Open Chronicles The Return Of The Queen

[Hebemarri]

"Mistress. The priestesses are prepared. I apologize for my delay in attending to you."​

IN THE GRAND TEMPLE:

Hebemarri sat as tranquil as a saint in the shadowy pool as Kiyari brushed her bit by bit. It almost seemed like the high priestess didn’t even know her servant was there, until she unfurled her wings to offer Kiyari’s brush access to the canvas of leathery membrane. Then after that came lifting her limbs and claws out of the water in sequence, not speaking a word or opening her eyes for even a moment.

once Kiyari had finished however, the dragon opened her silvery eyes and gazed deeply into the young Drow’s very essence.


“Flower of my garden~”


Hebemarri waded through the water towards Kiyari, sending ripples and waves through the darkened pool. When she reached the young Drow, a talon was raised from the water and used to hold Kiyari up by the chin. The razor edge which had cleaved through countless drow just days before, was just inches away from the young man’s neck. All the same, Hebemarri did not stop looking at Kiyari’s ghostly visage.

“How well you serve my needs.” The high priestess said with a smile. “You give me such confidence in skills to tend, and to prune.”

The talon was taken away and Hebemarri emerged from the pool, circling Kiyari as she signaled the robed figures to dry her off. Their cloaks retracted to reveal shadowy forms of many limbs, which stretched forward with cloths reaching further and further until they resembled clotheslines between buildings more than arms.

As they reached and dried, Hebemarri reclined around Kiyari like a cat, encircling him like a serpent.

“But please,” she said, and somewhat hissed. “Tell me of your present, flower. The chaos with succession has left me so hither and dither: I can’t help but feel like I’ve neglected my lovely little beast.”

 

[Kiyari]

Grand Temple of Maelzafan

As the wing was unfurled Kiyari would angle the brush to more accurately tend to his Mistress. Scrubbing, pampering every inch of membrane in long brush strokes, leaving a glistening trail of dark water and scented soaps behind on the thin membrane. As the limbs were raised they were of course tended to, every patch of softer scales, more sensitive areas, were scrubbed and fawned over with decades worth of experience and routine. Then each claw was reverently scrubbed, bristle by bristle, until his Mistress's eyes opened and pale blue eyes met silvery orbs.

That low purr, that intimate name, that familiarity and authority washed over Kiyari like a lukewarm wave of familiar waters. Similar to the waters that cascaded down his Mistress's amethyst form as she stalked closer and closer. As that claw rose from the water to hold their chin Kiyari met his Mistress's eyes without fear, without so much as a flinch. Their chin tilting up ever so slightly to more fully meet her gaze. Their sunken, exhausted-seeming eyes never so much as blinking as their Mistress smiled. Purring kind words the likes of which she wielded as deftly and sharply as her talons.

Kiyari was used to it.

As Hebemarri circled them, languidly being tended to by the other creatures, her inquiry into their current condition was almost surprising. Almost. Were Kiyari still fresh to his Mistress's service he would have let that warm surprise of care in her tone surprise them. But no. She was checking their condition as she may check to ensure her talons were still sharp enough to rend flesh. Kiyari, as Hebemarri curled around them, would turn to meet her gaze and gently hand off the brush to one of the creatures. Trading it off for a bottle of scented scale wax and a cloth.

Kneeling beside Hebemarri's head Kiyari would dutifully wax and massage his Mistress's scales at the base of her skull, the top of her neck, roughly where behind a human's ears would be as he answered in a low, reverent tone.

"I am ready to serve as always Mistress."

Kiyari allowed a small frown to grace their features. Telling Hebemarri what he thought she wanted to hear. Whether he truly felt what he said or not was perhaps unknown even to him.

"Though quite envious of having to share tending to you today....."

He murmured just a bit quieter so only she could hear.​

 

[Dinien]

~MEANWHILE IN LOWTOWN~

Din grinned even wider.

