Shadow of the West

[Amanaduial the archer]

Through the stone corridors and past the private temple courtyard Zamara hastened, her shadow dancing surely over the carefully cultivated plants and small statues around the sides; the fingertips of one hand lightly and absently brushed the low wall around the courtyard. In her other hand she held a slim mahogany staff, plain dark wood that twisted around itself in a natural spiral to the more bulbous top, where a natural knot hole had been taken advantage off and set with a piece of facetted sand-crystal: otherwise it was plain, apart from the practical gold-leaf tip at the base that tapped softly on the floor as Zamara walked. Coming to the end of the corridor, she turned left opened the unlocked door that led into the temple: rarely if ever were the doors locked in these places, for none of the citizens would even think of entering. She frowned slightly, making a mental note that, as there were outsiders, this may have to be taken into account, but it was only a brief thought. Sweeping surefootedly down the lamplit spiral staircase, her robes trailing behind her, and entered the Temple through the inner sanctuary behind Rhais great statue. But the priestess was never in such a rush that time could not be taken for her goddess: rather than simply passing Rhais (unthinkable for anyone, and practically blasphemous for a priestess!), she came to stand directly in front of the statue and knelt in the typical bow to the goddess.

Tayfar, standing at the door with another of the acolytes waiting to accompany Zamara, heard the soft sounds of the other woman's robes swishing across the stone floor of the temple, and straightened up hastily. As she looked into the temple, she saw Zamara frozen at the depth of her bow, her delicately painted hands held in front of her in the motion of vulnerability and her back to the door. All the naptha lights were lit throughout the temple now, as night approached, with special attention paid to the area around the statue, and in their flickering light the golden strips through the High Priestess' wavy hair seemed to shine and dance, and her white robes seemed to glow, her elegant, feminine figure bathed in a soft circle of light. As if she is a goddess herself, Tayfar thought awefully, then shook herself, allowing herself a quick genuflection to Rhais at such a strange and possibly wicked thought, before bowing in unison with the other acolyte as Zamara walked towards them.

The trio passed down the great steps in a triangular formation, the two younger women walking behind the High Priestess as they made their way first to Tarkan's apartment: it was right that the foremost leaders of each deity's worship would enter the banquet together. Zamara bid Tayfar and the other - an older, silent girl by the name of Sedaar - to wait at the bottom of the steps as she walked forward and tapped three times on the door with the end of her staff. It opened immediately and a young man of Zamara's height bowed deeply to her in silence. The woman's smile greeted him when he straightened up - she recognised the young man from the temple. "Good evening, sir: is the Priest ready?"

"May the sun and blessings of Rea shine upon you, High Priestess Zamara." A slightly grating but genial voice spoke from behind other man before he himself could answer, and Tarkan emerged, splendid in his own fashion in the same way as Zamara, his shirt and robes over it picked out in fine embroidery, made of rich, dark silk.

"May Rhais' lend her blessing and fruits towards you, O Priest," Zamara reciprocated formally, pressing her palms together and raising them to chin level. Tarkan gave a dry smile as he stepped forward and covered her hands with his palms, and they both bent their forehead together solemnly. Parting, they moved down the steps, the younger man closing the door - and locking it, Zamara noticed - and hurrying after them, falling into step with Tayfar and Sedaar behind Tarkan as they made their way through the moonlit streets towards the palace.

Zamara inquired politely as to Tarkan's health, and they exchanged a few sparse pleasantries, slipping to first name terms rather than their formal titles (which were many and varied), before she moved onto the matter that she wished to hear his view on: although their jobs were, superficially, similar, the Priest and Priestess rarely talked or saw each other, and as they were quite different people, this appeared to suit both quite well. This distance, and their own personalities, caused some stiffness and formality between them; but despite this, Zamara did respect her male counterpart's views on matters that concerned them both - such as this one. "Tarkan, I presume you have heard of the newcomers of - the emissary and his retinue from the West?"

