29 October 2012 - Michael Janvier

Lion's Reach - Pride's Court

         This cavernous space is situated at the heart of the freehold. A wide oval shape spread out like the grandest of cathedrals, it is both opulent and delicate in turn. The walls and floor all appear to be built from glass, giving an unimpeded view of the ocean's depths, which surround the lower portion of the castle. The waters are a stunning mix of deep blues and murky purples, lanced through by visible currents of warmer, turquoise and aqua. Pale, mottled marble edges the floor and seamlessly works its way through the glass, creating narrow, curling pathways along the floor and climbing in delicate sworls and curlicues. Punctuating the walls are recessed niches of black pearl spaced every fifty feet or so along the oval. The ceiling of this chamber is so high that it fades to shadow for all but the sharpest of eyes. Balconies dot the interior of the tower, providing the rooms above with a view of the Court chamber below. Grecian columns circle the room, bronze braziers suspended from either side, each holding a magically burning fire that adds to the illumination provided by either the sun or moon shimmering above, over the water, casting dappled shadows along the floor.

        Along the far wall is a raised dais of marble, coral and edged in silver and pearls. The banner of the lord and lady is hung as a backdrop to the great chairs that grace the dais. One of pale abalone, the other of black pearl, both have a faint glow and pearlescent sheen of color.

        Outside the hold, beyond the glass walls, great shapes can often be glimpsed. The shadow of a leviathan body, a burst of bubbles from the murky waters below, a drift of a massive tentacle against the glass. From directly below, the true heart of the freehold can be seen, boiling and roiling in the water. The pulsing lava heart of the balefire, shrouded in a haze of superheated water and steam, seen as if through a veil of fog below.

Mid morning finds the sidhe at breakfast. The usual table and chairs have been forsaken, instead a new set has been found to accomidate the Count's recent... changes. Crafted from ebony and onyx, with silver chasings studded in ruby, the bench and its matching table are gorgeous. Not quite as magnificent as the Count, nor the massive, draconic wings now gracing his back. Heavily muscled, scaled in mother-of-pearl shading, the wings are breathtaking. Beside him, as always is Garth.. no. Ionae. That's right. The two appear to be eating, the Count favoring a heavy protein selection, while the Countess nibbles on a dense bread.

The wings are indeed a new addition, as is the vaguely uneasy feeling about him, not that /he/ is uneasy, but rather that awareness that there was the calm before the storm present. He is very much, at the moment, the embodiment of it. Such a thing does not bother him, or clearly has not had an affect on his appetite, for he is making short work of the eggs and stacked ham steaks set before him. In fact the yolk has been destroyed, running over the steaks like a syrup might a stack of pancakes. "Your stomach is well?" he asks after a bite -- for as much as he savors the food, he does manage to swallow between bites and is capable of conversing.

The morning finds Carolyn making her way into the court from the air bridge. She slows as she catches sight of Dyson and his new...accoutrements. Curiosity redirects her feet toward the table and she gives the occupants a polite nod, nearly a bow, of greeting. "G' morning," she says, irish accent more apparent than usual today. The wings pretty much command her attention. "How are you both?"

"The tea from Eden has been extremely helpful." Ionae returns, setting down her bread. When Carolyn approaches there is a gleam in Ionae's eye. "Ah, Carolyn. Most excellent. You should come and join us. Have some of this bread, it is extremely good."

"Then it is that she has my gratitude. I intend to make a gift for her, but it has been taking a second place to the one that..." Ah, yes, there is Carolyn's entry. His words momentarily slow as he watches her arrival, his own greeting coming by way of an inclination of his head. His statement does however continue, "...the other I work on." Perhaps there was a minor disconnect there, but still. In wake of them, he says, "Greetings, Carolyn. Well enough, thank you. How is it that you fare?"

Rarely one to turn down food, Carolyn smiles her thanks, and takes a chair at the table. "Quite well," she answers the count. "The wings," she goes on, "Are quite impressive." She helps her self to eggs, and the bread, and also butter and jam.

Ionae sidelongs to Leras at Carolyn's observation but, as she slides a poached egg onto her own plate, she says nothing. She's all smiles when she looks to the Scathach and asks, "Have you encountered the good Baron again?"

There is a moment of stillness from the Count with the mention of the wings. His head inclines rather fully, features obscured by shadow for but a moment before his chin lifts. There are no words of gratitude offered, but he does go for another healthy sized bite from his ham and egg, savoring the taste of it before setting down his silverware and turning towards his wife with her words. His eyes narrow just a touch, hand extending to settle atop of hers, as he awaits the reply from the Scathach.

That's one way to get Carolyn on a diet. Carolyn puts down the piece of bread she had almost to her mouth, and shakes her head. "No, thankfully," she responds. Carolyn grits her teeth a minute, then gives a brief shake and picks the bread up again. "Thankfully," she repeats. "I suppose he's still around some where?"

"Oh, that's a shame. I have actually been hoping to see him again. I had a very questions for him." Ionae seems to be having no issue with her appetite. She merrily takes a bite of egg and a bit of ham. She does however lose the smile briefly, eyes darting to her husband seemingly at random. She gives him a bit of a look and then continues eating.

