Roses in the Snow [Winter Ball|Intrigue] (IC|APPLY)

[Carameon]

OOC and Applications | Theme | Lore

❄Roses in the Snow❄
A Winter Ball.

Roses in the snow. Two inherently beautiful things, combining in what would appear as ugly as an open wound. Different interests and intrigues dance within the court of the Ares Winter Palace at Kasvenborg this Christmas night like the petals of a rose within a snowstorm. The Kingdom of Vinland has grown increasingly distant from its traditional ally, Huiniland, and so Queen Tekakwitha has arranged a marriage between herself and the young King Andor of Vinland. But has she even considered the feelings of her son Shenandoah, who would soon have a stepfather that was a year younger than himself? Foreign interests seeking to widen the gap between Vinland and Huiniland have also joined the dance floor with intentions less than noble. The court runs rife with intrigue, dancing within this winter ball like rose petals in a snowstorm. Which rose will you dance with tonight?

6:00 PM, Ares Winter Palace, Kasvenborg, Lake Ontario, Huiniland

---

Gushing like wine from a bottle, a stream of water flowed from the mouth of the fountain. A blood red carpet was laid across the snow covered path like a long cut wound before the entrance to the Ares Winter Palace. Crowds and press gathered outside eager with inquiries and buzzing with questions like an enraged hive that had been thrown into chaos by the death of a single bee.

The winter was almost as cold as death, but Queen Tekakwitha nevertheless endured as she always has, standing by the palace doorway with a great big fake smile. She was tall for a woman of Haudenosaunee descent, and wore a long white western dress under a coat of red fur. Her eyes shined like shards of broken glass, and she had skin the color of wine.

Onlookers from the crowd called and waved to her, admirers calling out and whistling to the middle-aged woman, whose truly greatest concern at that moment was her legacy. If she did not act to keep Vinland from drifting away from Huini and towards the side of Atlantis, then the imperial ambitions of Huini would be significantly hindered; ambitions that if left unfulfilled, would leave her as little more than a single white in a snow covered valley- Insignificant, only remembered for being a queen rather than a king. No- She had to make this work. She had to be a red rose in the snow.

But as she saw the ball for a brilliant maneuver, another saw it with complete and utter disdain, wishing not more than to smash a bottle of wine across its head until it died. Not much taller than his mother and short for a man, Crown Prince Shenandoah watched from behind the curtain, his eyes sneering towards each royal guest as he sipped upon another glass of wine. An illusion of fake smiles and baseless flattery. How he would love to violently chase them out as one does with a swarm of cockroaches, and smash the illusion to pieces for all to see.

He stared at the glass of wine, and he took another look at the bottle. He lifted the bottle for a moment, tipping it over to pour some into the glass- Then he stopped, pausing for a moment. He drank the glass, and then stared into the bottle for a longer more solemn moment.

The crowd outside the palace simmered and boiled with excitement, and cameras flashed relentlessly as a limousine rolled up into the driveway bearing the Nordic cross flag of the Kingdom of Vinland. The door opened, and out came a tall young man- Nineteen years of age, no older than Shenandoah himself. Upon his face with skin as white as a corpse and hair as red as blood, was a bright eager smile for the future. King Andor of Vinland walked across the carpet, cameras flashing all the way and capturing his bright smile as he walked over to Queen Tekakwitha and went on his knees, took her hand and planted his lips upon it.

Shenandoah boiled and seethed with rage as he watched from the dark unlit room behind the curtain, his hand gripping the bottle of wine so hard that it broke- Soiling his clothes and staining the floor. He continued to glare at Andor without his knowledge, even as he stood up and kissed his mother's cheeks. The crowds screamed with excitement and enthusiasm, knowing well that a marriage had been arranged between the widowed queen and the young king.

Another car followed soon after, this time bearing the flag of the High Kingdom of Britannia. The car door opened, and out came Riderch of Eburacon. He was a man of average height, shorter than the tall Nordic king Andor but not so short that he stood out as short. He had a long face and long brown hair, with eyes as gray as the smoke of a gun. Despite being King of Eburacon and the most powerful magnate under High King Gruffudd VI, not as much people paid him any attention.

Nobody knew whom he had greeted, but Riderch seemed to have placed his hand on his chest and nodded in the direction of an unlit room in the palace. Many brushed it off, but Shenandoah raised a brow as he looked on to the man with a different kind of emotion in his heart other than hate. His face was flustered, as he waved back from behind the curtain and saw Riderch smile and wave back. Shenandoah felt his face grew hot as his heart bounced like a pony, before a smile overtook his inebriated face.

Another car entered the driveway., flying the flags of the Kingdom of Sweden The door opened, and out came a young man of about twenty eight years of age. He barely had a chin, and was almost growing a second one upon his hairless young face. His red clothes almost blended in with the carpet, as he avoided the cameras as he hurried on nervously to the entrance. Despite this aversion to attention, Shenandoah could swear he heard a boo from somewhere among the crowd. Shy, unpopular, and fat- This had to be King Christopher.

The crowds suddenly screamed and cheered with excitement, and cameras began to flash at an unhinged rate. Another car rolled up into the driveway, and as the door opened- A massive old man bearing a scar on his face was accompanied by a nervously skittish young woman who held his hand. Vinnish Prince Grimmur's wavy golden hair and beard were upon his shoulders like a lion's mane, as his giant herculean image strolled across the carpet with his wife Empress Tiberia of Atlantis.

Tiberia was a small woman with a swarthy complexion and dark hair. She tried to hide her face, shying away from the attention, but Grimmur whispered over her ear as if giving her a kiss for all the crowds to see.

"Smile."

Reluctantly, she shook off her anxiety. She put on a smile, waving at the crowds as they passed. She breathed heavily, but tried to relax as she saw all around her- People who would not live, and have never truly lived; except that they lived a false life with no intrinsic value.

Another car rolled up into the driveway. No flag this time, simply a logo. "Hiraqli International," and out came a tall middle aged man of a swarthy complexion and dark styled hair. He wore a crisp cold black suit, under which was a tyrian purple shirt and a golden tie, much like the expensive luxurious colors that a Roman emperor would have worn. Despite the winter cold and despite being far from the Mediterranean climate of Rumislav, he wore no coat as if he felt completely at home in the freezing cold. Past his nose which was as sharp as a beak, his cat-like eyes scanned the entire area like a falcon searching for its prey, and his lips curled into a thin smile- Perhaps, the only true smile within the crowd that day.

His hands behind his back, Farac walked upon the red carpet proud, tall, and with a devilish grin. He watched all around him, and saw as Prince Grimmur watched with disdain glaring as his young nephew flirted with another sovereign. Farac chuckled under his breath, knowing that Grimmur was skipped from the succession of the throne of Vinland in favor of his older brother's young grandson. He watched as Andor and Tekakwitha flirted with one another, hoping to solidify lasting peace and solidarity between their two nations, and so he raised a brow alongside his grin. He looked to the window, watching the gap between closed curtains, as Shenandoah had turned away disinterested from everything and drunk before the night had even started.

Farac's smile grew even wider. All the pieces were now in place.

[August Imperium]

The procession of litters slowly hobbled along through the snow, the leaves crinkling softly under the orderly feet of hunched-back slaves and iron-clad soldiers. At the front was a large carriage, with golden arches and huge oak wheels, driven by two majestic stallions and filled with golden coins- so many that they were spilling out onto the road, even at the slow pace that they were moving. For the main attraction, the centrepiece of this huge procession, was Tiberius's litter- a huge box painted over with gold, and filled with plush red pillows and food. Sitting on the side of the litter was Servius Hostilius Figulus, the Legate of the Emperor and the man sent to keep the adventurous Tiberius in check. He looked slightly embarassed, and for good reason- the young, inexperienced and disinterested Tiberius was hardly the best choice to send to such a high-profile event, even if he was the heir to the Aquilian dynasty. Still, at least a retinue of courtiers and diplomats were there to make sure he didn't mess up completely.

As they neared the Ares Palace, Servius turned around. "So, Your Highness, do you know your role?"

Tiberius looked at him slightly quizzingly. "Yes, Servius, it's to suck up to the Queen and her family, and do whatever they want to get that marriage."

"It's to do whatever I want to get that marriage." Servius replied, and sighed. Tiberius could have become a prominent and capable diplomat in the realm, even a competent politician- but he preferred to live the life of an heir to the throne. Servius dreaded what would happen to the monarchy when he became Emperor. That wasn't his job though- this was Servius's last engagement. After this, he would retire, after 40 years in the service of the Imperium.

When they reached the Palace, Servius adjusted his tie and cuffs, checked his wristwatch, and got down from the side of the litter. Tiberius, meanwhile, huffed and nearly rolled off the side, but somehow managed to get up alright and walk over to join Servius, dishevelled and a mess. His navy blue suit, made from the dye of rare sea snails only found around the coast of the Sosmonian Isles, was wrinkled and stained, while his top hat- only brought at the insistence of the Emperor's Master of the Wardrobe- was in his hand, flattened. Behind him some assorted courtiers followed him, and no doubt horrified at the sight of Tiberius, discreetly tried to cover their master while not getting in the way. It was a comical sight.

Journalists and state propagandists suddenly appeared, taking as many pictures as possible of the Imperial officials, and managed to get some good shots of Tiberius- after his clothes had been ironed out quickly. Tiberius himself was unnerved by all this, and stared at the Palace walls. It was about the same size as the Imperial Palace in Clupea, he thought, although the architecture was certainly better- classical architecture had fallen out of fashion, apparently, everywhere but in the Imperium. He turned to his side, and realised that there was no aide ready; they had all hurried ahead and were shaking hands with other guests as they arrived. He was on his own now.

Realising that he was walking so slowly that even the cameramen were walking away, he quickened his pace, ignoring the crowd of spectators and paparazzi and reached the front door, where Servius was waiting. Tiberius sighed, and turned around to face the evening sky, and the shimmering lake below. He took in the majestic view, then turned back to Servius.

"Are you ready, Your Highness?" the Legate said quietly, his eyes glistening.

Tiberius took in a deep breath. Now, he thought, he had to actually do something. He needed to walk away with an alliance- or nothing.

"Yes, Servius," he said, a little less confident than normal.

With nothing more to do, he nodded, if only to reassure himself, and walked in. The night had begun.

[Carameon]

Snip.

A wind as cold as the kiss of death blew across the court past Tiberius by a few inches, causing Andor and Tekakwitha to visibly shiver and blowing rose petals from the garden into the snow around them like blood upon a marble floor. Cameras flashed a relentless fury of blinding lights into Tiberius's eyes, almost as disorienting as the lights on the ceiling above a surgical table. Paparazzi raged and screamed with inquires as if struggling for their lives.

Tiberius would have climbed upon the steps of the palatial porch, finding himself mere feet away from his target- The fifty one year old Queen Tekakwitha. Despite her age, she was strong and lively, flirting with a man who was just as young as her own son. Her long white western dress of silk was barely suited for the cold weather, as he could see her shivering like a corpse, and perhaps she'd almost look like a corpse to him. Middle aged, with graying hair and rapidly advancing wrinkles covered by a heavy layer of makeup like those applied to corpses to appear more dignified at funerals; the red fur coat upon the white dress even resembled the color scheme of an open wound, with a violent passionate color like red tainting a pure and clean color like white.

"May I help you?" Andor asked the older man.

The much younger man, practically a teenager, looked upon Tiberius with a tight smile as he held the Queen's hand. His tone was enthusiastic, almost happy- But something about it, seemed false. One couldn't quite put the words together, but it was as if Andor was an actor in a play wearing a masquerade. His pale white skin and red blood hair made him look like a tall glass of wine, smiling with enthusiasm and seducing one to drink from their cup.

Tekakwitha exhaled, and walked past Andor, offering her hand to Tiberius, "Oh please Andor, don't be so rude to the other guests! My apologies, my fiancee can get a bit jealous. You must be Tiberius. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm as you may know, Queen Tekakwitha Kahswenha, sovereign of Huiniland. Merry Christmas!"

[The Selkie]

