Lánna Thálion

Lánna Thálion

Heir to Sun and Moon
Character Profile
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First was Nalthiön, silver and gray
Then came Ielheä, white as day
But amongst them all was one mainstay
Silmorael, Mother of Magic, beyond the words one could say ​

~​

350 E.O.D., Early Winter​
Early Evening​
The House of the Land in Telpelrion, Saldaera​

Telpelrion sparkled under the starlight.

It wasn’t anything like Mevenua, the crown jewel of the Silmorael. There, the crystal spires stretched up to the sky, held up by clever architecture and engineering, gleaming under the sunlight and catching the eye from miles away. But the ancient capital of the Hundred Houses had its own … weight to it, its own gravity, that even the Seat of Ielheä could not match up to.

The weight of time. The weight of memory.

And while the beauty of Telpelrion was thus of a quieter sort, as a student of history, Lánna often preferred it that way compared to the blinding and bedazzling beauty of Mevenua, meant to wow and awe and cow its visitors (who were mostly from its vassal Low Houses) into submission, and displayed as a warning to all who would think to challenge its current supremacy as the most powerful of the High. Here at least, one could find a measure of peace, and a place to stop and think every once in a while, amongst all the constant jockeying with her peers.

Of course, High House Ielheä had found a way to bring the style of Mevenua into its grounds in Telpelrion. From the crystal wires inlaid upon the wood, to the streaks of blue and white painted upon the walls, and the pieces of silverware that glowed so bright they seemed as though they were about to float off from the table itself, the House of the Land had spared no expense to remind all those whom it hosted tonight, just who exactly they were in comparison to everyone else. They were the day, while Nalthiön was the night. Or, Lánna mused to herself, the sun to Nalthiön’s moon, though Ielheä would certainly not appreciate the comparison. Blood had been spilled between Houses for lesser insults, though certainly not within the grounds of Telpelrion itself.

After all, Ielheä had never looked favorably upon the House of Thálion. The invitation that had been extended to her mother’s retinue had been curt, formal, and written with the barest and most minimal of sincerities, as it had always been to Thálion since their elevation to High House status. Even the other Houses of Alirycas had more sincere invitations extended to them.

But such was the price that Thálion had paid, and continued to pay, with their ascension as a High House, that their allies would be few while their enemies would continue to grow.

Thus it was, that while the nobles of the Hundred Houses mingled under starlight and candlelight, Lánna kept to herself in the corner of the gardens, ever watchful, ever observant. She watched, as her mother Ládalia did the deadly dance of words and politics with her peers, talking to the other Warlords, be they of High House or Low. And did her brothers and sisters, Lánna’s uncles and aunts of the cadet branches of Thálion, mingle with the other nobles and knights of the Hundred Houses. To one attuned to Spirit such as her, the consistent buzz of pointed words and veiled promises and threats hammered against her consciousness, the false sincerities dripping like blood at the end of each sentence.

It was lucky that the room, which was warded with the Shroud against any sort of violence (not that any blood was allowed to be spilled in Telpelrion out of anger), did not include wards against False Speech.
 
"How does this cloak find you Lord Elsace?"

"Well, very well in fact." A myriad of finery ever graced the coasts of Lorinan but Telpelrion always possessed its own charm. There were simply certain luxuries here that could not be found anywhere else in the world. Of course while novelty added a measure of excitement it could only go so far. The accouterments of home were preferred and not easily forgotten. Winter games were a mere dalliance before once again embracing the salt of the sea.

Clad in striking livery, Elsace and his retinue arrived at Ielhea's garden. Most that flanked his sides were distant relatives and scions of Low Houses. Many had flocked to Thalion's banner in their pathetic bid for power but the clever remained. Well, the clever or the cowed. His family didn't seem to much care as long as dues were met.

The Elarmiel scion truthfully didn't begrudge the others for attempting to seek calmer waters. He was not immune to the whimsy of the winds. Yet a measure of foresight should be considered. It was there that these Lower Houses displayed their fatal flaw for all to see. Stepping outside the umbrella of Elarmiel's gilded umbrella could only be seen as short-sighted.