The older priest shrugged his thin shoulders lightly. "Not much, Zamara. I was...less aware than I should have liked of this banquet, and it's reasons," he replied, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the man who followed, who blushed and averted his eyes. Zamara wondered about this, and about the shy grin that Tayfar then exchanged with him, but didn't comment. She frowned a little, the stark white kohl dancing on her forehead. "You do not know of them?"

"Are they particularly remarkable?"

The priestess raised her eyebrows and smiled at Tarkan, cocking her head slightly to one side. "They travelled over the great desert, just to see the King - and, I believe, to present him with gifts. They wish for an...alliance, I believe."

"An alliance between the East and the West?" Tarkan's voice was slightly incredulous. The woman nodded sagely in agreement. "Exactly, my lord. It is strange indeed..."

"Their other purposes? Have they expressed any way in which they would like to...seal this alliance?"

Zamara paused. "I had not thought of it, Tarkan. I do not think they had expressed any will for marriage with the princess; if they were to, I think it may cause more trouble than it's worth with Lord Korak." She looked up ahead again and took in the grand sight of the palace, lit and decorated splendidly, the sounds of business and merriment already coming from inside. She nodded once to Tarkan as she caught his eyes again, her dark gaze emphatic. "No doubt we will find out tonight their intentions, for the sake of our deities if nothing else."

Tarkan looked at her questioningly as she said the last part, but did not speak, for as they came to the grand, arched entrance of the palace, a servant, obviously waiting for them, came forward and bowed deeply. After addressing them formally, he conveyed her majesty's wishes that the priest and priestess dined on her table that night. Unruffled - for it was quite usual - Zamara consented and, dismissing Tayfar and Sedaar (along with Tarkan's attendant) with another servant, she readjusted her grip on her staff, took a deep breath of apprehension, and followed the servant along with Tarkan.

[Kransha]

Morgôs, Arlomë, and Evrathol did not dawdle long in the hall. One of the short passageways led them swiftly from the hall where they congregated to the banquet hall, a shortcut around the courtyard. The passage was not haunted much by the nobles from the outside, though a number of servants and courtiers still roamed there, carrying all manner of supplies, ornaments, foodstuffs, and fine materials, the rarest and most beautiful of their kind in all of Pashtia. The family headed past all of the trivialities, though, avoiding them with Elven grace at hand, and proceeded into the banquet hall’s immediate edge, where it met the arch that led inside, the banquet hall entrance. It was not yet bustling with activity, but bore enough folk for it to be called ‘crowded.’ Slowly, considering each step, the three worked their way into the room and stood, eying the fine architecture and decorum. Arlomë did not, for she had seen it before, but young Evrathol was captivated, and it was no long before he had meandered quietly off, into the hall’s depths.

The two, Arlomë and Morgôs, were left together, half isolated from the other clumps of nobles, not walking or moving much. It was not long before Arlomë leaned towards Morgôs’ whose gaze was distracted, and spoke. “Elrigon,” she said, “you are silent tonight? Something troubles you?”

Morgôs shook his head, overly hasty, as if he were trying to avoid an answer, though he did respond. “No, nothing…” after a quick pause, he turned to look to her, with an uncanny look of urgent need glimmering in his starry eyes. “So,” he said quickly, “you have not seen the Emissary?” She examined him, closely, for but a moment. Like any Elf, just as Morgôs could, she could hone her mind to a saber’s point, and analyzed her husband with a simple, enigmatic look, projecting an unseen hail of mist that filled him, and Morgôs knew that she could sense his uneasiness. She spoke back slowly, with total sincerity. “No, it is as I told Evrathol. Only glimpses, no more than the others of the Queen’s retinue.”

“I see.” Morgôs nodded, looking away into the depths of the thickening crowd. He then turned to her, “Well, we shall see him. The Queen has invited us to meet her at the entrance and sit with her.” Arlomë blinked bewilderedly, but Morgôs knew she was unsurprised. “I had not heard as much.” She said, softly, and the General simply nodded, though the gesture was nearly concealed by the subtlety with which it was issued. Morgôs, turning again, looked off, taking nervous glances about the room, but Arlomë spoke again.

