For a Free Life, and a Good Death! (Closed, FT)

[Lliwiauyn]

Ev'ry star in heaven is singing
All through the night,
Hear the glorious music ringing
All through the night.
Songs of sweet ethereal lightness
Wrought in realms of peace and whiteness;
See, the dark gives way to brightness
All through the night. ~ Cyndi Lauper




It had been a rash promise, perhaps. Rasher than Maerian had known, but rash even with what she had known. But the alternative had been so repugnant to her soul that she had never truly considered it.

Anyone would have excused her, perhaps. Her own personal war had finished, her siblings avenged, her world tentatively liberated, her enemy destroyed. At a horrible cost, but one that had emphatically been worth paying. The death of thousands, including her previous self (including her current self, more times than she wanted to remember), had led to the moment when the sun shone down upon their bloodsoaked battlefield when the wheels of chance finally turned in such a way that she lived and triumphed. And she had ridden out in the sun, almost carried into the city on the backs of her followers, welcomed by the public, and her name and face were everywhere, and she could have stopped. Job done.

And yet… and yet… and yet...

Starting the work is two thirds of it, the bards say, and in truth she had just started. There were other worlds beneath the perverse hand of the shadow. It wasn’t enough that she was Princess of a free people. The work was not done.

And, of course, if she kept fighting, she didn’t have to sit down and confront the work of ruling. If waiting on the battlefield to die had been dull, waiting on the throne for a decision to be submitted to her was quite another.

No, that wasn’t fair. They didn’t need her sitting on a wooden stool and answering them. They needed her at the front, where she could be useful. Just because she’d won, the enemy didn’t go away. That was the messy thing about enemies of the sort they faced. You put them down, and they get back up. It was most inconvenient.

Maerian made her appearances, of course. She was Princess. And that was a role that had responsibilities. Just because they could do the work didn’t mean she wasn’t necessary. She had to sign papers and approve spending and smile politely as people who knew more than her about their business told her what they needed and argued and struggled and demanded resolution that they could have received just as easily by flipping a bleeding copper. She was a Princess, after all..

Their last princess, as it had been pointed out to her. Repeatedly. And what was she meant to do about that? Get pregnant?
‘
Not that she was fighting to escape that truth, either. She didn’t have a problem with men.Far from it. She liked guys as much as most girls. The Goddess had been very clear about that, and very thorough on her follow through. But, well, there were men and there were men, and while it was one thing to be interested in a man, and quite another to submit to one, and an entirely different thing to have to carry a child, and she was too young for either. No one had told the others they needed to have children to maintain the bloodline, never mind that they had been men. She considered that thought for a moment, and smiled slightly at what a difference a year could make...

Those thoughts skittered away almost without her realizing it, and her hand and her throat momentarily ached for the last bottle of cider she’d hidden from her doctors. Everything was so clear at the bottom of the bottle. It was miraculous how all your problems floated away when you were floating on a cloud of alcohol. It was almost… almost…

”Your Grace, we have contact at the edge of the system. Looks like they’re scrambling fighters.”

Almost like pulling the trigger. Yes, that was the feeling she was looking for. She glanced at the console, while her left thumb rested easily on that trigger. She was one with the machine. She was the messenger of death. Everything else could be put on the back seat. And since her craft didn’t have a back seat, well… what a shame that was.

She mentally flipped a switch. “This is Maerian. Remember, hit and run. By the numbers. If they commit, pull out.”

”Don’t you be teaching your smith how to pump his own bellows, Your Grace.”

“It’s easy enough for you to say you know what you’re doing, Rhobat. Instead of barking at me, bite them.” Maerian gauged the statistics their sensors were feeding her and reluctantly released the trigger. Ammo was expensive, and all the moreso for her suit, and she didn’t want to be running through the battery for her lances before she was in range. She knew how to use the suit, as if she’d been born to it, but she didn’t understand it. And that inspired caution. “Squad leaders, sound off.”

“Griffin Squadron, standing by.”
“Raven Squadron, standing by.”

“Otter Squadron, standing by.”

“Hound Squadron, standing by.”

“Bear Squadron, standing by.”

Maerian took a breath and nestled back into her seat as her officers read off and the enemy drew closer on her radar. She flexed her left hand, and half-imagined the suit flexing its own fingers around the sword’s hilt. When the roll was finished, she flipped another in her head, broadcasting to all. “This is Dragon Leader. Once, we thought our enemy invulnerable. Once, we thought they knew neither pain nor fear. Once, we thought they could not be defeated, and we would die as we lived, and in our deaths we would still be their slaves. But now we know better!” Their cheers sent a shot of fire through her. “Today, we are a free people, fighting for our freedom! Today, we do not merely defend, we attack! Today, the war begins anew! And this war will not end until all our people have seen the light of freedom!” She, and her suit, drew its sword. “The Dragon Banner flies!”

“The Dragon Banner flies!”

“The Dragon Banner flies once more! And we, free men of Lliwiauyn, carry it to victory! She pointed her sword at the enemy, and pulled the trigger. A bright beam shot out and hit one of the approaching fighters, and then arced outward, taking out nearly a dozen of their opponents before finally dissipating. With her other hand she lifted the banner. “For a free life!”

“For a good death!”

“CHARGE!”

[Lliwiauyn]

Only the dead have seen the end of war. ~ George Santayana

"And we therefore commend these bodies to this hallowed ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection of eternal life and eventual resurrection. And for those that did not return, we commit their souls to the Goddess and their memories to the future. For there is no greater memorial than this, that they gave their lives for freedom, ours and those of all peoples."

The families didn't blame her. The press didn't blame her. None of them blamed her.

That was the worst part, Maerian thought. It was her fault. She had been too bold, too brave, too forward in the charge and too slow to retreat. So sure. It was her fault.

She'd gone to the funeral service and sat at the back, expecting the mourners to curse her name, expecting their hatred and their remorse to overmatch her own self-loathing. But they'd had nothing for their Princess but kindness. She had not betrayed them, they said. She had saved so many, it was a blessing. As if she hadn't led them to their deaths in the first place.

A space fight... a space fight was something different than she had expected. It had taken them weeks to prepare even for transit, she had not even considered the possibility that the battle would not fold out exactly as they had terrestrially. And yet everything had been so far from her expectations. The enemy had swarmed from all sides, enveloping them in a sphere of death. Had it not been for the sacrifice of Hound and Otter, even fewer would have returned.

