A good few minutes had passed by since Ulric had returned from his morning bath, between gifting Geyrt her new besty and receiving in turn a powerful historical antecedent of the Elves. Ulric found the weighty implications of this tale incredibly intertwined into his own circumstances. It couldn't be an accident. None of it. The place and time of his reforging, the increasingly aggressive actions of the nearby territories, the internal hardening of the Elf political structures for a potential war. Even Ulric's desperate slaying of the [Forest Lord], all of it had the feel of something preordained. Destiny. For a godless heathen of increasingly free spirit, Ulric resented the feeling that he'd been made into some kind of instrument of fate. But maybe that’s what THEY wanted him to think. Okay, that's too much paranoia just dial it back a touch, Ulric told himself.
You know what? Hell with it, let the chips fall. Today was a festival day. War and god games were all problems in potentia, they didn't exist yet, and so Ulric was going to put all that bullshit over here on a shelf in his brain and forget about it until he needed to do something about it specifically. For now, it's party time.
"Thank you for the story Geyrt, I am grateful for it. It helps me understand you strange people a little better, no, a lot better, and puts a great many things into better context." Ulric said with gratitude.
"It's all a little too much gravitas though, isn't today supposed to be some kind of festival?" He asked, turning matters to Bald'rt's previous invitation.
His Shadow perked up at the mention of the festival and she lost some of her grim attitudes, resuming her normally merely slightly sour intensity.
"This is so Ulric. Today is the celebration of the year's bounty and the hope for next year's prosperity. Lord Bald'rt already invited you yes? Then we may attend the festivities in the great hall at your leisure." Geyrt informed him.
Ulric was curious now, about exactly what awaited him in the hall. A playful impulse though wanted to be surprised. Why ruin a perfectly novel experience with too much information? This was part of the transition in Ulric's attitudes since he awakened, the love of the unknown, a call to adventure. He was still subject to finicky, meticulous habits, and tunnel vision, that was in his bones. It didn't mean, however, that he had to have the maniacal control of events that characterized his old life's descent into hermitage.
"You know what? That sounds good, let's go hang out with your folks Geyrt." He said happily.
For some reason that made his Shadow's ears twitch. Probably thinking about what fresh hell Bald'rt would happily put either or both of them through. That was part of the fun as well, Ulric supposed.
"If you wish Glade Chief." Geyrt acceded.
Ulric "after you'd" the door and followed the odd elf beauty into the hall and through the splendor that was Irielhos. Elves were everywhere, traffic having picked up substantially since Ulric's journey back from the baths.
So odd to be surrounded by such a narrow selection of the composition of Iriel. Warriors, craftsmen, and "Duties". That was about it. If you weren't an active part of the war effort you were hidden away in those secretive refuges he'd been told of and about which he knew nothing more. For reasons he completely understood the Deep Wood folk played that one close to the chest. Ulric briefly wondered how long they could remain sequestered in such places, it was almost like siege conditions. Supplies were always the main concern under that kind of scenario. It would not have surprised Ulric at all that the Elves were long planners and those hidden sanctuaries could last years. Maybe decades, they had different views on time.
Contrary to the serious attitudes and stillness of the previous day there was a simmering energy in the air. Latent excitement pulsed through the movements, gestures, and tones of the passersby. A good many made gestures of acknowledgment towards Ulric as he walked towards the great hall on the apex of Irielhos. He returned those with a wave and an Elvish "Hallo" or "Good morning".
Putting in the time to learn, even incompletely, Elf language was entirely worth the effort. For one thing, it built in a certain amount of comfort in this bizarre setting. Ulric enjoyed having the ability to parse out most of what went on around him. A few times, in the Before, he'd traveled to different countries, completely absent even rudimentary knowledge of the local gibberish, excepting, of course, his maternal grandmother's homeland, and the feeling was a nebulous tension at being caught unawares. He had surprised himself with how quickly he'd gained proficiency in the sylvan tongue, but maybe Brighteyes was just that good at teaching.
Speaking of the little dude, Ulric was looking forward to seeing how he'd been doing in the few days since returning home. Funny that. Ulric had never been one for company but he'd rather quickly gotten used to having the even-keeled lad around. It would seem he'd traded one Iriel for another now. Geyrt was, by her own tacit admission, the less pleasant company, if a far more interesting visual spectacle. He did have to admit a fondness for watching her stroll through the citadel, a hunting cat's grace in her steps and an avalanche's concern for who might be in the way. Ulric was carried along in her wake almost as if by instinct. The roll of her hips beneath her overcoat and sturdy pants didn't hurt. Even tornados could be beautiful Ulric told himself.
In due time they arrived upon the twelfth and final story of Irielhos, Citadel of Iriel. Within the great hall of this level, through doors carved in metallic artistry, sat upon a throne the Elven [Lord of the Deep Wood] Bald'rt Iriel. To his left on the dais, in smaller but no less majestic placement, sat the three wives of Bald'rt in marital order: Vedyr Iriel, the Heartwood Spear; Shor Iriel, the Crimson Sphinx; and Bathe Iriel, the Golden Beast. All wore their Sunday best, robes of shimmering material Ulric hadn't seen before in colors suiting the specific tastes and features of each. Dresses in styles unique to each woman, perhaps unique to her own former tribe, adorned the women in splendor. Vedyr in earthy browns, brilliant greens, and slashes of red and black, the gown cut modestly in the front but sleeveless and open in the back to reveal her impressive physique. Shor in silver and red, hints of orange and yellow as if to show the heat of flame rippled down a full sleeved gown with an outright scandalous portal cut to show most of the tops of her most impressive bosoms. Bathe wore an elegant white trimmed gold affair, high necked, and with a complex embroidery of green vines that flowered golden blooms like orchids, the dress was cut thin to hug her form and sleeveless to leave her pale arms uncovered. Bald'rt himself wore what almost appeared to be a military dress coat and pants, heavy in blacks and golden browns with green slashes here and there that was extremely impressive on the too-beautiful Elf Lord. Ulric, in his plain, if comfortable, loaned black silks, was vastly underdressed. Maybe he should have worn the armor, after all, he mused.