“Sleeping poison… just a dab! You’ll be snoring like a cretok before the hour, I’ll wager…. Oh! Any requests for how we dress you up, abban?”

He took out a larger flask, uncorked it, saluted Slaine with another wink, and took a long draught. He coughed and grimaced before tossing her the rest.

“Yes, I do believe that was the field brew Zai was referring to!”

He danced a little circular caper, then shouted, “Whoo! I can feel my gut rotting already!”

Slaine Aylwin
Theceran
Nyssiel
Alak Rasivrein
Zairyn

 

[Hebemarri]

IN THE GRAND TEMPLE (still)
As Kiyari readied the cloth, Hebemarri stretched her body along the stone of the chamber. For it was to Kiyari alone that she offered the underside of her neck. The wax that was applied by dutiful hands had been made by a unique blend— the extract of Kiyari Wildflowers. It was Hebemarri’s favorite scent in the entire world.

“Ah, to have these moments of comfort. It makes me wish they could last forever— but alas.”

Hebemarri stood, snapping her talons together and prompting the robed horrors to begin adorning her in the ceremonial raiments. It was far more extravagant than anything Kiyari would have ever seen Hebemarri wear. Looking more and more like the draconic version of the outfit worn in the portrait of a mean looking old drow that hung above one of the grand temple stairwells.

Hebemarri turned to Kiyari as she was dressed. “I am to oversee today’s coronation, my flower. The first I have even attended in many years.”

A series of items were then placed in front of Kiyari to preform blessings of sanctity on the high priestess’ adornment.

“And I do this now.” Hebemarri continued. “Out of a trust that this new old queen’s ambition will return the empire to its long faded glory…” the familiar sound of talon tapping against stone then began to echo through the room. “Yet she is acting so childish, and insistent on petty slights against our glorious goddess. It bothers me, flower, it really does.” At this point, Hebemarri was practically swimming in ornamented cloth. With even her face covered by a black veil and long golden headdress.

“So tell me, o’ flower of my garden. If you were I, how would you deal with a queen such as her?”

 

[Kiyari]

Grand Temple of Maelzafan


The wax applied with dutiful hands Kiyari would bow their head in silent thanks to Hebemarri for honoring their attention by wishing it to last forever. Though their expression did not change they stayed kneeling, watching her rise with tired eyes, hands lain placidly in their dark-clothed lap. Watching, waiting, always ready, as their Mistress swam in a sea of clothing of the finest make. Only when the items were presented for prayer did he bow his head, allowing his eyes to leave his Mistress, as he murmured the long-practiced blessings. Softly shimmering shadows would swim and undulate in the folds of the items, framing Hebemarri's form in more stark curves, sharper edges, and while he did this he listened. Always listened.

For a long moment he was perplexed, head tilting gently as sky-blue eyes roamed his veiled Mistress, and of course obedience and enraptured awe was provided before the answer she questioned. To give, feigned or not, praise and adoration at her form such that he could not help himself.

"Your form would be fit to roost before our goddess herself, my Mistress."

Kiyari would bow his head briefly before straightening, thinking, and replying.

"My loyalty is yours, always, and to the Queen."

The ordering given was purposeful, a fact Hebemarri no doubt knew, but Kiyari continued without missing a beat in a tone as low, bored and grey as always.

"I have seen in my service to you, my resplendent Mistress, that all who exist in our goddess's shadow possess weakness. Nobles, magi, of our kind all prepared to die before exposing either the world to a part of themselves, or a part of themselves to anyone."

A brief furrowing of the brow. More than a few slaughtered enemies of his Mistress flashed before his eyes. Their sordid, wretched secrets even Maelzafan would scorn and hurl them into the pits for. Kiyari's eyes would briefly lower, then snap up to Hebemarri, and they would continue in the same obedient tone.

"Of course you should know these weaknesses of the new Queen to better guard her from their exploitation. To shield her in ways no others can. Only yours is the wisdom and grace to do so, my Mistress, for you are unequaled before our magnificent goddess."

