Legend of Ransera

Notwithstanding the forthcoming centennial jubilee for Her Divine Radiance, the Solar Sovereign, the event of the season for Solunarium's upper crust was to be the Aurisian Ball. The reclusive, elven desert kingdom of the North, would host the elite of the reclusive, elven desert kingdom to the South in their palatial embassy, set along the River Vasta in the Solunarian Luxium.

Though the invitations were targeted and few, the event was large enough in scale and broad enough in scope to include representatives from the top five castes of Solunarium. From Regalis to Equestris, the cream of the Solunarian crop, would don their finest attire and strut before crowds of onlookers who gathered around the entrance of the embassy for a glimpse at the gilt-edged greats of their time dressed in the latest couture. Remarkably, recent fashion trends were, for the first time in Solunarian history, heavily influenced by the fashion of Karnor. Whether arriving in the loose-fitting robes of Kalzasi, which merged rather seamlessly with aboriginal Solunarian styles, or in the sharper, tighter lines of the tragic land of Zaichær, Karnor seemed to be the place to imitate. Those who'd missed the memo were scoffed at.

Humans of the Equestrian caste were first to arrive. With more to prove than most, their styles could be ostentatious to a point that even Solunarians might balk at. In attire that blended classical simplicity with Northern sensibilities, the Patricians were next to arrive. The elves in their Autumn splendour would follow them and eventually, the royals themselves would appear. The Paterfamilii and Materfamilii of the royal cadet branches of House Sol'Aværys, and even Her Divine Radiance, the Solar Sovereign herself would process into the embassy, flanked by her Aværyan Guard- Baseborn cousins of the Blood, who pledged themselves to serve the Crown before all else.

Titles were announced by a herald as each guest stepped into the ballroom, where a throne had been set up for the Sovereign and a lower one for the Aurisian ambassador who served as host of the event. Old, even by Siltori standards, the thin-faced, silver-haired elf rose and bowed to greet the Sovereign as she claimed her golden seat at his side, to watch as those who'd been milling in the outer chambers began to step into the ballroom. Even the garb of the Solunarian sovereign seemed to be influenced by Northern trends, as the shoulders of her gown extended into sharp points off of which tassels dangled after the fashion of Zaichaeri epaulets. Over the ring of her radiant crown, a miniature sun blazed emitting a near blinding glow as it rotated. It cast off warmth enough to indicate that it was no mere illusion, but a true elemental force.

As the Aurisian Embassy had never hosted such a sprawling event, many were curious as to whether it was Auris' way of celebrating the sovereign's centennial, or whether it betokened some sort of announcement about the age-old alliance between the two elven cultures, who had so much in common and so much to gain from forging and fortifying their relationship. Whatever was to come of the evening, it was only now beginning. As the ballroom began to fill out, the Sovereign beckoned to a tall, black-clad knight of Auris- a handsome elf, light of hair and slender of build, who knelt before her as they conferred inaudibly.

Having learned of the recent trend toward Northern fashions that seemed to be sweeping Solunarium's elite, Arvælyn was well-positioned to take advantage of the opportunity. He'd come from Kalzasi with clothes, of course, many of them fine. He'd mostly chosen the lighter garb that would best suit the desert climate of Solunarium, and that which was as similar to what he knew of the local attire. As such, he had a few options for things to wear. At the suggestion of his Solunarian relations, he picked out his top choice a week or so earlier, and took it to a tailor to add Solunarian accents to the Kalzasern style, as well as a Runeforger who would apply ætheric ornamentation.

He was anxious, seated in the carriage queue leading up to the entrance of the Aurisian Embassy. He could hear the buzz of a crowd outside who'd gathered to observe the spectacle of couture that would ensue as guests arrived. His hands fidgeted upon his lap, fingers swirling along the fabric of his skirt. He'd been in the presence of royals of the Unbroken Line, now, but not in settings where he might have to interact with them. This felt like trial by fire, but he'd been in Solunarium for well over a full season now, altogether. Perhaps it was due time he put all his training to the test.

He nestled his shoulder against Finn's, and looked across to the other side of the carriage where Princess Cithæra of Gens Phædryn-Sol'Aværys, as she was to be referred in her present ostentatious regalia, as opposed to when she wore her Sentinel blacks, was seated with her dashing, albeit enigmatic, consort, Val'Sorokys Kyrin.

"You needn't worry so, Arvælyn. You'll enter the main ballroom with Kyrin. I shall arrive some time later. If you find yourself in a predicament, you'll have plenty of support. Even beyond those you know, I have sentinels everywhere..." It was cold comfort, to Arry's pointed ears, but it was all he had and, ere long, they were at the entrance.

