Eyes of the Crown (Part 2)

Posted on Sun Mar 22nd, 2015 @ 7:08pm by Thane & Egon Jotunnson II & Ravenna Jotunnson
Edited on on Thu May 31st, 2018 @ 1:15am

5,039 words; about a 25 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IV: Rezer's Edge
Location: The Zkavasenna, Zkovos Isle, Dromache
Timeline: After "Eyes of the Crown (Part 1)", Noon

OLD

With delicate grace, Ravenna reached forward and pushed open the heavy doors that towered over thrice her height, without visible strain. For as small and near-Human the princess looked, she too had the Jotunn blood of her father, and the physical strength that engendered. Swinging open, the golden doors of the Skularii glittered in the sunlight that swept through the many openings of the Hall. As the doors opened inward, a breeze escaped to meet them, sweeping past the folds of their robes and their hair.

Smiling wider than the Senator had ever seen her smile, the Princess Ravenna took the first step into the Skularii Hall and turned to look over her shoulder at him, her black silks rustling like courtly whispers with her light steps. He could swear she was almost skipping.

"Now if you are ready, the Grandsire awaits."

NEW


In the distance within the white-stoned city, the sound of a great bell rang forth. Not a clamorous sound that instilled alarm, but a deep singing note that seemed to reverberate across the entire city. Two more bells of different tones followed, before the familiar sound of the city Crier from the city’s highest peak broke the peaceful lulls of the bells, singing in a language unfamiliar to all but those of Dromache. To the ears of foreigners, it would sound only like a haunting melody, beautiful in its intricate words and clarity of voice. To those who called Dromache home, however, it was a daily call to remember that even in the arduous pursuit of Knowledge, stillness and peace still had its place. It was a call to remember the Goddess, and a reminder that only in meditation would She make herself known.

A final knoll of the great bell signaled the end of the prayer, and somewhere—everywhere—all those of the Dromachean Empire faced the direction of the Athenaeum of the Zkovos Isle, the seat of the Goddess and her temple.

Even Egon, who stood in the Skulaari temple, turned to face south, eyes closed and face solemn, his lips forming silent and mysterious words whose meaning only he knew.

Behind him, the figures of the Princess Ravenna and Senator Havaan Vuul waited until the Grandsire finished his daily prayer. A winding wind gently blew its way through the golden Hall, rustling Egon’s heavy robes as he touched two fingers to his lips and ended his prayer, the last reverberations of the distant bell’s knoll fading into silence.

And with that, it was like the momentary stillness that fell over Dromache, dispelled. From the heights of the Skulaari Hall, one could see the ancient city come back to life, returning to its norm—ever in motion.

Egon turned and looked to the open doorway, his gaze meeting with wide eyes of identical blue to his own—bright, laughing eyes that were eminently familiar, and never failed to warm his heart.

Unable to stop his mouth from quirking upwards at the sight of his daughter, Egon inclined his head in silent greeting.

“Daughter.” He spoke, the quiet, baritone of his voice loud in the expansive silence of the Skulaari Hall.

“Father,” She smiled openly, planting her hands on her hips, which were somewhat contentious in their particular slant, “I present Senator Haavan Vuul of Caanus, seeking audience with the Grandsire.”

“A request I grant. May the Goddess grace inspiration upon you, Senator Vuul.” Egon declared with the air of one who had said these words of Dromachean ceremony all too often.

Fixing his gaze on the short figure of Senator Vuul, the robes he wore, though undeniably fine, were unfashionably constricting and almost overwhelming on his slight frame. Egon’s even gaze was unreadable as he took in the measure of the Caanan noble.

After providing a short nod of recognition to the princess, Vuul gave a low bow that swept some of his dark robes about him. Any in his proximity would detect the varied fragrances of the perfumes he had adorned himself with. Typically, each would be subtle and delicate when appropriately applied and combined. Sadly, in the case of the uninformed but lavish Caanan senator, the wrong scents had been thrown in the wrong concentrations and locations, resulting in what could only be described as a 'cacophony' of smell. The air about Vuul was thick and sickly sweet.

