TWO's Mythic Kingmaker: Fey Winds Blowing (Inactive)

Game Master The Wyrm Ouroboros

:: Amavin, Lyda, Sylvia ::
:: Hereafter, The Royals ::
Princess Sarra gives a soft 'oooo' of delight, reaching up to carefully pet Gwaihir, who unabashedly tilts his head and gives a little squawk. This interaction distracts her for long enough for the side conversation to take part ...

Alysandra gives a nod and a smile of greeting to Amavin, then a half-shrug to Lyda. "Not all of us are like that," she replies sotto voce to Lyda in self-defense, her lip twitching upwards in reaction to Lyda's new nickname for Sylvia. The ebb and flow of the party, and in particular of the little group, means that Zámoždom the Clergyman and his swordlord compatriots are somewhat shifted to the side. He, however, says with a droll sort of condescension, "A fine bird indeed. How influential you must be, to be able to get him into this party."

"He is a fine bird," agrees Sarra, then continues with, "Yes, we're going. Father called together the entire household, Toby and me and all the servants and that, told us all what was going on, and offered to release from service any of those who didn't want to come along. There were a few who left, but almost everyone came with. I don't have any of those sorts of skills," she adds in regards to Sylvia's question regarding spell and blade. Gesturing towards her minder, she adds, "Not like ... umm ..."

"Sergeant Shena Sedrin," says a new voice, a powerful upper bass. Zámoždom Duchovný is the first to recognize the identity of the speaker and respond, dropping into a quick, respectful bow; at a slight gesture, so do his duelists, the female among them dipping into a curtsey. All of them hold the courtesy. For her part, Alysandra notices and reacts almost as fast as the professional politico; unlike them, the curtsey she dips is actually rather shallow, an abbreviated acknowledgement instead of a sycophantic abasement. The bodyguard does nothing of the sort; that's not what she's here for.

King Chalm gives a brief smile to the Sarenite and his cohorts (as well as anyone else who gives a deep courtesy) and says, "I hope you don't do that every time I show up; we'd get nothing done. Well, you'll get used to me." One hand on his daughter's shoulder, he states, "Sarra has a noblewoman's training - horse, target archery, and most importantly, keeping the house and its accounts. I expect her to be invaluable, working hand-in-hand with Oskar Vorwilde as we simultaneously build both household and kingdom."

At the king's word, Zámoždom and company recover from their courtesies.

Tomas watches Lazar go to the Lord Mayor, then trying to reach the King.

-If these idiots had listened to me, they would have asked for permission before it was all crowded. After all, that is what they need first.

He then focuses back in this William Whatever. After all, the situation is going to be helpful, since they are spending some time together out in the wilds.

Amavin, having deep respect for Alysandra's political experience, prefers to follow her example when addressing courtesy to the king, her own curtsey being short but respectful, rather than something held for long periods of time.

Smiling politely at the King, Amavin gestures at Sarra, "I haven't seen the house riding, or the archery yet, but she makes for an enthusiastic conversationalist at the very least, which is always welcome at a party such as this. I'm sure she will be a very impressive representative while on this trip."

Ishana rolls her eyes at the duelists question giving a little bit of attitude to her answer. "If someone falls into mortal danger as a part of this duel, I'll be sure to use my healing abilities to preserve their life"she assures, before sweeping her hands at the combatants. "I will however, need permission to stand a little closer, it would be a shame if I was too far away to use my healing should it be required."

William continues his streaches for as long as it takes for the duel to comense.

::Nymaah::

"Getting her to come over here may be a challenge in and of itself, but she may listen if I can convince her to do so. If nothing else, I may be able to convince her she won't have to interact with you on a daily basis."

::The Royals::
Lyda does not react as Amavin reveals she too is a caster. They'd see in due time if her perceptions held or not. They were all more socially adept than her, except maybe Sylvia. She might have at least one person beat.

And Lyda didn't miss Alysandra's we. There was just enough emphasis to be a warning. It was a surprise too. Alysandra seemed extremely level-headed and professional. But that might also be a front given the two situations they had met in. The slight crack her professional mask the nickname caused lead her to believe she might be on the right track. Alysandra was not being completely open just yet.

The clergyman's bird comment irked her a bit. Deneb was sad Garuda could not come to the party as she was for Kasha. They weren't even allowed in the city for that matter. They were both perfectly well trained. But bias aside, they still had their natural instincts. They'd be practically useless without them. One wrong step and a healer would be needed. They did not need that as a first impression. Her horns and tail already gave her a disadvantage. Strangely, no one seemed to notice. Was she overly mindful of them? Were they harder to recognize than she thought?

Lyda follows the voice back to its source and does not immediately catch on to the reaction the others have to it. Her curtsy is thus late and less elegant than the others. She fails to make up her mind on whether to do Alysandra's or the one of the female swordlord's and lands somewhere in between. Maybe she should have practiced. She didn't use it often. Well, closer to never. She recovers quickly from the embarrassment and ignores any disapproving looks, instead focusing back on the king and his daughter.

"Is that what she wants to do?" The question came out innocent enough but could have been taken differently. She'd met some women of House Medvyed. Their talents extended well beyond the house and court. Usually a craft or two and adept fighters. The King seemed like the type appreciate a more varied curriculum. Given Sarra's interest in Sylvia's companion, maybe falconry.

:: Lord Mayor and Lazar ::

Back to the king again so soon... At least I will be able to better see if he is unimpressed with me personally or just the topic. Bartek thinks, trying to keep the apprehension from his face.

"Of course Lord Mayor, it would be my pleasure" Bartek responds while nodding to Sellemius.

"I am Bartek Yaroslav, one of the leaders of the Swords of the Legion, just so you know who your witness shall be." Bartek says to Lazar while extending his hand for a handshake, "I shall follow your lead in this and present myself as witness to the Lord Mayor's permission when called upon."

Bartek will wait for Lazar to lead the way to the King. On the walk there Bartek will ask Lazar, "What offence did your companion cause that Lord William Lawsrick deemed it worthy of a challenge?"

Deneb looks a little confused at Acaciano. It takes him a moment to realize that speaking Druidic had been a test. He thought it was obvious he was a druid given his fur attire. Acaciano's walking tree was certainly obvious enough.