“I know your mind, Elrigon. It is plain what troubles you. You are suspicious of the Emissary.” Her tone was accusatory, but not unloving, and she seemed more content with her for figuring out the fact than annoyed at her husband for it. But, she became less content when Morgôs snapped back, very defensive, “No, I have no reason to be. I have heard nothing.” But here he saw that she was confused by his defensiveness, and relaxed his military guard, allowing himself to smile and warmth to fill his face. “For the General of Pashtia, I know very little.”

Arlomë laughed pleasantly, “Little of this court, perhaps, but you know enough to serve where it matters. Is that why you are uneasy? The Emissary, from what I have seen and heard, has a great wealth of knowledge and words at his disposal, for he charmed the King with ease. Do you think he has another motive?” Morgôs rounded on her, louder and more forceful, his eyes narrowing. “All these questions and still I have not met the man!” He exclaimed as he threw up his hands in frustration, the long, silky sleeves of his court robe fluttering up and down like graceless bird wings.

His wife looked defeated for a split second, but it was not her nature, and she quickly followed up, though her voice had quieted greatly, and was far less passionate. “You have foreseen nothing?” Morgôs, barely realizing how harsh he had sounded, shook his head. “No, I am too occupied. The drill at the training fields did not go well.” He breathed deeply, stroking his sore temple again with a lazy digit as he looked down, concentrating on the intricately carven tiles of the hall floor.

“What do you mean?” queried Arlomë.

Morgôs released the answer as if he had been waiting all day to get the knowledge off his chest. “The generation that fought at my side in the last war has grown too old to serve, and, replacing them are vagrant boys who could not fire a bow or ride a horse were the very thunder of Rea behind them!” He batted the air angrily as he said this, but Arlomë took his white-knuckled hand in her own tenderly and spoke in a soothing whisper. “You exaggerate, Elrigon. Let the matter rest. After all, they are the cream of Pashtia.”

The Avari general nearly wrenched his hand from his wife’s. “That is why they are so inept!”

“Give your country some credit.” Arlomë reprimanded, more stern now, “The mortals have not centuries to learn the ways of war!” She was slighted by Morgôs’ attitude, but did not show it in any undignified way. She was passionate enough to argue the point hotly, but she did it well, in comparison to Morgôs, who’s pale cheeks had reddened with malign fire. “They should learn faster,” he cried out, “else they will get nowhere when war comes. I wonder how we’ve ever won a battle.”

“They have some spirit in them, at least, and they deserve renown for that!” She shot back.

Morgôs was about to pounce upon the statement, but he stopped himself. His flushed face paled again, as his rudeness dawned on him, and he looked down again, dejected. “Not now,” he murmured; the air of argument gone in him, “Let us not speak of these things now.” Arlome did not respond directly, but he could tell without looking at her that she agreed. At last she said: “Yes, you are right.”

Looking as if he wished to cleanse a nightmare from him, he briskly shook his head and looked to her. “I need some fresh air, this court is stifling. I shall be back shortly.”

He leaned forward and kissed Arlomë on the forehead, but very curtly, and turned away, pulling up his cumbersome robes so that he could gain some speed. He admitted that the whole affair looked foolish, in several respects, to see an Elven General clumsily maneuvering his way through a court packed with gossipy nobles, but he disregarded that and headed to the entrance, pulling himself through the highly populated area of the threshold and out, beneath the broad arch and into the open air, where he immediately felt the glimmering silver lights of stars, in all their radiant beauty, shining down upon his face. But, as he headed out, he looked up, his attention drawn by the gentle, tempting hold of the stars, and, in his haste, did not see where he was going.

