Ser Henry Kingsley, The King's March


The dull clatter of hooves and feet could be heard for miles as the immense procession that followed the King wound its way along the mountain road towards the city of Evermore. Nobles, men-at-arms, free riders, entertainers, all gathered together to travel to the grand city of Evermore for the Festival of Peace. Five score of the Order of the Dragon rode scattered amongst their ranks. At the head of the caravan rode the King and his personal retinue. Riding with him were seven figures clad in brilliant golden armor that seemed to burst aflame as the morning sun shone down upon them. Long black capes flowed behind them, rustling gently in the breeze. They were seven of the nine men sworn to protect the King with their life, the King's Dragonsguard. The two missing Knights rode ahead with the vanguard to announce the King's coming.

Ser Henry Kingsley rode close behind the King, his brothers in arms flanking his sides. His brilliant golden plate mail clinked lightly as his magnificent white palfrey trotted along at a steady pace. Lord Commander Kingsley was a hard and ruthless man at times, yet he had his moments of gentleness. His name was well known, and well feared, among the courts of Daggerfall and Camlorn. Some claim that he has never fallen in battle nor yielded to any opponent, yet people claim many things. However it can be said that Ser Kingsley is a stalwart man and one many do not wish to face on the field of battle.

"So My Lord, what do you think of this festival?," the question came from from Ser Alberic Gaersly on the Commander's right. Alberic was a young lad of only twenty four years, only a year older than Henry when he had been inducted into the Dragonsguard, but a strong and valiant knight none the less.

"I think it will be a grand affair. I am looking forward to the tourney. It has been many a season since I broke lances with the lords of Wayrest and I am eager to do so again. However I fear that this festival will be the beginning of a conflict like High Rock has not seen in ages," Lord Kingsley's voice was rough as always.

"Surely no one would dare start a war during the Festival of Peace," replied the young Alberic, a slight tone of confusion in his voice.

"When all the lords of High Rock gather, even under the guise of peace, nothing good will come of it. There is a reason why High Rock has never united under one banner. It is a miracle that the Kingdoms are as united as they are now. I do not believe that a war will come directly from this gathering, yet I cannot help but think that many toes will be stepped on during the celebrations. Let us pray to Mara that what peace there is now will last through the week."

Alberic nodded softly as they trotted along. It was not long before they glimpsed the first signs of Evermore's grand spires and towers in the distance, framed by the massive peaks of the Wrothgarians. Ser Henry called for the Dragonsguard to raise their banners and don their helmets. Each man but Henry hoisted a great lance into the air, a black flag adorned with the roaring dragon of their order was fastened to the tip of each. The marched six abriast, with Ser Henry leading as they followed the King into Evermore.

Sir Tiberius Valerius Aquila, Castle Evermore, 9th of Frostfall, 4E28

The Queen's mandate struck deep into Tiberius' mind. Plans had been made, instructions relayed, no stone would be left unguarded in Castle Evermore. The Queen and her consort would have the entirety of the Order of Talos (all twenty-four warrior monks) to depend upon, a mighty force indeed. All the knights in the City of Evermore would be called upon to guard the sprawling Castle. The logistics of the operation were huge indeed, shifts were drawn up, sentries designated, patrols meticulously planned. Tiberius would do all within his power to protect his Queen.

"My lady," Tiberius drew his sword and held it proudly in the air, basking in its resplendence, "by Talos, I will do all within my power to fulfill your wishes. This blade shall pierce all of your enemies." He sheathed the gladius. "And it is my promise, that I shall terrify the Elf blood out of the Bretic ponces that must drag their stench to these blessed halls. They shall know that Talos himself breathes through the castle... as well as... Dibella."

The Colovian calmed himself, realising the drama of his pledge. "Your majesty, on another note, may I invite you to the Great Sacrifice to Talos before the party...? It has been long if not forever since you last showed affection for the great Dragonborn..."

Napoleon Jadieran, Alsace Castle, Throne room

Napoleon sat bored on the throne as he watched the servants scurry to and fro in their servitude Napoleon had called a polite modest feast and invited many of his friends from the order into the feast on his left sat the Bishop of Julianos while on the right sat the Knight-master of the order of the griffin he surveyed the room intently the hubbub of polite pvssyr and recants of the many battles being retold.

He then noticed some solitary figures in the corner of the room speaking quietly to each other he beckoned to the Knight-master Francis Devoir he asked him in a polite voice “master who are those in the corner” the master turned for a moment to see who napoleon meant then turned back “they my brother are well we should call them clerks but”.

At that moment the bishop who had been listening butted in his calm yet elderly voice answered the question “they my son are your lordships inner conclave the order of the sentinels, our most gracious lordship sanctioned them to have access to almost everywhere, the only person higher other than his lordship is of course your father- They are well our idea of military intelligence a group of geniuses and strategists working together for the defence of Alsace and Northpoint”.

Napoleon looked at them in amazement before replying “How do you know” the bishop smiled before replying “because I am of that order” he winked mischievously before saying “ah the salmon has arrived”.

Julius Scipion, Evermore

Julius sat playing cards with Louis, he looked down at his own cards before laying them down he spoke at Louis “Louis what do you think of this festival of peace” Louis lay down his cards and looked into his wine glass before replying to Julius “My lord I think that it will be a very grand affair, but however we must keep our wits about us many will see this as an opportunity to strike out against each other”.

Julius nodded in agreement before standing up to walk out of the front door of their lodgings.
Julius walked into the courtyard of evermore castle he noticed a small chapel like building fitting snugly near the wall his interest was piqued at this, but he declined from investigating it just yet Julius thought he smiled before strolling onto the battlements he looked out at the mighty host of nobles that were streaming in to the direction of evermore he leaned on the wall and watched the host arrive at evermore.

Castle Evermore, 9th of Frostfall, 4E28

The Queen of Evermore shook her head and smiled that sweet, easy smile of her's. A proper Queen would have admonished her protector for such a tone, but Syllawen found Tiberius' piety rather charming. Shrugging her delicate shoulders she made her pitter-patter way back from the whistling heights of the battlement. The Queen's eyes watched Sir Tiberius as they passed the the proud rotunda of the Temple of Talos, a circle of marble, its many columns glinting in the first of the morning light, as the tone of the stonework was picked up between the orange and the blue.

Syllawen wasn't sure at first how to respond to her protector's request. When she had first became Queen, she had found the ceremonies of the Cult of Talos delightfully exotic and colourful, but over the years the stoic nature of the order grated upon her. In the end, Syllawen had felt no guilt at all in replacing the Matriarch of the local Cult of Dibella as the court chaplain, less than a year after the death of her late husband, King Titus of Evermore. The Talos cult was quite possibly the most manly society in all of Tamriel (at least in the Queen's esteemed opinion), and had never quite appealed to her. Dibella was her divine, not for the raunchiness (she needed no guiding spirit for that), but for the poetry, - song and verse were Syllawen Direnni's real passions. Talos was all blood, glory and solemn duty. That said, the Queen could not shake a lingering respect for Sir Tiberius. Turning him down would not be easy.

"Aah, that's the one with the anointing, isn't it? Well, I suppose so, if I am not indisposed at the time.." she said darkly, looking away to hide her face in embarrassed. They passed the rest of the journey without words.





***********



As the sun rose, and threw giant beams of brilliant orange between the mountain peaks, it brought the deepest, richest colours from everything. The citizens of Evermore one by one woke to the calling of cockerels, going about their dark world as the sky exploded in the brightest, most fantastical colours, wispy colours like jets of dye mixed with clear river water. Castle Evermore was brilliant and ominous before the city, towering over the town like a God, whole neighbourhoods, little enclosed worlds existing within the myriad shadows it cast. Towards these great spires, half cloaked in shadow, half in spectacular orange, marched that most auspicious company, the chevaliers of the Household of Daggerfall. From every window, and every doorway, amazed eyes watched this procession, mesmerised by each knight, gleaming in his or her own armour, banners flapping behind. The wide boulevards of Evermore opened for their guests, though a crowd of strange dressed, wild-looking folk in furs unsightly followed them about, men women and children all clambering to watch these amazing visitors, who shone like stars, this metallic host from the west. Even the stalls, the multitude of merchants hawking their wears from every pavement in Evermore stopped their calling as the King of Daggerfall rode by, and simply watched. The feeling rushed over the city in an instant, anticipation exploded into fervent excitement; the moment had arrived. The Festival of Peace would soon be upon Evermore.

