As much fun as heckling Geyrt proved to be, their mirth was short lived. Bald'rt had not come to harass his daughter, or, at least, that hadn't been the motivating factor, but when a target of opportunity arose, he gladly joined in the games. Soon enough though he took up the thread of their prior discussion, which meant either he had very good hearing or he was picking up information from the ever diligent Duties as they went about their business. Servants of the house spying for their master was a tale as old as time so Ulric made a mental note to consider words spoken before them to be as delivered to Bald'rt's own person.
Releasing his wanton daughter's lengthy ear, Bald'rt broached the reason for his early rise.
"Gladdened am I that you are so considerate of my position at court and amongst the confederations of Orlethrem, Glade Chief, but you need not worry on my account." The eerily pretty man proclaimed.
"My position is secure, both at home and abroad, and, in any case, there are none among my kin that would have the strength to dethrone me that I have not already made ally. Or wife. Or both, when they decide to stop circling above my head the way a [Sky King] circles a crippled calf and join me in affairs of state. I confess that I might hinder my own cause in this by keeping their feathers somewhat ruffled but what is life without the games that make it enjoyable, eh?" Bald'rt grinned roguishly.
A few light nudges with his elbow on Ulric's arm suggested that he should know of what Bald'rt spoke but Ulric had decided long ago that those three women were not worth the risks of death to rib. A cat didn't have enough lives and not everyone could survive getting punched by the monstrous strength of Bathe. He didn't even want to think about how Shor set about getting even, the return stroke was probably years in the making and sharper for its delay.
Ulric chose to avoid putting his feet in his mouth where anyone could get word back to the great ladies and instead pushed on to more comfortable topics, such as mortal peril and Elf politics.
"I'm glad the Festivities and your affairs weren't overly affected Bald'rt. Brighteyes was just telling me some details about the pompous jackass weed I had to pull yesterday. It would appear that I've probably made an enemy of a somewhat higher caliber than the [Heckler monkeys] and some bandit thugs. That guy you cooled down looked like the type to hold a grudge, anything I should be looking for in the near future?" Ulric inquired.
The deep wood king's eyes briefly scanned the room as he considered before returning to Ulric.
"In the short term, he will probably not move." Bald'rt concluded.
"The duel was appropriate, was clearly instigated by his son, who left no uncertainty as to his ill-advised intent, and was executed with sufficient finality as to leave your own status unquestionable. Any retaliation now would be a strike against my Guestright, and thus at Iriel'en custom. I could not, and would not allow this to go unprotested and Sav'ris Morion would not survive long my displeasure." Said the Elf with eyes that spoke a ferocity underlined by his calm tone.
"However." the [Lord of the Deep Wood] continued "You should, in the future, look upon Zelussin, the river folk, with whom you are not familiar with deep suspicion. Especially in their territory. Lord Morion has great sway in those lands, as does he in Prespang, where coin speaks more loudly than reason much of the time.”
As if an afterthought, tone dismissive and apologetic, as if he was sorry to be wasting anyone’s time with trivialities he informed Ulric, “It is likely he will at least send mercenaries to even the score when you leave my protection. For any opportunity that arises where he may make your life uncomfortable, such as partaking in trade or travel along the Zelus. The grieving scorpion will no doubt already be making arrangements."
Ulric groaned loudly and suppressed a string of profanity, including curses on all pointy eared folk. Sonofabitch! What else was he supposed to do, just let fancy pants the recently departed, steal the glade out from under him and banish him to the wilds like some kind of vagrant criminal? Fucking Elves. Now he had some river dick maybe siccing, what, thugs, assassins, or some shit after him? His near pained grimace spoke volumes. It was all he could do not to spit on the floor. As much as he wanted to find a nice place to curl up and hide away, that was no longer an option, he was being drug into Matters of Court. More information. That’s what he needed.
"So, all that about me stealing Elven heritage and stuff, was that just his excuse to try to goad me or is that a viewpoint common enough that I need to be on guard?" Ulric asked.
Geyrt answered this, beating Brighteyes and her Father to the punch.