They made for a properly regal display up there in the center of the hall. But that didn't hold his attention for too long, he'd spotted Brighteyes sitting at the grand table below on the right-hand side that he had taken during their last meeting. Ulric found himself waving by instinct, although he at least had enough propriety not to yell "What's good little guy?!" as his heart compelled.
The young elf looked to be in good shape. He was dressed in a formal suit that reminded Ulric of Bald'rt's own get-up but with a color theme more akin to his matron's ensemble. Whites and browns, some greens and golds here and there on sleeves and cuffs. Brighteyes had gotten a trim since last Ulric had seen him, the lanky golden hair and long bangs were now shorn close to his head in a tidy affair that reminded Ulric of some of the more fashionable kids who worked with him, the ones who went "clubbing" and had success fishing for a good time. For a brief moment, Ulric tried to imagine what would happen if a grown Brighteyes walked into a nightclub. It would be as if a less womanly Bieber hit the place. He'd start a fucking riot.
Suppressing a chuckle, if not a grin, Ulric followed along behind Geyrt until she had reached the appropriate spot from which one addressed their betters on the dais. Ulric had to admit, on looking upon them, they actually were his betters in nearly every category: age, wisdom, combat prowess, social grace, and sheer physical beauty. It wasn't just by lineage or heritage that they occupied their place in the room, the royals of Iriel would dominate any locale Ulric could imagine. If the other ruling factions of the Elven, no, of all the races of Varda, were as puissant as the Iriel'en Ulric could imagine there being a nuclear peace in the lands. No leader who cared for the lives of their people would risk war and unleashing powers such as Bald'rt loose on them. Ulric hadn't seen the Elf in action, hadn't but heard the vaguest of suggestions, but, call it a sixth sense, a survival instinct. He could feel it in his bones that beneath the calm decorum, the good humored jesting, there slept a volcanic berserker. With any amount of luck to his name, Ulric would never live to see the [Lord of the Deep Wood] in a rage.
Shaking himself lightly Ulric shed the thoughts, this was not a day to entertain negativity, even if it should probably be considered later in a sort of worst-case scenario analysis. Instead, Ulric turned his inspection to the rest of the room. Besides the main event up at the central dais, there were many side tables arranged, each of them full of a wide assortment of Elven presences. Most had the same slender athleticism and dark coloration that Ulric was learning was typical of the native Iriel'en. Scattering in and amongst them was the lighter pale skin and blond hair that typified the highlands tribes, of whom Bathe and her son Brighteyes were more typical. These were more akin to the prototypical Elves of Tolkien's depictions. Scattered more infrequently were the bronzed-skinned auburns, dirty blonds, and silvers of various other tribal ancestries with which Ulric was less specifically able to place. Brighteyes had spoken of the tribes and their features but only the once had he gone into detail and Ulric had been pondering the journey ahead too intently to recall those lessons with any specificity. Suffice it to say that the full spectrum of Orlethrem was in attendance, to more or less degree. Some of these people had to be travelers, no way those little clusters of non-Iriel'en had been around the entire time. Probably they'd arrived yesterday, while most locals were holding vigils.
Around the periphery of the room stood the royal guardsmen, their lead man Idra up near the dais giving the royals his personal attention. Most of the guards he did not know by name but all he recognized them from his training day. Ulric was looking forward to the next time he got to attend lessons with them, he had gotten notably better with his light practice routines and was eager to see how many thousand details Idra'se would find in his posture despite the improvement. Despite the seriousness of their duty, they seemed to be enjoying the festivity as much as anybody else, pockets of off-duty soldiers visiting various cookpots and tables of refreshments. Notably, they were only drinking some dark beverage, a bitter beer by the smell of it, and not the Elven spirits that had put Ulric through the wringer earlier.
None but the guardsmen carried weapons, in the sense that they weren't going around with spears or the like. Every single man or woman among them carried a large belt-sheathed dagger though. Some single-edged drop points, like woodsman's knives, some double-sided stilettos, and more styles of hilt and handle than there were flavors of gum. It seemed that the personal knife of an Elf was just that: individual and unique to the bearer. Ulric briefly entertained himself with the thought of the guards checking IDs at the door by asking the visitor to show them their knives. What was consistent amongst the blade shapes, sizes, edges, and whatnot was that none was less than twenty centimeters in length and most were closer to thirty or forty. Just a nice, subtle reminder that Varda was a dangerous place and the Aes'r were well prepared for it. Brighteyes had, forgiving the pun, gone bananas on a bunch of [Heckler monkeys] with one such knife and the results had been both impressively gory and entirely intentional. Ulric would have to keep in mind that if he managed to piss off an Elf, they were probably skilled hands with a dagger.
Just as each knife was different so too was each wardrobe. Those that were warriors wore finery of subdued and functional nature but had lost little of their edge, eyes scanning by habit, they gave off an air of readiness alongside the jocular party atmosphere. Those that had to be some sort of noble or ruling class wore far more flamboyant garb, lace at the cuffs of their coats, feathers in hats, that sort of thing. Hundreds of variations of color, of cut, of style were paraded around the hall, each with far less practicality than was on display from the professional fighting folk. Ulric had little idea what functions they served; maybe aristocratic overseers of trade or Barons managing stead-holts. Slight variations in dress, embroidered symbols on shoulders, sleeves, and chests indicated a caste or class system. Ulric wasn't quite sure how things got divvied up around in Orlethrem, all appearance said that there was a chain of command starting from the ruling family and then delegated positions of increasingly granular sub-authority over particular regions though he'd neglected to ask Brighteyes during their talks about what to expect from his visit. Brighteyes had seemed to think it wouldn't matter. Apparently being [Lord of the Ancient Glade] put him somewhere high above and outside whatever sociopolitical pissing contests were held between peers in Elf land.