Kiyari would slowly stand, should their Mistress allow it, and prepare to accompany her without a word. Ever her shadow. Eyes downcast, prepared to follow.

Always.​

 

[Rae'twyn Suvalissaere]

Near the portal stone

----------

"Welcome to Zar'ahal, my lady! City of our dark mistress Maelzafan. Or perhaps, a city belonging to someone else now."

Rae'twyn swaggered up next to Xeraphine, joining the delegation of surfacers shuffling for the Queen's Plaza -- hemmed in by darkness, by weird, unhelpful lights and stone-faced guards. He attempted to ignore the eerie stares he got from being in the middle of a veritable flood of iblith.

"Well, you seem more energetic than usual. Pleased to be home?" Xeraphine inquired.

"I'm ecstatic, really! Why, the nostalgia is killing me."

She noted the higher-than-usual pitch of his tone. She was beginning to see through the various masks of her drow aide and could smell his fear. The scurrying of his eyes and constant glancing over his shoulder gave it away.

In sooth, she felt rather pensive herself. But it was mingled with a strange thrill.

"Make certain it is the only thing killing us, will you? I aim to return to Alliria eventually."

"Never fear, never fear. The queen and I go back some time, you know. I'm certain we shall receive a royal welcome. But, ah, let's just stick with the others for now, shall we? I can give you the grander tour some other time."

 

[Xeraphine Yldore]

The Coronation Ground

------------------------------

The chosen ground for this most auspicious day struck Xeraphine as rather grim. In contrast, the streets leading here had been occassionally bright, jubilant and full of exciting performances. But as the surface delegation shuffled into their appointed rows, somewhat at the back, she found the coronation grounds more reminiscent of a dungeon fit for titans rather than a place of royal ceremony.

Take heed of a ruler's choices. Every minute detail reflects them.

She recalled her father's words well and took to analysing her environment. This choice reflected a stark mind; a mentality that valued strength over opulence. She could see it in the many drow Houses at present, bristling as much with arms as with finery.

"Interesting. I remember seeing my share of executions here. I wonder if we'll see any traitor heads rolling!"

Rae'twyn sounded far too excited about this. Xeraphine frowned, clutching her silk-wrapped gift close. With its pommel, she pointed at a nearby flag of a snarling, argent wolverine's head against a sable field.

"Teach me their heraldry. Which House is this?"

"Ah, yes, that would be the At'Arel House. Fiercesome warriors and casters, real defenders of the walls -- though they have little else."

Xeraphine nodded. It was a start, certainly. She would ensure he could help her memorise any House of importance.

 

[Nimruil]

The Coronation Plaza:

The shroom had a curiously stringy quality to it. Tasteless and bland. But down it went. A drag from his timmask pipe and a swig of vesperai-tears extract helped wash it down.

His carriage brought him to the back of the Suulet'jabar procession, now filing into the crimson-lit darkness of what would be known as the Queen's Plaza.

Odd. He felt the haze and fog from timmask, and the spritely energy of vesperai-tears, but as of yet, detected no notable effect from his newly-bought Blue Caps. Perhaps it was due to it being edible. It often took a bit of a delay when traversing one's guts.

His smaller vornyx carriage soon made it towards the front, according to his proper station. It would be unseemly to be right at the front with his sister and the matron, Beksesha. That was reserved for her consort and for female nobility.

Now, it might work to his advantage. He could pretend he had trailed behind the procession all along.

 

[Zathria At'Arel]

Zathria's eyebrow came up slightly as he mentioned lunch tomorrow.

Oh, you have big plans and promises. Are you sure you can deliver? she asked with a smirk.

She could tell Xunari was at least a bit amused and Zathria was unafraid to let her friend see a bit of this game. After all, she had heard the jokes Xunari and Vyx made about how Zathria needed to loosen up. Well, she had! Or she would.

Do you have a seat? I think they might frown on it if I had you sit in my lap throughout the ceremony, Zathria said.

