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[Ardas]

Welcome, Foolish Mortal, to You are King!

This is the IC thread. Please consult OOC if you have any questions, queries or look for further information on the world of the game.

-------

It was the Year 352 in Light of our Lord Ilos. It was a strange year, with falling fires in the sky, rumors of distant disasters and a winter that all but brought the land to its knees, only to give the most bountiful harvest in living memory.
It was also the last year of the last son of the royal line of Harmondale, the fine Daevini. King Luowin died in his bed in the 12th year of his reign without leaving a close relative to succeed him. A shadow fell over the kingdom, for many knew that this would spell a disaster if the rightful heir was not found, or a fitting replacement elected. There was nothing more bloody or bitter than a feud for the throne, and in their fear, the petty lords gathered around the capital City of Teirval, sending an emissary to his Excellency, Grandmaster Pyoraxis, who with blessing of Ilos, would declare a sacred peace for the election of a new king. Many expected events that would change the history of the realm, but few expected it to touch the whole of Nordric and beyond...

---

It was a grey autumn day, with heavy clouds hanging low over the city. Scores of mages and monks, lords and knights filled the road, turning the paving under their feet into a mush of mud and fallen autumn leaves as they descended onto the capital.
Teirval was an ancient city, packed to the brim as it filled a narrow space on a stony hill, surrounded by sharp, tall walls. A mighty imperial fortress in its heyday, now it served as the centre of the realm in grief. But it wasn’t the city that was their objective, but the royal castle on the edge of the hill, where the outcropping was at the highest. There, a council of the realm stood watch over the election.
The courtyard of the keep was swamped with tents and people as everyone tried to be as close to the great halls as possible. Each man of worth fought for a space at a table where his word might make a difference to the realm, while archmages and priests who composed the the council kept the peace and reviewed each candidate. Ultimately though, it would be the voice of the realm and the gathered nobles that would make the new king.

There were few requirements to be selected as a candidate, among them a noble blood, good character, piety and honour. But not all would meet those strict requirements - not only that, but characters with little more than strong voice and a strong arm would put themselves forward, rallying some barons behind them and forcing their way among the considered candidates. The council resigned itself to the divine will, hoping that enlightenment would descend on the gathered crowds and lead them to the right choice...

[Ardas]

Reserved, just in case.

[Imic]

Random post.

[Tack]

Lowborn Mavi stands with reluctant poise upon the high steps of the castle motte, overseeing the flood of entrants and aspirants to the castle grounds.
With the eager masses of humanity poised like a hungry maw ready to devour the council within, he finds himself in impromptu command of the fleet of servants and guards poised to intercept would-be interlopers and ascertain their right to enter the stadium within. With his promotion being still quite recent, he was thoroughly unprepared when ambushed with the logistical nightmare of hosting a gala, billeting untold numbers of honour guard and household troops and controlling what could only be described as a gentle riot all over the course of many days.

He smiles resignedly to himself. On this the day of days, holding tight the reigns on an army of (admittedly borrowed) knights and guardsmen, he finds himself at the most powerful that he has ever been or shall be ever again, and yet with the death of the king the flower of his ambition finds no fertile ground in which to grow.
Grandmaster Pyoraxis is safely ensconced within, and the trickle of lords and nobles which sift through the forest of spearheads are flowing smoothly to the grounds awaiting them.
He is, with bitter mirth, both all-powerful and completely unnecessary.

With a shake of his shoulders he waves over a nearby servant, passing the instruction that any entrants claiming kingsblood be gently ferried towards his post.

[Iituem]

"Well?  Get on with it, then!"

The sharp, ear-splitting voice that cut through the assorted mutterings and murmurings of the council tables belonged to an elderly woman, draped in black and grey woollens and silver bracelets and rings that failed to detract from the impression of a vicious old woman, or possibly an ancient housecat, folded over with age and wrinkles.  She sat in one of the high chairs near the centre of the U-shaped table that dominated the feasting hall, surrounded by a handful of ruffians serving as her guard - and giving death glares and the odd stabbing to anyone who tried to remove her from her seat.  Naturally, this was also one of the seats closest to the large hearth warming the chamber.  To the veterans of the court, this was of course the Dog Rose of the North, the Baroness Helga Gertasdottir.

"Yes, I mean you!"  She fixed several imposing figures with a blue gimlet-eyed stare.  "It's been nearly three days of faffing about, measuring your spears and still you haven't settled on a candidate!  I might not have long for this world, but I'll be damned if I spend it waiting for young bucks to make their bloody minds up!"

Helga prodded one crooked old finger towards the central space in the U-shaped table.

"If you've got a claim, stand there and stake it now!  If not, stop wasting our time!  Well?  Go on then!"

[NUKE9.13]

And the angel spoke to him: "The Gates Of Man Shall Open Before You"

A man made his way through the crowds. Not a man you would stop to look at twice, under normal circumstances. His looks were... average. His height was... average. His hair, at least, was somewhat interesting, being red, and not, as one might expect, an average brown.
Unlike the various claimants to the throne, he was not dressed in a fancy, well-tailored outfit of silk and satin. He was dressed in clothing meant for a traveller- hardy gear, leather and wool, not exuding luxury, although not exuding poverty either.

He reached the entrance to the castle. Guards blocked the unwashed masses from entering, and though he was not unwashed, per se, he had not been invited, and by any mortal standard, had no right to enter.
It is a good thing, then, that he was not beholden to mortal standards.

He strode forth confidently, approaching one of the guards.