Her fault.

"OUR FIRST CAMPAIGN - A VICTORIOUS RECON IN FORCE!"

No. A rout. A retreat. A calamity. A loss by any metric.

"OUR HEROIC PRINCESS RETURNS FROM THE FIELD OF BATTLE!"

She wasn't a hero now, if she ever had been. The original plan had been by the numbers. She'd told the dead that. And then she'd thrown it out the window, leading them into a charge. As if she'd hoped her reputation alone would drive them back. If they could be driven back.

There had been so many.

"DO YOUR PART! JOIN THE ARMY!"

The dead pilots could, in time, be replaced. Training could take some of the place of experience. But what weapons would they wield? Field-capable suits were at a premium before the battle. Now, every unit she had left was deployed to the defense.

And trained in what? They would have to scour the libraries. They would have to find the theories. Something must be out there to prepare.

"OUR PRINCESS NEEDS YOU!"

No. What their princess needed was a drink.

Or two.

Three at the outside.

No more than four.

It would be a shame to waste this bottle, though...

[Lliwiauyn]

Like every tree stands on its own
Reaching for the sky I stand alone
I share my world with no one else
All by myself, I stand alone ~ Steve Perry/Quest for Camelot (Warner Bros. 1998)


Maerian may have been a warrior, but that did not give her great upper body strength. The fist she brought down upon the ancient wood did not noticeably shake either the table or its settings. Still, her immediate neighbors leaned away from her. "No! No, no, no, no! A thousand, nay, a million times, no!" Today's Senedd was off to a fine start.

Regrettably, that was the truth. The Princess had not thrown anything at anyone, or lashed out with her sorcery, or cursed anyone out. Nor had she gotten up and stormed off. And the councilors, a slender plurality now united in common cause, were more restrained in bickering and jockeying than they had been since the body had been reinstituted. No one had even raised a voice against their neighbor, a level of comity that would have shocked the public had the meeting not been in camera.

"Your Grace, be reasonable." Today’s Senedd was chaired, as was traditional, by the senior churchman present. And as usual that was Father Hywel, the rector of the reopened Saint Tyrsten’s Church down the hill. Very few of the presbyters of the revived Church could claim a seniority to Hywel, and those who did tended to not get around much.

"I am being reasonable!" The Princess's voice nearly became a shriek. "I veto!"

"My lady, we haven't even held a vote yet. You are responding only to the agenda. I beg you, please calm yourself."

The Princess fell into a sullen silence, crossing her arms over her bosom and scowling at a point on the ceiling above the opposite side of the table. Of some women, it is said that they are lovely in their anger. The Princess was always lovely, but her fury did not improve the prospect of her face. Still, a moment passed and she nodded, very grudgingly. “Get on with it, then.”

Hywel gripped his cane and rose to his feet, then turned to the east. “May you, oh Divines of Righteousness and Truth, grant to our Princess and Her Senedd, and to all her servants in all positions of responsibility, the guidance of your spirit. May they never lead us wrongly through love of power, desire to please or unworthy ideals. But may they instead keep at the forefront of their mind their responsibility to improve the lot of all, so may your name be hallowed. And may we say amen.”

“Amen.” Came the mingled voices from all across the hall.

“Your Grace, speaking in the name of those who are assembled here and in the service of the estates they represent, we request that you proclaim this session of the Senedd to be open, in your eyes and in the eyes of the Divines.”

Maerian sighed and lifted her hand. Her rings sparkled in the light as she pointed up at the sky. “In the names of the Divines, and in the service of my people, I hereby call this session of the Senedd to order. May those in attendance speak well and wisely, and fear no injury for their honesty nor expect approbation for deceit.”

With their leader's grudging acquiescence, the formalities were done. The fifty Senators could begin the day's business. It was a smaller party than usual, with many who could have attended through proximity to Caer Lliw having stayed away in a more secure form of abstention than usual. For there was only one item on the agenda, and it was known to be unpopular with their princess.

"Gentlemen and ladies. Priests, milites and traders. Lliwiauyn stands on a precipice. The recent action at Byd Afaloen has exposed our weakness against our ancient enemies, and the consequences could be dire.." Father Hywel lay his hands flat on the table, palms up. "We need..."

"Bah! We have their measure now. I see no reason for our concern." Sir Galeht brought his fist down with rather more force than his Princess. The thin red line of her lips curled upward. Sensing her approval, the milite looked across the round table and gave her a smile. Her own smile grew clearer, and she lested her arms now on the armrests that were among the few distinctions between her throne and the seats of her councilors. With this sign of approval, Galeht turned to his peers. "Some training, some repairs, and we can go back on the offensive! We don't want to fight, but by Jingo if we do!" There was an outbreak of murmurs around the room as this boldness proved popular with more than just Maerian.

"We have no ships. We have no men." Hywel broke in with firmness that silenced them. "We have no money, too."

"We had no men, ships or money at Gweith Badan, and we won! A glorious victory!"

"Aye, a band of loose and and free rebels and insurgents won at Gweith Badan. A glorious victory, indeed."

"And you, who lay down supine before our enemy, come here and sit at the Princess's table and counsel cowardice and not courage?" Galeht rose to his feet, his metal gauntlets digging into the wood as he leaned across the table. "We are victors, Divines be with us, and you nought but a dog!"

"And had you lost, what then?"

The question threw the milite for a loop. "Well, I..."

"I will tell you. Our lives would have continued as they had, and for most of us, naught would have changed. You gambled only yourselves. But now, we are free men." It was the older man's turn to raise his voice, and he rose to his own feet. He was not as tall as the milite, but the force of his personality was stronger. "We are free men, but if we lose the next battle, we will be slaves again. Fools! Would you lose us all we have won for mere glory? You have broken our chains, and now you seek to fasten new one for all Lloegyr! Better that you had lost at Gweith Badan than won, then! And you call me a dog? You, who know nothing but barking? Sit. Heel."

Galeht's hand went to his knife. "How dare you, old man!"

"Aye, and you would bite, too?" Hywel lifted his throat. "Bite, then! Show us how a free man behaves!” Gaeht released his knife, but he did grab the shirt collar of the smaller man. And at that, the argument became general.

For a minute.

“Enough.” The princess did not have a naturally loud voice, but she did not need one. She simply spoke, and silence spread out from her like ripples in a pond. When she had taken possession of the room, she spoke again. “Sir Galeht, you were impertinent to a priest. You will apologize.”