As if it accentuate this very point, the scion of the sea spotted the Thalion delegation. Confident strides brought him before the heir to Sun and Moon. He proffered a perfect bow and met the Thalion's gaze with a languid smile.

"I see Summer has treated you well Lady Thalion. I hope that Winter shall do the same."
 
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The evening grew deeper, and the stars shone ever brighter, comforting Lánna with their presence even as other retinues of the Hundred Houses made their presence known, either subtly or blatantly. Off to the side, her mother Ládalia had been pulled into an intense conversation by Orlénd and Rûmalos, the Warlords of Pherial and Ermaya respectively, while their retinues circled about the room, striking up polite conversations on their behalf. Near the center of the room, Tériel and Sharion were dancing with their partners to the tunes of the music, while Roniel stood alone in the corner, aloof and alone, observing.

Aravell however, did not seem to have arrived as of yet, prompting the slightest of frowns to cross her face.

The greeting behind her, however, wiped all expressions from her face besides that of the politest of smiles, as she turned to face Elsace of Elarmiel. Nary a silver pearl or sky-blue thread to be found out of place as she returned his bow with a small curtsey of her own. She inclined her head, a measure of respect to one whom she had crossed blades and weavings against. The ornaments and gemstones dangling from her circlet quivered, and if the Lord of Elarmiel were observant, he would notice that they were the same ornaments that she wore while into battle.

“A hundred greetings to you, Lord Elarmiel.” Lánna responded, the words flowing smoothly from her lips. “Surely the stars shine down upon our meeting at this hour, I must assume that Elarmiel found the seas as calm, and the wind as fair, this summer as Thálion did?” A smile played upon her lips, but her eyes were as cold as ice and as hot as the sun, for both Thálion and Elarmiel knew that the ‘pirates’ that infested the western shores of Alirycas all the way to the coasts of far Ilica were nothing of the sort. Even the ships of Aravell, secretive as they were, bound for the Aetochi, had not been spared from the conflict. No, it was the merchant ships of Thálion that were targeted most heavily, forcing them to rely upon the trade and money that Aravell brought to Alirycas, and forced the other Houses of Alirycas to acknowledge Aravell as their peer.

After all, Lánna had come face to face with Elsace himself at sea before.

One day, Thálion would be able to free itself, and the other Houses of Alirycas, and eventually the other Houses of the Sea, from the influence of Elarmiel. But without its ability to guarantee the safety of even its own trading ships, that day looked as far off as ever as it had been when Thálion had been elevated to High House.​
 
"Oh yes, almost mundanely so," he replied with a knowing smirk. Territory was lost but never truly ceded, not as far as Elarmiel was concerned. Losses were to be taken from both sides. Each harassed ship was a small cut repeated manifold. How long would Thalion be able to endure these unfortunate accidents? The icy glare in the Thalion's eyes was answer manifest. Temptation grew to chide the heir of Sun and Moon if only to see her reaction. He wondered if the audience were absent, would she simply try to strike him down. The prospect amused him greatly but disappointment arrived all the same. Such was the tedium of Telpelrion.

It was almost an inevitability that the two would cross each other on the seas in the coming seasons. What masque Elsace would wear during their future altercations remained to be seen. Elarmiel had yet to be truly overt in their actions. A cloak, even thinly veiled, was still necessary among the games of the Hundred.

For now, mused the elven scion.

"I've heard word that you've personally secured a lucrative contract with the Principality. You have my utmost admiration." He flourished a small bow alongside his seemingly innocuous compliment.
 
It was her brother, Rhuil, who had been invited to this event. Nym strode a few steps behind him, dressed in the peace-garb of a knight, nothing more than living heraldry. Adorned by bright decorations, without the gleam of armor underneath. A warrior bereft of her weapon, and a guard with no danger to fight against. Feeling like a muzzled dog, Nym was left with not much to do but scowl at passersby. A stray Falwing flinched when she bared her teeth at them in a smile.

Scanning the garden grounds, she spotted Elsace across the way, cornered by a Thálion brat. Blue eyes tracked their lips, as she strained to hear their conversation. She fell a pace too far behind her brother in her concentration.

Rhuil sensed her hesitance, and stopped. He leaned to look back at her. "Something the matter?"