In all, the great hall fairly bustled with Elvishness. Ulric's Shadow had come a rest and he, tagging along mindlessly while he rubbernecked, had stopped alongside her. Last time, it had been only he, the guards, and the royal folk who really needed no guarding, now he thought on it. A slight bout of nerves took over, as he was reminded that he was standing before the fae court and the entire hall was full. Any errors in judgment or social fuck ups would be on full display amongst the movers and shakers of Iriel. Oh goody. Geyrt kicked things off with an introduction, delivered smoothly enough that Ulric had to wonder if she'd been practicing. Ulric didn't know what kind of obeisance was appropriate so he simply stood straight, stayed quiet, and let his Shadow handle the social donkeywork. It seemed correct, or, at least, no one commented.
"Bald'rt Iriel [Lord of the Deep Wood] I present Ulric Einar [Lord of the Ancient Glade] to receive your blessing and to join the Festival of Fallen Leaves in your hall."
She followed that statement with a deep bow with some sort of ritualistic hand gestures that reminded Ulric of someone handing someone else their belt knife. It seemed appropriate enough for the Elf in Charge he nodded his acceptance and addressed Ulric, voice carrying without effort through the hall that had gone suddenly quiet.
"Welcome again Ulric Glade Chief to my hall. It has not been long since your arrival and I am sure you've many concerns weighing your mind. Know that today is a day for celebration of the boons of this past year and for the gifts of life yet to come in the next. As a friend of Iriel and patron of my son in his time of need, I bid you join us and know no worry. Hardships and struggles will find no hold on our countenance this day. Come, sit at the great table, and share with us your company."
At this surprisingly straightforward and earnest welcome, minus any of the barbed observations Ulric was becoming accustomed to when dealing with Bald'rt, Ulric was left somewhat awkwardly speechless. The Elf seemed to know it too, his normal roguish grin was in place and he winked so casually Ulric wouldn't be surprised if any but he noticed. That the greeting had been made in Human was also a courtesy to make unambiguous for the entire Hall the sincerity of the gesture. The Iriel'en Lord made a gesture towards an empty chair next to Brighteyes indicating Ulric should make himself comfortable. Ulric was slightly panicked now, he was fucking this up, he could feel it. He'd never been good with being in the center stage and this was as centered as stages got. Geyrt saved him from the burning gazes pouring in by speaking some appropriate phrase of thanks and well wishes Ulric missed and took his sleeve to lead him to his seat. The crowd's attention turned back to itself and Ulric couldn't suppress a deep sigh of relief at being released from their focus. He looked up to meet his Shadow's eyes and thanked her profusely.
"Thanks, Geyrt, you saved my ass from the fire that time. I didn't expect stage fright to strike so hard from a little greeting. Yikes. You wanna sit or something?" Ulric blabbered.
A slight widening of eyes betrayed her surprise but she recovered quickly, refusing his offer with unusual deference.
"I must refuse, though I thank you for the offer Glade Chief. I am here as your Shadow and it is my responsibility to see to your protection even in this place and on this day. It is enough for me to be here enjoying the ambiance of the festival."
She chewed her lip briefly and shot a glance to Brighteyes who was looking at the both of them for the proper time to begin conversing. Something had gone on between the two of them, Geyrt was definitely cagey around her brother and he appeared almost smug when he glanced at her. Odd. It was a brief thing, these shared glances and it only took a moment for the Elf girl to resume her begging off.
"I cannot neglect my duty after you released me yesterday, especially not here amongst the Greater and Lesser Houses. My status amongst them is no longer what it was and I would not bring shame to my own House by pretending otherwise. Do as my father suggested Ulric, leave your worries for the future in the future and enjoy this day." Geyrt told him gently.
Ulric couldn't help but stare at her, this was the most accommodating she'd been since they'd met. Something had definitely gone on yesterday. He'd have put wagers on it that Brighteyes had something to do with it. Maybe her Mothers as well, Bald'rt had not seemed overly inclined to be too harsh on his "little [Shadow Panther]". Just as he was going to ask her if she was sick or to blink twice if she was being forced to be nice, Brighteyes saw the moment he'd been waiting for and jumped in.
"It is fine Ulric Glade Chief. Besides, the Festival is Eldest Sister Geyrt's most troublesome time of year. Every time she attends she must beat like a [Sap Weasel] some over-proud son of this Baron or that Count who tries to court her. It is almost tradition now to keep healers on hand to put their faces back together." Said the young Elf grinning broadly.
Whatever subdued attitude was present fled from the heat of his Shadow's righteous wrath. She drew up and said wiltingly of her would be suiters, such venom dripping freely from her fangs that, were any nearby to overhear, they would be finding somewhere else to spend their evening.
"If they were not so soft and weak they would not need such healing. Nor would they if they did not come on like rutting [Stone Boar]. I have not dedicated a century of myself to learning the Hunter's craft that I might welp some pampered bastard's pups."