It was his Elven grace alone that allowed him to slide sideways to avoid running headlong into several persons who were proceeded through the arch. The trio, led by a courtier whose garb resembled that of the guard who’d addressed him earlier, were taken aback, and halted, disconcerted. Morgôs made to apologize swiftly, saying “Excuse me, I did not see-” but he stopped, foolishly, in the middle of the sentence to look up after making an ignoble bow. He recognized the two figures standing immediately behind the palace guard.

“High Priestess Zamara, High Priest Tarkan, it is an honor. May the blessings of Rea and Rhais be upon you both” he said, bowing lower than he just had, and taking more time to do so. He did not remember ever speaking with either of these people (he did not often attend such festivities to socialize with the religious hierarchy, and he did not even know if he was correctly greeting them, by their standards), but he knew of them, and seen them many times. One could not serve the King and have not seen the two head Priests of Pashtia. Then again, he was not wholly sure of their positions. He had seen and heard of the High Priestess Zamara, but knew nothing of her ways. He had only heard the name of Tarkan, and merely assumed that he was a priest of some importance, presumably a High Priest, if he kept such ample company. After a low bow, he removed his clasped hand from his heart and stood, looking to the two figures. The situation was somewhat awkward, but this whole great banquet had become an awkward event for Morgôs, and so he was resigned to it. Quietly, he awaited a response, knowing that proper etiquette would force someone to reply, and he was again doomed to conversation, thanks, ironically, to his sudden lack of time.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

"That one looks especially nice, milady," a timid voice pierced the near-silence of Gjeelea's bedchamber. The princess sighed as she smoothed the wrinkles out of a sapphire blue robe, doubting the truth in the words of Fahlil, her servant. She says that because she thinks she has to, Gjeelea told herself. However, the princess knew she had no time to change again - the blue would have to do for the banquet. All of her tiny braids had been pulled back into one large braid with golden ribbon intertwined with the smaller braids. Gjeelea cringed at the blue of her dress next to the tan brown of her skin and dark hazel of her eyes, but reluctantly shrugged off the distaste as the Fahlil reminded her of the press for time.

"All right, then, I think I am ready," Gjeelea murmured, mostly to herself rather than the young servant-girl. The princess dismissed Fahlil and left her room at a brisk pace through the halls of the palace.

The princess had been asked to meet her family in her father's private gardens, where they would make a grand entrance together into the banquet hall. What this served to do for appearances, Gjeelea did not know. She rarely saw her brother Siamak, and when she did the major differences between them kept the siblings from getting along much. Gjeelea had always thought he was too quiet and too sound in his opinions. He would not make a good ruler, Gjeelea thought bitterly as she walked down the corridor. The princess knew that her betrothed might not be too much better, but she also knew Lord Korak's mind well enough to know that if she became queen, her influence on Pashtia would be great. Her influence would be much greater with Lord Korak on the throne than with her brother on the throne - she knew that well enough.

Gjeelea turned the last corner and entered the private gardens of her father. She recognized the figure by the lilies immediately, and walked towards the King as he examined the flowers and other plants. King Faroz heard her steps, and turned around. "Father," Gjeelea said in greeting, a false smile illuminating her dark features.

[Firefoot]

Siamak walked through the halls, hurrying a bit when he came close enough to the banquet hall to hear sounds of pre-feast merriment and chatter. He did not want to be late; that would not do at all. He had planned to go to the courtyard first, but the beginning of the banquet was apparently much more soon than he had realized. Rather than thread through the halls, he took the more direct route through the gardens.

The outside world was bathed in a dusky twilight now that the sun had set after a final blaze of brilliant color. Had he been in less of a hurry he may have lingered for a moment and enjoyed the peaceful sound of the chirping insects and evening birds, but he feared time was short. He slowed his pace to a stately walk as he neared his father’s private gardens, approaching the arranged meeting place softly, a skill he had learned long ago to be useful for getting around unnoticed.

