Open Chronicles Amaranthine Apotheosis - Festival of Gods

[Gerra]

Truly, the Djinn of Rhaqoum had outdone himself. Already, the festival of gods had been raging for an entire week in Annuakat. Lush colors paraded through the streets in utter debauchery surrounding the temples of the gods. But... what was this? There were six temples to the gods of the Annunaki, but Ratomen counted seven. He rubbed his eyes and looked between his drink and the newly unveiled seventh temple. Just how much had he been drinking?

Ah, here was the Archlector Snaaib come to address the gathered crowd in the street. Surely he would explain the mystery.

"Greetings, humble worshippers of the gods."

The drunken shouting came to a stop as all listened to the white robed priest of the Annunaki.

"Today is a splendid day, marking the completion of a new temple as Annuk and his brothers and sisters welcome another into the ranks of the Hundreds."

Murmuring in the crowd.

"Yes, my children. The Annunaki have seen fit to elevate the Sultan of Annuakat, Djinn of Rhaqoum, Shah of Ragash, Emperor of Amol-Kalit to his rightful place."

Beside Snaaib on the erected scaffold, a sudden pillar of flame erupted into being. From the center of the flame strode forth Gerra, stripped to the waist and clad in nothing but a white shendyt. At eight feet in height, he towered over all others gathered. Given the white robed lector-priests surrounding him, it was not hard for Ratomen to envision him a god.

"Behold, Hasuras na-Gerra," continued Snaaib, "God of fire."

Exhilaration flooded Ratomen. Strange, since he hadn't been feeling that exhilirated just a moment ago. Tired, maybe, from a week's worth of drinking and dancing. But now he felt as if he might drink and dance for another week. Another three! Wow. Thrilling. Inspiring. Uplifting. Was this the power of Gerra? It must be. Look at all the foreign royalty among the crowd. The scene at the palace ziggurat and its gardened steps was going to be pure debauchery. He just knew it.

The formerly anxious crowd roared their approval. Some might say a little too suddenly.

Later that night, Ratomen's prediction proved correct. Nobility from every part of Liadain came to Annuakat to celebrate this new "God-Emperor" of Amol-Kalit. Keeping the many names he called himself straight was a hassle, there were about five or six in all, but Hasuras na-Gerra? That worked well enough.

The gardens on the steps of the palace ziggurat were lit up with a thousand braziers as every leveled terrace played host to some new scene of extravagant partying.

 

[Halul]

Uvogin, arms folded behind his back, peered through the narrow eye sockets of his forged mask. To his side lay the Emperor? King of Kings? God-Emperor? It seemed that every cycle of the moons added a new title to the abundance that Gerra already possessed.

The Djinn looked quite comfortable atop his mound of pillows. Even laying there, Gerra's head was above the mercenary's knees. None were ever more physically stunning. After breathing in from the hookah pipe, the God-Emperor would exhale billowing clouds much larger than any man could muster.

Uvogin and his perpetually frowning mask accompanied Gerra during the entire week of festivities, and the newest Talon of the Order of the Bronze Claw had done his job with exceptional attentiveness. His service to Gerra during the Djinn's inaugural ceremony in Ragash earned him many boons and his new station within the Bronze Claw.

The Ring of Kha hummed with power under the mercenary's gloved hand. A sword, newly forged through magical means following the battle in Ragash hung at his waist. Both being graces granted by Gerra himself to the mercenary.

Maintaining vigilance and his characteristic silence, Uvogin surveyed the hall. Many notables mingled. Many of Gerra's close allies were present.

 

[Xaviera]

"Is this as fast as you people can go?" the harsh, breathless demand of the sexagenarian woman barked out from within the heavy brocade curtains shielding the litter from the outside world. The men carrying the litter didn't respond, having enough experience of the woman to know that the question was rhetorical. "My fucking grandmother could go faster than this and she's been dead for thirty years."

The men outside heard a muted response from within, but couldn't make out the words, shielded as they were by the heavy curtains. Inside, the old woman got the message when Xaviera said: "Please, Nani," she said softly, relying on her inherent authority and her grandmother's respect for her position to convince her to comply. "We are guests here. Don't make a fuss. And besides, we aren't very late."