:: The Duel ::

Kaellin returns the nod to Wozniacki, and then gives a respectful short bow to Ishana. He turns and walks back to William.

"So that's done. Sorry if I complicated things there. To be honest, I've never been a second before," he tells William. "Most of my challenges always end up with fists flying before talking happens."

"They're currently getting the Lord Mayor's and the King's permission for the fight. In the meantime, we just need stay cool, and not cause any more trouble. You good?"

::The Royals::

Sylvia, quickly taking in the reactions of those around her as the king approaches, drops into a quick half-bow, but quickly straightens up again afterwards.
In response to Sarra's and the king's comments on Sarra's abilities, "Oh, I don't doubt that she will be invaluable in the coming days, but will she be safe in the meantime? The few times Darivan and I have ventured any meaningful distance into the Stolen Lands, we've seen all manner of dangerous beasts and bandits. If you're interested, I could attempt to teach the princess a few minor spells as we travel that will be very helpful in the days to come."
As she talks, Sylvia absently scratches the back of Gwaihir's head, with the bird obviously enjoying it, "She's clearly smart enough to grasp the fundamentals of wizardry. I would be honored to teach her what I know."

::The Duel::

William stops stretching cuffs Kaellin on the back, grins, then says.

"Bah, its fine friend. I'm still damn honored that you're standing up te them damn fools with Me. Teach them a lesson about insulting a man for no reason." William pulls his arm behind his head and grimaces at the slight strain. "You best prepare to, I'm confident but... well better safe than sorry eh."

:: The Duel ::

Kaellin returns the grin. "No worries. Nothing gets pass my eyes and ears. You show that blowhard some manners."

:: Bartek ::
"Thank you, Master Yaroslav," replies Lord Mayor Sellemius. "Your service in this will not be forgotten."

"Skender Lazar," the duelist replies to Bartek, shaking his hand quite companionably. "Oh, the usual tripe," he adds in a resigned tone, sounding vaguely tired of the whole thing. "Contempt about his ancestry, lack of history, something like that. Honestly, I wasn't paying attention to it yet; Damian and I were busy being fascinated by the truly stupendous amount of gear stacked against the last pillar on the left up there." He makes a gesture towards the two staggered rows of mannequins at what is, by this point, the far end of the room.

"But around here, you can always get some fresh-faced idiot to call challenge if you insult his father or his House. Older students tend to get inured to such vocal idiocy and learn backchat and wordplay, only drawing steel if it's a challenge about the Art, but Cvetko's always been a bit of a bully. Truth be told, I hope this Lawsrick teaches him a lesson, but going by the fellow's armor, I don't have high hopes that he'll do well without it." He sighs, pauses to visibly brace himself, waits for the king to finish what he was saying, then wades into the fray ...

.

:: The Royals ::
One corner of the king's lips twitches upwards in response to that one simple, direct, and ultimately key question. "Is that what she wants to do?" His hand still upon his daughter's shoulder, his gaze and attention moving to Lyda, taking in the scales highlighting her eyesockets, the twin horns parting her hair. After a moment, he identifies her. "Lyda, Voice of Mountains. As it happens, I have three options available with which to apply to my children; either leave them in Issia - which, eventually, would mean with my cousin - and thus make hostages of them for my own good behavior towards him, or leave them in Rostland, and thus inevitably allow them to become either hostages for my good behavior towards them or else a casus belli, a cause for war, for my cousin to march in and reduce Rostland to ruins, or else bring them with me in the hope and expectation that they will survive, adapt, learn, and thrive."

He lets that hang there for a moment before continuing. "Should Sarra discover, in our exploration and establishment, that she has an especial vocation or talent of some sort, whether that is the mystic arts," here he nods a courtesy first to Amavin and then to Sylvia, "the martial," and he again gives a brief bow of his head to Lyda herself, "or the political," and his nod goes to Zámoždom Duchovný and a sideways glance at Alysandra, "then she will by all means be encouraged in that pursuit, for whatever length of time it requires her to gain proficiency. But the life of a noble," he concludes, "includes duties, burdens, obligations laid upon you by your position, not just choices and preferences of one's own. But this lesson ..." He pauses, then that twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips becomes a twist, black irony given a moment of form. "Well, 'tis something that more than a few will be learning a bit later tonight."

"Your Majesty?"

It's a couple of beats before Chalm turns; for those with any amount of political training, it's pretty clear he's not used to the whole 'your Majesty' thing yet. In the event, however, behind him are two individuals, one with a swordsman's air about him, the other the sorcerer Bartek Yaroslav, of the Swords of the Legion, one of the more organizedly-militant groups that was chosen for the expedition. "Yes?"

The duelist gives Chalm and his daughter a swordsman's courtesy, then straightens up. "Skender Lazar, student of the Diving Claw School of the Northern Schools; Dáma Tetyana Medvyed is our Swordmaster." He pauses as King Chalm frowns at him.

"Do I know you, Lazar?" asks King Chalm, sounding thoughtful as the group's attention turns to this new point of interest; the Brilliant Sword duelists that half-surround the group look particularly intrigued.

The man - late twenties, so you can't really call him young - hesitates, then says, "You spent a couple weeks at Skybreak a good number of years ago, sire."

Chalm scowls for a moment, then lightens back up as recognition dawns. "Second son of the house. You had exquisite taste in women, as I recall."

Skender gives a rueful grin. "She could charm a raven into singing like a lark, sire. I was a bit more on the buzzard side, though."

"Aren't we all. You were there, Sarra," Chalm asides to Sarra. "You were five or so, and ... Lazar, was it? Lazar here was a teenager, not much older than you are now, and spend much fo the time mooning over your mother. Your father still well?" he asks Skender.

The duelist gives a shrug. "Well enough that I can remain down here, not so well he can disown me for learning the sword in Restov."

Chalm barks a laugh. "Where have I heard that before. What can I do for you?"

Skender gives a brief nod of thanks. "Sire, a challenge has been declared against one of my compatriots, Cvetko Shevchenko by name, by Lord William Lawsrick of the Shivering Exiles. Lord Mayor Sellemius has allowed the use of the dueling table in the Council Chambers, on condition that your permission be acquired."

"Hmh. All right, convince me."

