Date: Thirtieth of January, year 810 Post Seminal War (810 PSW)
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Bein'doc crouched in the gutter and looked up at the strange buildings all around him. He was used to the brooding stonework of the dwarf city, either carved into the mountains or piled high by their constructed river. These elves and humans favored wood, grasses, and baked earthen blocks. But there were some buildings that were different. There was a cluster of stone spires that twisted in unnatural ways, certainly the result of magics. And then there was this set of buildings. Unlike all of the other buildings in the city, they were walled off by high, sloped baked-earth block walls, the rounded corners of which were capped with stones. Inside the walls was a complex of high-roofed buildings, each decked with icons and shiny protrusions. Many were made of stone, but at least one was a living tree.
He sniffed the air, smelling fresh-cut growing things and the sweet stink of priestly incense. Bells pealed in the early day, summoning worshippers to the temples. Bein’doc had never seen so many temples in one place before, and they made him nervous. Temples meant priests and Clerics. Many temples meant much magic, and Bein’doc was feeling his aloneness acutely. But he needed to stay, needed to watch for the silver-scaled outcast and the Black Egg she carried. Bein’doc spotted her entering through the gate in the wall. She went on foot, the other three outcasts at her back, her wings wrapped tightly about herself. A priestess met the outcast and led her further inside the walls, past the many guards standing at the gate and the lines of people
Bein’doc faded back into the gutter-shadows. He couldn’t get to the outcasts inside the temples. But he Bein’doc had patience. The outcasts came to the temples almost every day, and had to live somewhere. He would find where they lived and then make his plans. It would take time, but Bein’doc had time.
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Morlen Daxina, Lord-apparent of Bera, looked down his nose at the glass of whiskey in his hand. To call it a glare would be overly harsh, but to call it a calm look would be unprofessional. There was distaste and disdain in his eyes, both for the hosts of this royal wedding, and for the groom. Not that Morlen could complain, of course, at least Crown Princess Shahana was marrying an elf of blood and breeding, even if it was the third son of Lord Perle, and therefore a Navy elf. Morlen was himself an Army elf, and would have held command of the Bera Regiment of the Althiem Royal Army, had his elder brother not suffered that most unfortunate accident.
He sniffed, smelling the sweet tobacco smoke from dozens of discrete cigars, and mulled over the shifting balance of power in Altheim. For a long time, the Royal Army had been the military force of Altheim. Its scouts and pathfinders carried teleport scrolls to call in highly-elite strike forces to crush any opposition. But the manhunt for the princesses some fifty years ago had begun to change that. The pathfinders had been pushed to their limits to find the princesses, and the Army logistics train had come up short trying to keep up with them. Teleportation circles, especially the scroll-portable ones, just weren't up to transporting large volumes of cargo. They navy’s sail-powered ships could move that cargo, but only at the speed of the wind.
But in the last thirty years or so, that had all changed. First the succession issue of the Lordship of Trebor had been decided in the favor of a short-lived gutter-blooded human. Morlen, like his father Lord Bera, had shrugged it off at the time. The new Lord Trebor would pass in time, and his efforts both saving the princesses and then the Queen were some evidence of the sensibilities inherent in well-bred and raised Lords. But then the Lord Trebor went and married the half-blooded tiefling daughter of the late (and un-lamented) Lord Paric and they produced an heir to both Trebor and Paric. The merging of two Lordships in a single short-lived, gutter-blooded, non-elven person was.. Well, not blasphemy or heresy, but it pressed heavily upon such concepts as expressed in the sensibilities of the Lords of Altheim.
Then came the dwarves, returning to Varr Barak, and with them the steam engine. Refined by Althiem mages, of course, but the cursed thing had taken the Navy from a coast-hugging, slow moving batch of pirate swatters and cargo haulers to a true deep-water far-reaching force. Unburdened by the direction of the wind, with ships of steel and steam, capable of hauling immense weights as fast as a horse could gallop without tiring… The Altheim Navy was in the ascendancy, Army expansion be damned, and now the Navy was getting the Royal Marriage that should have gone to the Army.
That Lord Terbor and Lady Paric had been chosen as the hosts for the royal marriage of the Crown Princess… Morlen put that down to both the rescues and in recognition of how the Trebor shipyards and Paric merchant houses were driving the expansion of Althiem. He took some solace in the fact that Trebor City, as the great bay-spanning sprawl of development was known (even though it crossed the border into Paric and swallowed up that port-capital), was home to both the second-largest Army base and the newest Mage Academy in Altheim. All branches of the Armed services would be represented at the wedding, even if the Army contingent would be the mongrel, gutter-born, and commoner-led Ironbark Regiment. Morlen had to concede that their drill and battle prowess was a close second to the Bera Regiment.