"We missed the unveiling," said Jaliah, her voice lower but no less venomous. "They could see it as an insult if they wanted to."

"Do they have reason to want to?" Xaviera asked, rolling onto her back so she could look up at the makeshift ceiling of the litter. Her elbow was sore from leaning on it, the swaying of the litter causing a bit of a chafe. The older woman didn't respond other than a low growl. "Besides, I doubt they even noticed. Do you know how many people are in the city? There are landowners more important than us." She paused and smirked, huffing a self-deprecating chuckle through her nose. "There are probably shopkeepers more important than us."

"With that attitude, who can blame them for thinking so?"

"Nani," Xaviera said, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her slightly long, straight nose. "I am not a pessimist, only a pragmatist -- "

"Same damned thing," Jaliah grumbled.

Xaviera continued as if she had not been interrupted. " -- and it is better to be under-promise and over-deliver. That's what Papa used to say."

"That's what his Papa used to say, too," the older woman said after a momentary pause. A moment later, Xaviera felt her grandmother's warm, wrinkled hand take hers. "I'm sorry. You know how nervous I get when I'm about to be in the presence of a god." The laughter in her voice was palpable and infectious; Xaviera felt it in her gut, too, and soon she was giggling into the crook of her arm. The moment was too short-lived; soon the pace slowed and then the movement stopped.

They had arrived.

Xaviera and Jaliah emerged from the litter at the base of the massive ziggurat, and the women took some time to adjust their garments as they tried not to look awed by the structure. Jaliah wore a black, cloaked dress -- modest for an older woman, with long, loose sleeves and trimmed in gold -- and minimal jewelry. Xaviera, on the other hand, wore a sleeveless dress of deepest violet, so dark as to be almost black but the color was apparent in the flickering firelight. Her dark hair was braided and looped in two loose loops at the base of her neck. Like her grandmother, she wore a loose veil over her head, a signifier of her mourning status. She wore a silver necklace and set of bracers, as well as an amethyst brooch pinning her veil at the center of her decolletage.

A pair of servants followed the women up the stairs with a chest containing a humble tribute of various purple dyes, gold trim for edging garments, and a collection of multicolored, fragrant ralakoshi, a local Tyrian confectionary and delicacy. The gifts had been suggested by one of her advisors, who had said it would be appropriate as a gift for this King-Emperor-turned god for the honor of being invited to the festivities. Whether it would be an honor or not was yet to be seen, Xaviera thought, but a token of esteem would certainly not go amiss when dealing with a powerful neighbor.

"Shall we?" Xaviera asked and, without a second glance back at her entourage, linked arms with her grandmother and began to ascend the ziggurat, trying not to look too impressed by the grandeur surrounding her, or too abashed of the decadence going on along their way up.

 

[Selene Avar]

"Godhood" was a bit much.

Vel Anir had never quite taken to religion. Old God's as ancient as those found in the desert were still worshiped in some small villages, but the Great Fortress City itself had long ago abandoned any concept of faith. Anirian believed in the King, the Houses, and most importantly themselves.

Society was strict, tightly controlled, but no station stood so high that it could never be reached. Religion had no place in a society like that. There were no gods deciding your destiny, no amount of faith would save you. Such things were left only to you.

Still, Selene could appreciate the intent of all of this.

There was power in ceremony. Strength in belief. The Dreadlords understood that themselves. Half of what they were was due to perception. People feared and respected her because of the things she had done, but also because of their belief in what she could do. She supposed it was much the same for Gerra and his ilk.

His people were less likely to rise up if they deemed him a God. The Half-giant had the power to assume the position, the backing of his priests. It was his right to claim the title of he so wished.

Still, it was a poor God that could be undone by a stream.

The thought brought a smile to Selene's face, a small hint of amusement as she swirled the wine in her glass and gently sniffed its aroma. Among the crowd of visiting dignitaries she could see other Anirians, Nobles and even Dreadlords who had come to learn of this new Empire in the sands.

She watched them more closely than the others, perhaps simply out of habit.