Skender glances aside at Bartek as if for support, then says, "Terms are to third blood or disarming, single sword only, no spellcasting or ally interference save enchantments already on the weapon, no coup de grace, and a healer present in case of serious accident. A healer has already volunteered. Lawsrick," he adds, "wanted it to be to surrender or the stayed kill, but the seconds ..." He shrugs.

"There's a judge for these things, right?"

"Yes, sire. Me, right now."

King Chalm hmmms, then glances down at his daughter. "What do you think? Should I allow it?"

Sarra hesitates, then says, "Can I ask some questions?"

"Of course," replies her father. "Best thing to do; can't make a good, informed decision with no information."

The young woman gives a smile, then looks at Lazar. "In your opinion, is there much danger of a, a, an accident? And what does 'no coup de grace' mean?"

Skender looks surprised for a moment, then thoughtful. "'No coup de grace' means that they aren't going to go out of their way to really seriously try to kill each other. Hm. I ... don't know Lawsrick's level of skill, my Lady, but he's using a pretty sizeable sword. If he's good enough for your father to include him, though, he's got to be decent. So I'd have to say that while an accident is a possibility, it's not an especial likelihood."

Sarra nods, her lips twisting slightly as she thinks, her eyes darting to the people around her, listening to her questions and waiting for her reply. "You're his friend? The other man, I mean, the one from your school."

Skender Lazar gives a sort of shrug. "That's ... not entirely accurate, but being in the same school ... we, um, back each other up, yes."

Sarra's eyes narrow. "I don't think that would make you a very fair judge, would it?"

"Well, I don't exactly like him," admits Lazar reluctantly, "but ... you have a point, my Lady."

:: Aramil ::
"All I ask is that you convince her to speak with me, Master Aramil. I do not expect to entirely convince you; you are not a gnome, to know the matter to its deepest root. I certainly do not expect to entirely convince her; she is a gnome, and about the only one I might have a chance of thoroughly convincing is a gnome themselves caught in the throes of the Bleaching. But ..." Nymaah gives a sad sort of smile. "If I can speak with her, in private, and with you - a voice of logic - at her side, well then maybe a step or two can be taken towards understanding and tolerance."

:: The Duel ::
As a point of fact, Tomáš will lose sight of Lazar shortly after he asks one of his swordbrethren (the student that Khavortorov is distracted by) after the location of the Lord Mayor; alas, the crowd is too thick to be able to follow him without being either eight or nine feet tall or in the upper gallery.

One of the closest Restov natives (for once not a swordlord) replies to Ishana's request-cum-statement. "The duel," says she, eyeing William's calisthenics with interest, then William's wife with thoughtfulness, "won't take place here, no matter what. It'll be either on the dueling table in the Council Chambers," and here she gestures towards the multiple doors on the northern part of the hall's eastern wall, "or else after the party, on one of the dueling tables somewhere out in the city. You won't be allowed to actually be standing on the table, though; the dueling surface, during a bout, is the domain of those fighting the duel and the one who adjudicates it - in this case, the swordlord over there, Master Irrisen here, and whomever will be the judge. Or judges," she adds judiciously, looking around. "Difficult to determine, what with the strangers and the swordlords and the Lord Mayor and this new king, who is going to be doing what. 'Tis a new and strange dance this night - the music and steps are oddly familiar, but they shift at the most peculiar moments."

::The Royals::
"I understand." Mostly anyway. Lyda had her own responsibilities and obligations, even before being named head of Voice of the Mountains. That much she understood. And that sometimes, powerful people found themselves the target of others wishing to exploit a relative. But after that, someone was going to have to explain. What kind of family would hold one of their own hostage to control another? Issia and Rostland going to war? Where they not part of the same country?

"I can't help with the first two but I can with the last. Learning being the most important," she says, referring to herself as well. "That is why I am here, yes? Because I have survived and adapted better than most." Her tail flicks side to side drawing attention to it. It is obvious she is not just referring to her skills in surviving the wild, but also surviving in society to get to this point. A tiefling who dared to be herself in a room full of people nervous from here very presence. Some of divine orders that had hunted down the very beings whose blood flowed through her. Nature had accepted her. Helen and Deneb had too. So she accepted herself. Hopefully he had as well.

::Druid's Pow-Wow::

Acaciano listens carefully to Deneb, and seems to think carefully before responding.

:: The Duel ::

As a point of fact, Tomáš will lose sight of Lazar shortly after he asks one of his swordbrethren (the student that Khavortorov is distracted by) after the location of the Lord Mayor; alas, the crowd is too thick to be able to follow him without being either eight or nine feet tall or in the upper gallery.

Is it possible to be in the upper gallery? If so, Tomas would try to get there and have an 'eagle sight' of the situation.

Dargaryen monitors the duel and with some interest. With considerable unease, he is reminded of his own extensive training under various swordlord tutors. Years of such training and the frequent recrimination at his lack of subtlety and mastery of the proper Aldori technique give rise to intense feelings of inferiority and self-doubt. He is reminded of his father's last words before that fateful winter night so many years ago. My son, your willful misuse of the dueling blade is an embarrassment to our noble house. Your brutish method with that blade is little better than the basic training of a common Issian mercenary. I'm afraid you lack the discipline to ever be a true Aldori Swordlord and to ever properly represent this noble family. Dargaryen looks away from the duel with tears rising in his eyes.

After regaining his composure, Dargaryen sighs and tries to remind himself that his own fusion of the Aldori fighting technique with conventional swordplay training has proven much more practical to the demands of professional soldiery. The swordlord technique has always placed too much emphasis on style and not enough on substance. Their delicate sword dance is fine for such duels, but it is of little utility on the battlefield. These fools would not last a day in the trenches of an armed conflict. Restov requires soldiers not duelists. He resigns himself to watch the events play out without getting directly involved. You have no place in court intrigue. You are a professional - wait for the kings orders. But he knows that fate has a way of embroiling those observers whom would watch neutrally from afar. Soon he senses, the fickle forces of fate will force him and his comrades to prove their mettle.

He says a silent prayer to Erastil and awaits the coming mayhem with stoic resolve.