Fiona Lách of the Tribe of Cork.
Local Date: 24th of December 1444. Own Reference Date: 24th December 1976.
Approaching Ares Palace, Kasvenborg, Lake Ontario, Huiniland.
Traditionally, Selkie didn't do balls.
We had our festivals, our parties and our social gatherings, yes, but a ball like I was about to experience, was not our thing. It was also a thing we traditionally associated with royalty, like the Kyrenaians or with Huiniland. From the former, I knew, what I was getting into (and my Mam had organized an etiquette teacher from there when I was little), the latter was the host.
Or rather, the local queen was.
Queen Tekakwitha, a widow, who's ambitions were larger then just her own country.
For me, a manufacturer of tractors and agricultural machines, there were certainly less interesting conversation partners. For my travelling companion, though...
I knew Celina Mangaire of the Tribe of Wexford, or Cel, for years now. Despite being three years my senior, she had been assigned to the same dorm at the Iris and we had lived close to one another while at the UoL, had moved through many of the same circles.
Agricultural Economics and International Economics were in the same building.
The two of us had decided, in the light of the weather and its snow, for a rather interesting approach: After being phased out with the military a few years ago, and quite a bit before that, the Gabha Motorworks G 2 Cuachanach Half-Track was a powerful, little off-road and utility vehicle. Sure, many had found a home in forestry and other heavy work, but some had reached Tankery Teams, like the Iris Boarding School Sensha-Do Team, and private collectors, like Cel. Her G 2 had been rebuilt as a half-tracked limousine, with side doors, a minibar and comfortable plush sofas.
I reclined on the vehicle's starboard side.
Our homecountry, the Free Lands of the Selkie, were going through a severe economic crisis. We had waited for the big collapse ever since the end of the Kyrenaian Decolonization Wars, where we literally sold arms, equipment, food and especially ships to both sides, tried to bridge the inevitable end of the Kyrenaian Colonial Empire with a semi-colonial venture of our own, the Humanitarian Mission of the SDF to Kupandukira, but four years ago, in 1972, things had gone downhill in a hand basket. Crop failure in the Trossach and the Mór-Land as in the night of the 23rd of May 1972 a severe storm ravaged the land.
No famine, as we had stocks a-plenty, but the crop, especially wheat and barley, had been destroyed. That came at the same time as the Siuneir Shipbuilding Company of Wembury announced their insolvency. The largest shipbuilder in the Free Lands, with thirty thousand employees all over the country, was broke.
And it went down hill from there.
Bad harvests in 1973 and 1974.
Unrest in 1975. APCs of the SDF-Army aiming autocannons at protestors in Cuan. The Giomanra in Seabhcóir rising up. Youth rebellion.
Unemployment well above 20 percent.
The Elder Council and their government had begun to work in earnest, had since 1974, but the reforms were slowly coming. Land reforms, subsidiary programs, the list went on for a while.
In every prognosis I knew, 1976 was looking better.
And personally, it looked better, too: Thanks to Cel, who was good friends with the Banphrionsa-Family, I had gotten in touch with the Gluaisrothar-Family (which was actually a branch of the Banphrionsas, but that was another story). My own family, the Láchs, and the Banphrionsas, were two of the eight Big Ten Families of the Free Lands, the closest we had to royalty. Land owners, industrialists, we owned more then we owed.
And getting in touch from one family to the other, as we competed, was not as easy as it sounded.
So, when I had approached the Gluaisrothar-Family with a business proposal in 1973, Nuada had humoured me. Much like the Gluaisrothar-Family was a branch line, so was I, only that mine had not yet made a name for itself. And humoured me he did, before he had become interested in what I had to say, then had begun to invest time, money and personell into the young, spunky businesswoman, who had a simple idea: Agriculture in the Free Lands was dominated by small-plot agriculture and gigantic agricultural industrial farms and ranches (I knew especially the latter, I had grown up on one). Said small farms suffered from a number of issues, one of them were massive production costs, which came from the traditional ways of doing agriculture, with horses or even by hand entirely.
I aimed to change that.
A small, cheap tractor, simple to use and maintain, ideal for said small farms. I only needed an engineer capable enough and an engine: The LTM-1 Fiugil Light Tracked Tractor had gone into serial production last year and when the Farmer Loans Program, special loans by the Elder Council to farmers wishing to reform their production, to move to larger fields, to improve, had been started this year, my little tractor had explicitly been on the list of subsided machines.
Business went well, but that did not mean, that it would always go well.
So, enlarging the business was the name of the game.
Export, factories abroad, additional production, additional feeders, the whole nine yards – one of the reasons why I was here and attending a ball. The local agricultural sector might be able to see, or made to see, the advantages in my machines, not only the LTM-1, but also the more powerful LTM-2 or the other planned machines.
Or maybe use my contacts to Gabha Motorworks.
Maybe more suitable for the political macro weather situation was Cel.
Celina Mangaire of the Tribe of Wexford was the daughter and company heiress of the founder of the Mangaire Dealership Company Limited. Founded in 1970, the company was and is an arms dealing company. They bought surpluses from former conflict zones and sold them to whoever wanted to buy them for a decent price.
Recently, Mangaire acquired huge stocks of remnants of the Kyrenaian Decolonization Wars and sought buyers.
And while that was a profitable business, Mangaire's main attraction were not the surplus tanks and howitzers, but that they were the not-completely-legal front of Gabha Blacksmiths, one of the major arms manufacturers of the Free Lands, selling the products of the Traverse-born ancient arms manufacturer to the customers, which the Government of the Free Lands or Gabha themselves didn't want to be seen directly, so that Eoin Banphrionsa, the CEO, could pretend to have a clean shirt.
Cel, while a good woman, was a remorseless businesswoman.
She had been part of the initial company, joined in 1970, aged 25, and had bought and sold arms and equipment worth millions upon millions of NSD – and had, of course, been shown the fruits of her labour.
There was a photograph of her being next to some tinpot dictator, who led her through inspecting a battalion of child soldiers. When I had first seen it, I had not been surprised by the dispassionate disinterest, with which she had viewed the formation, some of the children shorter then their bloody rifles, R-15s from old SDF-Army and Giomanra Stocks.
One could now presume, that she was a socially awkward merchant of death, but I knew her as a funny, witty young woman with a passion for tanks.
There was a reason, why she had not only gotten a G 2, but also had it rebuilt as an APC-Limousine to drive whenever she was visiting places. At the Iris, she had been with the Tankery Team. At the UoL, she had worked towards setting up a team – unsuccessfully, but time would prove her wise, I knew it.
We were both dressed traditionally.
For Selkie, that meant the Geansai, an outfit, which would become synonymous with our people over time, especially the female version of it: The female version emphasized the figure quite a bit, it started with what we termed the sleeves, a bit of cloth covering the upper arms, connected by a cloak-like fur piece over the upper back. It was closed by a series of straps over the collarbone. The chest was covered by the holder, which held the 'argumentation amplifiers', a bandeau of fur, which was neither stuffed nor padded, but which also was not connected to any other part of the Geansai, closed by a pair of straps on the back, covered by the fur-piece. Then came a lot of skin, until the upper end of the skirt and the belt came up, around the hips. The belt carried a number of utility pouches, basically a worn handbag, while the skirt itself was cut up to the hip on the left, down to the knee on the right, 'short', as we said, and 'getting shorter' being a sign of being an adult.
Added to that were the Bróg, the 'boots', if one wanted to call them that. A sole of hard leather, bound to the foot by three straps, plus a strap around the ankle with a piece of cloth fitted to it, making it into a boot's upper.
Now, the colour of the dress was not completely up to oneself. There were colour codes for the various Tribes, specific design details and so on – the Cults, the organizations of worship for the six Gods of our Main Pantheon, plus a hand full of other, smaller Cults, had gotten in on that action. I, as a Cork, was allowed to wear the Orange and Dark Blue, but I was also a Servant, a laywoman to one of the Cults, specifically, the Cult of Rhiannon.
That meant, that I was allowed to wear all pieces in white, the White of the Goddess of Horses and Fertility. And I did.
As a redhead, with long, red hair reaching well past my rear end, held in check by a silver hairpin, with quite a lot to fill the holder with, I was cutting quite the figure in Geansai – maybe exotic by their standards? Maybe barbaric?
Exotic by my standards was Cel's dress.
She, too, wore Geansai, yes, of her own Tribe, the Tribe of Wexford, one of the Lost Tribes. That meant, in her case, that you can forget the entire piece above. Her Geansai was made of fish leather, in its natural colours, which was a bit ironic when one considered that the ancestral lands of the Tribe were the Silver Mountains.
Either way, her skirt was made of fish leather strips hanging from a belt, slightly overlapping, but giving her an exotic sway to her hips, while her belt itself was studded with silver inlays. Above, she wore a halterneck bustier, also of fish leather, reinforced like some sort of light armour (which it once has been, for the legendary Mountain Archer Maidens, many, many generations ago). That had the pleasant side effect of holding her 'argumentation amplifiers' quite well, too. She was not shoulderless, though, on the right shoulder, she wore a pauldron, an intricate pattern of silver lines decorating the piece, inlaid into the leather. A vambrace on the same arm completed her.
We wore only little jewelry, a small ruby inlaid into gold on a necklace rested on my collarbone, the hairpin in my hair, while Cel wore a choker with a little diamond inlaid into silver around her neck.
Now, we were well aware of the temperatures outside, the snow was a dead giveaway, and we were going stomach free, but many, many generations ago, our people invented a viable countermeasure, which had many names, but for us, it was simply: Uisce Beatha, the Water of Life.
Foreigners liked to call it whiskey.
The dark amber liquid, Cel had chosen a Briach Reserve, matured for fifteen years in barrels made of Great Woods Oak, made of barley, a triple distilled single pot still, had a spicy bristle and a thick texture. It burned.
Neither of us were lightweights, but we also weren't combat drinking.
It served as a basis and as a means to warm us up.
The local situation, as Cel and I both knew, was interesting. The Government of the Free Lands, officially too tied up in their own affairs, had little interest, but the Merchant Guild of Leuda had given us a few pointers. We were in Huiniland, which bordered Vinland and the Atlantean Empire in the east, Dehiga in the south, Pahucha in the west and a lot of free real estate in the north.
Traditionally, Vinland and Huiniland had been allies against the Atlanteans, but they had drifted apart... until the Queen of Huiniland, a woman by the name of Tekakwitha and both fast approaching the Dreaded Fifty and with a son already, robbed a cradle – namely the cradle of Vinland's King Andor.
Andor himself was King, yes, but his Uncle, Prince Grimmur, was not a fan.
And then there were of course the Atlanteans and their ambitions. And Huiniland had ambitions. And I'd bet, that Vinland and Andor had ambitions, too. Not to mention whoever else would be here.
Cel and I, too, had ambitions, but they had little to do with local politics.
Well, they did, especially Cel's, but there was no but. We had nice butts, but that was neither here nor there. Cel's ambitions rested heavily on local politics.
Would the alliance by marriage of Vinland and Huiniland hold?
Would Atlantis strike?
Would Vinland strike?
Would they be interested in buying weapons from the outside?
I had a far easier task. Mechanizing the agricultural sector was something, which could only be useful, no matter who ruled.
But either way, our ride came to a stop.
I made to rise.
Cel took me by the shoulder and grinned. “This is the best bit.”, she said and finished her whiskey.
I placed my glass into a holder and heard the driver disembark, make a few steps and then open the door. I remembered: The door had been not only quite large, but also in two pieces, the upper bit folding up with hydraulic springs, while the lower was folded up and unfolded, when pulled down, into a small set of metallic stairs.
The young man stood by the door and offered us a hand.
Dressed into a dark blue chauffeur uniform, military in cut, but decidedly not military, the young man struck a nice figure.
I descended upon the red carpet, waited for Cel, who thanked the young man by planting a peck onto his blushing cheek. The crowd at the sides, journalists with flashing cameras, were present and of course made many images as we advanced, confidence in every step and, despite the rather light dress, without even the barest hint of being cold.
At the end of the red carpet, welcoming another guest, stood the King of Vinland and our gracious hostess, the Queen of Huiniland. Matured like a barrel of good whiskey, she stood in her white silken dress under a red fur coat at the entrance, shaking hands and welcoming people.
We took our sweet time to give the guy in front of us, surely some Princeling or the other, ample time to do his routine, before it was our turn.
Placing the hand over our hearts and bowing our heads, a gesture of greeting reserved for our own Elders and their foreign equivalents, it was Cel, who spoke.
“Greetings and congratulations, Tekakwitha, Queen of Huiniland, and to you as well, Andor, King of Vinland.”, she greeted them, then rose, a professional little smile on her lips, “I am Celina Mangaire of the Tribe of Wexford, of the Mangaire Dealership Company, and my lovely travelling companion...” I smiled and nodded. “...is Fiona Lách of the Tribe of Cork, of Lách Tractors and Machinery. We come not in the name of our government, but in the name of our companies, who would love to do business with Huiniland, Vinland and whoever else might be interested in what we have to offer.”
She smiled.
“Of course, we can talk about that later, I am reasonably certain, that other people wish a chance to speak to you as well.”, she added, knowing, that these were only the greetings – the real Ballroom Diplomacy, to use a word of Kyrenaia's Razia-Sultana, would begin later.
I smiled.

[Hintuwan]

Arriving late to the reception at the Ares Palace came a black limousine, sharp along the edges and homegrown in Hintuwan. A silver "A" upon its hood - symbolizing Alpas Motors - and Southern Sea rubber lining its wheels, the flag of Hintuwan: blue, yellow, and white decorated the car upon which emerged the Lakan of the Commonwealth of Hintuwan.

Wearing a long coat lined with bearskin fur on the inside, a red sash cutting shoulder to waist, and medals which decorated him as both Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces of Hintuwan and as a Brigadier-General in the army of King Borobia IV of the Kingdom of Pordhes the Lakan smiled and waved for hordes of journalists and photographers on both sides of the red carpet leading to the palace's door. The Lakan loved all the attention he was getting, especially from a foreign land so far away from home.

He walked stoically in front of the delegation from Hintuwan, followed in close formation by 6 bodyguards and his personal protection officer, Tadaue - a tall, bald Zachwa man who showed no emotion at all times. The Lakan was also trailed by Hintuwan's ambassador to Huiniland: Wibawa Hendri Chandra, a comparatively short man (even for a Hintuwani) with a high-pitched voice and a rather disheveled demeanor for one holding such a high office.

Upon entering, the Lakan immediately set his eyes upon making friends with as many foreign leaders as he could: Vinnish, Swedish, Huini, Imperial - it did not matter. All were friends, none were enemies to the great and noble Commonwealth of Hintuwan.

[Carameon]

A cold gust of wind blew past them, and Tekakwitha and Andor shivered as if death had come upon them.

"My apologies, do you mind if we take this inside?"

Cel, Fiona, Tiberius, Lontok and his entourage were led inside past the massive set of doors down an arched aisle into a massive rectangular hypostyle courtyard surrounded. At its center was the pit of a great fire which had once been burning with life, but had now been extinguished of it, drowned out by the heavy snowfall as they fell upon the surrounding garden of roses like shards of broken glass- Roses which stood out amongst the frozen landscape, blooming like like blood from cuts on fine white skin.

As they walked through the arched halls of the courtyard, they passed by a tall man in a crisp black suit staring at the extinguished fire pit. He plucked a rose from the garden, holding it in its hand and strangling its stem as he sucked the life from its scent and aroma.

"The Eternal Fire was a sacred symbol of the ancient Haudenosaunee which represented the unity of the five peoples that made up their old confederacy. Of course, the confederacy had long gone as the Kaswenha Dynasty which had adopted Catholicism and formed an alliance with the Vinnish conquered and centralized the five tribes, forming Huiniland upon the basis of a Norse style feudal monarchy; but the dynasty, which takes its name from the Haudenosaunee word for 'fire' still keeps pieces of the Eternal Fire in several palaces and public places, symbols of the dynasty's unifying force and legitimacy."

But what stood before them now had had its life extinguished by snowfall and gusts of cold wind while surrounded by a blooming garden of red roses as if a bottle of wine had been smashed against it, with the roses scattering as blood and wine across the snow white floor.