Taking a small sip of her wine the Dreadlord shifted, her gaze continuing to filter around the room.

 

[Gerra]

A cloud of hashish smoke issued from Gerra's nostrils. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of floating for a moment, then set the pipe down and got to his feet.

The murmur of chattering nobles filled the gardens, as did the pipes and drums of the musicians. Gerra strode over to his personal guard.

"Uvogin," he rumbled, reaching out and resting a hand on the Talon's shoulder.

"I must thank you again for your service in Ragash. And at Ninagal. I trust you find your new equipment to your liking?"

It had taken no small expense to acquire and forge them.

 

[Halul]

The Talon’s eyes eventually fell on the scarlet-haired battlemage. He could not forget her magic that had pushed the battle drastically in their favor. His gaze shifted to those of her ilk, and he studied them for a moment. Uvogin was aware of the exploits and reputation of the so-called Dreadlords of Vel Anir. Their presence made him uneasy.

Heavy footfalls distracted him from the battlemages. Even heavier was the large hand that rested on his shoulder.

“Your Holiness,” He returned Gerra’s greeting.

“Never have I been in possession of such great boons,” He respectfully lowered his head in a curt bow, “You bestow undeserved honor onto me. For that, I am grateful.”

 

[Ashuanar]

Ashuanar watched the exchange between Gerra and Uvogin. He stood a few meters away from them, amongst a few other Abtati warriors who had served the Sarmatsa even before he had - though only by chance. Had he been on the other end of the desert he'd have been at Ninagal, but it was not so. And perhaps, all the better.

Instead, he was present for the King of Kings coronation, which was interrupted by an unsavoury lot. Though he ultimately failed, in honour of the newly proclaimed god-king he had tasked himself with slaying the invading dragon. But, he survived. Barely.

Had it not been for the benevolence of Gerra in having his healers mend Ashuanar's broken body, he would likely be some servant of the Eternum now.

The thought made him scowl, but that was wiped away soon. Eyes cast out into the masses which gathered in joyous fellowship - ignorant of all else for a time. Out in the deserts where you never stayed in one place for very long, he had never seen such a sight.

A half smile crept across his lips. He could feel it in his heart, and he knew.

Things were going to be very different for the Abtati. Things were going to be very different for everyone.

 

[Xaviera]

By the time the Queen of Tyria had made it to the summit of the ziggurat, her grandmother was somewhat winded by the journey and leaning heavily on her walking stick. Xaviera regretted this fact - a little - but it wouldn't have presented the right image for the Queen of Tyria to be stopping every few meters on the journey up the ziggurat. It would imply weakness, somehow, or softness. Xaviera had no intention of communicating either to the newly-minted god. She didn't know if she believed in his deity; she approached religion the way she approached raising orchids - a tribute to her mother and a pleasant enough way to pass the time, but not something she had a true passion for. And that was for the traditional pantheon.

This newly made god?

She tried not to look skeptical.

Xaviera was surprised to find that there was no queue to meet the ruler. She had been expecting to wait for hours. Perhaps she had slipped past security, somehow? She half-turned, glancing over her shoulder, but no one was chasing her. How peculiar.

"Are we just going to stand here like idiots?" Jaliah demanded in a low murmur, her words coming on the huffs of her breath as she struggled to catch it. "I could have stayed home."

"Stop it," Xaviera said flatly, matching her low voice but giving it a hard edge. "I will not be undermined here by my own grandmother or by anyone else. Follow my lead." The Queen of Tyria approached Gerra in all his divine splendor and glory and presented a shallow curtsy - a sign of respect rather than a sign of deference or subordination.

She had her pride, after all. She and Tyria. Her father had resisted the empire's advances and she had no intention of undoing his work.

"Xaviera, third of her name, by the grace of the gods of Tyria Queen," her advisor announced, bowing low while gesturing towards his queen. Xaviera rose and inclined her head to the being in front of her. She had never seen someone like him before. Interesting, she thought. And terrifying.