At the end of the Grand Boulevard, the main streets of Evermore met in the Royal Court, were stood the giant, gleaming gates to Castle Evermore, the city within the city. At this point, the usual dwellings of Evermore - wooden constructions in the whimsical Bretonish style, finished with high, slanting roofs, gave way to a commanding, unforgiving wall of stone, the separation between Castle and City. At the sight of Evermore's auspicious guests, the grand portcullis was raised, and the glittering host was allowed through that giant gatehouse, into a large, regal courtyard; part welcoming yard, part killing zone in the advent of a siege. From every direction, archers watched warily, tiny black dots high on their battlements. In its long history, Castle Evermore had never been taken by force.

From the courtyard there were three more exits, each with a smaller portcullis, into the winding, medieval streets of the castle itself, each leading to a different courtyard, were stately homes mixed with the battlements of the fortress itself. Directly before them winded one such path, half garden half castle, and above them still towered the giant halls of the Citadel itself, an illogical, impossible forest of paraqets and halls, buttresses flying in every direction like roots of some great tree. Rising up from this great building, far away from were the company had penetrated, loomed Syllawen's Palace, a wide, squarish keep among a glamorous array of towers, itself the size of a respectable castle. The scale of Castle Evermore was what assaulted the mind, it had no grounding in reason or logic. In years past, the Direnni, with wealth immeasurable, had lavished their resources upon Evermore, building a metropolis of the castle. As their empire contracted and fell, there was never again the populace to fill the castle, or else the custodians of Evermore were never wont to open the gates of the castle to any but the most selected families. So the castle remained huge, so ridiculously oversized for its populace, while a new, poorer city grew outside its outer walls.

In the primary courtyard of this inner city the host of Daggerfall now stood, waiting between three closed portcullis. Brightly coloured chivalric banners flapped unhelpfully in the gentle breeze, as the sun rose to its zenith in the sky, and deep inside the high fortifications that surrounded them, a dozen different shouting-matches were sparked over what to do next. At length, all three portcullis were opened at once, without any report from any of the three gatehouses, and the host were left in the peculiar position of having a wealth of paths to take through the maze-like castle city,

Julius Scipion, evermore citadel

Julius was watching the host of daggerfall advance into the city; his thoughts were interrupted when he heard a cough he turned around to see a guard pointing his sword at Julius. The Altmer raised his arms and replied “Sorry was this area off limits” the guard nodded, Julius sighed before following the guard to the main gate he turned around at the end. “Next time make sure the guard doesn’t fall asleep” Julius said pointing towards a snoozing guard, before walking into the city to see what other sights there were to see.

Julius strolled lazily through the city this time with two of his guards so as not to be mistaken for a rich businessman by thieves, pickpockets and the like, he bought an apple of an old lady selling them and munched on it lazily he looked around, the streets were bustling with activity every now and then he heard odd snippets of gossip about the many different nobles coming to stay in evermore for the festival.

Julius stood to the side and watched as the host of daggerfall rode past he looked at the many different nobles riding past Julius stood there until the host passed he carried on his way only to stop and watch a performance by some actors he watched this well into the evening and then like the setting he too set only into his bed at his lodgings.

Aleron, 9^th of Frostfall, Evermore

They reached the gates just when the sun passed behind the high snowy mountains. The city itself remained alive, just like it did during the day. All kinds of citizens walked around, looking at the wares merchants were selling, while set merchants tried to pull the attention towards their own stall. There were shows of jugglers, magic, and other sorts of plays on every corner of the street.

People ran around, already partying, with drinks in their hands. It looked like they didn’t care that the festivities were only starting in two days. They maneuvered their horses through the streets, carefully avoiding the locals. They continued at a steady pace towards the large grey, stone wall were the wooden houses would make room for stone buildings.

It looked like a city in a city and was nothing like Aleron had ever seen before. Compared to this his beloved Gwened was nothing but a rural dump. He could also clearly see the whole second city was decorated with large banners hanging from the huge towers.

When they got to the large gates of castle Evermore they were stopped by the guards standing at the gate. One of them stepped forward and made them stop. But before the man could speak a word Aleron addressed the man.

“I am Aleron, Heir of Gwened, and I have come here on invitation by our Queen.”

The guards bowed and made room for them as they stepped of their horses. A stable boy came and took their horses to the stables for proper care. the guard that had stepped forward coughed. “We were expecting your father, my lord. If you’ll follow me I’ll lead you to your quarters.”

OOC: Sorry, its not the best, but its something.

On the Road to Evermore

Elissa Caron

I decided that I don’t like travelling fairly quickly. I spent practically all of the boat-ride down the coast throwing up over the side of the ship, and the carriage I’ve been rding in for the past few days is bumpy and uncomfortable. Right about now, I’m really wishing that my father hadn’t caught a cold before he could head out for the party. I’d much rather be back at home. And it didn’t help that he made me take what seemed like half the court with me. Knights, squires, sycophantic noblemen, even the court mage. It made us have to move even slower than we’d normally be moving.

But at least Gaspard’s with me in the carriage. He’s asleep, leaning against the side of the carriage, and I’m leaning on his shoulder, though, unlike him, I’m very much awake. I don’t know how he could sleep with all of the bumps and the yelling from all of the other travellers, and the sounds of the horses and whatnot. But he’s always been remarkably calm, for as long as I’ve known him. I guess I shouldn’t really be all that surprised.

Suddenly, the carriage stops, and I sigh exasperatedly. The stopping wakes Gaspard up and he leans forward, rubbing his eyes. I sit up straight as well, and he looks over at me. “What, are we there already?” he asks, yawning.

I shrug and reply, “I don’t know. Want to go check?’ He nods, and I get out of the carriage, Gaspard following me. He rolls his shoulders and stretches as I go up to the driver and ask, “Why did we stop?”

The driver looks over and says respectfully, “Your highness, we are getting close to Evermore.” He motion towards the distance and I feel rather embarrassed for not noticing the grand city before. Especially because it's so painfully obvious. I can’t help but think that the driver probably thinks I’m just the stereotypical dumb princess now, and I frown. But the man continues, “However, we can’t enter the city quite yet because there is a large procession in the process already. Trying to enter the city now, at the same time, would be quite the hassle for everyone involved. Perhaps you would like to use the down time to stretch your legs, or get something to eat, or something of that nature?”

I nod and say, “That actually sounds rather pleasant, thank you.” With a smile, I bid the driver farewell, and go back to where Gaspard’s waiting.

“So, we’re here,” he says, following me as I continue to walk to where the rest of our procession is dismounting and resting. “What now?”

“”Now,” I say as I walk to where the various knights are already starting to spar in order to kill time. “You can get to train, while I get to watch.”

Gaspard laughs. “You really want to watch me get my ass kicked? You’re a strange girl, Elissa.”

I smirk in response. “Well, first off, you can handle yourself. I’ve seen you fight before. And, second, you know that I love it when you get all sweaty.”

Gaspard shakes his head. “Oh, really? You flatter me, El. But you shouldn’t talk that way. You never know who might be listening.”

Evermore

The retinue of the King of Daggerfall was as diverse as the kingdom from which they came, a true walking model of that distant realm, the westernmost of the Breton tribes. Slaves built like oxen carried the queen's palanquin, so out of place in the east of High Rock and so far from the slave markets of Sentinel where they had been purchased; figures in plain habits of faded green traveled alongside, the ascetic monks of Kynareth. Grand banners of lineages more ancient than most modern cities of High Rock were hoisted, each taller than the last, servants in colourful liveries scurrying about in their shade. Sur-barons and archdukes, squires and maids, priests and wizards, none were absent and without representative in the King's March.

Yet few drew as many curious eyes as the chevaliers of Daggerfall, aloof riders from the west. Tales of their exploits, both noble and terrible, spread far beyond the confines of their kingdom; for each daring charge there was a village razed and slaughtered, for each knight beaten in honourable combat - a peasant trampled under a warhorse's hooves, all things the duties and whims of a military elite so far removed from the peasantry below them, they might as well have been gods.

And yet, the cruel truth of High Rock's battlefields - and their aftermaths - did not interfere with the birth of a romantic legend with few equals. There was little warmth to a chevalier of Daggerfall, and few expectations of charity or goodwill - but replaced instead by a cold, distant glory, much like the metalic shine of their armour in the sun. These were the progenies of those men and women who had once ruined the mighty walls of Orsinium, a legacy not easily forgotten.

Dismissive eyes of dimmed brown slipped down the crowds observing the host, belonging to a pale-skinned chevalier with a wispy moustache and without the tip of his nose. "Look at those things..." Lingering for a moment at the fur-clad natives of Evermore, his gaze wandered further, towards the battlements of the city's sprawling keep. "It seems we've sailed too far east and landed in Skyrim; these must be the Reachmen crawling from their badger-holes to greet us..."