“I apologize, Father.” Galeht inclined his head. “I am the loyal son of the church in all things, and meant no offense to you or it.”

“Forgiven, my son.” Hywel dusted off the collar of his shirt, then placed his hand on Galeht’s head. “Always forgiven.” He lifted his head off and turned to the Princess. “I will be more… temperate in my language as well, your grace.”

“Splendid.” Maerian turned her attention back to the spot on the ceiling that she had been looking at. “You may continue bickering. Just… politely. And quietly.” The Princess produced a bottle from somewhere in her bag and popped the cork.

“Are there no men?” Father Yrien’s presence at the Senedd had been a surprise, though not so much as would be a milite or a patrician from his part of Lloegyr. His home of Ter Connail was many miles from Caer Lliw, no small feat in a time with limited air and sea travel. “I came to ask for aid for my homeland. We are hard pressed.” The southerner was a small, bent man with bright eyes; his glasses made him look like an owl.

“We are all hard pressed, Father.” Sir Tristran scowled at no one in particular from his seat. Older than Sir Galeht, he had not arrived in the train of the conquering army but had instead been of old service at the court, such as it was, of the enemy. Disdained by many as a collaborator, he had nevertheless the right of his title and the support of his footmen, and the Princess had simply let him be for the year-and-a-day that secured his amnesty. He was as loud a voice for caution as he had been for mere survival; there was no honor for the dead. “Does the land of Connail lack arms, or merely men for them? We possess scarcely enough arms for our own purposes. The King,”

Hywell tutted at Sir Tristran’s words. “The False King.”

Sir Tristran rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. “Aye, the False King had.”

“Cursed be his name.” Hywell prompted again.

“Aye, aye, cursed be his name,” Sir Tristan sighed and leaned forward. “The False King, cursed be his name, had little enough use for such arms as would defeat his aberrations, and so our shelves are largely bare. Perhaps some milite here will have men enough to aid Ter Connail, but how they will be equipped I do not know.”

“Which brings us back to the reason this Senedd was called.” Hywel said with finality. “We had scarcely enough men and arms to keep Lloegyr safe; even had the encounter at Byd Afaloen gone our way, what would we have done next? And with our defeat there, we are down to scarcely forty suits capable of full action. Our landmen are running through the equipment that has been gathered from old, and we have precious little industrial capacity that has not already been devoted. We must call for assistance.”

“It seems odd that I, a mere maiden, must remind you, Father, that asking for assistance was the destruction of our people.” Maerian wiped her lips clean of mead and dropped the empty bottle into a bin that a servant had quickly put by her side. “You speak of a defeat fastening chains, but would not your victory do the same?” Her voice was uneven, but her eyes burned with more than just the alcohol.

“What destroyed our people, Your Grace, was greed and lust for power.” Hywel could not face his Princess; he sat by her side. But he could look out at the others around the table. “The False King desired to rule all the sector and brought in pirates and raiders. He desired to live forever, so he brought in witches and alchemists. And when he had what he wanted, he disposed of his foreigners as he did our people who had helped him. Evil begat evil,and evil destroyed evil..”

“A pretty speech.” Maerian fumbled through her bag for another bottle and settled back down to drink and listen unhappily.

“So, what do you propose, Father Hywel?” This speaker was shown by his badge to be one of the ten Patricians that had been rounded up merely to serve as a quorum. Presumably a member of Hywel’s flock.

“A simple matter. We have no grand schemes in mind. No great plans for conquest. We seek only for what is right and just, and we seek only to stand on our own two feet to obtain it. We need arms, equipment, and training. Men we have enough of. Though untrained.” Hywel stroked his short white beard. “Perhaps men are needed, if only to perform the work while we prepare our own.”

“And with what shall we pay them?” Another Patrician asked, clutching at his purse.

There were few women at the table, and until now they had mostly stayed in silence. But now one spoke up. “My mercenaries are happy enough to fight for gold and some land.” Angharad was some twenty years older than the Princess, past what may have been called the first bloom of youth, but still attractive enough.

Maerian choked on the mead she’d been drinking. The bottle left unsteady fingers and fell to the ground. Or almost. A blue light caught it and it floated back up to her side as she gagged, trying to find her voice. “Me…me…” One of the servants gave her a solid slap on the back that seemed to do the trick. The Princess coughed and took a solid swig of the mead, to the disapproval of some of the Senedd and approbation of others. Finally, she turned her attention back to Angharad. “Mercenaries?”

“As I said, they were happy to fight for gold and land.” The older woman smiled at her Princess, a smile that became a little smirk. “Gold and other considerations for their leader.” Maerian did not seem amused. Angharad straightened her expression. “Gold we all have enough of. What we lack is anything to spend it on, so why not men? My agent found them, and they were quite willing to come here and protect myself, my lands and my men from anything… unpleasant.” If looks could kill, Angharad would be a little smoking pile of ashes upon her chair. Neither the Princess or many of the Milites were pleased with her creative problem solving. Some of the less glory-hungry persons around the table were, however, considering this new proposition.

Hywel coughed. “Well, of course, what you do to protect your own property is your decision. But it does suggest possibilities.”

Yrien had no beard to stroke, but he did remove his glasses and wipe them with his robes. “Gold we have plenty of, yes. If they will take it, that is a fine thing... What use is gold to the dead when those who would honor them with it have been sent to join them? And land… yes, for the taking."

“If you would like, I can have Ter Connail’s request brought to my mercenary captain. I’m sure he has colleagues…”

The bottle of mead exploded into a loud, but harmless, pop of fire. The Princess rose to her feet, her anger burning off her tipsiness. “What next? Will you sell our bodies?!” Maerian’s jaw began to open and shut in anger, the next words not quite forming in a way that could be spoken.

Angharad leaned back in her chair. “I do not live in the walls of Caer Lliw, and neither do my bondsmen. And three times I asked for more guards to ride out to Maertun, and three times I was denied. Men were needed to secure the city and patrol the roads. I never saw any men on the roads leading to Maertun, but so be it. My land is largely untenanted and insecure. I found people who would rent it and secure it for gold and land enough to live on, and I made my bargain.” The Patrician smirked again. “Had I your body, Your Grace, no doubt at least a few of them would be satisfied with that trade, but alas, I only have mine, and that was only enough to purchase one.”