Frankatron-X Nefieslab

 

[Azrakar]

Azrakar turned slowly away from the wall. He brushed himself down. His battle senses had slowly returned. He could feel the lust for the fight already coursing through his veins. It was harder to let that go that it would have been to keep struggling.

“Come,” she said coolly, lifting the armor just enough to make her meaning unmistakable. “Put it on me.”

"Did you think I had come to ruin your day?" he asked.

He stepped up to her armour. He motioned for her to lift her arms to slip the first piece down over her head and arms.

"I came to witness it," he said as he continued to prepare her.

"I saw you unbind the abomination they had made. It was quite magnificent."

If the vulnerability had been visible, he made no mention of it. She had fought and schemed her way to this moment. She did not need his support.

"I will not stay long afterwards. I have a gathering to organise. A march down from the spine."

 

[Vyx'aria]

The Tower​

Each plate snapped into place cleanly, leather drawn tight, metal seated flush against Vyx’aria’s form. She did not look at him.

It struck her then, quietly, unexpectedly, that it had never occurred to her he might have come simply to see her. The thought passed without changing her expression.

When the last fastening was secured, she lifted her hands and slowly tied her hair back, gauntleted fingers deft, deliberate. Only then did she turn.

Her crimson eyes met his at last. Vyx’aria reached out and dipped two fingers into the waistband of his pants, tugging him toward herself by it. Her voice was low, almost indulgent. “May the ache of your desire for me,” she murmured, her lips just barely brushing his jawline, “keep your fires burning for every conquest yet to come.”

She gave him a light shove back, head tilting as a lazy, almost cruel grin followed.

Then she turned away.

She cracked her neck once, slow and deliberate, then rolled her shoulders, muscles shifting beneath armor as she loosened the last vestiges of tension from her body. Tall. Grounded. Unshakable.

“Find yourself a nice seat in the plaza,” she called over her shoulder.

Without another glance, she strode from the chamber, steps sure, posture flawless, leaving behind the tower, the moment, and anything that did not move forward with her.

-------------​

The doors opened.

Sound rushed in, cheers rising from the streets below, voices echoing off cavern walls, lanterns swaying as hands lifted in salute. Vyx’aria stepped forward, her expression unreadable, her gaze fixed straight ahead. She did not acknowledge the crowd. She did not need to.

Her vornyx awaited her, massive and armored, its great frame shifting as she approached. She mounted in a single, fluid motion, settling easily atop the beast as the path before her cleared.

Ahead, ranks of drow warriors and mages from the academies fell into step, their formation immaculate as they marched to herald her approach toward the plaza. Steel and discipline moved as one.

Tor’Rahel banners snapped overhead, black and red rippling in the torchlight.

She did not look at them.

Her crimson eyes remained fixed forward as the procession advanced, posture flawless, presence absolute. A living standard of power riding at the head of a rising dominion.

The Queen apparent rode forth to reclaim her crown.

 

[Vel'duith]

~THE QUEEN’S PLAZA~

Vel’duith’s ears perked at the commencement of the hue and cry coming from the queen’s tower. She stood from her seat and tiptoed excitedly to see the fabled red and black Tor’rahel banners leading the coming procession, her voice joining the escalating din of cries as the Valsharess’s vornyx and standard finally came into view:

“Vyx’aria! Valsharess! Vyx’aria! Valsharess!”

 

[Vairos]

The Plaza

---

The umbrals continued their work, the winged imps returning to finish decorating the state at the center of the plaza. Vairos regarded their labor with a degree of satisfaction barely breaching above apathy, then turned to walk away. They were not imbeciles, they were merely weak and overworked. Now fed, the task would be done.

And just in time...Vairos could hear the cheering begin from up the way. The queen to be was coming.

Now was the time to check in on the, as his mistress had phrased it, "new arrivals." Surface dwellers intermingled with Underrealm denizens. No real threat to the queen, if she was worthy of the title, but numerous enough that they might prove disruptive if not reminded of their place. For the most part, his mere presence was enough to make them think twice about stepping out of line.

