Legend of Ransera

Mabon's musings yielded a hearty chuckle indeed from the Crownwyrm. It was the starkest outburst of emotion he'd yet displayed and deeming it an 'outburst' would be a bit of a stretch. It was little more than a bubble of magma bursting in the churning core of a volcano.

"Rather like it is here, I expect. Different climate, different landscape, but my Flight is nothing if not consistent."

"Some might say 'rigid'." Cithæra hazarded to note. A slight grunt answered her, as Zalkyriax nodded.

"Some might. But Shokaze is not a title I would tack onto my lengthy litany of mantles for the nonce."

Meanwhile, Ciarán did earn one of Phocion's rare sniggers by playing along with the moon elf's line of jesting.

"Well, it is good that you know yourself well enough to request a chaperone, I suppose..." Arry might have spoken on, but for Finn's playful suggestion of Phocion to assume that role.

"I suppose I could carve out an evening next week." Phocion said with a cavalier shrug. Whether he was genuinely keen or making a point by standing in defiance of Finn's assumptions about him, the sentinel seemed to be in earnest. "I shall check my diary."

Zalkyriax looked to Fionna thoughtfully,

"There have been..." He said, as wistful, fiery eyes fell briefly upon his son across the chamber, "There are. I would venture that many trades now common amongst the mortal races were first conceived by we who preceded them. We who dwell in nature's forge would have been passing shortsighted to never explore beyond the obvious in out multi-millennial lives. To say nothing of the furnaces that burn in our chests. Our starfire churns to burn away impurities in our world. Metal that has been kissed by such a force is quite sought after in some circles."

While Finn had proven exceptional by mortal and divine judges, he hadn't sprung from infertile stone. His parents were simple folk, but not stupid—not so prolix as their poet, but not lacking in observational skills. They didn't comment on the subtle interplay between dragon and princess, and they weren't the type of people to make snap judgements. Curiosity might be piqued, but not fed. It was passing strange to chit-chat about art and antiquities with a dragon and a princess, however. To their minds—if they thought about it at all—this was hardly standard evening activities for such as they.

"I, ah... wouldn't actually expect that of you, dominus," Ciarán vacillated, "though of course I wouldn't mind either. Neither of you are partiers, I take it?" He glanced from Phocion to Valæra and back. The northern lad assumed Arry wouldn't be allowed to slum it, but perhaps those not next in line to inherit a throne—even if it was currently in the hands or talons of a long-lived creature—might deign to enjoy themselves among the plebs. Then again, the rich and powerful just hosted parties for each other as far as he knew.

City life was new enough to him, let alone the aristoi.

"If not, Raithen Dux would surely show you around," Finn assured him, though he was actually hoping to witness—or at least hear about—Phocion having a night out on the town. "He has done the same for other Kalzasern visitors."

Fionna's eyes softened curiously upon the king. He seemed rather nostalgic, but she daren't ask too probing a question.

"Ah, something to be seen, I'd wager," she said softly. "I have always considered myself lucky when I could spend time working iron into decorative things, or perhaps the odd bit of gold- or silver-work, rather than nails, plowshares, and the like." It was honest, necessary work, and she wasn't ashamed, but her life hadn't afforded her as much time to explore her creative side as she might have liked. Fionna was a practical woman, however, and didn't waste too much thought on what she didn't have.

“Fie, just because I’m not keen to be seen in public with the like of Finn, hardly makes of me a hermit!” Phocion playfully huffed, “But if you would prefer the goldfinch to the raven, I’ve no doubt you’ll enjoy an evening in Raithen’s more libertine company.”

Valæra, for her part, seemed perfectly contented to assume the reclusive mantle assigned her by assumption and implication.

“As you wish.” Zalkyriax replied cavalierly at Fionna’s idly expressed desire to possibly one day see a starforged item. He extended a hand, clenched it, and in his grasp appeared a gladius. He promptly turned its blade toward himself and offered the hilt to his guest.


“Be cautious with the edges, lest you split the very slip space and baffle your son.” Zalkyriax’d hearty chuckle may have implied he was in jest, but it was very difficult to ascertain what exactly he found amusing in general and this moment was no different.

“And this tapestry…” Cithæra finally began to narrate, “Depicts the expulsion of the Orkhan triumvirate from the continent of Ecith…”

“Raxen, of course, fled to Ailizane to the bosom of his Lightbringer to mustre the host that doomed our quondam crusades.” Zalkyriax added, more directly than darkly.

