acquaintance with this old badger chaser yesterday. He invited me to make sure he does not trip and fall." Ulric told the bridal couple drily.
Varrock's loud sniff went mostly ignored. Varrock's descendant side-eyed the old man pretty hard before addressing Ulric politely, if not warmly.
"I see you are familiar with Grampa's manners. Be welcome guest Ulric and thank you for keeping him company, for all of his grousing he is a treasure to me." She said knowingly.
Ulric gave her a shallow bow and a simple "My pleasure, and congratulations."
The groom took Ulric in with substantially more cheer, offering his hand and a more energetic "Welcome to the festivities, Clansman Ulric, it is so uncommon to meet with one of the residents of the distant holds. I hope that you look on our hospitality with favor. One day, I would like to guide our trade networks to include even the Northern wastes, much as Grandfather Varrock once did."
The exuberant shake of hand went on slightly too long and Ulric had to rescue his hand being as courteous as possible, offering a relaxed "I am moved by your graciousness. My kin welcomes worthy friends, young Honor."
Given that he was his only kin that was not an untruth. Well, maybe except for Taipan, who probably counted since she'd decided to use the rescue of her little brother, his decision not to have her killed for failing her duties as a Shadow, and facilitating the cure of her father's bane poisoning as the metric for the exchange of three gifts, an ages-old marriage custom amongst the Iriel'en. Bald'rt had desired that end for reasons that Ulric would never pry from that pointy-eared trickster's skull and he was caught by the technicalities of twisty fae customs. That the thing was recognized by the Dragons of Iriel, Bald'rt's three mighty wives, was the cincher.
It was then that Varrock's granddaughter, whose name Ulric still did not know, ushered them all along to find seats of honor at the head of the venue. Right the hell up front, on a small raised dais. Ulric barely suppressed a groan.
Once seated, the young man flagged a server, and plates of incredibly succulent roast meat slices, honey-glazed bread, and grilled vegetables were arranged before each of them. Conversation struck up then, with Dame Linebacker leading all parties. She was a force was the young lady. Inside of ten minutes, Ulric had determined that the youth tying himself to her was unaware that he was going to be wearing the proverbial dress in their relationship, whether he liked it or not. As time went on, Ulric mostly stayed silent except to permit the young man to inspect his sword and to say without any exaggeration that it was crafted by a master of the ancient metallurgical techniques unparalleled, realized that the Grandson-in-law was cast from that mold best described as a loveable idiot. He was not obviously bright. Not exactly slow, but just lacking the sort of piercing mind possessed by Varrock or many of the Elves. Ulric was sort of ashamed to think it, but the lad really did remind him of nothing so much as a puppy, all happy enthusiasm and utter lack of guile. Was that just him projecting because of the fuzzy elder's complaining and naysaying? Very possibly.
Speaking of which, such was likely why the old curmudgeon considered the youth with such disdain. Varrock, Ulric was coming to realize, no pun intended, a Wolf at heart. Cunning, sensing weakness, and calculating, though hiding most of it behind a screen of steady bitching. He complained so frequently that you might think his irritation kept him from having a keen awareness of everything happening around him. The Granddaughter took her relative's complaints in stride and made sure to limit what ire might come her chosen mate's way, like an umbrella shedding the rain. She also, with some delicacy probed for information on Ulric's background. It hadn't been since he'd traded words with the Iriels, or maybe that oddly canny village guard, that he'd felt the sort of dynamic mind behind a conversation possessed by the Elder and Younger Varrock.
Varrock continued to lead them through the most evidently affluent region of Bartala yet. This must be the commercial and artisanal district. Everywhere were signs showing the tools of the goldsmith, the silversmith, the scales of a merchant company, the depictions of bolts of cloth or looms for weavers. Where the peoples of the first two tiers had lived in clustered blocks of dwellings, here it was far more common for modest standalone homes, mostly of only two stories, the lower for the business and the upper for residency. Also new to this tier was the presence of estates. Walled-off pockets of flagrant luxury behind which stood the sort of buildings that men created so that they could announce that other men were their lessers. Ulric saw little behind the walls, their metal scrollwork inlays being all but curved into a giant middle finger towards anybody who passed by. But, where a few servants entered or the master of the estate happened to be leading their procession into their bastion of self-importance, he saw magnificent gardens, fountains crested by almost lifelike statues or even complete panoramas, cropped lawns, entire stables the stalls filled by some of the strongest, healthiest of the Horselike riding beasts he'd seen yet, and more. So much more.