"May I present Queen Jaliah, the Queen Grandmother?" Xaviera said, gesturing towards Jaliah. "I have brought a token of the goodwill of the people of Tyria on this your... special day," she concluded delicately. The two guards brought the chest forward and set it before Gerra before backing away respectfully.

 

[Achates]

Parties, balls and anything that followed a successful hunt was something Achates never found herself partaking in. The fact that she would be attending such an event brought joy and a bit of fear into the young woman’s heart. How did she get so lucky? Gerra of course was the host, knowing this she felt a bit better and the fact that they were celebrating him made it even more appealing. Either way, she mentally prepared herself for the event. The monster hunter would do her best to fit in.

A saree of fine fabrics was brought to her current place of living, she watched the fabrics unfold and lay out in front of her. The girl had made friends in the city so when she inquired about dressing up a bit – friends obliged. The fine fabrics soon found themselves draped around the half elf. Her midsection showing, she felt a bit uneasy about it, but the woman who was dressing her assured her it was beautiful. The soft purple and vibrate red hues matched her eyes making them more vibrate than usual.

It didn’t take her long to arrive at the festival, when she arrived, they were announcing a Queen from the land of Tyria. Mentally Achates tried to place where the nation was in respects to Annuakat. Remembering she smiled, she had done well at learning the maps. Entering the crowded place, she blended with the crowd. Despite the fullness of the room she laid eyes on Gerra and smiled softly. It was his night and she would eventually make her way to him – even though she wanted to beeline straight to him.

Moving among the crowd she said hello to those that were familiar, still as she met the gaze of others her attention always fell back to the Emperor, well the God-Emperor now of Amol-Kalit.

 

[Gerra]

"No, my faithful warrior. It is I who am grateful. Would that every man in my army were as stalwart as you, then I might rest easy at night."

Gerra turned, removing his hand from Uvogin's shoulder, and noted the sand elf who stood nearby.

"Ashuanar, you also deserve praise for your service in Ragash. It is not any warrior who would attempt to take on a dragon, much less an undead one. Please, accept this armband as my thanks."

He handed the elf a golden armband that had a scorpion on it with a rearing stinger. "You will find there is more to it than there seems."

More guests arrived and a man in their entourage announced them. The Queens of Tyria... finally. His intense, smoldering stare seemed to bore through the dark haired younger woman.

"Queen Xaviera, Queen Jaliah," he inclined his head slightly, "Long have I wished to meet you. Every day atop the ziggurat I look out upon the bay and can see your sister city in the distance. Truly a beautiful sight."

His gaze moved beyond them as he caught a flash of purple and red silks amid the crowd.

"Ah," he raised his voice slightly, the deep bass a boom, "Achates," he beckoned her over with a wave of his hand.

She wore a rich sari, no doubt colored with Tyrian dyes, that left a swath of skin about her stomach exposed, revealing taut muscle. Gerra did not hide his appreciation for how it fit her, for he himself wore only the white skirt with gold embroidery, leaving the dark and muscled flesh of his broad chest bare.

"Your highnesses, this is Achates. She is dearer to me than all the gold in the Seret. Achates, these are the Queens of Tyria."

 

[Fieravene]

To a city of beauty and brightness the dark elf arrived amidst a clattering and clamoring of the King's great party. She rode upon the same dark horse, whistling the same curious tune, presenting herself to those that questioned as Fieravene Due By the King. His letter of writ granted passage - who dare question the King's word here? - and she arrived to the Palace stables feeling whelmed by the energetic atmosphere.

Seems she chose an interesting day to make her imminent return. With luck, all this fanfare would mean the wine would be out on the loose.

Black boots carried the black-clad elf up countless steps through a myriad people and revelers. Libations were offered aplenty, but none would be had until her present task was completed. Weaving her way through the crowds she sought out the resting place of this new King of Kings, God of Fire, and other names-a-plenty she'd heard announced to the city throngs. Found him there, greeting foreign dignitaries and flanked by his loyal men. No sense interrupting now - the dark elf turned to a nearby circle of young mostly-human women drinking, gossiping, giggling, and passing around a mouthpiece to a hookah.