Naturally, he viewed himself as entirely respectable and exactly as a man of high standing should be, perfectly presentable before one such as the Grandsire of Dromache. After all, he was the de facto regent of a world rich in resources and wealth - only currently short on current galactic standing or culture. Of course, he was going to rectify that, and this was just first of many steps to seeing that come to fruition.

"Your Majesty," the diminutive man greeted the Dromachean leader as he reached the apex of his bow. "It is a pleasure to be in your presence, and I am most grateful for the hospitality you have bestowed upon me this day."

It was then that Egon noticed his daughter had come forward from the doorway, her eyes fixed on the crumpled mass of dark fabric left on the floor between them, recognition in her eyes. It was the cape left behind by the Jotunn hunter Egon had conferred with before sending him off to complete the capture of Morgo Le’Shaad.

Forgetting decorum, black strands of Ravenna’s hair streamed behind her as she rushed forward to kneel beside the abandoned cape, grasping a handful of the heavy black fabric and bringing it to her nose. Egon saw her inhale deeply, scenting the garment, and he stiffened in anticipation to her inevitable reaction.

“He’s gone?” his daughter demanded from Egon, evidently not caring that the Senator would be witness to her lack of control.

Ignoring his daughter’s emotional outburst, which was unbecoming of her station and her name, Egon sighed and gave a curt nod.

“He left not an hour ago.” Egon confirmed quietly, thinking of the hunter’s moments here in the Hall. Had the Senator not been there with them, Egon would have been tempted to add an apology to his daughter.

“Without saying good—” Ravenna fumed, so angry that she had to cut herself off. Abruptly, the Princess stood, her blue eyes almost luminous with her rage. At this moment, so far removed from her normal poise as Princess, she finally looked like the adolescent she was “He said he was going to…Goddess alive, I’m going to kill—”

“Ravenna!” Egon growled, overpowering her burst of fury with his own, and pulled himself to his full height. Stepping towards his daughter, Egon towered over the slip of a girl, “Remember yourself.” He commanded tightly, every muscle tense with restrained power. For House Jotunnson, a minor slip in control was permissible. But to allow such strong emotions to run freely, unchecked, was to invite chaos into his daughter. He would not allow it.

Egon’s eyes blazed with a primal fire that would tolerate no disobedience, and in the face of it, the Princess seemed to shrink, bowing her dark head in capitulation as her eyes darted over to the Caanan senator with renewed self-consciousness. Still, it was evident that Egon’s harsh reprimand had not completely doused her anger, in the tenseness of her jaw.

When the Grandsire seemed sufficiently pleased with the Princess’ show of discipline, his anger subsided—the intimidating bend of his frame relaxing into the quiet, confident poise of a king. Blinking down at his daughter, his eyes cut down to the black cape she still grasped so tightly that her knuckles were white.

“Go now. We will have words later.” He said to her, measurably softer, “He will return to us, safe.”

The princess lifted her dark head, crowned with gold, to look at her father, a defiant furrow to her brow. Yet she was subdued for now, and with a deep sigh, Ravenna bowed stiffly and swept out of the Hall. If her footsteps could almost be described as stomps… it was nobody’s business.

Whilst he had not reacted to the Grandsire's effective overlooking of his arrival and greeting, Senator Vuul maintained a firm pose before Egon, his pale hands clasped behind his back as birdlike eyes had observed the altercation between father and daughter without his body revealing the insatiable yet amused curiosity running through the Caanan's mind. It was almost as if laughing eyes had spun about in his small skull to watch the princess leave behind him.

"It may not be my place to say, Majesty, but I oft find myself advising my sire on matters of... regal issue," Vuul began cautiously yet not without a quiet confidence to his tone, "and it would seem you have something of a lively character in your daughter. Dangerous if not tempered, 'though I have every faith in Your Majesty's capacity as a father. In many ways, that is what brings me to you this day." A slither of a smile then flashed across the grey lips of the thin figure, eyes glistening as they struggled not to dance about the impressive sanctum he now found himself in.

At the thin sound of the Senator’s voice, Egon finally turned his eyes to the Caanan, eyes unreadable even in their intensity.