Sylvia manages to avoid making a comment about how much she dislikes obligations from positions, but steps forward as the king discusses the duel.
"I have a friend, Darivan Orlovsky, who might be able to help. He was trained in dueling by Sir Aethelred Waincroft, and- while it's never come up before- I'm sure he would know the proper procedures for overseeing a duel. He would also be impartial in his judgment. I can get him, if you like."

:: Rytier Teodor Čierny ::
Theodric nods his head slightly, sensing that his time in such exalted company is apparently at an end, and quietly grateful that this is so. "Indeed Master, it would be my great privilege to inform you of the school's readiness. And a drink in your company would be quite welcome." Cocking his head to the side for a few moments, he begins to slowly and carefully follow the swordlord in the right direction, apparently doing so by sound. As he does so, Theodric decides to speak up, his voice laced with amusement. "Just so you know, Master Čierny, whoever is leading me usually just grabs my hand and tows me along behind them like a child's toy. If it's a formal occasion, or they're moved to leave me a few tatters of dignity before others, they might rest my hand on their shoulder instead." Rather than being bothered by this admission, the swordsman apprently finds it to be quite humorous, if his soft laughter is any indication. "So while it is appreciated, truly so, you need not have any particular care for my condition. Just grab me and go, I promise not to break."

As he follows the head of his former school, Theodric decides to raise an issue that has, occasionally, caused him some moments of concern. "I feel I should mention, Master, that I still practice the forms. I haven't had a chance to use them, being a bit more pressed with learning to fight effectively in my present state, and then further sidetracked by my growing interest in using paired blades. But I do intend to use them someday, as best as I can manage." Sounding quite nervous about this admission, Theodric asks somewhat hesitantly. "You don't have a problem with that, do you? Even though I'm no longer a member of the school and all. I wouldn't think about using them, save for the fact that they're surprisingly well-suited to me, more so now than before my blinding I believe." Theodric falls silent then, anxiously awaiting the older swordlord's judgement on the matter.

***Darvan***
Blinking in consternation, Darvan is speechless for a time, his mouth working soundlessly as he tries to come up with an answer for this. Finally, he stops, takes a deep breath, and exhales through his nose in a slow and tightly controlled manner, settling his mind and regaining his disrupted center. He begins by addressing Joachim's offer. "Well, I am quite flattered, Joachim, don't think otherwise. But I must respectfully refuse your particular offer. As I said, you are not my type for that sort of activity." Casting his gaze to the swordswoman--Teresa, as he now knows her--a faint smile reappears. "Truthfully, her sort of dancing is much more to my liking, if I were pressed to choose. But I do not believe it is appropriate for the venue, so I must decline that as well." With a shake of his head and a rather disappointed expression, the paladin smooths a few wrinkles out of his tabard. "I just knew, with utter certainty, that my lack of suitable attire would work against me when it came time to find some simple fun this evening. Had I been able to dress as I liked, I am quite sure this wouldn't be an issue. Ah well," Darvan concludes with resigned shrug. "Perhaps another time my luck will be better."

::Druid's Pow-Wow::
Deneb mental kicks himself for mentioning that. He forgot that druidic was supposed to be restricted to druids only. Lyda was...an exceptional case. One he'd gotten used to already. His self-recrimination evaporated at Acaciano's next words. "Jem? Swnio'n ddiddorol. Arhoswch, yw hi yma? Roeddwn i'n meddwl Tai oedd eich ail?"

::Druid's Pow-Wow::

"Mae hi ddylai fod, ni allaf ddychmygu byddai hi'n gweld ei eisiau. Nid yw llawer o gyfleoedd ar gyfer y math hwn o beth sy'n dod eich ffordd."

"Gwir. Mae'r holl derwyddon arall yr ydym yn gwybod yn hen, yn araf ac yn ddiflas. Rwyf bob amser wedi meddwl tybed os derwyddon o lefydd eraill yn debyg. Mae'r daith yn swnio fel syniad gwell bob dydd."

"Ydy hi'n sengl?"

::The Royals::

Darivan, having grown somewhat bored as the duelists discuss the parameters of the duel, slips away to find Sylvia, making sure she hasn't gotten herself into trouble. With some surprise, he finds her in a group along with the King himself, princess Sarra, and- Is that a tiefling? Huh. Didn't know any were going on the Expedition.
He makes his way up to the group, nodding in respect to the king, then the princess, "Your majesty. Princess."

Sylvia notices him, presenting Darivan to the group, "Ah, yes. This is him, your majesty. My friend, Kawaler Darivan Orlovsky. He'd be quite willing to assist you in moderating the duel."

Darivan shoots Sylvia a panicked look. What have you gotten me into? I just got here.

Relax, you worry too much. You'll do fine.

Okay... but what am I doing?

Sylvia merely smiles at Darivan's attempt to stay composed.

"Druids"

Acaciano laughs good-naturedly at Deneb's inquiry. After a second or two, he replies, still smiling.
"Onest, ni allaf ddweud yn sicr. Pob lwc, er."

:: The Royals ::

"I can vouch for both the terms and as a witness to the Lord Mayor's permission", Bartek comments when Lazar is done delivering the terms.

Bartek watches and listens as the princess asks her questions and Sylvia suggests Darivan as a judge.

I wonder if I could suggest myself judging. Worst comes to worst I can cast a slumber spell upon the combatants and Kliment could break up those who stay awake

Amavin frowns at the offers flying around at the suggestions.

"It needs to be someone that doesn't show favoritism to any of the combatants...and also someone both parties would respect enough to agree with any judgement or rulings. I think someone they know personally or are familiar with out work better - than a stranger, unless said stranger had particularly strong accomplishments that commanded instant respect."

Amavin considers things for a moment before shrugging easily. "Personally, I think someone with royal blood should judge it - but that's just me. I'm certainly unfit to judge it myself."

::Druid's Pow-Wow::
"Well I certainly can't pass up the opportunity," he says switching back to common. It was nice to have a language no one knew for secret conversations, and it was nice to re-familiarize himself with it, but it might make people in the vicinity uncomfortable. "You know it's so hard to find someone with the same interests. Sure most halflings love to wander but usually from city to city. They like their comforts. You disappear for a month or two and things can get strained. So hard keeping up a long distance relationship. You got a beau?" he asks conversationally, as if he hadn't just popped a personal question. If he was going to go back to being alone, drifting on the cold winter wind, might as well get all the fun out of the next few days he could get.

