Legend of Ransera

“Do you think this is enough? It doesn’t feel like enough. We did a whole banquet for Kala of Starfall.”

“…Who is a literally goddess, Exalted Highness…” Phocion observed matter-of-factly, “Finn’s family are human tradespeople from a remote village in Karnor. They would doubtless be intimidated by the level of extravagance we rolled out for that lofty envoy. I suspect they’ll be overwhelmed enough without us trotting out the better part of the senate.”

“Perhaps you’re right…” Arvælyn acknowledged, as he considered the guest list which, while smaller in number than those congregated at Kala’s banquet, was certainly not composed of the humblest of figures. Perhaps that was where the error lay… “Should we make it smaller?”

Phocion pinched the bridge of his prominent nose,

“It’s fine, Highness. They know who your family is, we’ll just be putting faces to the names.”

“Faces and also wings, though…”

“They’ll be used to wings as subjects of Kalzasi, won’t they? You’re overanalysing. Everything will be splendid. Besides it’s a tad late to ponder revisions now. They'll be here any moment.”

“It’s just… I never got the sense that they particularly liked me, so it’s important to me that I make a good impression. They’re much… warmer people, despite the climate to which they are accustomed and Finn is quite close with them. I’ve never even met his siblings! What if they don’t like me?”

“This seems like an entirely fixable problem for a Grandmaster Mesmer…”

“Oh, but Finn would be terribly cross!”

“A poor attempt at levity, but cogitate: What is the worst outcome? Do you think that Finn will stop loving you if his family, as you say, doesn’t ‘particularly like’ you? Finn in whose soul you are entwined in ways few mortals ever broach? Finn, who was Marked at your side by the Founders themselves as if making you a marching pair to ply Their wills?”

“I… suppose not, but I still want them to like me.”

“Mother really did a number on you abandoning you to the North, didn’t she?” Phocion blinked, remembering himself as he noticed the sharp ire churning in the furnace of Arvælyn’s eyes. He parted his lips, poised to pose his excuses but Cithæra swept into the chamber just then.

Phocion flushed, certain that she’d heard or otherwise divined the criticism he’d just voiced of her. She did not elect to merit his comments with a retort as she sauntered to the younger of her two sons present.

“The cocktail reception has been set up in the Great Kalædia Room. Finn is due to deliver his kinfolk there any minute. Valæra is overseeing the finishing touches. Did you plan to tarry here with Phocion to make a late entrance for affect, or…?”

“Oh, no. I don’t think they’re the sort of people who take stock in fashionable lateness… I’m ready.” Cithæra smiled, offering her arm and leading Arvælyn to the reception, followed by Phocion.

The Great Kalædia Room was a gallery the décor of which was themed around Provincia Kalædia: the Solunarian foothold sustained during the conquest wars in the realm of Ailizane. There were paintings depicting vistas as perceived by ancient Solunarian artist and pedestals bore artefacts that had been claimed during those quondam crusades. Though the gallery represented the colonial stake the Sacred Solunarian Empire claimed over the Northern continent, these were not depictions of war or conquest. There were other galleries for that. This one had been selected because it might display something of home for their guests in a room designed to highlight the beauty and bounty of Solunarium's erstwhile colony, without making any explicit claims over it.

Aside from tapestries and frescoes, the walls were also lined with servi holding trays. The surfaces of the cocktail trays had been treated to emit cold to keep their cargo perfectly cool until the cup was removed. The surfaces of food trays were heated for a similar effect on the hot hors d’oeuvres.

Valæra was standing and regarding a sculpture that had been looted from what was now known as Atinaw, but as the others entered she turned to face them and blinked with twin orbs hewn of glowing ætherite that had replaced her eyes after the costly tower mission.

“I trust you will find everything to be in order, Your Exalted Highness.” She offered with a bow.