"I do not imagine, with him so intent on his marriage," and there is a pause there by Leras temporarily as if by way of thought before he continues, "that he would depart." This is spoken vaguely in agreement to Carolyn, as if to support her thought that he must still be about. When his wife looks towards him, the eye contact is made temporarily before he drops his focus back to his plate. Her hand is squeezes one final time before he resumes work on his food. Breakfast has evidently become an important meal for him, the way that he is taking in the food.

Carolyn ohs, looking up after looking away from the count and his shadow. His statement gets a nod, though, before she looks back at Ionae. "What..." she turns, hearing the click of boots on stone.

Bootheels click across the floor of the court, footsteps slow as Michael Janvier, Baron High Ridge, makes his way across from the Air Bridge. Gangling limbs move in somewhat spiderlike fashion as he approaches the table. The sidhe bows, the gesture metered precisely to fit the station of those at the table.

"How marvelous," Ionae drawls in her accented tones, eyes brightly pinning Janvier on the spot. "We were JUST speaking of you. Why your ears must be simply aflame." Ionae drapes her napkin over her lap and pushes her plate away from her, her eyes on the Balor, no little amount of glee dancing in the jeweled depths. The smile on her face seems to be a genuine thing as she looks at the Balor.

With the approach of the Balor, Leras' eyes swing in that direction and any shadowy thing that might have been seen previously is now amplified tenfold. His eyes narrow to slivers, a vaguely viper-like look about him as he assesses the other man. There is a response to the bow however, his own by way of a curt nod of his head before he continues to steadily watch him throughout. Not even the glee from his wife causes his eye to stray.

Carolyn stiffens and refuses to turn and look at the baron. Instead, she has a bit of the excellent bread.

Michael Janvier smiles slightly at the Countess' welcome. "No, not burning at all my lady." The sidhe turns his gaze on Carolyn. "M'lady. I've come to see if you are ready to travel soon? We have much to do in preparation."

"Yes, of course. Your travels. Mmmm." Ionae taps a finger to her lips and looks to Janvier with a curiously content expression. "I do not know if you are aware of this, Janvier," Yes, she ignores all reference to his title, addressing him as if he were not nobility, "But Miss Owen here, she is my fledge. So... I am forced to ask... what -precisely- do you think will happen when she refuses to go anywhere with you?"

For a moment, just a moment, it appears as if Leras was going to interject with his own words. As it stands however he simply polishes off the remainder of his ham and then also changes direction from the meal to regard the Balor in full. In fact, he rises to his full height from his bench and takes one precise step so that he can rest there behind the Countess, like some silent sentinel. That serpentine gaze of his remains locked on the Baron, waiting patiently.

Michael Janvier bows slightly and spreads his hands. "Of course, some negotiations are to be expected, but Im sure no true daughter of Scatach would make her house into oath breakers." He stands straight, a faint smile on his face. Janvier's eyes rise to Dyson's face, as the Count stands behind his COuntess and then return, apparently unworriedly, to Ionae. "With all the attendant curses involved..."

"No, no... of course not. Oath Breaking.. that's... mmm. The Dreaming does not like being lied to, does it?" There's an amiable sort of smile, something close to comraderie shared between Ionae and Janvier. "I mean, -really-. Who does that? Obscures or alters the truth to suit their own twisted purposes. Why... if someone like that came into my sight..." She makes a tsking sound, plucking up an apple from the table. With a subtle surge of her glamour, the apple is no longer fruit, and simply glass. Which she then "accidentally" drops onto the marble and glass floor, where the fragile thing shatters nicely. Mind your feet.

Now here is an interesting twist. Though there was a heavy weight about him, his glamour, before? It is something that intensifies with each and every friendly word that his wife speaks to the Balor Baron. His jaw sets and he says not a word, though it is so clearly obvious that he wishes to, the barometric pressure about him dropping further before finally there is a break, his glamour sizzling across his form, the equivalent of going from zero to sixty in a single second. Not even the threat that comes thereafter manages to ease him, for there is still that possessive presence about him, seen in the way that he moves his hand to the back of her neck, fingers drawing her hair aside so that they can more fully brush the skin present there. After the drop of the apple, the shatter against the ground, he even goes so far as to lower his head in one graceful movement to press his lips against a few reddish marks. It is a brief thing and never, ever, do his eyes stray.

Carolyn is looking at Ionae, expression guarded, but clearly thinking the countess either has found something or has a plan. High Ridge merely shrugs. "I fail to see your point, Countess," Janvier says in his rich voice with its Oxford accent. The count, however, has apparently unnerved the other sidhe. Janvier bows and steps back. "Perhaps another day would be better to continue this discussion.

"Or perhaps, the coward, when faced with his crimes, turns tail like the dog he is." Ionae's voice carries the chill of deep earth. Leras' lips on her neck, his revealing the healing bite marks along her throat in no way changes the imperior manner of the sidhe. Her anger is merely fed by him and as his glamour merges with hers, his anger and aggression becomes her own, cold, coiled and striking.