The coachman helped him down and the eyes of the crowd turned to the latest coach to loose guests onto the walkway. A few disappointed groans were uttered as an unknown golden elf stepped down from his coach in a simple, black sari that hugged his curves while offering little else in the way of glamour beyond flattering a shapely physique. When Finn stepped to his side, Arry smiled to himself and spoke the runic trigger, which he learned was the Vallenor command word for:

"Illuminate." Once that had been spoken, the black seemed to burst with radiant hues of scarlet and gold, that wove in Kalzasern celestial patterns that danced along the fabric, and even the bare skin that was framed by the asymmetrical cut of the sari. Gyroscopic belts of northerly sigils extended into the surrounding air, and whirled in lazy, luminescent patterns that orbited the elf. The disappointed crowd was suddenly enraptured, as he stepped forth and ascended the staircase to enter the embassy.

Having arrived on the later end, the cocktail hour in the outer chamber was sparsely populated, as guests were heading into the ballroom. Arvælyn had time to snag a sparkling cocktail, and then Kyrin urged Finn and him toward the queue of delegates. As they reached the grand archway, Arry took Finn's arm. His feigned father stepped forward first, and the herald called forth in Vastian:

"His Lordship, Leukus Val'Sorokys Kyrin, His Lordship Kyros Len'Sorokys Arvælyn and Finn Peregrinus..." The herald glanced to the fair-skinned human, "...guest."

The chamber orchestra whose music reverberated through the large hall as if the sound was coming from the very air particles around the guests, shifted into a minor key that seemed to presage the arrival of Caste Regalis.

“His Serene Highness, Octavian Phædryn-Sol’Aværys Phocion Princeps,
Her Serene Highness Augusta Phædryn-Sol’Aværys Valæra Princeps and
Her Serene Highness Camilla Phædryn-Sol’Aværys Cithæra Princeps Sybilla.” The princes of Phædryn’s gens stood atop the grand staircase as the eyes of the guests turned to them. The herald’s cry was enough to draw even Her Divine Radiance’s gaze, which lifted from the slender young elven knight kneeling before her to regard her cousin rival. Her smirk was in earnest today as old plans had recently been set into motion to shore up her advantage in their covert Cold War.

The Materfamilias of Gens Phædryn stood at the point of their triad, as they descended the steps in a slow, graceful symmetry. The golden mother flanked by her two silver scions, all dressed in a simple black base that might have been a nod to their sentinel uniforms, except that each was accented by flowing capes and plates of gleaming silver akin to armour. Chest plates, pauldrons, vambraces, grieves and other accents from which hung argent chains that further offset the black basewear. Each wore a simple princely circlet and a mild expression as the crowd parted to admit them.

The Solar Sovereign glanced to the young man before her and at her gesture, he stood and stepped aside, taking his place at the right hand of the Aurisian ambassador.

The Phædryns made a slow procession directly for the daïs. Bows offered went unacknowledged, as their sights remained forward toward their destination. Cithæra had travelled with her other children who now stood apart from the triad. They knew of her regard, and of her duties tonight. The three elves stood before their monarch, offering the obligatory bows and curtseys of respect to their liege. The Sovereign addressed them in Vallenor, rather than Vastian as she greeted them:

“Cousins.” Thalya IV’s smile was broad enough to be noteworthy and concerning to Cithæra who, though she was the greatest Sembler in the realm, dared not practise her Craft upon the sovereign who ever had her own potent mages assessing threats.

“We are grateful to your Gens for establishing the new accords we here celebrate, and particularly to the Princess Valæra for brooking so much time abroad of the nourishing Atraxian sun, to oversee the construction in Auris.”

“Ever in your service, Divine Radiance.” The Moonborn princess replied with a curtsy.

“Of course you know Ambassador d’Averyx.” The Sovereign gestured to the Siltori seated at her side. The Phædryns bowed more subtly to one to whom they owed plentiful respect albeit no fealty. “And allow me to introduce his ward, Sir Ayreon.” She gestured to the young knight and as Cithæra clapped eyes on him, she physically tensed. Phocion and Valæra exchanged a furtive glance. Their mother was fair unflappable even in settings where she wasn’t as on guard as tonight. That the mistress of secrets should be ostensibly surprised in front of the Sovereign, was worrying indeed.

“Sir Ayreon.” Cithæra inclined her head in salutation.

“Please, enjoy the festivities. I shall summon you forth when we adjourn to the courtyard to unveil our joint achievement.” Thalya IV’s gaze deepened, fixed upon the eyes of the Phædryn materfamilias. “It is truly amazing what our family can do when we are aligned to common purpose. Is it not, Cousin?”

