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

Game Master The Wyrm Ouroboros

Amavin glances around herself, before heading in the direction of the drinking party. Picking up cues from the crowd, she immediately sits and pours a drink, although feels slightly ill at ease in the situation. Amavin was well used to taverns and drinking that would go on, but as someone that still spent large amounts of time in the outdoors, it was still slightly jarring to be in this particular situation.

Standing by the dueling table, Kaellin intently observes the participants. Though he was eager to witness Aldori swordplay clash against Irrisen's, he is intent on being a good second. He scans Wiliam's opponent, his second, and others in the crowd, looking for signs of ill intent or hidden weapons.

Honestly, Kaellin thinks to himself, they don't seem the type to cheat. Bunch of blowhards, sure. But you never know...

:: The Duel ::

Well at least he looks contrite over his magic faux pas

With Lazar taking command of the proceedings, Bartek straightens his clothes slightly and takes a place beside Lazar where he can easily see the duel.

This will hopefully be interesting

:: Drinking Contest ::

Laughing at the limerick, Kliment takes Sandu's hand and shakes it. "Kliment Yaroslav. Are you one of the Steel Fists or with another company?"

Seeing Amavin walk over and sit down Kliment thinks to himself She is one of the leaders here, best I get to know her since we'll be working together. After talking with Sandu though

:: The Duel ::
The Aldori dueling sword is at heart a longsword - perhaps a little on the short end, but very slightly curved, and sharp only on one edge. Given its origins across the mountains in Iobaria (or perhaps despite such origins) Sirian Aldori's mastery and subsequent instruction in the agile use of the blade has made it famous for at least five hundred years as the premier dueling weapon of Avistan, surpassing even the rapier in the development of the art of its use. It is not for the casual wielder, and a demonstration of this fact is exactly what Cvetko Shevchenko sets out to accomplish.

At a strike in the air, the sword twists in Cvetko's hand before seeming to escape his palm, writhing backwards up his arm almost to his elbow. But the duelist's footwork has drawn him forward, his other hand curving in to trap the hilt against his arm before he whirls about, moving forward several feet as he turns and strikes once more at the air - right where William's skull might've been. The blade's flourish stops with the tip on the line between Shevchenko's eyes and Lawsrick's, the spine of the sword angled somewhat upwards, the blade perpendicular to the ground.

.

:: The Drinking Contest ::
The format to the contest becomes clear after only a few moments of watching. The person whose turn it is - the arrogant-seeming human female - swallows their drink, then declaims a bit of poetry. A few moment's casual questioning of anyone watching will reveal that the Black Company Mwangan in the disreputable hat has produced filthy limericks all night, while most of the Steel Fists have tried (and, generally, failed, but not for the pleasure of trying) to outdo him; the other Black Company human has 'dueled' the half-elf twins with tidbits of elegant elvish poetry which only a few onlookers have the linguistic skill to appreciate; and the dwarf male and arrogant human female have been testing each other with stanzas of increasingly obscure sagas of various historical origin, dwarf and human alike.

The lack of utter inebriation on the contestants' parts is explained by the minimal alcohol per dose (two to four ounces), the amount of time between each dose (typically ten or fifteen minutes), and the at-hand fortification of the tidbits of food which prevent the shots from going to the heads of empty-stomached contestants.

Deneb
The nut-brown hair of the halfling which Deneb approaches is intricately braided, and even so still reaches her calves; the fem half-turns, casually swirling a cup of something alcoholic in her hand as she gives a quirk of a smile to the other druid. "I am betrayed," says she with a twitch of her eyebrows; except for her hair, she is exceptionally plain, which perhaps is why she prefers wearing a myriad of other faces, but at least she laughs at Deneb's sallies. "And yes, Voice of Trees. I don't know, I rather like ours; I mean, I did suggest it. Was rather surprised to find a 'Voice of Mountains' in the running, as it were; surprised as well to find a halfling amongst the lot. So how," and here she waves her cup at the party, "are you enjoying your night in civilization?"

Kliment
Sandu gives Kliment's hand a good firm shake, then laughs at the question he's posed. "By Abadar, no. That's most of them," and here he waves at the three-male one-female quartet of humans trading dirty limericks with the Mwangan, "though I expect their token 'serious fellow' is around here somewhere." He looks vaguely around at the rest of the party, as though the last one was going to appear out of the woodwork when mentioned, like some elemental lord or evil fey from a story. "No, I'm part of a merchant company, though to be fair we did apply - and, granted, get accepted - into the expedition. We're sending our representative along with King Chalm to deal with things in the field as they need to be handled while the rest of us take care of necessities in Brevoy." He considers this, then adds, "Perhaps somewhere in the River Kingdoms as well, if it's necessary. That'll probably be me - young and adventurous," he adds, poking only a little fun at himself.

William, despite his feelings twords Cvetko has to concede that he is indeed a swordlord. In reaction William takes a defensive position with a readied strike should Cvetko close in for the attack.

::Drinking Contest - Poetry Corner::
To Lyda's surprise, the drinking contest seemed less a contest of liver and more a contest of linguistics. There was, of course, the dirty rhymes of the Black Company vs the Steel Fists. But the other groups were retelling historical events and waxing poetic in elven. Few people seemed to actually understand what was being said in elvish but it was one of the languages she was fluent in. She debated internally whether she should join or not. She was fairly certain she could do well. One of her prized possessions was a book of nature-themed elvish poetry.

Finding an unknown reserve of courage, Lyda circled round to their group and took one of the drinks on the table during a lull. She looked at the cup in mild surprise, elven wine, then realized how the elven poetry contest got started. When they looked her way she spoke.

"Āmi mēghēra yēmana ēkākī ōẏānḍāraḍa
urd'dha yē bhāsā vales ēbaṁ pāhāṛa upara,
yakhana saba ēkabārē ēkaṭā lōkēra bhiṛa dēkhē
subarṇa ḍēphōḍila ēkaṭi hōsṭa;
lēkēra pāśē, gāchēra talāẏa,
dāpādāpi ēbaṁ hā'ōẏā nāca."

::Jem::
Deneb wasn't sure he heard right when Acaciano said hair to the floor but it was certainly accurate. It was obvious from that alone that she was no wilderness druid. That much hair would cause all kinds of trouble. Which was a shame because it was beauty to behold. Very elegant braiding. But Deneb almost thought he was in trouble before the conversation even started. Insulting the one that thought up the name. Heaven help him. But she didn't seem bothered by it too much. So that meant retract or muscle forward. "Ah. So we have you to blame." Muscle forward it was. "We didn't get much choice." He puts on a bored expression and looks down at an imaginary sheaf of paper. "'Druid. Druid. Druid. Ranger." He marks off an imaginary tally of the leadership. "From Icerime Peaks. Voice of Mountains good? Great. Next." He throws his hands up in exasperation. "I was thinking more like Rolling Stones." He puts on a fake serious expression but cracks quickly.