"They certainly are not Bretons." The rider on the other side of the column chuckled softly, overhearing her comrade's comment; the tone of her voice fit her likewise rather soft features, even if it was at odds with a wide gash across her left cheek. "I think Kynareth blessed my spear with a catch that looked remarkably like these just some months ago..."

"With sight like yours? You probably speared a serf, instead of a wild beast of some sort."

Shifting slightly in her saddle, the chevalier smirked.

Bretic of the Daggerfallian dialect flowed freely between the companions of the king, both curious pvssyr - many of the travelers finding the Evermorese just as curious as the inhabitants of the city seemed to find them - and less charitable remarks as in the exchange between the two knights. The prospect of the natives overhearing whatever was being said didn't seem to worry the Daggerfallians, whether because they counted on the differences between the dialects favoured by the low-born of the east and the court of the west, or because they simply did not care how their hosts found them. The nobility of that ancient realm was far too accustomed to the world having to change to cater to them to worry about the plebs of a distant mountain settlement, no matter how old its origins or how impressive its build.

pvssyr silenced somewhat as the vast royal host proceeded into the arms of the imposing fortress. There was an environment many of the guests were better able to appreciate - ancient stones laid down by the Direnni in the dawn of time; despite paying its due to the Empire's pro-Mannish and anti-slavery official line, Daggerfall had always remembered its old Elven rulers rather kindly, the city never forgetting she owed her glory to one of them and the nobles never tiring from drawing obscure ties to long-forgotten offsprings of that House of Mer.

And yet, as most Daggerfallians silently noted, the tenure of their eastern kinsmen had a way of ruining even such a splendid monument of the past.

"Marcher Bridwell?"

"Yes, your majesty?"

"Did I have too much to drink this morning and am seeing triple?"

"I do not believe so, your majesty."

"Then perhaps there is some eastern custom practiced here I'm not aware of that involves confusing one's guests?"

"Again, I do not believe it is so, your majesty."

"Then maybe," King Camaron's eyes flashed with irritation as he glanced over his shoulder from atop his imposing steed - fit for the king of a realm renowned for its horses. After putting up with irritating company for most of his journey there, His Majesty the King of Daggerfall was hardly in the mood to put up with some Evermorese tomfoolery. "Someone would like to go and kindly ask our hosts what, by the gentle kisses of Kynareth upon our face, are they playing at here with these gates? Or shall we simply split into three and wander around?"

Almost immediately, a chevalier broke off from the host, riding up to the rightmost gatehouse. Irritation was etched so deeply into his face, it seemed it would have shone through even if he'd lowered the visor of his helmet. "His Majesty the King of Daggerfall demands guidance and the proper respect accorded to guests of royal stature by Bretic custom!"

"Slightly too enthusiastic, that one." Camaron murmured, leaning slightly towards Bridwell, who stood mounted at his side. The Lord-Marcher simply shrugged and sighed, hoping silently to himself that this begining was no indication of how the rest of the Festival would proceed.

Arniel de Athee

The journey had been pleasant enough, exactly as he'd planned it to be. They managed to meet the rest of the Camlornian troupe not far from Dywnnen and had so far managed to avoid any scandal or unfriendly interest. The boat had deposited them in Evermore and from there they'd resumed their ride, the charger that met him this time was far more flamboyantly garbed than the one he had ridden from his own castle. Unnecessary really, then again it doesn't hurt to make a nice entrance. He had prepared for several chests of gifts to meet them at the docks and upon seeing them waiting on the dockside with their small contingent of guards he had let out a little sigh of relief. The only part of his plan not directly controlled by him had been the safe arrival of his chests.

As they rode he buried himself in his mind, running over the intricacies of his next moves. "So Arniel, tell me again about this Syllawen," Arniel paused for a second, reached into his briast pocket and produced his green leather bound book. He mindfully flicked through the thin pages until he reached the one entitled Evermore his spidery handwriting coated the page, almost as good as an encryption few, if any, others could read his scrawl. For a man with such a tidy mind his handwriting betrayed him. He flicked his eyes down the page to the entry about Syllawen.

Syllawen
Clan Direnni
Formerly married to King Titus
Became Queen upon his request
Inexperience (naive?)
Overly romantic, lost in the romantic image of the past. (Exploit?)
Dependent on Elysana. (Break the link, divide and conquer.)

Arniel quickly digested the material and drew some inferences. "Well, it would seem our Queen is something of a romantic. I recently heard that she was heard singing the praises of a certain Wolf Queen, a risky stance all things considered. Syllawen is young, dangerously so, for an Altmer of her breeding at least and she is inexperienced. She relies on the guidance of Elysana, if someone were to break the implicit trust there then her county would be seriously destabilised."

Malduin, Castle Evermore.

Malduin sat, enveloped in his deep green robes, nestled alongside his desk full of papers and scrolls. He gazed of many different manuscripts by lesser-wizards claiming to made new discoveries throughout the lands, explaining they wished of him to find support for their campaigns through favour with the Queen of Evermore. Malduin knew of these sorts of wizards, an odd collection of rogues, liars and petty fame-seekers, and of the rumours this sort of man would spread for his own gain. He would not be troubling his Queen with such nonsense anytime soon.
“Why do I even search these ink stains..” he mumbled, but he knew why. He ever sought for word from an old friend and trainer though it’d never arrive. “Eldarion’s long gone” he told himself “Never shall he see what you’ve become.”

With a depressive sigh, he raised himself up from his oak chair, it’s ancient timbers moaning with the rare pleasure of his weight. Malduin was not a heavy man, though his many long hours spent in that very spot had lefts it’s markings. His desk wore the scratches and scrapings of a man ever interested, but without enough to endulge his interests. He was a bored man, and he knew it.

Heading over by the ancient windows which complimented his quarters, known throughout the castle guard as the “Wizards wing” as they so jestingly referred to it, he peers out and took in the scope of Evermore. A grand land, full of mysticism and stories, though kept under suspicious eye by those from the kingdom of Wayrest. Evermore was known for his spawning for magical talents and, as Malduin suspected, likely thought of with mistrust and perhaps fear.

Many people from across the realms had been arriving for the past few hours, Malduin had heard rumour of some gathering within Evermores lands, though showed little concern unless his participation was required by her majesty. He let loose another dull sigh and returned to his papers. Yet another claiming to have spoken with the strange folk of the Alyield ruins throughout Cyrodil. “Another drunken oaf” he grumbled, thumbing his desk with his nails.

The Gardens of Balfiera, 3E 384

Twigs crunched and snapped under bare, golden feet, as the nine year old Syllawen clambered up on her ledge to watch the Two Most Amazing People in All The World. The Altmer girl slithered through the leafy grass, hugging the dirt and the tree-bark with her belly like a snake, filthying her dress. Carefully she peeked her head out from the precipice, where the enormous gnarled tree she had climbed broke from the craggy stonework of a ruined wall. There, far below, in a clearing flanked by every colour of greenery imaginable, knee deep in flowers, was her bounty. Lysandus, the King of Daggerfall, in gleaming finery. He was chasing after her aunt Medora, the only member of Syllawen's great family she loved (and, thought the nine year old, the only one who loved her). Lysandus stopped for a moment in the middle of the clearing, momentarily draqed in sunbeam, and looked about him. The hidden princess grinned hugely at the sight of his noble visage, keen eyes scanning the trees around him, hands fingering the air around him in thought, the King ready to leap out like a coiled spring. Syllawen sighed, her golden eyes alight with love, and twirled a lock of auburn hair in her finger.

Then out of nowhere there she was, Syllawen's beloved aunt, the pride of the Direnni, the world-famous Sorceress Medora. She was leaning against an oak, a wry smile on her noble lips, dressed in a scandalous, simple dress, displaying enough curves to make a Wayrestian harlet blush. Lysander's expression exploded into joy. He ran to her, embracing the sorceress with both arms, but his hands met thin air, the image of his lover dissipating like mist. Lysander span around, eyes alive with the game of it, and there Medora was again, standing by another tree. He chased after this image of the sensuous sorceresses, but again it faded to nothing at his touch. Slowly, the proud king backed into the centre of the clearing, scanning the green murky shadows that surrounded it. Syllawen had to clasp her own mouth shut with both hands as behind him appeared the real Medora, bumping into the retreating King, and covering both his eyes with her own.

"Guess who" giggled the Altmeri woman. The King smiled.

"A witch."

"A sorceress"

"A sorceress?"

"Your sorceress" at which she gave her king his vision back, and they fell into each other's arms in deepest, sweetest embrace, kissing as only lovers do.