“Perhaps on Caanus they seek to temper steel with water, and hammer it into shape. But on Dromache, within the fires of the furnace, that steel chooses its own hardness and shape—and ultimately, it chooses the ice scabbard that will sheathe its sharpness until the time is right. My daughter is fiery, but strong. It is what will make her a worthy of her name. And I would not temper that for the galaxy.”

Egon descended a step toward the senator, the spear-sceptre’s base clinking lightly on the floor, within his grip.

“So,” The Grandsire’s voice was quiet, yet firm as he spoke, “What brings faraway Caanus to the Core for audience with us dangerous, untempered folk?

Vuul allowed a wide smile to paint itself across his sharp features, letting it be seen he was amused by the Grandsire's intelligent remark to the senator. Letting that expression linger for a few seconds too long, the Caanan finally spoke, mustering his voice as well as he could, a stark contrast to that of his host.

"Your Majesty, the Princess Ravenna was very explicit in her advice to me during our sojourn through the halls of this magnificent palace that I should do you the courtesy of dispensing with the courtesy," Vuul said, clasping his hands behind his back and tilting his head back slightly, the jut of his pointed chin sticking out more obtrusively that it had before.

"However," he went on, "one must appreciate that for an individual such as myself, a magnus from a lesser house looked down upon by the other rexcaanae, sycophancy and courtesy are amongst the few tools I have available to wield. This is particularly so when one considers my House's keep, quite literally, is overshadowed by that of the Verus. However, I shall be blunt."

Bringing his pale hands forward, the vents of his extravagant form-fitting outfit rising as he motioned about the chamber surrounding them, the Caanan said, "The trappings and beauty of such structures have never been within the grips of a Vuul skaal - a lord, if you will - but rather only just at our fingertips, often being little more than indentured servants to the ruling Verus. Our liege lord. It would be false for me to say that I do not harbour bitterness on this matter."

With that final statement, the open gesturing hands of Vuul balled into fists, and his expression grew an iota sterner. "My family have proven their worth to both House Verus and Caanus over the generations, rising from lowly skaal to be magnusae - dukes, to use the Standard word - serving as first stewards, advisors and more recently, as regent, to the Archaeus. Our devotion has been unwavering; we have stood by our liege for generations, in war and in peace. Only now the very House meant to lead us is in tatters, led by a broken recluse pining for a family long-lost to him... and a son turned lawless renegade."

Vuul took a step forward. His smile had dropped, the pale skin stretched across his skull looking ever more sickly in pallor as the senator's demeanour grew ever more fervent, beady eyes widening. "The last scion of House Verus is a dangerous man, a traitor to the very Order that he swore allegiance to and was raised by..." And then the sickly smirk returned. "...And a man suspected of aiding and abetting a fugitive - a known murderer."

At the mention of Morgo Le’Shaad, the Grandsire’s expression darkened. Since she was but a lissome, young girl of insolent disposition, the smirking Duchess had the tendency of worming her way into matters she had no business being in…much like her late-father. Yet, Egon waved the image of her pale face from his mind, sparing a glance at her grave portrait along the wall. He would not let his contempt for her name color his judgment in this this matter of Caanus.

Lifting his stone hard, lazulite eyes from the ground to the Caanan senator, the oil-slick smile on Vuul’s face did nothing to dampen Egon's growing ire. Did Haavan Vuul think he was the first to come to these Halls with smiles, flattery and tales of injustice? Egon bit back the first reply that came to his tongue, holding back harsh words of harsher truths. Diplomacy had never been strength of his, but strength or no, Egon was nevertheless bound to give Caanus an open ear—and an open mind. It was an oath he’d made when he’d welcomed the Senator into his Hall, and invoked the name of the Goddess with a blessing.

The Goddess saw no rights and no wrongs, no pride and no discrimination. She only Saw, as Knowledge itself sees true and pure. It was a divine requirement—a law, even—to which the Grandsire, before all others, was bound to emulate. As Grandsire to Dromache, he was to be as untainted by bias as the first snows of the Jotunn North were untainted by the filth of Men.