"Just bored, brother," she responded in a tone to match her words. "Can I go get something to eat?"

The lie was accepted with nothing more than a disappointed sigh from her brother and a wave of dismissal. Nym peeled off. She would take the long way through the gardens, needing to at least look like she was only interested in the hors d'oeuvres.
 
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“Truly, I am lost beyond words for such unearned praise.” Lánna mused, almost as if to herself. “Thálion, as a matter of fact, does not have, nor seeks, direct relations with the Principality. We leave that matter to our cousin House of Aravell.” She smiled at Elsace with wintry ice, daring him to pursue the matter further in his own time. It was well known amongst the Hundred that amongst the Houses on the island of Alirycas, it was Aravell that chafed the most against Thálion rule. While Elarmiel could, and indeed had, preyed upon Aravell ships upon the open waters, Aravell was still Elarmiel’s only hope at sowing disunity against Thálion.

It was a complicated and deadly dance, for Elarmiel was one of the main reasons why Aravell was still held as equal to the other Houses of Alirycas. And should Elarmiel decide to throw that to the winds, they would lose possibly their only potential ally in Alirycas. Yet, if Elarmiel decided to let Aravell ships trade freely, that was still money going into the coffers of House Thálion in the end, for Aravell paid tribute to their cousin-House as per terms dictated more than a hundred years before.

And Aravell was not foolish enough to declare open war against Six of the Seven, not unless they wanted the utter decimation of their House. Members of their House were given to Thálion and the other Houses of Alirycas as hostages against their good behaviour for just that reason, especially after Aravell managed to wiggle its way into remaining as an independent entity through the usage of their merchant fleet.

Or maybe they were, and Thálion was just too blind and sure of their power to see it.

“I believe that the recent growth of Elarmiel's coffers over the past decade are worthy of praise, however.” She continued, her smile taking on a mocking edge to it, for while raids by Elarmiel's soldiers were indeed common on the Houses of the Sea, it still was far beneath what Elarmiel actually needed to maintain the costly beauty of the coastal city, for much of Lorinan was built off the taxes on the Houses of the Sea when first Riélisar, and then Elarmiel, had been undisputed masters of the sea. An illusion that was now shattered completely. “Perhaps one day Lorinan will be restored to its former wealth and glory, maybe even within your generation.”​
 
A white-haired elf at the head of a unit of pensive aristocrats, swept into the grand hall with a poise honed over decades, clad in a gown of midnight black that seemed to drink in the light. Drapes of fabric spun from spidersilk that hugged her slim waist and clung to her legs where they peeked through, white as snow from between the slits cut up the sides. Her only concession to color a scarlet sash that cinched her waist with an understated elegance, its ends cascading asymmetrically to one side like spilled wine. The sash bore no ornamentation save for the precise folds that reflected her meticulous nature. There was no need, for all of any portent knew her as the dangerous and lonely creature she was raised to be. The sycophants of her retinue splitting off and disappearing into the masses after the announced heraldry their house was due.

At her throat rested a medallion. A massive, gleaming ruby sat at its center, cut into a perfect oval and framed by a crown of blackened metal claws that seemed ready to devour it. The medallion hummed faintly with a suppressed energy, its presence more felt than seen—a trinket that dulled the constant torrent of emotion threatening to overwhelm her in this gilded maze of politics and pretense. Their fear of the future, their doubt in each other, their anxiety of dancing within the bounds of their world.

The rest of her ensemble was a study in restraint— long gloves of onyx satin reached her elbows, her only other jewelry a pair of black diamond earrings that sparkled like shards of night. Her hair, a cascade of silver frost, was pinned into an intricate updo, stray strands framing a face that was all sharp angles and an unyielding golden gaze. Each step she took was measured, her bare shoulders drawn back, and the hem of her gown whispered secrets to the polished floor beneath.

Just as any time she stepped into battle, clad in her runed plate, so too did every clicking step of her heels against the stone feel like a walk to the front line. And the same thrill of combat thrummed in her bones. Even if only her words and wit be her sword and shield. They were sharpened and honed by years of practice and discipline, one more arrow in her clever quiver to volley across the front lines.