His first conscious thought was that his mother was not yet there: a relief since that meant he was not late. He took in the scene with a glance. His father, facing him, was standing with Gjeelea, who had her back to him, near the lilies. He was less than thrilled at seeing his sister, even though he knew she would be there. He preferred to avoid her, which wasn’t terribly hard since their interests were vastly different. Faroz saw him first, but Gjeelea was not aware of his presence until he spoke. Then she turned, elegantly but just quickly enough to know he had surprised her slightly.

“Good evening, Father,” he said with a slight incline of his head, a proper greeting from prince to king. “Gjeelea,” he said politely in acknowledgment of her.

“Siamak,” she returned, also in acknowledgment, nothing more. There was no love lost between the siblings. Siamak wasn’t sure how she did it, but somehow she always made him feel that she was better than he was, though he knew it wasn’t true. Perhaps it was because she believed it - he knew she did. He tried to shake off the feeling, and was mostly successful, except for the niggling piece that remained at the back of his mind, telling him he ought to be acquiescing to her as well. He had become much better at this as he grew older, but he had never completely mastered the skill of disregarding her opinions of him.

He turned from his sister to his father, and tried to determine his mood. It appeared to be pleasant; Siamak supposed this meant that his father had good opinions of the foreign emissary. He would keep this in mind tonight while trying to justify his own distrust. While he didn’t always agree with what his father, he held Faroz as a fair ruler, taking the best paths for the country. Siamak tried to put on a bold face, only partially succeeding. This night would tell many things.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

And which of my children, he thought, do I wish to make unhappy? It was a question that Faroz had been turning over in his mind quite often of late, as the nobility began to ask who he would name as his heir. He was young yet, and there remained to him surely many more years of life, perhaps decades. But chance or accident could not be stayed by royal decree, nor could the intrigues of his enemies. A single knife in the dark, or an untasted dish of figs could leave his kingdom leaderless and divided. He needed to appoint an heir. More importantly, he needed to take one of his children under his tutelage and instruct…him?…her?…in the stern art of ruling a kingdom. He had never been an attentive father, nor an affectionate one. The education of his children had been left to their nursemaids and governesses, as well as to their mother – although Faroz had been careful to check her influence somewhat, lest Gjeelea and Siamak had been raised with too much sympathy for their mother’s people. Faroz believed in the peace that had been forged through his marriage, but he was no fool. He knew that the enmity between his people and his wife’s was too deep rooted to be extirpated by the union of two mortal beings. Their marriage had not resolved the border disputes in the mountainous Rhasjûl region, nor had it alleviated the tense competition between them amongst their trading partners. At some point in the future, perhaps not in his lifetime but certainly within the lives of his children, Pashtia and Alanzia would be at odds once more, and he had to ensure that his heir would defend this land against her enemies.

He hid his thoughts behind a face that was well practiced in the art of diplomatic subterfuge. “Welcome my children,” he said formally, and taking a hand of each in one of his own, he raised their clasped fingers to his forehead. He dropped his hands but held on for a moment longer as he looked at his children. The girl returned his gaze steadily and somewhat coolly. The boy regarded him with an uncertain, searching eye. How easy it would be were his daughter’s spirit to reside in his son. She was the natural ruler. Like her mother, she was rational and quick minded. Supple in her ability to see many options. But she was ambitious, and soon to be married to that oaf Korak who would undoubtedly seek to assert his rights as a husband and undermine Gjeelea’s ability to rule. Were his son to become King he would need to share that rule with no-one. He would be able to govern from a position of strength, and if he needed aid, he could marry a level headed woman of position and wisdom. No matter whom he chose, however, there would be division in the kingdom for the nobility was divided in their preference. So much remained to be seen: they were both yet blossoms of the royal branch, not fully come to their fruition. Who could tell what sort of leaders they would become in the fullness of years? Before seeing that, how could he make an informed decision of who should come after him?

“Is it true you spent the day with the Emissary, father?”

Faroz drove his problems to the back of his mind and replied to his daughter’s question. “It is. We had much to speak of.”