Seeing his Shadow return to her normal thorny demeanor, combined with Brighteyes obvious merriment, put Ulric at ease. He found himself smiling, assisted by the imagined uproar of an ill-informed man having wisdom pounded into him by this Taipan. It must be a whole pile of ignorant foolishness that would push themselves uninvited into her attention if they had even the slightest inkling of her reputation. The pair of them reminisced about a half dozen such interactions. He was not surprised to learn that no less than three of them had left the Festival feet first. When he asked how often it was that Aes'r parties led to funerals he was jovially notified by a laughing Brighteyes that the rate had diminished since his sister had stopped attending, but that it was still a regular occurrence, especially once grudges long nursed had a little alcoholic erosion of the usual civility. The Iriel'en, in particular, were finicky about their status in public, Brighteyes explained again, reviewing something he'd told Ulric back in the glade. Privately, they would joke, mock, harass, and generally make light of one another. But in front of the rest? One's position was earned and his or her dignity inviolate, an attack on that was not tolerated.
"We are proud people Ulric, and with good cause, if I may be frank about it. Long does a young Elf spend challenging themselves in the wilds and against one another to find betterment. When another, before the eyes of all, calls into question the veracity of your name and your standing, they do so knowing they infringe on decades of struggle. Among the Houses especially, no scion of Orlethrem would permit another to attempt to diminish them. It is a mark of cowardice, a confirmation that status was unearned."
The platinum blond Prince shook his head ruefully, "Mother says that Father had to aggressively cull rivals when first he claimed the Throne. Each presented challenge, or slight, before the court to diminish his power, to claim that power for their own. Enough times and a Lord may be deposed, if he is considered too weak to hold his title."
Geyrt interjected, "Soon enough, the overambitious learned their place, it hasn't happened in a century that Father Bald'rt has been forced to lay challenge or been slighted in public. My Mother also fielded efforts to supplant her as a candidate for marrying into Father Bald'rt's line, those who wished to make their own bids for Queenship. She put those down ruthlessly. Mostly now it is a foreigner who does not guard his tongue or one of the scum from Prosper finding my parent's memories long regarding the crimes against our kin."
Ulric, burning with curiosity had to ask now if the same held true for Brighteyes' own dam, "Does Lady Bathe also have to deal with this sort of fatal jockeying for position?"
The youth grinned boyishly, and made the cheeky hand sign for "nope". Geyrt explained for her younger sibling.
"Mother Bathe was once the oldest of the ruling triumvirate for the highlands tribes, the Melondi. She is older than Bald'rt by nearly eighty Cycles." She said solemnly, before continuing on with a statement that made pure sense to Ulric.
"Bathe joined herself to Father Bald'rt to sire a line of indelible quality and to unite our tribes politically. Lord Iriel, thus obtained ultimate leverage amongst the Orlethrem as Iriel's forests, Aktinia's shores, and Melond's control of the only passes through the Heaven's Reach Mountains were consolidated. Long before that she reigned unquestioned. Not for an age would any have the stomach to gain the attention of the Golden Beast."
"Super." Ulric remarked, a little higher pitched than he'd have preferred.
Ulric took that chance to hit up some grub, some kind of smoked cutlets that fairly well dissolved as soon as they hit the tongue. And what the fuck was in that sauce? Honey? Amazing. Revelations of the casual violence of Aes'r politics were somewhat disturbing but he put them out of mind with ease. He wasn't an Elf and he wasn't part of their social structures, and that was that. Just some fucking guy wondering around lost on an alien planet, that's all. Returning to his seat he offered the plate of finger foods for sharing with the kid and was pleased when Geyrt also partook. Delicately, she plucked a spicily seasoned pheasant of some kind, eating the meat off the bones with her only her hands, before wiping the grease off on a handkerchief. He was going to imply that she might want to chew but a passing duty with drinks vendered them. His observations he bit back when his Shadow washed down the bird a glass of beer in a single long pull like an old swabby. My kind of people, he thought, before he echoed her action. The hoppy, rich, beer settled nicely on his stomach. Divine.
"Ulric," interjected the gayly smiling Prince, "I have heard that you are adapting well to my people's customs. I am glad, I knew you that you would not be long in adapting to our ways. Of a mind with the Deep Woods are you. Tell me, how does training with the Royal Guards go? I have always wanted to join but I am not yet old enough. Soon though." Bubbled Brighteyes.
The human man entertained the boy Elf, narrating the fascinating philosophies of their Dance and the exacting demands of the scarred Idra'se. Geyrt kept her eyes peeled on the surroundings with a vigilance that was slightly concerning, but surely there was nothing about which to worry. While he chatted with his little buddy like times of old, the party was gaining steam. He wondered if he'd see any of these potentially lethal jousts amongst the Elves and could have kicked himself in a few moments.
As if summoned, one of the more poshly dressed Elves in attendance approached the table at which Ulric sat. He was of middling height, for an Elf, and of pale skin, so not an Iriel'en by descent. A too pretty face, slightly upturned nose, and narrow green eyes were framed by hair that seemed to have been sculpted into an arrangement resembling modern art with a thin tail of hair left to wave free to his waist. It was the kind of thing that would do little but catch on branches or get in the way out in the wilds or a fight and a sure sign, coupled with the attire, that the graceful man in front of him was no warrior of his people. Still, it wasn't like Ulric was going to judge a guy for wanting to pretty up so he extended his best foot.
"Heya, how's it going?" He said with an easy smile and a friendly tone.
He'd missed Brighteyes' scowl as he'd turned to see who was approaching or he'd have had some warning.
"It seems the Lord of Iriel has begun collecting pets. Heir Lumyt'seit, I hear we have you to thank for the tremendous loss of trade income this season. Blockades and raiding have done Orlethrem no favors, so I hope your kin are ready to make good on their duties next season. It would be a shame if a new Crown had to be appointed to retrieve the situation from your Father's warmongering." Said the Elf in the most condescending tone Ulric had ever heard.
Ulric's smile had disappeared as soon as the ponce started talking and he was now looking at Brighteyes with incredulity. Who the fuck does this prick think he is?
"Brighteyes, who the fuck does this prick think he is?" Ulric asked aloud.