Due to reasons that Finn no longer wished to think about, the actual translocation of his family had come out of nowhere. His Exalted Majesty had extended his invitation in Frost, and by the time of the Kalzasern coronation in Searing, Finn had shared that invitation. It had become less a visit, though, and more of an uprooting. Now he had a villa to house them—he wasn't going to sleep apart from his amatus until said amatus was sleeping with someone else to beget an heir. He could have them close, but also have enough space so that they didn't impinge upon the life he had forged here with Arvælyn. But his parents could retire, and his siblings could live easier for their brother's rise. There were dangers, of course, but it wasn't as though they would be accorded senatorial status or the like.

And so it was. At the crack of dawn, he had opened a portal to the hamlet and led the small army of servi through to carry their belongings through and settle them into the villa. It was only through judicious use of his Rune of Command and his natural charm that he kept their anxiety from exploding when he informed them that they would be attending dinner with His Exalted Highness and some of his family.

While they got settled into spaces larger and more luxurious than they had ever known, he ensured they were fed while the servi unpacking their things took apart their festial finest, and then crafted all the finer attire for the upcoming meal. The fabrics were woven through with spellthread such that even with the many layers, they would not be uncomfortable in the desert clime.

The bard did his best to make them feel as though they were not rushed, but there was much to be prepared.

When the door opened into Great Kalædia Room, a servi announced them, although the servi seemed perplexed by the pronunciation of foreign names as well as their lack of surname.

"Sentinel Finn, his mother, Fionna, his father, Mabon, and their younger son, Ciarán."

The familiar face of the prince's intended beamed to the right of his mother, who had her son's left arm and her husband's right. It was instantly apparent that Finn was no bastard. His features were a happy marriage of the two, and if their aging was anything to judge their son's future by, Arvælyn had nothing to worry about. Though her hair remained dark, his was going salt-and-pepper in a manner quite distinguished. Her eyes were the muddy blue of stones at the bottom of a river, his bright like his son's.

The men wore many-layered robes, while Fionna's dress hugged her strong frame above the bustline, but bloomed like a flower from below, creating a larger silhouette.

Ciarán looked like one might expect of Finn's younger brother.

They were not, however, champing at the bit to flee, the whites of their eyes rolling or the like. Though Finn was clearly drained despite his radiance, his Rune was engaged in keeping them calm enough in the situation, comfortable enough in the alien environs, that they could be more authentically themselves than if they were to fall to their knees and kowtow to their betters. They bowed as one, perhaps a side effect of his mesmeric nudging, and if his was more polished, they were all of the Kalzasern variety, what any commoner would offer to royalty.

"A thousand apologies, Your Exalted and Serene Highnesses," he said quickly. "My sister and their family remained behind." His sister had refused to let a serva breastfeed their infant, and so the others would have to make their acquaintance on another day.

"We are honored, Your Exalted Highness," Fionna managed, trying to align the clever Arry with the horned dignitary before her. "Your Serene Highnesses, for the invitation and the hospitality. We are... overwhelmed." But thankfully, Finn was keeping them whelmed enough to function.

Now that the guests of honour had arrived, whirling shades of purple and blue danced in the nebulæ of Valæra’s artificial eyes as she turned them toward a servus and those flowering the walls took their cue to spring to action.

“You are most gracious to say so, ma’am…” Arvælyn replied with a smile. With her observance of Solunarian formality, the prince was disinclined to use her given name and, lacking a family name to which he might defer, he settled on ‘ma’am’. It was easy to forget Northern etiquette in the absence of it, but he slid quickly back into the ‘respect your elders’ mindset in the presence of these reminders.