The Princess looked around for something to throw, but Hywel had taken advantage of her standing to lift the bag away and have the servants dispose of the bottles of mead. Temporarily defeated, Maerian sank back into her throne and sighed. "You forget yourself."

"Do I? I mean no insult, simply a statement of fact. You are a beauty who could gain the service of many a man should you wish to make use of such tools as the Divines gave you." Maerian scoffed and turned away. "But even leaving that aside, you dwell in some security here in Caer Lliuw. Beyond the walls, we do what we must. We offer what we must. Empty land for loyal men and gold for their weapons," Her eyes twinkled. "As for my bed, should I refuse a man I want and who wants me simply because our princess is a prude? It binds their captain to me, and it is not as though it is unpleasant. Perhaps you should... "

"I think that is enough, Mistress Angharad. You have made your point, " Hywel inclined his head to his palms. "Desperation calls for desperation. Should mercenaries be willing to help us shoulder our burdens, then are they any less worthy then our own? Perhaps we should seek soldiers of fortune... At the least, there is no harm in hearing what they have to say."

"There is all the harm!" Sir Galeht shouted, slapping his hand on the table once more.

Another of the young blades rose. "Our land and our gold should be only for our people. Did you even offer such prizes to our men as you happily gave away in payment?"

"And what if I had or had not?" Angharad gave another wicked smile that grew even wider as her opponents began to catcall. "It sounds to me like it is not the land and gold you object to, but the woman." Her eyes sought out the princess again. "Have a care, your grace, some of these equestrians you surround yourself with did indeed offer their aid... And asked for more than the mercenaries."

"You sold yourself rather than give yourself away?" Maerian raised an eyebrow, her unwilling sobriety leaning on her heavily. "And you expect me to consider this praiseworthy?"

"I was not part of the deal," Angharad's voice grew cool. "Captain Gavriel thought me comely and chose to win me in the lists. Rather more than some were willing to do, who thought I would buy my safety with my body. But of course, you are the Princess. What is the word of an old woman to a chit of a woman with so much lack of experience?"

"Heavy accusations against the milites, Lady Angharad." Sir Tristran raised an eyebrow at his sputtering princess, then rested his own arm on the table. He moved aside his cloak with the other, revealing his sword. "I will be glad to hear your claims against my order at a later time, but I must ask you to retract your words against the Princess, or name a champion." When Maerian looked likely to protest, the older man scowled. "As she would hardly be expected to stand for herself, you should not do so either, your grace."

"No matter, I cheerfully apologize and withdraw my words." Angharad waved a dismissive hand. "Merely a moment of mirth overriding my propriety. I am not often present at court."

"Your apology is accepted, Miss Angharad." Maerian said after a moment, and then she inclined her own head. "As I hope you will accept mine."

"There was no question of me taking offense, Your Grace." Angharad waved her hand again.

"Perhaps now we should separate from the table and discuss what proposals we are going to bring forward." Hywel said with some relief. "I so move."

With it seconded, the Princess dismissed them to debate.

[Lliwiauyn]

It is consequently my degrading duty to serve this upstart as First
Lord of the Treasury, Lord Chief justice, Commander-in-Chief, Lord High
Admiral, Master of the Buckhounds, Groom of the Back Stairs, Archbishop of
Titipu, and Lord Mayor, both acting and elect, all rolled into one. And at a salary!
A Pooh-Bah paid for his services! I a salaried minion! But I do it! It revolts me,
but I do it! ~ Pooh-Bah, Gilbert and Sullivan's The Mikado (Original Libretto, 1885)

The King — excuse me — the False King had surrounded himself with a parody of the court of more legitimate monarchs, populated largely by his unthinking puppets. With his final destruction, many of those positions had fallen vacant. As it suited his successor to try to run the Principality as an armed camp (when she could be nailed down to run it at all), much had been left to its own devices. But even when the court and its offices were fully staffed, there were little personnel devoted to what may be termed the business of government.

To call this laissez-faire was to dignify it more than it deserved. The fact was that the gwerin had tried effective central government, decided they did not care for it, and eventually by way of compromise fell into what was effectively a textbook example of feudalism that then subsequently devolved further into mob rule by the powerful, where collective action was only ever possible when the prince could bully enough of his vassals together to overawe the remainder into either cooperation or, more likely, sullen passivity. The False King had not so much decided to rebuild ancient imperium so much as he had simply converted his Senedd into a pack of further nodding puppets, for reasons that were lost when Maerian removed his head but presumably revolved around his love of watching the great and good reduced to horribly grinning skulls.

Traditionally, a King would have had 24 officers in his court (formally, 16 for himself and 8 for his consort), the degraded remnants of the ancient imperial government, of which the princes who succeeded him would have maintained seven or eight, depending on their needs. Thus, before the False King had instituted the deddf marwolaeth, the Prince in Caer Lliw (Never of Caer Lliw) had had the following officers in his court: The Captain of the Guard, the Chaplain, the Master of the Hunt and its Beasts, the Treasurer, the Master of Ships, the Steward, and the Chamberlain. The position of Champion, once one of great importance, had fallen into abeyance in Caer Lliw as a court office and was now simply claimed as his right by the foremost milite, as we have seen.

The whole of Maerian's qualifications for rule had been stumbling upon a sword, drawing it to face her enemies, and thus being chosen by the Divine Female as her Champion, a process that had not left her with much education for her reign. And her entirely reasonable decision to spend much of her time since either at battle or in a bottle had not been conducive to education either. One of her few uses of what may be called the civil powers of her position had been to refuse to name a Captain of the Guard, presumably after hearing a bard sing the song of Queen Kerowen (in which a Captain of the Guard won his mistress's heart). In the two years since she had claimed her title, only one office had been formally named, and that only through external effort.

Elder Hywel had arrogated to himself the position of Chaplain — he had learned that no priest had been appointed to the role, and so simply turned up at the chapel one Lady's Day and led daily services for a month with an ever-increasing and ever-louder crowd until she had finally decided to both approve of the title and occasionally attend. As for the rest? Well, she had little love of hunting and Caer Lliw had few enough ships for either the sea of water or the sea of stars, and even fewer resources for assembling either. Few enough, then. But she had simply refused to be pinned down. And so Hywel had found himself supervising all the other jobs as well.