“So, Ciarán…” Arvælyn began, “You shall have to let us know what parts of your palate you’d like to train first. It won’t do to have you forcing down the local delicacies in front of scrutinising magnati. You are brother to the Chosen of Aværys, and that holds a great deal of weight here… not to place undue pressure upon your, admittedly broad shoulders.” He interrupted a wry smirk with a sip of the fine vintage that was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to the training of the young northerner’s tastebuds.

"Fair point," Finn allowed with a self-deprecating smile. He glanced over to ensure he wasn't tamping down his parents' emotions too much, figuring what he saw Zalkyriax do just then was worth allowing them to be a bit overawed. Some of it was sublimated, of course, so he supposed his mother would dream about that antique blade for the rest of her life, but that was already within her wheelhouse.

He turned his smile back on his brother and his soon-to-be brother- and sister-in-law. His thumb brushed back and forth across the nape of Arvælyn's neck, though he didn't need soothing. Sometimes Finn just enjoyed touching him.

"Fyræa's forge," Fionna whispered, and then words failed her. Palms upturned to accept the arcane weapon and work of art showed calluses from decades at her own forge, though the servi at the Prædium Sorokys had given her an excellent manicure.

One might imagine she lacked something in being unable to see the magical structure of the artefact, and yet she was master enough of her own craft that she was marveling all the same. Turning it carefully over, she sought some sign that it had ever been struck by a hammer, admiring the patina of the metal, and, in any case, parts of it glowed lest she think it mundane by any stretch of the imagination. Even she thought she could almost sense a power in it, the same sort of power one felt in a holy place.

Mabon was impressed, of course, but also amused by his wife's reaction. But the princess was speaking, so he afforded her his attention.

"I wonder if that is why he was reborn in Kalzasi," he mused. "Not Ecith, but Kalzasi belonged to Orkhan monks before the Avialæ claimed it. At least... if my, ah... admittedly meager historical education is to be trusted." He wondered if Zalkyriax had been there; they said dragons were long-lived. And now the Daikozu of House Novalys was married to a dragon, and his own son was marrying the son of a dragon.

Of course, they loved Finn and thought he was special, but this was beyond the pale of even a proud parent's expectation. When they had first met Arry, he had wanted so desperately to be accepted. Now he was one of the most powerful people in the realm. How strange the world was. He just hoped Finn would be prize enough to keep Arry's attention, or the dragon prince would break his son's heart. His first love had come rather late as such things were measured, and now it was going to be a marriage.

"I've never been someone before," Ciarán admitted. "Even... someone by association. Perhaps I ought to stay home until I can learn proper manners... Finn, at least, lived in the city. Knew how to talk to different sorts of people." Though Finn was keeping a light touch on his emotional rudder, and though he wanted to dive into decadent revels with abandon, he didn't want to ruin this thing for Finn, or for his family, or for Arry, or for Arry's family, at that.

Once they knew he was nothing more than an indifferent smith who could help a cow birth a calf and not much else...

"Hey," Finn interjected. "I still feel an imposter most of the time, even with the approval and support of princes and dragons and gods. You will find your way, and you aren't alone."

“I assure you…” Zalkyriax cracked a smirk, “Fyræa had not a thing to do with it.” He turned his attention from Fionna, unconcerned with her handling of the precious albeit sturdy instrument of death.

“Perhaps so.” Zalkyriax conceded to Mabon’s supposition with no further elaboration on the matter. He had not followed the exploits of the Orkhan Three in the aftermath of the Rending. The war was over and his interest waned in favour of grieving.

“Well, you’re certainly young enough to learn quickly, I should think.” Phocion said of Ciarán, looking the boy up and down. Though the Moonborn elf may have looked of an age or even younger for his slighter frame, he had a good decade on the boy at least.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about embarrassing us.” Valæra interjected, “We wouldn’t allow that. We have ways.” She noted cryptically. In Solunarium espionage and diplomacy went hand in hand even more explicitly than in other realms, with the Vigilia Argenti having long been charged with the oversight of both disciplines. The Sentinels had always been more holistic an order than their golden counterparts, and so the transition had proven smoother for the Umbrium than the Luxium. This was by design, and thanks to the woman giving a tour to Ciarán’s parents across the room.

