The Summer Court of Baron Melior of Shayltan created an artful hum, beautiful, balanced, and melodic, like everything the Elves set themselves to. Soft, lilting voices rose and fell with practiced grace as petitioners, performers, and courtiers vied for the attention and favor of the Elf Prince; a lazy tableau set in hazy, mid-day sunlight.
The Elf Prince sat on his throne, affecting an indolent slouch in the polished embrace of his seat. His hair, the shining red-gold of a harvest sunset, was worn long and bound with a gleaming crimsor coronet; his slender, pale fingers restlessly toyed with a curling strand, then moved to tap the seastone beads threaded through the outside of his pointed ear, then traced the delicate runes etched in the metal at his brow, runes echoed on the jeweled armor adorning the watchful Shayguard arrayed about his throne.
Reaching for the chilled sweet wine borne by the child-page at his side, Melior sighed, and he held the goblet before his lips to disguise a yawn. The afternoon sun glared cruelly down on him through the gold-leaded glass panes in the Great Hall's ceiling; and while the beams of light graced him with a near-godly halo, it was damned hot, and the late nights he kept didn't make the mid-day petitions very stimulating.
His eyes flickered to the man droning on before him: Vastiol, a vintner known for crafting unusual results from the fruits of K'Talar, was seeking a commission of sorts from the Court. Melior's nose flared delicately as he took in vaguely bitter aroma surrounding Vastiol, and he sneered at the deep reds and purples affected by the man ? a deviation from the traditional amber silks and leaf-embossed leathers worn by Shayltan's brewers and vintners in the summer. Waving vaguely with his goblet, Melior's attention strayed back to the trio of musicians, and the soft harmonies they coaxed from their instruments. He nodded affably, his lips curling into a distracted, sleepy, smile, and bent his head to whisper a command to the page at his side.
With an ungainly squawk of bow against string, the musicians halted their song, bringing a sudden hush to the busy-bee din in the hall. Melior gestured imperiously for them to continue, then faltered, noting the subtle expression of tension on his performers' faces. He followed their stares back to the petitioner's stand.
The Summer Court was silent. Vastiol, of course, was nowhere to be seen. Stark, unrelieved, unadorned white glared at him from the stand, a spot of crisp contrast in the muted golds and flowing silks of the Elf Prince's courtiers.
Melior dropped his goblet and started from his throne before he remembered his dignity, silently cursing his awkward, graceless movements. Amber eyes fixed on the figure, then darted to where his wide, floor-length silken sleeves had begun to soak up the sweet-smelling crimson wine he'd spilled in his haste.
?Mi-Milady Baroness,? he stammered, trying to hide his wine-stained yellow and green sleeves by folding his arms across his chest. He wondered vaguely how the woman had gotten in unannounced - she had none of the stealth of elvenkind, being a round-eared and short-lived human. ?You, ah ? you ? damn.? Melior trailed off, swearing: In bringing his arms across his chest, the dripping sleeves had bunched up and dragged a trail of sticky, lurid purple over the gold-threaded hose he wore.
Emma leaned forward from the petitioner's stand, sniffing experimentally. ?Melior,? she began, and by the way the Elf Prince's brow tightened, she knew the lack of honorific disturbed him. ?Is that a Sabasti from last year you're wearing?? Her eyes roamed over the puddle of spilt wine on the floor and the path it had taken over his garments. ?I can smell the jadeberry undertones. It's a fine vintage, but really, I should think you would wear cologne if you liked the scent so much, my dear. Not wine.?
Bristling and indignant, the Elf Prince half-rose from his throne again. His slippered foot skidded in the puddle of wine, and he sank back into his throne with a muted growl. He glanced over his shoulder at the six fighters forming the Shayguard, but rather than moving forward in the parade-perfect formation he knew was drilled every morning (if only because they did so when he was just about ready to retire after the evening's debauchery), they stood motionless.
?Frost--? he began.
The Elf Prince sat on his throne, affecting an indolent slouch in the polished embrace of his seat. His hair, the shining red-gold of a harvest sunset, was worn long and bound with a gleaming crimsor coronet; his slender, pale fingers restlessly toyed with a curling strand, then moved to tap the seastone beads threaded through the outside of his pointed ear, then traced the delicate runes etched in the metal at his brow, runes echoed on the jeweled armor adorning the watchful Shayguard arrayed about his throne.
Reaching for the chilled sweet wine borne by the child-page at his side, Melior sighed, and he held the goblet before his lips to disguise a yawn. The afternoon sun glared cruelly down on him through the gold-leaded glass panes in the Great Hall's ceiling; and while the beams of light graced him with a near-godly halo, it was damned hot, and the late nights he kept didn't make the mid-day petitions very stimulating.
His eyes flickered to the man droning on before him: Vastiol, a vintner known for crafting unusual results from the fruits of K'Talar, was seeking a commission of sorts from the Court. Melior's nose flared delicately as he took in vaguely bitter aroma surrounding Vastiol, and he sneered at the deep reds and purples affected by the man ? a deviation from the traditional amber silks and leaf-embossed leathers worn by Shayltan's brewers and vintners in the summer. Waving vaguely with his goblet, Melior's attention strayed back to the trio of musicians, and the soft harmonies they coaxed from their instruments. He nodded affably, his lips curling into a distracted, sleepy, smile, and bent his head to whisper a command to the page at his side.
With an ungainly squawk of bow against string, the musicians halted their song, bringing a sudden hush to the busy-bee din in the hall. Melior gestured imperiously for them to continue, then faltered, noting the subtle expression of tension on his performers' faces. He followed their stares back to the petitioner's stand.
The Summer Court was silent. Vastiol, of course, was nowhere to be seen. Stark, unrelieved, unadorned white glared at him from the stand, a spot of crisp contrast in the muted golds and flowing silks of the Elf Prince's courtiers.
Melior dropped his goblet and started from his throne before he remembered his dignity, silently cursing his awkward, graceless movements. Amber eyes fixed on the figure, then darted to where his wide, floor-length silken sleeves had begun to soak up the sweet-smelling crimson wine he'd spilled in his haste.
?Mi-Milady Baroness,? he stammered, trying to hide his wine-stained yellow and green sleeves by folding his arms across his chest. He wondered vaguely how the woman had gotten in unannounced - she had none of the stealth of elvenkind, being a round-eared and short-lived human. ?You, ah ? you ? damn.? Melior trailed off, swearing: In bringing his arms across his chest, the dripping sleeves had bunched up and dragged a trail of sticky, lurid purple over the gold-threaded hose he wore.
Emma leaned forward from the petitioner's stand, sniffing experimentally. ?Melior,? she began, and by the way the Elf Prince's brow tightened, she knew the lack of honorific disturbed him. ?Is that a Sabasti from last year you're wearing?? Her eyes roamed over the puddle of spilt wine on the floor and the path it had taken over his garments. ?I can smell the jadeberry undertones. It's a fine vintage, but really, I should think you would wear cologne if you liked the scent so much, my dear. Not wine.?
Bristling and indignant, the Elf Prince half-rose from his throne again. His slippered foot skidded in the puddle of wine, and he sank back into his throne with a muted growl. He glanced over his shoulder at the six fighters forming the Shayguard, but rather than moving forward in the parade-perfect formation he knew was drilled every morning (if only because they did so when he was just about ready to retire after the evening's debauchery), they stood motionless.
?Frost--? he began.