Finally the Count's naturally soft voice lifts, joining that of his wife's in offering towards the Balor. The first words, in fact, that he has spoken to him this day. "My wife has not yet dismissed you." When his lips leave his wife's neck, his fingers remain there, thumb absently stroking back and forth as if the slight motion brought some sense of steadying peace to him.

"Coward," Janvier's aristocratic cool breaks, and he nearly hisses the word. "How cowardly is it to come into a court prejudiced against one from the outset? Alone? How cowardly to walk openly in that court and endure the dark looks and the whispers with never a word. How much courage, rather, to call another names from the seat of your power, Countess?" He regains control of his voice and stands straight again. Janvier looks at the count, then back at the countess. "Very well, countess, I ask your leave to depart."

"Denied." Ionae replies, eyes boring into the Balor's furious face. "You are not going anywhere after your attempted deception. You are a liar and I will know why you have attempted to spirit away one that we call our own." There is that steady coolness to Ionae's voice. As she speaks, more of the marble guardians enter the room, a number of them blocking the arch to the rath and more still barricading the exit to the Air Bridge.

"It is either as my wife says," Leras remarks, his voice a low and sober thing, staring at the Balor in an unflinching manner as he considers him at length. "Else you have been deceived as we have. Tell us from where this proclamation you have delivered was obtained?" His eyes narrow just the slightest bit more, as though attempting to pierce through the veil of deception.

Carolyn stands, and turns to face the Balor, grey eyes glittering. Triumph? Relief? Anger? Some mix of them all, really. She looks over her shoulder where Ionae sits at a table, laden with a late breakfast, Learas behind her standing tall and protective. Grey eyes turn back to Michael Janvier a few paces away. Aruond the edges of the room, the marble guardians gather, blocking the arch to the rath and to the air bridge.

Michael Janvier smiles, sneers almost, "Why? for reasons of my house." He looks at Carolyn and bows slightly, hands spreading regretfully. "You would have had high station amongst us, my dear. Are you sure you want to throw that away?"

"For reasons of your House?" Ionae challenges, unaffected by his sneering tone. "And as for the high station? What worth is station to a Scathach? They do not dally in the politics of the high houses. Your play has failed. And I'll see you imprisoned for your part in this."

So it is that there is a scene in the Court. No, really, there is a /scene/ in the court. Some of the Spartan guardians have taken up post at the exits, resolve firm. There is a table crafted from ebony and onyx with silver chasing studded in ruby with a bench to match. The table is set with a variety of breakfast foods, partially consumed. The new furniture is likely due to the fact that the Count has appeared to acquire wings. Now these are the predominantly noticeable things about him, viewable upon observation, though there is an uncanny other element present. Call it the fact that it almost appears as if the atmosphere pressure about him was lower, as if he was the calm before the storm. Even now, with his glamour clearly active, there is something withheld. Of course this may simply be that he is on the cusp of a Sidhe turning impassioned, for he rests dangerously close behind his wife, while the interloping Balor Baron stands before them. "I find it peculiar," he says, "that matters of the House would wish an untried Scathach. Once more, I say that she is but a fledge. Again I ask where the documents you hold were acquired."

Ferdinand trundles along and stumbles into the bru-ha-ha innocently. of course. He's humming cheerfully to himself, though eyebrows will arch high in curiosity at the brewing storm.

Michael Janvier bows again, spreading his hands and clicking his heels, first to Learas. "The document has been in my house's archives for some time," the sidhe says. He steps forward and bows again, complete with heel click, to Ionae this time. "For reasons of my house," the Baron agrees. "And some scathach, those with sense, do seek and attain high station. It is rare, I will admit." He steps forward and bows to Carolyn, again complete with heel click, "I hope you will understand, in time," he says as he reaches out to take her hand in apology. "But there is no place like home, my dear," he says. Glamour coalesces around Janvier....and Carolyn. She starts to pull her hand away, but ... they vanish.

Ionae is on her feet, snarling, even as she brings her magic to bear -- a second too late for the Baron and his prize have disappeared. "We will find him and his punishment will be all the more severe."

The Countess is not the only one to try to sweep in and interject the advancement of the Balor, for it seems as if the Count himself has had quite enough. Even as Javier is reaching the Scathach, he lifts a hand, glamour traveling about his fingers as a mercurial thing, leaping towards Janvier's and starting to melt at it. Alas, there is no unweaving this spell, for the pair are gone before his own attempt can manifest. "Do you believe that he has taken her from whence he came?" he asks his wife, annoyance in the forefront of his voice, his tongue briefly touching upon a sharp incisor. "Preparations and then a wisp?"

Ferdinand raises a paw to wave at the trio of familiar sidhe - Lord Storm Lady Autumn, and Lady Sturn-und-Drang "'allo! Is there a party of some sor-?" And then its all quick getaways and ill magicks flying about. The munchmausen's left paw drops down to draw hi sblade, but as is usually the case with these things, its too late.