“And may I introduce Their Serene Highnesses: My mother, Princess Cithæra; and my half siblings Princess Valæra and Prince Phocion. I am still uncertain as to whether or not my half-brother the Duke Raithen will be joining us, but whatever the case as the ranking Umbrian, I rule that we can dispense with formalities for this occasion…” He reached for an offered flute of sparkling wine, but paused as the light of a fiery portal opened in his periphery and heat wafted into the room from the other side as a pale figure with violet eyes, platinum hair and metallic, reptilian wings stepped into the room— his long locks blowing in the warm wind that pursued him, until the portal closed to his rear.
Arvælyn’s eyes went wide and he froze for a moment as the servants halted their offerings and held their trays in masterful balance as they lowered themselves to kneel. Cithæra and her children also lowered themselves to one knee and bowed their heads as the herald solemnly proclaimed:

“Zalkyriax Zalkyrialis: Rex Draconum, Vigiliæ Vulcani et Pater Atraxiæ.”

“Rise.” The Crownwyrm intoned in Common, his voice seeming to boom beyond what one might expect from this slender, elven seeming he currently presented. The Solunarians obliged and Arvælyn, clearly disarmed by this unexpected appearance, realised that his prior claim of being the ranking royal was no longer true.

“Pater… I didn’t know you were—“

“Well, I invited them, did I not?” He stepped forth to regard the kin of Finn. “Welcome to the Umbrium. I understand you’ve taken up lodging in the realm above?”

With Finn's help, his family was holding it together well enough. He hadn't wanted to infantilize them, but had told them to think of it as something more akin to being invited to the village headman's table for a holiday dinner if they had been new to the village, and young. The gens Phædryn-Sol'Aværys were formal at the best of times, but they were attempting to treat with his common born family as their future in-laws and, as such, were attempting to narrow the gap between their social spheres. The gracious course was to meet them as best they could in that intermediate space.

If nothing else, Finn's parents understood a parent's love for their child and desire that they find as much happiness as the harshness of reality would allow.

They nodded respectfully at each princeps in turn matching names to faces, knowing each of them was Dominus or Domina unless they were invited to call them something else. Finn didn't even have to coach them not to stare at Valæra's ocular enhancements; they were just raised properly. Servi were approaching them with refreshment, and Finn began to reach out for one to offer his mother when he felt the rune on his shoulder tingle, a brief warning before hot air blew his hair back and his soon-to-be father-in-law swanned into the room.

His runes were unnecessary to urge his family to kneel. Finn's eyes rose after his initial obeisance, but his family continued to stare at the Dragon King's boots. He could feel their emotions beating against his enchantment; he didn't quash them, but he blunted them, prevented them from spiraling out of control.

"Your Exalted Majesty," he intoned, then rose when it was appropriate, when the Crownwyrm began to greet them and ask questions. His brother stood up with an awkward speed, attempting to follow Finn's example. His parents then helped each other up. "The villa in the Luxium where first your son and I were welcomed into Solunarium has been made available to me as I develop relationships with Luxian nobles, and my family will abide there with me."

The plan was to help them fall in love with the jewel of the desert. If they wished something less grand, he could see to it, but if they chose to retire in more comfort, he would keep them close. There was room for them, of course, and he spent his nights with Arvælyn anyway - but if Zalkyriax didn't want a gaggle of humans living out of the villa, Finn would, of course, make other arrangements.

"It was the grandest home I had seen until we arrived here, Your Exalted Majesty," Mabon managed, voice steady enough, though his gaze wavered as he wondered whether eye contact was welcome or whether it would invite a predator's response.

"Ah." Zalkyriax inclined his head at Finn's elaboration. "The Prædium Sorokys is situated in the old, high elven quarter of the Luxium. May the comforts within the confines of the estate be worth the indignities you are like to meet without. If you find the Aurecine District inhospitable, I've no doubt we can find you comparable lodging worthy of your esteem in the Argentine."

Phocion smirked to himself as he collected a flute of sparkling Umbrian red, which he instantly drew to his lips for a sip that seemed to punctuate some joke he hadn't troubled himself to utter.

Mabon's gambit did not seem to invite anything but the strange gaze of a creature so austere he somehow managed to project frigidity even in eyes that churned like a fiery furnace.