“I am sure. Did he tell you more about the offer of the Lord…Annatar, was it?”

He could tell that she was fishing for information. “We spoke of that briefly. He assures me that his lord wishes only for friendship with us, and that he does not seek to drag us into foreign conflicts.” His manner as he concluded indicated that the subject was now closed.

His daughter was not to be so easily put off however, and she tried a different tack. “And what of the gift? Is there some special significance to the ring? It seems such a small thing between kings.”

“Do not press me about that now, my daughter,” he replied lightly, trying to brush aside the conversation. He did not know why, but mention of the ring caused him an odd anxiety, and unconsciously his hand slipped into the folds of his robe to find it. He stroked it lightly with one fingertip. “Let us play a game my children. Let us pretend that I am not your king, and you are neither prince or princess. Let us pretend for this night that we are a family having a dinner with other families.”

“That will be hard,” Siamak replied, “with all those other families calling us ‘Majesty’ and bowing as we pass.”

“Not to mention their trying to have a few hurried words with us between courses about their latest petition, or telling us about their supremely talented nephew and how perfectly suited he would be for a position at court,” said Gjeelea.

His children were speaking as he had, lightly, but to cover the awkwardness that he had introduced with his strange request. When had they ever sat down to a meal as a family? When had they ever done anything as a family? It was not possible. Faroz searched his mind for a memory of some time, some moment, in which he had felt, simply, as a father to these people, but he could not recall any. Even at their births he had been absent from the city upon state business and had received the news amongst the daily reports from the capital. The news of his daughter’s birth had been disappointing: an eldest son would have been better. When he had received news of his son’s birth it had been marred by the information that he had been born upon a highly inauspicious day. Faroz did not hold to such superstition, but he knew that many of his people would be wary of such a child. He sighed and turned back to the lilies. “Well,” he said wearily, “let us at least enjoy our meal in each other’s company. You two shall sit and tell me the petty gossip and private scandals of the palace. There are many things that never come to my ears which I am sure are whispered in yours. Divert me with them, and perhaps I can amuse you with some tale of my youth.”

It was Siamak who took up the task of relating to his father a bit of the endless gossip that filled the whispering silences of the court. He spoke of unrequited loves and infatuations, disagreements among the courtiers and of a dispute over a dish of figs that had escalated to the point of blows. As he spoke, Gjeelea remained silent but watchful, carefully eyeing her father and brother and noting in each far more than either knew. Faroz himself remained quiet through the trivial recitation, until they were interrupted by the sound of the Queen’s feet coming toward them along the graveled path.

[Imladris]

Arshalous rose from her kneeling position and made way to the banquet hall. There would be much food there, and she was not hungry. Thankfully, there would be too many people for anybody of importance to notice her rudeness when she did not eat anything. Besides, there was the Emissary to occupy everybody's full attention.

As her sandals tapped lightly on the stone courtyard, she saw a man leaning against the wall. He was robed in black and purple, dark hair fell in waves to his shoulders, his eyes were a grey blue like a river whispering on a foggy morning, and, wonders of wonders, he was beardless, though his skin was dark from the cruel sun. If she had not known better, she would have thought him of the Avari kindred.

She stopped and said, "You are the Emissary, are you not?"

He pushed himself from the wall and kissed the back of her hand. "Indeed I am, fair lady --? He glanced enquiringly at her.

"Arshalous," she said, with a small bow. She swayed uncomfortably on her feet. There was something about him....something powerful about him that she had only felt in the king during the few times she had met him. Pity that none of the other nobles had such power coursing through them.

"It is very noble that the king has prepared this banquet in my honour," the Emissary said with a smile.

"It would have been rude for us not to," Arshalous said.

He looked shrewdly at her, a light flickering in his blue grey eyes.

"I am surprised that you journeyed across the desert to us," Arshalous said as she slowly strolled toward the banqueting hall.