The nine year old Syllawen rolled onto her back in giddy ecstasy, all dried leaves and mud on her dress, and gazed up through the all the layers of branches and foliage, to the tiny glints of blue above. She hugged herself tight and loved them, her aunt and the foreign King, with all the trueness of her heart. How could a woman so beautiful and brilliant as Medora come from a family as dull and stupid as her own? Why couldn't her brothers and sisters see how wonderful their love was, how all the magic in the world were just parlour tricks compared to what they had. And King Lysandus! There was not a single nine year old in all the world who knew more about the King of Daggerfall than Syllawen. She had read of all his exploits, great victories, his close friendship with the Emperor Uriel VII. A noble, brave knight and a kind and wise monarch, respected and feared through-out the Iliac and beyond. The most powerful man in High Rock. Was there a man more fitting for her aunt in all the world?

Syllawen understood as well, despite her youth, the scandal that this affair meant to Tamriel. Medora was not only perhaps the most brilliant Direnni alive, and among the most feared and respected magicians in all the Empire, but the Court-Sorceress of the married King Lysandus. Their love, between a woman of the ancient Castellians of Balfiera, and a proud King of Daggerfall, went against every convention in Bretony. And it was that which made it all that more vital, and amazing in her eyes. The purest thing in all the world.

The left ear of the Altmer Princess flicked up, as she heard the giggling of the two lovers start to quieten, as they walked, and then ran away. Syllawen leapt to her feet, brushing the leaves off her clothing and clambering up and over the tree, landing on the ledge of some ancient tower. The girl kept her arms either side of her for balance and she tip-toed along the thin, precarious path, focusing all her attention on her dainty, golden feet. For adventures like this, Syllawen wore a faded pink dress she had brutalised by ripping at the thighs into a strange sort of frilly tunic, and a pair of green tights she had stolen from a servant. She leapt and scampered along the high path over the ruins, a secret road known only to her.

High above the lovers, the princess pranced over ancient rooftops and ruined battlements. Millennia ago her family had ruled a city here, the years had of which made a garden, trees mixed with crumbled stone for miles around. Flowers spurted from every cracked crevice, ivy cloaking walls in green and red. At this level, Syllawen could leap from ruin to treetop, across brook and paraqet, while the two lovers followed the beaten path through the meadows below. Syllawen threw herself through the air, clasping her tiny body around a tree trunk, span around and tumbled through a hole in a single standing wall that had once been a window. The girl ducked onto all fours, momentarily in darkness as she passed under a giant, arching root of a tree older than any kingdom, before grasping her hands around a branch, to swing herself over a gap onto a garden of lost fountains, all stagnant and thick with lichen and amphibians innumerable. Syllawen tucked herself under another root as she heard the footsteps come to an end, laying her filthied body on the cool stone of what had been a courtyard.

Below, her eager golden eyes spied the King and his Sorceress walking hand in hand over a simple wooden bridge, that covered a little stream by a waterfall. There the advlterers stopped, holding each hand in eachother's and gazed simply into the eyes of their loved one. Above, hidden in that root, Syllawen felt herself melt into the stonework, in a happiness beyond happiness.

"It will never last" Medora told her liege, laying her slender form against him.

"I don't care" he told her, running his hands through her chestnut hair.

"Someone will find out.." she protested, as the King began to kiss her neck.

"I don't care" and then they were all about each other, hands everywhere, undressing.

Syllawen sat up and leant against her tree, gazing up at the sky, her young mind on fire with a thousand ideas. The midday sun twinkled back at her past a great stone figure of a snake, as huge as a cathedral, draqed in a hundred willow trees, green with ivy and moss. She got to her feet and walked, trailing her hands through the tall flowers that broke through every crack in the stone work, and knew, beyond all question, beyond all science and reason, that when she was a woman she would have an affair with a noble King, and all the world would see their love. She knew, beyond all doubt, beyond all intelligence, that she would never prove the academic that her cruel parents wanted her to be. The King would be noble and pure, and he would see the trueness in her heart and love her. Before she knew it, the child was running, running as fast as she ever had ran, the ruined landscape whirling past her, her fingers touching everything as she passed, head delirious in the clouds. She'd devote her whole life to love, to proving her horrible family wrong with their dusty spell books and history lessons. As her bare feet dashed into the ice-cool stream, mixed with the little fish that danced there, she knew it, one day she'd be as beautiful as Medora, and as free as her, and travel the world with her lover by her side and-

From across the forest, a voice, magically enhanced so it bellowed supernaturally, shaking the tree-tops and causing a thousand birds to break from their perches and bleed into the sky. A familiar, humourless voice:

"SYLLAWEN YOU MISCHIEVOUS IMP. GET TO YOUR STUDY RIGHT NOW. THE GUILD MASTER IS HERE TO GIVE YOU ALTERATION TUTORIAL"



No, wait, that wasn't it.



"Your majesty! If I may, there is a matter of quite some importance to attend to, that requires your attention..."

Slowly Syllawen Direnni, Queen of Evermore turned her head to face her Chamberlain, the last wisps of her daydream vanishing. The aged Master Raurich was standing straight as a post, lips pursed in indignation, as she sat at her parlour table, overlooking her grand Kingdom through a gilded window. She blinked like a cat and brushed some nostalgia from her hair, looking at her Chamberlain like he was a new stain on a beloved dress.

"What?" she asked flatly, placing her delicate arms on the exquisitely decorated table.

"Your majesty, the King of Daggerfall Camaron Thagor and his host are currently languishing in a courtyard of our castle, waiting for your appearance."

"I know." replied the Queen, staring a dagger through her servant, before turning back to face the window, through which half the city was painted glimmering gold by the midday sun. She folded her hands on her lap, doing everything to ignore Master Raurich, as he began to tremble in scandal. The Keeper of the Seal had spent the last twenty minutes frantically running from keep to keep, in the epicentre of a cataclysm of attendants and guards, all clueless as how to respond to the host entered into Castle Evermore.

"Y-Y-our Majesty, it may be of advantage to keep in mind, that King Camaron is master of the grandest army in all of High Rock, and has with him his chevaliers representing many of most noble and feared families in all Bretony..." at which Queen Syllawen glanced at him, and responded, even more quickly:

"I Know."

This was too much for Master Raurich. In all his years, he had never seen such calm, cold recklessness. Physically shaking, the ancient Chamberlain stamped his foot and replied, voice tempered on the edge of a scream.

"Your...majesty! I would do well to remind you that now is not the time for such childish routines, King Camaron is, is-"

The reaction this brought from his sovereign shocked the old knight. Queen Syllawen span to face him, golden eyes aflame, in a voice so severe, Master Raurich had never heard from his liege. Much later, Master Raurich would recall this was the first time he ever heard Syllawen sound like a Direnni.

"Sir Raurich Cantone! Are you in control of your faculties? I assure you I am in complete control of mine. The next time you deign to comment so on a personal matter between monarchs, I would hope you would hold your tongue!"

The Baron of Evralle bowed his head, humbled, and apologised, as sincerely as he ever had. Looking up, he met eyes with the scandalised Queen, animated like never before, and posed her an unsure question.

"If I may ask, your Majesty, is there a course of action you recommend for your court, upon the arrival of these guests?" he asked, wounded voice. Syllawen sighed, looking back out the window. Her heart was as tight as a knot. She closed her eyes, dismissing her conflicted soul, and replied, slowly and softly.

"The host from Daggerfall shall be allowed the finest accommodation outside the Citadel. Lead them to it. I...am indisposed. Tell the King I look forward to meeting him, come the festival, when I am less occupied." she turned to her Chamberlain, who nodded, not understanding any of the why, but intimately knowing his Queen's every word was to be followed, and stepped away. Master Raurich excused himself quickly, closing the huge, gilded door behind him, quickly to set off, starting again the chain of bureaucracy that would bring new attendants to the Daggerfallian host, to lead them to their new quarters. Alone again, Syllawen sighed and returned to her gaze, sitting motionless in her huge, musty study, fully dressed in one of the grandest gowns Evermore had even seen. As she had been all morning. Half numb, half alive, she looked out onto her wide Kingdom, and wished the nostalgia to envelop her again. But it was already gone, and the present was beating hard in her briast.

In time, attendants spoke to attendants, who spoke with courtiers, who spoke to their squires who spoke to the squires of other courtiers, and the knights in their employ, and the chain reached back down to the amazing host standing at the Gates of Evermore. Out from a keep a blustering courtier came, blushing deep in the midday heat, and explained to the noblest Daggerfallian he could find the present situation, and the allocation of housing. The host would be split up across the castle, with the court of Daggerfall itself housed in a modest palace not far from Syllawen's own. In uneasy terms, he explained a handed down version of Syllawen's words, and the deepest apologised (embossed ever since the message had passed through Master Raurich), for the inconvenience unforgivable.

