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rainbowfic2016-02-25 09:32 pm
shadowsong26) wrote in rainbowfic2016-02-25 09:32 pm
Oliphaunt Grey #4, Plant Party #10, Liver #4
Name: shadowsong26
Story: An Opening Salvo
'Verse: Untitled Intrigues Story
Colors: Oliphaunt Grey #4. Beneath the roof of sleeping leaves the dreams of trees unfold, Plant Party #10. Snake Gourd, Liver #4. mouth
Supplies and Materials: fabric, novelty beads (What are the sections sections of?), yarn
Word Count: 1691
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sefalin, Tahnrin, Landelye
Warnings: Family infighting, references to possible upcoming war and somewhat aggressive flirting. That should be it, let me know if there's something else I should tag.
Notes: Constructive criticism welcome, as always. There will be an icon for Sef once I cast him, I promise...
Dear Sir,
My three days here at the court in Elanhe have been very informative, though I'm not yet sure how much applies to our mission. I've spoken with King Larien a handful of times, but all of these were brief, superficial conversations in open court...
Sefalin paused and chewed on the end of his pen, considering. This was a habit of his, one he did genuinely try to resist when he could spare a thought to consider it.
The trouble wasn't that he had nothing to report to his father in the Holy City. Rather, it was the opposite. He had too much information and too little context, and while everyone here in King Larien's court seemed to wear their heart on their sleeve, Sef was more than convinced a large portion of that was playacting, to some degree.
Take, for instance, Queen Metanrye and the almost hungry way she looked at him. And the way the king found his wife's roving eye--if it really was roving; it might well have been an act to keep him off-balance--more amusing than anything else. Or the way the elder of the two princesses, Landelye, attendance on her bastard uncle with all pretence of friendship--never mind that, as the law of Elanhe prevented female succession, he was the favorite to be named as Larien's heir. Usurping, in the eyes of most reasonable people, the young woman's birthright.
And then there was her sister, Rehanye. Oh, gods above, Rehanye.
Sef had no idea whether the girl's frank and open interest was genuine, a childish infatuation, a safe test case for a true flirtation, an adult game of influence, a trap to pit him against her father, a trap to force him close to her father, or some combination of the above. Either way, though at sixteen she was perfectly eligible for such games and only five years his junior, any move he made there was playing with fire.
Sef almost wished his brother Ahnrel had been sent here instead. His older brother had a knack for cutting through layers of pretense with ease, getting straight to the heart of a matter.
Of course, on reflection, at a Court like Larien's, where misdirection was the order of the day every day, Ahnrel's straightforward and honest charm would leave him drowning and considered a total fool--if he didn't accidentally offend someone who read too deeply into something he said first.
Or worse.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Well, there was no help for it now. Father had sent them where he'd chosen to send them, without even their little half-brother at home to help him at his court, instead letting Neiali go on a voyage of self-discovery. Sef would just have to continue navigating around Larien and his family and courtiers as best he could.
Hopefully, Ahnrel in Nandere was having more luck.
In any case, he had to put those worries out of his mind for the time being. The court would be gathering soon--some sort of spectacle the bastard prince was organizing. The rumors said fireworks and music, fruit and wine--plenty of distraction for whatever move he was planning to make tonight.
Sef sighed again. He'd been here three days and he was already getting paranoid. He didn't want to think what kind of jumpy, suspicious person he would become in three years. He already lied a little too easily. It was, when he thought about it, slightly uncomfortable that he'd fallen so easily into the court's patterns of deception.
So he tried not to think about it any more than absolutely necessary. He needed to remain totally focused on his mission here.
He started by getting dressed. He wasn't quite the clotheshorse his older brother was, but the basic routine involved--or, really, any basic routine--always seemed to calm him.
First came a pair of black leggings--simple and solid, fine-woven enough for court but sturdy enough for an outdoor event. Over that went a soft undyed linen shirt--the whole thing would be covered, anyway, and Sef chose to value comfort over another pretty color.
He finished with his coat--coming down just below his knees, close-fitted to the waist and then flaring out, in the pearl grey of his order, which served the moon god. The coat covered him from neck to wrists and waist before flaring out. The sleeves fit close--his order favored economy of movement over ostentation, unlike the sun deity orders. The badges of his rank were embroidered in silver, white, and black.