:: The Royals ::
Though his eyes linger on hers for a moment - or, perhaps, on the scales framing them - Chalm nods acknowledgement, even approval, to Lyda and her words before Skender Lazar interrupts. Likewise, when Bartek interjects, the king gives him a brief bow, albeit only of his head, in thankful acknowledgement, though a thoughtfulness is there as well - perhaps a lingering irritation at Bartek from their previous conversation?

Listening to the questioning and the answers, followed by the suggestions, Chalm gives a quirked smile at Amavin's recommendation of a royal judge. "Recent coronations notwithstanding, I think you'd be hard pressed to find such here, no matter the claims otherwise. That said, though, I'm not willing to ... give a royal imprimatur to this sort of, ah, conflict resolution. Or rather, I'd rather not bring it along as the preferred methodology for our new land." He turns (along with pretty much everyone else) to look at Darivan as he arrives, his expression once again undergoing that 'enlightenment' expression; it's clear he has an idea who Darivan is, and what he can do. But he looks down at his daughter and asks, "Well?"

Sarra Marta looks uncertain for a moment; she is, after all, a fifteen-year-old girl making a seriously life-threatening decision about someone else's - two someone else's!! - life. "I think ... maybe it might be best if there were two judges," she suggests. "If Master ... Orlovsky?" she looks uncertainly at Sylvia, then at Darivan, looking to catch a nod. "If Master Orlovsky will lend his countenance to being a judge of the duel, Master Lazar --"

"Just Lazar," interjects Skender quickly.

"Master Lazar," Sarra repeats doggedly, "can make sure the forms are followed correctly, but if things go past the point, Master Lazar can intervene with his schoolmate, and Master Orlovsky can intervene with the other fellow. That would let honor be satisfied, but if tempers flare, not make things go, um ..."

"Prevent things from devolving into a factional brawl," suggests Zámoždom Duchovný unctiously.

Chalm's head turns, and he examines the Sarenite priest for a long moment, then nods agreement. "Just so. Very well, do it as the lady suggests. Now who ..." Chalm looks around for a moment, then spots Alysandra. "Żonka Janus. Might I ask a favor? Will you go to security and let them know what's going on, have someone bring the weapons of the four to the Council Chamber?"

"Of course, Your Majesty." Alysandra gives a quick curtsey, and heads off past Zámoždom the Clergyman; one of the Brilliant Sword duelists turns in appreciation as he watches her leave.

"Also," Chalm adds, looking now at the two judges, "I'd rather not the entire room go in there for this. Limit the audience to, oh, twenty or so, will you?"

He pauses then, his attention shifting to Bartek, and then the king delivers an apparent non sequitur; it should be noted that his voice is conversational, and not projected so that many can hear. "Master Yaroslav, in my irritation earlier I spoke without thinking, without making myself clear. What I said about extravagant flamboyance was meant to indicate only the people involved - the Steel Fist, I meant. They are in general glory-seekers, and not entirely the sort to plan ahead, but they are larger-than-life, of the sort that people will happily gather to listen to stories of how deep into trouble they got themselves - and then how they managed to extricate themselves again. Heroes to tell tales about, exaggerated and all, that should they survive their blunders, their flamboyance will see them in good stead." He pauses, then adds, "We, however, must face up to our blunders, and my getting upset with you was one such. You have my apologies. Would you, as a favor for me, be the witness for the Crown at this duel?" Meaning, in this case, that though the judges are there to see things stay within the boundaries of the duel, Bartek will be there to see that things are done the way things have been arranged - though of course the fact that Chalm's apologized publically to him is practically scandalous.

Things having been arranged, the three assigned (Lazar, Darivan, and Bartek) and any others from that group interested in watching how things play out troop to the far side of the room; Zámoždom the Clergyman and the Brilliant Sword duelists, at least, remain behind to continue to maneuver in regards to the King and his daughter.

.

:: The Duel ::
Finally, after ten or fifteen minutes, Skender Lazar finally returns with several people more-or-less in tow. Gesturing to the parties involved - that's you, William, and you, Kaellin, as well as Shevchenko and Wozniacki - Lazar gestures to Darivan. "Sirs, this is Darivan Orlovsky; he and I will be acting as judges. The third gentleman is Bartek Yaroslav, witness for His Majesty King Kowalskiy and, dare I say, Lord Mayor Sellemius. If we may proceed?" He gestures towards the doors to the Council Chamber, for them to proceed hence.

Turning to the onlookers, Lazar announces, "His Majesty prefers a limited audience for this duel; unless you are well and truly invested in the outcome, please remain in the Great Hall." This has, more or less, the desired effect; only a couple dozen follow those involved towards the Council Chamber, the rest shrugging and staying put, finding other entertainments.

One of the doors to the Chamber makes a couple of thuds before it opens a few steps before the group reaches them, effectively right next to Dargaryen; a half-elf in servant's garb looks out, then backs a couple steps up, holding the door open. Inside there are a handful of guards, though these are the more 'usual' ones for the Citadel, Restov soldiery. In one hand they each hold a grounded spear; in the other, a sword. Without hesitation, Lazar and Shevchenko each step over to a guards to collect their weapons, both hanging the sheath on its baldrick with the sort of unconscious movement that only someone who wears a weapon daily possesses - the same sort of habitual action Darivan and William no doubt likewise possess.

Lazar steps away from the guard, then gestures the others towards the dueling table.

The Council Chamber is essentially an auditorium; on a four-foot high dias rests a long, slightly-curved desklike table with front panels, obviously for the Council, which faces the sizeable half-circle of the rest of the chamber. Two arcing rows of moderate but sturdy desks are clearly where the non-Council Swordlords and Restov nobility sit. Beyond them are another pair of rows, these of wooden chairs; beyond those are another three rows of benches. The half-circle arcing rows of the audience are broken by three aisles that lead from the center to the far walls; the stone floor rises a couple of steps for each subsequent row.

The focus of the room is, as might probably be expected, a classic oval dueling table; it stands only a couple feet above the floor, three steps up from stone to freshly-sanded wood. Experienced Aldori know that while the table may look to be one solid piece, it is designed to be able to be taken apart for cleaning - just in case. Thirty feet long, fifteen feet wide, it is big enough to enable maneuvering, small enough to require a fight.

