1 Soul Bound
1.2 Taking Control
1.2.3 An Enchanting Original
1.2.3.12 Gwenifer, queen of shangri-la
It started with the streamer, Friawell, standing in a tent, looking at a mirror and introducing himself. His avatar was Iberian: bald except for a short trimmed beard, dark skinned, quite tall and with well defined arm muscles poking out from hand-tailored priestly robes of a lustrous purple so dark it was nearly black. The outline of an iris, in gold thread, showed on one shoulder, and matched the gold ring in his ear.
Friawell: “The deities have called upon the Guild of Nevermere for aid. Can you blame them?”
He posed for the audience, hand on hip, then flashed a dazzling smile at the mirror before exiting the tent. Friawell knew how good looking he was, and felt happy about it.
Friawell: “They called upon us so mightily that our very spirits were moved. Over the last two days we have collected in this wood west of fair Mezelay, city of bells, and now is the time we reveal ourselves.”
Scattered among the trees were tents and fires, as far as Kafana could see. Workshops had been set up and players were hurriedly putting the last touches on their costumes, under the supervising eye of a towering figure in a shapeless grey robe who used a long staff to stride between crafting benches and point things out, occasionally adding a small correction using a hammer or other tool he produced with an off-hand flourish. His hood was up, and the only part of his face Kafana could see was a flowing white beard and the tip of a large ruddy nose.
Alderney shifted the playback to high speed, zooming past multiple speeches, groups splitting off, a cavalcade forming up behind a wide shouldered warrior in a bear-skin cloak and progressing past the city walls and through the crowded streets. Kafana wanted to slow down to see more details as Friawell watched a confrontation between the warrior and a group of severe looking officials outside a monastery, but Alderney kept her finger firmly on the timeline slider until the group crossed a bridge and arrived at a palace sitting on an isle in the middle of a wide snaking river.
The speed slowed, as a lady clad in flowing green samite dismounted from the sole horse in the cavalcade, a roan palfrey; nobles assembled by an advanced party came out to pay obeisance to her, and she swept through the place gates, accompanied by the warrior and a host of guards and ladies in waiting.
Alderney paused it a little later, as the group negotiated their way past the final few obstacles and were shown into an audience chamber.
Alderney: “Yay, we’ve found the nobles. Let’s dive in here and see the fashions!”
Kafana said, a little grumpily: “You mind if we at least listen to the plot? I’ve not seen Mezelay before, or really anywhere outside Torello. Haven’t had the time.”
Alderney patted her hands forwards, laughing: “Ok, ok, I might just be a little hyper-focused right now. Forgive?”
Kafana: “Sure. Let’s dive in.”
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Friawell watched approvingly as Lady Gwenifer disrupted the palace’s normal rhythm by having her own band of trumpeters proceed her, sounding a long fanfare that drowned out the normal herald and halted all conversations among the nobles who’d been standing around, concentrating more upon their idle gossip than upon the arrival of the questing spirits.
Artri, in his bearskin and golden circlet strode to the precise center of the hall. Damn, but that man had presence. Friawell had seen better warriors, if not many, and even a few more solid and unyielding, but there was just something about the confidence with which Artri did things that yelled “This man has more majesty in his little finger than a pile of crowns the size of an elephant.”
Artri: “I am not of this world. From Morob in the sky above I have been sent to you, by the direct hand of Cov himself. Let none doubt this! Change is coming, and as Cov loves you it will be change for the better.” He paused a moment to let that sink in.
Artri: “But today, by Cov’s grace, I am here in the role not of a warrior but of a herald, in as much as it is my great privilege to make known to you all another Questing Spirit who has answered that call; one whose nobility and honour are equalled only by her courage and beauty; one of ancient and respected lineage who with nobility ruled vast lands on Morob; one who gave up all that wealth and position because the deities said great danger was coming to Covob, and she could not in honour stand by in safety while innocents in the Burgundish Benevolence were in peril; one who had the courage to take a step into the unknown, uncertain of her welcome, yet bringing thousands of stout-hearted followers with her, in order to answer that call; one whose beauty stands before you now.”
Alderney: {Hot damn. I should show this to Bulgaria, tell him to up his game.}
Kafana: {Don’t you dare!}
Friawell turned and looked at the woman who’d ridden on the palfrey, as did all the other attendants in a single coordinated movement. Kafana couldn’t imagine how many soul bound item slots had been allocated by Nevermere just to making the woman and those surrounding her look impressive for this occasion, that could have been used to preserve high level skills or legendary items. Nevermere took their roleplaying seriously. Gwenifer was their leader, and they’d gone all out to make her look like one.
Artri: “I speak of none other than the Queen of Shangri-La and dependent territories, direct descendant of the Jade Emperor, wielder of the harp Uaithne, Wise Counsellor and Friend of Dragons, the Thrice Victorious, Gwenifer.”
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Friawell sighed at the tone of forlorn desire and admiration in Artri’s last word, then sub-vocalised his thoughts for the benefit of those watching his livestream. Artri might be Gwenifer’s loyal second in command, but she would never quite commit to him. Not when stringing along others was so useful to her. He switched his attention to the nobles, while the trumpeters played a second fanfare and the group processed slowly down the center of the hall towards the gilt wooden throne.
There seemed to be two distinct groups of nobles in the hall. Near the throne the men wore either the robes of various orders of priests or functional brown leather armour suitable for fencing or riding. There were also female priests and guards, though fewer, but most of the noble women in that section wore outfits whose fashion called for a very clear angular silhouette, with a corset-like bodice laced firmly closed right up to a high neckline, which was further protected by a wire-supported extension of the dress’ collar that rose to frame the head.