"Oh I am having a wonderful time. Civilization is where most of my friends and family are. I like to visit. The sky's are my true calling though." He looks up, imagining what it would be like right now to fly high in the cold, night sky and look at the stars. There'd be plenty of opportunities for that. The here and now was just that so best make the most of it. He looks down at her, curious. "What is so surprising about a halfling druid?" he asks.

:: The Duel ::
As William pauses - hesitates, perhaps? - Shevchenko slips forward across fifteen feet of thoroughly sanded wood like a droplet of water dancing across a hot griddle, his sword describing a spiral of gleaming steel that wards away William's bastard-sword stroke without touching it, then lifts to practically ripple up next to the Irriseni's face. A cat-scratch stings William just under his cheekbone, an inch-long line described by the sharp blade that hasn't even time to bleed yet.

"First touch," the Swordlord taunt William, recoiling.

:: The Drinking Poetry Slam ::
Lyda
Most of the onlookers don't take a turn as the sequence rolls around the circle, but every now and then someone does. This time it's Lyda's turn, and the group watches her and shouts a salute to her declamation. The Black Company Taldan and the half-elf twins nod in approval, and the drink passes on to the next person in line - though the Taldan's gaze lingers on Lyda's face across the circle for a few long moments more before he lifts his refreshed cup to his lips, giving a brief, almost concealed, salute with the cup before downing its contents.

Deneb
Jem's lips twitch in another one of those quirked smiles. "Nothing at all," she replies. "I know four halfling druids - okay, or rangers - within fifty miles of us right now. It's just ... where you roam, I suppose you might say. Not many halflings choose the mountains. I have to admit, though, that finding out you're a roc-rider explains ... quite a bit." She watches and listens to Lyda's poetry offering, frowning for a moment as she parses the multi-layered elvish before applauding, though a bit laggardly. As the next person in line (the dwarf) starts to rumble a snippet of epic poetry, she says with a note of wistfulness in her voice, "What's it like, up there?"

Tomas watches the duel with interest, and nods at Cvetko's first touch. "A classical move. Now let's see this stranger's response."

Amavin doesn't really take part in the Drinking Poetry Slam, preferring to keep to herself and observe the talented linguistics on offer.

William tries to deflect the incoming blow with a miserable failure, the thin line of blood forming on Williams face smears on his fingers as he reaches up to touch the wound.

With a slight growl at Cvetko William whips his blade up twords the mans chest, aiming a slash for his dominant hands pectoral.

::Jem::
"Not many druids choose civilization as their region of influence either," he says, wagging an eyebrow to indicate he knows she is an urban druid. "It's not just the mountains either. It was the eastern edge of Gronzi forest to the north. It happened to border the Icerime peaks. We've crossed them before. Another Druid in our group, a dwarf by the name of Bouldershoulder, actually lived within the mountains. I doubt you're only familiar with just a single city or community." The pause before 'quite a bit' gives him pause too. He looks at her, trying to discern if that meant more than was said.

When she asks, what it was like to fly he answers without hesitation. "Magical." He pauses for a while, reminiscing. He then leans over and almost whispers, "Garuda can easily carry two passengers of our size." There is a mischievous sparkle to his eyes as he said it too.

:: The Duel ::

A fine blow by Sevchenko. It takes skill to merely nick an opponent like that for the touch Bartek thinks after watching the display of swordsmanship.

:: The Drinking Poetry Slam (Amavin) ::

"Well the expedition needs all sorts, and a good group if merchants is greatly needed to support the forces moving into the Stolen Lands." Kliment replies to Sandu.

Enjoying the poetry, but not taking part in it. Kliment notices another not taking part in the contest, the sorceress Amavin. Saying farewell to Sandu, Kliment walks over to her.

Upon arriving beside Amavin, Kliment extends his hand in greeting. "Please allow me to make your acquaintance. I am Kliment Yaroslav, of the Swords of the Legion. I was wondering about the people you lead, from my understanding they are merchants turned adventurers for this expedition?"

Amavin appraises the young man for a moment, before shrugging a slim shoulder. "Actually, the conclusion you drew is wrong, but its an easy mistake to make. I would be the mouthpiece for a merchant organisation known as the Golden Company. As far as I am aware, they have a drive more towards business, commerce rather than a taste for adventurering. My companions however, follow me for various reason's of their own, some because they owe me a debt, some because they feel inspired by my religious friend Ishana, some out of a desire to see the world, or avenge past wrongs. I don't tend to lead many merchants, probably because I don't have much of an aptitude for commerce and trade myself - I would leave that to the experts."

:: Rytier Teodor Čierny ::
Acknowledging his former master's guidance--the physical and verbal alike--with a slight nod of gratitude, Theodric decides to clarify the reasons behind his worry. "Thank you, Master Čierny. The reason I mention this is how some schools," Theodric says with particular emphasis on the word 'some', hoping that Master Čierny will understand which schools Theodric is refering to, and why he's not naming names here. "Are frightfully obsessed with the most petty aspects of their reputations, such as who gets to use what they teach. And while our school isn't among that number, I'd hate to give your critics any dirt they may use to muddy your reputation in any way." He then chuckles softly and shakes his head, a smile hidden behund his mask. "As for rivaling Sirian Aldori? I'll have to hold off on that until I can learn to walk into a strange room and not trip over the furnishings. I'd make for a rather poor legend if I develop such a style, yet can't manage more than ten paces in a straight line without assistance." His explaination offered, Theodric is willing to drop the matter, having gained Master Čierny's approval to continue his intended development.

With Master Čierny's help, the pair arrive at the tables bearing refreshment, and Theodric is quite happy to lift his mask just enough to partake. Turning to face where he thinks the elder swordlord is standing, Theodric taps the raised mask with a wry laugh that twists the scars visible around his mouth. "The thing I hate most about these damned things is how close the air gets behind them after a time. It can be rather nice when it's cold out, true, but when it's not cold? Utterly vile. I'm just grateful I'm not the sort to have problems with close spaces, because wearing these masks would likely drive me mad after a time." The swordsman is about to say something else when the buzz of conversation around them finally gets his attention, momentarily distracting him. Some rather interesting gossip regarding one of the other groups here this evening. Theodric can't quite make out all of the details, and he reminds himself to check with Darvan about what he's heard. Perhaps his companion will be able to c!arify things a bit.