Tekakwitha audibly clicked her tongue in disapproval, curling her lips and turning up the nose. "Mr. Hiraqli, I'm very sure that the guests would love to hear all about your poetic inclinations. However perhaps you'd like to find a more appropriate topic? Christmas perhaps?"

Hiraqli turned towards them, upon his swarthy olive face a bright gentle smile full of life, much unlike the firepit behind him. Under his suit was a purple shirt, exuding an aura of mystery and intrigue that was complemented by a golden tie that suggested an almost regal presence. Despite being in his late thirties, the shipping and pharmaceuticals tycoon from Rumislav seemed very much a suave and dapping young fellow, full of life and energy as he bowed down and kissed the hands of each of the girls and offered the rose to the middle-aged queen. Reluctantly, she took it, and resisted the urge to crumple and strangle the flower in her hand.

"Celina and Fiona, I've heard much about you. I inherited my fortune, but my grandfather was as much an entrepeneur as you two are. I cannot help but find inspiration in your struggles, especially now that I see these great sources of inspiration are even more beautiful up close and in the flesh!"

Tekakwitha silently glared at the two young women, seething with jealousy at the attention they were receiving. It reminded her that she was old, not so old that she was dying, but old enough that her beauty had gone. It was as if yesterday she was young and beautiful, with many courtiers seeking her out, and now she only had Andor. Age had smashed itself in her face like a broken bottle.

[The Selkie]

A cold gust of wind blew past them, and Tekakwitha and Andor shivered as if death had come upon them.

"My apologies, do you mind if we take this inside?"

Cel, Fiona, Tiberius, Lontok and his entourage were led inside past the massive set of doors down an arched aisle into a massive rectangular hypostyle courtyard surrounded. At its center was the pit of a great fire which had once been burning with life, but had now been extinguished of it, drowned out by the heavy snowfall as they fell upon the surrounding garden of roses like shards of broken glass- Roses which stood out amongst the frozen landscape, blooming like like blood from cuts on fine white skin.

As they walked through the arched halls of the courtyard, they passed by a tall man in a crisp black suit staring at the extinguished fire pit. He plucked a rose from the garden, holding it in its hand and strangling its stem as he sucked the life from its scent and aroma.

"The Eternal Fire was a sacred symbol of the ancient Haudenosaunee which represented the unity of the five peoples that made up their old confederacy. Of course, the confederacy had long gone as the Kaswenha Dynasty which had adopted Catholicism and formed an alliance with the Vinnish conquered and centralized the five tribes, forming Huiniland upon the basis of a Norse style feudal monarchy; but the dynasty, which takes its name from the Haudenosaunee word for 'fire' still keeps pieces of the Eternal Fire in several palaces and public places, symbols of the dynasty's unifying force and legitimacy."

But what stood before them now had had its life extinguished by snowfall and gusts of cold wind while surrounded by a blooming garden of red roses as if a bottle of wine had been smashed against it, with the roses scattering as blood and wine across the snow white floor.

Tekakwitha audibly clicked her tongue in disapproval, curling her lips and turning up the nose. "Mr. Hiraqli, I'm very sure that the guests would love to hear all about your poetic inclinations. However perhaps you'd like to find a more appropriate topic? Christmas perhaps?"

Hiraqli turned towards them, upon his swarthy olive face a bright gentle smile full of life, much unlike the firepit behind him. Under his suit was a purple shirt, exuding an aura of mystery and intrigue that was complemented by a golden tie that suggested an almost regal presence. Despite being in his late thirties, the shipping and pharmaceuticals tycoon from Rumislav seemed very much a suave and dapping young fellow, full of life and energy as he bowed down and kissed the hands of each of the girls and offered the rose to the middle-aged queen. Reluctantly, she took it, and resisted the urge to crumple and strangle the flower in her hand.

"Celina and Fiona, I've heard much about you. I inherited my fortune, but my grandfather was as much an entrepeneur as you two are. I cannot help but find inspiration in your struggles, especially now that I see these great sources of inspiration are even more beautiful up close and in the flesh!"

Tekakwitha silently glared at the two young women, seething with jealousy at the attention they were receiving. It reminded her that she was old, not so old that she was dying, but old enough that her beauty had gone. It was as if yesterday she was young and beautiful, with many courtiers seeking her out, and now she only had Andor. Age had smashed itself in her face like a broken bottle.

Fiona Lách of the Tribe of Cork.
A bit of cold wind got the Queen spooked, causing her to usher us inside.
Through the doors and into an open courtyard surrounded by rose bushes, where a fire pit had been smothered by snow. There was a certain melancholy and sadness in the image before us, the flames extinguished, the embers smothered...
...and there was a man, olive skinned, well-dressed, middle-aged.
For a moment, I thought to have a Kyrenaian Enterpreneur, maybe even a Prince, before me, but as he spoke of the meaning of the flame, which had once burned here, of legitimacy and unity of peoples, which had been symbolized by the fire, I realized, that my first impression might have been wrong.
Hiraqli, the man was introduced by the Queen, if only as she voiced her disapproval and asked him to focus his poetic energy onto something happier.
He was quite charming as he approached us, offering a rose to the Queen, who took it quite a bit less charmed then Cel and I were.
We missed the Queen's glare.
Instead, Mister Hiraqli kissed out hands and complimented us, 'taking inspiration' from our struggles entrepreneurs and finding us more beautiful in life then he had apparently expected. He had inherited, we... well, it was a bit more complicated.
Still, I blushed lightly.
"The pleasure is ours, Mister Hiraqli.", I replied and bowed my head lightly in gratitude, Cel letting me take the word silently, "Of course, we have heard of Hiraqli International as well, but it is nice to put such a well-read face to the company." I glanced into the direction of the fire pit. "The story you told, of the Eternal Fire, it reminds me a bit of a story from mine and Cel's homeland, of King Caradawg of the Gaoglann. He lived a bit before the birth of Jesus Christ, around the time of Princess Macha."
Of course, the former was a way to make it easy to categorize it for them, while the latter was a way for Cel and me to do the same.
"By our gracious hostess' leave, and if you are interested, I would be willing to share.", I offered with a small smile, nodding into the direction of said hostess.

[Carameon]

"An utmost pleasure, but perhaps we should take it inside. Her majesty must be ever so naturally anxious for the ball," Farac responded, nodding to the queen.

They were led past an arched doorway, flanked on both sides by royal guardsmen and butlers. A great marble floor lay beneath their feet, with the ember lights of a massive rose-shaped chandelier atop their heads casting its reflection below. Tables draped in red cloth all around them, with guests serving themselves to fine wine and cuisine usually consisting of a number of dishes derived from corns, beans, squash, nuts, clams, and maple syrup. Draped upon white walls were the green floral cross and red rose-shaped flame upon a white background banners of the Kaswenha Dynasty, symbolizing their connection to the land, their adoption of Christianity, and their inheritance of the Eternal Flame.

Eyes began to follow them. On one end of the courtroom, Prince Grimmur sat alongside his wife Empress Tiberia, staring at Farac. Farac noticed, waving back with a smile and being met with a patient nod. Grimmur's son Olaf had in fact married Farac's daughter Fatimah, a symbol of the growing influence of Hiraqli International Shipping in Vinland and Atlantis. Challenging the traditional trans-Atlantic trade route dominated by Carameon International, Hiraqli International had begun to heavily invest in a North Atlantic shipping route with Atlantean Panama on one end in the West and the Rumski Rumegrad (previously known as Constantinople) in the east. It passed through the Rumski Dnieper River and the Swedish Vistula, before going through the Danish Straits and the North Sea, the North Atlantic, the Vinnish Coast, the Aquilan Sea, and finally Panama.

On another end of the ballroom, King Christopher sat and laughed with the young Prince Shenandoah, already visibly inebriated despite the night having barely started. They were almost ten years apart, but they seemed to share an aversion and distaste to the event albeit for different reasons. They were approached by King Riderch, who mentioned something to which the two other men laughed and invited him to sit at their table. Christopher was the sovereign of Sweden, but he was largely considered weak, ineffective, and very unpopular- Problematic to the Hiraqli trade network as stability and security in Sweden was essential to its success. Riderch on the other hand was a strong capable leader who practically ran the High Kingdom of Britannia as the regent of his brother Henryk VI, but he was also skeptical of abandoning the Carameon route simply because it meant having to trade with Muslims. There hasn't been a crusade in a very long while, as the Black Death had crippled practically all the world's economies and prevented anything of that sort from happening at all in the past century; so while Riderch saw the potential of the Hiraqli route, he did not see the benefit in boycotting Carameon. Weak links in the chain of alliances established by Hiraqli International.

Farac poured himself a glass of wine, raised it up and before drinking it- Looked at the trio of royals through the red filter of wine through the glass. At the center of it all was young Shenandoah, frustrated and already inebriated; a gas lantern waiting to be lit. He smiled a devilish grin, and took a single sip of wine, slowly and patiently, relishing it as it passed through his lips and down his throat. A stain was left upon his lips, and he used a white napkin to wipe it off, staining it red.

[Hintuwan]

"Unity," the Lakan whispered into Ambassador Chandra's ear as he listened to the dapper Rumislavian man's mutterings. "That's something Hintuwan needs desperately now, more than ever. Lest we end up like the Haudenosaunee ourselves."

"I agree, Your Majesty, especially with the tensions in La Paz," replied the Ambassador.

Farac seemed to be a wise fellow, thought the Lakan: a man of both exquisite taste as well as experience with the ebb and flow that so often distraught the fortune of men of high standing. This was something that spoke to Lontok deeply, as he too as a member of the Hintuwani royal family felt a deep connection to the past that often seemed indecipherable to the common man. The region was changing, as new players in the international market were stepping up to make their fortune in the wake of recent conflicts - and this too was something he could see the effects of profoundly. Even Hintuwan, no more than a foundling of the Doraltic empire at the dawn of the century, rose prominently from the ashes through trade, realpolitik, and military might as echoes of the old world faded into oblivion.

Now that new conflicts seemed inevitable and the economy showed signs of a downward spiral, aligning Hintuwan with either Hiraqli or Carameon International seemed to prove quintessential. The two concerns seemed intent on working against each other and aligning with both - or worse, neither - seemed impractical from a geopolitical standpoint, For months before the assembly gathered hitherto, he had commanded emissaries in the nations in which the two companies operated to take a clandestine survey of their suitability to Hintuwani interests. The Lakan's attendance appeared a culmination of this effort, and would serve to better inform the President of which to cozy up to in the coming months.

[The Selkie]

"An utmost pleasure, but perhaps we should take it inside. Her majesty must be ever so naturally anxious for the ball," Farac responded, nodding to the queen.

They were led past an arched doorway, flanked on both sides by royal guardsmen and butlers. A great marble floor lay beneath their feet, with the ember lights of a massive rose-shaped chandelier atop their heads casting its reflection below. Tables draped in red cloth all around them, with guests serving themselves to fine wine and cuisine usually consisting of a number of dishes derived from corns, beans, squash, nuts, clams, and maple syrup. Draped upon white walls were the green floral cross and red rose-shaped flame upon a white background banners of the Kaswenha Dynasty, symbolizing their connection to the land, their adoption of Christianity, and their inheritance of the Eternal Flame.

Eyes began to follow them. On one end of the courtroom, Prince Grimmur sat alongside his wife Empress Tiberia, staring at Farac. Farac noticed, waving back with a smile and being met with a patient nod. Grimmur's son Olaf had in fact married Farac's daughter Fatimah, a symbol of the growing influence of Hiraqli International Shipping in Vinland and Atlantis. Challenging the traditional trans-Atlantic trade route dominated by Carameon International, Hiraqli International had begun to heavily invest in a North Atlantic shipping route with Atlantean Panama on one end in the West and the Rumski Rumegrad (previously known as Constantinople) in the east. It passed through the Rumski Dnieper River and the Swedish Vistula, before going through the Danish Straits and the North Sea, the North Atlantic, the Vinnish Coast, the Aquilan Sea, and finally Panama.

On another end of the ballroom, King Christopher sat and laughed with the young Prince Shenandoah, already visibly inebriated despite the night having barely started. They were almost ten years apart, but they seemed to share an aversion and distaste to the event albeit for different reasons. They were approached by King Riderch, who mentioned something to which the two other men laughed and invited him to sit at their table. Christopher was the sovereign of Sweden, but he was largely considered weak, ineffective, and very unpopular- Problematic to the Hiraqli trade network as stability and security in Sweden was essential to its success. Riderch on the other hand was a strong capable leader who practically ran the High Kingdom of Britannia as the regent of his brother Henryk VI, but he was also skeptical of abandoning the Carameon route simply because it meant having to trade with Muslims. There hasn't been a crusade in a very long while, as the Black Death had crippled practically all the world's economies and prevented anything of that sort from happening at all in the past century; so while Riderch saw the potential of the Hiraqli route, he did not see the benefit in boycotting Carameon. Weak links in the chain of alliances established by Hiraqli International.

Farac poured himself a glass of wine, raised it up and before drinking it- Looked at the trio of royals through the red filter of wine through the glass. At the center of it all was young Shenandoah, frustrated and already inebriated; a gas lantern waiting to be lit. He smiled a devilish grin, and took a single sip of wine, slowly and patiently, relishing it as it passed through his lips and down his throat. A stain was left upon his lips, and he used a white napkin to wipe it off, staining it red.

Fiona Lách of the Tribe of Cork.
"But of course.", I said with small smile.
We proceeded into the ball room itself, past the door guarded by armed men and butlers, into the hall. We weren't the first people there. Small groups had already formed, a few people I recognized... and one, who I recognized as not being sober anymore.
Prince Shenandoah had my sympathy for his situation, his stepfather could pass as his older brother, his mother was concerned with the affairs of state, as was his stepfather, and things were not bright in his life. Alcohol was not a solution, but something he could turn to as it made him forget for a while.
There was, however, the fact, that he had apparently found a friend in King Christopher of Sweden. A third man soon joined them.
King Riderch of Britannia, the regent for the local High King. From there, the word of crusade floated around - centuries ago, the Lands of the Selkie themselves were target of one and it had not been pretty. Cel, on the other hand, did not seem to mind supplying weapons to Britannia and the muslims, if they were willing to pay.
But a recent pestilence epidemic had done its course and maybe my products were more in lieu to what they needed: Agricultural equipment, to bring the economy back on its feet.
The Atlantean Empress and her husband sat elsewhere, glared at Hiraqli. The dynastic ties between them were unimportant to us, but the economic ties were interesting. Trade routes, shipping lanes and who's ships were used.
The owner got himself a glass of wine, raised it as if to toast and then drank it, before wiping away a drop, which had been left at the corner of his mouth.
Red and white seemed to be a pattern around here, from the red carpet in the white snow to the roses in the garden to the red wine stain on the white handkerchief.
I glanced to Cel.
She smiled.
"If you would excuse me?", Cel requested and departed our company with a small bow.
I turned to Hiraqli.
"Still interested in the story?", I asked.