“Did you come with vestments to befit a royal wedding, Ciarán?” Phocion wondered, “We have access to the finest tailors in the realm. Kalzasern fashion was quite popular a few seasons back, so you’ll find them familiar with the style of your homeland, should you wish to represent it. Not to further intimidate you…” Phocion’s sneer seemed to contradict this sentiment,

“But has Finn mentioned that the ceremony is to take place in the Divine Realm of Majesty, overseen by His Divine Radiance Aværys Imperator, Rex Regnum, Pater Imperialis and Founder of the Sacred Solunarian Empire?”

"No, of course not," she managed, and was glad he didn't seem truly offended. Fionna wasn't exactly a warrior, but when she took it by the hilt and tested its balance, one might surmise she knew how to use it. Their village had been under the protection of Kalzasi, but there were still bandits in Karnor who paid attention to the schedule of patrols.

"Hm," Mabon mused. Then, "Fionna, probably best not to wave that around near royal skin...?"

She blinked, froze, then remembered herself. "The princess is a sorceress and would ken such an intention likely before I did, and I hardly think I have the mettle to attack a dragon."

He chuckled. "Just so."

"Well, I wouldn't mind a night on the town with you either," Ciarán said to Valæra. It might have been a knee-jerk reaction, a bit of the native rogue peeking out. At least he wasn't entirely cowed, though Finn hoped Solunarium found him charming rather than presumptuous.

"Ahh," Ciarán continued after winking at Phocion's sister and actually blushing, continued to Phocion himself, "he did mention, but I didn't know if he was joking or not. Whisked across the world. Dining with princes and dragons. I suppose a ceremony in a celestial realm only makes logical sense...?" His bravado was only a touch brittle. "Anyway, Finn said he would take care of it, but if you want to take me to the tailor as well. Did you want us to match?"

"I'm not sure if Ciar's going to become the darling of Solunarium or dead," he murmured ruefully to Arvælyn.

“I’d not have handed her the weapon if I was remotely concerned about it being turned on any of the royal skin or scale present.” Zalkyriax said to Mabon, with a shadow of a smile.

“Are you planning to retire here or will you be establishing a forge?” Cithæra inquired, “We can set you up with something if you’d like and other arrangements haven’t already been made.” Cithæra, for her part, couldn’t fathom jettisoning the weight of the realm she held so dear in favour of idleness and tranquility. Whether or not she already knew the answer to the question she posed, it seemed a preferably topic to the regicidal implications away from which she was pivoting.

Valæra didn’t dignify Ciarán’s vague invitation with more answer than a wry smirk. One could see her kinship to Phocion in that subtle, stoical expression, though there was more of their mother’s austerity in the sister than the brother.

“If my offer is superfluous, we can leave it at that.” Phocion shrugged. He had no particular desire to insert himself into the boy’s wedding preparations, but it had seemed polite to offer in the moment to soften some of his teasing. Phocion was enough of a diplomat to recognise that their power differential lent undue weight to his taunts that might keep the lad up at night. That was part of the fun, to be sure, but he hardly wanted to do anything that might catalyse chastisement from his younger brother. Arvælyn held the rank, though Phocion was older and more entrenched in this realm of theirs. He very much preferred to retain the role of mentor and advisor to be treated like some insubordinate underling. That meant he needed to be cautious in affairs in pertaining to Finn.

“Well, such is the risk of leading an examined life, I suppose… but let’s be optimistic.” Arry replied, “…and maybe assign him a guard detail.”

For a moment, Mabon wondered if there were scales under the king's garments. Though his mother had been a witch, he didn't know all that much about magic and magical creatures. Fionna regretfully held the dagger out for their host, hilt resting on her palm, blade upon her wrist.

"Truly a masterwork, sire." Then, to the princess, "I don't fancy idleness, but for now I am enjoying my family, and being a grandmother. Not having to work for my livelihood, for the livelihood of my family, 'tis a new thing. I suppose I might... hm, Finn mentioned one could rent a forge in a city of this size. Perhaps I might start there, but instead of seeing to the needs of a village with my craft, see where my imagination takes me. Perhaps the little one might grow up to be a runeforger, and grandmother will have taught the un-magical foundations..."

She smiled faintly. One could call them refugees, except their straits hadn't been so very dire in the scheme of things. From what she gathered, the princess toiled ceaselessly in politics. Fionna knew that was more than just throwing balls, but hadn't any reference for how politics worked, truly.