Zeraphine, heir of the Scarlet Legion of House Batahlia, was primed and eager to revel in the hedonism that the winter brought amongst her people.

@Lánna Thálion @Nymrethyl Saimoriel @Elsace Elarmiel
 
The heir of Sun and Moon, as expected, was not easily riled. Better it were so. A score easily attained made for bad sport, leaving a bland taste in its wake. This did not align with Elsace's proclivities nor truly the rest of Elarmiel. Taming the seas was not an act of leisure despite luxurious appearance. A constant battle with the ebb and flow of the sea's boons. Though even he was forced to concede that some among his house had forgotten this all too important truth.

"Ah yes, I occasionally confuse the dealings of the Lower houses. I hope you can forgive this lapse." Elsace punctuated his point with an elegant but otherwise reserved bow. As words were being had, others among their respective retinues bristled. This game was not necessarily enjoyed by all. Their loss, thought the scion with an inward grin.

He allowed himself to truly relish the Thalion's most recent jab. "I've little concern with matters of the past. Focus on the stern and you can easily find yourself in a swell. It'll be too late to change course before the next wave comes crashing down." He allowed himself a small smile. "Simply put, I am confident in our house's future endeavors."

It was then that a familiar figure caught the corner of his eye. "Please excuse me. It turns out I'm rather quite famished." With that he flourished a bow and headed over to the refreshments, and hopefully further amusement.

"How like a hound to immediately seek sustenance. You play your role as well as ever, Lady Nym." His tone held neither contempt nor ridicule, merely familiarity.

Even as his words were spoken, the heralds announced the arrival of yet another house.
 
At the table were these warm rolls decorated with tiny, whole crabs. Even as they lay cooked - their shells barnacled with batter - each crabs' little claws were still stretched outwards in challenge. Nym picked one up, and bit into it. Crispy on the outside, soft crab meat on the inside.

"How like a hound to immediately seek sustenance. You play your role as well as ever, Lady Nym."
Click to expand...

She was chewing, when Elsace found her. Her tongue rolled the bite to one cheek.

"Not the only one on the hunt," Nym responded, mouth still full. The unfinished crabroll lay half-crumbled between her two fingers. "You can tell who's hungry, and who's sated." The Thálion had been plump with pride, sure of her own distinction.

Eyes moved to the newcomer being announced. It was the slightest of movements; there was no hand motion nor tilt of the head, she was too well-trained for that. "That one, for example? Wants to see battle. Desperately."
 
The scion of Elarmiel retreated, perhaps unable to truly counter at the moment. But that was what made Elsace so much more dangerous than many other members of the Lines Direct of his House, by Lánna’s estimation. Many of the Lines Direct of Elarmiel still acted as if time had halted two hundred years ago, when they were the sole power of the Western Seas. The waves they made crashed impotently against the shores of Alirycas, for the strength of the wave was measured by its swell.

And without a retreat, there was no swell. Something that much of Elarmiel was still struggling to remember. After five hundred years of riding the crest, it was now time for the sea to withdraw, but still they clung onto the shore as the wave sought to drag them back, and instead of riding the power of the ocean, they were instead reduced to being battered furiously by it.

But Elsace knew this. Lánna supposed that Thálion could count themselves lucky that he was not the Heir to Elarmiel, merely a distant scion.

Perhaps she should work to keep it that way. She’d have to keep an eye out for him from now on, and on the Saimoriel girl he struck up a conversation with. Even if she was a wildcard that belonged to the lowest of the High Houses, anyone and everyone who was here would be taking note of who conversed with who on this night, and on all other nights, on all other winters. The possible thoughts of an idea on how she could tie Elsace to the wildcard that was Nymrethyl, and how the latter could be goaded into embarrassing themselves and the name of Saimoriel.

Not today though, or at least not now, for the best-laid plans were those that had time to simmer and stew.