:: Joachim Vierziger ::
Looking at the crowd filling the Great Hall with a somewhat discontented frown, Darvan releases a sigh of resignation and nods his acknowledgment of Joachim's words, disheartening though they are to the paladin. "Indeed, indeed. But necessity required my presence here, you understand, so here is where I hoped to find a good time. But, as you say, such things are clearly not suited to such exalted personages this evening." His expression slips momentarily to something a bit uglier as he continues to look over the assembled mass of people, his ears picking put stray bits of conversation that prove the truth of Joachim's biting commentary. "So much potential wasted on nothing of consequence, in pursuit of trifling goals whose value will be eclipsed at the moment of death, if not well before then. All of the vile, self-serving status-mongering that I left home to escape, just in a different language." Darvan's words, laden with equal measures of contempt and disgust, don't seem meant for Joachim, or anyone else for that matter, and his unseeing gaze is directed at something other than the Great Hall and those within it.

After a few moments of distraction, Darvan gives his shaven head a hard shake, as if to forcibly dislodge whatever held his thoughts. A brief reappearance of Darvan's customary good humor accompanies his attention returning to Joachim. "The evening isn't entirely wasted, however, since I was able to make the acquaintance of yourself and the lovely Teresa. While I'm quite sorry that I couldn't indulge your respective outlets for relieving the tedium of this grand event, your company is still quite enjoyable. A shame Teresa had to leave, mind, but clearly whatever drew her away was insufficient to compare with my charm and wit where you are concerned," Darvan concludes with a laugh.

:: The Duel ::
Several of the onlookers are equally impressed with Cvetko's cheekbone-flick, the inch-long line of red finally forming a droplet at its lower point. Lawsrick's response, however, is swift and fierce, and though Shevchenko shifts out of the way of the Irriseni's first cut, the swift backslash catches him before he can do more than think about avoiding it. The blade opens up a three-inch cut across his chest - not especially deep, but definitely notable.

The swordlord's response is a fast flurry of steel - his blade's movement in part warding away William's heavier one, but two fast slashes reach for his opponent's shoulders in an attempt to finish the thing quickly.

::The Duel::
Seeing the first attack come in whilst his blade is low after his first assault, William deduces there is little time to parry it. Instead he takes the shoulder jab a tries for an unlikely parry on the second strike... However, it is to late, and William knows it. For William may be powerful and sturdy in battle but, this was a duel. Cvetko lands the final strike and ends it.

Williams rage is palpable, seemingly winded more by the embarrassment than by the wounds or the duel itself. If any words are offered by Cvetko William Refuses to hear them and simply says to the victor.

"You've won on your terms, that's fine an dandy. But me an you'll meet again onea these days, and I don't think it'll be in a settin such as this you Khamskiy mudak."

"Thats enough", Ishana remarks not the least bit intimidated by the two duelists in front of her. "You" she remarks, jabbing a finger in the direction of the winner of the match - "should be more polite. This apparently started from an early insult - someone with your heritage, I'd expect a little more class in tact, whereas you" - at this Ishana rounds on William "need to learn appropriate respect. You lost, someone gracious in defeat earns respect from onlookers, someone that comes across as a sore loser just lends strength to the insults and reinforces negative perceptions, while also making you look more of a fool. Now, does anyone need healing, or are we finished here" Ishana finishes, with a scowl.

William Waves Ishana off, clearly in no mood to be chewed out by someone he barely knows. He simply finds Kaellin, takes his shirt back with a brief "Thank you." before heading out of the room.

::The Duel::

"Enough." Darivan's voice is calm and not very loud, but cutting and pointed. He steps in between the duelists and Ishana, "This has gone on long enough. You"
He points at William, "Have shown nothing but contempt this entire duel, from the very start, when you refused to consider other options, to childishly questioning the honor of everyone here, until now," he spits the last word out, "when you dishonor yourself by pouting over your loss. We have pandered to your every whim this entire process, you have nothing to complain about."
Darivan turns to Cvetko, "Of course, you are little better. It was your actions that initiated this entire incident, and regardless of how your opponent acts, you treat them with respect. That is the Aldori way, is it not?"
His voice is still hard, but it softens slightly as he turns to Ishana, "And you can let them be. This man has no honor, clearly, but you, as a healer, should know that many a man can say things they do not mean when they are wounded, be it their pride or their body. Let him be. This duel is over. Do I make myself clear?"
The man takes a step back, looking at all assembled, "If anyone here with any honor has any issues with the outcome of this duel, let them speak now. If you find offence with my words, let me know. After the Party is over. This celebration has been disrupted enough. Now, let us all return to refreshments and honorable company. Does ANYONE here have ANY issue with that?"
It might have been a coincidence, but as he was talking, Darivan's arm slowly lit up, increasing in brightness as he talked. By the time he finished, the blue light was pulsing along the entirety of his arm, his hand was quite bright, and even his eyes were beginning to glow. Even Ardafax, still resting on his shoulder, was starting to have glowing runes faintly appear down its blade.

Kaellin can only give William somber nod in solidarity as he hands back his shirt and watch him leave. Any loss, regardless of the stakes, was a bitter taste to endure.

"Interesting. I thought it was only here that happened, but it seems foreigners have the same way of thinking. Everyone happens to act as if their ways were the best or the only ways."

Tomas thoughts reveal a genuine interest. "I must take this behaviour into account in the next few months."

:: The Duel ::
At the success of his third strike, Shevchenko backpedals a couple of quick steps, his weapon still up, though clearly in a defensive mode; it lowers at the same time William's does. Lawsrick's words, however, cause a gasp and mutterings to ripple through the thirty or so onlookers; Cvetko's eyes are not the only ones that narrow in outrage, considering that William has basically just refused to honor the outcome of the duel and offered to waylay the Swordlord somewhere in the city - and directly insulted him. (Hallit is probably one of the most popular secondary languages in Brevoy, after all.) Lazar opens his mouth to speak, when Ishana beats him to the punch even from the sideline behind him, and Orlovsky shows a cooler head than even that. (Well, simultaneously cooler and more pugnacious.)

Shevchenko backs away as the Judge approaches, the tip of his weapon lowering to hover just over the surface of the wood. Though his eyebrows lift (and his expression goes cold) when the words (from both Ishana and Darivan) border on insult, the former is the healer (and has a point, though he was willing to use words instead of steel), and the latter one of the Judges; a glance of disgust at William and a brief nod of courtesy, first to Darivan and then to Ishana, is his reply.