Celina Mangaire of the Tribe of Wexford.
While Fi was dealing with Hiraqli, I had set out for more profitable pastures.
That cheeky little wannabe Kyrenaian... it was not very common, in fact it was very uncommon, to call a Selkie by her first name upon the first meeting. It was quite rude, as far as we were concerned.
Sure, he could not know of our customs, but...
And while, if the rumours of war were to be believed, Hiraqli could use a fleet to escort his trade ships (I had ships on offer, Razia-Sultana and her slashing of the Naval Budget be praised), the state actors were more interesting.
More budget.
So, my steps led me...
...not to King Christopher, King Riderch and Prince Shenandoah. While especially Riderch was interesting, the already more then tipsy Prince Shenandoah would be a wildcard.
Meanwhile, Prince Grimmur and especially Empress Tiberias were more interesting.
Until Riderch was free, at least.
At an appropriate distance, I placed my hand over my heart and bowed my head, similar to the gesture Fi and I had greeted Queen Tekakwitha previously.
"Greetings and good evening, Tiberias, Empress of the Atlanteans, and Grimmur, Prince of Vinland.", I greeted them, then raised my hand, "Celina Mangaire of the Tribe of Wexford, a businesswoman of the Mangaire Dealership Company Limited. To my understanding, congratulations are in order, Prince Grimmur, seeing that your son has recently married?"

[Carameon]

"If you may excuse me, ladies and gentlemen," Farac said towards the others.

Farac took another sip of wine, relishing one little sip, before putting down the glass. He smiled at Fiona, offering his hand and invitingly gesturing towards the dance hall. The charismatic regal authority of intrigue surrounding the mysterious businessman would have made it a tempting offer for most, a chance to hear more and learn about the enigma that was Farac Heraqli, the richest man in Greece.

"Perhaps over a dance, Ms. Fiona?"

Meanwhile, Prince Grimmur found himself approached by the young businesswoman. He glanced at her smiling, while Tiberia was as silent as ever.

"Thank you Ms. Mangaire, it is a pleasure, truly."

As Grimmur engaged Celina, Tiberia had her attention elsewhere, staring at Andor and Tekakwitha. She crossed her arms and legs together, turning her face away as she fidgeted around. Despite Grimmur's apparent dislike of the would-be royal couple, one could not help but look at them as a mirror image- Grimmur was an old veteran going into his sixties, with gray hair over his head and scars covering his massive herculean body. Meanwhile Tiberia was a small girl, barely sixteen, but one could have easily mistook her for younger; and unlike Andor, much less visibly enthusiastic.

Her attention for a brief moment glanced over to Prince Shenandoah. The prince was a young bachelor only four years older than her, and although he was the prince of a rival empire, she could not help but think what life were like if she had been wed to a more appropriately aged spouse. He wore a burgundy red suit atop a black shirt with a white tie, some of his upper buttons already drunkenly undone as he hollered out laughing around the table of the three royals.

"-the little empress! She's staring at you with that look in her eye! Oh, she's probably bored to death with that old Vinnish coot she has for a husband!" Riderch exclaimed in whispers to his companions.

"Is she now?" Shenandoah inquired. The young man turned his head around, clicking his tongue and waving at the young empress with an accompanied wink. Tiberia's face flustered and grew hot like a tomato, and she swiftly turned away embarrassed. Grimmur was thankfully much too busy to notice.

"I'll bet you a duchy, Grimmur will get himself cucked by a younger man within the next five years!" Shenandoah jested.

Christopher's eyes widened as his jaw dropped, "You don't mean you-"

"What? No, of course not. I'm not even into girls. Only reason you'll ever find me married to one is entirely political. Talking about King Gold-digger over there," Shenandoah replied, gesturing over to the young King Andor.

"Perhaps you should become a priest, Shenandoah," Riderch jested.

"And hand over the kingdom on a silver platter Andor? No, I'd much rather keep the inheritance of the throne from his filthy gold-digging paws even if it means violently destroying it by smashing a battle of wine over its royal head if it comes to it. Fuck Andor."

Shenandoah took another swig of wine, gushing it down his throat and spilling some along his lips and upon his white tie, staining it red. To this, Farac and Grimmur noticed even as they were conversing with Fiona and Celina respectively. Each man glanced at Shenandoah as he doused his throat in alcohol, before glancing upon one another with a silent nod of communication.

"Never mind that, where were we?'

[August Imperium]

Snip.

A wind as cold as the kiss of death blew across the court past Tiberius by a few inches, causing Andor and Tekakwitha to visibly shiver and blowing rose petals from the garden into the snow around them like blood upon a marble floor. Cameras flashed a relentless fury of blinding lights into Tiberius's eyes, almost as disorienting as the lights on the ceiling above a surgical table. Paparazzi raged and screamed with inquires as if struggling for their lives.

Tiberius would have climbed upon the steps of the palatial porch, finding himself mere feet away from his target- The fifty one year old Queen Tekakwitha. Despite her age, she was strong and lively, flirting with a man who was just as young as her own son. Her long white western dress of silk was barely suited for the cold weather, as he could see her shivering like a corpse, and perhaps she'd almost look like a corpse to him. Middle aged, with graying hair and rapidly advancing wrinkles covered by a heavy layer of makeup like those applied to corpses to appear more dignified at funerals; the red fur coat upon the white dress even resembled the color scheme of an open wound, with a violent passionate color like red tainting a pure and clean color like white.

"May I help you?" Andor asked the older man.

The much younger man, practically a teenager, looked upon Tiberius with a tight smile as he held the Queen's hand. His tone was enthusiastic, almost happy- But something about it, seemed false. One couldn't quite put the words together, but it was as if Andor was an actor in a play wearing a masquerade. His pale white skin and red blood hair made him look like a tall glass of wine, smiling with enthusiasm and seducing one to drink from their cup.

Tekakwitha exhaled, and walked past Andor, offering her hand to Tiberius, "Oh please Andor, don't be so rude to the other guests! My apologies, my fiancee can get a bit jealous. You must be Tiberius. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm as you may know, Queen Tekakwitha Kahswenha, sovereign of Huiniland. Merry Christmas!"

Tiberius nearly froze when he heard his name- then realised it was the Queen, and remembered what he had been taught in those rehearsals. Just be yourself, they'd said, But kinder. And friendlier. Great.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," he said, smiling as he kissed her hand. A gush of warmth flowed through him as his lips brushed the Queen's. "I'm so glad to be finally meeting you- I've heard so much about you!" He quickly ran through his mind all the briefing papers he had been given... and drew a blank. Well, best ignore that part. "It's amazing to see what splendour you've prepared for us. Really, amazing..."

He drew himself up to his full height, turned to Andor, and bowed. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, then realised he also knew nothing about the other person. However, keeping his rehearsed smile, he shook Andor's hand, and turned back to the Queen.

"Well, Your Majesty, I hope to be seeing more of you at this ball- and in the future. Now, do you know who I should t-" But before he could finish, out of the corner of his eye he noticed Servius looking at him in abject horror. He stopped, mid-sentence, and said, "Thank you, Your Majesty. You must convey my appreciation to the... people who made this possible."

Rather embarassed of himself, he hurried away and reached Servius, who, aside from his eavesdropping on Tiberius's conversation, was enjoying himself. He was clutching a glass of wine and was a little unsteady on his feet, but other than that was still the same old Servius.

"Did you not remember the rehearsals?" he shouted over the noise of the guests. "Keep that to yourself for now."

Tiberius didn't reply immediately. He selected a sandwich from one of the waiters, and eyed the room carefully.

"It's fine," he said, shrugging. "It could've gone even worse. I could've revealed everything before I started."

And with that, he disappeared into the crowd of ball-goers. Servius turned to watch him leave, then walked over to some of his diplomats. There was still a lot more for him to do.

[The Selkie]

"If you may excuse me, ladies and gentlemen," Farac said towards the others.

Farac took another sip of wine, relishing one little sip, before putting down the glass. He smiled at Fiona, offering his hand and invitingly gesturing towards the dance hall. The charismatic regal authority of intrigue surrounding the mysterious businessman would have made it a tempting offer for most, a chance to hear more and learn about the enigma that was Farac Heraqli, the richest man in Greece.

"Perhaps over a dance, Ms. Fiona?"

Meanwhile, Prince Grimmur found himself approached by the young businesswoman. He glanced at her smiling, while Tiberia was as silent as ever.

"Thank you Ms. Mangaire, it is a pleasure, truly."

As Grimmur engaged Celina, Tiberia had her attention elsewhere, staring at Andor and Tekakwitha. She crossed her arms and legs together, turning her face away as she fidgeted around. Despite Grimmur's apparent dislike of the would-be royal couple, one could not help but look at them as a mirror image- Grimmur was an old veteran going into his sixties, with gray hair over his head and scars covering his massive herculean body. Meanwhile Tiberia was a small girl, barely sixteen, but one could have easily mistook her for younger; and unlike Andor, much less visibly enthusiastic.

Her attention for a brief moment glanced over to Prince Shenandoah. The prince was a young bachelor only four years older than her, and although he was the prince of a rival empire, she could not help but think what life were like if she had been wed to a more appropriately aged spouse. He wore a burgundy red suit atop a black shirt with a white tie, some of his upper buttons already drunkenly undone as he hollered out laughing around the table of the three royals.

[...]

Fiona Lách of the Tribe of Cork.
Oh, he was charming in his own way, no doubt about that... a regality in his appearance without a crown, a mysteriousness and combined with his wealth made him an alluring target, I will be honest.
With the small issue, that experience with Kyrenaian and Teressian Princes.
I was hardened, so to speak.
So, as I took his hand, nodding, it was purely a business move.
"Of course.", I replied, "Though to your understanding - I'll lead. You'll follow."
And with that, I dragged him away.

Celina Mangaire of the Tribe of Wexford.
Prince Grimmur was, to permit myself the pun, a grim man.
A scarred old warhorse, who had gotten himself a young wife in Empress Tiberias, barely not a girl anymore. Small and, quite frankly, unremarkable weren't it for her crown. She was bored, quite obviously so.
So, while Grimmur was livin' every old pervert's dream, I spent a moment racking my brain for what what might be to both spouse's interest - what had been my interest when I was about her age? Well... tanks.
Iris Boarding School Complex Sensha-Do Team.
And we had a few male members...
...hm...
"Would you allow me to join you?", I asked, then added as I was pulling out a chair: "Tell me, Empress Tiberias, have you ever heard of a sport by the name of Sensha-Do?"
Assertiveness was an important business practice.

[Carameon]

With grace and a smile, Farac offered his hand. He allowed himself to be dragged onto the dance floor by the younger Fiona, his elegant footwork loose and flowing while keeping up with her with vigor and youth very much unlike a man approaching middle age. His tall graceful stature towered over her, and from him exuded a regal mysterious aura that one couldn't help but seek to learn more about.

"Please, do tell me about King Caradawg of the Gaoglann," the man inquired.

At the end of the ballroom, Celina approached the young empress with inquiry, to which she shook her head. She was skittish to say the least, replying with as little words as possible. In the meanwhile, her husband seemed to have his attention elsewhere, waving Celina away in a gesture that seemed to imply that he cared little what she did.

Tekakwitha began to approach the ballroom stage, with Andor following behind her. She stood tall upon a platform, offered a speech on the values of Christmas and whatnot, and commenced the winter ball, "Let the annual winter ball commence, Merry Christmas!"

"Tiberia, it's time," Grimmur mentioned.

Even as Celina conversed with the young girl, Grimmur made no hesitation to take Tiberia's hand upon the dance floor. Their attire was a mix of black and royal blue, exuding a regal aura of power, mystery, and strength; complimented by orange bronze jewelry, which suggested an ambitious energy. The pairs surfed across the surface of the marble dance floor; Farac with Fiona, Grimmur with Tiberia, and Andor with Tekakwitha. Each was upon the marble snow, a purple rose, a blue rose, and a red rose.

Farac noticed that Celina had been looking at Riderch, and turned to Fiona with an eager plotting smile; "I noticed that your friend may be interested in a discussion with Riderch, would you care to assist me in arranging that?"

As the pair danced, and as Fiona narrated the tale of King Caradawg, Farac undressed his glove. Upon his fingers, were some strings tied in a knot like a ring. Subtly and in the direction of Shenandoah's table, Farac blew into the knot.

[The Selkie]

With grace and a smile, Farac offered his hand. He allowed himself to be dragged onto the dance floor by the younger Fiona, his elegant footwork loose and flowing while keeping up with her with vigor and youth very much unlike a man approaching middle age. His tall graceful stature towered over her, and from him exuded a regal mysterious aura that one couldn't help but seek to learn more about.

"Please, do tell me about King Caradawg of the Gaoglann," the man inquired.

At the end of the ballroom, Celina approached the young empress with inquiry, to which she shook her head. She was skittish to say the least, replying with as little words as possible. In the meanwhile, her husband seemed to have his attention elsewhere, waving Celina away in a gesture that seemed to imply that he cared little what she did.

Tekakwitha began to approach the ballroom stage, with Andor following behind her. She stood tall upon a platform, offered a speech on the values of Christmas and whatnot, and commenced the winter ball, "Let the annual winter ball commence, Merry Christmas!"

"Tiberia, it's time," Grimmur mentioned.