A good few minutes had passed by since Ulric had returned from his morning bath, between gifting Geyrt her new besty and receiving in turn a powerful historical antecedent of the Elves. Ulric found the weighty implications of this tale incredibly intertwined into his own circumstances. It couldn't be an accident. None of it. The place and time of his reforging, the increasingly aggressive actions of the nearby territories, the internal hardening of the Elf political structures for a potential war. Even Ulric's desperate slaying of the [Forest Lord], all of it had the feel of something preordained. Destiny. For a godless heathen of increasingly free spirit, Ulric resented the feeling that he'd been made into some kind of instrument of fate. But maybe that’s what THEY wanted him to think. Okay, that's too much paranoia just dial it back a touch, Ulric told himself.
You know what? Hell with it, let the chips fall. Today was a festival day. War and god games were all problems in potentia, they didn't exist yet, and so Ulric was going to put all that bullshit over here on a shelf in his brain and forget about it until he needed to do something about it specifically. For now, it's party time.
"Thank you for the story Geyrt, I am grateful for it. It helps me understand you strange people a little better, no, a lot better, and puts a great many things into better context." Ulric said with gratitude.
"It's all a little too much gravitas though, isn't today supposed to be some kind of festival?" He asked, turning matters to Bald'rt's previous invitation.
His Shadow perked up at the mention of the festival and she lost some of her grim attitudes, resuming her normally merely slightly sour intensity.
"This is so Ulric. Today is the celebration of the year's bounty and the hope for next year's prosperity. Lord Bald'rt already invited you yes? Then we may attend the festivities in the great hall at your leisure." Geyrt informed him.
Ulric was curious now, about exactly what awaited him in the hall. A playful impulse though wanted to be surprised. Why ruin a perfectly novel experience with too much information? This was part of the transition in Ulric's attitudes since he awakened, the love of the unknown, a call to adventure. He was still subject to finicky, meticulous habits, and tunnel vision, that was in his bones. It didn't mean, however, that he had to have the maniacal control of events that characterized his old life's descent into hermitage.
"You know what? That sounds good, let's go hang out with your folks Geyrt." He said happily.
For some reason that made his Shadow's ears twitch. Probably thinking about what fresh hell Bald'rt would happily put either or both of them through. That was part of the fun as well, Ulric supposed.
"If you wish Glade Chief." Geyrt acceded.
Ulric "after you'd" the door and followed the odd elf beauty into the hall and through the splendor that was Irielhos. Elves were everywhere, traffic having picked up substantially since Ulric's journey back from the baths.
So odd to be surrounded by such a narrow selection of the composition of Iriel. Warriors, craftsmen, and "Duties". That was about it. If you weren't an active part of the war effort you were hidden away in those secretive refuges he'd been told of and about which he knew nothing more. For reasons he completely understood the Deep Wood folk played that one close to the chest. Ulric briefly wondered how long they could remain sequestered in such places, it was almost like siege conditions. Supplies were always the main concern under that kind of scenario. It would not have surprised Ulric at all that the Elves were long planners and those hidden sanctuaries could last years. Maybe decades, they had different views on time.
Contrary to the serious attitudes and stillness of the previous day there was a simmering energy in the air. Latent excitement pulsed through the movements, gestures, and tones of the passersby. A good many made gestures of acknowledgment towards Ulric as he walked towards the great hall on the apex of Irielhos. He returned those with a wave and an Elvish "Hallo" or "Good morning".
Putting in the time to learn, even incompletely, Elf language was entirely worth the effort. For one thing, it built in a certain amount of comfort in this bizarre setting. Ulric enjoyed having the ability to parse out most of what went on around him. A few times, in the Before, he'd traveled to different countries, completely absent even rudimentary knowledge of the local gibberish, excepting, of course, his maternal grandmother's homeland, and the feeling was a nebulous tension at being caught unawares. He had surprised himself with how quickly he'd gained proficiency in the sylvan tongue, but maybe Brighteyes was just that good at teaching.
Speaking of the little dude, Ulric was looking forward to seeing how he'd been doing in the few days since returning home. Funny that. Ulric had never been one for company but he'd rather quickly gotten used to having the even-keeled lad around. It would seem he'd traded one Iriel for another now. Geyrt was, by her own tacit admission, the less pleasant company, if a far more interesting visual spectacle. He did have to admit a fondness for watching her stroll through the citadel, a hunting cat's grace in her steps and an avalanche's concern for who might be in the way. Ulric was carried along in her wake almost as if by instinct. The roll of her hips beneath her overcoat and sturdy pants didn't hurt. Even tornados could be beautiful Ulric told himself.
In due time they arrived upon the twelfth and final story of Irielhos, Citadel of Iriel. Within the great hall of this level, through doors carved in metallic artistry, sat upon a throne the Elven [Lord of the Deep Wood] Bald'rt Iriel. To his left on the dais, in smaller but no less majestic placement, sat the three wives of Bald'rt in marital order: Vedyr Iriel, the Heartwood Spear; Shor Iriel, the Crimson Sphinx; and Bathe Iriel, the Golden Beast. All wore their Sunday best, robes of shimmering material Ulric hadn't seen before in colors suiting the specific tastes and features of each. Dresses in styles unique to each woman, perhaps unique to her own former tribe, adorned the women in splendor. Vedyr in earthy browns, brilliant greens, and slashes of red and black, the gown cut modestly in the front but sleeveless and open in the back to reveal her impressive physique. Shor in silver and red, hints of orange and yellow as if to show the heat of flame rippled down a full sleeved gown with an outright scandalous portal cut to show most of the tops of her most impressive bosoms. Bathe wore an elegant white trimmed gold affair, high necked, and with a complex embroidery of green vines that flowered golden blooms like orchids, the dress was cut thin to hug her form and sleeveless to leave her pale arms uncovered. Bald'rt himself wore what almost appeared to be a military dress coat and pants, heavy in blacks and golden browns with green slashes here and there that was extremely impressive on the too-beautiful Elf Lord. Ulric, in his plain, if comfortable, loaned black silks, was vastly underdressed. Maybe he should have worn the armor, after all, he mused.