Lost in thought she might be, but not so lost as to completely overlook the entrance of yet another Low House, this time of a darker bearing and prominence that seemed to want to drain the room of colour and leave it in shades of grey. The corner of her lip quirked in amusement and vanished almost instantly, for Ielheä was not one to appreciate anything that would dim the beauty of the occasion, and that included the almost … vampiric nature and garb that the Heir to Batahlia had decided to wear for the occasion. At the corner of her eye, she saw the Warlord of Ielheä frown, and make no effort to conceal their displeasure, and the Low Houses that made up the bulk of the party drifted away, leaving Zeraphine alone in the center of the room.

And then …​
 
“Lady Batahlia!” A voice rang out across the Ielheä garden. Clad in her own personal robes of orange and red and patterned with thread of bluest sky, the Eldest Daughter of Aravell swept into the space that no one wanted to tread into and snagged the Heir to Batahlia by the arm, twirling her around, seemingly incognizant of the stares that came her way, and the glares from the nobles of Ielheä and Thálion alike. She noted, with some amusement, that a slight flush was growing on Warlord Thálion’s face, though to her disappointment the Heir to Thálion was nowhere to be seen from her vantage point.

Probably for the best. While Nárëiel did enjoy tweaking Ládalia’s nose, the Heir to Sun and Moon was perhaps the best chance that Aravell would have in the future for a better relationship with the other Houses of Alirycas. In the meantime though, it was a pox upon all the High Houses who sought to play games with Aravell, from Ielheä, to Thálion, and even Elarmiel, for Aravell had no illusions about why the House of the Sea seemed to target the ships of all the Houses of Alirycas except for Aravell’s. And a pox upon Thálion too, for they ever sought to bring Aravell back into their fold, forever frightened that they would go the way of Riélisar.

If only the House of Sun and Moon stopped their descent into becoming just another High House, loosening their grip around all the other Low Houses of Alirycas. But no, Warlord Thálion sought to control, forgetting that the sea was as unpredictable as the weather.

Truth be told, she didn’t really know much about Zeraphine, or even House Batahlia in general. Nárëiel was just here to liven up the mood and, regardless of whatever was supposed to transpire during the winter, tweak a few noses here and there.

After all, the spilling of blood was forbidden within the grounds of Telpelrion.

She spun around Zeraphine, a smile upon her face. “Your dress becomes you, dearest Zeraphine.” She bent a bit, and whispered conspiratorially into the other’s ear. “With a bit more effort, we could temporarily leech the colour out of the gardens here. I’m sure that Ielheä would be pleased.”​
 
The only sign that Zeraphine noticed the whispering fabric of shuffling silks and murmured comments behind gilded fingers, was a slight tightening at the corners of her red mouth. She was determined not to show them anything outside of the pretty mask she had prepared to dance behind— would not give the High Houses the satisfaction of looking down on her. For though she told herself that she took no qualms with the vacant space she found herself standing in, the sudden chill in the air caused an unpleasant shiver on her skin.

But a creature of bright swirling cloths and a boisterous voice of spun honey snatched her up in a flurry of irreverent warmth; and Zeraphine barely resisted the instinct to step back, to preserve the careful lines of distance she had drawn. Instead, she let the moment settle—just long enough for anyone watching to wonder if she would bristle, if she would let herself be pulled into the orbit of this riotous thing dressed in sunfire and sky. Then, with a slow blink and a shift of her weight, she let herself be carried, turning the movement into something deliberate, something hers.

"Lady Aravell," she murmured cautiously, her voice like curious silk drawn over steel. As they moved, her gaze flicked past the woman's shoulder, catching sight of a passing attendant weaving behind her. Without breaking stride, she plucked two glasses from the tray, the barest clink of crystal swallowed by the hum of conversation. One was offered out without ceremony, though the glint in her eye made it clear the gesture was not without meaning.

"How bold of you to claim me so openly. I do wonder—was it me you truly wished to ensnare, or was I simply your best chance at stirring the still waters of our gracious hosts?"

Her lips curled, just a fraction. Amusement, or perhaps a challenge.

@Nárëiel Aravell
 
“Well, dearest Zeraphine,” Nárëiel replied, the amusement in her voice reflecting the challenge she saw in the others’ eyes. “One would of course lead to the other, would it not?” She raised the glass that Zeraphine gave her in toast, her gesture as flamboyant as the other’s was subtle and subdued, and in the corner of her eye, she saw Lánna roll her eyes and pointedly turn her back, choosing not to get involved at the moment in the petty struggles with Warlord Thálion. “But think about how entertained we both would be. Doesn’t the endless repetitiveness become endless tedium? We should think about how to ensure a degree of variety, should we not?”