So with a great and silent breath, Egon met eyes with Haavan Vuul and seemed to change before the Senator’s eyes. His poise, though dignified as it ever was, became like a strong and aged tree, planted beside the mythic river of Uru—the river of truth. A wave of tranquility washed over Egon as he blinked slowly, relishing the rare quiet of his mind. It was times like this Egon truly remembered why the Dromache of old once worshipped the Goddess, and ever sought the trance-like clarity complete and true objectivity brought with it.

Because when the galaxy closed in around itself, pushing and pulling the innumerable worlds with the tides of change, screaming for Dromache to move with it—it was the Grandsire’s duty to dig his roots deep into the well of Truth and tell the galaxy, ‘No. You move.’

“Why do you speak of this to me and not your own people?” Egon finally asked, his grip on the scepter-spear relaxed, “If Thane, son of Wulhart Verus, is as dangerous as you say, the people of Caanus will see it. And they will not accept him, nor the Rexverus that neglects his duties as Archae.”

Thane, as it was, remained unable to claim anything of his considerable wealth on Caanus while his father yet lived. Watching Senator Vuul with keen eyes, it was of some reassurance to Egon that the Archae Wulhart had nothing too insidious yet to fear from Vuul. Assassination of Wulhart Verus would only strengthen Thane’s claim to power, and entice him to return to his home world—counterproductive to what Egon imagined Vuul’s ambitions desired.

"Sadly, this is truly not the case," Vuul responded, lowering his head slightly in an affectation he naturally assumed to be indicative of a show of dismay, although the slick smile that framed his angular face never truly left his visage. Bringing his skeletal hands together, rings of peculiar shapes and colourings reflected the light as they became hidden within the sleeves of the senator's garb.

"None can deny that Caanus has a history steeped in aristocratic feuds and bids for power," Vuul went on, "nor would I seek to patronise you by stating this is not something limited to my world; only where many have progressed into sprawling powerhouses of worlds, surging forth amongst their infinite and timeless comrades in the Republic and beyond, Caanus has slipped away into obscurity. Whilst we have had our meagre involvement in galactic affairs over the millennia, our domain and peoples have dwindled progressively, ever a world mired and held back by prejudice and custom. Our stagnation has been long, our death a slow one, poisoned at our own hands."

Despite the advice of the princess and his own statement to the contrary, Vuul continued to indulge his love of elaborate explanations and long-winded approach to the matter at hand, wrapping his true intentions and desires in a thick yet poorly-woven fabric of falsehood. Even so, perhaps oblivious to how his own meagre and transparent conniving ways appeared, he continued.

"This stagnation comes at the hands of the Verus," Vuul spat with clear derision now entering his voice, growing more animated and, arguably, more genuine. "It seems to me the annals of history will remember them as once being the progressives but no longer, as the Great Houses have frequently considered the Verus' place in history as the sole reason to return them as Archae each time. As such, Grandsire, I come here this day to you instead of to the lords of my own world for you could be the true agent of change."

The gaunt Caanan brought one hand out from his sleeve to brush back a rogue strand of oily, dark hair, its sheen not too dissimilar to that which coated Vuul's face. "I do not come from a world such as yours where knowledge is rewarded, where any man can rise to the highest echelons of society for his abilities. My fellow skaal are hesitant to trust anything but that which they know, distrustful yet unwilling to involve themselves in the bigger picture. I see much potential on Caanus wasted - untapped - and wish to amend this sorry state of affairs."

Holding Egon's stalwart and uncompromising gaze for a few uncomfortable moments in silence, Vuul let his smile cut wider into his face, spreading his arms out, palms wide. In a manner, it seemed as though he had elected to drop the act he had been playing, a hint of amused resignation now entering his voice, knowing he had failed and so adopting a different persona. To some degree, it was not unlike a child apprehended mid-lie. You got me, would not be a surprising phrase to now tumble from Vuul's slippery mouth.

"But as they say: words are wind, and I do not doubt that the problems of Caanus and my poor self are of any true interest to you, what I say being little more than hopeful attempts at winning your favour. In truth, what I truly desire is second to what we may be able to do for one another. Simply: you have a problem with a troublesome noble, just as I do. Our reasons are our own and our goals divergent, but there is naught to say we cannot work together to achieve our ends, no?"