Further from the throne, and fewer in number (but making up for it in attitude) the men in the second group wore rich fabrics and wide-brimmed hats with hunting trophies on, such as teeth or small bones. Those with bows had the brim on one side turned up so the bow wouldn’t knock it off their head, and their trophy of choice seemed to be the feather from some monstrous bird with fluffy plumage.
The women in the second group had U-shaped necklines whose décolletage included not just a wide area around the neck but also, in many cases, a precariously large amount of the tops of their breasts. Kafana could feel Friawell’s approval. The bodices were loosely laced, and the skirts were split, revealing the layers beneath. One woman had some sort of jewelled leather garment on, under her bodice, but in general the lines were softer and the transitions between garments more nuanced. The women too had hats and, not to be out-done by their men, if anything the brims and feathers were even larger.
The group was approaching the throne now, and Friawell turned his attention to the woman sitting upon it.
The princess was 175cm tall, muscular, in her 40s and obviously battle-hardened, wearing a sword and armour with the air of a soldier, though they were of finer craftsmanship than those worn by her men. Her light brunette hair was flyaway but not too long to be tucked under a helm, though she currently wore a small crown. She had a broad chin, good cheekbones, plenty of laughter lines around her mouth and very direct eyes. Right now she wasn’t smiling.
The pair of heavily armoured guards behind the throne put their hands on the hilts of their swords as the armed party approached, but the tension was broken by a small figure, scarcely 50cm tall, who rushed out to stand between the princess and the pair now leading the procession, Artri and Gwenifer. The figure wore parti-coloured hose, a tunic with a belled ass’ tail attached, and a parti-coloured cap with ass’ ears. He gave a florid bow, which turned into a somersault, then stood in a pose arms wide, mimicking Artri’s wall-like presence.
Jeffrey-Jean: I, the great Jeffrey-Jean Jarvis himself, fell from above! I tell you I did, you all saw it. It bodes well. It bodes well for foreboding itself! It is my huge, nay massive, nay gigantic, nay orgasmic pleasure to address the greatest beauty in all the lands, in all of history, in all of Pigalle.”
Here Jeffrey-Jean waggled his hips suggestively, to make clear which part of his body he considered to be “huge”.
Jeffrey-Jean: “The Princess-Bishop Liselle Deuxville, first sword of the Hierophant and secular ruler of this city and surrounding regions. Princess, I make known to you a pair of self-announced visitors, one of whom goes by the name of Gwenifer and whom some style a queen.”
Jeffrey-Jean made a show of gasping, as though he’d been speaking in a single breath, falling over backwards, then cartwheeling away. The gathered nobles chortled and went back to gossiping. Gwenifer, realising Nevermere had miscalculated their approach, switched tactics without blinking; she clapped her hands together in apparent delight.
Gwenifer: “Oh! You are a talented mimic, Sir Jeffrey-Jean! I much preferred your introduction. It had the merit of being short. And you quite rightly pointed out that all you have from us so far are words. No matter my rank on Morob, I gave it up when I departed and before any of us deserve to have their nobility acknowledged here, they must earn it here.”
She turned her head back towards Deuxville, catching a fleeting smile on the Princess’ face before it became impassive again. Friawell, watching from the side, thought the Princess seemed distracted by something.
Deuxville: “Indeed you must. Welcome to Mezelay, questing spirits. Thank you for your courtesy visit, to make yourselves known to me. Please do pay your tithes on time at the Yard of Poppies and familiarise yourselves with the strictures of the Violets. Was there anything else?”
Gwenifer persisted: “Indeed. Two things. First, the lesser of the two, a gift to remember us by, worthy I hope of this meeting.”
Two attendants brought forward a sword on a blue velvet cushion and laid it before the throne. The sword had a golden hilt and quillons, shaped like an elongated fleur-de-lis, with a large asscher cut ruby embedded in the pommel like a drop of blood.
Gwenifer: “This is Durandal, forged long ago by Wayland the Smith. Legend says it will never break or even lose its edge, for as long as the one who wields it stays firm in her convictions. No sword is sharper.”
Deuxville stepped lightly down from the throne, her eyes alight for the first time. She grasped Durandal and gave it an appraising swing, then rested its tip against her throne and motioned forwards a plate armoured guard bearing a heavy two-handed war axe. He took a massive swing, landing a blow in the very middle of the blade with a sound that echoed off the audience hall’s stone walls despite their tapestries. Deuxville didn’t flinch and took a monogrammed silk handkerchief and dropped it, fluttering, to land upon the upturned blade.
The handkerchief continued to fall, now neatly split in two.
The background chatter stopped abruptly, and Deuxville turned back to face Gwenifer, truly paying attention to her now, for the first time.
Deuxville: “Your word is good, as is your gift.”
Friawell received a message from System, which he apparently envisaged as a town crier for it said: [Oyez, Oyez. The guild Nevermere has gained +50 reputation with Princess Deuxville of Mezelay. Oyez.]
Gwenifer: “If it reminds you that Nevermere exists from time I shall be content, for the second greater matter is that we swear our loyalty to the Hierophant and, as you too are loyal to him, I wish to know if there are any matters of honour in which we can render you a service. Test us; you will not find us wanting.”
Her voice brimmed with sincerity, her stance mirrored that of Deuxville. Deuxville considered a moment, then gave a decisive nod.
Deuxville: “Test you I shall. But not here. Return at the fourth hour of Terce, and we shall meet in the Chamber of State where we shall talk of the Crystal Basilica, Archduke-Cardinal Plessis who nests there like a spider, and the rumours that are being spread concerning a certain necklace.”
[Oyez, Oyez. The guild Nevermere has received the chain quest: The Affair of the Diamond Necklace, part 1: To Serve A Princess. Oyez.]