They made for a properly regal display up there in the center of the hall. But that didn't hold his attention for too long, he'd spotted Brighteyes sitting at the grand table below on the right-hand side that he had taken during their last meeting. Ulric found himself waving by instinct, although he at least had enough propriety not to yell "What's good little guy?!" as his heart compelled.
The young elf looked to be in good shape. He was dressed in a formal suit that reminded Ulric of Bald'rt's own get-up but with a color theme more akin to his matron's ensemble. Whites and browns, some greens and golds here and there on sleeves and cuffs. Brighteyes had gotten a trim since last Ulric had seen him, the lanky golden hair and long bangs were now shorn close to his head in a tidy affair that reminded Ulric of some of the more fashionable kids who worked with him, the ones who went "clubbing" and had success fishing for a good time. For a brief moment, Ulric tried to imagine what would happen if a grown Brighteyes walked into a nightclub. It would be as if a less womanly Bieber hit the place. He'd start a fucking riot.
Suppressing a chuckle, if not a grin, Ulric followed along behind Geyrt until she had reached the appropriate spot from which one addressed their betters on the dais. Ulric had to admit, on looking upon them, they actually were his betters in nearly every category: age, wisdom, combat prowess, social grace, and sheer physical beauty. It wasn't just by lineage or heritage that they occupied their place in the room, the royals of Iriel would dominate any locale Ulric could imagine. If the other ruling factions of the Elven, no, of all the races of Varda, were as puissant as the Iriel'en Ulric could imagine there being a nuclear peace in the lands. No leader who cared for the lives of their people would risk war and unleashing powers such as Bald'rt loose on them. Ulric hadn't seen the Elf in action, hadn't but heard the vaguest of suggestions, but, call it a sixth sense, a survival instinct. He could feel it in his bones that beneath the calm decorum, the good humored jesting, there slept a volcanic berserker. With any amount of luck to his name, Ulric would never live to see the [Lord of the Deep Wood] in a rage.
Shaking himself lightly Ulric shed the thoughts, this was not a day to entertain negativity, even if it should probably be considered later in a sort of worst-case scenario analysis. Instead, Ulric turned his inspection to the rest of the room. Besides the main event up at the central dais, there were many side tables arranged, each of them full of a wide assortment of Elven presences. Most had the same slender athleticism and dark coloration that Ulric was learning was typical of the native Iriel'en. Scattering in and amongst them was the lighter pale skin and blond hair that typified the highlands tribes, of whom Bathe and her son Brighteyes were more typical. These were more akin to the prototypical Elves of Tolkien's depictions. Scattered more infrequently were the bronzed-skinned auburns, dirty blonds, and silvers of various other tribal ancestries with which Ulric was less specifically able to place. Brighteyes had spoken of the tribes and their features but only the once had he gone into detail and Ulric had been pondering the journey ahead too intently to recall those lessons with any specificity. Suffice it to say that the full spectrum of Orlethrem was in attendance, to more or less degree. Some of these people had to be travelers, no way those little clusters of non-Iriel'en had been around the entire time. Probably they'd arrived yesterday, while most locals were holding vigils.
Around the periphery of the room stood the royal guardsmen, their lead man Idra up near the dais giving the royals his personal attention. Most of the guards he did not know by name but all he recognized them from his training day. Ulric was looking forward to the next time he got to attend lessons with them, he had gotten notably better with his light practice routines and was eager to see how many thousand details Idra'se would find in his posture despite the improvement. Despite the seriousness of their duty, they seemed to be enjoying the festivity as much as anybody else, pockets of off-duty soldiers visiting various cookpots and tables of refreshments. Notably, they were only drinking some dark beverage, a bitter beer by the smell of it, and not the Elven spirits that had put Ulric through the wringer earlier.
None but the guardsmen carried weapons, in the sense that they weren't going around with spears or the like. Every single man or woman among them carried a large belt-sheathed dagger though. Some single-edged drop points, like woodsman's knives, some double-sided stilettos, and more styles of hilt and handle than there were flavors of gum. It seemed that the personal knife of an Elf was just that: individual and unique to the bearer. Ulric briefly entertained himself with the thought of the guards checking IDs at the door by asking the visitor to show them their knives. What was consistent amongst the blade shapes, sizes, edges, and whatnot was that none was less than twenty centimeters in length and most were closer to thirty or forty. Just a nice, subtle reminder that Varda was a dangerous place and the Aes'r were well prepared for it. Brighteyes had, forgiving the pun, gone bananas on a bunch of [Heckler monkeys] with one such knife and the results had been both impressively gory and entirely intentional. Ulric would have to keep in mind that if he managed to piss off an Elf, they were probably skilled hands with a dagger.
Just as each knife was different so too was each wardrobe. Those that were warriors wore finery of subdued and functional nature but had lost little of their edge, eyes scanning by habit, they gave off an air of readiness alongside the jocular party atmosphere. Those that had to be some sort of noble or ruling class wore far more flamboyant garb, lace at the cuffs of their coats, feathers in hats, that sort of thing. Hundreds of variations of color, of cut, of style were paraded around the hall, each with far less practicality than was on display from the professional fighting folk. Ulric had little idea what functions they served; maybe aristocratic overseers of trade or Barons managing stead-holts. Slight variations in dress, embroidered symbols on shoulders, sleeves, and chests indicated a caste or class system. Ulric wasn't quite sure how things got divvied up around in Orlethrem, all appearance said that there was a chain of command starting from the ruling family and then delegated positions of increasingly granular sub-authority over particular regions though he'd neglected to ask Brighteyes during their talks about what to expect from his visit. Brighteyes had seemed to think it wouldn't matter. Apparently being [Lord of the Ancient Glade] put him somewhere high above and outside whatever sociopolitical pissing contests were held between peers in Elf land.