And so, in the days that followed, Syllawen would walk, from chamber to chamber in her infinite palace, fretting silently. Each day to rise and be clothed in one of the finest, most fashionable gowns to grace the fourth era. Each day to waste, doing nothing, speaking to no-one, simply walking, in and out of whimsy, looking for that fantastical dream of her childhood that Master Raurich had dispelled from her mind, but never finding it. While her Queen still searched her heart and made a thousand plans an hour, Evermore was finally ready for the 4E 28 Festival of Peace.

Ser Henry Kingsley, The King's March, Evermore


The grand city of Evermore was a truly magnificent sight to behold. Instead of seeing what one would expect for a city of Evermore's standing they were greeted by the sight of a castle so massive that it could cast a shadow across the Throat of the World. The town that had sprung up around its base was extremely large as well, yet it was still dwarfed in proportion and splendor by the gargantuan mass of stone that was Castle Evermore. The host from the west formed a river of bodies, wagons, and beasts as it flowed down the mountain road and into the gates of the city. Hundreds every minute entered into the massive stone fortress, yet the vastness of the King's march continued to snake off into the mountains. Within the city the eyes of hundreds watched intently as the host navigated the streets. Young boys looked on in awe at the Chevaliers of Daggerfall, wishing they too could ride in the march donned in glistening plate-mail. Their sisters focused their attention on the extravagant palanquin that carried the Queen, dreaming of the day that they too would live a life of luxury and splendor. The wildlings known as the Bjoulsae also mingled with the crowds that lined the streets. Their garb clearly set them apart from the other citizens of Evermore. The Chevaliers looked on in contempt at what they would call barbarians. In the west there were no such people, and no tolerance for their like either.

Ser Henry rode at the head of the procession along side his sovereign and the other knights of the Dragonsguard. Their golden plate armor glistened brightly in the blaze of Magnus, casting a brilliant golden glow around them, a stark contrast to the long black capes fastened to their shoulders. The roaring dragon emblazoned upon their banners seemed to dance across the sky in the light afternoon breeze, as if it were alive and ready to meet any adversary head on. They marched directly behind the King and Queen, maintaining a vigilant watch on the city around them. It was their duty to protect their sovereign, and each of the knights present had sworn an oath to lay their life down for the King if need be.

Henry watched from atop his horse as the portcullis to the castle was raised, allowing the host access to the heart of Evermore. The head of the procession entered into a grand courtyard. Henry scanned the high walls, noting the archers positioned on the paraqets. With a quick motion of his hand the Dragonsguard broke formation and formed a semicircle around the King and Queen. Even though this was the Festival of Peace they could not afford to drop their guard, after all, Evermore was an ally of their enemy across the Illiac, and a puppet of Elysana. Before the host were three portcullises, each leading to a different section of the massive castle. It was not long before one of the many chevaliers of Daggerfall rode forth and hailed the guard.

As the minutes ticked on Henry began to grow anxious. However, much to his relief, after about twenty minutes a courtier arrived and explained how they would be lodged. The man also apologized profusely for the inconvenience. Henry and the Dragonsguard continued to stand watch around the King and Queen, waiting to escort them to the manor set aside for them.

Julius Scipion, evermore

Julius sat in the tavern the bustle of preparations for the festival evident he was sat talking once again to louis "I propose we arrive at the start of the celebrations at the citadel so as not to miss out on any interesting information that could be acquired" louis nodded at julius's words before replying "might I be so bold as to inquire what you will be wearing on the day" Julius looked back at louis incredulously before saying "you doubt my dress sense handed to me by my late father alecor scipion" louis groaned before banging his head on the table Julius chuckled before ordering another round of beers.

OOC: Kinda lost inspiration near the end. :/

On the Road to Evermore

Elissa Caron

After wandering around my host for a while, talking with the lords, ladies, knights, and all others who chose to follow me to Evermore, I got restless. "Enough," I had said, going to the the front of the host. "We continue to march on, regardless of who else is trying to get into the city."

Admittedly, it wasn't my best idea. Now I'm sitting on a horse in the middle of the whole host, making steady progress to the gates. I have to admit, Evermore's probably the grandest city I've ever seen, or ever likely to see. I prefer Northpoint, of course, but my home is simple, built more for practicality than comfort or style. Evermore was clearly designed with the opposite idea in mind. it was designed, I assume, to wow travelers and armies alike with its extravagant towers and fancy buildings. Northpoint was built to stand up against attacks from pirates and raiders that often used to prey on the Northern Coasts of High Rock, before the Royal Navy of Northpoint began to patrol the waters. I notice with a small smile that the differences between cities is oddly representative of their respective rulers; the Direnni that ruled Evermore was best known for her wild and expencsve tastes, in both people and items, while my father was known for, if anything, his no-nonsense, harsh, unyielding personality.

I reflect on such thoughts in order to distract myself from the minor lordling riding alongside me, talking my ear off. On and on and on he goes, but I ignore him, instead looking around as I ride and occasionally nodding and smiling. It seems to fool him well enough.

My host is headed up by a good number of knights from Northpoint, numbering over 100. While Northpoint is not as known for our knights as, say, Daggerfall, we still have an impressive group assembelled. The sun shines off of their plate armor, and their horses help announce our coming. Several of the carry the banner of both Northpoint and my own house high and proud, allowing us to be identified from a fair distance away. Meanwhile, four knights in particular surround me, representing my squad of bodyguards for the event. There's Lady Fiona of Garnes, a tourney champion of some renown and the only female knight from Northpoint who chose to come to Evermore, in front of me; Old Ser Barron of White Haven, older than Fiona by double and one of the best swordsmen of his generation ... and probably mine as well ... rides behind me; Ser Garrett Crowe rides to my right, sporting a rough beard, mismatched armor, his unique staff-sword, and looking thoroughly like a sellsword, not a knight; and, of course, Ser Hammen is on my left, looking surprisingly sober in a suit of armor that was probably cleaned for the first time in a decade this morning and taking regular swigs from the flask on his belt. Gaspard rides next to Lady Fiona, just like the squires of the other knights. I make note that he's the oldest, and it's probably time that he gets knighted. Ser Gaspard, I think to myself. He'll like that.

Also around me are all of my favorite sycophants, all minor lordlings, barely highborn, each one. The true nobles are behind me, fulfilling their duty as bannermen of my father and, by extension, me. The Baron of White Haven, the son of the Duke of Thorkan, and other notable figures have several hundred knights a piece, with their own house sigils raised, though not as high as my house. Following them are the footsoldiers brought by myself and by my bannermen, only differentiated by the sigils sewed onto their shirts, then the servants, and the supply carts, and the commoners who followed our host as it passed by. All in all, several thousand men and women. No small march, if I may say so myself, but still dwarfed by the host from Daggerfall.

Speaking of Daggerfall, I notice that we're getting close them, waiting at the city gates. It shouldn't be too awkward.

But then I wince, as the first few of my knights rudely push past the Daggerfallian chevaliers, yelling, "Make way for Elissa Caron! Make way for the Princess of Northpoint!" And for some reason, knowing how touch Daggerfall's chevaliers can be, I get a feeling that this isn't going to end well.

Castle Evermore, Courtyard

The Festival of Peace, as Lord-Marcher Bridwell reflected while the hapless Evermorese courtier offered his deepest apologies and expressed a glimmer of hope that the King of Daggerfall would find it in himself to forgive this whole debacle, seemed like it would turn out to be anything but peaceful. Again. Of course, at least this time it was neither in Daggerfall nor in Wayrest; where one played the host, the other most often found some reason to protest and turn up with only the smallest of delegations, headed by the most insignificant of men to make for as strong an insult as could be.

Needless to say, an incredibly awkward period of festivities followed for everyone else in attendance, stuck as they were being the audience to High Rock's two principal powers' incessant chess game for influence, prestige and power.

While Bridwell morosely glanced between the flustered representative of Queen Syllawen and the grand battlements of the castle, Camaron himself listened to the explanations and apologetic mewling with an increasingly more obvious boredom to his expression. The gist of the matter seemed clear enough, but it was surrounded by as many flourishes as that fortress had guardians - things that the king would not have much minded on another day.

At present, however, His Majesty found himself rather annoyed. And as his court had had many chances to note, an irritated King Camaron was less the magnanimous monarch of a vast kingdom, being rather more akin to one of his own chevaliers in attitude. Some said that he was very similar to his late father then, at least the times when Gothryd received messengers from Elysana.