"Thirty minutes with a needle and thread," comments Wozniacki to Ishana after inspecting Shevchenko's slice. "Half that for his chest. No, he's fine, we have a perfectly serviceable skinstitcher at the school; we'll be back in time for dinner, I expect." Giving Cvetko a cuff across the back of his head, he cleans, then sheaths, the other swordlord's weapon before handing it back to one of the Mayor's guards; one of the other guards will receive William's bastard sword in whatever condition he returns it. (If he tries to bully past them, Winnie will cuff William's head, and berate him for even thinking about trying it, with a comment along the lines of "Are you trying to make me a widow tonight??")

The other two guards will accept the weapons from the judges, and the room will be cleared, guards shooing the guests back through the doors.

.

:: The Drinking / Poetry Slam ::
"More than you'd think," Jem responds to the comment about urban druids, "less than they need." She outright laughs at Deneb's words about Garuda's carrying capacity. "Are you making a pass at me?" she asks him. "Don't answer that, it's obvious you are. Well, Master Deneb, if you can withstand me throttling you in fright, you can take me up after the party. And after that ..." The sparkle in her eyes matches the sparkle in his.

Nearby, Teodor Čierny grunts in response to Theodric's words. "I think you underestimate yourself. You will never regain your sight, so newness around you must by its nature confound your movement. But your balance ... mmm, that is clearly back, and in combat, what are a few dings from your sword as you learn your environment and keep your foes off-balance?" He takes a sip of the offered wine, and listens to one of the Steel Fists try his hand at topping the Mwangan's last limerick. He fails, but that doesn't make it any less amusing ...

Darvan and Joachim, the latter having strolled casually after the former's blind and masked master, arrive at the drinks tables (and 'poetry corner') not too long after Teodor and Theodric. "Oh, I don't know about that," the swordlord murmurs into his drink, of which he only takes a sip. "The Mwangan and the Steel Fists," he nods here towards that group as the female also tries to beat the Mwangan's limerick, "seem to be doing their best to lower the social standing of the room. But don't be such a fool to think that this," and he waves at the soirée about them, "has no consequence, nor the goals of its attendees trifling. It's places and times like this that decide far more than just status. Grand ventures, civil wars, great quests - things to make or break families, cities, nations." He looks at Darvan over his cup, then smiles. "Your friend may be forced to be physically blind, Sir Singra; don't be willingly so. Have a good eve." And with that, he heads off into the crowd's eddies.

.

:: The Gnome Problem ::
It takes almost twenty minutes of talking by Nymaah and Aramil to Flapzit, then a good forty-five minutes by her and, halfway through, being joined by King Chalm, to talk the gnomes down from 'burn the witch' to 'wait and see'. At the end of it, Nymaah and her companion/protector both give Aramil and Flapzit a deep bow of respect.

:: 9:00 PM ::
"MAY ALL ATTEND TO MY WORDS!!

Coming at the end of the pocket orchestra's latest instrumentals, the acoustics of the Hall amplify the words - and the three-times-struck hard stamp of the heel of his staff against the stone plate - of the Lord Herald who, roughly three hours ago, announced each and every one of you. Even with that amplification, though, he cannot be clearly heard at the Hall's opposite end while people are still speaking, which is why Restov tradition holds for those closest to him to cry out, "Attend, attend!!" before falling silent themselves. The words thus ripple in a wave from the Herald's position, silence following, until a smack follows the raucous 'Attend!!' shouted out a third time by the Black Company Mwangan; his compatriot delivered the strike, resulting in a brief spate of laughter around them.

Now competing only against the breathing of the six hundred-plus individuals in the room, the Lord Herald's exquisitely-trained voice can reach out to everyone. "The gathered Swordlords and Nobility of the Free City of Restov, its environs, and its allies, are called upon this Oathday, Second of Calistril, to bear full and fair witness to the oaths given by various and sundry gentlefolk to His Royal Majesty, Chalm Kelsen Kowalskiy, by the grace of the gods King of Krádira --" He pauses as a murmur rises throughout the room, the name of the new nation having first been announced. The Lord Herald gives the crowd a couple seconds to settle, and bangs his staff against the stone plate thrice again when it doesn't do so. The strikes are enough to remind the people that he isn't finished, and he backtracks a bit as he resumes. "By the grace of the gods King of Krádira, and to witness their receipt of his oath in return. Ladies and gentlemen, please assemble yourselves within the Council Chamber."

It takes about fifteen minutes for the roughly four hundred nobles, Swordlords, adventurers, and the like to file into the nearly-equally-vast Council Chamber. The space 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. In the space before this table, still upon the dais, is a simple tripod-style camp stool, to which the King goes and sits. Between this rude seat and the Council's table are two other chairs, these ones standard padded ones, to which Sarra Marta and Tobias Jared are escorted.

Two arcing rows of moderate but sturdy desks are clearly where the non-Council Swordlords and Restov nobility sit; those worthies go to their seats, though in this particular case their students and/or guests are directed to chairs set up by their desks. Beyond the desks 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.

At the center of the room is, as might probably be expected, the classic oval dueling table upon which Cvetko Shevchenko and William Lawsrick so recently shed blood; 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. In this particular case, however, there are somewhat over a score of chairs set up in three rows to which the titular leaders of each of the expedition's groups are directed; all others, whether the leader's lieutenants or more 'significant' members of the groups, will be relegated to the chairs - or perhaps the benches in back.

Most of the previous occupants of the Great Hall's balcony, fifty-plus soldiers in silver-trimmed blue, now line the walls of the Council Chamber. Only three of the Lord Mayor's Guard, all armed with swords, stand behind that worthy's position at the Council Table.

Once everyone is in and mostly settled, a copper-haired half-elf female in an elegant emerald gown (Alysandra Janus, for those of you who have spoken to her) emerges from the door behind the Council Table bearing an eight-foot war-spear with a single silver-trimmed blue battle ribbon upon it. With a deep curtsey of respect to the king, she holds the spear in both hands and offers it to him; he grips it for a moment, then releases it, after which she steps up onto the dais and turns to face the crowd. With the spear's ribbon rippling as she does so, she strikes the butt of the spear thrice against the stone plate, an almost musical chime pairing with the crash and revealing the weapon's mithral make. "Silence for the king!!"

Chalm waits patiently for quiet (which falls rather rapidly); Janus takes three steps backwards as the king speaks from his crude 'throne'. "Kráska - beauty. Diviť - wonder. Radosť - triumphant joy. These are what I dream; these are what I call the people who come with me to build. These are what will keep us to our labors to make the country we forge out of the roughlands and forests and plains; these are what I will pass on to my firstborn." There is a sussuration of sound as the social calculus of inheritance is swiftly recomputed amongst those who keep measure of such things - nobles, clergy, adventurers. "These things - beauty, wonder, and triumphant joy - are what we must consider, what we must desire and develop and produce, in all the things we do. In our towns and cities. In our laws and traditions. In our strength, in our justice, in our mercy.

