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libertineangel · 3 years

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"Some wine, Madach?" Viscount Hastien offered.

"I'd prefer tea, thank you," Captal Madach answered, waving his hand slightly, "I don't like to drink on business."

"Of course, best to keep the mind sharp on such occasions," Hastien replied with a thin smile. He retrieved a small bell from the underside of the great dining table they were sat at, rang it clearly and then spoke directly to it, requesting a pot of rose tea and two cups befitting the honoured guest's station. Noticing Madach's curiosity, he smiled again.

"Convenient, isn't it? A gift from a mage I gave some assistance to some months ago, its twin in the kitchen repeats anything said to it after it's rung."

A moment later, Delam arrived with a silver platter bearing a delicately-painted porcelain teapot and two matching teacups.

"Very good - hold, I didn't think we had any Dunmer among the serving staff. What's your name, when did you join here?" Hastien's eyes narrowed.

"Hlenil, sir," replied Delam, his voice quiet and his head low, "I've been kitchen staff for a month but the evening drinks server's absent tonight, I hear they came down with a fever."

"Very well, as long as you can pour without spilling. Don't keep the good Captal waiting, nor myself, and remain in the serving-space until you’re required.” Delam nodded, then set the two cups and filled them both before retreating to the small alcove in the wall behind the table.

“I hope it’s to your liking,” Hastien remarked after they’d both taken their first sips.

“Indeed, you run your kitchen well.”

“Thank you.” Hastien paused a moment, cleared his throat and took a slow, deep breath. “Now, returning to our previous discussion – I really would suggest you consider my offer a little more seriously. It’s in both our best interests, yours more than mine even, I’d wager, and I don’t see what harm it could do you.”

“You’ve made your case well, I assure you, but I’m afraid under the current terms my decision is final,” Madach replied, his voice still friendly enough but with a subtle edge. “I think you overestimate the likelihood of an alliance in Daenia, even a tenuous one, and to be frank I think you underestimate my ability to hold my own. I’ll concede that you have the greater numbers, the wealth too, but my land is better-situated than yours, and my marshal is a formidable commander.

“Oh, you don’t need to convince me of the strength of your land, I’m well aware of that, you’re likely the best-positioned in southern Urvaius, but even Tiber Septim couldn’t defend a mountain fort if he fought an army alone, and you said it yourself, you don’t have the soldiers.”

“Perhaps not if the Daenian lords really do align, but unless you’ve heard rumours the rest of us haven’t, I’m content to trust that their attention will stay in the southwest like it always has.” Madach felt impatience creep into his voice, so he paused a moment before continuing, “if anything, I’d be more concerned about a potential alliance to our north.”

“Oh really?” This worried Hastien, and he took a drink to try and distract from his blinking in surprise. “Well that’s certainly news to me, and I’d have thought word would reach me first, of the two of us.”

“Well, I do have a few good ears in the right places,” Madach said as he sat back a little and allowed himself a slight smile, thinking his gambit successful, taking a drink himself.

“Of course, you can’t expect me to propose a fresh agreement on that alone – after all, I think we’ve well-established these things aren’t to be signed on hearsay,” Hastien chuckled a little, but the tension in his voice undermined it.

“No, of course not,” Madach smiled a little more. “These things are determined by the hard facts, and as such I think you’ll find this one interesting,” and from his waistcoat he retrieved a small medallion, emblazoned on one side with a coat of arms, and placed it on the table before them. “A token from Marchioness Armene in Anticlere, we have an agreement already in place.” He drank some more, keenly observing the reaction.

“I see,” Hastien replied, keeping his voice carefully even. “I’m impressed, she’s far from easy to bargain with, especially for those of less well-off holdings.”

“I have my ways, Viscount, and I trust you understand a little better my self-confidence.”

This remark struck Hastien as somewhat arrogant, and his indignation shook off some of his concern.

“Perhaps, but unless your agreement with the Marchioness involves a loan of her army or the contents of her treasury I think you still have rather more faith than I would in your position. I never thought my proposal charity, Captal, but I think you’re in greater need of support than you realise.”

“And why is that, Viscount? Do you know of a threat bearing down upon me, perhaps an assassin under my nose, a siege upon my keep while I’m here negotiating? I hope it’s not more simple rumours.”

“Of course not, it’s-” Hastien paused and took a breath, regretting his choice of words. “You are new to this game, Madach, and I am not. I can spot a tenuous position, and I see one in yours, and if I were you I would remain a little more humble.”

“I’m aware of your experience, Viscount, don’t think me so foolish as to dismiss it, but I came here for a negotiation, not a lesson in statecraft, and your attempts to scare me are futile. If my position is so tenuous, why not strike me yourself, be rid of a competitor and gain stronger ground?”

“I have my reasons,” Hastien replied curtly, “just as I have my reasons for the proposal I invited you here to discuss.” He took a drink before continuing. “I know you’re no fool, and I know you’re not helpless, were you either we wouldn’t be having this discussion. Let me then propose a revised set of terms, ones I think you’ll find more agreeable.”

Delam refilled the teacups, and listened intently.

#tesfest21 #delam farano #tes #the elder scrolls

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frauleindermorgen · 3 years

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garments of the gods

class mastery drabble. warning for RD spoilers and this whole piece being in second person

Some say the woman who raised you was a priestess, and perhaps she served the goddess, but if so she did it in secret for it was only the Apostle who was said to hear Her voice. Begnion beliefs held sway even in a poor Daenian border town like hers and the people who went to see her for fortunes and cures did so surreptitiously.

More likely she communed with spirits – the kind even the most powerful of mages spoke in hushed whispers of, but she never told you what they had to say; instead, she taught you how to forage for edible plants, as well as which to avoid for fear of harm, and the odd ones that could do both harm and good.