"Yes, very well then." Straightening in the saddle of his truly grand horse, the foremost ruler of the west glanced at his wife's palanquin. For a moment, he seemed slightly jealous - more than once on this journey he had wished for a portable room of his own to hide in. Whenever she was faced with unpleasant guests, Kelmena had the convenient excuse of faking tiredness and asking if her bothers would forgive her for a moment while she recovered. Since she was the queen, no one could rightly refuse her - and yet, on the opposite end of the same stick, since he was the king, no one would allow him something of the sort.

Oh no, with the Dragonsguard splendidly assembled in a semi-circle before him, King Camaron could only sigh. "Clearly there has been some regrettable misunderstanding indeed. Inform your queen that His Majesty very much looks forward to meeting her as well, and wishes luck in any last minute preparations - which do appear to be happening."

With a motion of their sovereign's hand, the beast of iron, flesh and cloth that had curled up in the courtyard of the castle for those minutes of uncertainty stirred from its slumber. Banners flinched as their bearers moved again, chevaliers, squires and courtiers took their places, people of all ranks and backgrounds who had started to exchange impressions - strictly only with people of their own rank and background, of course - hurried back to their assigned places. Bridwell's dimmed eyes lifted up from the back of his horse, hope for progress restored.

As he realized just several seconds later, it had been a naive and foolish hope. He had, for a moment, forgotten the first rule of travelling Daggerfallian highborns - when in a barbarian land, expect barbarians.

Not that anyone could've predicted these particular barbarians would swoop in from the very far north to bother the King's March at that precise moment, of course.

Knights from a different land were already something of a point of contention for the chevaliers of Daggerfall - in that most considered them to be lacking in knightly virtues necessary for the honour, stories of undisciplined charges by impetuous knights that concluded tragically often repeated, rarely without glee. Knights that chose to insult the chevaliers by challenging them for anything, however - from questioning their honour or the sturdiness of their swords to minor infractions on their personal space - were a whole different matter.

"Banners! Close banners!" A leader of the heated moment was soon to emerge, as those sort of men always seemed to, rising up to meet the perceived insult. The rearguard of the King's March swiftly closed ranks; those banners that found themselves nearest to the back while waiting for their Evermorese hosts to clear up the confusion had quickly drawn up beside one another, presenting the arriving delegation of Northpoint with a wall of steel, lances and horses.

Lances were lowered, pommels grasped, the impressive warhorses Daggerfall had always been famous for urged as close to one another as for a proper charge on the battlefield. Those hapless few Northpointers that had shoved their way ahead through the ranks of the chevaliers would find themselves suddenly cut off - and in a company far from pleasant.

Between the chevaliers that were all too swift to react, the guards watching uneasily from the battlements and the Northpointers who seemed determined to make way for their princess, the end of the incident was unclear at best. Happily, it would not be allowed to escalate - that was precisely why Camaron had insisted on the most respected (if not the best liked perhaps) warrior of Daggerfall accompanying him to the Festival.

"Lances up! Kynareth's eternal breath, cease this foolishness at once!" With a voice that had not been much affected by age and remained as impressive as in his youth, Samuel Bridwell rushed between the assembled line of his chevalier compatriots and the northmen that had so abruptly shown up. "The first sir or dame to land a blow is the first stripped of his horse-rights and left in the east to rot! No fighting in the presence of His Majesty the King!" Grasping the pommel of his sword firmly, the Lord-Marcher seemed like he meant every bit of the threat, so the chevaliers slowly lifted their lances up again - reluctantly, but up. They did not, however, break formation.

Realizing that more damage could be done by the chevaliers' attitudes than by their lances, Samuel was quick to stop his horse for a brief moment to add. "The first to talk surrenders his sword!"

Watching with a slight hint of amusemant as his chevaliers prepared to meet a perceived threat with the 'enthusiasm' usual for them while Bridwell tried to prevent the melees doubtlessly arranged for the Festival from starting early, Camaron turned to the head of his personal guard. "Ser Kingsley, perhaps go and help the Lord-Marcher in this. It would be very unfitting indeed if this nonsense was to escalate."

Julius Scipion, Evermore

Julius rode down the streets and onto the plains where a possible confrontation was brewing, his guards marking him out as a lord he heard a daggerfall noble shout at his men, Julius shouted out as well riding into the middle of the scene “The same goes to any Northpoint knight! It is within my power to strip you of your knighthoods” he turned to the Daggerfall man “my apologies fellow sir it appears undoubtedly some mistake was made Administrative” he raised his voice “Or plain stupidity” before lowering it “When my kingdom attempted to break through yours” He held out his hand the sunlight glinting of the daggerfall nobles armour, He remembered etiquette “Oh I almost forgot to introduce myself I am Julius Scipion count of Alsace and you are” His horse skittered but Julius reined it back in before looking into the other mans eyes.

OOC: Crappy posts for both Astien and Henry. Sorry, I've just been extremely busy and I didn't want to not post and leave you guys hanging.


Ser Henry Kingsley, Castle Evermore - Courtyard


The Lord Commander of the Dragonsguard relaxed as the massive river of chevaliers and nobles began to move again. Standing in the courtyard like sitting ducks had unnerved the knight and put him on edge. While contained in that massive yard of grass and stone they would have made an easy kill. The golden knights of the Dragon's guard rode around their sovereign lord and his wife as they moved through the massive courtyard towards one of the three gates. Ser Henry had taken a place to the right of the King, next to Lord-Marcher Bridwell. All seemed well until the sound of shouting echoed up from the rear of the procession. Henry snapped his head around as he reared his horse to a stop. Lord Bridwell was the first to be off, taking his horse and racing towards the rear of the march. Instinctively the Knights of the Dragonsguard surrounded their King and Queen, forming a golden circle or armor and lances. After their more than rough reception Henry did not know what to think. That is until he heard the muffled shouts echoing off the grand stones of Castle Evermore.

"Make way for Elissa Caron! Make way for the Princess of Northpoint!"

Damned Northerners. Henry turned to face the King as he spoke to him.

"Ser Kingsley, perhaps go and help the Lord-Marcher in this. It would be very unfitting indeed if this nonsense was to escalate."

Henry bowed his head, "Yes your Majesty."

He then turned his horse to the side and rode past the wall of golden plate, "Ser Alberic, Ser Roran, with me."

Two of the Dragonsguard broke ranks and followed their Lord Commander as he trotted off to assist Lord Bridwell. When Henry arrived the scene looked as though it had been diffused somewhat. The Chevaliers of Daggerfall's rear-guard stood in formation, but their lances were up. However, what surprised Henry the most was not the lack of a brawl, but that his kinsmen were silent. The three chevaliers of the Dragonsguard came to a stop next to the Lord-Marcher, their golden plate mail glinted in the light of Magnus. The steel plated chevaliers quickly parted to let Ser Kingsley and his companions through. The amount fear inspired by the Dragonsguard was matched only by their prestige, which is to say nigh on legendary. Boys and young chevaliers all across the west dream of one day wearing the black cloak and golden plate of the Dragonsguard. Only the most elite of the realm were chosen to serve as the King's personal entourage, and to be accepted into their ranks was an honor like none other. Or so some would have you believe. While all members of the Dragonsguard are competent fighters, some only achieved the rank through the passing of coin and the right connections. Being the best swordsmen in the Kingdom did not ensure your place among the 'guard.

Ser Kingsley hailed Lord Bridwell, "My Lord-Marcher, His Majesty has sent me to assist you in quelling this disturbance, yet it seems as though you've handled it quite nicely." Henry smiled lightly as he leaned in a bit closer to Bridwell, "I'm surprised that they aren't tearing each other's arms out of socket" . He then turned to address the line of Knights baring the banners of Northpoint, riding out in the middle of the neutral ground. However, before he had a chance to speak an Altmer came riding up to the scene, barking orders at the Knights.

"The same goes to any Northpoint knight! It is within my power to strip you of your knighthoods!" The mer then rode up to the Lord-Marcher, addressing him rather casually. Henry only caught the end of the conversation as he rode up next to the Lord-Marcher.

"When my Kingdom attempted to break through yours. Oh I almost forgot to introduce myself, I am Julius Scipion, Count of Alsace, and you are?"

"That is the Lord-Marcher, the King's right hand. I would suggest showing some minor courtesies, my lord," Henry pulled his horse to a stop by Bridwell. Ser Alberic and Ser Roran flanked him on either side, their plumed helms gave them a rather intimidating visage. The Gold and Crimson banners fastened to their lances flapped lightly in the breeze. Henry was a man rooted in tradition. To him it was almost taboo to address a lord without his proper titles. Even if you did not know their exact standing a simple "my lord" was expected.