"Ladies," she introduced herself, slipping onto an open cushion seat with a pearly cheshire grin, "have you ever heard the tale of the Zikar Palace's Wailing Well? Tis a story of love, intrigue, murder, and revenge. It's not a story the Priests would tell you..." there came giggles, blinking eyes of curiosity behind lace veils, a nearby sand elf passed her the hookah mouthpiece and she supped upon it with a sigh, "Well ... a long time ago in a kingdom far, far away..."

 

[Selene Avar]

Selene had found her silent cup of wine interrupted by a gaggle of foreign dignitaries she had never met or seen before.

Two of them she knew by their guard were from the Savanna. Their facial markings placed them out as part of the nomad tribes, though their rich clothing and the jewelry adoring their features meant they were part of those who lived beyond the life of simple raiders. From what she had gathered they were here to ensure that no expansion eastward would occur from this new Empire.

Speaking to a Dreadlord was simple pure luck for them, a chance to gain insight into Vel Anir now that Coraliv had been taken. "I am afraid I know very little of such things. My patron only involves himself when he must now."

Not exactly untrue.

House Virak was not part of the ruling alliance, and thus they'd had no say in the taking of Coraliv. That did not mean they hadn't approved and secretly lobbied for such things, but they had not made the decision.

The two tribesmen nodded, speaking to one another in a foreign language Selene did not understand.

"I would not worry, Vel Anir only goes after what it sees as valuable."

The words were followed by a boisterous laugh, the man speaking them dressed in fine purple silks and a large hat. Selene glanced at the delegate from Alliria, a man who had made his way here on what he called 'the fastest ship in the world'. The Dreadlord took no insult from the words, but the two tribeseman glowered at him as though they were about to draw their blades.

"Vel Anir seeks only peace." Another technically truth. "Coraliv had been Harboring pirates and smugglers harassing our ships for years."

The man let out a laugh again, looking at Selene and nodding.

"Of course, of course. We deal with that at home as well."

Selene rolled her eyes, but did not say anything else. She was not here as an ambassador, and it wasn't her job to justify Coraliv. She hadn't been there, though her new Apprentice had been. Briefly she wondered if she should ask young Henry about it, but then decided to dismiss the thought. If it was important he would have brought it to her.

Her gaze swept finally to the last of their company of foreigners. He was an odd man, silent and nearly a head taller than even the Allirian. He was an elf, obviously, as could be told by his ears. Yet there was something off about his complexion. He did not hold the ethereal beauty of the Falwood, nor the complexion of those who were of the sands.

No, this man's skin was an odd brackish black, as though his face had been painted like a dreary night sky. Within that stormy color sat two brilliant blue orbs.

He was like no elf That Selene had ever seen. From what she could gather he was nominally with the two tribeseman of the Savanna, yet many of the opinions he held were separate of theirs. His common was accented strangely, and his voice more of a grumbling roar than speech. She had no idea from where he hailed, and her question had only been met with a smile and a polite answer of 'The eart of Aberresai'.

Cryptic, and curious.

 

[Xaviera]

The slight frame of the Queen of Tyria again delivered a perfunctory curtsy to Achates. Achates, Gerra had called her. No title. No honorific. Nothing to give her a clue was given as to her identity aside from being more valuable than gold to the self-declared god. "It's a privilege," she intoned gracefully, favoring the woman with a polite smell. It was a nice gig, to be highly valued by a powerful man. Xaviera was instantly curious about her, but it would be impolitic to pry.

She turned her attention back to Gerra and offered a tight smile. "We in Tyria often see your city lit up and gleaming from our shores," the young queen replied. "It is... very interesting to see it up close, though I gather we have not come on a typical night." Her grandmother made a quiet, dissatisfied grunt and leaned heavily on her walking stick. Xaviera's dark eyes darted to her for a moment, disguising the movement like a slow blink. Jaliah looked like she had camel dung smeared under her nose.

Even more than usual.

Is my humor too dry? she wondered to herself. Would he understand the joke, or think she was thick as two short planks? After another moment of silence, Xaviera cleared her throat. "We don't wish to take up your valuable time, Your Eminence, and I'm sure you've other guests to attend to. Thank you for your kind invitation."