"The silver lining of the Eclipse," Mabon added thoughtfully, "is that it gave us the push we needed to make such large changes for our family. We are pleased as any parents that we can rely upon our son, but we aren't in our dotage yet." He chuckled, casting a fond look at his sons, then back to the royals. "I know he feels he must be useful to Arry... Ah, to Arvælyn, to the Umbrian throne, and to his God. I rather hope we can be useful to him, so that he doesn't take the weight of the world on his shoulders for our sake. But my skills are those of a servus. It will take some thought to see how I might help."

"I would happily accept any offer of aid," Ciarán averred, then downed his wine in one go and seemed a touch startled when a servus appeared at his elbow to refill it. "Oh, thanks, mate. I know I do need some polish. Don't want Finny's section to be lackluster." He winked at Finn, and seemed to take heart knowing his elder brother was present.

Finn smiled, murmured agreement to his amatus, "Guard detail. Pretty unveiled Sentinels who can keep up with him while keeping him out of any real trouble at the Noctis Æternus."

"I know we haven't fully decided whether we will stay or return to Kalzasi," Ciarán continued, "but I would like to learn to fit in here. Even if we do go back, I will want to visit my brother in the future."

“It is so.” Cithæra replied to the mention of renting a forge.

“And you’ll soon have a son-in-law who can furnish you with starfire, if you wish to experiment.” Zalkyriax added. “But take heed, for I am told too much purity can make strong metal brittle. I’m sure you know more of this than I.” The ancient creature demurred, for even in his multimillennial life there were many things he hadn’t taken the time to master and smithery was one of them.

“There are many ways to make oneself useful.” Cithæra offered to Mabon, perhaps consolingly though it was hard to tell so mildly delivered as it was.

“If the human groom elects to invite Arcas, his section may blaze brighter than ours.” Phocion noted.

“Not in His Divine Radiance’s own realm, brother. He of the Sceptre will decide upon whom is most Radiant in His sight.” Valæra corrected and, despite the smooth and uncritical way she said so, Phocion winced feeling chastised and embarrassed to be so before so humble a guest.

Meanwhile, Arvælyn leaned in to whisper to Finn whilst Ciarán was distracted by his Phædryn siblings’ exchange.

“Perhaps we send them incognito without his knowledge as not to cramp his style. If he knows he’s under guard he will assume, albeit rightly, that Sentinel spies are observing his every move. Where is the fun in that?” He turned back to the group, looking perfectly innocent as he caught Ciarán’s expressed desire to assimilate somewhat.

“Don’t worry overmuch, Ciarán.” Valæra answered. “Though you may be concerned about the scrutiny of Solunarium, you may be overestimating our expectations of foreigners. There will be no hiding your peregrine origins and thus the bar will be set quite low.”

Even Phocion seemed to find her frigid delivery of a rather insulting comment amusing, needing to conceal a slight chuckle with a sip of his drink.

Fionna's gaze remained upon the blade she had so carefully returned, but her gaze rose to meet his ancient eyne. It was clear that Arry's parents could be solicitous, and she knew that her son's silent song was buoying her calm. But she wondered how they would truly fit in here, whether they would perforce become as clients or vassals and whether that would stress the alloy of the boys' marriage.

She nodded to Cithæra, then to Zalkyriax.

"You are correct, sire. Carbon turns iron into steel, and no doubt starfire burns away more impurities than regular fire or even dragonshards."

Mabon too nodded, though he kept himself for asking the princess' opinions on just how they might prove useful. He could have straight talk with his son, but he could tell Arry's mother was used to arranging things with such a deft touch she wouldn't be noticed.

"We've always just wanted him to be happy, figuring happiness would come with a certain amount of prosperity and health. It would seem Arry— ah, Arvælyn's happiness will be much more complicated. And Finn's as well once they're inseparable." He might have said more, but the servi began to move strangely. The simple man didn't yet know how to read the ballet of servitude, that supper was served.

"I will always have a sofa for you, Ciar," Finn promised with a smile. Then, as his brother was distracted by Arvælyn's siblings, he nodded to his love. "And I'll give him a password or something to give to any Sentinel he can find should he find himself in trouble. Give him the idea that he knows where to go for aid... meanwhile, aid will always be watching."

"Oh, very well," Ciarán said, his natural bravado attempting to vie with the immovable power of the Phædryns, "you are both pretty enough I won't mind you slumming a bit with me."

As Finn noted the movements of the servi, he allowed a flicker of hunger to flare up in his family—not so much Ciarán would forget his table manners, but enough so that food would feel right and natural in the progress of the evening.