“Tis…” Cithæra replied coolly. “Come, children. Let us clear the daïs for the arrival of the Unbroken.” The Sovereign arched an eyebrow, catching her meaning: That Phædryn was set apart from its cousin branches. If the other line was ‘Unbroken’, where did that leave Phædryn?

Princess Cithæra pivoted, and descended the steps of the daïs, followed by her children as, across the long room, the herald called forth:

“His Serene Highness Thalyus Vlahos-Sol’Aværys Vrædyn Princeps Pontifex and his betrothed, Her Serene Highness Gallia Naxos-Sol’Aværys Ilythia Princeps…” The festivities would continue with drinks, dancing, and passed plates of hors d’oeuvres as the final esteemed guests, representatives from every princely branch, filed into the room to greet the ambassador and the Solar Sovereign.

"Plus it recreates the trifecta of your former alliterative title, now that you are confirmed fantastic!" Arvælyn noted encouragingly, speaking Common with his lover out of ease. He supposed, after a fashion, it went along with the aesthetic theme of the evening... or was it æsthetic here? Whatever the case:

"Finn 'The Fantastic' Farstrider." He held his hands out, as if performing and presenting the name. "I'm not sure if you're in jest, but I quite like it in sooth." He bit the corner of his lip, "It's actually rather sexy..." The youth scanned over the form of his beloved, as if regarding him anew now that he'd whimsically adopted a novel moniker. It didn't hurt the illusion that Finn was dressed particularly finely, looking more the prince than he had since his capstone performance in Kalzasi to Arry's golden eyes.

Arry looked to Lord Kyrin, offering the stone-faced statue of a man a friendly smile that he didn't expect to be returned.

"Potabo nos vinum?" The younger elf required of the elder.

"Non, gratias. Vos duo bibere." Kyrin declined, and proved Arry correct in retaining his default grimace, eyes fixed on the entrance at the top of the staircase.

"Just for us, then, I suppose." Arry noted to Finn, taking a few steps away before whispering, "It seems like my mum has him whipped, innit..." Upon finding one of the attending servants with a tray, he smiled. There were only two drinks left and another guest was drawing close to collect them, so Arry sprung to action extending both hands. The servant nearly dropped the tray in surprise as the two flutes of pale, sparkling wine began to float away and into the grasp of the radiantly ornamented Arvælyn.

"For the Lord Farstrider." He loosened his grip on the drink in his left hand and let it hover toward Finn, only releasing his Kinetic hold once his amatus had it well in hand. He grinned winsomely,

"Do you fancy a dance after this drink, or-..."

All at once, the tenor of the room shifted. The music darkened, and the many conflicting reactions of the surrounding Symphonies were impossible to ignore. He saw his winged brother Raithen had just reached the bottom of the staircase, and his mother stood at the point of a dark trinity. To her left stood a woman he hadn't met, but who he recognised must be his hitherto absent sister, and to her right stood Phocion. Both of those flanking Cithæra had traveled separately and, though he'd seen his mum in the carriage over, he hadn't really seen her ensemble in full effect.

As the music shifted and the House of Phædryn was announced, beginning to descend, he noted... as did many others, judging from their symphonies, that the black-clad triad was dressed for war. As they crossed the room, guests bowed as the princes passed, Arvælyn following suit, and watching them approach the Solar Sovereign.

Their exchange was, of course, inaudible and Arry dared not practise any but the most passive, almost perfunctory Mesmer in this intimidatingly estimable company. Soon the casual (if one could deem it that) conversation resumed, and Arvælyn took note of a few familiar folks in the crowd. Even with all the showy regalia, it was hard to miss Raithen's wings peaking out above the heads of the crowd. He could see Æros, bold as ever, wearing royal colours in front of royalty. It favoured his ever shifting complexion, Arry thought. In blacker garb than any sentinel, albeit accented in gold, he saw Æden, the Principalus who'd taken him on his first wyvern ride. With a bit of surprise, he even saw Hilana... but then, recalling the Eve of Æquinox in Varvara's temple, he wondered whether Cithæra hadn't had a hand in her invitation. The attention of the Mistress of Chains had been cast upon this daughter of the Vastii, in which his mother saw no small portent.

He stood by with Finn, finishing off his drink and watching the progression of the court dances and, remembering his whilom days learning choreography, he noted that these formal promenades were comparatively quite simple.

"I think I've got the hang of this." He said, discarding his flute on a nearby ledge. He offered his hand to Finn and, even though it looked as though his body was awash in fire and magma, his hand was cool to the touch as ever.

"Shall we dance, Milord Farstrider?"