Even as Celina conversed with the young girl, Grimmur made no hesitation to take Tiberia's hand upon the dance floor. Their attire was a mix of black and royal blue, exuding a regal aura of power, mystery, and strength; complimented by orange bronze jewelry, which suggested an ambitious energy. The pairs surfed across the surface of the marble dance floor; Farac with Fiona, Grimmur with Tiberia, and Andor with Tekakwitha. Each was upon the marble snow, a purple rose, a blue rose, and a red rose.

Farac noticed that Celina had been looking at Riderch, and turned to Fiona with an eager plotting smile; "I noticed that your friend may be interested in a discussion with Riderch, would you care to assist me in arranging that?"

As the pair danced, and as Fiona narrated the tale of King Caradawg, Farac undressed his glove. Upon his fingers, were some strings tied in a knot like a ring. Subtly and in the direction of Shenandoah's table, Farac blew into the knot.

Celina Mangaire of the Tribe of Wexford.
Sensha-Do, or Tankery, was a quite interesting sport.
Two teams, operating tanks (as in, armoured fighting vehicles in general), went into a terrain and duked it out. Of course, there were a few more rules, a few 'game modes', so to speak, and weight classes, as well as additional competitions (armoured car racing, for instance), and it was a sport done in schools and universities.
I had played it myself during my time at the Iris Boarding School Complex.
And I was basically talking to myself.
Both Tiberias and her husband were... uninterested. It wasn't even that the topic wasn't theirs, it was essentially my entire company, which bode well for future business contacts.
As the hostess held the opening speech, I of course shut up and just when I was about to return to our one-sided conversation...
"Tiberia, it's time."
...they went for the dance floor.
I blinked, then leaned back and crossed my arms. "Don't even acknowledge my presence, will ya... bloody hell, Auwaltian Royalty has more manners while staring at my tits!", I grumbled in Selkie, took a moment to take a deep breath and then closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them again and smiled.
Well, if those blue blooded fuckers thought, that I'd sit here and wait for them to return...

Fiona Lách of the Tribe of Cork.
One had to give Farac one thing, he was a good dancer, even as I told him about the ancient King Caradawg of the Gaoglann, the ruler of the Valley of the Wind, and his Fire. Back then, the three towns in the Gaoglann had come together in his palace to be ruled and to rule, and, in 54 BCE, to hear Princess Macha's words, who brought them from the High King in Fort Stone.
The daughter of Lugh the Seafarer was of sixteen Springs at the time, ambassador of her Father, a fiery redhead, beautiful, young and at entering the valley at the head of several hundred warriors under the command of her brother Nuada. He stayed back while she went to the palace to speak in her father's name.
Caradawg fell in love immediately.
He invited her to sit at his fire, tried to flirt with her, she tried to let him down gently (their age constellation might remind Farac of Tiberias and Grimmur), but he didn't get the hint. Lugh had not yet decided if he should 'suggest' a husband to her, or even who that might be, and she didn't have her eyes on someone, according to Sirlam the Scribe, but either way, Caradawg wasn't it.
He grew desperate.
He imprisoned her. A Handmaiden flew, informed Nuada, and Big Brother of course came to the aid of his little sister. As the Nocht, the Naked Warriors, created quite a din outside, a small troop of warriors intruded into the palace, freed Macha and her entourage, and brought her out.
After a lot of noise, Caradawg decided to invite Nuada to his fire, to ask him to bring a messege to Lugh, that he desired Macha's hand and she his. The magnates of the cities and of the Gaoglann received Nuada and a small troop of bodyguards - among them, dressed as a male warrior, Macha.
Caradawg asked for Macha to be brought forth, but his men came back empty. Enraged, he turned to Nuada, just as Macha took her helmet off and shook out her hair.
Dressed in scale armour, she simply told him, that she didn't love him and would never do.
He threw himself into the fire.
As his guard tried to drag him out of it, but he was already set alight, Macha and Nuada departed the land. As imprisoning his daughter and trying to marry her against her, and his, will was not exactly something Lugh could leave be, Nuada led an army back a year later.
In 53 BCE, all three towns surrendered to the High King and the palace fell after a few days of siege.
As I finished my story, Farac wore a mischievous? No, there was something else in that smile.
"I noticed that your friend may be interested in a discussion with Riderch, would you care to assist me in arranging that?", he asked.
I nodded, just as he began to shed his glove, where some strings were tied around a finger.
He raised his hand and blew into it, looking at the table with Prince Shennandoah and Riderch.
I raised an eyebrow, then smiled, mischief in my own eyes as I looked up.
"So... which knot would I have to blow into for a discussion with you?", I asked with a smile. Obviously, I did not mean the knot in his pants.

[Carameon]

One had to give Farac one thing, he was a good dancer, even as I told him about the ancient King Caradawg of the Gaoglann, the ruler of the Valley of the Wind, and his Fire. Back then, the three towns in the Gaoglann had come together in his palace to be ruled and to rule, and, in 54 BCE, to hear Princess Macha's words, who brought them from the High King in Fort Stone.

The daughter of Lugh the Seafarer was of sixteen Springs at the time, ambassador of her Father, a fiery redhead, beautiful, young and at entering the valley at the head of several hundred warriors under the command of her brother Nuada. He stayed back while she went to the palace to speak in her father's name.

Caradawg fell in love immediately.

He invited her to sit at his fire, tried to flirt with her, she tried to let him down gently (their age constellation might remind Farac of Tiberias and Grimmur), but he didn't get the hint. Lugh had not yet decided if he should 'suggest' a husband to her, or even who that might be, and she didn't have her eyes on someone, according to Sirlam the Scribe, but either way, Caradawg wasn't it.

Farac smiled ever so slightly, amused at how neatly it corresponded with Tiberia and Grimmur, or at least- How it would have seemed to correspond to them from an outsider's point of view. Farac knew them both personally, and knew that on the contrary- Grimmur had no romantic feelings for Tiberia and their marriage was purely political. Although he did notice some hint of a spark of love between them as he noted how protective Grimmur was of the young Tiberia, just not in any romantic sense.

He considered commenting on that observation, but relented, knowing well the consequences of gossiping about his allies. But... There was another couple within the ball that fit that description. He smiled at the thought.

He grew desperate.

He imprisoned her. A Handmaiden flew, informed Nuada, and Big Brother of course came to the aid of his little sister. As the Nocht, the Naked Warriors, created quite a din outside, a small troop of warriors intruded into the palace, freed Macha and her entourage, and brought her out.

After a lot of noise, Caradawg decided to invite Nuada to his fire, to ask him to bring a messege to Lugh, that he desired Macha's hand and she his. The magnates of the cities and of the Gaoglann received Nuada and a small troop of bodyguards - among them, dressed as a male warrior, Macha.

Caradawg asked for Macha to be brought forth, but his men came back empty. Enraged, he turned to Nuada, just as Macha took her helmet off and shook out her hair.

Dressed in scale armour, she simply told him, that she didn't love him and would never do.

He threw himself into the fire.

As his guard tried to drag him out of it, but he was already set alight, Macha and Nuada departed the land. As imprisoning his daughter and trying to marry her against her, and his, will was not exactly something Lugh could leave be, Nuada led an army back a year later.

In 53 BCE, all three towns surrendered to the High King and the palace fell after a few days of siege.

"A tragedy. One might surmise that the protagonist of this tale was Macha or Nuada- But I beg to differ, suggesting instead that it may have been Caradawg who had been the tale's tragic hero. Like Fir'aun; they had everything one could ever ask for, except for one. But unlike the Pharoah who desired godhood, Caradawg sought the heart of another, and risked and lost everything for it. A classic tragedy. A tragedy that unfortunately, seems to repeat itself."

Farac turned his eyes towards Andor, gesturing to Fiona to look in the young man's direction. Then he glanced towards Shenandoah, with the same implications. Andor danced with Tekakwitha with passion- But not for Tekakwitha, but a maiden destined for Shenandoah. The throne of Huiniland should pass on to Huiniland, but technically speaking it is the queen who decides who becomes king, as the Kaswenha Dynasty was actually a matrilineal one, passed on primarily through the mother and her daughter, and very rarely her son. But Tekakwitha had no daughter, and being middle-aged it would take a miracle for her to have one with Andor; and so Andor was himself seeking an unrequited love- The Huini throne.

"Like Nuada before him, Shenandoah guards an over-eager suitor from his maiden. If history does repeat itself, then we may see Andor throwing himself into the fire as Caradawg did, perhaps completely unaware that he was walking into it. Ironic, as the symbol of the throne he seeks now is that of the Eternal Fire."

Farac noticed that Celina had been looking at Riderch, and turned to Fiona with an eager plotting smile; "I noticed that your friend may be interested in a discussion with Riderch, would you care to assist me in arranging that?"

As the pair danced, and as Fiona narrated the tale of King Caradawg, Farac undressed his glove. Upon his fingers, were some strings tied in a knot like a ring. Subtly and in the direction of Shenandoah's table, Farac blew into the knot.

"So... which knot would I have to blow into for a discussion with you?", Fiona asked with a smile.

Farac smiled, flattered and amused; "Knotblowing is... How do I say this? A kind of prayer or spell. Look."

Coincidentally the moment Farac blew into the knot aimed at Shenandoah's table, Cristopher had been indulging himself in quite a lot of fiber and spices, more than what his stomach could have handled. As he sat there among his friends, he felt a sudden jolt in his belly as a flood approached his buttocks almost like wine gushing out from a broken bottle. His face twisted into immediate horror as he launched up from his seat, and hurled himself towards the restroom in a rush of adrenaline as one would throw a punch.

Whether Farac had by some magic caused Cristopher to suffer a diarrhea attack, or had simply guessed exactly when he had indulged himself too much was open to interpretation.

"Now all that's left is to call out your friend Celina, and for us to distract Shenandoah away from Riderch. Besides, I've been looking forward to speaking with the young prince. We are at a turning point in history, Ms. Lach; and that young man is a key catalyst for what comes next. What say you and I, we... Push him in the right direction?"

Farac wore upon his face a devilish grin, full of inviting mystery and temptation. The dark colors of his suit and the purple shirt suggested with him an uncertain future veiled by shadow and myserty, but at the same time complimented by his golden tie suggested a hint at a chance to share in lust for power and wealth beyond one's wildest dreams.

[The Selkie]

[...]
"So... which knot would I have to blow into for a discussion with you?", Fiona asked with a smile.

Farac smiled, flattered and amused; "Knotblowing is... How do I say this? A kind of prayer or spell. Look."

Coincidentally the moment Farac blew into the knot aimed at Shenandoah's table, Cristopher had been indulging himself in quite a lot of fiber and spices, more than what his stomach could have handled. As he sat there among his friends, he felt a sudden jolt in his belly as a flood approached his buttocks almost like wine gushing out from a broken bottle. His face twisted into immediate horror as he launched up from his seat, and hurled himself towards the restroom in a rush of adrenaline as one would throw a punch.

Whether Farac had by some magic caused Cristopher to suffer a diarrhea attack, or had simply guessed exactly when he had indulged himself too much was open to interpretation.

"Now all that's left is to call out your friend Celina, and for us to distract Shenandoah away from Riderch. Besides, I've been looking forward to speaking with the young prince. We are at a turning point in history, Ms. Lach; and that young man is a key catalyst for what comes next. What say you and I, we... Push him in the right direction?"

Farac wore upon his face a devilish grin, full of inviting mystery and temptation. The dark colors of his suit and the purple shirt suggested with him an uncertain future veiled by shadow and myserty, but at the same time complimented by his golden tie suggested a hint at a chance to share in lust for power and wealth beyond one's wildest dreams.[/align][/blocktext]

Fiona Lách of the Tribe of Cork.
We Selkie knew magic, of sorts, as well: Our Shipgirls.
Manifestations of the will of the builders and constructors, given focus and (usually attractive female) form. What they could do defied descriptions, from firing an arrow and, where it landed, it exploded with the force of a salvo of 135mm shells, to shanking an enemy submarine into submission, to calling forth the hull of a several thousand ton warship from what basically amounted to thin air.
Truly, our shipgirls were... flashy.
Farac's knot blowing, whether or not it worked, was a lot less flashy. If it did or not didn't matter, one of Shenandoah's friends ran for the restroom, holding his stomach.
Someone was about to end the evening in the uncomfortable way.
Oh, someone had a plan, as Farac made clear a few moments later.
Magic or not magic, he might feel comfortable among the Hyenas at the Court of Razia-Sultana, the young ruler of Kyrenaia. I had been there and I had experienced the conspiracies, the Hyenas' Game, firsthand, as an outside observer and someone, who had been useful enough for a few of the high lords and ladies of the Five Deserts.
Sadly, back then, I had been there as part of the Lách-Family Main Branch, horsebreeding and agriculture, not as an industrialist...
Either way, caution was the name of the game.
I slowly nodded. I hoped, that it's be worth it.
Then I smiled at Celina, who had moved away from the table she had shared with the Atlanteans and was now sipping on a flute of something or the other.
I motioned for her to come over.
She thought for a moment, then came over, nodded to Farac and smiled at me.
"What's up?", she asked me in Selkie, not in English, "And I hope you are more successful then I am..."
"Oh, it's gettin' along.", I replied in the same language, "Say, wanna have some fun?" Cel raised an eyebrow. "Farac here wants to give Prince Shenny a little push, but we need for him to be on his lonesome for that to work..."
"And you two need me to shake my tits so that Riderch is distracted?", Cel asked with a raised eyebrow, switching to English.
"Not as crassly, but if you wanna dance...?"
Cel nodded slowly.
"After that...", she told Farac, "...you and I are going to talk about how you can protect your trade ships with your own little navy... a navy I'll supply." She let a beat pass. "From Kyrenaian surpluses, but that's another story." She smiled. "Are we clear?"

[Carameon]

Farac raised a brow in amusement with a pleasant smile on his face, "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Farac and the pair of Selkie women approached Shenandoah's table, the young man's face as red as a bottle of wine almost ready to burst into a million shards of glass while his Brythonic companion welcomed them with solemn eyes as gray as the smoke of gunpowder and a smile as gentle as a hospital bed. The two men shook hands, and Farac silently curled his lips in a contempt-filled sneer that appeared as a conservative smile as Riderch almost crushed Farac's hand with his compartively much stronger grip, with a strong grip itself a sign of trust and honesty.

