Legend of Ransera

"It would be my guess that they bred him to add draegir blood to their Kathar legions," he said with a grim twist of his lips. He didn't add it's what I would do, but he certainly would have considered it. Zaichaer was always considering anti-pidge technology; fighting fire with fire was sometimes appropriate.

Whatever his distaste at thoughts of what mischief might have been wrought with Talon Novalys in Gel'Grandal, it was eclipsed by a near beatific smile at the prince's eventual response.

"I cannot express how it pleases and relieves me to hear you say that, Highness," he said. "Only an idiot would deny the existence of the Gods. Much of their nature lies beyond mortal comprehension for now, however, and many of the greater gods sit too high on the proverbial pyramid to bother with the likes of mortals unless our cities be like ant farms to them. Many of the lesser gods—no disrespect intended, but purely as a judgement of scale—have done more damage to mortals with their caprices than help..."

Clearing his throat into the bowl of his glass, it sounded remarkably like Talon Novalys.

Just as he was about to opine about forms of government, more guests were announced by the herald. What was nominally a relatively relaxed meeting held some of the trappings of a full gala; he hadn't actually been to one of those since before the rift tore open the Zaichaeri sky, not like they used to be.

"Your Highnesses," he greeted with a respectful bow.

"Welcome to Solunarium, Your Excellency," Octavian said, his modest bow in perfect synchronicity with his golden cousin's. He bowed lower to Arvælyn, and there was a softer set around his eyes as he made eye contact with the Umbrian princeps. Octavian would not forget who had come to save his people from the depths, even if he couldn't speak of it.

"I came to Solunarium knowing my first failure would be to understand the complexities of millennia of the divine bloodlines," he admitted with a self-deprecating smile, "but I appreciate the opportunity to speak with all of you. I beg your pardon when I prove ignorant. The only remedy is this closer study, I think, and another reason for my presence here with Your various Highnesses.

"His Exalted Highness and I have been clearing up some matters of both our cultures which are often misconstrued by outsiders and have, I think," he glanced to Arvælyn as if for corroboration, "found more points of connection than of contention. One point that would be pertinent to the platinum son of the Keeper of Coins is our shared aversion to the Guild of Coin's interference with our economies. While I would not suggest we mint a shared currency, I think it would behoove the both of our nations to foster trade with others who are not under the sway of the Cathenian draegir."

"A robust and mutually beneficial trade relationship could strengthen both nations without taxing our august Keeper of Swords and the Golden Legion," Octavian opined, though he was careful not to agree that there should be such a relationship. That was not his to decide. In any case, he thought Golden Legion boots on Karnorian soil would be premature at this point. Certainly their new Luxian king would let them all know Aværys' will in this, but it seemed as though the future of Solunarian ambitions would be gained with more subtle means that swords—and sometimes swords.

That was welcoming enough that Angevin smiled and raised his glass in an informal sort of toast.

Then, to Seværys, "In fact, the journey was not burdensome. There were fewer responsibilities aboard Black Swan, which allowed me to prepare for this meeting. But the wide boulevards of Solunarium allow a man to stretch his legs more comfortably than the circumscribed steps aboard an airship, and of course the fabled wonders of the Jewel of Atraxia do not disappoint. We were even greeted by the appearance of dragons when we arrived at Tertium. No doubt coincidence, but perhaps auspicious."

Angevin smiled affectionately at his cousin-in-law.

"Lieutenant Dornkirk earned many honors over the past few years, both in defending Zaichaer from abominations of Mists, Void, and other, and has continued to be unyielding in his efforts to rebuild the High City once the new dawn broke and the worst of the immediate dangers were sorted." There was certainly more he would have said, and perhaps still would; all the same, he wouldn't have wanted someone else speaking for him, so Angevin refrained for the moment in case Reiner wanted to share more on his own.

"I suppose we have had a similar debate ongoing in Zaichaer, with regard to blood. For my part, I was caught up in it due in large part to my father's actions. I was born a bastard, which I understand is not seen as a mark of shame here. In Zaichaer, it was shame enough that Shame is actually my middle name. But my father molded me into the man I am today, legally legitimized me to safeguard me lest something happen to him while I was still a boy, and I was only to discover his full approval once he was gone.

"Before, everyone expected the worst of me because of my bastard blood. Now, they seem to think the Angevin blood has won out. Perhaps it has. I cannot say as I never knew my birth mother. So, while I bear no divine blood, I can only say that I have tried to do the best with what I have been given, which is an endeavor any man might take up. I had bullies with the bluest of blood who turned out to be wastrels or worse, and sometimes those of the best families turn out to be selfish, serving self rather than State.

"But here we are, various august Sol'Avaerys scions, a Dornkirk, and an Angevin. Perhaps there is some potency to our blood, but our merit comes from our thoughts, our words, and our actions."

He paused, pulled an abashed face.

"Pardon. I didn't intend to suck all the air out of the room."

"And I remain jealous I was too young to accompany Your Exalted Highness' elder brother to witness your portrayal of our famous forebear," Octavian quipped quickly between his cousins' repartee.

If he didn't know the details of Phocion's envoy, he had been too young to hear them and focused on his studies. But he didn't interject too much, as he didn't have the same relationship the the Umbrium's crown prince as Seværys did. Perhaps he would someday, but it was difficult not to feel indebted to the Umbrian prince and that made it difficult to see to his own Ambition. An adult now, he had moved up on the Pyramid, but not so high as he might have...

Now wasn't the time for those thoughts, however.

"I suppose I shall have to secure a copy of this play to donate to the Pfenning Theatre back home," Angevin was musing. He didn't know artists well enough to know that they wouldn't want to be seen as copying the Golden Peacock of Kalzasi, but then, he could ensure funding for them...

"But I would agree, Your Serene Highness," he said to Seværys, "or perhaps expound upon your point: the path is true when we push for progress, but let tradition be the dredging anchor that allows for more precise maneuvering." He paused, wondering whether a maritime metaphor would translate to these elven princes. No doubt a Vastian riverboat pilot could explain it, but if an explanation was necessary...

As Angevin understood things, these Luxian princes were most likely Sanguinists and his host an Immaculist; the differences were inevitably more nuanced than he was yet aware, but he was here to learn, among other things.

"I would like that," he said sincerely of the Common translation and adaptation. "Thank you. I would read it alongside the original, both to improve my Vastian and, well, I have found that language itself is a powerful thing. The original words, cadences, and such, they inevitably shape thought."

But, of course, the Solunarians understood that. Between propaganda and arcane reinforcements, they shaped thought for their people. He inclined his head at the compliment, more glad that the metaphor had made sense than anything else.

Over dinner, he applied the skills that had been drilled into him even as a blue-blooded bastard, as well as those the Order had trained into him. Spycraft and diplomacy were, perhaps, the same thing in some ways. In any event, he knew how to adapt to new social situations, and he did so here.

By the end of the meal, it didn't appear as though he had worn out their welcome. When digestifs were suggested, he agreed once more to anything except Gelerian schnapps. From a variety of suggestions, he elected a smoky mezcal distilled from the fermented hearts of certain desert succulents. It was exotic to him, in any case, but he found he enjoyed it. Then again, his tongue had always proven adaptable to new spirits; acquired tastes were acquired instantly.

"...in any event, the hollow dragon got what it wanted and quit our territories without a fight." After a thoughtful savoring of liquor on his tongue, "Never to return if we are fortunate."