Shevchenko and Wozniacki head towards the far end of the table, the former standing a step away from the steps at that side, with the latter standing a step back and to his left; Lazar circles around the table in order to step up to its surface from the far side. By his slight gestures, he expects the rest to mirror their opposites.

::Nymaah::

Aramil excuses himself from conversation with Nymaah and heads back to the conglomeration of Gnomes, hoping to extricate Porablum from the group. After some small difficulty, he manages to separate her from the gnomes and move her off to the side. "So, I've found the Bleachling the others have spoken of, and have spoken with her. She'd like to talk to you." At Porablum's immediate look of horror, he quickly says, "I know, it's not something you're particularly fond of, but there's a lot that isn't known about the Bleaching, and, perhaps, you can be the first non-Bleachling to write something about it. A cautionary tale, perhaps, of a tragic hero who was consumed by such a condition. It could be most beneficial for both you and other gnomes. Plus, you won't be talking to her alone. I'll be there with you and have your back the whole time. So, what do you say? This is the only time you'll talk to her. Once we get to the Stolen Lands, she plans on joining the rest of the Cenobitic Monks and holing herself up in a monastery somewhere - out of sight and out of mind."

Porablum thinks for a moment before sighing and saying, "Alright, but don't expect me to treat her like family, friend, or acquaintance - Gnomes don't mess around with that sort of thing."

Porablum and Aramil will walk over to where Nymaah is, Aramil with some relief, and Porablum with some trepidation. Once they get there, Aramil will say, "Porablum, this is Nymaah. Nymaah, this is Porablum." Porablum's blue hair and purple dress stand out particularly vibrantly in contrast to Nymaah.

If Nymaah offers Porablum a hand, she will not take it - not yet, anyway.

"His Majesty prefers a limited audience for this duel; unless you are well and truly invested in the outcome, please remain in the Great Hall."

Understanding that he is 'truly invested in the outcome', Tomas attempts to follow them to the Council Chamber. After all, he is going to share travel with some of the involved.

Sense Motive untrained: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (3) + 3 = 6
::Open to Chat::
Lyda is happy to see approval and breaths a silent sigh of relief. No matter what else happened, at least the leader of this endeavor had no problems with her. Hopefully that would transfer down the chain of command. She watches the rest of the drama unfold but catches none of the subtle politics or hidden meanings. She notes Sarra's nervous but wise choices. She did well under pressure. But now things were moving towards the council chamber and a duel but neither of those appealed to her. Instead, she wandered over to the food. She wondered how it would compare to Joanne's cooking. The woman was spoiling her with all the good grub. She might not be able to subsist on hardtack and jerky ever again. She finds a good sampling and quiet place to eat.

:The Royals/The Duel::

Darivan nods at the appropriate times, agreeing to judge the duel. As absurd (in his opinion) as the protocols for duels were, he knew them like the back of his hand. Of course, he was still trying to figure out what on Golarion was up with his hand, but in any case....

He follows the group into the council hall, with Sylvia (haven taken her leave from the princess) following close behind. When presented with his sword, Darivan easily and smoothly buckles Ardafax to his belt. He welcomes the telepathic connection with his blade as he does so, moving to the side of the room, with Sylvia at his side. He keeps his hand on the hilt of Ardafax as he does so, and his hand finally stops fidgeting.

Well it's about time. Do you know how boring it is, sitting around in a weapons check.

(sigh) Yes you are. Yes you are. Notice anything interesting in weapons check?

William, before attaining his weapon from the guard, removes his nic white shirt. Leaving only his less valuable undershirt to be stained. Handing the fine top to Kaellin he says "Watch this for me, shouldn't take long."

Grasping his blade and climbing the dueling table William swings a few times at the air, making sure his strikes are true. Touting the size of his weapon in one hand, as if it where a riding crop.

William turns to the crowd and shouts just loud enough to be heard over the rabble.

"Where's our healer? I would like her to make certain their's no tom foolery with magic going on with me or my opponent."

Ishana keeps her position on the stairs, frowning up at the loud mouthed swordsman.

"If I were you, I'd be worrying more about getting embarrassed by your opponent, instead of quibbling about whether someone is going to "cheat you". I'll be right here if things approach more of a lethal turn, but I suggest you focus your attention on the duel at hand."

::Druids::

"Errrr no," Acaciano replies, following Deneb back to Common, but a bit caught off guard, but recovering quickly enough.

"Same problem, I suppose. This expedition will be the longest I've been around a such a large group of people in who-knows-how-long."

::The Duel::
Darivan glares at William, and Sylvia raises an eyebrow at the (seemingly unintentional) insult, an expression somehow mirrored by the falcon on her shoulder (you didn't realize that falcons even had eyebrows). The two share a glance, then simultaneously speak in a deep, resonating mystical voice, mirroring eachother's hand movements precisely, "Anichnévoun mageía."

Next to him, Sylvia's eyes likewise glow, though green instead of blue. She repeats the incantation, stroking Gwaihir as she does so, causing the bird's eyes to turn green as well. A feather from her familiar's wing comes loose as she does so, and, with a puzzled look, Sylvia pockets the wing feather.

Darivan walks up to William, "There you go. Any magic "tom-foolery," as you put it, and we'll spot it."

If any guards tr to confront them as they cast their spells, Darivan stops his casting and says, "Merely a detection spell, to ease that fool's worries about magical interference."

:: The Duel ::

Kaellin nods to William as he accepts the garment. As he begins to make his way to the Council Chamber, Sylvara slides up next to him. The half-elf fails to stop himself from gulping as he can practically feel the icy demeanor of his longtime adventuring companion. Though the elf is walking alongside him, she is not giving him one whit of attention.

"So, uh, I guess I stepped in it pretty badly, eh?" Kaellin tries to quip.

"You just better hope he wins," was the cold reply.

Kaellin starts thinking he should shut up now.

:: The Royals ::

A royal apology, and in public...

As Chalm both apologizes and ask him to be the royal representative at the duel, Bartek is awed. "It would be my pleasure to act as witness, your Highness. You do me a great honor." Bartek bows graciously as he says this.