Vuul continued, "After all, Thane is a creature posing a threat to both our ambitions at this current juncture, yet we may each have resources suitable for the other to get what we so desire."

Egon was silent a moment as he ran Vuul's words under the lit places of his mind, scrutinizing them. While the senator himself seemed to be dispensing of his façades, adopting a true sincerity, Egon did not have cause to fully trust what his own eyes saw. Like the many layers of a noblewoman's robes, dropping the heavy outer coat only revealed the intricate silk gown beneath.

"What is it that you ask of me, Senator?" Egon asked as a flock of birds took flight overhead, past the Skulaari Hall, casting brief, flickering shadows over them both, "I cannot play kingmaker to a realm not my own. Nor can Dromache violate her sacred neutrality for the sake of one man."

In the shadow of the birds, their strange calls echoing over Hall like murmuring bells, Egon's eyes glowed a luminous blue, like distant stars—just for a moment.

Vuul's eyes, in turn, searched those distant stars in search of something recognisable, something he could capitalise upon. It was clear to any onlooker that such thoughts swam rapidly through the senator's eyes, having lost his audience and desperate to gain what he needed. Then, as a man ready to sell the family jewels to serve his own avarice, he brightened up, brought back the facsimile of a smile and raised a pale, bony hand.

"An offer, then," he declared loudly and proudly, "to engage in an activity long withheld from not just your people, but indeed those of the wider galaxy and mine own people, to be the first permitted to set foot in places not seen for millennia." Vuul then smiled, his expression ever more conspiratorial, were that possible. "I trust Your Highness knows of what this humble servant of wisdom and knowledge speaks? After all, what use are books lest they are read?"

Egon's face betrayed nothing as he gazed down at Vuul, in spite of the enormity of what the senator was offering Dromache.

"The Caanan Sith Ruins." The king declared, voice solemn as he eyed the Senator with renewed interest. The man spoke too many words with too little substance, but at the very least, Egon could admit that Vuul knew to cast a different net when his previous snares had failed.

Yet as the Grandsire shifted his weight, his thumb sliding along the gleaming, gold surface of his scepter-spear, suspicion glinted in his eyes.

"To my knowledge, Senator," he spoke the warm timbre of his voice echoing quietly, "It is not within your power to grant me access to the untrodden places of your world."

Indeed, Egon's memory recalled reading a century old petition from House Le'Shaad, in his boyhood studies. Long ago, the Le'Shaad had tried and failed to independently secure access to the ancient Sith ruins on Caanus. When talks had fallen through with the Archae, the Le'Shaad had come to House Jotunnson, demanding formal intervention from Egon's father in negotiating with Caanus' Archae. As a boy, Egon remembered much had been made in the High Court that perhaps his father, Grandsire Uron, had perhaps not done all in his power to aid House Le'Shaad where he could have.

Glancing beyond Haavan Vuul's person, Egon's eyes briefly alighted on the portrait of the Duchess Le'Shaad. Even when he had been a boy, Egon remembered just how wrathful her grandfather, Lethegon, had been about the matter of losing Caanus, looming in the High Court like a vengeful specter in white. Egon remembered coming to this very Hall as a young boy, unspeakably afraid of the Le'Shaad Duke, until he'd come upon the Scholar portrait of Lethegon as he had been when he was just a young man. He had been struck by the Duke's pale beauty in youth, the grey eyes of his fair face burning with a bright flame that Egon had seen extinguish, the day his father had refused to talk with the Archae further. The Le'Shaad duke, wretched in his despair that he had no legacy of hope for their ailing House to pass onto his sons, died only a week later. One of those sons had been Acheron Le'Shaad, father of Morgo.

And the man had ever blamed Egon and his house for the disgrace of his father's early demise, catapulting House Le'Shaad into the dire straits of Renouncement.

Egon blinked away the bitter rage he'd faced from Acheron, since that day, and it had always been the only dishonor to Egon's name that he could never fully dismiss on his late-father's behalf. Not with the doubts in his mind. To think that Egon might have it in his power to grant such an old boon to House Le'Shaad, after all these years, filled Egon with... conflict.

Old Lethegon Le'Shaad would turn in his sunken grave if he knew the chance for his House now.