In all, the great hall fairly bustled with Elvishness. Ulric's Shadow had come a rest and he, tagging along mindlessly while he rubbernecked, had stopped alongside her. Last time, it had been only he, the guards, and the royal folk who really needed no guarding, now he thought on it. A slight bout of nerves took over, as he was reminded that he was standing before the fae court and the entire hall was full. Any errors in judgment or social fuck ups would be on full display amongst the movers and shakers of Iriel. Oh goody. Geyrt kicked things off with an introduction, delivered smoothly enough that Ulric had to wonder if she'd been practicing. Ulric didn't know what kind of obeisance was appropriate so he simply stood straight, stayed quiet, and let his Shadow handle the social donkeywork. It seemed correct, or, at least, no one commented.
"Bald'rt Iriel [Lord of the Deep Wood] I present Ulric Einar [Lord of the Ancient Glade] to receive your blessing and to join the Festival of Fallen Leaves in your hall."
She followed that statement with a deep bow with some sort of ritualistic hand gestures that reminded Ulric of someone handing someone else their belt knife. It seemed appropriate enough for the Elf in Charge he nodded his acceptance and addressed Ulric, voice carrying without effort through the hall that had gone suddenly quiet.
"Welcome again Ulric Glade Chief to my hall. It has not been long since your arrival and I am sure you've many concerns weighing your mind. Know that today is a day for celebration of the boons of this past year and for the gifts of life yet to come in the next. As a friend of Iriel and patron of my son in his time of need, I bid you join us and know no worry. Hardships and struggles will find no hold on our countenance this day. Come, sit at the great table, and share with us your company."
At this surprisingly straightforward and earnest welcome, minus any of the barbed observations Ulric was becoming accustomed to when dealing with Bald'rt, Ulric was left somewhat awkwardly speechless. The Elf seemed to know it too, his normal roguish grin was in place and he winked so casually Ulric wouldn't be surprised if any but he noticed. That the greeting had been made in Human was also a courtesy to make unambiguous for the entire Hall the sincerity of the gesture. The Iriel'en Lord made a gesture towards an empty chair next to Brighteyes indicating Ulric should make himself comfortable. Ulric was slightly panicked now, he was fucking this up, he could feel it. He'd never been good with being in the center stage and this was as centered as stages got. Geyrt saved him from the burning gazes pouring in by speaking some appropriate phrase of thanks and well wishes Ulric missed and took his sleeve to lead him to his seat. The crowd's attention turned back to itself and Ulric couldn't suppress a deep sigh of relief at being released from their focus. He looked up to meet his Shadow's eyes and thanked her profusely.
"Thanks, Geyrt, you saved my ass from the fire that time. I didn't expect stage fright to strike so hard from a little greeting. Yikes. You wanna sit or something?" Ulric blabbered.
A slight widening of eyes betrayed her surprise but she recovered quickly, refusing his offer with unusual deference.
"I must refuse, though I thank you for the offer Glade Chief. I am here as your Shadow and it is my responsibility to see to your protection even in this place and on this day. It is enough for me to be here enjoying the ambiance of the festival."
She chewed her lip briefly and shot a glance to Brighteyes who was looking at the both of them for the proper time to begin conversing. Something had gone on between the two of them, Geyrt was definitely cagey around her brother and he appeared almost smug when he glanced at her. Odd. It was a brief thing, these shared glances and it only took a moment for the Elf girl to resume her begging off.
"I cannot neglect my duty after you released me yesterday, especially not here amongst the Greater and Lesser Houses. My status amongst them is no longer what it was and I would not bring shame to my own House by pretending otherwise. Do as my father suggested Ulric, leave your worries for the future in the future and enjoy this day." Geyrt told him gently.
Ulric couldn't help but stare at her, this was the most accommodating she'd been since they'd met. Something had definitely gone on yesterday. He'd have put wagers on it that Brighteyes had something to do with it. Maybe her Mothers as well, Bald'rt had not seemed overly inclined to be too harsh on his "little [Shadow Panther]". Just as he was going to ask her if she was sick or to blink twice if she was being forced to be nice, Brighteyes saw the moment he'd been waiting for and jumped in.
"It is fine Ulric Glade Chief. Besides, the Festival is Eldest Sister Geyrt's most troublesome time of year. Every time she attends she must beat like a [Sap Weasel] some over-proud son of this Baron or that Count who tries to court her. It is almost tradition now to keep healers on hand to put their faces back together." Said the young Elf grinning broadly.
Whatever subdued attitude was present fled from the heat of his Shadow's righteous wrath. She drew up and said wiltingly of her would be suiters, such venom dripping freely from her fangs that, were any nearby to overhear, they would be finding somewhere else to spend their evening.
"If they were not so soft and weak they would not need such healing. Nor would they if they did not come on like rutting [Stone Boar]. I have not dedicated a century of myself to learning the Hunter's craft that I might welp some pampered bastard's pups."