Nearby, a drow woman seemed to be more than a little familiar with perhaps the weakest, most frail specimen of a surface-dweller he'd ever seen. Before long, the runt wandered off to gods knew where. Vairos would brush by Zathria and grunt.

"Keep that scurrying vermin under control," he spoke to her in the drow tongue, a harsh glare burning her way. "The coronation is upon us."

Zathria At'Arel

 

[Zairyn]

Lowtown​

Zairyn was still half-adrift when the sound hit him.

A horn split the air, deep, resonant, echoing off stone, and the crowd shifted all at once, bodies shuffling, voices rising in a sudden ripple of urgency. Zairyn blinked hard, the street tilting unpleasantly as the last of Din’s murderous brew and the mushrooms wrestled for dominance in his skull.

“Oh shit,” he slurred, straightening too fast and immediately regretting it. “Queen Apparent’s on the way! Back on the job, you useless bastards!”

He threw back the rest of his drink in one reckless go, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and staggered out of the road just as the procession began to pour through. The world shimmered at the edges, lights stretching, banners breathing, but he managed to stay upright, mostly. Half leaning on Din for support.

Rows of academy drow marched past in immaculate formation, polished armor and ridiculous uniforms gleaming under lanternlight. Zairyn squinted at them, nose wrinkling.

“Look at those tools,” he muttered. “Prissy little shits, the lot of ’em. Bet they practice marching more than fighting.”

His gaze lifted despite himself.

The vornyx came into view, huge and armored, and atop it sat the woman herself. Tall. Still. An iron presence that cut clean through the noise.

Zairyn let out a low whistle. “Well,” he admitted, swaying slightly, “the Queen Apparent certainly looks like she'd bite heads off.”

He elbowed Din lightly, a grin creeping back into place as the beast passed. “So,” he murmured, eyes tracking the figure riding toward destiny as he began to follow, “how long d’you reckon her rule lasts this time?”

 

[Dinien]

~MEANWHILE IN LOWTOWN~

“They’ll find out soon enough it’s not just parades and prostitutes, I wager. You’d best get going, abban. Alas, I pissed off my illustrious matron Beksesha and I’m under strict orders not to be spotted past the Ramp. So go on, Zai, go defend that incredible piece of royal ass! Ever Vigilant!”

Dinien gave the shorter Hound a solid clap on the back and playfully shoved him up the ramp toward duty and booty.

 

[Sazalam]

Plaza

"Such a throne would make me the envy of the Queen herself Commander, but alas I have my own seating to..."

-It happened then-

Sazalam acted before the half-breeds mouth had closed, stepping up to the admittedly more physically intimidating being he challenged it, quite politely and with no fear at all and to think he was having such a lovely day before just now but Sazalam would broker no such insolence from such a thing on such a day.

"You will adress my Mistress by her correct station when you speak to her. She is not some street thug, her guests are not vermin and you shame this coronation with your manner Half-breed."

His reflective eyes and red hair marked him, made him stand out and, he hoped, memorable, to this permitted abomination before him.

"You will apologise!"
It was not a request.

Zathria At'Arel Xunari Auceus Vairos

 

[Beksesha Suulet’jabar]

-THE QUEEN’S PLAZA~

Besksesha admired the approaching pomp with a slight glimmer of approval in her eyes, her expression level and regal. Very much as she might have arranged it, save for the location of course. She could only imagine what Hebemarri thought of it all.

When the Queen’s vornyx arrived, Beksesha rose and saluted, mirrored by all in her house. Seeing there was no footman present, the matron gave her consort a curdling glare and the young, burly muscled ra’thil immediately hopped straight to it, presenting himself to Vyx’aria and offering up his hand, eyes respectfully downcast.