Astien Valtieri, The Camlornian Host, Arriving at Evermore


"Well, it would seem our Queen is something of a romantic. I recently heard that she was heard singing the praises of a certain Wolf Queen, a risky stance all things considered. Syllawen is young, dangerously so, for an Altmer of her breeding at least and she is inexperienced. She relies on the guidance of Elysana, if someone were to break the implicit trust there then her county would be seriously destabilised." Astien smiled at Arniel's reply, his perfect teeth showing through. Astien was by far a very handsome man. His dark Brown hair was kept neatly back in a short stubby pony tail, only a few small strands fell around his face. His eyes were light green and stained with faded blue on the rims and a yellow hue in the center. His face was defined like his father's, yet soft like his mother's. Many a women had fallen for the young prince, and for good reason.

"I like my prey weak and vulnerable," his warm smile pinged with a sly note. Just as the young prince finished the massive fortress of Evermore peaked around the mountain, coming into full view. It's grand spires and towers stretched up to the heavens like a thousand lances challenging the gods. It's curtain wall rose hundreds of feet, and twisted like a gargantuan serpent through the city that huddled against it's feet. Astien took in the view for a moment before turning to the Duke of Urvaius, "I would wish to leave one of my eyes here, so that I can take in the beauty of this place everyday."

It was partially true. Astien was astonished with the grandness of the city, yet his words hid a different message. Even amongst the company of sword lords and retainers, one must watch his tongue with certain matters. The Duke, no doubt, would know what the prince wanted. Arniel had many whisperers throughout the kingdoms; it would be a small feat to install a set of eyes and ears in the grand citadel of Evermore. Astien was an ambitious man, and to him knowing your prey was more valuable than having a sword to strike it, for what good is a sword without knowing your prey's weakness?

(OOC: Athell, I'll let you write the fluff for entering the city. )

Julius Scipion, Evermore

Julius turned to face the knights he hadn’t noticed they were dressed in some gold coloured armour and wore black cloaks, Julius hazarded a guess “You must be the kings guard for the King of Daggerfall by the look of your armour and what your presence causes to the other knights” He turned to the lord-marcher “My apologies sir for not having the foresight to enquire as to your station, I hope you accept my sincere apologies”.

Julius gave an apologetic smile before his horse skittered again, then reared up and attempted to throw Julius off, who reined it in with a cry of “Easy there Darsor easy there” and keeping a firm grip he pulled the reins back then turned Darsor’s head to the side, before trotting him in a circle back to the small conclave that had formed, patting Darsor on the neck after he had regained control of it with masterful skill Julius smiled at the nobles of daggerfall before saying “ now where were we”...

Arniel de Athee

"I like my prey weak and vulnerable," Astien smiled, a smile that always worried Arniel, it meant the boy was scheming, again. As they spoke the city rose above them, looming against the blue sky and framed by the Wrothgarian foothills. Even Arniel would concede it was a beautiful sight as mass of towers and spires like something out of a Telvannian spore dream. "I would wish to leave one of my eyes here, so that I can take in the beauty of this place every day."

"Indeed, leaving a full set of eyes would be wonderful. Just imagine the things they would see in such a metropolis as this," Arniel had understood the prince's words as they had been meant; they were both going to work to place informers in the cities but in probably different locations. A brothel, I might have to buy a brothel. That or I hire another member of the damn Guild of Fools for my purpose. "I understand that the events here shall include a great number of servants ranging from acrobats to serving wenches, I do always enjoy the company of servants, they're always so much more interesting than the nobles." Arniel was well aware that his comments were thinly disguised at best but he was already beginning to tire from their long ride and his rump hurt.

But it didn't have long left to hurt; they were passing under the arches of the west gate and into the city proper. As they were drawing away however a voice from the back of the company rose "Sir, they're demanding to see our transport papers for the chests," Arniel pulled the reigns of his horse hard and swung around to canter to the source of the disturbance. As he came closer he identified the shouter as Sir Damen the Knight Commander of the Knights of the Stone.

"Sir Damen could a man of your intelligence not have handled this himself?"

"I tried milord, the guards are insisting they see the documents for the gifts and they want to examine their contents,"Not a chance boys, some of those things are very private and not for your eyes.

"Are they?" He turned to the guards, "It's good to see that there are still those that take their jobs so seriously however here your efforts are misplaced. I am the Duke of Urvaius and I am accompanied by the Prince of Camlorn, I'm sure you don't want to see the things he has in his bags." He pressed a small pouch of coins into the hands of the guardsmen. The guard took the pouch and weighed it for a second then nodded at Arniel. Accompanied by Sir Damen he rode to the front of their procession once again.

"That was a little heavy handed for you wasn't it sir?"

"It's been a long ride and with types like that it's just easier this way. I've not lost much most of the weight of that bag was lead coins, I always have some with me." The city of Evermore was laid out before them and they were now free to explore it. Arniel turned to Astien, "so where would you like to go first, my liege?"

Evermore

Ser Garrett Crowe

Ser Garrett could never get over the stupidity of people. Take, for instance, the idiot knights that led the march, the same knights who thought it might be a good idea to be rude to some of the most well-trained and touchy warriors in Tamriel, the chevaliers of Daggerfall. The chevaliers reacted exactly as Ser Garrett -and the princess, judging from the look on her face - predicted, closing the ranks and lowering pikes. Luckily, another knight rode up and began to yell at them, making them raise their pikes, though they stayed in formation.

Ser Garrett glanced at Princess Elissa, who was resting her forehead on her palm and sighing exasperatedly. "Ser Barron," she said, adjusting the circlet resting on her brow and looking to the old knight riding behind her. "Can you please go get our knights under control? I'd hate to have a fight break out this early into the Festival of Peace."

The old man nodded and said to the princess, "Of course, Your Highness. I will see to it that the men responsible are reprimanded and punished." The princess smiled and added as Ser Barron rode around, "Send my personal apologies, and see if their King would speak with me. I might as well begin to befriend these other royals."

Ser Barron nodded again and said to Ser Garrett as he passed, "Ser Garrett, come with me as well." Ser Garrett rode behind Ser Barron withour replying, pausing when the old man stopped to send two knights to fill their places around the princess. As Ser Garrett watched the old knight talk to the two younger ones, he tried to remember what he knew about Ser Barron. He was old, Ser Garrett knew that; he had been a knight for over 30 years now, though he had been serving as a part of the Royal Guard for ten of those. He also knew that Ser Barron was of noble birth, and was the uncle of the current Baron of White Haven, and could have been the Baron himself, if he had so desired. Ser Garrett smiled at that thought. If her had take the title of Baron, he would have been Baron Barron. Perhaps that's why he chose to pass that title up, Ser Garrett thought. Regardless, the princess had made a good choice in sending the old man. He was the most well-known and well-respected knight in Northpoint.

But then Ser Barron was riding again, and the two young knights passes Ser Garrett, giving him odd looks. He knew why. He looked nothing like the typical knight. He kept a beard and messy hair; his armor wasn't gleaming in the sunlight, and in fast he wasn't even wearing a full suit. His left arm was almost entirely unarmored, except for a studded leather glove. He wasn't wielding a sword and shield like the stereotypical knight; no, instead he had his beloved staff-sword -an odd combination of sword, staff and spear - in his hand as he rode. But it made no matter in Ser Garrett's mind. He knew who and what he was, and nobody's judgement would affect that.

Soon, he and Ser Barron were up at the front of the column, though by the time they had arrived four more people had arrived; a noble-born Altmer and three men in golden armor. Ser Garrett recognized the armor as belonging to the Dragonsguard of Daggerfall. He knew little of the order, except that they were feared for good reason. But for both Ser Garrett and for Ser Barron, the more pressing issue was the Altmer; he had claimed authority over the Northpoint knights, called the kingdom his, and couldn't even be bothered to respect simple courtesies, apparently. "Now where were we?" the Altmer asked the knights from Daggerfall.

Ser Barron chose this moment to speak up. "I expect you would be going to see our princess, my lord," he said in his deep, commanding voice as he rode closer to the elf. "I'm sure Her Highness would be curious as to why one of her bannermen is claiming authority - the right to strip a knight of Northpoint of his title - that only the royal family of Northpoint possesses." Turning away from the Altmer, he addressed the knights behind him. "The knights who rode into the Daggerfallian chevaliers, we will have a discussion regarding your punishment later, and see if the princess deems it neccessary to strip you of your titles." Ser Garrett was impressed by how just being addressed by Ser Barron made the knights line up in straighter lines, made their posture improve, and made the knights in front look guilty and abashed.