"Kráska. Diviť. Radosť. Krádira."

The military commander whose honesty and iron resolve has essentially kept the peace of the entirety of Brevoy's western border for the past four years rakes his glance across the score-and-four who will follow him, forge the new nation with him. "You have volunteered," he addresses you directly. "Now is the moment. Your former allegiances - to nation, to group, to family - must be put aside. My dream must become your dream. Krádira requires your ultimate dedication, your devotion, your task, if she is to come into being, if she is to endure. If this is your wish, then swear your oath, knowing that its violation will be branded upon your flesh."

When he looks over his shoulder and nods to her, Alysandra glances back and nods to the two children on the chairs behind her. Both of them rise; Tobias brings forward a cushion that had been placed by his chair, putting it in front of the king. He takes a step back, and upon this cushion Sarra Marta gracefully kneels. Alysandra then gives a medallion to Chalm, who places it between his palm and his daughter's as they clasp hands; her other goes around his one, while his other is placed over the three. Alysandra then guides the young woman through her oath.

In a clear voice, the fifteen-year-old young woman declares, "I, Sarra Marta Kowalskiy, daughter of Chalm Kelsen Kowalskiy and Anna Natalya Lefstek-Kowalskiy, being of sound mind and without reservation, swear fealty of mind, body, and soul to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to bear loyal and true service to the King and People of Krádira, and to honor, preserve, protect, and uphold the laws, justice, and mercy of and for the People of Krádira against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegience to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to faithfully execute the charges given to me, to protect and guide the people over whom I am granted rulership, guarding them in times of peril, nurturing them in times of peace, leading them in times of war, and governing them always with justice tempered by mercy, as the gods give me the wisdom to so do. This I swear to do until my final death, the world's end, or my lord release me."

Chalm looks to be almost on the verge of tears, but his voice is as powerful and relentless as bedrock. "For the People and the Crown of Krádira, and with the gods and these as witness, I accept your oath, Sarra Marta Kowalskiy. As your King and overlord, and with the gods' help, I swear and shall answer fealty with fealty, protection with protection, justice with justice, and oathbreaking with vengeance, until my final death, the world's end, or your rightful release."

Sarra, perhaps on impulse, bows to kiss her father's hand; he too bows his head to kiss the crown of hers. As they straighten, applause starts to rise; Alysandra tamps it down with three ringing strikes of the spear-butt, then takes the medallion offered back to her by the king.

"By my authority as king, I create you Princess of Krádira, and name you my heir. Rise, Princess Sarra Marta Kowalskiy, Heir of Krádira."

The applause that rises as the princess does is allowed to go on as the girl hugs her father. After a couple of minutes, Alysandra bangs the spear once again, and Tobias Jared takes his oath and is created Prince.

Once the children are through swearing their oaths, they will take their places behind their father, Tobias to his left and Sarra to his right, one of their hands upon his closest shoulder. Alysandra will then strike the heel of the spear against the stone plate, and call each leader up in turn; there does not seem to be any particular order.

Darivan steps forward, with nobody else apparently wanting to take the initiative, kneeling before king Chalm, "I, Sir Darivan Daidal Orlovsky the Third, the Spellscarred of the Auram Chain, son of Sir Kaver Orlovsky and Lady Sellik Orlovsky, student of Sir Aethelred Waincroft, being of sound mind and without reservation, swear fealty of mind, body, magic, blade, and soul to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to bear loyal and true service to the King and People of Krádira, and to honor, preserve, protect, and uphold the laws, justice, and mercy of and for the People of Krádira against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegience to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to faithfully execute the charges given to me, to protect and guide the people over whom I am granted rulership, guarding them in times of peril, nurturing them in times of peace, leading them in times of war, and governing them always with justice tempered by mercy, as the gods give me the wisdom to so do. May the gods bear witness, this I swear to do until my final death, the world's end, or my lord release me."
Once Chalm has said his part, Darivan adds, in a lower voice, "Congratulations, my lord."

Relieved that the situation with Nymaah had been at least mostly straightened out - enough that the gnomes at least weren't contemplating murdering her, at any rate - Aramil was grateful for the King's intervention. He seemed to care enough about those going on the expedition to keep them safe, and one could hardly blame him for lacking knowledge of how the gnomes would react to a Bleachling - if he'd even known about her presence with the Cenobitic Monks. It had been a prolonged, difficult discussion - although bless Porablum for her caring and compassionate attitude, as well as her sense of the dramatic. Needless to say, he definitely needed a drink and a quick bite to eat.

Once they were called into the council room to swear oaths, Aramil filed in with the others. He still didn't see where Aolis had gone, and oath-swearing was one of those politically charged things he relied on the other for.

He listens to the King's speech, surprised at such a basic chair for him. It makes a certain amount of sense, though, as the man is likely more used to campaigning than sitting in a throne, taking oaths. He appreciates the vision held by King Chalm. He was also astute enough to notice that the King is asking for oaths with no reservations. While there was likely some special wording for those who were sworn to a deity, others had only one choice - swear or you were out.

Once his name is called, Aramil comes forward and, kneeling, holds the brand between his hand and the King's, and says, ""I, Aramil Wellys, son of Dorifan and Selanil Wellys, being of sound mind and without reservation, swear fealty of mind, body, and soul to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to bear loyal and true service to the King and People of Krádira, and to honor, preserve, protect, and uphold the laws, justice, and mercy of and for the People of Krádira against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegience to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to faithfully execute the charges given to me, to protect and guide the people over whom I am granted rulership, guarding them in times of peril, nurturing them in times of peace, leading them in times of war, and governing them always with justice tempered by mercy, as the gods give me the wisdom to so do. This I swear to do until my final death, the world's end, or my lord release me."

He kept it simple. He'd never been particularly skilled with words, and figured keeping his oath as direct as possible to be the best choice.

When his time to swear arrives, Tomas presents a serious face and moves and talks as the protocol states.

"I, Tomáš Dušek, son of Matej and Šárka, being of sound mind and without reservation, swear fealty of mind, body, and soul to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to bear loyal and true service to the King and People of Krádira, and to honor, preserve, protect, and uphold the laws, justice, and mercy of and for the People of Krádira against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegience to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to faithfully execute the charges given to me, to protect and guide the people over whom I am granted rulership, guarding them in times of peril, nurturing them in times of peace, leading them in times of war, and governing them always with justice tempered by mercy, as the gods give me the wisdom to so do. This I swear to do until my final death, the world's end, or my lord release me."

No need to invent some other fancy words or titles - it is done, and a kind of vertigo assaults Tomas on his way back to his place. "I can't believe it's done. I'm not a Brevoyan anymore. It's done!"