There wasn't so much of this in the Before, not like in the pre-collapse days when a corporate town would glitz like Vegas, before it was a nuclear sinkhole, and glam like Shanghai. Meanwhile, fifty kilometers or so down the highway, a city that looked like a refugee camp huddled, stinking of desperation and hopelessness. Things had gotten pretty bad there towards the end, especially once the famines hit. Amongst the Elves, especially in Irielhos, there had been little to no indication of personal wealth. Galed Uldin, a Master Smith of near legendary reputation for his craft, lived in a humble home whose only trappings of fortune were the precious metals and mana-rich materials strewn like litter around his home or bound up in some half-finished, maybe abandoned project, propped up against an overwhelmed bookcase. Within that smithy had been a dragon's hoard of cut gems, ready to hold some arcane circuit or rune binding, and stacks of ingots of the sorts of alloys that kingdoms might be founded on, or fought over. But then, Smith Uldin was a bit of an odd case, even amongst his odd kin. Even so, there was no comparison to the somewhat gratuitous displays here in Bartala.
Gods, even the city being carved out into distinct levels, literal geographical levels of wealth, was offputting. Ulric didn't know what would drive a man to compensate that hard but he was hopeful if he never found out. Which brought him to his next point.
"I cannot help but notice, Varrock, that you lead us, with certainty, to parts of the city I would not have thought you frequented. We met in a rather humble, if clean, well-maintained, and efficiently run, establishment in the poorest ring of this place. And you are constantly speaking of your ill means, but you did not even raise an eye to pass the exorbitant gate fees."
His somewhat mysterious drinking buddy waved the cost off, like the buzzing of gnats.
"I am old, pup, not senile. Just because I have not had the connections and surfeit of riches to play games with the magister-anointed artisans and use Prosper's gilded trade routes doesn't mean I do not remember them. That is what makes it sting all the more." Admitted the Elder Lupid.
Regret tinged Varrock's grumbling voice, and weariness that bespoke a long, losing struggle, "There was a time when my clan held an estate here, a local holding in addition to our traditional lands, from which we could take an active part in the trade games of Bartala."
The Beastkin recovered presently gruffing "But no more, and the Hells take it! My people remain free, if poor, and we are not beholden to the Magister's stamp, Prosper's silver collar to be worn around our necks."
Truthfully, Ulric had little to add to that statement. It was a sentiment he could sympathize with. Maybe, if he'd been willing to throw away all his ambitions for success within his career, he'd have found a happier path to walk, well, limp, through life. Misery he had not been required to cultivate in that old life, even though he had raised it well. More and more, Ulric was realizing that loneliness had not been required either, but that was a harder habit to change, given his love for quiet solitude. Varrock dared to lead his kin out of that trap, and suffered still the consequences for it. But, the old wolf, despite his growling and bitching, seemed happy with his choices. What more could a man ask?
Yeah, Ulric commented to himself, he could respect Old Man Varrock's chosen path and the man himself. They had come a little further along through the extravagance of the inner Bartala. Suddenly Ulric recalled another wolf-headed Beastkin, one for whom the meeting had been equally as unlikely, but ended on far worse terms.
He remembered then the mercenary leader he'd killed way back when in the canopy of the towering trees, a primordial forest in which he'd been reforged. Graus, he'd called himself, Graus Elf Bane, a name that held heavier meaning, now that Ulric knew what the Elf Bane was. Getting a name like that earned you a more Promethean punishment than a simple application of Ceraun to stop your heart cold.
"Varrock, not to imply that all Lupid clans know or relate to one another, but do you know of a warrior named Graus, brother of Vars?" Ulric asked lightly.
The Beastkin spat instinctively before locking his gaze on Ulric, predatory intensity about him. That answered the question fully but the old man spoke anyway, and with such venom as Ulric was unused to.
"That monster, and his even more monstrous sibling, can feed crows in the Hells for a thousand years and not repay their crimes."
Ulric blinked, nearly startled into sound by the Beastkin's uncannily parallel justice by devouring bird. He only nodded though.
"What makes you raise the spectre of that dog of Prosper?" Asked the Lupid pointedly.
A few answers flickered and vanished, most of them sidesteps or evasions. He settled on truth though. First, because Varrock had earned his regard, and you did not offer half-truths to men or women you respected in serious affairs. Second, because it would be interesting to hear the response.