"That sort of view is a heavy minority Glade Chief, and goes against Father's proclamation of your status as Lord. If the All-knowledge has certified your station, then the world itself has acknowledged your claim. The Plateau is yours by right and what you do with its bounty is your decision, which none can gainsay. To attempt to do so would be tantamount to war, which Morion knew. If he had tried such a thing with, say, a prince of the sea-folk, the Aktinia, they would have loaded their ships with as many warriors as they could muster. Then they would have sailed up the Zelus to peel his skin and sew it into their sails." His Shadow said gravely.
Brighteyes nodded his agreement and Bald'rt sealed the deal, saying
"This is so. That you are a nation of one, and that the Lordling was a spoiled fool, was the only reason he thought he might get away with it. If he could kill you, he could make a claim to your holdings, your title. His greed blinded him to common wisdom."
Brighteyes chimed in then his calm voice turning to anger "He would also have taken Eldest Sister to be his own Shadow. The coward would not face her himself, not where she could take up arms against him again. It was his piggish advances that got him near to slain last time he put his hands where they did not belong."
Both Father and Daughter's evil expressions at the reminder softened to sinister smirks, near mirrors in their satisfaction of the memory. Still creepy, the resemblance.
Bald'rt clapped his hands loudly as if closing the book on the memory of the loathsome Lordling.
"Done is done, Ulric. We will leave the dead where they belong and look forwards. I will say in closing that it gave me no small joy to see Savris’ mewling get receive his reward. Festival places certain obligations of hospitality on the host, and that [Plagueblood Vermin] knew it. Shadow or no, my daughter deserves to have her dignity. Thank you, [Lord of the Ancient Glade], you have again earned my gratitude on behalf of my offspring." Thanked the normally light hearted Elf with sincerity, even ending with a short bow.
It was both a little strange, to be thanked for murder, and sort of nice, like someone appreciating your craftsmanship. This Varda place did weird shit to his Earth tuned notions of civilization and standards for behavior. When in Rome, Ulric reminded himself.
"No problem, Lord Bald'rt. It was, very literally, my pleasure. The only people who get to make Geyrt uncomfortable are you, Brighteyes, her mom's because who's going to say otherwise? And me." He finished.
Geyrt frowned at that but didn't actually object. It was, after all, a statement of fact.
"Glade Chief am I going to need to remind you to remain civil? I can think of a hundred ways to make your life unbearable without violating the bonds of my position." She advised him.
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"Just like her mother." Bald'rt sighed.
"Listen to her on this Ulric. Never had I known how many types of scowl could exist or how long a woman could nurse a grudge for any slight as Vedyr. I loved her on first sight and we courted with fervor, but it was long years before I learned to live with her in peace." the Elf said sagely.
"Father, you have been banished to sleep in the guest quarters more years of my life than not." Brighteyes countered.
"So, you see, Ulric, I would know." Spoke the Lord of Iriel solemnly.
They ignored Geyrt's obvious peeve and discussed more pleasant topics before a runner brought news of some matters that required Bald'rt's attentions. He begged off, but not before securing from Ulric a commitment to attend dinner in the near future. Off in a flash, the room seemed substantially less full for the absence of a single man.
Brighteyes chatted for a few minutes and then reminded Ulric that the normal business of Irielhos was resumed and that he had to go attend his lessons or face his Mother's ire. That meant that Ulric's own lessons were approaching and he was still standing in his rumpled attire from the party. Thus spurred, they said their goodbyes and parted to begin the rigors of improvement.
"Let's head back for a quick bath and a change and see what Magister Gother has in store eh?" Ulric prompted.
Geyrt examined her braid, which had become slightly less ordered with some dissatisfaction, and agreed readily. On the way, she flagged a Duty and requested a set of casual clothes for Ulric, which consideration caught him off guard. Her casual attitude felt a little forced but she merely told him "Your honor is my own." as if such things were expected when he thanked her. Maybe she wasn’t used to being thanked. Or being considerate enough to be thanked for it. Eh. Whatever.
The baths were jammed full of bodies this morning. The pair of them actually had to wait in line to change in the entry room. Its rows of lovingly carved and immaculately fitted drawers were more full than not, packed with the belongings of bathers. With a little work, they managed to find a spot to scrub and soak in the massive place and they were soon settled into a cubby in this palace of heated water. Ulric was going to have to have one of these baths installed in the glade. He couldn't go without any longer, not now that he'd been shown heaven.