"Well, I hope you are not averse to grandeur if you are to make a home in Solunarium." Arvælyn blinked at the Crownwyrm, who pursed his lips and considered. "I pray you will all forgive me if my social graces are unbecoming. My kin and I have been markedly reclusive for many an epoch. Apart from your kinsman, I have not conversed with a denizen of Ailizane since we came as conq-..."


"Perhaps His Exalted Majesty would deign to avail himself of a cup of wine?" Cithæra suggested. Interrupting the Crownwyrm may have seemed, in theory, to be a grave trespass indeed, but Cithæra seemed to know her mate well enough to hazard it. In fact, her interjection seemed very welcome indeed as a relieved Zalkyriax nodded, and extended a pale hand to accept a glass offered by one of the servi.

"Fionna, Mabon... Have you chanced to travel much of Ailizane?" Cithæra inquired, as if she didn't know the answer, "This gallery boasts ancient artefacts from all across your mother continent. I wonder whether you might wish to see the products of your forebears' metallurgy...?" She suggested, gesturing toward another side of the room. She looked to Phocion, somewhat pointedly, as she led Zalkyriax and Finn's parents on a little tour, leaving the younger generation to dally with their drinks.

Phocion rolled his neck, and looked to Valæra's empty, albeit luminous eyes for a moment, before shifting his attention to the brother.

"Sooooo, Ciarán, how does a young human subject of the Kalzasern aviocracy occupy his days?"

Finn may or may not have been only too happy to claim residence in the Aurecine District. Whatever freedoms he enjoyed there, the Prædium Sorokys was only lent to him, but even the Prince Regent Arkænyn would think twice before challenging his right to be there. Mabon paled at the idea of even more opulence being opened up to them.

"Ah, Your Exalted Majesty is most gracious," he managed. "We want only to be near our son, but not so close that he runs off to yet another continent." Ciarán mumbled something, but chuckled at his father's attempt at humor.

Cithæra managed to snipe some potential faux pas, and Finn was only too happy to have her keep things running smoothly.

"Only the environs of Kalzasi, Domina," Fionna said apologetically, though her eyes did light up with interest. Soon enough, the two sets of parents had wine and were splitting off from the adult children.

"Ah, Dominus," Mabon was saying before they passed out of earshot, "you have been so good to our son, you needn't worry at offending us." He was aware of the humor in that, as if Zalkyriax would worry at offending a handful of foreign humans.

Finn kept tabs on their symphonies, not releasing them from his comforting melodies. But he closed the distance between him and his fiancé so he could taste his mouth before he tasted the wine.

"Thank you for this, my love," he murmured.

Ciarán looked as though he was trying to relax, but he was certainly young and out of his depth.

"Oh, you know," he said, voice pitched a bit too high to be totally relaxed, "drinking homemade soju with mates and tipping cows..." He scoffed, rubbed the back of his head, then froze, hoping he hadn't made a mess of what the servi had done to it. "Actually, I'm glad we're here. Village life didn't feel right after Finn left. Not that he did anything wrong. He left with Ma and Da's blessing to follow his passions... I suppose he just planted the seed in my mind I should leave, as well. Was going to show up on Finn's doorstep, but then his doorstep... moved. So, glad your Exalted, ah, stepfather invited us to visit. Don't know that we will be going back, one way or another, not after barely scraping by with the great blackout and all... Not wise to be far from centers of power anymore. Miststorms were one thing. Shadow monsters another. They say... well, they say a lot of things. That said... ah... long story short... well, too late for that... I don't know what I'll do for fun here. I'm just a hayseed ne'er-do-well, and now I have to act right or it'll embarrass Finn..."

The youngest of Finn's family flushed. Finn frowned, arm having slipped around his lover's waist.

"Perhaps you will find your path here," he said quietly, supportive, "as I have. In the meantime, perhaps we can show His Serene Highness how to tip cows." He smirked at Phocion, trying to imagine the fastidious moonborn acting such a country fool.