"I met him, once, and killed him. He was leading Valin and Jormun in the act of harming an Aes'r child." Ulric said, without emotion.
Now it was Varrock's turn to be surprised.
"Really!? A pup like you? No, no, I believe you young hunter." Varrock exclaimed, a bit more enthusiastically than his usual grumble, before Ulric could even object to being subjected to doubt, or being called a pup, both of which were, perhaps, valid.
Without delay the Wolfkin continued, a bit more composed, "It's just that, last I'd heard, that one and his clan of hired swords for the Gilded Thrones were doing their best to wake the gods' ire with atrocity across the borders. I must admit though, that it sounds like a thing he would have taken part in. He was known for worse."
That was true, of course. Graus had been deep inside Orlethrem, and had, thanks to an artifact that allowed scrying into even the depths of Iriel, led a band of mercenaries to kidnap Lumyt'seit Iriel, son of Bald'rt, Heir of the Deep Woods Elves. They'd killed the boy's friend in the process of taking him and beat the child viciously as well. Ulric had been crouched, hunting the smaller, safer creatures of the canopy, in one of the normal-sized trees that parasitized upon the massive branches of the god trees in the [Forest of the Forgotten] when the group had come through. They'd, for reasons that defied logic, stopped their flight to attack two Greater Beasts that had nearly killed one another fighting over a third Greater Beast's corpse. Madness. Hopeless greed. But it had thinned their numbers and given Ulric the chance to use his bow to even the odds even more, shooting from high ground into their backs. He was no Elf, but Ulric had been taking his food with little else for months by then and they made themselves easy targets.
"Then his slaying was a good thing?" Ulric asked, his own heart settled on that matter long since, but just cementing his certainty about Varrock's attitudes.
He liked the old wolf, but he'd only known him a day.
Varrock's cheerful laugh would have terrified people in Ulric's old world but he was long since used to the Beastkin's fearsome features.
The Lupid gave a hearty slap on Ulric's back that almost staggered him, unexpected as it came, and the Elder announced jubilantly, "His slaying ends a taint on my entire people, Ulric. We are all of us who are not contemptible, relieved that he is gone. Maybe I'll point you in the direction of his foul brother and hope for similar results."
Ulric had been trying to hide his identity, somewhat, so he'd been using his Surname, Einar. In all the hubbub of the common room and more than a little sauced, he'd slipped and offered his given name to Varrock, not that it mattered because the crotchety geezer never called him anything but "pup", "young hunter", or the like. It was an acknowledgment of sorts, from the Elder man, of a matter of great respect. The suggestion that Ulric might go and punch the older brother's ticket as well was fairly amusing.
"That is good then." Ulric said, slowly.
He was still unaccustomed to the casual acceptance of manslaughter but some folk just made it easy to be glad they were dead and not a tragedy at all to have been a part of getting them that way.
"I would have to confess," he spoke solemnly, "That I did not know much of the Jormun-Lupid when I came to these lands. My people do not frequently find themselves in proximity to these stretches of Varda. I was afraid that there would be a condoning of the actions of that one. He presented himself as an honorable man might, though I only learned of his savage history later."
Which was, you know, a massive understatement considering that none of his people had ever even heard of Varda, knew of its people's existence, or even, maybe, occupied the same galaxy. Werewolves were myths, Elves were Fae legends, and all the rest was pure fantasy.
Varrock eased his companion's worries thusly, "Some would. They should go to join him wherever he receives his reward for the lives he destroyed. Most would not. The Lupid clans are fierce and to be an honorable warrior is a calling many choose, but to bathe oneself in the blood of innocents and the unarmed is to be less than persons. Any who condones or engages in such action is a beast in spirit, if not form."
That was good. Because Ulric considered it open season on genocidal assholes and war criminals. He'd rather not have had to add entire clans to that roster.
"But enough of such heavy things, Honored Warrior, we are arrived at the scene of my undoing." Announced Varrock, in his usual grumble.