Nearby bathers had taken notice of the pair when they'd entered but none volunteered to break from their circles to engage outside of some friendly and some appreciative gazes. Mostly towards his Shadow, of course, who remained a particularly fine jewel in the treasury that was the Elf form. At least to Ulric's eyes.
It was very possible that there were drastically different standards for beauty between Elves and Humans, though Ulric doubted this very much. Too many overlaps had he experienced between Hal'et's tastes and his own. Ulric was greatly appreciative of the fact that there was no hard rule that said Elves had to at least mostly share the same sexual and emotional features of attractiveness as those with which he was accustomed. They could have all been natural foot fetishists. They could have all found that the greatest mark of attractiveness was a gap-toothed smile and back hair. They didn't, but they could have, and Ulric was grateful for more conventional standards of beauty. The Young Miss Iriel was pushing full marks for all of them.
Speaking of the physical wonder that was Geyrt Iriel, she was re-braiding her hair. It was the first time she'd let it loose that he had seen and the midnight waves, so dark they nearly shimmered blue were an impressive sight. Efficiently she went about using a comb to remove kinks, and stray hairs, and then put it back to order with deft fingers. The maze of winding fingers made that woven braid, with its ribbon of green silk intermeshed, a work of art. His fascination with the process was complete. And entirely above boards, thank you very much, his stupid monkey brain was starting to accommodate with Elven casualness regarding nudity.
Looking around the heat-misted wash of bodies in the baths Ulric, if pressed, couldn't have thought of a better place than Orlethrem to harden oneself, *cough*, psychologically that is, against sheer attractiveness. I am vaccinated against improbable beauty by ruthless exposure, Ulric thought sardonically. It reminded him that last night's Festival had included a series of dances that made a few of the racier salsas look mild. That they were carried out with the grace of decades unto centuries of practice made them all the more enchanting.
Ulric had been tempted to cover Brighteyes' peepers as such things could taint young minds with their suggestions. The young elf's running commentary regarding the histories of the dances and their geographical variations between clans had been too interesting, however, so he'd been forced to allow the boy to risk being corrupted. Ulric had even turned down a couple of invites pleading incurable clumsiness that his prospective partners had merely smiled off before finding another no doubt more capable dancer. He'd never been able to dance and it made his back itch to think of trying some of the subtle steps, hops, or gestures that so occupied many of the partygoers. It had been a blast to watch though. Made a Russian ballet troop look like amateur night at a trucker bar.
Musing about the fae night before putting Ulric into a fugue. It had been nice to listen to Bald'rt's kid spout random facts about Orlethrem cultures, histories, some geopolitics, and absolute trivia regarding some of the guests. The boy made sure to barb his sister about this would be suiter or that and she would return fire with commentary about sending a guide with him to go to Festival nights in the future to keep him from getting lost in the Woods or mauled up by [Root Badgers] or some such. Each dry observation was laced with just enough truth to sting but not enough to constitute an overly hurtful insult. Their prodding demonstrated years of practice razzing one another and familial warmth that had reminded him of his own family which he'd had to divert himself from quickly or sour the evening with bittersweet thoughts on what was now lost.
Music with varied and interesting measures, free-form beats, melodies that ranged across scales, and bounced between octaves hauntingly, was background to the entire thing. All in all, Festival, after the initial unpleasantness, had been the greatest party Ulric could ever remember attending. Ten out of ten, would do again. Probably sans deathmatches though.
All too soon Geyrt prodded him out of the warrens of his own mind. They had business to attend to and something of a walk to get to the creepy old Academy.
With the silent efficiency that was typical of them, the Duties had replaced Ulric's lived-in blacks with a set of fresh clothes that reminded Ulric of well-tailored jogging clothes. Loose but fitted and of a much denser fabric that Ulric would soon think of as [Uberwool]. He didn't know what plant or animal created such fibers but they shed water like neoprene and were about as warm as flannel. Part of him longed for a microscope to examine the fiber compositions and some solubility tests to determine their chemical treatments. No way did an animal just grow this stuff. Or, maybe, it did he told himself. Magic was a thing. Magical Ubersheep might be out there grazing on a hill somewhere that would provide the stuff. Hell of a thing to be able to trade.