Lyda was surprised to have had so much fun just reciting elvish poetry. She looked fondly down at a bracelet on her arm. It was the only bit of jewelry she wore. It was made with everlasting vines and several small crystals. A memento from her father from long ago. The party is cut off by the herald and she joins the rest as she files into the council room. She finds a seat next to her companions and gives the proceedings her full attention. Where to kneel, how to hold her hands, what to say. The first cleric to make his oath said a different one however. Lyda noted the changes and smiled a little.

One thing she had to think about was how to do the 'daughter of' part. Braern was indeed her father in her mind and Helen was very much a mother figure. But its not like they had any relationship. Besides the rescue that is. And she didn't know her real parents. Would that be alright?

"I, Lyda...um, just Lyda." She stumbled. Having not come to a consensus, she decided both should be recognized for how she turned out. Neither were parent by blood, but by choice. And that meant a whole lot more. She says both names with pride. "Daughter of Braern the Black Bear and Helen Castel, being of sound mind and without reservation, and excepting only my oaths to Erastil, swear fealty of mind, body, and soul to the King and People of Krádira. Should my oaths to Erastil come into conflict with my oaths to the King and People of Krádira, I will go to my lord King that I may return unto him the titles, duties, rights, responsibilities, and privileges which he has granted me, that I may be released from the oaths I here swear unto the true and loyal service of Erastil. With this sole exception, I swear to bear loyal and true service to the King and People of Krádira, and to honor, preserve, protect, and uphold the laws, justice, and mercy of and for the People of Krádira against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegiance to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to faithfully execute the charges given to me, to protect and guide the people over whom I am granted rulership, guarding them in times of peril, nurturing them in times of peace, leading them in times of war, and governing them always with justice tempered by mercy, as the gods give me the wisdom to so do. This I swear to do until my final death, the world's end, or my lord release me."

Lyda didn't really pay attention to what followed or the other oaths. She just kept looking out the window, hoping this would be over soon so she could return to where she belonged.

William, after the embarrassment he had endured, simply stays to a corner of the hall and resigns himself to a drink with his wife. Little is said by William as he sips his wine, listening to Winnie chew his disrespect and pompous attitude at such a regal occasion out.

"You should feel lucky you fool, makes my heart stop when you try starting fights in places like this. I'm surprised you didn't get set upon by everyone in the room, this isn't your home province Will... Things are different with the sword lords. boasting wins no friends... "

::9:00 PM::

Willaim stays away from most of the party goers up until the oaths are called for. The example given by Sarra brings a warm feeling to William. Good kid right there... he thinks waiting for his time to give an oath. When the time arrives William clasps Chalms hand with the medallion between them. He then smiles, kneels and takes the oath.

"I, William Lawsrick, son of Walden Lawsrick and Annie Lawsrick, being of sound mind and without reservation, swear fealty of mind, body, and soul to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to bear loyal and true service to the King and People of Krádira, and to honor, preserve, protect, and uphold the laws, justice, and mercy of and for the People of Krádira against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegience to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to faithfully execute the charges given to me, to protect and guide the people over whom I am granted rulership, guarding them in times of peril, nurturing them in times of peace, leading them in times of war, and governing them always with justice tempered by mercy, as the gods give me the wisdom to so do. This I swear to do until my final death, the world's end, or my lord release me."

William stands back up, releases Chalms and returns to his wife. feeling a little better about how the night has gone.

At least I have a purpose now... it feels... nice.

In response to the flourishes added by Darivan, Chalm nods slightly; he meets the eyes of each of those who give oath. When Zámoždom Duchovný rises in his turn to swear oath, the Sarenite speaks it flawlessly; the only difference is that he says 'my goddess' each time instead of using Sarenrae's name. There is a momentary silence as both Chalm's and Alysandra's eyebrows lift; the two exchange a long look, but then the king gives a slight nod, and accepts the priest's oath, creating him an Elector Count right along with all the others.

While returning to his place, Tomas takes a second to look over the audience, trying to locate the half-orc that he saw before.

"Strange, I don't think I know any of this kind around here, at least among the relevant people in town. In any case, things are too important to commit any breach of honour, so I'll assume the numerous guards have done their job."

Amavin glides elegantly foward when it was her turn, speaking in a clear and calm voice.

"I, Amavin Zephyra, being of sound mind and without reservation, swear fealty of mind, body, and soul to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to bear loyal and true service to the King and People of Krádira, and to honor, preserve, protect, and uphold the laws, justice, and mercy of and for the People of Krádira against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegience to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to faithfully execute the charges given to me, to protect and guide the people over whom I am granted rulership, guarding them in times of peril, nurturing them in times of peace, leading them in times of war, and governing them always with justice tempered by mercy, as the gods give me the wisdom to so do. This I swear to do until my final death, the world's end, or my lord release me."

As Alysandra calls each person up to give their oaths, Aramil notices subtle flicks of her eye towards her sleeve, and the piece of paper hidden there. With a small smile, he thinks, With this many people here, it must be hard to keep track of all those who are to swear fealty. A wise move on her part.

With little frivolity, Bartek steps forward to say the oath.

"I, Bartek Yaroslav, son of Celeste and Garret, being of sound mind and without reservation, swear fealty of mind, body, and soul to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to bear loyal and true service to the King and People of Krádira, and to honor, preserve, protect, and uphold the laws, justice, and mercy of and for the People of Krádira against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegience to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to faithfully execute the charges given to me, to protect and guide the people over whom I am granted rulership, guarding them in times of peril, nurturing them in times of peace, leading them in times of war, and governing them always with justice tempered by mercy, as the gods give me the wisdom to so do. This I swear to do until my final death, the world's end, or my lord release me."

Standing again Bartek says, "It is an honor to serve you again" to the King before returning to his seat.

Kaellin narrows his eyes on the newly transformed half-orc. "What the heck?" The half-elf looked around to see if anyone noticed as well, but the half-orc seems unconcerned about using transformation magic in plain sight. [i]"Is he part of the staff, then?"[i] He turns to Sylvara. "Hey, did you see—ow!"

The visibily annoyed elven maiden does not even bother to face him as she pulls him on the ear, and begins leading him away. "Now that that foolishness is done, we have *actual* important work to do. And gods help me, I *will* make you behave."

Kaellin sighs, but does not resist. He supposes he had this coming. Nonetheless, he commits the half-orc's face to memory, and plans on asking an actual staff member or guard about him.

:: Oath ::

Somewhat awkwardly, Kaellin steps up and kneels before the king.