While walking towards the council chambers, Bartek tells Kliment "You had best remain here to respect the limit of people allowed in to watch the duel."

:: The Duel ::

Upon arriving in the council chamber, Bartek will stay with Lazar and Orlovsky

Issues with cheating before the match even begins...

Bartek's face turns into a bit of a frown as William asks for a detection spell.

"Master Orlovsky, it may be best if you do not hold the spell for long. You are meant to be concentrating on judging the fight. I am sure your companion can manage to watch everyone on her own."

This Lawsrick is coming across rather poorly now. If he should lose I doubt he will even accept it as legitimate

:: Leaving the Royals ::

In reply to Bartek, "That sounds reasonable brother, I shall find you after the duel is over."

Kliment will then leave Bartek's side and make his to the group that is playing drinking games and having a grand old time.

:: Drinking Corner ::

Walking up to the nearest person that seems to be involved in the contest, Kliment asks "What's going on here then? And who's winning?"

::Druids::
"Well don't let the opportunity slip by," Deneb says patting his much taller companion on the back of the knee. About the only place a halfling could reach. "I could introduce you to some people if you want but for I now, I best see what Jem looks like for real lest I loose the chance forever, judging by what you said. Take care." With a halfling's grace Deneb slips between people without bumping into anyone.

::Druids::

"Good advice, my friend. I'll be seeing you around, either way, I should think. Cheers."

As Deneb makes his way off, Acaciano glances around the party, taking stock of the situation. Sipping his drink, he plays absentmindedly with the Magethorn Manacle attached to his arm.

:: Theodric ::
Čierny smiles slightly, then says, "Then they do you a disservice. Here, let us do this." Theodric feels his former teacher take his right hand, extend the arm, then fold it around his own left, so that the two are walking arm-in-arm*. "There. And my exalted reputation --" that's some of his self-depricating humor "-- will part the crowd."

He listens to Theodric's concern about using the forms of the schools, then grunts. "The forms exist to be used, not to be ignored," says the Mivoni-turned-Restovite Swordlord. "If you use them with one blade or with two, it does not matter - especially not if it is your life that is to be saved, eh? You are going into wild lands, full of bandits and monsters and bandit monsters. You use every trick to stay alive, and perhaps you then teach these things at your new school, yes? The Swordpact itself changes, develops new style, new trick, refines and enhances. So find new things that work, and perhaps some day you come back and beat our pants off the same way Sirian Aldori did, eh?"

.

:: Darvan ::
Laughter ripples through the handful of students at Darvan's obvious consternation. Once the tabarded Vudrani whimseys his way to a halt, Joachim gives an eloquent shrug with his left shoulder - though Darvan might well notice that his right hand doesn't move much at all - and replies. "Oh, you could find plenty of dancing of Teresa's style tonight - just start insulting people." He glances to the side as the Aldori and his own Swordmaster, Dáma Sobecki, start off into the crowd in an entirely other direction; two of his compatriots (including Teresa) go with her, while the third of the four lingers near the two of you. "But yes, here there are no simple delights tonight. Politics, religion, statescraft, rumormongering, lies, deceit - I know I keep repeating myself, but that's what all this is, after all. Expecting otherwise," he says with a flicker of ruthlessness in his eyes, "would have been a fool's errand from the get-go. The simple pleasures shall be outside in the bailey while we're having dinner, I expect. Drinks, singing, a roaring bonfire or three. Entirely inappropriate for us, I fear."

.

:: Aramil / Porablum ::
The Bleachling gnome monk, her hands in her sleeves, gives Porablum a slow bow, though she is not quite so foolish as to not keep at least her eyes somewhat elevated. "Mistress Flapzit," she greets. "I am Azaneth Nymaah - the bleachling you and ... the others," she says diplomatically, "desire to eject from the expedition. In what manner might I assure you that my presence in it will not bring it - or you - bad luck? How can I possibly convince you that my condition - that the Bleaching itself - is not a contagion to be feared?" She pauses for a moment, almost as if inviting comment, but then continues. "Only by example, and by long association and experience, can such a thing transform such a deep dread into ... something else." (What that something else might be, she doesn't venture to suggest.) "But to do so would take a handful of things. A place to live, close enough to be accessible, not so close as to be a constant concern. Discipline on the part of the one, the wisdom to not rush something that cannot be hurried along. Courage on the part of the other, to continue to return despite their discomfort, to be open to something new and unusual and, yes, frightening to them. Understanding on both their parts, to see what the other is going through, to not judge blindly."

She nods towards her cluster of compatriots, who have lost a few, gained a few, making no mention of the taller one still standing silently behind her. "The Order seeks a chapterhouse in the new lands; I am given direction by my superior to assist in its establishment, to be available for the offering of advice to those who are in need of it. More, I feel ..." The monk behind her shifts his stance slightly, as if suddenly alert to something Nymaah perhaps should not be revealing - or perhaps is actually only now revealing for the first time. "I feel that it is in this place that I must be, that there is a balance on the verge of a tipping-point, and that much will be lost if it goes over that point. I do not want to be the cause of such dire upset as you and the others are feeling, Mistress Flapzit, and yet ... what would the cost be should I not dare it?"

.

:: Lyda ::
The food - single mouthfuls of exquisite little taste explosions - is circulating in much the same fashion as the small two-ounce cups of alcohol. And like the alcohol, the minute portions are apparently designed to both stave off three hours' worth of grumbling stomachs as well as keeping you from turning you into a stumbling drunk on the little two- or three-ounce portions of wines, ales, and meads that are what are in the small cups on similar trays. However, those trays eventually return to the food area of the room to reload, and not a few people over there pause to graze on a few more crackers with cheeses, deviled eggs, and other such hors d'oeuvres than can be filched from any particular carried tray.

Just over the other way, though, is that drinking contest ...

.

:: Kliment / The Drinking Contest ::
The 'drinking contest' itself seems to be ten or so individuals - it's difficult to figure out if the couple-dozen others standing around are taking part, watching, or some strange combination of the two. At a fast look, there are two groups and a few extras - two human males (one Mwangan, one perhaps Taldan or Chelaxian) in nearly-identical black, possibly uniforms; four humans, three males and a female, in various finery, though they're clearly together; two half-elven females with the looks of twins and swordsmen about them; a dwarf male with a sort of 'quiet power' look about his clothes and items, quite expensive enough to make Kliment's fingers itch; and a human female bearing an amused sort of arrogance.