His hair he braided down his back, neat and even and centered, the way only someone who had practiced enough times to develop muscle memory could manage. He fastened it at the bottom with an opal clasp set in silver. The end of the braid reached the top of his hips, and the clasp settled as a cool weight in the small of his back, resting just where the coat began to open.
Thus presentable, Sefalin headed out to the main lawn, where most of the court was already gathered.
The fashions in Larien's court favored rich, vibrant colors in simple shapes for both men and women. The fabrics tended to have elaborately embroidered trim, and many of the ladies had pattern-woven underskirts.
Because he was new and exciting, and because the royal family seemed to have some kind of interest in him, Sefalin drew quite a bit of attention as he made his way across the lawn. He smiled a little, and exchanged a bit of flirtatious banter, with everyone who caught his eye. This was, in Elanhe, what passed for small talk among adults.
Sef settled into roughly the place he guessed he belonged--not too close to the center of things, so as not to seem arrogant, but not so far as to be completely cut off.
It seemed he was one of the last to arrive. He had scarecely been seated five minutes when the prince stood up to command the attention of the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. His voice was warm and rich, sultry and smooth, and if he weren't a political explosion waiting to happen. Sef would be willing to just listen to him for hours on end.
He was a bastard son of the old king, a year younger than the current one and a year older than the late and much-lamented Prince Idan. His name was Tahnrin, and he was a small, lean man with brown hair and eyes, eyes which never seemed to reflect it when he smiled. Tahnrin was given the courtesy title of "prince," but had no official place in the succession--yet--and only as much power as his half-brother deigned to give him. Their father had at least endowed him with estates enough that he could cut a respectably royal figure at court.
"Before we begin," Tahnrin went on, "I would like to say a few words. It's been just six months since my dear brother became our lord, and if that little time can provide any indication of our nation's future, it is bright indeed. Whatever is to come in the months ahead, I am certain that my dear brother Larien will lead us through it with grace." He smiled, polished and perfect and--though Sef couldn't see his face to tell for sure, he knew it was false. "So, I raise a glass, to our beloved lord and his beautiful daughters--may we all get what we wish from our futures."
There was scattered applause and a murmur of agreement from the court. Sef joined in, out of courtesy, but was more occupied mentally taking down every word Tahnrin had said, to worry over and unpack later. At the very least, he was fairly sure that had been the bastard prince formally announcing his intention to wage a serious battle for the succession already, with Larien not even a year on his throne.
And then it got worse. Princess Landelye rose to give the legitimate branch's official response.
"Esteemed uncle," she said, "our thanks for your good wishes, to which I add my personal gratitude for your continued allegiance to my father the king. If the future of Elanhe is to be as bright as you hope, surely my father and I will owe much to your steadfast support. And so I raise my own glass--may the future we wish for be the brightest for all."
It would be impolitic to bury his face in his hands and groan a despairing prayer up to his god, Sef reminded himself sternly, taking a deep breath and joining in the courteous response with the rest. The princess's response couldn't have been more clear--if Tahrin wanted to challenge her rights to the crown, he had a fight on his hands.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sef caught a glimpse of King Larien. At this distance, of course, he couldn't see the king's face, but the set of his shoulders was relaxed, at ease. He could be putting on a front, of course--it was the Elanhean way--but the priest would wager good money that the king was pleased.
That the king wanted the fight.
Oh, to be sure, Larien likely favored his daughter's eventual victory, and one would hope he would step in before the contenders or their supporters resorted to actual violence, but...well, chances were he wanted Landelye to prove herself before he upended centuries of law and tradition for her.
That, too, was the Elanhean way.
As the fireworks started above him, Sef paid little attention, wearing a mask of polite interest and frantically considering his next steps. Because, if he wasn't careful, rather than preventing a war with Nandere, as Father wanted him to do, he'd end up caught in the middle of a civil war here in Elanhe.
And, of course, no matter who won, there was no way Malue, across the border, would fail to press his advantage.