Oh, the old man had considered putting people forward, but here he had to come to terms with a rather unfortunate fact. The people his Princess was most likely to trust were those who had campaigned with her. Perhaps that was natural, but she had forever closed the one title they were suited for and there seemed little prospect at present of her changing her mind. Perhaps he could name a woman, but he had to admit to himself that he was too conservative and hidebound to suggest a woman for the role. Besides, all the few female survivors he knew of had either returned to their homes or crawled into a bottle like their captain and with rather less prospect of being dragged out. There were other roles for the men besides the one closed to them, but... no, it was impossible.

The best of them had gotten themselves killed or injured following Maerian into battle since (a fact that had not helped her alcoholism), many of the remainder had left Caer Lliw to claim the spoils of victory further afield, and those left in the city were either drunks, fools, or worse. That Sir Galeht was perhaps the best of a bad lot; status not helped by it being such a beastly small lot.

So, with some dismay, Hywel had taken command of what government there was to command. If he wanted anything done, he had to get it done himself. And, of course, he had taken the salaries attached. A man must be compensated for his work, and if one does the work of four then he should be paid for that too, however degrading it might be.

Right now what he wanted done was to bring in foreign assistance. The Princess, of course, was opposed. Vociferously and loudly opposed. He had expected that. Standing on her own two feet was vital to her; the False King’s example no doubt haunted her as much as their battle had. But even though to stand on your own two feet was a virtue, there was no harm in taking an offered hand to get there.

Besides, perhaps asking for help for her people would make it easier for his Princess to seek help for herself. Stranger things had happened.

Of course, they had to get there. He had had three motions prepared, and a fourth had come to mind. While he was sure now, after circling the room, that he had a simple majority, to override her veto would require 34 votes.

Well, there was no hope but to proceed with confidence in the Divines.

[Lliwiauyn]

The status quo is the only solution that cannot be vetoed. ~ attrib. to Clark Kerr


"On the first motion, on reaching out to foreign powers for assistance, may I ask how the persons present at this Senedd vote?" The novice pushed his glasses up his nose as he stood at the opposite side of the Princess as Father Hywel. While ordinarily standing so near to the lovely Princess would have been an honor and a pleasure, the passion that set her moving at present was incandescent fury and nothing of joy. "Your Grace?" Maerian's lips had become something of a rictus of pure rage. "Your grace, may I start the vote?" Her only response was a low growl at the back of her throat.

"I think that is an affirmation, lad." Father Hywel looked around the room. "Remember, vote honestly and truthfully." Voting honestly and truthfully, the first vote was returned as a simple majority. 26 of the 50 persons within the Senedd voted in favor of Father Hywel's motion to call upon the foreigners, with fifteen abstentions. Written down as such, with all the members of the Senedd who approved signing at the bottom, the paper made its way back to the throne, where it immediately failed.

"I veto." Maerian took some small delight in the statement, producing her red pen and drawing a dash across the entire text. Her anger seemed to relent on doing so. Her shoulders relaxed and her lips even curled upwards.

"Thank you, Your Grace." Father Hywel bowed his head. "The next motion?"

"On the second motion, on launching an investigative study on the methods and means of foreign powers in their military organization, may I ask how the persons present at this Senedd vote?"

Again, a simple majority supported the proposal, and again it was vetoed. The third motion, on hiring mercenaries, similarly failed. After that third vote, Maerian took the three papers, scribbled red across them again, then threw them into the air. "There. And now that that foolishness is over, we may continue with our real work." The Princess smiled at everyone, all light and sunshine. It lasted for a minute.

"One moment, Your Grace. There is a fourth motion." The novice flinched when Maerian rounded on him. "Don't hit me!"

Maerian glowered as if she was seriously and thoroughly considering this course of action, but then simply scowled. "And what is this fourth motion?"

"A motion has been put forward requesting that the previous votes be taken once more, on a silent vote."

[Lliwiauyn]

Some men think the earth is round, others think it flat. It is a matter capable of question. But if it is flat, will the King's command make it round? And if it is round, will the King's command flatten it? ~ A Man for All Seasons (Colombia Pictures, 1966)

"No." It was a little no, but it was heard around the room. The Senedd looked up and at the throne. The Princess met their gaze, but only for a moment. She looked up at the ceiling, and then down at her hands, which clenched into tight fists upon the ancient wood. She looked around the Senedd, seeking an implacable enemy.

“I, Your Grace.” Sir Tristran raised his hand. “Look for no other but me.”

"Do you refuse to hear the motion, Your Grace?" Father Hywel's novice had stepped out of her immediate range.

It took her several anxious minutes to answer. "This is treason," she murmured, as if in a dream.

"And why is it treason, Your Grace?" Father Hywel's voice was gentle. Soft. But inexorable. "Are you suggesting that you believe that several of the men and women around this table voted as they did from fear of you, or love of you, and not from their own convictions? Do you believe your side of the argument would not stand as close as it did if you could not influence this Senedd? That is treason, if anything is, because only a criminal act can be a treasonous one. " The Priest paused, letting his words echo around the room. "I am sure that is not what you meant."

“I… I am sure that my side is that of the right.” Maerian whispered. “We can win this war alone. We should be able to win this war alone. We must win this war alone. We must...”

“If you truly believed as you said, you would marshal facts and logic. I ask you now, Your Grace. Will you allow the silent vote?” Sir Tristran leaned forward. They waited. “Your Grace, does your opposition to the silent vote stand?” The Princess said nothing in response to this, her eyes locked on her hands. She was as still as a statue, only the quiver of her breathing showing her to be of flesh and not stone. For five minutes, there was silence. “Then the motion is accepted. Begin the vote, lad.”

The novice had retreated to the door, but slowly returned, stammering. “On the motion to proceed with a silent vote on the previous three motions, do… do we…”

"Hold, lad." The novice made a chirping sound and fled back to the door. This time he went through it. None noticed. Hywel leaned in towards Maerian. “Your Grace, may I ask you a question? And to be honest, as you would before the Divines." She flinched aside to look out the window and at the green downs outside, but still, she did not speak. This was sufficient encouragement. "You are no fool. I do not believe you believe this is a war we may win as it is. What is it you fear? Do you fear that the arrival of foreigners would endanger your people more than our defeat? Or is it that you fear that they would endanger your position among your people?" She gasped, and looked away. "Or do you simply fear that you will learn that your will cannot change the world as you would wish it? You cannot turn back the tides, or still the sun, or make our armies stronger than they are... and your weakness frightens you."