Of course, the nobles around them were muttering amongst themselves, wondering if this newfound amiability between Nárëiel and Zeraphine was but coincidence … or something more, or could be something more. But that was the way of the Hundred Houses, that all houses were jockeying with each other for attention and for influence … but was this part of a greater game that Nárëiel was playing on behalf of Aravell?

Or was it just whimsy? Only Nárëiel would know.

Then again, she wasn’t the only Aravell present. Elisaníra, Warlord to Aravell, was off to the side, watching in barely concealed amusement at the chaos and the utter disruption to Thálion’s and Ielheä’s plans for the evening. After all, Nárëiel wasn’t here by Aravell’s will, but by Thálion’s, for as per the agreement that Aravell made to Thálion, the eldest of every generation of Aravell would be given up to Thálion as hostage, “to strengthen the bond between the Houses”, or so it was written.

In truth, it was a way to ensure Aravell’s continued obedience to the will of the Six, and especially to the will of Thálion. And while Latharion had not been stringent on the hostages while she had been alive, the situation changed greatly after Warlord Ládalia had ascended the throne, and especially after Nárëiel had had children out of wedlock with one not of the Hundred Houses. And so every winter season, the Warlord of Thálion dragged Nárëiel to Telpelrion separately from the Aravell delegation, as both reminder and warning to Aravell and the Lower Houses of Alirycas of the power that they exerted over the island.

But the other members of Aravell stayed away for now, not wishing to court the ire of Thálion. The consequences of Nárëiel’s actions would be for her to bear alone.

For now.

She downed the glass and set it aside, offering a hand to the Heir of Batahlia as new music drifted throughout the garden, a cheery and lively waltz. “Care for a dance?”​
 
"How surprisingly perceptive of you. It seems our hound has learned a new trick," mused the scion of Elarmiel. Elsace couldn't help but notice how thoroughly the other was enjoying the spread. Thus he availed himself of the still-warm, diminutive crab rolls. He had to admit they were rather exquisite considering they weren't from one of Lorinan's premier establishments. As to be expected of Ielheä, they would not allow fault to be found in their hosting.

He looked to the new arrival; reserved, composed, and hungry, just as Nym stated. "This is the Harannosse, battle shall find her whether she wishes it or not." Elsace was no stranger to the ambition of the lower houses, if anything, he welcomed it. Only they could break the tedium of the status quo. Yet where one succeeded, countless others had failed. This was the simple truth of the Hundred Houses; desire could only take one so far.

"I'm rather curious dear Nym, who among this thrall do you imagine is sated? I'd very much like to meet such a pecularity."
 
When Elsace called her a hound for the second time, Nym resisted the urge to bark at him. It would have been fun, but this was not the training grounds of one of their homes, and even she had a sense of decorum. However vague.

She rubbed her greasy fingers against a corner of her tabard. The fabric would not stain, for it was made so, and the weavers of Ramenthiali never let a mistake pass through their looms.

A hum left her throat at Elsace's questions. "My dearest brother, unfortunately," Nym answered without hesitation. She gave a secret gesture in the direction of the elder Saimoriel scion, who was chatting idly with a gaggle of nobodies deeper in the garden. Rhuil Saimoriel was dressed finely in the green and silver of their House colors, styled in the manner of a scholar. And like everyone else at this party, there were all kinds shroud spells woven just below the surface of his finery. A long-tailed coat that made him look taller, gloves that softened his movements and left no mark on glass, and a gilded broach at his throat that projected his voice just so. Fine weapons put to dull use on small talk.

"Look at him, happy to be adrift in the crowd, even though we are one stumble away from being the hundred and first House." Was she supposed to be more coy about Saimoriel's waning glory? Probably. It's what a proper debutante would have done, but Nym had no desire to perform such a role. She preferred a more direct approach.

"Help me ruin something, would you? I don't think we'll get anywhere tonight without a little sabotage."
 
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