By the time the music started, Sefalin was sure of exactly one thing--he was standing on a powder keg, and there was no way in hell he could avoid getting burned.
Story: An Opening Salvo
'Verse: Untitled Intrigues Story
Colors: Oliphaunt Grey #4. Beneath the roof of sleeping leaves the dreams of trees unfold, Plant Party #10. Snake Gourd, Liver #4. mouth
Supplies and Materials: fabric, novelty beads (What are the sections sections of?), yarn
Word Count: 1691
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sefalin, Tahnrin, Landelye
Warnings: Family infighting, references to possible upcoming war and somewhat aggressive flirting. That should be it, let me know if there's something else I should tag.
Notes: Constructive criticism welcome, as always. There will be an icon for Sef once I cast him, I promise...
Dear Sir,
My three days here at the court in Elanhe have been very informative, though I'm not yet sure how much applies to our mission. I've spoken with King Larien a handful of times, but all of these were brief, superficial conversations in open court...
Sefalin paused and chewed on the end of his pen, considering. This was a habit of his, one he did genuinely try to resist when he could spare a thought to consider it.
The trouble wasn't that he had nothing to report to his father in the Holy City. Rather, it was the opposite. He had too much information and too little context, and while everyone here in King Larien's court seemed to wear their heart on their sleeve, Sef was more than convinced a large portion of that was playacting, to some degree.
Take, for instance, Queen Metanrye and the almost hungry way she looked at him. And the way the king found his wife's roving eye--if it really was roving; it might well have been an act to keep him off-balance--more amusing than anything else. Or the way the elder of the two princesses, Landelye, attendance on her bastard uncle with all pretence of friendship--never mind that, as the law of Elanhe prevented female succession, he was the favorite to be named as Larien's heir. Usurping, in the eyes of most reasonable people, the young woman's birthright.
And then there was her sister, Rehanye. Oh, gods above, Rehanye.
Sef had no idea whether the girl's frank and open interest was genuine, a childish infatuation, a safe test case for a true flirtation, an adult game of influence, a trap to pit him against her father, a trap to force him close to her father, or some combination of the above. Either way, though at sixteen she was perfectly eligible for such games and only five years his junior, any move he made there was playing with fire.
Sef almost wished his brother Ahnrel had been sent here instead. His older brother had a knack for cutting through layers of pretense with ease, getting straight to the heart of a matter.
Of course, on reflection, at a Court like Larien's, where misdirection was the order of the day every day, Ahnrel's straightforward and honest charm would leave him drowning and considered a total fool--if he didn't accidentally offend someone who read too deeply into something he said first.
Or worse.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Well, there was no help for it now. Father had sent them where he'd chosen to send them, without even their little half-brother at home to help him at his court, instead letting Neiali go on a voyage of self-discovery. Sef would just have to continue navigating around Larien and his family and courtiers as best he could.
Hopefully, Ahnrel in Nandere was having more luck.
In any case, he had to put those worries out of his mind for the time being. The court would be gathering soon--some sort of spectacle the bastard prince was organizing. The rumors said fireworks and music, fruit and wine--plenty of distraction for whatever move he was planning to make tonight.
Sef sighed again. He'd been here three days and he was already getting paranoid. He didn't want to think what kind of jumpy, suspicious person he would become in three years. He already lied a little too easily. It was, when he thought about it, slightly uncomfortable that he'd fallen so easily into the court's patterns of deception.
So he tried not to think about it any more than absolutely necessary. He needed to remain totally focused on his mission here.
He started by getting dressed. He wasn't quite the clotheshorse his older brother was, but the basic routine involved--or, really, any basic routine--always seemed to calm him.
First came a pair of black leggings--simple and solid, fine-woven enough for court but sturdy enough for an outdoor event. Over that went a soft undyed linen shirt--the whole thing would be covered, anyway, and Sef chose to value comfort over another pretty color.
He finished with his coat--coming down just below his knees, close-fitted to the waist and then flaring out, in the pearl grey of his order, which served the moon god. The coat covered him from neck to wrists and waist before flaring out. The sleeves fit close--his order favored economy of movement over ostentation, unlike the sun deity orders. The badges of his rank were embroidered in silver, white, and black.