Geyrt, for her part, was wearing a new get-up. It was a little less Legolas, and a lot more Japanese Shrine Maiden. She wore what looked like a series of robes that were designed to overlap. The end result was a more delicate, more refined appearance for his Shadow. The starched stiff, thick Uberwool outer robe was heavy with the greens and browns and vibrant, if minimal, gold accents but the thinner silk under robe was pure white. The flowing cloth was gathered into leg wraps that started at the knee and went all the way down to the feet, which were covered by thick socks. Those thigh boots, of which Ulric was the biggest fan, had been traded for a set of sandals that strapped across the feet and around the ankle. All in all, a good look, Ulric was on board.
When he commented on it, Geyrt said it was a traditional attire for winter wear when you had no plans to go into the deep wood. When he'd asked why he hadn't seen anyone else wearing it she'd said, a little defensively, that many of the warriors and visiting Houses had different traditional garb and that they were going to be late if he kept wasting his air asking about her clothes. So, maybe she wasn't used to being in, quote-unquote, civilian clothes. Just another layer to add to the mysterious onion that was his Shadow.
Certainly, the new garb did nothing to slow her down, she seemed hell-bent on power walking all the way to the lift and even Ulric's long legs had to work to match her pace. As it turned out, the haste was necessary, they only had a minute to spare between arrival at the dim cloisters of Elven scholarship and the entrance of Instructor Gother, purveyor of dry attitudes and even drier knowledge.
There were a similar number of students as last time, seated in the same positions as the last session as well, although nothing suggested assigned seating. More like, with Gother, you just kind of found a place to settle in as best you could and let the current of his voice wash over you.
On this occasion, he picked right up where he'd left off. Bark harvesting. Oh! Wait! In a new twist, Gother was now discussing the various methods of processing this bark. The particular tree, which Ulric found out was the large branching evergreen he'd seen co-dominating the landscape as he and Brighteyes had hiked in, was called [Azure Cedar]. Or, at least, that's what it translated to in his brain. He couldn't dwell on the speciation or naming parallels that were surely being constructed in his brain. Synthesized by the Akashic language mystical nonsense these people just took for granted because Instructor Gother was on a roll.
[Azure Cedar Bark] was processed to make a host of goods or materials. It could be removed in sections from the trunk of the tree without harming the tree and would regenerate after a few years, thus the [Azure Cedar] made up a renewable resource and was grown in large commercial groves in the northern reaches of Iriel. One such product involved scraping the bark. A sharp blade could be used to raise long fibers which could then be braided into durable twine. Peeled, aged, and dried, the bark could be hardened into tough platelike sheets which were cut into the tiles he'd seen on structures in the sprawling metropolis below Irielhos. Soaked in alkaline waters the bark leeched a substance that could be rendered into pitch which was highly flammable but also waterproof. Burning the bark in a confined container produced a charcoal that, when mixed with various other herbs, could treat infections or reduce the effects of certain poisons. On and on and fucking on did Gother go about this godsdamned bark. Unlike the previous day, there was no looming Winter's Herald to save him. This lecture was a full three hours long. Three. Hours. Of. Bark.
Ulric was going to have dreams about it. Woody, piney, evergreen dreams.
At least, the rain of facts did cement in Ulric's mind that the Elves of Orlethrem did not live in total isolation. There were many mentioned sundries for trade and where they were most heavily profitable in Gother's Saharan discourse on the topic. The tree only grew in Iriel so its trade constituted a major source of income for the more insular tribe of Orlethrem, both between other clans of the confederacy and the lands of the Otherkin, as the Elves called them.
The tiles, in particular, were of high value since they did not shrink with age and, couple with their pitch derivative, would create water-sealed roofing for potentially centuries. There was, in this world of minimal technology, almost no better solution to creating a durable, lasting roof, that didn't involve heavy stone. These facts seemed near random but began to build a picture of the world around him. A bark-based picture, at the moment, but a picture.
It wasn't that Ulric wasn't interested in the topic of bark and bark accessories, it was that Gother somehow managed to make super trees the single most boring thing in the entire universe. He was committed to remaining attentive, however. If the information presented here was thought to be important enough to deliver to the children of the remaining Lesser and Greater Houses that remained in Irielhos then it must be worth knowing for Ulric. He gritted his teeth and committed the lecture to memory. At last, at long, long last, Gother freed his victims from his monotone test of endurance. Ulric fled immediately.