"Peace be upon thee Farac. I trust you are not troubled by our celebrations? I understand that your faith has some restrictions surrounding Christmas," Riderch expressed with genuine concern.

It might not have occurred to anyone previously, but Farac's presence in a Christmas ball was, to put it simply, strange. The man was from Rumislav, a nominally Shi'ite nation and the self-proclaimed defender of the Shi'a faith, with another one of Farac's own daughters having married into the Aleopoulos Dynasty. Most Shi'ites did not believe in the divinity of the Messiah, although they were known to celebrate the birthdays of prophets and saints such as the Islamic Prophet Abul Qasim Muhammad bin Abdullah ﷺ, his son-in-law Ali bin Abi Talib RA, and some others. Regardless, Christmas should not have held for him the same religious significance, with many Islamic scholars prohibiting its celebration.

Farac tightened his grip and smiled, "Why would I have any problem with celebrating the birth of our lord and savior?"

Riderch's grip loosened as his lips tightened. His gunpowder gray eyes glanced away for brief moments, shooting and ricocheting all over the ballroom as he withdrew his handshake wearing an uncomfortable and uneasy smile.

His eyes soon turned to the man's companions, and his gentle friendly expression returned; "And who are these young ladies?"

"These are Fiona Lách of the Tribe of Cork, owner of Lách Tractors and Machinery-"

Riderch's face shot up with glee and excitement as he shook Fiona's hand with a firm grip, "My, an agricultural industrialist, at this young age? Lord knows we need more of those! With Hiraqli Pharmaceuticals working on countering the Black Death, we'll need to be hard at work in the fields until the global population can recover from this century-long pandemic. I am most interested in your work!"

Fiona was met with the man's bright gentle and friendly smile and demeanor, with his strong, reliable, and trustworthy grip- A sharp contrast to Farac, who was devious and shrouded in mystery, with a gentle grip that expressed caution and seductive invitation rather than trust. All the while, Farac had turned up his nose and curled his lips, glaring like a murder of crows upon Riderch.

Farac did not give Fiona the opportunity to respond, interjecting almost immediately; "-And this woman is Celina Mangaire of the Tribe of Wexford, owner of Mangaire Dealership Company. Perhaps you'd like to converse with her over a dance?"

Riderch glanced at Celina, skeptical with the corner of his lips curled tight towards his cheeks as he raised a brow. He exhaled, "Well, I haven't quite finished my conversation with Lady Fiona here and there's still Shenandoah I'm keeping company-"

As Riderch had his attention turned away from Farac, the other man had once more slipped off his glove. Another knot decorated another finger upon his hand as he pointed it in Riderch's direction and blew- And soon it seemed, the winds of destiny blew in his direction. Riderch paused for a moment, thinking about his statement. He chuckled, and smiled, taking Celina's hand and inviting her to the dance floor.

"Ah what the hell, let's do it," Riderch said as changed his mind almost immediately.

Unlike Farac who had allowed himself to be dragged along by Fiona with grace and elegance, Riderch took the initiative, not even hesitating to take Celina in his arms with a big gentle smile. He did not have the same mysterious and elegant aura as Farac, but he was strong, reliable, and trustworthy. Unlike Farac who was shrouded in mystery, Riderch hid no cards and let all friends know that they could rely upon him at all times at all places.

"You have quite a beautiful name. It rings with reminiscence of Queen Sebile of Sarmenie. A powerful and beautiful pagan queen who lusted after many men, enticing otherwise would-be noble knights to her bedroom chambers with such success that legends hold her as a powerful sorceress and enchantress. But eventually in one of Arthur's crusades, she captures his knight Sagramore and in a twist of fate fell in love with him. But Sagramore refused her advances, demanding that she become a Christian and that they wed. And most ironically, she did. The woman who had once seduced many Christian lords and warriors to her side now found herself converting to Christianity for the sake of love."

As Riderch danced with Celina, Farac and Fiona took their seats alongside the inebriated young Prince Shenandoah. He had barely even noticed their approach, as much of the ball became a distant blur of images like shards of broken glass and noise distorted into meaningless screams and shrieks. He slouched along his chair, tilting sideways as in his hand he held a massive bottle of red wine which had stained his clothes like blood. His face red as the siren lights of an ambulance, as his head rocked back and forth like a revolver being spun around.

"-Y-You. I know ye. You're that Greek *hic* towelhead," the young man mumbled in his drunken stupor. "You don't even celebrate *hic* -mas! Yer kind don't drink its haram or something *hic*, you don't know how to *hic* live!"

Farac smiled devilishly as he called over the waiter, telling him to retrieve a package for him. He arrived soon after carrying a bottle of red wine, which Farac promptly handed over to Shenandoah.

"Greece is one of the oldest wine producing regions in the world. The oldest traces of Greek wine are dated to 4500 BC, and here is a bottle of Xinomavro. Native to Macedonia, great aging potential with a palate reminiscent of tomatoes and olives, and a rich tannic character-"

Before Farac could even finish his sentence, Shenandoah took the massive bottle of wine and swung it upwards like a bludgeon, pouring its sour black juices down his throat until half of it was empty. Some spilled and flowed from his lips, trickling down his chin like blood from an open wound before soiling his clothes even more. As Shenandoah put down the bottle of wine, his posture relaxed and he looked towards Farac with friendlier eyes.

"Should've started with the wine," Shenandoah shot up with a grin. "That was some good stuff."

Farac sat up straight, his head tipping slightly as he raised a brow and smiled with amusement and mild surprise; "I'd like to make your acquaintance Your Highness. A dashing young man with a bright future such as yours..."

"Well, you're not so bad yourself. An older man, but hey, that's pretty hot too. Tall, dark, and mysterious... You'd look nice in a bedroom," Shenandoah commented as he tipped his head and smiled with his lips together and a raised brow. He winked at the man, signaling some form of interest that went a bit further than what Farac was expecting.

Nevertheless, Farac stayed his course, not allowing unwanted advances to divert the conversation now that he had softened him up. He glanced over to the direction of Tekakwitha and Andor, pointing with welcome suspicion. The old woman danced with the much younger man upon the ballroom floor, eyes sparkling with love and lust between them- But not for each other.

"Look at that rascal, Andor. How old is he again? Nineteen? Or was it eighteen or seventeen? He's barely an adult, yet he's going to be your new father."

Shenandoah crossed his arms and looked away, gritting his teeth; "Well, yeah, what can I do? Dumb brat is born with a silver spoon in his mouth and an oversized ego."

"Look at him, whoring out your mother like that. He's just using her you know, to get what he wants. What's rightfully yours. The throne of Huiniland."

Shenandoah leaned in forward, resting his arms upon the table as he keeps his face reluctantly turned away; "Well he's wasting his time. So long as I'm alive, he won't get what he wants."

"Are you sure about that? Isn't the throne passed down matrilineally? Even if your mother can't produce a new heir, she can still choose your successor if you're ever disqualified from the throne. Doesn't the Catholic Church view with disfavor the brotherly romance between men? What if Andor uses that to disqualify you from the succession? You have to stand up for yourself, or he'll keep pushing you around and getting what he wants. He's already doing it now."

The drunken prince had completely relaxed his posture around Farac, leaning forward and looking him directly in the eyes as he for a moment glanced at Andor. In that brief moment that his attention was turned away, Farac slipped out his glove and blew into another knot in Andor's direction. As Andor danced with the much older queen of Huiniland, he occasionally glanced at Shenandoah with an asymmetrical smile of dominance. He dragged Tekakwitha along the dance floor like one would a rag, moving his feet so that he was always in power. His lips curled as he raised a brow, exposing more of the white of his eyes. It was a clear message. I'm coming for you.

In the meanwhile, a tired Cristopher emerged from the bathroom and was returning to the table, much to Farac's dismay. He blew another knot in his direction as the fat taciturn monarch attempted to make his way back to the table. Fatigue drained his face of color as he limped on over, before bumping into someone along the way and spilling their drink...

"Min Gud! My most sincere apologies, Mr..."

[The Astral Mandate]

"Mr. Virtanen." The Astral head of state looked down at King Christopher, with the stoic impression that he seemingly always wore, at least until he felt he could open up. Behind this visage, however, lay a kind soul, one that simply wanted the best for the world. He would reveal that later. Perhaps.
"My most sincere apologies, sir. Are you alright?" Neri had learned to be extremely polite, not least in the presence of other people of his rank. This most likely stemmed from having many aspirations since childhood- to achieve them, he needed to work well with people, and this required a certain degree of etiquette. Most of all, Neri enjoyed formality. He certainly was not one to openly despise the culture of the masses, but he had his tastes, and they were firmly upper-class. Perhaps his desire to uplift the poor came from his rich upbringing- he knew how much he had, and he wanted more people to have it. Regardless of his reasons, the point is that he was a man of manners, and would abide by the rules of statesmanship at all times.

[Carameon]

"Mr. Virtanen." The Astral head of state looked down at King Christopher, with the stoic impression that he seemingly always wore, at least until he felt he could open up. Behind this visage, however, lay a kind soul, one that simply wanted the best for the world. He would reveal that later. Perhaps.
"My most sincere apologies, sir. Are you alright?" Neri had learned to be extremely polite, not least in the presence of other people of his rank. This most likely stemmed from having many aspirations since childhood- to achieve them, he needed to work well with people, and this required a certain degree of etiquette. Most of all, Neri enjoyed formality. He certainly was not one to openly despise the culture of the masses, but he had his tastes, and they were firmly upper-class. Perhaps his desire to uplift the poor came from his rich upbringing- he knew how much he had, and he wanted more people to have it. Regardless of his reasons, the point is that he was a man of manners, and would abide by the rules of statesmanship at all times.

"Mr. Virtanen. Mister..." Cristopher paused for a moment, thinking to himself and trying to remember where he had heard that name before.

After a brief moment, his expression sprang up with sudden surprise like an unexpected punch smashing into the air before bowing profusely and shaking the other man's hand in a panic to fix his image; "Min Gud! You're the leader of the Astral Mandate. I am so sorry, I am so clumsy and I should have recognized you, my own neighbor! I am not used to these events, I am so sorry, even though I am king in my own country! You are very good ruler, not like me!"

One might have heard of the young monarch, ruler of Sweden. When the powerful and intelligent but hot-headed and tyrannical King Eric was deposed, a weak and ineffective puppet was installed by the State Council. Perhaps a victim of circumstance, famines caused by Global Cooling were blamed on the young king, to the point that people called him "the Bark King" for many had become so hungry that they mixed wood with whatever flour they could find; and moreover was more culturally German and Danish than he was Swedish, so he was not well-liked by the Swedish nobles. He did try to support the cities and industrialization, but factions supporting his uncle the former King Eric have continued insurgency within the kingdom which Cristopher had proven largely unable to counter. Moreover he was fat and with increasingly deteriorating health, that it would not be a surprise if he died within four years. Despite all these faults, he insisted on the title "Arch King", as a king of kings rather than merely king.

"Please forgive me..."

[The Astral Mandate]

"Mr. Virtanen." The Astral head of state looked down at King Christopher, with the stoic impression that he seemingly always wore, at least until he felt he could open up. Behind this visage, however, lay a kind soul, one that simply wanted the best for the world. He would reveal that later. Perhaps.
"My most sincere apologies, sir. Are you alright?" Neri had learned to be extremely polite, not least in the presence of other people of his rank. This most likely stemmed from having many aspirations since childhood- to achieve them, he needed to work well with people, and this required a certain degree of etiquette. Most of all, Neri enjoyed formality. He certainly was not one to openly despise the culture of the masses, but he had his tastes, and they were firmly upper-class. Perhaps his desire to uplift the poor came from his rich upbringing- he knew how much he had, and he wanted more people to have it. Regardless of his reasons, the point is that he was a man of manners, and would abide by the rules of statesmanship at all times.

"Mr. Virtanen. Mister..." Cristopher paused for a moment, thinking to himself and trying to remember where he had heard that name before.

After a brief moment, his expression sprang up with sudden surprise like an unexpected punch smashing into the air before bowing profusely and shaking the other man's hand in a panic to fix his image; "Min Gud! You're the leader of the Astral Mandate. I am so sorry, I am so clumsy and I should have recognized you, my own neighbor! I am not used to these events, I am so sorry, even though I am king in my own country! You are very good ruler, not like me!"

One might have heard of the young monarch, ruler of Sweden. When the powerful and intelligent but hot-headed and tyrannical King Eric was deposed, a weak and ineffective puppet was installed by the State Council. Perhaps a victim of circumstance, famines caused by Global Cooling were blamed on the young king, to the point that people called him "the Bark King" for many had become so hungry that they mixed wood with whatever flour they could find; and moreover was more culturally German and Danish than he was Swedish, so he was not well-liked by the Swedish nobles. He did try to support the cities and industrialization, but factions supporting his uncle the former King Eric have continued insurgency within the kingdom which Cristopher had proven largely unable to counter. Moreover he was fat and with increasingly deteriorating health, that it would not be a surprise if he died within four years. Despite all these faults, he insisted on the title "Arch King", as a king of kings rather than merely king.

"Please forgive me..."

"All is forgiven. Anyway, I have heard of struggles in your land, I would be happy to devise solutions with you." Neri was interested in striking up a conversation with the king. Their dominions were not so different, and perhaps he could aid Christopher in his struggle. After all, his aim was to create a better world, and relieving the Swedes of their plight would certainly contribute to that goal. Plus, he just wanted to talk to someone- it was what he came for, after all.
OOC: We control our canon's Sweden, but we presume this is a parallel dimension within a multi-dimensional NS Earth. I use this as my justification for NS, but the details aren't really that important.

[Carameon]

A hint of excitement and optimism in his voice, Cristopher's face perked up, "Oh- Oh! Really? I'm not sure what to say... Thank you? Thank you! Yes, I would like that very much!"

Cristopher felt a surge of gratitude and relief as he heard Neri’s words. He had expected to be scorned or ignored by the other leaders, who surely looked down on him as a weak and incompetent king, just as his own allies very much did. But here was someone who seemed genuinely interested in helping him, someone who had a vision of a better world that he could share. Maybe there was hope for him as Arch King after all.