"It is sound to give them space. This is why I give Arvælyn the run of this Palatium, whilst I reside elsewhere with my kin." Zalkyriax noted, glancing to Ciarán briefly, before following Cithæra to the other side of the room.

"I do not pretend to know whether your emigration is a pointed expatriation or merely a desire to close the distance between yourself and your offspring. If you are true patriots of Kalzasi, some of our history may seem fraught to you. I believe my mate would prefer I skirt around these truths to keep things cordial but, even by my standards, this is all ancient history."

Cithæra pursed her lips and gestured toward a marble bust.

"Here you can see a depiction of Prince Astræon: Eldest child of the Founders, which was carved by a sculptor from what is now known as Atinaw. I've always loved this piece..." The Vigilia Magna said, regarding the sculpture fondly as she took a sip of sparkling wine.
"Nothing to thank." Arry whispered against Finn's face, grinning, as his gaze turned to their respective brothers. One waxed prolix as the other looked on, increasingly incredulous as the monologuing proceeded. After rushing river of Ciarán's thoughts was dammed up for long enough to reply, Phocion paused briefly and looked to Valæra.

"What is 'tipping cows'?" He wondered aloud, as his pale gaze returned to the humans. "I've never known bovines to be particularly impressed with monetary consideration..."

"Not that kind of tipping, Phocion. Like tipping them over."

"Oh. Well, that hardly sounds sporting..." Mused the Grandmaster Kineticist, as part of him pondered making a point by experimenting with a bit of human-tipping. But a glance over his shoulder toward his mother would be enough to dissuade him from that particular path in present company.

It was a good thing Ciarán was unaware that even from the far side of the large room, a dragon could hear him. It was likely Cithæra could as well, whether with her delicately pointed ears or with her powerful runic senses.

"We tried to give Finn space as well," Mabon said, eyes on the art as he spoke to the dragon king. "He needed a city to ply his craft, so we sent him to live with his uncle. But now," his eyes erred back toward his son, and then to Zalkyriax for a moment, curious if they might have even a small thing in common, "he is grown into a man, into his music and his love and his place. We would like to be closer to him again, and we appreciate the invitation to visit. We... don't want to overstep, but we are certainly considering the possibility of settling here. We wanted to see it first... see if we like it, if it likes us... Immigration, I don't know much about it. I assume it is a complicated matter."

"Patriotism isn't all that important where we were born, raised, and lived our lives," Fionna added. "We paid our taxes. We were assured of protection from Kalzasi. We know how to weather a mist storm, but the Eclipse— We were not prepared and we did not receive aid. Finn knows the Shinsei personally—not that we deserve special treatment for that—and nobody came to help or even inform us how to help ourselves. We had to spend time with my brother-in-law in the city. So, no. We don't hate Kalzasi, but we aren't particularly partial to them. We're common folk. We know where we fit in the scheme of things. But if the—social contract—if that gets broken, then..." She shrugged. Apparently Finn's mesmerizing and the cogent questioning had all the family monologuing. "'Tis unearthly beautiful, Domina. With the light. Wreathed in flowers. Looks more a saint than a conqueror."

Meanwhile, Ciarán continued to blush quietly.

"It isn't very sporting, no. There just isn't much to do in a small town. Poets call it—" He looked to the family poet for confirmation. "Bucolic? But I think that just means boring."

"There's an ancient curse," Finn shared, staying close to Arvælyn, enjoying this, "may you live in interesting times." He had thought about that quite a bit since the Shinsei of Kalzasi was revealed to be a Drægir reborn, since his waif of a lover was revealed to be the heir to a royal draconic dynasty, since a desert god had claimed him as his own.

"All right," Ciarán said, only a bit defensive, "but a little bit of interesting might just make my times... I don't know... piquant." To Phocion, "I promise not to bother any of the livestock." To Finn, "But whatever Ma and Da decide, I was hoping you wouldn't mind if I stayed with you for a while. See if Solunarium is more my speed. Can't complain of the weather, certainly. Or the beauty of the people."