Beksesha then walked out to await the most exalted high priestess’s arrival, her face impassive, her ruby eyes avoiding looking at the crown which had so nearly been hers, inwardly despairing of the duty given her. Maelzafan was ever cruel with her whims and ways!

 

[Xunari Auceus]

Xunari was not accustomed to physical contact that didn't involve knives - either verbal in the form of vicious whispers or, like, literal metal daggers. She tolerated it when it was family because she was able to avoid being killed. When it was Zathria? She was a little bit less reluctant - and Zathria was one of the people at the event who would be able to literally break her spine with a hug if she didn't go along with it.

Definitely only hugging back because she wanted to not have her spine snapped, totally not missing the kind of drow contact that didn't have an agenda.

Totally.

"Indeed - and far too long away besides." she agreed with a growing smile, "Ah. Charmed, Sazalam, I'm sure. You must have quite the way with your sword to have Zathria taking a shine to you."

Her smile turned into a deeper smirk as she listened to Zathria whisper the last part to her. She eyed Sazalam a little bit more before she found herself surprised by the delighted little laugh she found bubbling its way from her.

It had been some time since last she laughed so freely.

"And a silver tongue as well! Zathria you have been hiding a gem indeed..." she declared as she accepted the glass offered by the male, "I think this will definitely be interesting to see... maybe neither of you should drink too heavily then?"

The ceremony was starting and she sat down by Zathria, her previous seat forgotten but taken up by someone else who clearly thought better of antagonising the Queen's long-time companion over the seating arrangements. Of course, she barely had chance to look over the beginnings of the procession before someone decided to try talking shit to Zathria, specifically about her newest boy-flavoured hobby.

Well, some people really did just want to try and court death.

"Manners before your superiors are not just a nicety. They are required." she reminded Vairos bluntly, her smile cold, "You can remove your unsightly visage from our collective sight now. There's a good Boy."

Vairos Sazalam Zathria At'Arel

 

[Slaine Aylwin]

LowTown

The smirk atop her face widened as Zairyn passed her the mug of ale. A local musician began to strum his strings, another neighboring drow patting his hands atop a wooden barrel to sound a drum. The square of LowTown was alive with music, drink, and dance. Slaine couldn't help but hop in. Swinging her arm around Theceran, Slaine Aylwin began a merry little jig, boots tapping against cobblestone with a practiced freedom. Ale spilled from her mug as she danced, but she didn't care.

She swapped partners carelessly, spinning Theceran into the crowd to step in swing with Dinien, Nyssiel, and Zairyn....her newfound brothers-in-arms.

It'd be the first time they saw her do more than mope since she joined the Hounds.

The more the hallucinogenics set in, the wider her steps became. The music sounded even closer, louder, pulsing alongside her heartbeat in perfect rhythm. She, in turn, became sloppier - crashing into small males as her smile spread so wide it shut her eyes.

The sound of a horn shattered her serenity.

The Queen. Slaine felt the music die with her smile as the soldiers approached. They were like Dwarven wind-up toys, polished and precise; she had tasted enough Drow steel to joke against them. A low grunt issued from her throat, something like a laugh, at Dinien and Zairyn's antics.

But - what was that? They were...supposed to be on the job? Oh no. She felt her belly fill with anxiety and nausea - mushrooms, ale, and pie weren't the most healthy mix in a soldier's stomach. She adopted a flimsy post, saluting that lovely lil' Vornyx as it approached. A majestic and mighty steed indeed. She needed to figure out how to get her one of those.

The crowd surged, and the Hounds moved with it. Stumbling behind, she followed Dinien and Zairyn in the hopes that the pair of Hounds had a better idea of where they were meant to be stationed this day.

Zairyn Dinien Theceran Nyssiel

 

[Zathria At'Arel]

This was why Zathria couldn't ever be happy and let levity have its day. Whatever enjoyment she had been experiencing melted away. Sazalam snapped into place, and Zathria didn't say a word. The smile that had been on her face moments earlier was now gone and her eyes were ice cold, the eyes of a woman who had led military campaigns and killed more people than she could count as she rose deliberately from her seat.