[The Astral Mandate]

A hint of excitement and optimism in his voice, Cristopher's face perked up, "Oh- Oh! Really? I'm not sure what to say... Thank you? Thank you! Yes, I would like that very much!"

Cristopher felt a surge of gratitude and relief as he heard Neri’s words. He had expected to be scorned or ignored by the other leaders, who surely looked down on him as a weak and incompetent king, just as his own allies very much did. But here was someone who seemed genuinely interested in helping him, someone who had a vision of a better world that he could share. Maybe there was hope for him as Arch King after all.

"Okay. So, famines due to a cooling climate, is that correct? And, what crops are you growing in Sweden as of now?" Neri had quite a few cold-loving crops to suggest- after all, they were the basis of the Mandate's economy. Both staple crops and valuable exports had been developed, through careful breeding and genetic engineering, allowing his nation to create a more self-sufficient economy. He was happy to help the king of Sweden in his plight.

[The Selkie]

Farac raised a brow in amusement with a pleasant smile on his face, "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Farac and the pair of Selkie women approached Shenandoah's table, the young man's face as red as a bottle of wine almost ready to burst into a million shards of glass while his Brythonic companion welcomed them with solemn eyes as gray as the smoke of gunpowder and a smile as gentle as a hospital bed. The two men shook hands, and Farac silently curled his lips in a contempt-filled sneer that appeared as a conservative smile as Riderch almost crushed Farac's hand with his compartively much stronger grip, with a strong grip itself a sign of trust and honesty.

"Peace be upon thee Farac. I trust you are not troubled by our celebrations? I understand that your faith has some restrictions surrounding Christmas," Riderch expressed with genuine concern.

It might not have occurred to anyone previously, but Farac's presence in a Christmas ball was, to put it simply, strange. The man was from Rumislav, a nominally Shi'ite nation and the self-proclaimed defender of the Shi'a faith, with another one of Farac's own daughters having married into the Aleopoulos Dynasty. Most Shi'ites did not believe in the divinity of the Messiah, although they were known to celebrate the birthdays of prophets and saints such as the Islamic Prophet Abul Qasim Muhammad bin Abdullah ﷺ, his son-in-law Ali bin Abi Talib RA, and some others. Regardless, Christmas should not have held for him the same religious significance, with many Islamic scholars prohibiting its celebration.

Farac tightened his grip and smiled, "Why would I have any problem with celebrating the birth of our lord and savior?"

Riderch's grip loosened as his lips tightened. His gunpowder gray eyes glanced away for brief moments, shooting and ricocheting all over the ballroom as he withdrew his handshake wearing an uncomfortable and uneasy smile.

His eyes soon turned to the man's companions, and his gentle friendly expression returned; "And who are these young ladies?"

"These are Fiona Lách of the Tribe of Cork, owner of Lách Tractors and Machinery-"

Riderch's face shot up with glee and excitement as he shook Fiona's hand with a firm grip, "My, an agricultural industrialist, at this young age? Lord knows we need more of those! With Hiraqli Pharmaceuticals working on countering the Black Death, we'll need to be hard at work in the fields until the global population can recover from this century-long pandemic. I am most interested in your work!"

Fiona was met with the man's bright gentle and friendly smile and demeanor, with his strong, reliable, and trustworthy grip- A sharp contrast to Farac, who was devious and shrouded in mystery, with a gentle grip that expressed caution and seductive invitation rather than trust. All the while, Farac had turned up his nose and curled his lips, glaring like a murder of crows upon Riderch.

Farac did not give Fiona the opportunity to respond, interjecting almost immediately; "-And this woman is Celina Mangaire of the Tribe of Wexford, owner of Mangaire Dealership Company. Perhaps you'd like to converse with her over a dance?"

Riderch glanced at Celina, skeptical with the corner of his lips curled tight towards his cheeks as he raised a brow. He exhaled, "Well, I haven't quite finished my conversation with Lady Fiona here and there's still Shenandoah I'm keeping company-"

As Riderch had his attention turned away from Farac, the other man had once more slipped off his glove. Another knot decorated another finger upon his hand as he pointed it in Riderch's direction and blew- And soon it seemed, the winds of destiny blew in his direction. Riderch paused for a moment, thinking about his statement. He chuckled, and smiled, taking Celina's hand and inviting her to the dance floor.

"Ah what the hell, let's do it," Riderch said as changed his mind almost immediately.

Unlike Farac who had allowed himself to be dragged along by Fiona with grace and elegance, Riderch took the initiative, not even hesitating to take Celina in his arms with a big gentle smile. He did not have the same mysterious and elegant aura as Farac, but he was strong, reliable, and trustworthy. Unlike Farac who was shrouded in mystery, Riderch hid no cards and let all friends know that they could rely upon him at all times at all places.

"You have quite a beautiful name. It rings with reminiscence of Queen Sebile of Sarmenie. A powerful and beautiful pagan queen who lusted after many men, enticing otherwise would-be noble knights to her bedroom chambers with such success that legends hold her as a powerful sorceress and enchantress. But eventually in one of Arthur's crusades, she captures his knight Sagramore and in a twist of fate fell in love with him. But Sagramore refused her advances, demanding that she become a Christian and that they wed. And most ironically, she did. The woman who had once seduced many Christian lords and warriors to her side now found herself converting to Christianity for the sake of love."

As Riderch danced with Celina, Farac and Fiona took their seats alongside the inebriated young Prince Shenandoah. He had barely even noticed their approach, as much of the ball became a distant blur of images like shards of broken glass and noise distorted into meaningless screams and shrieks. He slouched along his chair, tilting sideways as in his hand he held a massive bottle of red wine which had stained his clothes like blood. His face red as the siren lights of an ambulance, as his head rocked back and forth like a revolver being spun around.

"-Y-You. I know ye. You're that Greek *hic* towelhead," the young man mumbled in his drunken stupor. "You don't even celebrate *hic* -mas! Yer kind don't drink its haram or something *hic*, you don't know how to *hic* live!"

Farac smiled devilishly as he called over the waiter, telling him to retrieve a package for him. He arrived soon after carrying a bottle of red wine, which Farac promptly handed over to Shenandoah.

"Greece is one of the oldest wine producing regions in the world. The oldest traces of Greek wine are dated to 4500 BC, and here is a bottle of Xinomavro. Native to Macedonia, great aging potential with a palate reminiscent of tomatoes and olives, and a rich tannic character-"

Before Farac could even finish his sentence, Shenandoah took the massive bottle of wine and swung it upwards like a bludgeon, pouring its sour black juices down his throat until half of it was empty. Some spilled and flowed from his lips, trickling down his chin like blood from an open wound before soiling his clothes even more. As Shenandoah put down the bottle of wine, his posture relaxed and he looked towards Farac with friendlier eyes.

"Should've started with the wine," Shenandoah shot up with a grin. "That was some good stuff."

Farac sat up straight, his head tipping slightly as he raised a brow and smiled with amusement and mild surprise; "I'd like to make your acquaintance Your Highness. A dashing young man with a bright future such as yours..."

"Well, you're not so bad yourself. An older man, but hey, that's pretty hot too. Tall, dark, and mysterious... You'd look nice in a bedroom," Shenandoah commented as he tipped his head and smiled with his lips together and a raised brow. He winked at the man, signaling some form of interest that went a bit further than what Farac was expecting.

Nevertheless, Farac stayed his course, not allowing unwanted advances to divert the conversation now that he had softened him up. He glanced over to the direction of Tekakwitha and Andor, pointing with welcome suspicion. The old woman danced with the much younger man upon the ballroom floor, eyes sparkling with love and lust between them- But not for each other.

"Look at that rascal, Andor. How old is he again? Nineteen? Or was it eighteen or seventeen? He's barely an adult, yet he's going to be your new father."

Shenandoah crossed his arms and looked away, gritting his teeth; "Well, yeah, what can I do? Dumb brat is born with a silver spoon in his mouth and an oversized ego."

"Look at him, whoring out your mother like that. He's just using her you know, to get what he wants. What's rightfully yours. The throne of Huiniland."

Shenandoah leaned in forward, resting his arms upon the table as he keeps his face reluctantly turned away; "Well he's wasting his time. So long as I'm alive, he won't get what he wants."

"Are you sure about that? Isn't the throne passed down matrilineally? Even if your mother can't produce a new heir, she can still choose your successor if you're ever disqualified from the throne. Doesn't the Catholic Church view with disfavor the brotherly romance between men? What if Andor uses that to disqualify you from the succession? You have to stand up for yourself, or he'll keep pushing you around and getting what he wants. He's already doing it now."

The drunken prince had completely relaxed his posture around Farac, leaning forward and looking him directly in the eyes as he for a moment glanced at Andor. In that brief moment that his attention was turned away, Farac slipped out his glove and blew into another knot in Andor's direction. As Andor danced with the much older queen of Huiniland, he occasionally glanced at Shenandoah with an asymmetrical smile of dominance. He dragged Tekakwitha along the dance floor like one would a rag, moving his feet so that he was always in power. His lips curled as he raised a brow, exposing more of the white of his eyes. It was a clear message. I'm coming for you.

In the meanwhile, a tired Cristopher emerged from the bathroom and was returning to the table, much to Farac's dismay. He blew another knot in his direction as the fat taciturn monarch attempted to make his way back to the table. Fatigue drained his face of color as he limped on over, before bumping into someone along the way and spilling their drink...

"Min Gud! My most sincere apologies, Mr..."

Fiona Lách of the Tribe of Cork.
With Farac's agreement firmly in hand, we moved.
Of course, we flanked Farac and as Riderch greeted him first, it appeared as if he was not Christian originally. The news, that apparently he had a few religious restrictions placed upon the celebrations of Christmas, which he ignored, seemed to displease Riderch.
As he introduced us, Riderch seemed to be very impressed and pleased to meet me. Hiraqli was focussed on medice, not on food, and that would have been my chance to get a bit of business out of this, but Farac redirected both the attention and soon the will for a dance to Cel.
She smiled, as she led him off, telling him, that he shouldn't worry, I'd be around the whole evening, while I turned to Farac. He lowered his ungloved hand.
Oh, I'd sell my stuff, you little shite...
I took Shenandoah's other side. The young man was three sheets to the wind, and it showed. A few well-placed words and gestures would do the trick nicely (though no shaking the tits, he seemed to be more smitten by the same gender as himself)...
...Farac, on the other hand, relied on his magic.
Pearls in front of the pigs, as the Teressians said.
This magic would be a powerful tool, if used sparingly. It certainly made things quicker, but it only seemed to be able to push someone into a direction, not turn him around completely.
Force of will might be a means against it...
...either that or a dagger in Farac's throat.
His actions did not miss their mark, though, and the young husband to the old queen certainly did not help the impression planted in the head of the young Prince.
Where things would lead...

Celina Mangaire of the Tribe of Wexford.
In a way, Riderch was the complete opposite to that Farac-Guy Cel had dragged to me.
That, and he reminded me of Uncle Nuada - as in, Nuada Gluaisrothar of the Tribe of Wexford, the CEO of Gabha Motorworks. Granted, in his younger years, Uncle Nuada had been one evil Motherfucker, but nowadays he was everyone's Uncle or Gramps or whatever, depending on the degree of relation.
Riderch made the impression of an honest, open-hearted smile.
I let him take the lead after a few steps, let him and his open smile take me for a spin.
I mistrusted him the moment he took my hand.
Someone, who could show himself as powerless as Riderch, was hiding something...
...even if it was a severe inability to choose a good story to tell:
"You have quite a beautiful name.", he said and I bowed my head lightly. It was a compliment. "It rings with reminiscence of Queen Sebile of Sarmenie."
Okay...
"A powerful and beautiful pagan queen who lusted after many men, enticing otherwise would-be noble knights to her bedroom chambers with such success that legends hold her as a powerful sorceress and enchantress."
I was blinking once. So... he complimented my name, compared it to some Queen's... who apparently seduced enough knights to to be called a sorceress. Not only knights, but also noble knights.
I was a bit too perplexed to simply ram my knee into his groin, I will admit.
"But eventually in one of Arthur's crusades, she captures his knight Sagramore and in a twist of fate fell in love with him. But Sagramore refused her advances, demanding that she become a Christian and that they wed. And most ironically, she did. The woman who had once seduced many Christian lords and warriors to her side now found herself converting to Christianity for the sake of love."
I blinked. Okay...
I smiled.
"An interesting story. I must admit to wondering, why you chose this one to tell me.", I told him as we danced, "I am far from a seductress leading men of noble character into my bed - in fact, I often wonder if I will be able to find my one, true love one of these days." I let a beat pass. "And I most certainly do not plan to convert to Christianity, neither for love nor for anything else. I do plan to convert good men into buying weapons from me, however."
I smiled.
"I have seen how you looked at Fi, though.", I added, "Get your business with her underway, then we'll talk."

[Carameon]

"Okay. So, famines due to a cooling climate, is that correct? And, what crops are you growing in Sweden as of now?" Neri had quite a few cold-loving crops to suggest- After all, they were the basis of the Mandate's economy. Both staple crops and valuable exports had been developed, through careful breeding and genetic engineering, allowing his nation to create a more self-sufficient economy. He was happy to help the king of Sweden in his plight.

“Bere, spelt, rye, oats, and uh… I am not sure. You must ask my Minister of Agriculture, Mister Spjälle, he will know what to tell you.”

Shenandoah’s eyes widened as they met with Andor’s. A devious grin upon the young man’s face, as he took his mother’s hip in one hand and her hand in the other, spinning around upon the dance floor like a pair of roses in the snow. Shenandoah could almost feel his heart stop, skipping a beat, as sweat poured down his forehead and through his cheeks. Vomit almost began to climb up his throat, before he gulped it down and wiped his sweat off his face.

“My, if anything were to happen to that pretentious gold-digger, I don’t think he would be very missed…” Farac commented, before glancing over to Grimmur and Tiberias as he readjusted his tie. “There’s no reason to let him push you around is there?”

As he gulped down his throat and calmed down for a moment, his heart began to race once more, but with rage rather than fear. His eyes narrowed down into a glare as he stared at his rival, his brows furrowing as his fists hardened, clenching upon the bottle of wine that cracks almost began to appear. Wind passed out his nose like fire from a dragon’s breath turning sand into glass.