A smile flickered in the Emissary's face and he said, "My lord is anxious for an alliance."

"It is my opinion that alliances do not often end well. I wouldn't be surprised if our countries were at each other's throats like snarling dogs in a few hundred years," said Arshalous sourly.

The man smiled politely. "That will not happen here."

"They always say that," Arshalous replied, staring at him. "The feast is about to begin," she said abruptly. "I would invite you to sit with me, though I am assume that the King has already offered you a place by his side, since, in fact, the banquet is in your honour."

"You are correct," the Emissary said, kissing her hand once more.

As Arshalous swept down the hall toward a seat in the twilight, she thought of the Emissary, how strong and noble he looked, how confident he seemed in an alliance between the East and the West. He was so different than the nobles here -- the image of Korak flitted through her mind -- in his wisdom and his kind face.

[Novnarwen]

The blessings of Rhais, he says, the Priest thought melancholically; I would rather not have any of her blessings or anything else for that matter.. It is a wicked goddess..

All of a sudden, he felt the urge to nudge the female next to him hard in the ribs. A man had just greeted them, but Tarkan didn't know this Elf. Did Zamara? If it was her acquaintance, then she should say something, not wait for him to speak. All three of them were silent, as if petrified by the loo of each other. He gave her a reproaching look, before turning to the stranger, deciding upon doing his best to seem civilized. It was only appropriate that he should greet this man also. After all, it was great to know that someone obviously knew him without himself knowing who this elf was.

"I do not believe I've had the honour of meeting you earlier," he said quietly, not knowing if that was for the best or not. He knew though, that new acquaintances could not be bad. The Priest had always liked Elves in general. They were some fascinating creatures. They were tall and firm, had a nice body structure, usually beautiful, pointed ears and all of them expressed a certain confidence that the Priest admired. This elf was a perfect example of a typical elf. His stature was great, and knowing that, the Priest could already by then guess what his position with the King was. He was fair, yet his age seemed to have a good grasp of him. Yet his eyes, vague but blue, and his black hair reflected youth. ”I do believe I have seen you, though..." He smiled faintly, digesting all the first impressions. He continued politely, "Yes, it comes back to me now. You're the King's favourite General!" The male Priest laughed gently, acknowledging the Elf’s position, expressing admiration. Zamara didn't move; he could see her out of the corner of his eye. By the look she sent him, she seemed to be surprised by the Priest’s behaviour, so polite and merry.

"Thank you, High Priest, but you're too kind," The elf answered humbly, his cheeks turning slightly red.

The ringing tune of the elf's voice calling him 'High Priest', for the second time, made him want to get to his knees and praise Rea. He restrained himself from looking happy or surprised by this and spoke hastily; "Let us not be too solemn by using such formal names; it only emphasizes our differences rather than our similarities, which are, I believe, far more important. We must set our focus on the King today, and this Emissary,” he explained eagerly; “Tarkan will do for tonight, kind Sir." Not knowing whether he should include Zamara in the conversation or not, he grew afraid that he would appear manipulative or arrogant if he didn’t. Also worried about the fact she could point out that Tarkan had received a title he did not earn, he was hesitant whether he should giver her the chance to speak. He turned his gaze to Zamara, and found her looking at him as if in wonder.

The Priest had turned from being a cold and sorrowful man, into being a man filled with merriment. His eyes shone with pleasure and delight, expressing satisfaction, but also confidence and a certain degree of happiness. He looked questioningly at Zamara. She nodded carefully, "I do agree. At this banquet, which is held in the honour of the newly arrived Emissary, it is important to focus on the King support him."

"Now, I beg you please ... Will you tell me who this Emissary is? I have not had the privilege to meet him yet, though, I'm already very curious about his coming. Do you know what he wants with the King, or are you as ignorant about the matter as I am?" he questioned the elf as fast as he could after Zamara had closed her mouth, not allowing her to say anything further.