Seeing his Shadow return to her normal thorny demeanor, combined with Brighteyes obvious merriment, put Ulric at ease. He found himself smiling, assisted by the imagined uproar of an ill-informed man having wisdom pounded into him by this Taipan. It must be a whole pile of ignorant foolishness that would push themselves uninvited into her attention if they had even the slightest inkling of her reputation. The pair of them reminisced about a half dozen such interactions. He was not surprised to learn that no less than three of them had left the Festival feet first. When he asked how often it was that Aes'r parties led to funerals he was jovially notified by a laughing Brighteyes that the rate had diminished since his sister had stopped attending, but that it was still a regular occurrence, especially once grudges long nursed had a little alcoholic erosion of the usual civility. The Iriel'en, in particular, were finicky about their status in public, Brighteyes explained again, reviewing something he'd told Ulric back in the glade. Privately, they would joke, mock, harass, and generally make light of one another. But in front of the rest? One's position was earned and his or her dignity inviolate, an attack on that was not tolerated.
"We are proud people Ulric, and with good cause, if I may be frank about it. Long does a young Elf spend challenging themselves in the wilds and against one another to find betterment. When another, before the eyes of all, calls into question the veracity of your name and your standing, they do so knowing they infringe on decades of struggle. Among the Houses especially, no scion of Orlethrem would permit another to attempt to diminish them. It is a mark of cowardice, a confirmation that status was unearned."
The platinum blond Prince shook his head ruefully, "Mother says that Father had to aggressively cull rivals when first he claimed the Throne. Each presented challenge, or slight, before the court to diminish his power, to claim that power for their own. Enough times and a Lord may be deposed, if he is considered too weak to hold his title."
Geyrt interjected, "Soon enough, the overambitious learned their place, it hasn't happened in a century that Father Bald'rt has been forced to lay challenge or been slighted in public. My Mother also fielded efforts to supplant her as a candidate for marrying into Father Bald'rt's line, those who wished to make their own bids for Queenship. She put those down ruthlessly. Mostly now it is a foreigner who does not guard his tongue or one of the scum from Prosper finding my parent's memories long regarding the crimes against our kin."
Ulric, burning with curiosity had to ask now if the same held true for Brighteyes' own dam, "Does Lady Bathe also have to deal with this sort of fatal jockeying for position?"
The youth grinned boyishly, and made the cheeky hand sign for "nope". Geyrt explained for her younger sibling.
"Mother Bathe was once the oldest of the ruling triumvirate for the highlands tribes, the Melondi. She is older than Bald'rt by nearly eighty Cycles." She said solemnly, before continuing on with a statement that made pure sense to Ulric.
"Bathe joined herself to Father Bald'rt to sire a line of indelible quality and to unite our tribes politically. Lord Iriel, thus obtained ultimate leverage amongst the Orlethrem as Iriel's forests, Aktinia's shores, and Melond's control of the only passes through the Heaven's Reach Mountains were consolidated. Long before that she reigned unquestioned. Not for an age would any have the stomach to gain the attention of the Golden Beast."
"Super." Ulric remarked, a little higher pitched than he'd have preferred.
Ulric took that chance to hit up some grub, some kind of smoked cutlets that fairly well dissolved as soon as they hit the tongue. And what the fuck was in that sauce? Honey? Amazing. Revelations of the casual violence of Aes'r politics were somewhat disturbing but he put them out of mind with ease. He wasn't an Elf and he wasn't part of their social structures, and that was that. Just some fucking guy wondering around lost on an alien planet, that's all. Returning to his seat he offered the plate of finger foods for sharing with the kid and was pleased when Geyrt also partook. Delicately, she plucked a spicily seasoned pheasant of some kind, eating the meat off the bones with her only her hands, before wiping the grease off on a handkerchief. He was going to imply that she might want to chew but a passing duty with drinks vendered them. His observations he bit back when his Shadow washed down the bird a glass of beer in a single long pull like an old swabby. My kind of people, he thought, before he echoed her action. The hoppy, rich, beer settled nicely on his stomach. Divine.
"Ulric," interjected the gayly smiling Prince, "I have heard that you are adapting well to my people's customs. I am glad, I knew you that you would not be long in adapting to our ways. Of a mind with the Deep Woods are you. Tell me, how does training with the Royal Guards go? I have always wanted to join but I am not yet old enough. Soon though." Bubbled Brighteyes.
The human man entertained the boy Elf, narrating the fascinating philosophies of their Dance and the exacting demands of the scarred Idra'se. Geyrt kept her eyes peeled on the surroundings with a vigilance that was slightly concerning, but surely there was nothing about which to worry. While he chatted with his little buddy like times of old, the party was gaining steam. He wondered if he'd see any of these potentially lethal jousts amongst the Elves and could have kicked himself in a few moments.
As if summoned, one of the more poshly dressed Elves in attendance approached the table at which Ulric sat. He was of middling height, for an Elf, and of pale skin, so not an Iriel'en by descent. A too pretty face, slightly upturned nose, and narrow green eyes were framed by hair that seemed to have been sculpted into an arrangement resembling modern art with a thin tail of hair left to wave free to his waist. It was the kind of thing that would do little but catch on branches or get in the way out in the wilds or a fight and a sure sign, coupled with the attire, that the graceful man in front of him was no warrior of his people. Still, it wasn't like Ulric was going to judge a guy for wanting to pretty up so he extended his best foot.
"Heya, how's it going?" He said with an easy smile and a friendly tone.
He'd missed Brighteyes' scowl as he'd turned to see who was approaching or he'd have had some warning.
"It seems the Lord of Iriel has begun collecting pets. Heir Lumyt'seit, I hear we have you to thank for the tremendous loss of trade income this season. Blockades and raiding have done Orlethrem no favors, so I hope your kin are ready to make good on their duties next season. It would be a shame if a new Crown had to be appointed to retrieve the situation from your Father's warmongering." Said the Elf in the most condescending tone Ulric had ever heard.
Ulric's smile had disappeared as soon as the ponce started talking and he was now looking at Brighteyes with incredulity. Who the fuck does this prick think he is?
"Brighteyes, who the fuck does this prick think he is?" Ulric asked aloud.