She had cut down larger than this one before and she'd do it again.

No, not me. You will get on your knee and apologize to Sazalam: ally to House At'Arel and hero of the Battle of Shay Tirlocc, she said, a finger reaching up to tap on the wolverine head clasp on her armor that spoke to being Matriarch of a noble house allied so closely to the Queen.

And then you will leave to return to whatever duties you are supposed to be performing rather than disrespecting those who are your superiors, she said.

The look in her eyes and the tone of her voice told a story that this was not up for debate.

Sazalam Vairos

 

[Ispir Sione]

The Queen's Plaza


Ispir would weave through the crowd with an almost enviable amount of free space. Like a fish in the middle of a wide river, rocks parted to the side, as he swam and swam and swam. Bobbing, weaving, following a current he couldn't even see that pulled him ever onward.

But even he began to notice that the looks he received were something bordering between confusion, jealousy and some small amount of awe. A mixture of emotions that made him..... Uncomfortable. To say the least. It wasn't until the crowd erupted in noise that he nearly jumped in place. His eyes widening as he looked around. Confused. Lost. Beginning to regret having left Zathria At'Arel and her group. He had never really been IN the bigger crowds he had performed for before after all, let alone a crowd this size.

He wasn't sure what the crowd was cheering for exactly. He heard a word over and over again.

"Valsharess"

He didn't know what it meant. Not exactly. But given this was supposed to be a coronation he guessed it was the title of the Queen. If sounded fancy enough to be, anyways. But as his eyes scanned around he finally saw her, sitting stop some big lizard, flags flying that matched his cloak, ranks of soldiers and cloaked Drow in rank and file around her.

Oh! That made sense! She was a noble like Zathria. No wonder they knew each other. Now having a heading Ispir would begin the slow process of making his way toward Vyx'aria step by step. Both of them had a long way to go, after all, and the growing feeling of apprehension in his stomach that his gifts wouldn't exactly impress her since she was a noble was a damper on his spirits just a bit. Would things he had made for her really compare to what all the money of a noble house could buy her? What power and influence could claim for her?

He sincerely hoped so.....​

 

[Alak Rasivrein]

Lowtown​

Alak heard the sounds of the procession and nearly bumped into Zairyn outright as the man came half-stumbling out to look as well.

You think any of them have ever actually been in a fight for their lives? he muttered as he watched them walk by. They all looked soft as far as he was concerned, more preoccupied with their books than what you could do with the knowledge in those books. He could barely even remember the days when he had been at the academy anymore.

How long would Vyx rule this time?

Well, if she's smart, she'll be much more paranoid this time. Might actually survive long enough to be remembered, he said. She was keeping the Drow focused on an external threat, rallying them together in order to keep them from looking at fighting each other. It was a smart move and so long as there were more cities to conquer, she would be able to keep her power, he guessed.

Threecups Sreeya

 

[Dinien]

~MEANWHILE, STILL IN LOWTOWN...~

Dinien turned to Slaine Aylwin, appraising her wobble and momentary pallor.

"Are you alright there, Ventash'ma? I've a spell as could help if you need it. It would completely ruin the numbness, delirium, and stupor you've worked so hard to build up, though, I'm afraid. Just give ol' Dinien the good word - or don't!"

He bowed politely, before playfully elbowing Theceran.

"Thought you was looking after your sister there, abban. She's like as not to roll her way up the ramp. And you know they ain't about to blame the highborn gal if that happens!"

Theceran
Alak Rasivrein
Nyssiel
Slaine Aylwin

 

[Tyrnael Myrlochar]

~THE QUEEN'S PLAZA~

Tyrnael lounged in her seat boredly, deploring the absence of a consort to toy with, having watched her onetime mentor Beksesha Suulet'jabar's impressive young adonis fuss over her for nearly two hours from across the ring, where the dregs of her now irrelevant house had been relegated. She could have hastily delegated a bannerman, of course, were it not crucial to find an absolutely ideal match for the sake of preserving her house. She simply couldn't risk the disaster that a beautiful but cretok-brained firstborn would pose.