And they were. A large pavilion opened up, its wide double doors thrown open and inviting to the participants of the event. It was in the fashion of doting parents a lavish affair. Banners hung, streamers of silk flew from poles, flowers of exotic nature were scattered here and yonder, and the square was dotted with low tables surrounded with cushions, which Ulric was guessing was the norm for the Lupid clan from which Varrock hailed. The old wolf was definitely understating his position, the decoration of this venue was not that of a pauper. Serious coin alone was invested in the floral arrangements, many of them would have almost had to have origins far distant from Bartala or intentionally green-housed by a professional hand. Speaking of which, a flower like a tall, intensely blue and violet lily closed its petals around a flitting form, like the jaws of a bear trap, the recurved spikes hidden by its whirls of color, as it snapped up a bird straying too close in midflight. Ulric jerked his hand back from the similar plant he'd been about to touch and glared at the smiling Beastkin next to him. Bastard.
"It is a very…lively, event." Ulric deadpanned.
"Just so, pup, just so. But I could not allow my granddaughter to suffer an ignoble joining when she will suffer a fool of a husband." Replied Varrock with a droll tone and a slightly raised brow.
Those wolfish muzzles were surprisingly emotive, when you learned what to look for.
He wasn't sure how much of the décor might be some sort of trap for the unwary, so Ulric resolved not to touch anything lest he lose a finger to a tablecloth or some nonsense. Just when enough "normal" presented itself to him he went and forgot how magic suffused this land, warping it into barely recognizable reality to his preconceptions. Varrock had spared no expense for his daughter's daughter.
And lo! There was the blushing bride and her soon-to-be groom. She wasn't blushing, of course, and he wouldn't have been able to tell beneath her full sable coat regardless. What she was, was a prime candidate for Ms. Wolf. If he had to guess, the young lady stood nearly a hand above his own head and was almost as broad across the shoulder as he was. Her gown must have cost a fortune in area of coverage alone. It shimmered, revealing in its sheer form-fitting nature and color that a tailor of great skill had spent great effort, and collected a commensurate amount of coin, to create it. The young Beastkin's muzzle widened, bright white predator's teeth revealed when she saw the approach of her grandfather. A slim, if well-defined, arm hooked around a substantially less impressive, though even more luxuriously outfitted male, whom Ulric supposed was the betrothed, and pulled him along in her wake.
This picture of Lupid beauty hauled her catch along to present them both for Varrock's review, the girl joyful, and the boy intimidated. Old Man Varrock's gruff exterior must not have been a secret, nor his sharp tongue.
"Grampa! You are finally arrived!" Flounced the lass, gushing on her special day.
Varrock, for his part, was melted substantially by the presence of the girl, and in a feat of strength, Ulric didn't know the aged man had in him, lifted her up in a giggling whirl before setting her down easily. Huh. Pretty spry.
"Grampa, stop it, you mustn't," complained the girl without heat, "You'll muss the dress! And it's sooo pretty, you shouldn't have been so lavish."
Her false protestations and obvious joy in the gown made it clear that Varrock had his coin's worth to please the girl. The old man's teeth were showing at his granddaughter's lifted gaiety. They continued showing, but a slight lowering of the corners of his mouth indicated a less than thrilled attitude towards the younger man in tow. Ulric barely merited a brief flash of curious eyes before the powerfully athletic lass closed on her doting ancestor.
The Lupid bride to be slugged her granddad in the arm like a welterweight boxer and she chastised with a flash of low growl, "Now don't be like that Grampa. Erswinn has been looking forward to meeting you, don't be dragging him over rocks on first sight."
It was amazing that, despite a few octaves difference, the girl managed to echo her grandfather's tone perfectly. Twitching slightly, Ulric saw the wolf ears of the young lad, already low in deference, drop a notch even lower in embarrassment at being championed so loudly, in public, by his fiance.
Oof, Ulric remarked to himself, poor lad. He tried not to wince, even as Varrock absently rubbed the forming bruise on his bicep.
"Hurrumph! Very well daughter of my daughter, I will be charitable. For you. Well met, Erswinn, son of Dalus, may the Twins shine over your hold." Varrock greeted, with a slight dip in his muzzle being as far as he could bring himself to be polite.
The Wolfkin lad perked up a bit and returned the greeting, hesitantly smiling, more from nervousness than anything else, "Thank you Grandfather Varrock. May the Twins shine over your hold, and the rains nourish your grass."
It was another one of those ritualistic things, absent any meaning to the ones that spoke them other than fulfilling the basic necessities of civility. It did inform Ulric that the binary stars overhead were considered good fortune and the rains that had beat down on him during his errant navigation across the plains were not always guaranteed, or you wouldn't have to wish for that to happen as a token greeting.
Varrock shuddered slightly at being referred to as the young Lupid boy's grandfather, and Ulric clung to neutrality as hard as he could. If he started laughing now, he might not be able to stop.