"Who is in charge here?", he demanded, before the guard could open his mouth.
"I am late. I must speak with whoever is in charge at once."

Falsktnafn seeks entry to the castle.

[Ardas]

Falsktnafn

The guard looks at you unconvinced, but when a large group of nobles heads for the gate and pushes on without heeding annoyed calls of another guard, you take advantage of the situation and enter beyond the gates. With the crowds in here, they are unlikely to be looking for you.

[NUKE9.13]

And the angel commanded him: "Let Thy Name Be Known"

So it was that the Swordholder gained entrance. He had done a modicum of preparation beforehand, and knew of several lesser nobles known to be... weak-willed.

"Baron Lykillinn? A moment of your time, good sir."
The somewhat overweight baron turned to face him. "What is-", he began, but stopped as Falsktnafn drew his sword from the sheath- not completely, but enough for a few runes to catch the baron's eye.
"Can we talk somewhere in private?"

"Lady Trugrjarn, I presume? Your beauty stands out in a crowd."
The lady- who, if we're being honest, was only of middling attractiveness- looked up at him. "Flattery will get you everywhere, my dear. Can I help you?"
"Might we talk somewhere quieter?"

"Sir Safnari, I understand you are a connoisseur of rare blades? I have an item that may interest you- shall we step inside?"
The landless but well-connected knight regarded him skeptically, but invited him into the tent regardless.

"Did you hear? People are talking about a prophecy! They say a stranger bearing a legendary sword is coming, to claim the throne by divine apointment!"

Falsktnafn shows his sword to a handful of lesser nobles known to be... persuadable. He kindly requests that they spread rumours of his coming.

[Tack]

Mavi notices nobles breaking through the lines up and down the gates and is caught fast. Either he investigates the rumours flying around of some hooded royal, or attempts to add his own efforts to the bulwark, or stays where he is so that servants can find him in order to fulfil the last command he gave without enough forethought, which in this chaos would be impossible to try and change.
Dejectedly, he sits on a step and waits.

[Roboson]

An archmage of some note had approached the gates of the castle. He was dressed in the traditional clothing of his rank as well as adorned with the symbols of his house. After the death of his father a few years ago, Luwald had been forced to not only be an archmage of the Cult of Illos, but the head of one of the most influential houses of the realm. His friends were many, his notoriety within the Cult was well known, and his political allies were longstanding supporters of his house. Though this is not why Luwald had appeared at this event. No indeed, he would not have come if it were not for the dire need of the nation. Luwald Armiles had kingsblood in his veins, dating back generations, beyond his namebearer Luwald Armiles the First. The kingsblood gave him a claim, the wealth and nobility gave him the means, but it was his faith that gave him a duty. Luwald would stake a claim to the throne, the Cult demanded it, the nation needed it, and if it was meant to be, nothing could stop it.

As he approaches things settle down. The presence of an Archmage tends to quiet the voices in mens hearts which whisper of violence and debauchery.

[Tack]

As expected, Luwald is gently nudged by respectful servants up the stairs to the hall, and is greeted by a deep bow from Mavi at the gates.
"Greetings, honoured Archmage. The hall is directly through and up, and your title and landing both allow you access to the chambers with all our blessings. The seating is not yet filled, thanks to the heroic effort of our men here and the influence of your most holy grandmaster; so it will be our deepest pleasure to show you to where you may be seated with the other members of your cult, or your house as you choose."
"That is of course, unless you were desiring to put forth your claim?"

[NUKE9.13]

((I hope nobody minds if I speed things up by sticking several irons in the fire at once))

"Seek Out The Shining Knight"

Here, in the courtyard, we have a particularly impressive tent. Multicoloured pennants adorn its sides, gilded sigils sown into the cloth. They bear the heraldry of the Knights Resplendent.
The Swordholder approaches the tent.

"I would speak with Master Constantine. Tell him it concerns a Runeblade."

[Digital Hellhound]

In the Courtyard

The Swordholder did not need to wait long. The squire at the doorway - a thin reed of a boy dressed in a tailor-fit coat of blue embroidered with white gold - ducked inside the tent and returned promptly with his master.

Master Constantine Logos Valerian wore an elaborate azure doublet speckled with silver, with a stiff high collar that clearly constrained the movements of his head. A cloth of silk hung over his sword arm - a traditional southern gesture of peace. His dark hair was slick and oiled in the Laurelian fashion. The oil gave off a faint fragrance that clung to the air about him.

Yet such pomp could not conceal the measured grace of the knight's movements - the steps of an idle big cat assured of its own power - nor the immaculate physique of a lifelong warrior. There were scars to see, if one knew where to look.

He took in the nondescript man before him. The tall knight bowed his head slightly.

'I am Master Constantine. Matteus tells me you have news of a Runeblade, sir,' the Knight-Master said.

[NUKE9.13]

"Your squire is correct."
He looks around, and judges there to be no one within earshot.
"In fact, I have aforementioned blade on my person."
He presents the still-sheathed sword to the knight.
"And with it, I have a curious request. My sources tell me you may be willing to listen to it. Could we discuss this out of sight of the crowds, perhaps?"

[Digital Hellhound]

The knight looked the sheathed weapon over with evident disbelief. He shook his head. 'I do not wish to call you a liar, sir, but forgive me if I seem unconvinced. There are plenty of charlatans and forgers about these days, claiming to possess true Runeblades. I have some eye for these things; if this proves to be a forgery, I'll personally see you flogged.'

Constantine pulled open the tent-flap. 'Yet it'd be unworthy of me to not atleast give you a chance, sir. We may speak in my tent.'