Tiberias noticed as his wrath penetrated the distance between him and Andor, almost shattering the space between them that hellfire would bleed out like wine from a broken glass. She tugged at her husband’s shirt, pointing towards Shenandoah’s table, and Grimmur saw Farac nodding in his direction as he adjusted his purple tie. He nodded in acknowledgement, approaching Queen Tekakwitha and his nephew.

“Your majesty,” he addressed without necessarily making clear which monarch he was addressing. “It seems to me unfitting that crown prince Shenandoah has secluded himself to surround himself with men for the duration of Christmas Eve. Perhaps he’d like to join us on the dance floor? My wife Tiberias would be willing to share his hand for the evening.”

Tekakwitha looked over to her son with a mixture of disdain and concern, clicking her tongue as his antisocial behaviors seemed to soil their image in the party once more. She noticed his face- Red as wine, completely inebriated as he leaned more over to one side of the chair he was sitting on, realizing how terrible of an idea it might be to have her heir join them on the dance floor now. She’d have to scold him properly later, but now was not the time to-

“A brilliant idea!” Andor jumped at the opportunity to humiliate his rival, and called out to Shenandoah from across the room. “Shenandoah! Join us for a dance, will you? Surely, you would not be solely interested in professing your love to the men whose table you’d shared for the past few hours!”

While Shenandoah now shared his table with Fiona and Farac, he had been sitting with Cristopher and Riderch for the past few hours, and some among the crowd had already begun to suspect his sexual preferences. To preserve his legitimacy, he would have to at the very least seem interested in women, so now to decline could mean giving strength to Andor’s comment as an accusation rather than as a mere jest.

The young man grit his teeth and scratched at the table, glaring at Andor with a fiery rage in his eyes that almost shattered the space around him like a bottle of wine being smashed across someone’s head.

“What are you going to do?” Farac asked with a smile as he sipped upon a glass of wine.

“I’m going to stand up,” and so he did. Noticing Grimmur letting Tiberias go to approach him, Shenandoah took her hands, and with some amount of confusion began to stumble and stagger with her in circles upon the ballroom floor.

Her cheeks were flushed as she stared at the ground for a moment, her heart almost sinking while beating rapidly at the same time. His hand was rough and hard, but its warmth touched her own causing her to feel a fire in her heart and face. As they stumbled upon the ballroom floor, the crowd around them was buzzing with whispers and murmurs, some even giggling and pointing.

“Shenandoah…” she called out under her breath, looking upwards to see the face of the handsome young man she was dancing with, only to find that his eyes were set elsewhere. To the other side of the ballroom, Shenandoah stared with raging envy at Riderch as he danced with Celina.

"...But eventually in one of Arthur's crusades, she captures his knight Sagramore and in a twist of fate fell in love with him. But Sagramore refused her advances, demanding that she become a Christian and that they wed. And most ironically, she did. The woman who had once seduced many Christian lords and warriors to her side now found herself converting to Christianity for the sake of love."

Celina blinked and then smiled. Okay...

"An interesting story. I must admit to wondering, why you chose this one to tell me," she told him as they danced, "I am far from a seductress leading men of noble character into my bed - in fact, I often wonder if I will be able to find my one, true love one of these days."

She let a beat pass, "And I most certainly do not plan to convert to Christianity, neither for love nor for anything else. I do plan to convert good men into buying weapons from me, however."

"I have seen how you looked at Fi, though,” She added with a smile upon her face, "Get your business with her underway, then we'll talk."

Riderch’s brows furrowed. A sharp pain shot across his head, followed by a throbbing sensation concentrated in different parts of his skull. He heard a high pitched ringing in his ears, as Celina’s face distorted before him. He could almost feel vomit climbing up his throat as he stopped for a moment, glaring at the woman he was dancing with in some amount of confusion.

“My apologies madame,” he said as he grasped his own head. “Why- I- No. I must return to my friends. I am no warmonger.”

Shenandoah hadn’t even noticed that Tiberias had said anything, as he continued to stare jealously at Riderch and Celina. Tiberias’s heart sank even further as her eyes widened with the realization that Shenandoah was far more interested in Riderch than he was in her. Her cheeks pouted as her brows furrowed, her little hands gripping harder upon his as they began to approach Andor and Tekakwitha.

As Shenandoah found himself drunk and distracted, he was unable to notice where Tiberias had been dragging him towards- And as Shenandoah allowed himself to be dragged around by the young girl while his attention was elsewhere, she stomped her foot in front of his as they were adjacent to the two monarchs. Letting go of his hands, Tiberias pulled herself away from him, slipping back to her husband’s side with a glare of disdain for not being paid attention to.

Suddenly, Shenandoah found himself losing balance. He crashed into Andor, breaking him apart from Tekakwitha as he stumbled into the floor like a fool. In that brief glimpse of time, Farac blew into the knots on his finger towards their direction-

Gasps scattered across the crowd, as whispers and murmurs emerged among the partygoers. Shenandoah picks himself up from the floor, grasping his aching chest before he finds himself staring up at Andor. Andor for a moment is shocked and surprised, but the gasp on his face transforms into a devilish grin as he curled his lips and turned up his nose.

“What’s wrong Shen? A little tipsy maybe?”

Shenandoah grit his teeth and clenched his fists, holding back his rage as he glared at the man, “Spare me your false pity, Andor. You don’t really care.”

“Why my dear Shen, I’m hurt! Of course I care, after all, what king doesn’t support his subjects- I mean what father doesn’t support his future son?”

Shenandoah stood upright, staggering with drunken stupor and barely managing to avoid falling over as he glared deep into the younger man’s eyes.

“You’re not my father.”

“I will be.”

The air around them fell silent with tension, as all eyes stared anxiously and with intensity as the two men faced one another in the center of the room. Every pair had stopped square across the marble floor like a rose setting into the snow, as they watched with enough anxiety to shatter glass. Tongues were tied as sweat poured like wine from broken botles, and hearts beat like the siren of an ambulance. As the grinning Andor placed his hand upon his belt with anxiety and excitement as the glaring Shenandoah clenched and hardened his fists, Tekakwitha came in between them and held both men’s hands.

“Now, let’s all calm down and apologize. This is a gathering in the name of our Lord and Savior-”

“Apologize? I did nothing wrong. Its your son who disrespected me. He seethes with jealousy at me for some reason, and denies our right to wed and would foil our alliance to serve his petty and worthless ego. I suggest that he kneel and kiss my finger to apologize-”

Before Andor could finish his sentence, Shenandoah launched his fist towards Andor. His knuckles crash square into his jaw, smashing his teeth away as blood flowed like wine from his gums. Andor’s teeth fly across the room and land on the floor like shards of shattered glass, as he grasped his mouth in utter shock with his bloodstained hand.

It took everyone a moment to process what just happened. Hearts skipped a beat, as murmurs and whispering came to a sudden immediate halt. All heads turned in Andor’s direction, as the young man screamed at the sight of broken teeth in a pool of blood in his own hand while Shenandoah stood there with knuckles dyed red.

“Y-You! You’ll pay for that!”

Andor lunges forward, launching himself into Shenandoah as his fists crash into his opponent’s face, pushing him back across the dance floor. They each traded blows, and with each gasp and each murmur from among the crowd, blood dripped and landed across the marble white floor, roses in the snow.

Farac got up from his seat, an approving smile upon his face and Fiona’s hand in his. He took a single sip of wine before putting down the glass on the table, and blowing into more of his knots. He took Fiona away from the table, and soon the pair of royals approached.

Andor dug his fists deep into Shenandoah, launching him back before rushing in for another blow. With continuous momentum, the prince is pushed back again and again with little chance to retaliate. His nose shattered like glass as blood poured out and flowed like wine, while his eye became as dark as olives before he crashed into his own table. The table legs broke and shattered like bone, and Shenandoah noticed the bottle of Greek wine rolling onto the floor besides him as Andor lunged forward.

This had to stop, so thought the queen. The alliance with Vinland had been so vital to her ambitions, that she had ignored her own son for too long in favor of this young foreigner. He had let his drinking get the better of him for far too long, and allowed him to induldge himself in all manners of degeneracy to cope with her betrothal for too long. She had allowed herself to be frozen for far too long, and snapped out of it, launching herself in between the two men to separate them.

“Stop this at once!”

As Andor made his approach, Shenandoah grabbed the bottle of wine besides him and launched up from the floor, swinging the bottle of wine by the neck towards his face- And smashed it into his mother’s head. The glass shattered alongside her skull on impact, as blood and wine splattered all over the marble floor. Tekakwitha dropped to the floor, blood flowing out with wine from every orifice across her face as her eyes lay lifeless like glass staring at the walls. The red and white accents of her dress join the blood and wine across the marble white floor like an open wound, decorating it red on white like roses in the snow.

It took Shenandoah a moment to realize what had just happened. Screams filled the air, as gasps and murmurs scattered around like wildfire. Even Andor had to take a moment out of utter shock, unable to comprehend what just happened. Meanwhile a pair of smiles decorated the faces of Farac and Grimmur, now taking one another’s side each with their own female counterparts on one side of the ballroom.

In his drunken stupor, Shenandoah stood there motionless, staring at the body whose life he had just taken. As his vision returned to him past the blood dripping over his face and across his eyes, he began to see her old female figure. The red and white dress that she had been wearing as she had been laid out across the floor like a rose in snow, and his eyes widened. Vomit crawled up his throat as his hands shook and shuddered with fear and shock at what he had just done. His heart skipped several beats, as he was barely able to mutter a single word to express his shock.

“M-Mom?”

There was no time to mourn. Andor realized what had just happened, and saw his rival frozen in shock as guilt flowed like blood and wine all over him. Shenandoah grasps and scratches at his face as his eyes widened, and his lips parted for his mouth to open and let out a blood curdling scream of despair. All the while, Andor took out the gun in his belt and aimed for the head.

“Andor, no! Get a hold of yourself!” Riderch rushed to his side, taking grasp of the young man’s hand and pointing it away from Shenandoah toward the ceiling. Christopher dashed away from Virtanen and rushed towards Shenandoah’s side, placing his hand on his shoulder as the young man fell to his knees in despair. Tears flowed from his eyes as Christopher stopped him from scratching across his bleeding face, holding back his hands and patting his back as he knelt by his side.

“Let go of me, you upstart lesser king!” Andor shouted as he struggled with Riderch for control of the gun. As Riderch struggled to keep the gun pointed away from Shenandoah, Andor struggled in the opposite direction until such that it was aimed to his side instead while his fingers climbed onto the trigger.

Christopher didn’t know what to say. He was speechless as Shenandoah was, unsure what to make of the situation- Only that he knew that he needed his friends, and the situation needed de-escalation.

“Shen, its-”

Their eyes barely registered the brief and sudden flicker of light as smoke emerged from the barrel of Andor’s gun like the grey of Riderch’s eyes. Ringing in their ears as the air between them shattered with the cracking of a whip as everything was followed by silence. Eyes widened and hearts skipped a beat while one stopped as they all looked down- Only wine stained Shenandoah’s chest, while Christopher’s red clothes were being soaked. He grasped at his chest, and saw his hand. Red like wine, dripping down unto the marble floor and painting it like roses in the snow.

“Shen, I-” He turned to his friend for a brief moment, his eyes staring into his before he fell over to the ground, the life leaving his irises as tears flowed out.

The utter shock of it all causes Riderch to loosen his grip, as he took a moment to register the event. Taking advantage of the situation, Andor launched his fist out of Riderch’s grasp and aimed his gun at the other man.

“Fuck off!”

Another gunshot rang through the air, as air as grey as Riderch’s eyes flowed from the barrel of Andor’s gun. Riderch crashed onto the ballroom floor, grasping at his abdomen as blood stained his shirt and jacket. Andor stood tall over him, walking up to him and aiming his pistol once more, this time for Riderch’s head.

Shenandoah’s eyes turned to his direction. His eyes widening, he had no time to mourn. He sprang up on his feet, and dashed towards Andor, pushing his gun away to the side as he opened fire at the crowd instead. As the stray bullet flew away from Riderch, Andor found himself struggling once more with his rival for control of the firearm. Both men grit their teeth as their muscles shuddered to maintain control over Andor’s firing hand, and each one’s eyes met the other in piercing glares. Shenandoah used both hands to take control of Andor’s hand, while Andor used his free hand to punch Shenandoah’s face until it was pulped, black, and bloody. But Shenandoah did not relent.

The gun inched away from the opposite direction, as Shenandoah pushed it towards Andor’s own face. His eyes widened as he almost bit his tongue at the realization of what was to happen. He kept on pummeling Shenandoah’s face until he spit out a bloody tooth. With both hands and arms, Andor was powerless to stop Shenandoah from pointing his own gun at his face. He stared thus into the barrel of his own gun, his life flashing before his eyes in that very moment.

Shenandoah’s fingers crawled unto Andor’s, gripping the trigger of his own gun. He’d dreamed of this moment before, knowing it impossible, but even then he couldn’t even do this with a smile on his face, knowing what just happened. He narrowed his eyes with determination and grit his teeth, and he pulled the trigger.

Darkness. Had he the moment to hear, he’d have heard ringing in his ears after seeing his own bullet pass in between his eyes. Not another thought passed his mind, as his fingers let go of his own gun and his knees lost all power as he stared straight forward before falling face first onto the floor.

Screams filled the ballroom as Shenandoah fell to his knees, as attendants fled in all directions with panic and fright. His could feel his hands going numb as all noise faded into the background, his vision blurring as everything grew distant and out of place. The clock struck twelve, and it was soon Christmas day.

“How does it feel to be king, Grimmur?” Farac asked with a smile.

For the first time during the entire night, the large bear-like man actually truly smiled. “Exhilarating. Truly the best Christmas present I could ask for.”

As whispers and murmurs dissipated, replaced by screams of panic and fear filling the air, Farac could not help but have a smile on his face. With Fiona, Grimmur, and Tiberias by his side, this smile soon curls wide open as a gasp and a giggle escaped his lungs. He began clapping his hands together with excitement as he howled with laughter drowned with screams while everyone was too busy panicking to notice.

“Merry Christmas.”