His hair he braided down his back, neat and even and centered, the way only someone who had practiced enough times to develop muscle memory could manage. He fastened it at the bottom with an opal clasp set in silver. The end of the braid reached the top of his hips, and the clasp settled as a cool weight in the small of his back, resting just where the coat began to open.
Thus presentable, Sefalin headed out to the main lawn, where most of the court was already gathered.
The fashions in Larien's court favored rich, vibrant colors in simple shapes for both men and women. The fabrics tended to have elaborately embroidered trim, and many of the ladies had pattern-woven underskirts.
Because he was new and exciting, and because the royal family seemed to have some kind of interest in him, Sefalin drew quite a bit of attention as he made his way across the lawn. He smiled a little, and exchanged a bit of flirtatious banter, with everyone who caught his eye. This was, in Elanhe, what passed for small talk among adults.
Sef settled into roughly the place he guessed he belonged--not too close to the center of things, so as not to seem arrogant, but not so far as to be completely cut off.
It seemed he was one of the last to arrive. He had scarecely been seated five minutes when the prince stood up to command the attention of the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. His voice was warm and rich, sultry and smooth, and if he weren't a political explosion waiting to happen. Sef would be willing to just listen to him for hours on end.
He was a bastard son of the old king, a year younger than the current one and a year older than the late and much-lamented Prince Idan. His name was Tahnrin, and he was a small, lean man with brown hair and eyes, eyes which never seemed to reflect it when he smiled. Tahnrin was given the courtesy title of "prince," but had no official place in the succession--yet--and only as much power as his half-brother deigned to give him. Their father had at least endowed him with estates enough that he could cut a respectably royal figure at court.
"Before we begin," Tahnrin went on, "I would like to say a few words. It's been just six months since my dear brother became our lord, and if that little time can provide any indication of our nation's future, it is bright indeed. Whatever is to come in the months ahead, I am certain that my dear brother Larien will lead us through it with grace." He smiled, polished and perfect and--though Sef couldn't see his face to tell for sure, he knew it was false. "So, I raise a glass, to our beloved lord and his beautiful daughters--may we all get what we wish from our futures."
There was scattered applause and a murmur of agreement from the court. Sef joined in, out of courtesy, but was more occupied mentally taking down every word Tahnrin had said, to worry over and unpack later. At the very least, he was fairly sure that had been the bastard prince formally announcing his intention to wage a serious battle for the succession already, with Larien not even a year on his throne.
And then it got worse. Princess Landelye rose to give the legitimate branch's official response.
"Esteemed uncle," she said, "our thanks for your good wishes, to which I add my personal gratitude for your continued allegiance to my father the king. If the future of Elanhe is to be as bright as you hope, surely my father and I will owe much to your steadfast support. And so I raise my own glass--may the future we wish for be the brightest for all."
It would be impolitic to bury his face in his hands and groan a despairing prayer up to his god, Sef reminded himself sternly, taking a deep breath and joining in the courteous response with the rest. The princess's response couldn't have been more clear--if Tahrin wanted to challenge her rights to the crown, he had a fight on his hands.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sef caught a glimpse of King Larien. At this distance, of course, he couldn't see the king's face, but the set of his shoulders was relaxed, at ease. He could be putting on a front, of course--it was the Elanhean way--but the priest would wager good money that the king was pleased.
That the king wanted the fight.
Oh, to be sure, Larien likely favored his daughter's eventual victory, and one would hope he would step in before the contenders or their supporters resorted to actual violence, but...well, chances were he wanted Landelye to prove herself before he upended centuries of law and tradition for her.
That, too, was the Elanhean way.
As the fireworks started above him, Sef paid little attention, wearing a mask of polite interest and frantically considering his next steps. Because, if he wasn't careful, rather than preventing a war with Nandere, as Father wanted him to do, he'd end up caught in the middle of a civil war here in Elanhe.
And, of course, no matter who won, there was no way Malue, across the border, would fail to press his advantage.
By the time the music started, Sefalin was sure of exactly one thing--he was standing on a powder keg, and there was no way in hell he could avoid getting burned.