It was that skill that saved you more than anything else, especially in the cold of winter her death. The few in the community who knew of you spoke of the priestess’s “little apprentice”, but none of them came to check on you that winter. You saw them only after the thaw, only when they needed their charms and cures again and that was how you found out that being a priestess was a lonely thing indeed.

For some time the only permanent fixture of the Daein palace’s royal chambers are the clothes you hung there, given to you by Yune. Neither the room nor the garments suit you and you think for that reason they suit each other well.

Ever since you first met Yune’s moods and yours have been closely in sync, and that is truer now than ever since she’s woken up and started to see the world through your eyes, walk the changed lands of Tellius in your boots.

Yet when her heart is hurt from Stefan’s sudden question and the fear palpable in her (your) throat as Ashera’s soldiers’ stand again and again - flesh knitting back together each time they are struck down - it is not you who brings her back from the brink and gives her comfort but Ike. It is a strange mix of the warmth of thanks and the bite of envy that fills you when in the next moment the goddess bestows upon you a transformation.

You really wish she would have talked this over with you or at least given you back your boots if she means for you to enter combat but the only assurance you hear are her words to Ike: “Once we get inside you can leave the fighting to Micaiah!”

You get the chance to ask her about it that night when probably you should be sleeping.

“Hey,” you whisper quietly, exchanging words with Yune using your own mouth feels odd but it is easier to hold a conversation that way without becoming lost in her or your own memories.

“Hey, Yune. What are these clothes based on anyway?”

You turn on your side and Yune is suddenly there beside you, blue and flickering like a flame with a hand over her mischievous grin.

Even if you were to wake someone they probably wouldn’t be able to see her but you play along anyway, putting a finger to your own lips and scooting closer. Yune’s laughter feels ticklish as it enters your ear.

“I thought they would look good on you, Micaiah! They’re like the ones my – ah, I mean Ashera and my priestesses used to wear. When they would attend to us at the altar.”

“I see. They were your priestesses back when you were the dawn goddess. Is that why they wear red?”

Yune does not answer for a moment and instead floats up into the air, cart wheeling over your head and among the stars. She smiles down at you and confirms: “Red for dawn and a dress of dawn for the dawn maiden.”

She laughs but it fades quickly.

"You know. The color red is for anger too.”

“Anger? What would I have to be angry about?”

She’s looking not at you but at the tower when she answers. “I don’t know where yours is directed, Micaiah, but my anger is right here.

Rather than a place of rage you privately find the tower to be a very sad place, filled with dead men and their wilted hopes and dreams. Kurthnaga does not shed tears at the death of his father but you feel his heart cry out all the same. You say nothing. All you can think is: for what?

You never get that answer. The Sephiran man with feigned sorrow shatters the Empress Sanaki’s heart against the floor with the same efficiency he had used in ushering you all here. Seeing him speak to her as if the years he had spent raising her meant nothing is enough to steady your hand to cast, but the look of contentment you see as he takes up his own tome and thrusts your light back at you leaves nothing but bitterness in its wake.

He’s still smiling after the battle, laying there in his own blood. Something new and strange enters you then even as you nod in time to Yune’s orders. During your time as general, exhausted and soul sick from a war campaign, it had always been with empathy that you connected with another through the gift of sacrifice.

Now that power is fueled by a hot torrent of emotion you throw at him alongside your life energy without the time to parse it all apart. For once you and Ike are of one mind and as Sephiran’s soul attempts to slip through your fingers you squeeze harder, you say no: not now, not after everything you’ve done do you get to die. I will see you live!

Yune’s garments once in Daein’s royal chamber now hang in the dorm at Garreg Mach. Positioned next to your desk against the window there the fabric often catches the light of the setting sun and seeing that makes your heart ache.

"Micaiah" – Yune says, voice soft; “Micaiah, are you angry with me? I’m sorry I just – I couldn’t see Lehran die! I know all he’s done and I still –

”I’m not angry, you tell her. Even your own thoughts feel distant and padded after everything you’ve given to that man and you just want Yune to let you sleep. I just wish you would have told me sooner. Next time don’t leave me out like that alright?

“Yes,” you hear her say; “thank you.”

There is no next time. You wake up and Yune has gone, the tower changed. Something in you is splintering and Ike staring at you is not doing that any favors; it is only Sothe gently taking your hand that reminds you there is a place still waiting for you. You follow him out of the tower, forlorn.

(Back in your tent you sit back to back and only then do you weep. Tomorrow, you will be a hero and accept your crown but tonight your only reward lies in fragments in your chest. Sothe says nothing, barely breathes, and part of you hopes that he never turned around to look and that this much is still true: Micaiah has never cried, not in front of Sothe.)

The first thing you do when you return from Leicester is bathe, to the point that the water burns. The second thing you do back in your room is dress in Yune’s clothes in the black of night when not even you can see what they look like. Something in you deep as despair stirs.

Even with double the classes this Great Tree Moon you find yourself with too much time to think. Would it be odd to send everyone in the brigade a letter so soon after your last? Most likely, and you aren’t even sure what you would say; something like staring into death’s jaws has hardened your resolve to be queen, but no that would only make them worry.

Still. You remember toppling Briareus, wreathed in light. You look up from your desk, gaze catching the priestess robes, and putting down the quill and paper and walk over to touch them. Something stirs again. You are becoming something new.

Micaiah has gained access to the light priestess class!

#|drabble #//theres disjointed bc miccys thoughts are all over the place and then there is whatever this is haha #but you know what! im done!#the drabble is forcefully removed from the word doc #(html formatting under way gomen)

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