"You are over-bold, priestling!" Sir Galeht rose to his feet, one hand flying to the dagger that was his only weapon permitted within the hall. ""Our Princess should not be accused of malice, or of cowardice! An old priest who knows nothing of war and weapons should not think to comment on them!"

"I am an old priest, Sir Galeht, and I do not pretend to understand matters of war and weaponry." Hywel sat upright, letting the Princess sag in on herself. "But the question does not lie upon them. It is a question that focuses on matters of the soul, and that is my field. I speak as a spiritual father.” He stroked his beard. “And that, whelp, is one in which I do think I have some expertise. What is yours?”

“You… you… insolent old fool!” Galeht brought his fist down upon the table again, and this time it shook.

“But let me ask ask you the same question.Let me ask all of you! Do you vote, or not vote, out of conviction? Or simply because you seek your gain, and damn the nation?” Hywel rose to his feet and pointed to the roof. “I ask you now! All of you! Do you truly believe this is a war we may win? Or that the allies and enemies we do not know are greater evils than the devil we do? Are you men? Or simply dogs, who bark at that which they do not understand and simply await…”

“Be silent! Damn you to the Divines, be silent!”

“You may damn me to the Divines, Sir Galeht, but I ask you now! Do you vote out of conviction? Or do you simply believe that to vote as she believes she wants will grant you more access to her body?” Angry whispers broke out around the room, and the Princess looked sharply up as she reengaged with the world around her.

“How dare you!” Galeht roared, and his partisans around the chamber rose to join him.

“Or do you aim even higher?” In his youth, Hywel had been able to be heard across a crowded square. And even in his autumn, his voice had power that he now drew upon. “Is it enough that our world be reduced to slavery, or that we be mice scurrying around the paws of a cat, if you may rule over the ashes of our freedom, and the princess warm your bed?”

“Old man! That is more than enough!” Galeht drew his dagger and lunged across the table towards Hywel’s bared throat. His neighbors moved to grab him, but too late. The jagged edge touched flesh… and then an invisible wall of iron.

[Lliwiauyn]

"...and she held her sword, and she smiled like a knife.” ~Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman, Good Omens (Gollancz, 1990)

"That is enough." The words did not so much resound as reverberate. In the furniture, and the very bones, of the people within its range. There was the whisper of steel on linen.

Maerian was many things, but she was a woman first and foremost. It would be hard for any observer to think of her as otherwise, and not merely in form and function. Her womanhood was a positive expression, though not often in so hackneyed a sense as some may think of from that statement. She simply was female. It was hard to think of her as anything else, it was one of the axioms around which she organized her life.

This did not mean she was weak. Womanhood rarely does. A woman can be weak for the same reasons a man can be weak and in the same conditions, but one does not necessarily follow the other. Maerian was strong. Not strong like iron, which is brittle, or like a tree, which bends does not break, but as a weathered stone. Someday it will be worn away, but not today. And it would not be much fun to have it hurled directly at your skull.

Audyrn shone with blue flame along its length, the runes glowing gold. "Sir Galeht." Drunkard the Princess may have been, but her hand was steady and the sword that was in it did not move in any direction. Her voice was smooth, but it was the smoothness of an ocean that could, at any moment, swallow a ship into the deepest of depths. "Drop it." A fool would have, perhaps, argued. Galeht was no fool. He dropped his dagger, letting it fall to the round table. "Sit down." The words were addressed to him, but everyone was quick to obey. "That is twice now that you have offered violence to a servant of the Divines in my presence, and twice now that you have lain hands on one. What have you to say?"

"...I am no dog, to take a kick from a man and not bite back, be he priest or not." But he raised his hands to show they were empty of weapon now.

"And you should not." Maerian agreed, after a moment. Her eyes, more tired than those of a maiden should be, moved to Hywel. "Father, twice now you have insulted a man and twice now you needed protection from the consequences. Are you a bard whose payment was late in coming, or a servant of the Divines? Or is it that you gamble with your life?"

"I offer no apologies for speaking the truth. Truth need not be beautiful, only true." Hywel produced a thin pair of glasses and placed them on his nose. "That is what this chamber is for. To speak the truth. Whether of a man, or a woman... or a dog."

This was too much for Sir Galeht. "He insults me a third time, and you as well, if you mark his earlier words!"

"The truth as you see it." Maerian's voice was still the sea, but the waves were beginning to rise. "Or are you a prophet as well as a priest?"

"The truth as I see it, Your Grace."

"...then hear this truth." Maerian's eyes glinted like steel. "I warm no man's bed, not now and not ever. And I give no man my body and will let no man take it." She looked around the room, impressing her will. "The next person to speak of me, whether they bear blade or not, as if I am for sale or rent will be speaking insult. And I will take my satisfaction. Does anyone have anything else to say on the subject?" The Senedd remained silent. Satisfied, she returned her sword to its sheathe. "...there will be no silent vote."

:"As you say, Your Grace." Sir Tristran inclined his head. He had remained sitting the entire time, and silent as well. "That is your right, as it is your right to defend yourself from insult. But it is my right to ask why my motion was rejected."

"Because..." The Princess slowly fell back into her throne. "Because it is true. I am afraid." There was a loud outbreak of whispers as neighbor spoke to neighbor. "I cannot turn back the tide, and I cannot still the sun, and I cannot win this war, and even if I and every other woman among us bore a dozen sons there would not be time enough to raise them, and there are not weapons enough to arm them. I fear the future. Aye, I fear either future, but face enemies that know neither fear nor dissent, and I fear them a thousand times more than I fear the enemies and friends we do not know, because they could only be as terrible as our foes and no more. Go, Father Hywel. Milites, fathers, patricians. Write your letters. Hire your mercenaries."

[Lliwiauyn]

And I will let the dead leave
And the dead will roam the earth
And the dead shall eat the living.
The dead will overwhelm all the living ~ The Epic of Gilgamesh, trans.

Retaliation had been slower, and weaker, than the people of Lloegyr had feared. The gray hordes had not swarmed about the surface of the world, tearing apart the Lliwgwerin who had dared to be free and casting the few survivors into fresh-forged chains.