"I, Kaellin Greenleaf, son of Mirasiel Greenleaf and Xiaowen the Gallant, being of sound mind and without reservation, and excepting only my oaths to Cernunnos, swear fealty of mind, body, and soul to the King and People of Krádira. Should my oaths to Cernunnos come into conflict with my oaths to the King and People of Krádira, I will go to my lord King that I may return unto him the titles, duties, rights, responsibilities, and privileges which he has granted me, that I may be released from the oaths I here swear unto the true and loyal service of Cernunnos. With this sole exception, I swear to bear loyal and true service to the King and People of Krádira, and to honor, preserve, protect, and uphold the laws, justice, and mercy of and for the People of Krádira against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegience to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to faithfully execute the charges given to me, to protect and guide the people over whom I am granted rulership, guarding them in times of peril, nurturing them in times of peace, leading them in times of war, and governing them always with justice tempered by mercy, as the gods give me the wisdom to so do. This I swear to do until my final death, the world's end, or my lord release me."

The half-elf recites the oath as succinctly as possible, thankful for Sylvara's repeatedly drilling.

Dargaryen bows deeply before the king. "I, Dargaryen Blanc, son of Dravar and Isadriewen, being of sound mind and without reservation, swear fealty of mind, body, and soul to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to bear loyal and true service to the King and People of Krádira, and to honor, preserve, protect, and uphold the laws, justice, and mercy of and for the People of Krádira against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegience to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to faithfully execute the charges given to me, to protect and guide the people over whom I am granted rulership, guarding them in times of peril, nurturing them in times of peace, leading them in times of war, and governing them always with justice tempered by mercy, as the gods give me the wisdom to so do. This I swear to do until my final death, the world's end, or my lord release me."

As the oathtaking steadily winds on to his own part, Theodric begins to feel an increasing sense of nervous worry. Not about the oath itself, no, but rather how he's going to get from his seat to the new king (and back again) without making a complete mess of things! Fortunately, as his name is called and he rises to make his approach, a gods-sent solution presents itself in the form of a somewhat familiar voice at his side. "I would be quite honored to assist you, if you'll allow it," the voice of the new prince quietly offers, and Theodric feels a small hand tentatively grasp one of his. Bowing slightly, Theodric accepts the offer with obvious gratitude in his voice. "Your Highness, I'd be grateful beyond all measure for the aid you offer. Do lead on, please!" With guidance and softly-spoken prompts from Prince Tobias, Theodric is able to cross the distance between his seat and the king, kneel for the recitation of his oath of fealty, and return without mishap.

"I, Theodric Valtrava, son of Constan and Latreya, being of sound mind and without reservation, swear fealty of mind, body, and soul to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to bear loyal and true service to the King and People of Krádira, and to honor, preserve, protect, and uphold the laws, justice, and mercy of and for the People of Krádira against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegience to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to faithfully execute the charges given to me, to protect and guide the people over whom I am granted rulership, guarding them in times of peril, nurturing them in times of peace, leading them in times of war, and governing them always with justice tempered by mercy, as the gods give me the wisdom to so do. This I swear to do until my final death, the world's end, or my lord release me."

:: Kaellin and Sylvara's Questioning, Pre-Oathtaking ::
Unfortunately, either Kaellin does not have enough time to find someone with the information he's looking for (between the duel and the oath-taking), or else he lacks something critical in the persuasion department to get people to turn over that sort of information. Just as unfortunately, Sylvara can't manage to get the information out of anyone else either ...

.

:: Tomáš's Scan After His Oath ::
Offhand, Tomáš sees nobody amongst the five hundred people in the room who'd fit the description; there are a dozen or so half-orcs wearing the blue-and-silver of the King's soldiers, some with crossbows, some with bows, some with swords or spears, but none of them are the well-but-subtly-dressed one you'd seen after Lawsrick's duel. Nor can you remember anyone significant in Rostland who matched the description ... but on the other hand, as you sit down and face front again, it does pop into your head that the red-haired half-elf playing King's Herald was one of the two last people to enter the party - and she was on the arm of a well-but-subtly-dressed green-skinned half-orc ...

.

:: After Theodric's Oath ::
Once Chalm has accepted Theodric's oath, Tobias comes forward again to take the now-Elector-Count's hand, put it on his shoulder, and lead him back to the dueling table, including murmuring, "Steps here ..." Theodric is, whether by fortune or by plan, in the first row for just this situation.

:: Kaellin and Sylvara's Questioning, Pre-Oathtaking, Addendum ::
... though Sylvara will, just before entering for the oathtakings and after putting together any number of pieces of this-and-that from several different sources, realize that not only are there a half-dozen or so half-orcs in the blue-and-silver uniformed guards, the patterns in what the guards and servants were saying suggests strongly that the head of tonight's security might be a half-orc ...

Upon hearing the 'Sarenite' recite his oath without mentioning Sarenrae once, Darivan and Sylvia share a worried glance, then have a conversation consisting largely of subtle hand gestures, body language, and sporadic words, proving completely incomprehensible to outsiders.
I told you I had a bad feeling about that guy. Sylvia conveys with a quick glance at the cleric.

Yes you did. I told Ardafax to keep an eye out for anything worrisome, but... Darivan replies with a gesture towards his empty sword belt.

You can't talk to him when he's checked in.

Not quite there yet. I'm getting close, though, I can tell. I see you came prepared, though.

Sylvia smirks, and fidgets with the beads on her necklace, It's not paranoia...

Oh, I wish they had let me keep our protections up.

The white haired woman, Selene, walks slowly forward her eyes fixed on Chalm's face. She's easily recognizable wearing as she does the standard of her company on her cloak an iced over flame. Not to mention the sign of Nethys against her neck, or the long white gloves and colors of the House Lebeda. She pulls the gloves from her hands as she walks, tucking them carefully in her belt, a heavier belt for a heavier blade than expected for a woman. The blade itself is, of course, absent. She is no youth, but a woman in her prime, and she walks with the grace of her family, and the weight of it. She sinks silently to her knees before her new King in a form any swordsman would recognize, a simple gesture of respect offered to a teacher. Something lends the posture of open defenselessness a stark significance. Perhaps it is the tone of the day, perhaps it is her sincerity. This is not a woman who lies well, or easily. She's built her reputation on honest dealings, as the watchers remember. She speaks quietly, her voice rising in intensity as she speaks the oath. Her eyes fixed on Cham's face, shining with emotion. Her hands, weathered by years of sword work, tight against the medallion and arms quivering with strength of emotion.