 

[TTamark]

Steve entered the feast with two large pots of potato vodka, as well as a pot of potato stew. Escorting him and carrying the pots were tribal orcs from The Blightlands. One pot of vodka was donated to the party with many cheers. While Steve made his way to meet with the god-emperor. The recognizable man who he kept brushing past throughout the world. Always showing up in locations Steve was heading one moment before himself, though much more noticeably. He watched as Gerra played politics with queens, and showed off what appeared to be a rather attractive woman with some elf blood running through her.

When his chance to pay homage to the fire-giant light he greeted him with friendly smile, and bow as he suppressed chuckles, laughter already building within him about words he had yet to say, but not before Giving the woman beside him a bow just a touch deeper, it would likely be smart not to upset a woman such as her.

"My lady I hope you don't mind if I talk with your boy toy, M'lord Gerra, so sorry I could not make it in time to witness your triumph first hand. You may be unaware of this, but I always seem just too late to your battles. I am glad that you seem to be doing well for yourself, better I dare say then I last saw you."

Steve's eyes made wide sweeps around the room, before returning to Gerra, his smile growing deeper. Chuckles rising again. Steve motioned his gifts forward.

"As you can see I am a touch better prepared for our meeting this time. Though as always it is the gift openness, welcoming, and friendship: Potato stew, made with my own hands, infused with only the bravest of chickens. I will have you know this pot took me half the journey from Elbion to make, as a result I dare say that its contents could heal a lost limb. A bouquet of flowers that grow from the plant, infused to heat, and cool what they touch, an interesting magic I learned along my travels. Finally vodka refined myself to have some extra strength to it. I have yet to find a better use for it than the obvious. So Gerra, god-king of Amol-kalit are you happy to see me?...

Oh wait... fr*ck I was supposed to start with an introduction I totally forgot..."

Steve waved at one of the orcs behind him who held a potato. The orc pressed a button on the potato, and an introduction began playing in a female voice while colourful sparkles shot into the air, and the music of some stringed instrument played,

"Now introducing: Steve, son of Will, Spudmancer supreme, Founder of farms for salvation, Necromancer of friends, Apothecary to all, First member of the Eternum, Father of the Chicken-Orc race, and founder of The Royal Eternal City."

In a dramatic end flare flames shot from the potato into the sky.

"HAHA, So aren't you glad I stopped by?"

 

[Gerra]

Brows sharp as obsidian shot up as the... spudmancer... made his introduction.

For a moment, the normally phlegmatic Emperor just stared at Stev, utterly at a loss for words.

"Um."

 

[Halul]

Uvogin’s only noticeable reaction was the slight cock of his head during the duration of Steve’s introduction. Brows were furrowed under his mask. The guard stepped forward, left hand listlessly rested on the hilt of his sword. Memory of the Eternum was fresh in the Captain’s mind. A vein in his temple throbbed.

“You are not welcome here, Necromancer.”

 

[Fieravene]

Halfway through her riveting tale of the Wailing Well of Zikar Palace, Fiera found herself interrupted. Not directly, exactly, but the herald announcing the latest arrival to the King's attention had turned just about every eye within earshot, including her own.

"My, my, my-" the dark elf raised a brow, quietly standing from her cushion, "...ladies, to be continued..."

Fieravene stalked around the crowd, the deft nokking of her boots filtering through a growing hush that had spread like a foul odor along the ringing syllables of words like The Eternum and Necromancer. She found herself settling in just behind a finely-dressed woman and her elder, the Queen of Tyria.

"Strap in, your Highness," Fiera murmured just over the woman's shoulder, "the party is about to liven up."

 

[TTamark]

Steve's head turned toward the masked man taking him in. Obviously there was more to him for him to be standing guard for Gerra, while so obviously not belonging. Steve took a step back, hesitated a moment then took one to the left,

"There, am I welcome here? Ah, what was it, Guard number... three?"

Steve wiggled his eyebrows playfully at the man.