Morlen took a slow sip of his whiskey, banishing the political situation from the front of his mind. Word had gotten out that both of the other princesses would be in attendance, a rare occurrence. Princess Miara was known as a religious sort, chaste and ‘pure’. If the rumors were to be believed, she would take Holy Oaths and forsake both any hope of marriage and the crown as soon as her elder sister produced an heir. Princen Enra, on the other hand...
Morlen nodded. Princess Enra was a mage and a scholar. She could be wooed into a marriage and settled down as the wife of the future Lord Bera. It would take some doing, and all of Morlen’s considerable (in his own estimation) charm, but it could be done. And once done, it would bring royal blessings down upon Bera and the Army both. The fact that Morlen would get a beautiful and skilled wife in the bargain was just a bonus as far as he was concerned.
The doors to the outdoor courtyard swung open and the heralds struck up a royal fanfare to announce the arrival of Princess Enra and her entourage. Morlen turned to look and almost dropped his glass. Princess Enra in a suit and pants? With a human female on her arm, one muscled like a common fish-wife!? This would not do, this would not do at all. Such things just were not done! Morlen’s mind started plotting, even as the murmurs started up. Such scandal would not go unnoticed, but perhaps he could turn it to his advantage…
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Job followed Enra into the courtyard where the wedding was to be held. Most of the other guests were already there, and Enra was certainly getting a reaction. Weather or not it was the reaction she wanted, he couldn’t tell. Job could see that some of the attendees, mostly the ones in fancy tunics, were nodding in approval. The ones in suits, tophats, and wigs, all old elves, were frowning in either disapproval or repressed outrage. As he followed Enra to a guarded section of seats, Job could hear whispers from the crowd. “Unladylike.” “Indecorous.” “Improper.” A particular Whisper from Enra reached his ears.
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“You have my back?”
“Always.”
“Don’t start anything, but finish it if it does start.”
“Deck ‘em and bail?”
“My position means we can’t run, but let them run.”
“Call the dance ‘prancer’.” It was the first time Job had used Enra’s nickname. She blushed a little and stood taller, strode a little more confidently.
Enra wondered aloud, clearly not expecting an answer. “I expected Miara to be here already. Did she manage to…?”
One of the royal bodyguards cleared his throat, “Up on the rooftops Princes Enra. She mastered her Wildforms just last week, and I’m worried she won’t remember to turn back in time to dress properly.”
“Unlike me you mean.”
“Hardly! Princess Enra, between you, me, and the floorboards, some of the Lords need the sticks pulled out of their backsides.”
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Baar’miin perched on the lower branches of the great temple tree of Honua, earth goddess and patron of Druids, with her sisters and mother. By protocol, they should be with the small knot of Bahamut priests and Clerics, but they had received permission to perch up out of the way, as it was the only way that they would both be able to see and not get tripped over. Nel’viing and Bii’vrii chatted eagerly, still pleased with their new cloth clothes. Baar’miin wasn’t sure what ‘silk’ was exactly, just that it felt a lot better than ‘cotton’ or ‘wool’ cloth. Silon’dez’monah wasn’t exactly similing, but Baar’miin knew her mother too well; Silon’dez’monah was at least content and not-sad where she was. Baar’miin knew that she spent a lot of time here at the temples, often with the priestesses of Kuko, the goddess of love and the primary healers in Altheim. Baar’miin had used their healing services once or twice herself, for the priestess of Kuko were adept ad healing both physical and mental injuries.
A great number of different birds were perched in the temple tree, all twittering at each other. Baar’miin knew that many of these were druids in their wild-shapes, taking in the spectacle without getting dragged into things. One other large, flat branch was conspicuously empty, clearly reserved for important late arrivals.
One by one, four birds alighted on the branch. The first to arrive was a small, white-bellied bird with a black crown. Silon’dez’monah saw Baar’miin’s confusion and decided to share some of her knowledge.
“Night Heron. Common enough on these islands, back when I lived on the surface. Druid of the Lands, though not a powerful spellcaster.”