One young(ish) man, at least as richly-dressed as the dwarf, is next to Kliment on the periphery, smiling genially and perhaps trying to keep up - well, if 'one every four' is keeping up, because he doesn't look anywhere near as toasted as the four 'clearly together' humans. He turns to Kliment, gives him an up-down appraising flick of his eyes. "I think the two Black Company fellows are winning," he offers his opinion as the Mwangan in the utterly disreputable hat downs the scant contents of a horn cup, gives a slight and entirely unselfconscious belch, then rattles off a limerick that sends almost everyone around into gales of laughter for its hilarity and raunchiness, including the young man. "Sandu Groza," he introduces himself to Kliment, offering his hand for shaking, once he's recovered.

.

:: The Duel ::
Darivan's Head
Ardafax almost burbles with delight at the question. There were dozens - scores - hundreds of other swords there, and they were all dumb as a post. There were a lot of pouches too, so there's probably a lot of mages and priests and that sort of thing around here. A couple of polearms. There was a young fellow writing out labels that then got very carefully put on each thing, and then I got stuck on a shelf in the middle of a bunch of other things. I couldn't see many of the tags, but I think I was in the 'O' section.

Otherwise
William's demand that the healer - who has no place in judging the thing - monitor for magic casts a very severe pall over the proceedings. The onlookers mutter at each other, and not a few Restov natives give William looks that by all rights should cause him to collapse from shame or apoplexy. Shevchenko and Wozniacki exchange long grim glances before looking over at Lazar, who stays silent while looking at Lawsrick, his jaw working slightly. Only when Ishana's tart sally breaks the silence does the mood likewise break, a ripple of amusement going around the crowd and Lazar giving her a measured nod of thanks as his own temper comes back under control.

When Darivan and Sylvia's simultaneous call forth their power, the Lord Mayor's guards look uncomfortable, as if being uncertain of what they should be doing at this point, but neither they nor the twenty-five or so spectators (who do not really react) interfere in the doing. Neither the King nor his security is here, and this is a duel, so despite William's insult to everyone's honor in regards to it, Darivan's spellcasting is entirely acceptable to every last man and woman.

Bartek's suggestion receives a judicious nod of approval from Skender Lazar. "A very good idea indeed," he replies, then waits until Darivan is settled and ready. "Cvetko Shevchenko," the duelist says formally, looking towards his erstwhile compatriot. "You have offered offense to Lord Sir William Lawsrick," says the duelist, looking towards William and nodding, "who stands ready to answer your insult with steel. Do you apologize for your offense?"

"I do not," answers Shevchenko, and almost looks to be about to continue, perhaps with another insult, but Wozniacki backhands his upper arm.

Lazar nods. "This duel is to be to the third touch that draws blood or to the disarmament of one party; in this instance, dismounting the table is not to be considered a touch. You have been armed with, and may use only, your one sword. No spellcasting or ally interference is to take place, with the sole exception of enchantments already upon your weapon. No coup de grace is to be performed, but a healer is present in case of serious injury to either party. Any violation of these terms is to result in the loss of the duel. You may mount the table."

Shevchenko (and, presumably, William) step up to the surface of the table, at which time Lazar (and, presumably, Darivan) take one step back and down, so that only the two involved are on the dueling surface. Shevchenko does not yet draw his weapon.

"Gentlemen, should you hear the word 'hold' from anyone's lips, you will immediately take no fewer than three steps backwards and raise your weapon to the defensive, taking no action save that to preserve yourself. Should you find yourself facing a judge, you will immediately lower your weapon until its point is at the surface of the dueling table. Should your opponent quickly retreat," he adds with a long look over at William and his hand-and-a-half weapon, "it is adviseable to take a step or two back yourself, and check visually with the judges. Upon the call of 'go' from myself, you may begin - or resume - the duel." Looking between the two for a moment, Lazar nods and continues.

"Gentlemen, you may draw your weapons and place yourself on your guard; your scabbard may be given to your second." Shevchenko, of course, immediately brings his blade out of its sheath, unhooking the latter from his belt and, half-turning without taking his eyes off Lawsrick, hands it back to Wozniacki. Lazar also draws his blade, but lays it upon his shoulder instead of settling into the ready stance Shevchenko enters.

Checking to assure himself of both Lawsrick and Darivan's readiness, the latter's blade needing to echo the placement of Lazar's own, the Swordpact judge nods. "Ready? Go!!"

William follows the instructions of the judges and hands off his scabard to Kaellin. Blushing a bit behind his beard from the social mistep of requesting magical fairness assurence, he heads up the tables stairs opposite his opponent.

When the long awaited "Go!" Is sounded William sures up and awaits his opponents action.

Lyda had to admit, one of the few things she enjoyed when returning to civilization was the food. She'd picked up a few tricks from Joanne and started bringing small amounts of spices to make trail rations and hunted game better but nothing compared to these little cakes. She'd gone through three before realizing she'd need to save room for actual dinner. Deneb wandered through the crowd, spotted her, smiled, then wandered off. For some reason she felt extremely embarrassed by that. She was already more than ready to leave and she'd barely talked to anyone. So many people being around was extremely draining. But now she had cake and was ready to do something...maybe.

Going by Acaciano's description, Deneb figured he'd find an urban halfling in the nosiest part of the party. That meant the drinking contest. How were they getting drunk off the little glasses he'd seen anyway. Curiosity drew him towards the revelry. After a few minutes, watching, and marveling at some people's ability to consume, he found his target. He approaches the halfling he assumes is Jem and introduces himself. "Jem? Voice of the Trees? My, you are as pretty as your name. Wait. I bet you've heard that one." Deneb takes an exaggerated thinking pose. "Maybe a pun on a precious stone? Ruby? Sapphire? Diamond? Those are hard. And puns are love or hate." He thinks a moment longer and shrugs. "Honesty is probably the best approach. Acaciano said tonight is likely one of the few nights I'd see your true form. I am glad I did not miss it." He then holds out a hand. "Deneb Flynvias. Voice of the Mountains. Terrible names I know."