"Besides the issue of me not being welcomed is easily resolved: Just welcome me then. Welcome me as an old friend, as a beloved rival, welcome me as an acquaintance, or even as a lover if you so choose. Welcome me as a foreign dignitary, or welcome me just for the hell of it. Just don't scowl at a man after he has introduced himself and offered his respects... Well I can't really tell if you are scowling with the mask there, but I suspect you all know what I mean. HAHAHA

Now let us move past all this as I don't really mind you not welcoming me, I did just show up after all, plenty of time for such niceties later. What I would really like to jump straight to however, if you don't mind, is why everyone has stopped their celebrations to witness the man the myth the legend. Is it the potatoes? Cause I feel like they are not super common here. Speaking of which I can fix that, I got you broski. But, and stay with me because it might sound crazy, since the chad, who felt so bad about not greeting me, addressed me as 'necromancer' I think it is safe to assume that you all have a problem with friends, which is ironic seeing as how we first met. *sigh* Well, it looks like we are going to need to have a talk, I really was only stopping by to say hello and congratulate you. Well and maybe also get a dope ass desert serpent or something for Amankh, you'd like him, in many ways he is a lot like you."

Steve reached into his cloak and a potato fell out, once it hit the ground it exploded into a smoke cloud roughly belly hight. Steve looked around and shrugged before continuing to rummage in his cloak making a large show of it. Finally he produced a potato, and showed it to all around. Then he opened up his cloak to show that nothing was hidden under there, except for wooden bowls, spoons, and a butt load of potatoes. Next he moved the hand that held the potato behind his cloak, when his hand began coming out again in his hand was not a potato, but the head of a chair. Steve continued pulling, making show off how hard it seemed to be to pull it out, his hand shaking. To end he shook his cloak violently as he finally finished pulling the legs of the chair out from the impossible space that was his cloak, did a small bow to the audience, and had a seat on the chair giving Gerra his full attention.

 

[Xaviera]

The Queen of Tyria had thought to back a respectful distance from the newly-anointed god, descend the ziggurat, board her litter and be borne away from the debauchery on display. She would travel by night in the cool evening air and arrive to her beloved Tyria the next day - achingly tired and weary, dry-eyed and parched of throat, but home and safe. Yes, that was what the Queen of Tyria had thought to do, but the appearance of a being she would soon learn to be one Steve, son of Will made that quite unlikely.

She stopped.

She watched.

Her eyebrows knit together in a furrow of concern as she reached for her grandmother's forearm, moving closer. Something about this didn't feel quite right. And she wanted to be sure Jaliah was nearby in case they needed to make a quick exit. Her head swiveled as Steve, son of Will made his sweeping declarations, spotting her guards. They two had moved to flank the Queen, but as the crowd gathered they couldn't get as close as they probably wanted. A voice over her shoulder made Xaviera jump in her skin, and she half-turned to see a tall-ish blue-grey woman with red eyes and angular features. Something inside her squirmed with pleasure.

What luck! An elf, here, in the flesh, talking to her! And not one of the terrifying Abtati, tales about which her governess used to terrify her when the little princess had been difficult. Her lips turned up in a smile at the novelty of it all. If not for the confrontation shaping up before her, Xaviera would not have been able to tear her gaze from the fascinating woman. "Do you know him?" she murmured back, hoping her voice would carry back to Fieravene and no further. "Is he mad, talking to a king-emperor that way?"

 

[Gerra]

"I see."

Gerra's brows furrowed and he blinked away the magic smoke show.

"You work with Amankh, the lich who attacked Ragash. I'm afraid you've made a grave mistake coming here. Many lost their lives in the undead incursion." The half-giant turned to Uvogin. "Talon, please show him to the lower levels."

 

[TTamark]

"I'm sorry, WHAT?!?! Amankh did WHAT?!?! I-I... Thank you this is very valuable information. Here..."

Steve pulled out a sack of gold coins, and shook it so that it was clear what it was, before tossing it to Uvogin,

"I am sorry my friend did such a thing. I will be definitely having a talk with him. Till then allow this gold to help the families that suffered because of his action. I won't be needing it as it appears my journey will be cut a touch shorter than I first thought. Bye, though I am sure I will see you again before you know it.