"I, Selene de Lebeda, daughter of Amia de Lebeda and Menas Acavna y Morilla, being of sound mind and without reservation, swear fealty of mind, body, and soul to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to bear loyal and true service to the King and People of Krádira, and to honor, preserve, protect, and uphold the laws, justice, and mercy of and for the People of Krádira against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegience to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to faithfully execute the charges given to me, to protect and guide the people over whom I am granted rulership, guarding them in times of peril, nurturing them in times of peace, leading them in times of war, and governing them always with justice tempered by mercy, as the gods give me the wisdom to so do. This I swear to do until my final death, the world's end, or my lord release me."

By the end her eyes are full of tears and her smile is wide, but her voice never waivers. It pierces the room, high and clear like a falcon's cry. For a moment she looks younger than the princess. She finishes her oath and bows as deeply as she can, letting the tears drip onto their combined hands, and her hair fall forward to shield her face. Trying to compose herself, using every harsh method her parents insisted she learn. This is no time to embarrass herself, or her King.

When told to rise, she stands smoothly. No hint of discomfort appears evident as she unfolds, even though her knees must be killing her. Selene bows once more to the King and his family, then backs away her eyes fixed upon them, her back straight, the remains of the tears on her cheeks. She takes care to turn the inside of her glove out, and receiving a nod from the princess moves at last to blot the tears. Finally, she bows once more, then pulls the gloves on as she turns away to find her place. Recognizing Theodric she murmurs.

"It is good to know you will be with us Sir. Might I stand beside you? If you have questions, let me be your eyes."

As she stands her eyes rake over the crowd once, assessing and cold, then at his assent she murmurs a concise description of the proceedings, with precise distances and angles to each personage in relation to him with a crisp smattering of details. She gives herself over to the moment as another Elector-Count is raised, doing her best to commit what she narrates to memory. Her smile creeps back onto her face as the new nation, her nation, is born, already appraising the value of her fellows, and dreaming of the work ahead.

As the ceremony draws to a close, she thinks a moment of her family, then dismisses them entirely.

This will be hard, but with tears or will, it will be done. Finally, a task worth doing, a chance to prove...everything. Abadar, Nethys, Shelyn, Iori, and any other god responsible for this turn of the river I thank you. Krádira

Acaciano makes his to the front at the time he name is called, moving directly and professionally, and wearing what he hopes is a professional, somber look. He was a bit nervous to be giving the version of the oath with the exception, particularly as he wasn't sure how much respect for The Green Faith was actually in the room, but he worked to make sure it wasn't noticed.

"I, Acaciano Karbashewsky, son of Dáma Katerina Karbashewsky, being of sound mind and without reservation, and excepting only my oaths to The Green Faith, swear fealty of mind, body, and soul to the King and People of Krádira. Should my oaths to The Faith come into conflict with my oaths to the King and People of Krádira, I will go to my lord King that I may return unto him the titles, duties, rights, responsibilities, and privileges which he has granted me, that I may be released from the oaths I here swear unto the true and loyal service of The Faith. With this sole exception, I swear to bear loyal and true service to the King and People of Krádira, and to honor, preserve, protect, and uphold the laws, justice, and mercy of and for the People of Krádira against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegience to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to faithfully execute the charges given to me, to protect and guide the people over whom I am granted rulership, guarding them in times of peril, nurturing them in times of peace, leading them in times of war, and governing them always with justice tempered by mercy, as the gods give me the wisdom to so do. This I swear to do until my final death, the world's end, or my lord release me."

It was time for the oath-taking - finally! He had spent most of the party waiting for this moment, trying to pass time as painlessly as possible. Some of these days Velar wondered if humanity was truly devoted to squander all the precious time they had. Though he dreaded to imagine how long a similar ceremony would have taken in Kyonin. Brr! As he shuddered he realized he was supposed to come forth next. Very well. Let the grand adventure begin; freedom I see you in half a century or so!

"I, Velar Khion'Tal, son of Valerei and Erion, being of sound mind and without reservation, swear fealty of mind, body, and soul to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to bear loyal and true service to the King and People of Krádira, and to honor, preserve, protect, and uphold the laws, justice, and mercy of and for the People of Krádira against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegience to the King and People of Krádira. I swear to faithfully execute the charges given to me, to protect and guide the people over whom I am granted rulership, guarding them in times of peril, nurturing them in times of peace, leading them in times of war, and governing them always with justice tempered by mercy, as the gods give me the wisdom to so do. This I swear to do until my final death, the world's end, or my lord release me."

The current oath taker is a tall and weathered elf, looking a bit awkward as he kneels before the "throne". He recites the binding words in a clear voice and an accent hinting of northern heritage. When the brief ritual is complete and he returns to his seat the elf looks relieved and his mind seems to wander off onto other, perhaps more exciting, places.

Nimue stood with the others, feeling somewhat out of place.
All big folk here. All those around me, anyway. I can barely see eye to eye with Kowalskys kids.
She knew that these formalities, these grand events were important. Without them, things weren't official, and then people disregarded them, did not care about them. These ceremonies made things REAL. Gave them form in a way that allowed others to understand.
News would spread of this magnificent event, and as a consequence even the most remote hamlet in these lands would know who they were.
Drawn from her throughs, for a moment, Nimue paid more attention than usual, watching Acaciano closely as he took his oath, her eyes easily betraying her curiosity when he mentioned being a servant of the Green Faith.
And there's my name...

The Gnome girl stepping up to the throne was smallish, with strawy blonde hair, wearing an almost translucent robe, with a greenish overcoat. She kneeled down, bowing her head, speaking loud and clear in a high, melodic voice:
"I, Nimue, daughter of Mari and Zumalis, being of sound mind and without reservation, swear fealty of mind, body, and soul to the King, the Princess, and People of Krádira. I swear to bear loyal and true service to the King, the Princess and People of Krádira, and to honor, preserve, protect, and uphold the laws, justice, and mercy of and for the People of Krádira against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to bear true faith and allegience to the King, the Princess and People of Krádira. I swear to faithfully execute the charges given to me, to protect and guide the people over whom I am granted rulership, guarding them in times of peril, nurturing them in times of peace, leading them in times of war, and governing them always with justice tempered by mercy, as the gods give me the wisdom to so do. The vision of Kradira shall be my vision, the dream fueling this vision shall be my dream, the success of the nation my success, and it's downfall my downfall. This I swear, until my final death or the world's end."
At the times she mentions the princess, who was earlier declared heir, Nimue had slightly raised her head to bow it in her direction.
Raising again when prompted to do so, she steps away backwards, glancing at the princess as she returns to her seat.
Chances are, before I'm middle-aged, she will sit on the throne. Any man with ambition can carve out a realm for himself when there's a chance...but it takes a dynasty to make a kingdom, to let that realm stand the test of time. Lets hope the girl shares her fathers dreams when she grows older.