Vuul clapped his hands together in an exuberant display of elation. "Oh, that is simply not the case, Your Highness," he explained happily, the sickly-pale hands separating slightly as he spoke to the Dromachean leader. "Since the tragedy that robbed our beloved Archae of his spouse and secondborn, regency of Caanus has fallen to House Vuul, as it so often has in years past. Sleepy as they are, even the prouder skaal of my world have acquiesced to my sovereignty in these sad times. Of course, I see this is little more than a temporary arrangement, a mere happenstance that will so quickly slip away, leading Caanus into obscurity unless strong leadership arises."

The Caanan senator let one of his hands drop, the nimble, bony fingers slipping into a pocket of his and scrambling about inside as it searched for its target. Never taking his eyes away from Egon, Vuul continued, "So if we now consider the matter of Caanus' leadership a tabled affair, I can assure you that permission to prepare a charter permitting a Dromachean expedition to study our Sith ruins is perfectly within my remiss."

Finally, Vuul produced a small object from within his clothing, and held it up to the light briefly, a green glint catching the eye of the Grandsire. Looking over to House Jotunnson's patriarch, that twisted smile spread across Vuul's visage like a plague, each muscle infecting the next. He threw the article at the Dromachean, fully expecting the practised reaction that followed as it spun perfectly into Egon's grip.

"What few scholars remain on Caanus have indicated it is an Artusian crystal," Vuul remarked proudly yet with a snide undertone, "a small portion of the collection of artefacts my liege's family has retained. I had considered enquiring further as to its nature during my stay on Dromache; the Jedi, should they get wind, would undoubtedly cause me... difficulties. I trust an element of confidence may exist between us in this matter, regardless of your opinion of my fine character."

The verdant crystal was a solid weight in Egon's hand as he turned it over, its many facets catching the light of the sun, reflecting a glittering spray of many colors onto his face. As Egon's discerning eye observed the crystal, a list of facts flew through his mind. Mined from Artus Prime, the stone was noteable only for its use in lightsabers, and the more uncommon use of imbuing the Force in non-Force sensitives. Blinking, Egon could feel something thrum in his veins, a low hum of something living at his fingertips. Egon had not inherited the Force-sensitivity of his Jotunn forebears, his Human blood preventing him from reaching out and shaping the Force as the ice giants did as easily as breathing. But he and his House were not wholly without it, and holding the Artusian crystal in his hand, Egon felt a momentary pull, like a being moving through molten rock, before the Grandsire blinked and brought his gaze back to the Caanan senator.

"The Jedi have no sway on Dromache." Egon assured, tossing the crystal back to its owner just to watch Vuul fumble in its recovery, "They have not held sway over us since they failed in their duty, a thousand years ago. You will not find trouble from them here."

Descending down stone steps to approach the slip of a man, Egon walked with the measured, steady gait of a king confident in his rule. Smiling as he arched a greying brow, Egon reached out to grasp the Caanan's shoulder in a gesture of good will, the gold thread in the embroidery of his robes shining bright under the sun's light.

"And if my opinion of your fine character had ever mattered, Haavan," Egon said, his rumbling voice friendly and conspiratorial all at once, "I can assure you that this audience would not have been granted."

To any other monarch on any other planet, such an admission would have been outrageous in its forthrightness, even rude. Yet Egon was not any king. He was a Grandsire of Dromache, and as Egon held tight to his grasp of Haavan Vuul's bony shoulder, turning them both so that they stood side by side as Egon guided them out of the Skularii Hall, the Grandsire made the message clear. That though this was a mutually beneficial arrangement, Vuul was in the precarious position of putting his head in the jaws of a great jokul-wolf and asking for a boon. In this position, the wolf was just as likely to bite off his head, as it was to lick his wounds—and if Haavan did not tread with great care, Egon would not be kind.

As the towering Grandsire looked down at the Caanan Senator with the geniality of a newly formed alliance, his toothsome smile from behind his beard was as warm as it was a warning.

"So tell me, Senator. For a bit of Caanan earth, what does Caanus ask in return?"

At those words, Vuul, as was his custom, smiled.

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