He decidedly did not look at Arvælyn or his siblings when he said that.

“In our culture thin is the line between conqueror and saint…” Zalkyriax explained, “Because their holy endeavour was a crusade for the betterment of all the world. We take our social contracts very seriously here, and when the eclipse fell and threatened our way of life, the whole of the two royal dynasties united to mount a second sun in the sky that has offset the effects significantly. We united instantly, setting aside all other concerns to promptly address the crisis. Had our ancient expedition succeeded and survived into the modern era, our viceroys in Karnor would surely have done the same for our subjects there.

“I do not regret the crusades a whit. Though much was lost, the cause was righteous and our foes were shortsighted in defying us. Much misery has it yielded for so many.”

As the Crownwyrm concluded his musings, Cithæra looked on quietly. If she agreed with his assessments, she did not say so. She would wait for the guests to say their piece and once there was a clear gap, she would lead them to a tapestry mounted on a nearby wall.

“Well, there’s plenty of room here at the palace if you aren’t keen to live alone in the Aurecine district.” Arvælyn offered. “The Umbrium boasts the premiere district for night clubs and such. You’re less likely to face overt bigotry down here by a large margin. You’ll have security, of course, but I know quite well how disheartening and isolating biases can be.”

“Mistake me not, Ciarán.” Phocion objected, “Our cattle and chattel are both at your disposal. Feel free to tip any of the slaves, if you chance to find our company too bucolic this evening.” Phocion smirked so subtly it took knowing him to note it.

“This is what approximates ‘humour’ in our brother’s estimation.” Valæra explained. “While he is technically correct, it would be rather frowned upon to knock the slaves over.”

Phocion wrinkled his nose and leaned close to the human lad to whisper,

“Only if they’re holding a good vintage at the time. Just make sure you drain the bottle before you get to tipping. If an empty bottle shatters, well, that's just jaunty.”

Zalkyriax's proclamation nudged them both to ruminative silence. The both of them wondered in their ways if they ought not to be more quiet, more observant, as the princess was. But then, they were guests, and questions were asked, and it behooved them to let their future in-laws know them. Surely, they would decide how Finn's family was allowed to be whenever they were in Solunarium, whether permanently or temporarily.

"I wonder what Karnor would be like," Mabon mused as they walked over to the tapestry, "if you were our Shokaze."

Ciarán colored. He knew his letters and his figures, but he could sense how much more these princes knew than he did. That was even more humbling than the idea of their differences in station. Unsure whether he was the butt of the jokes, he glanced at Finn, who he knew was not cruel.

Then to Valæra and back to Phocion.

"I wouldn't be so boorish as to knock over your slaves, let alone your wine." He grinned, not wanting to play the clown, though he did ever so much hope to make a good impression both for himself and for his family, Finn not the least. To Arry, whom he had met back in their backwater hamlet, he added ruefully, "Would probably be wise to send me with such a babysitter. Wouldn't want to make you look bad by association, and I don't know how strong my willpower would be against all that temptation."

"I am certain Phocion would keep you on the straight and narrow if he took you out on the town," Finn said innocently, though the idea of Phocion going clubbing alone, let alone with his wee baby brother, was enough to send a skirl of hilarity through his symphony where Arvælyn, at least, could share it. Even better—between Phocion and Valæra. Alas, princely decorum.

Finn glanced at his fiancé, wishing they could go back to being relatively anonymous eye candy on a dance floor, at least once in a while. There was a give and take to power, however; that much he was learning.

"Are there... ah, draconic... artisans?" Fionna asked. She had never mastered the loom, focusing instead upon the forge. "Pardon. It hadn't occurred to me, but knowing now Your Exalted Majesty's people can take... ahh, elven form... they might also engage in things that we do."