The distant fanfare perked the young matron back to attention. She turned and made sure what remained of her house looked as presentable as possible, signing curt corrections in the couple spots where they were needed. She gave a particularly exasperated scowl to her slouching brother. She spotted an opportunity - the lack of a footman to aid the valsharess from her vornyx! -but Beksesha was once again the quicker. An ephemeral flash of an appreciative smirk ever-so-briefly curled the corners of her pouting lips.

 

[Nimruil]

Spoiler: Music

Nimruil was enjoying all the comfort and privacy of his carriage for as long as it was afforded him, fuming away on his pipe, attempting to ignore the beating of his heart in tandem with the drums, when suddenly, it happened.

The shroom bloomed within him.

Space elongated. Time? Irrelevant. Senses intermingled, whispers growing as loud as roars, drums turning into whispers of the heart, smells violently ravaging his nostrils, umbral auras swirling behind every carriage curtain around him, every layer of his robe feeling itchy and icky against his suddenly very sensitive skin, the taste of the timmask turning to tinder-ash in his mouth, causing him to cough it out profusely, and he vaguely registered his attendants turning their heads at him, speaking words he no longer understood.

The salesman had been right. He could smell the priestesses from here. Though it was more sweat than perfume that struck him.

The bloom was taking him away. With the last splinter of his own mind, just before it departed, it realised.

These mushrooms had not been Blue Caps. Oh, no. This was . . . it could only be . . . but that was inconceivable--

Nush Nush.

That most dreaded hallucinogenic shroom configured into clouds of toxic inhalation, smuggled into spices and food, as much a poison as an intoxicant, leaving whole nush-nush dens of hopeless commoners in spellbound dazes for weeks, sometimes even months on end.

Nimruil might have been able to appreciate all that, if his mind had still belonged to him. But alas, another unshakable presence made its way behind the confines of his skull, spearing out from his eyes with haughty, imperious command.

Somewhere in the aether-drifts of the anxious, excited and tremulous psyches that converged on this coronation, memory of another stepped in to take over the reins of his anima . . .

--------

Vyx'aria stared daggers at the attendants in the inconceivably small carriage.

"Master -- are you well?"

"Master?" Her backhanded slap lashed across the apprentice's face. He recoiled, aghast and frightened, reaching up for his cheek. "Have you lost your senses? You will address me as valsharess, worm."

The attendants peered at one another, mystified and a touch affronted. Meanwhile, Vyx'aria peered down herself; cold, composed. Until she saw what she was wearing.

Cutting fury slid out like a drawn blade. A robe? Disgraceful.

Just as they reached out for her, she rose in fluid motion, departing this foreign carriage. And she stepped out -- out into the glory of the Queen's Plaza, ahead of whoever's procession this was. Into the Queen's Plaza. Her plaza.

She drew in a long inhalation, and she smelled conquest. She fanned out her arms, as if to grasp the entire audience, enjoying the expanse. Nothing but smells assailed her then: the aroma of victory, like a freshly oiled blade. The odor of reverent fear, like some pungent soap scrubbing across a slave's back. The stench of sycophantic clergy, cloying the breath-invaded air like overpowering incense. The--

All at once, a weasly skall stood in her way. She was among the higher rows. Eyes and heads turned her way.

How had she ended up here again?

No matter. Directions held no stake over monarchs. Wherever they went, that was the right way. This she knew.

"There you are. Your presence is timely." Her eyes sliced into the skall, who withered before her. One hand went for her hip -- curiously bereft of her twin swords -- and the other pointed at the hapless skall with an elongated finger of command. "Skall, I require your aid. Bring me my royal garb, at once. I cannot be seen in this," she sneered out the last words, dripping with venom. "Mageling nightgown."