Done addressing the knights, Ser Barron turned his attention to the Daggerfall representatives. "My lords, my Princess sends her personal apologies to you and to any knights who her knights acted rudely towards. She would like to make amends to both you and to your King, if His Majesty would be so kind as to grant her an audience." Ser Barron paused for a moment and looked at the other knights. His brow furrowed as he said, "You are Samuel Bridewell, are you not, ser? I've heard tales of you, and I am honored to meet you in person," he said, addressing the warrior not in gold. Ser Garrett wondered if the Daggerfall man would even know of Ser Barron, or if he didn't pay attention to any kingdom but his own.

Julius Scipion, Evermore

Julius watched as an old and noble looking knight rode up to him and said "I expect you would be going to see our princess, my lord," Julius wheeled to face the knight and let him finish "I'm sure Her Highness would be curious as to why one of her bannermen is claiming authority - the right to strip a knight of Northpoint of his title - that only the royal family of Northpoint possesses."

Julius smiled at the knight “Just attempting to calm the situation good ser anyway I had best be off to see the Princess” He gave a small salute to the Daggerfall Chevaliers then rode up past the entire Northpoint train up to the princesses carriage greeting a few people he knew along the way until he reached the carriage he dismounted and walked up to the princess, bowing before speaking “You Wished to speak to me your highness?” he enquired.

EDIT: changed the speaker to ser barron

Astien Valtieri, Evermore


Astien smiled at the Duke's reply. He and his companion were truly birds of a feather.

"Indeed, leaving a full set of eyes would be wonderful. Just imagine the things they would see in such a metropolis as this. I understand that the events here shall include a great number of servants ranging from acrobats to serving wenches, I do always enjoy the company of servants, they're always so much more interesting than the nobles."

Astien took in the grand site of Evermore as they rode towards the gates, his palfrey going at a smooth and fluid pace, "That they are my Lord, for they are the rats that scurry around unnoticed and unhindered. A truly marvelous position if you ask me. When you're highborn you can't help but be noticed by everyone you don't want to see and hindered by the all politics of the realm," the young prince's trademark smile crossed his face once again.

They were now passing through the grand arches of Evermore's west gate. Around them massed a motley group of townspeople gawking at the processions, wild men moving through the crowds in their furs, performers juggling, dancing and singing tales of chivalry and glory, and vendors peddling their wares from street-side carts and small stalls. Banners of a million colors hung from the curtain wall and billowed atop posts lining the streets. Guards mailed in chain and leather patrolled the paraqets above; a few of them even mingled in the streets below. Whor-es pranced around through the crowd drawing men, as well as their coin, back to the brothels they served. Gypsies and vagrants moved about in great droves of wagons and mules, their pots, pans, and trinkets clinking along merrily with the tunes played by the bards and bands. Ra'Gada traders from across the Illiac showed their bolts of silk and fine cloth to those who passed their stalls, their accented shouts ringing over the voices of the crowd. Dunmer dressed in their traditional garb marched proudly through the streets with their chins held high. Even a few notables could be spotted in the crowds, men and women of higher standing and nobler birth. The opposite could also be said. Among the crowd urchins and pickpockets ran rampant. The poor begged for coin and food to feed their families. Shady individuals kept the the shadows, watching the flowing river of people and keeping tabs on those of importance. Eyes were everywhere, and some did not belong to those who carried them in their skulls. Evermore had turned into an overflowing cauldron of culture and people; the city was truly alive. Despite the cacophony of the crowd and the obstructed streets Astien found the city rather peaceful.

Arniel left to attend to some matter of luggage as Astien drank in the city in all of its splendor. He was truly entranced by the city, yet the only expression that crossed his face was his devious little grin, a smirk of a thousand meanings. It was not long before the Duke of Urvaius returned.

"So, where would you like to go first, my liege?"

Astien thought for a moment; he had not really thought his trip out that far. "From the patch on that retainer's coat it seems that the host from Daggerfall has already arrived," Astien pointed over to a man in a red, slightly stained, doublet and a worn grey travelling cloak. He was busy drinking from a tankard and fondling one of Evermore's many prosttutes. Embroidered upon the corner of his doublet was the sigil of House Thagor, "It has been a terribly long time since I last saw my sister. I would very much like to see her."


(OOC: Disregard the hyphen in "Whor-es" the forum censor is being a [censored].)

Castle Evermore, Courtyard

As the situation at the gate flared for a moment like a flash of lightning in the night, various people - familiar and not so much - flocked to the site of the event that could have been. It was a good thing, as the Lord-Marcher silently noted, that he himself had reacted sooner, or all those newcommers might have been hurrying to the site of a battle.

Nevertheless, even with the appearance of an Altmer to yell at Northpoint's own knights, it wasn't so certain if the mess wouldn't end up escalating after all. There were still a few northerners stuck among the chevaliers' lines, which showed no intention of breaking up or even withdrawing. Bridwell fancied he knew why that was; a challenge had been issued, the metaphorical gauntlet thrown down and, seeing as this wasn't a battlefield (yet, anyway), the Daggerfallians felt that they could respond with a bit of their usual... flair. Since the flair in question tended to set off quite the raging fire, the arrival of the black-cloaks was rather welcome.

Ignoring the odd Altmer's much too familiar introduction, the right hand of the King of Daggerfall - as he had just been called - smiled wryly at Ser Kingsley's comment. "If I let the reins a bit loose, one or two of those little banners the northerners seem so bent on displaying might be lying in the dirt already." He muttered, more, perhaps, to himself than the Lord Commander of the Dragonsguard. "Now wouldn't that be completely stupid and disastrous..."

In other words, completely like the bloody chevalier spirit. Kynareth, but sometimes I think you left too much of your beloved rolling, empty land where the parts between most my compatriots' ears are concerned.

The appologies of the Count of Alsace - or so he'd introduced himself as, that rather loud and, as far as Bridwell was concerned, strange Altmer - prevented the Lord-Marcher from drifting further off into thought. Samuel was about to remark that if 'he' the supposed bannerman to the King of Northpoint was quite done fooling about on his horse - which 'he' would've done well to learn to ride properly - then 'they' Ser Kingsley and the Lord-Marcher of Tamwych would ask the Northpoint delegation to piss right off and at least pretend to be from a civilized country by waiting their turn. Not in those exact words, perhaps, but that is what went through his head that irritating and troublesome moment.

Thankfully, however, he was freed from the necessity of dealing with this rather Imperial-named elf by the arrival of more hastily asigned peacekeepers from Northpoint's side - these rather more acceptable to the Daggerfallians, or at least the one that had taken it upon himself to speak, since his companion's unusual appearance was met with meaningful glances from the chevalier lines. Somewhere towards the back of the lines, one caught his comrade's eye and meaningfully ran a hand over his goattee; beards the likes of which that northman sported were more common among Nords and seemed rather amusing to those hailing from as far west as Daggerfall was.

It was fortunate indeed that Bridwell's command to keep silent lingered in the air still. An uneasy glint found its way into the Lord-Marcher's eyes, the potential extent of the disaster - even if it had been averted - making him sigh silently as he straightened in his saddle before responding to the Northpointers.

"I have indeed the... fortune to be Samuel of the Tamwych Bridwells, Lord-Marcher by blood. If I am not much mistaken, milord is Ser Barron of White Haven; if such is the case, the honour is mine." A respectful nod. As Camaron's right hand, it fell to Samuel to remember many of the influential faces of High Rock; kings and queens, princes, princesses, lords and commanders, those who made the kingdoms tick. If he was not mistaken, this was indeed that man with a rather peculiar name; his counterpart in Northpoint, if there was one at all.

Pausing for a moment and frowning, the Lord-Marcher leaned slightly towards Kingsley. "I think this disaster's been averted," His lips barely moved as he muttered. "See if His Majesty is in the mood for their princess... and be wary. I don't trust the northmen." Festival of Peace, to Oblivion with that. There's nothing peaceful about this whole bloody premise.

"Now I'm sure," Bridwell straightened again as he addressed the Northpoint knights. "That His Majesty will see this for the unfortunate accident that it is and be more than glad to receive your Princess, if the journey to Evermore has not proved too exhausting. I trust those responsible will be dealt with accordingly, and leave them to Northpoint's justice."

With those words, the Lord-Marcher motioned to the chevaliers. Reluctantly, ever so reluctantly, their ranks parted somewhat to allow those few northerner knights who had forced too far ahead for their own good to return to their compatriots.

OOC: Uninspired and crappy, but it gets the job done at least. Move along, nothing to see here...