The Night Heron, obviously a Druid, shifted back into an elf wearing a sleeveless, tasseled leather dress, with bone armlets and a silver presence crown that was stark against her dusky olive skin. She had black and white feathers worked into her long golden hair, alongside small bone beads. The elf looked worried, clearly awaiting the arrival of other Druids.
The next bird to land was mostly grey, with black patches on the shoulders, along its wingtips, and around its eyes. Like the night heron, it was a small bird, but unlike the night heron is was clearly a hunter of land animals with sharp grasping talons. The kite changed into another elf dressed in a leather skirt and halter top, richly decorated with beads made of bone and precious stones. She clutched a gnarled wooden staff in her fist, and her hair was silver with age.
Silon’dez’monah nodded, “Black-winged kite, and a powerful Druid of the Lands.”
The third bird arrived with a piercing croaking sound. It had brown feathers that faded to lustrous golden tips, feathered taons, and a sharply hooked beak. On landing, it quickly and fluidly shifted into a young elf woman clad in cougar-skin pelts and animal teeth totems. She carried no staff, but her piercing gaze and flexing fingers spoke of claws only a quick shift away.
“Imperial eagle and Druid of the Moon. Powerful for her age too.”
The fourth and final bird had rusty-tipped white feathers, with black patterns under the wings and the skinned face and feather-hackles of a carrion-feeder. He shifted into a young male half-elf dressed in a patch-leather tunic and pants. At first glance, the patches looked random, but on closer inspection they were clearly some sort of camouflage pattern in blues and greys. He wore no ornamentation aside from a drifting haze of faintly-glowing dust that swirled around his feet, and cutched a staff of fibrous mushroom-wood in one hand.
“A white scavenger buzzard, though I’m not sure what Circle this Druid belongs to, I’ve never seen the like before. Powerful though, almost on par with the kite and the eagle.”
The kite and the eagle bristled at the arrival of the buzzard, and started to speak. The night heron stepped between the buzzard and the other two Druids, clearly taking charge before tensions boiled over.
“Venerable Arch-Druids, I do ask you to pardon both my secrecy in not informing you of the others and the abruptness of my interruption. In short, I’m pulling rank. Not as a Druid, but as Princess Miara. One, I would ask you to put aside an animosity for the duration of the wedding and the reception. Two, I would ask you, if possible, to use this opportunity to forge some sort of accord before blood is spilt. Trebor-the-city has grown large, absorbing Ikin, Colubrinus, and Paric alike. The fields around it have become vast, and yet Lord Tredbor and Lady Paric alike have taken great pains to minimise the impact of this growth upon the environment. Surly there is room enough within Trebor and the other cities for the Druids of the Spore to co-exist without impinging on the territory of any of the other Circles? Might not the Circle of the Land take responsibility for the fields and farms, and the Circle of the Moon take the wild woods, mountains, and seas?”
Baar’miin tapped her chin as she listened, “mother, what do you think of this?”
Silon’dez’monah shrugged, “territory dispute as a front for a doctrinal dispute. This ‘Circle of the Spore’ is young indeed, growing with the cities of the young races it seems. I wonder if Princess Miara would appreciate some help?”
Baar’miin bobbed her head in agreement. “I’m sure she has other duties as a relative of the bride, besides chairing a peace-meeting. That would be hard, even if the others did not all outrank their host as Druids.”
Silon’dez’monah carfuly passed her egg to Bii’vrii, “take good care of him for a moment, would you. I think It’s time I claimed back some of my surface self.”
She flexed her wings, and Baar’miin could feel an aura of age, wisdom, and power start to emanate from her mother. Both the princess and the three Arch-Druids snapped around, clearly sensing it too, and the many other birds perched in the temple tree fell silent.
“Princess Miara, I would be honored to stand in your place as moderator of this peace conference if your duties as a sister of the bride bid fair to occupy your time.”
The princess bowed deeply, “And I would be honored to accept your offer, Vahdin Dovah, provided the others are in agreement as well.”
The buzzard looked eager to accept, which made the eagle suspicious, but the kite tapper her staff on the bark of the temple tree’s branch. “We would be most honored Druid Miana. Go, fulfill your duties as a Princess of Althiem. We will hold our peace and find common ground this day with the Vahdin Dovah’s aid. In exchange, I would ask that you return to us between both wedding and reception, and after the reception, to act as the Royal representative to any accord we might reach.”
Princess Miara nodded her head in agreement, then shifted into her Night Heron form and spiraled down to join the wedding proper.