The giants had landed at Faenllydd, not far from the site where their King had been destroyed, and set out towards Caer Lliw. In the way of their kind, they had ignored the defensive batteries taking chunks out of them and destroying some. In the way of their kind, their path drew the beasts plaguing the countryside into their train. Fortunately, there were comparatively few of those in the lands around the fortress. When the Princess rode forth in her suit accompanied by the milites and their footmen, the battle was short and, mercifully, only a scant few among the infantry had been slain.

The toll was harsher among the civilians, even though the sirens had sounded. Two shelters were found in the aftermath to have been pried open, and their interior walls were covered with blood. Even in the scant six hours when they had transformed from a roaming threat to a swarming menace, fields and farms and houses had been torn down by the furious work of many hands… or the simple brute rage of a giant.

It was little consolation to the dead, or to the impoverished living, that the hounds had not moon-howled at the hunt and the wind had not spoken of the passing of darker beasts. It is hard to see the positive in the rubble of your old life.

But it was positive, or so the word was. Just as there were no hunting hounds, there were no hunters. The gray horde was an enemy that could be faced and destroyed by mortals, with mortal weapons. The initial terror of their presence was nothing to a population hardened by a catalog of terrors. The message went out from Caer Lliw: "Mourn the lost, rebuild, and seek the enemy wherever they were hiding."


It probably meant nothing that the appeal to those beyond the sector went out the very next night.

[Lliwiauyn]

He jests at scars that never felt a wound ~Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare


“No.” Despite their hopes, Maerian had not become more willing as the fateful hour approached. Her cooperation had been less than full-hearted, though she had cooperated. Unfortunately, that train…

Well, trains don’t necessarily stop when they run into a brick wall. Trains are very fast and very heavy and while a brick wall can be strong and resilient, normally the collision between the two is bad for the brick wall. Instead, that train had leapt the tracks and gone off the bridge, then fell deep into the water, and then exploded.

The dress was a sticking point.

As a bard, she had worn beautiful outfits. Many of them framed and displayed her charms in a way that had helped her make a living without selling them. And many a man had joined the army of liberation because he’d stopped to hear what a pretty girl was saying. Or singing, as the case may be.

But that was a previous life. It may have been quite a number of lives ago. When you died as often as she had, the deaths blurred together.

As a Princess, Maerian was chaste, almost austere Her necklines rarely dipped below her neck; while her body’s form could not be comfortably disguised, it was scarcely on display. Not even the most ascetic of religious houses would have complained of the dress of the ceremonial head of their church.

This dress, with its plunging cleavage and its tight frame (to say nothing of the slits up to the thigh) did not satisfy her.

“But you look fantastic, your grace. I barely even notice the scars!” The word slipped from the maid’s lips without any thought until too late, and the girl wished it back immediately, flinching as if the Princess had struck her when the woman rounded on her with a scowl that could wither flowers. The other maids leaned away from what they feared would be a violent, if not fatal, outburst.

“I’m going to…”

Fortunately, the housekeeper walked in at that moment, for all the world as if she had simply been coming to ask a question. Which was absurd, of course. She had been standing outside for fifteen minutes on the off-chance she would be needed. “Eiluned, go to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Tanwen you are on scullery duty for the remainder of the week.”

“Yes, Mrs. Eira. Thank you, Miss Eira.” Eiluned ran to the door. The palace did not have a particularly large staff, being outfitted with all the modern conveniences, but someone still had to use the modern conveniences. And while scullery duty was far from the backbreaking work it would have been in the old days, it was still tiring and laborious. But it was a fair sight better than whatever the Princess had been planning to do.

“With a paycut to match, mind you,” Maerian said, feeling as if the wind had been taken from her sails.

“Of course, Your Grace. I’ll have the household accounts brought to Mr. Garth this evening,” Miss Eira said this soothingly as she subtly placed herself between the fleeing Eiluned and the Princess.

Both satisfied and confused, Maerian turned to the other maids. “The rest of you, get this off of me or I will get it off myself. I am a Princess, of the line of Gwendolen and Baladr.” Her hands traveled to the already straining bodice, threatening to tear the fabric sufficient to allow her to escape. “Not some…”

Miss Eira was there in a twinkling. She didn’t quite slap the Princess’s hands like she would a naughty child “Aeron, Caryn, help our lady get that dress off.”

“Yes, Mrs. Eira.”

“Yes, Mrs. Eira.”

The Princess lifted her arms as the two girls dealt with the garment’s zipper and peeled it off her body. She sighed in relief once she was nude, then looked at herself in the mirror. A hand gently traced the thick lines of scar tissue that traced over her chest and neck. In the mirror she could see the rest of the marks on her body and face. She was proud of the fact that there were so few of them on her back.

Normally, she was proud. “Someone else will perform this role for me.”

“Your Grace?” Eira took the dress from the girls, folded it, and placed it properly in its box, then gave the box to Caryn, all in the time it took her to say those two words. Uncertainly, Caryn held the box while waiting for decisions to be made.

“If this is to be done, and it must be done by a woman, and that woman has to wear something like that, then they will have to find a different woman.” The Princess’s voice began to rise “I will not stand before the galaxy a victim, and I will not be laughed at for my scars.” The last words were almost shouted.

“My lady.” It was all Eira had to say, though it was sufficient for purposes. Maerian looked somewhat abashedly at the floor. “Why don’t we do something else for the time being,” Eira said this in the same tones she would have used to speak with her recalcitrant toddler and like her recalcitrant toddler back in the day, Maerian calmed. “Throw your nightdress on, and I’ll have the girls go and boil some tea.”

“Tea would be lovely, Mrs. Eira.” Maerian slipped into the cotton nightdress and sighed again as she fell back into her overstuffed chair.

“Very good, Your Grace.” Eira took the maids outside and gave them very specific instructions.

~

“Mae, what are you doing?!”

A sector that had been at low-key war for centuries and under the thumb of an undead monster for decades was not, of course, necessarily one where the entire population had been brutalized into cattle. Cattle do not tend to be good at all the things that soldiers, or undead monsters, need done. The False King had wanted to be the King of his people, not merely over ambulatory corpses, and there would have been little sense in keeping them alive had the distinction between the two been only one of degrees.

Maerian had been a bard, having studied at the Eisteddfod of Yns Afal alongside other fortunate students. The Church had persisted, with some ‘suggestions’ as to liturgical changes, and a few more forceful personnel changes. And once the futility of resistance had been demonstrated the military and merchant classes had been allowed to get on with things with only occasional cullings, pour encourager les autres.