The Priest smiled weakly, paying attention to the male Elf who told all he knew thus far. He listened attentively, but only with one ear. The woman next to him, stood still. By the look of her, she was still surprised, but he was not convinced any longer that it was for the better. If he could have penetrated through her mind and seen her thoughts, he would have done so instantly. The two of them had never had a good relationship. The truth was that Tarkan was envious of her position in the Temple. It was not that he adored Rhais over all, such as Zamara did, but the position in itself ‘High Priest' was something he truly longed for. He was just a Priest, and so the elf had greeted Tarkan wrongly, using a formal title he did not even have. He hadn't lied, the male Priest assured himself; he had told him that his name would do; he had only chosen not to mention that he wasn't a High Priest. If the elf eventually found out, he had nothing to approach the poor creature of.

The male elf finished his sentence, letting his gaze wander uneasily around. The Priest nodded carefully; satisfied by the little info he had gained. "You seem anxious to leave. Pardon me from keeping you here; I did not mean to. Please forgive me . . ." he said, in a desperate try to get he elf moving again away from Zamara and the humiliation of being just a man without a particularly great position.

[Nurumaiel]

Korak stood in the doorway, surverying the room with a look of great disgust. He had expected enemies to be gathered here, but those he despised most were among those present, sitting, talking, laughing, and scowling. He gestured to the maid, and told her to bring his mother to a table that she wished. He did not feel like sitting, for he cared for none of these people, and the Princess was not yet present.

The Lady Arshalous was, of course, present, though he could not see her from where he stood. She had said she was prepared for the banquet, so it seemed very likely that she intended to go. He hoped he would not have to speak to her again. If she approached them he would let Morashk speak, and he would leave, on the pretence of finding his mother.

There was the Priest Tarkan. Korak had never cared much for him. There was some air about him that stirred up aversion. But, on the other hand, there was something very pleasing about him, as well. Lord Korak gathered a sense of a kindred spirit, though he knew not how. Studying the rest of the room, he thought that he should care to speak to Tarkan the most. Unless it were Zamara, for she was the least dislikeable of the present company. But she was already with Tarkan, and so he need not cause himself trouble by seeking her elsewhere.

He approached the two, Morashk following in his wake, and before them he gave a courtly bow, casting a quick and haughty glance over the Elf. "My Priest Tarkan, and Priestess Zamara," said the Lord Korak, "it is a pleasure to see you here." He did not really think it was a pleasure to see anyone there, but he could not deny that it was a pleasure to have two bearable people present, since all others he saw were hated enemies or far below him. "I give to you by greetings, as well as the kindest greetings of my Lady mother, who is grateful to you for your devoted service in the temple."

[alaklondewen]

Arlomë let her eyes follow her husband’s back until he had rounded the corner and was out of her sight. Then, she sighed. She had only just found him, and now he was gone again. Really, she should have kept her temper in check and not argued with him no matter how she felt. Elrigon needed her support and she had not given it to him just now. Concern had been written all over him, and she knew he was frustrated at this Emissary’s arrival. Maybe not his arrival, per se, but Elrigon deserved to know what this man’s intentions were and had not yet been able to meet him. She would make it up to him...yes, she nodded slightly to herself.

Turning her attention back to the filling hall, she scanned its guests for not just familiar faces, but those she respected. No Avari had entered yet, and Arlomë exhaled audibly and chewed the inside of her cheek in awkward frustration. That’s when her eyes caught sight of Lady Arshalous. The woman was not of Arlomë’s kindred, but she had a good head on her shoulders and a quick wit. Two things the elf could respect in a mortal.

Arlomë excused herself several times to pass between the finely dressed nobles who were milling around waiting for the royal family’s appearance until she reached the small round table with the lady. “Good evening to you, Arshalous.” Arlomë nodded her head in greeting.

“And to you, Arlomë,” Arshalous answered and nodded her head in turn.

“Do you mind if I sit a moment until the royal entrance?” Without waiting for a reply, Arlomë lowered herself to the small table.