Perhaps the wedding would not be as dry as he'd feared.
"And who might you have brought to share in this our celebration, Honored Elder?" Asked the somewhat lanky young Wolfkin, his head coming just shy of Ulric's chin.
Where before the milling Lupid kinsman of the two clans had been largely ignoring the group out of a sort of manufactured privacy, there was now a host of questioning and thoughtful attentions directed toward the four figures. Ulric was the only Valin amongst the group and might as well have been in a chicken suit for all that he was out of place. The out-of-place former Earthling wasn't exactly sure how he should introduce himself and was rescued trying to come up with an explanation by Varrock.
Gesturing his way with a jerking thumb, the Lupid said simply "Picked him up on the way in and kept him handy before he could run over any innocents in the streets."
Which drew a coughing snort from Ulric and a shared roll of eyes with the granddaughter.
"I am called Ulric, and I made recent acquaintance with this old badger chaser yesterday. He invited me to make sure he does not trip and fall." Ulric told the bridal couple drily.
Varrock's loud sniff went mostly ignored. Varrock's descendant side-eyed the old man pretty hard before addressing Ulric politely, if not warmly.
"I see you are familiar with Grampa's manners. Be welcome guest Ulric and thank you for keeping him company, for all of his grousing he is a treasure to me." She said knowingly.
Ulric gave her a shallow bow and a simple "My pleasure, and congratulations."
The groom took Ulric in with substantially more cheer, offering his hand and a more energetic "Welcome to the festivities, Clansman Ulric, it is so uncommon to meet with one of the residents of the distant holds. I hope that you look on our hospitality with favor. One day, I would like to guide our trade networks to include even the Northern wastes, much as Grandfather Varrock once did."
The exuberant shake of hand went on slightly too long and Ulric had to rescue his hand being as courteous as possible, offering a relaxed "I am moved by your graciousness. My kin welcomes worthy friends, young Honor."
Given that he was his only kin that was not an untruth. Well, maybe except for Taipan, who probably counted since she'd decided to use the rescue of her little brother, his decision not to have her killed for failing her duties as a Shadow, and facilitating the cure of her father's bane poisoning as the metric for the exchange of three gifts, an ages-old marriage custom amongst the Iriel'en. Bald'rt had desired that end for reasons that Ulric would never pry from that pointy-eared trickster's skull and he was caught by the technicalities of twisty fae customs. That the thing was recognized by the Dragons of Iriel, Bald'rt's three mighty wives, was the cincher.
It was then that Varrock's granddaughter, whose name Ulric still did not know, ushered them all along to find seats of honor at the head of the venue. Right the hell up front, on a small raised dais. Ulric barely suppressed a groan.
Once seated, the young man flagged a server, and plates of incredibly succulent roast meat slices, honey-glazed bread, and grilled vegetables were arranged before each of them. Conversation struck up then, with Dame Linebacker leading all parties. She was a force was the young lady. Inside of ten minutes, Ulric had determined that the youth tying himself to her was unaware that he was going to be wearing the proverbial dress in their relationship, whether he liked it or not. As time went on, Ulric mostly stayed silent except to permit the young man to inspect his sword and to say without any exaggeration that it was crafted by a master of the ancient metallurgical techniques unparalleled, realized that the Grandson-in-law was cast from that mold best described as a loveable idiot. He was not obviously bright. Not exactly slow, but just lacking the sort of piercing mind possessed by Varrock or many of the Elves. Ulric was sort of ashamed to think it, but the lad really did remind him of nothing so much as a puppy, all happy enthusiasm and utter lack of guile. Was that just him projecting because of the fuzzy elder's complaining and naysaying? Very possibly.
Speaking of which, such was likely why the old curmudgeon considered the youth with such disdain. Varrock, Ulric was coming to realize, no pun intended, a Wolf at heart. Cunning, sensing weakness, and calculating, though hiding most of it behind a screen of steady bitching. He complained so frequently that you might think his irritation kept him from having a keen awareness of everything happening around him. The Granddaughter took her relative's complaints in stride and made sure to limit what ire might come her chosen mate's way, like an umbrella shedding the rain. She also, with some delicacy probed for information on Ulric's background. It hadn't been since he'd traded words with the Iriels, or maybe that oddly canny village guard, that he'd felt the sort of dynamic mind behind a conversation possessed by the Elder and Younger Varrock.