Blodwen ferch Hywel was a somewhat typical product of the finishing schools for the daughters of the patricians. A very successful product, in fact, owing in no small way to her natural talents. She was quite pretty, in the way a painting was, effortlessly pleasant to keep around, and quite charming. She also had little desire or interest in anything beyond someday being the wife of some rich man’s son and eventually the mother of more rich men. She was, effectively, a polished mirror, reflecting brightly at the world but only an inch deep at the outside.

She was also Maerian’s closest friend, for reasons that Maerian wasn’t entirely sure of but presumed had something to do with Blodwen being both too cheerfully oblivious to notice when someone was responding to her presence with hostility and too kind for most people to maintain that hostility for long.

“Drinking tea, Blodwen. What does it look like I’m doing?” Maerian raised the teacup with a smile that only owed some of its geniality to the tea being heavily spiked. Not that Mrs. Eira would ever have done so; Maerian was more than capable of pouring her own whiskey into her own tea, and had done so when the Housekeeper had left to let Blodwen into the apartments.

Blodwen sat across from Maerian. As she did so she, absentmindedly knocked the bottle of whisky over. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mae!! Let me get that for you!!” Blodwen grabbed the bottle before her friend could get to it, then moved it to her side of the table. “No, silly!! Why did you decide not to wear that dress?! I picked it out specially for you!!”

“Oh. Didn’t like it.” Maerian sulked back into her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m not wearing that dress. It makes me look like a prostitute.”

“No it doesn’t!! It’s the latest style!! And it was in your colour!!” Blodwen leaned forward. Somehow, in this process, the bottle of whisky ended up in her purse. Equally mysteriously, its contents ended up in the river later that night. “You’d look lovely, I know it!! Thank the Divines that I got here in time!! You’re meant to go on tonight, or did you forget?!”

“Nah, not going to do that, either. They can get someone else.” Maerian lifted her teacup, then put it back on its saucer. “Why don’t you? You’re pretty enough.”

“Don’t be silly, Mae!! It has to be you!! You agreed, remember?!” Blodwen poured her own cup of tea, then added her own cream, lemon and sugar in perfect proportions. “What would Father Hywel say if you backed down?!” Cautiously she sipped, then smiled around the lip of the cup when she determined that the Princess had spiked her cup directly, and not the kettle. With equanimity, she then poured her friend her own cup of tea and sat there smiling until her friend took it.

“Did he approve of that dress?” Maerian scowled at being cornered, but did take her tea. “Mmm…” Even without whisky, the princess was prepared to admit that tea was good.

“Well… not as such,” Blodwen admitted, her usual pep momentarily taking a downturn, “but Sir Galeht agreed with me!! And I’m sure he’s seen lots of women in dresses…”

“He didn’t see me in it.” The other girl said, more depressed than outraged, much less amused.

“Well, neither have I, so you’re just going to have to get dressed again!! Whatever the problem is, don’t you think we can work with it?!”

“Mmm.”

“Not a no!! Mrs. Eira!!”

~

“I hate this dress.” Maerian crossed her arms again, noticed the effect it had, and dropped them helplessly by her side. “I feel like I’m about to pop right out of it!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!! This is all the style this year, and that hardly ever happens!!” Blodwen walked around the princess. “I was right!! See, Mrs.Eira?! Green is her colour!!”

“Yes, Miss Blodwen.” The older woman clicked her lips thoughtfully, ignoring the younger one’s cheerful small talk in the way that most people who had to deal with her for a while learned.. “We can use some tape, Your Grace. You’ll hardly notice, except to feel more comfortable about not slipping out. Shouldn’t be needing too much.”

“There, see, Mae?!” Blodwen again did a circuit of her friend. “You’ll be fine!! You know, my mum is always telling me to stand up straight like you!! It really helps you look tidy!! Don’t you think everyone is going to say she looks tidy, Mrs. Eira?!”

“I don’t look tidy!” Maerian wailed. “I look a right mess, Blodwen, and you know it. I’m all chopped up!”

“Well, it’s not like…” Blodwen hesitated. At the back of her mind, some reptilian instinct for survival clamped down on her tongue and gave her a moment more to think it through. Even though it was unused to the exercise, her brain did go to work. “Tis to say, it’s not so bad as all that, is it Mrs. Eira?!”

Eira gave the problem more thought than her lady’s friend. The thing was, Maerian wasn’t wrong. The Princess had been through the wars, and that had left distinct traces on her otherwise lovely body. The worst torso damage wasn’t visible in polite company; wasn’t visible in most impolite company, for that matter. But the violent crisscross of scars did extend up to her collar at several points, marring what the housekeeper had always called the decolletage.

She didn’t think it would matter all that much to a man who had the good fortune to come to grips, so to speak, with Her Grace. But she didn’t think that would be much comfort to the Princess, who had only passing interest in such matters. And she had far more experience than the pair of them. “I wouldn’t say that, Miss Blodwen. I wouldn’t say that at all. ‘Tis fairly bad, even if ‘tis not the worst of it.”

“What?!” Blodwen almost shrieked in surprise.

Maerian swayed as if struck, and keened as if wounded again.

“Now, now, hold your tongues, the pair of you. Begging your pardon, Your Grace.” Eira considered the matter some more. “What is it you’re fearing, Your Grace? That they think your scars be making you less of a woman, or that they be thinking your scars are ugly?”

The Princess opened her mouth to speak, then shut it. Then opened it again. “The… “

“There’s not much to be done about those who think that the only fit skin for a woman to wear is one that’s unmarked.” Eira took a few steps from side to side. “Sure, and it would be nice if all the divine’s daughters were as smooth as Miss Blodwen here, begging your pardon, Miss Blodwen.”

Blodwen momentarily thought about how fortunate she was that her blessings included such perfect skin, but that much self-reflection proved quickly taxing for her. Instead, she kept smiling.

“Now, your grace, we can be handling this in two ways. We can be covering your scars up with cosmetics and whatnot, or you can be wearing them proudly, and begging your pardon for me saying so, but until today you always have been wearing them proudly.”

“I’m not often putting myself on display like this!” Maerian indicated the dress and the expanse of bare flesh within it in one simple gesture.

“Well, and we can fix that. I’ll have the girls bring us up a few things, and we’ll see what we can do. Right, Miss Blodwen?”

“Err… right, Mrs. Eira!”

[Lliwiauyn]

(Sequel: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=519261)