Oh, and you can keep the chair."

Steve turned to leave, then remembered he was going to give more away. Should he still give it I mean that was not a bad exit and if he stayed he would just make it worse. But he had come to give it after all. Steve hesitantly turned around, and continued throwing things at the masked man expecting him to catch them.

"Here is a potato stone that if you plant it potatoes will sprout around it within twentyish large paces. And here is a bird from the north that will come find me, and carry any message you need sent. And here is a portrait of you, me, Leroy, and the orc that poked good ol'Leroy with the caption friends forever."

Steve while absent mindedly throwing all of these was attaching two potatoes to his feet, with the last gift Steve shot Gerra a kiss, and a wink before launching himself over the crowed, and absolutely fr*cking booking it out.

 

[Mirielle Merlon]

A great deal of attention rested on the magical fool. If Mirielle had been a thief, she couldn't have asked for a better moment. Instead she watched the people watching the show.

Nobles and mages everywhere, and though she was technically both, the crowd felt alien. Half of them couldn't wait to approach the eight-foot god-emperor for their share of face time. In theory she should do the same instead of judge them. In theory.

Instead she found herself glancing more than once at Archlector Snaaib and his very tidy beard.

 

[Halul]

Uvogin, without any hesitation, stepped towards the necromancer. The hand that casually rested on the hilt of his sword now firmly gripped the scabbard. His approach was halted by the man presenting a bag, dangling it, then tossing it to the masked guard. Against his instincts, he let the bag fall into his palm. Before he could speak, Steve tossed even more things at Uvogin. He took his hand from his sword to catch the potato stone. Looking down at it, he was not sure what use he would find in a stone capable of instantly sprouting starchy tubers. The bird tossed at him fluttered in the air between them before perching itself on his shoulder. Uvogin let the portrait clatter against his breastplate. It fell to the floor.

The necromancer lept over the crowd to flee, earning a few gasps from the sudden action. Murmurs followed. Uvogin turned to face Gerra, his hands still full of the "gifts" that Steve left behind. Organization for the

"Apologies, Emperor, for the disturbance." He dipped his head in penitence, "I will inform my lieutenants to be especially vigilant and to circulate that message to the rest of the security detail. This will not happen again."

 

[Gerra]

Gerra’s eyes widened with recognition even as the necromancer bounded away.

“Leroy,” he muttered to himself, “yes of course.”

He hadn’t recognized the man without his swarm of undead chickens and bayou ambiance. That chance meeting felt like a lifetime ago now. The place he had first met Maho too.

The Emperor’s gaze swept up to the northern skies as he wondered briefly what fate had befallen his old friend. Regret stung his heart with a bitter ache.

Uvogin’s words drew him back.

“The fault is mine,” Gerra waved a hand dismissively. “I did not recognize an old acquaintance.”

The guard captain had his hands full with the gifts.

“Keep the bird safe. Give your lieutenants the gold as a bonus. Burn the picture...” He eyed the spud stone. “...and the potato rock.”

Considering the matter resolved for the moment, he turned back to his guests.

“Well, that was exciting. Ah, Queen Xaviera, I see you’ve met Fieravene,” he smiled toothlessly at the dark elf, “Fiera... looks like you already have half the court spellbound. Careful, ladies. Jewelry has a habit of going missing around her.”

She would hate that. He looked past her and saw red hair.

“Lady Selene,” he rumbled in greeting, eyes scanning the crowd. There were many faces he recognized, but some he did not.

 

[Fieravene]

"Can't say that I do but something tells me I should..." Fiera replied to the Queen with a pointed, wry smirk. Mad seemed apt, for the show that followed wasn't anything but strange, whimsical, and moderately unbalanced. The elf's ears twitched in amusement as she watched the man patter the masked guard with his gifts before careening over the crowds.

Her red gaze followed his receding form for just a moment before she found her attention drawn back by the low tamber of the King of Kings. A casual introduction for her to which she larked a curious brow.

"As I recall the only one of us around which jewelry has gone missing would be you, good King. Ring of Amon-Thun ...appropriated from your Palace of Ragash. Apprehended that thief yet?"