1.0 - A Good King's Gambit (Closed)

[DJ P4NTSL3SS]

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Tlaiowaha Subsector
The Floating Palace, Drinax
005 1105, Imperial

Walking into half the rooms in the Floating Palace is like being hit in the face by a firehouse of baroque beauty. Where do you look first? At the onyx floor inlaid with a map of the subsector made from artificial diamonds, lit by hidden lasers to perfectly match the color of each star? Or at the dozen Hiver-scented sculptures imported at great expense from the far side of Charted Space? Perhaps, instead, at the first printings of the works of the Sindalian poetess Shing Za Zoha that spill from a bookcase, carved from the living heart of a genetically engineered amber-plant?

The splendor is so great that it can almost distract you from the absurdity of it all. The Floating Palace is absurdly overcrowded. Every ballroom and feasthall is home to a dozen families; children will play among the works of art and technological wonders.

The people who live here 'make do' amid the the greatest collections of art and creation in the whole sector, stringing washing lines between golden statues, and using ancient tapestries as blankets and curtains.

The Palace is the size of a floating city, a flying Gormenghast of plas-steel and carbosamite. And it is a place where everyone from the lowliest of janitors to King Oleb himself can lay claim to a noble title. You, having been born here, are no exception. Somewhere down some family's line, however distant, you have titles and lands that would theoretically be yours to claim if the empire weren't the dying and exiled thing it is now.

Behold, then, the Floating Palace - a flying city, an aerial pleasure-dome of surpassing beauty, of endless wonder, and of total despair. But at least there's a view...
 

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Ensign Mahan, Star Guard
The Office of Lord Wrax, Star Guard Barracks

The Admiral's front office isn't normally so... stifling. It is one you've been in perhaps a dozen times previously on official business, but this summons was something unannounced. One of Lord Wrax's personal messengers had come running for you nearer breakfast, just before you had the morning's tea, and had said the Lord Admiral had summoned you specifically with urgent business. Of course you haven't officially been in the Star Guard for a fair measure now, so the messenger couldn't exactly say what it was you were being called for.

But, regardless, the messenger had ushered you to his office with little delay.

Through the door, you're able to catch fleeting clues.

" - damnable girl!"

" - the most jumped up - "

"I took Asim for this!"

A shatter of glass.

You are left alone in the gilded and well-decorated front office. A pair of desks flank heavy double-doors, though the secretaries are absent with one having disappeared into the inner office on your arrival. A chronometer on one wall, over an ornate faux-fireplace, lets you watch the minutes tick past. A window on the opposite wall gives a lovely view of a rolling lightning storm miles below, with purple bolts of fury lancing out from the rolling gray of the clouds.

Perhaps ten minutes pass when the door opens and the young woman, Ms. Deneer, steps out and greets you with a strained smile and a nod of her head to your technically superior station, "The Admiral will see you now, Ensign."

And she ushers you to move past her before shutting the door behind you wordlessly.

"Ensign!" Captain Cho smiles as he turns whole-body to face you, though the expression is no less strained than the secretary's despite the warm way he reaches out to clasp your hand, "Good to see you. Damned good." He gives a nervous chuckle and nods further into the room, "Come on, friend. The Admiral wants to see you."

The inner office is no less ostentatious and well-decorated than any other part of the palace, yet it holds a spartan military design to everything. At least by Sindalian standards. No banners depicting great battles or busts and paintings of the Lord Admiral himself, heroically posed. No, the only example of the Star Guard's senior-most officer stands half-hunched over his desk with shoulders rising and falling from each deep breath. His expression is pensive and it barely breaks as he takes a hard pull on the half a cigar he clutches in one gloved hand. And it doesn't even shift as he turns to you.

He sighs, speaking even as he exhales a billowing cloud of smoke, "Mahan. Hold the formalities." He circles his desk and that is about the time you notice he moves to block what looks like a shattered bottle of liquor from your view as he does, "Good of you to join us on such short notice."

He beckons to a pair of padded chairs in front of his desk.

Captain Rho doesn't sit, but instead stands back with hands clasped in front of his waist.

Admiral Wrax sniffles, taking another puff of his cigar before roughly shoving a varnished box and a pearlescent black lighter in your direction, "Do you know why I called you here, Mahan?"
 

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Kesperziaiepr, Zhodani Guard
The Pavilion, the Royal Gardens

The call has been going out for months now that the King of Drinax was seeking volunteers for a rather vague and ill-defined contract. It was delivered through the sorts of back-channels that one used when they didn't want the general public to know of things, and was rather far-reaching for what the offer claimed was ostensibly "local" work within the Trojan Reach. But a job extending for work beyond its borders would hardly be the weirdest thing to come out of the Trojan Reach in recent history.

The journey here wasn't exactly pleasant. Packed on various tramp freighters and free merchants, but at least in most of them you were afforded a room to yourself, comparatively decent food, and a clean enough refresher that you didn't have to share. The last of such merchants was a young woman by the name of Sal Dancet, who picked you up on Oghma while running sundry goods to Drinax in the hold of her subsidized merchant.

As the the vessel came in for landing at the starport docks, she'd given the announcement, and her near-skeleton crew had set about preparing for offloading, and she had made a point to visit your and others' staterooms to make sure the few passengers were ready for departure.

Sal is kurt, her lips pursed in a thin line, and offering a simple, "This is your stop, tall one." And that is perhaps the most she's said directly to anybody not in her crew this entire trip.

From there it was a simple matter of finding directions. Those coming to attend courses at the Scholar's Tower - a towering monolith to the south end of the station - were pointed in one way. Those who stated they were here for the apparent call for work were held up for perhaps half an hour. Then asked if they could elaborate. Then held up for another thirty to forty minutes. And finally, when asked to reaffirm, pointed to the Royal Gardens where you and others were instructed that beverages and meals would be waiting.

A butler, finely garbed, greets you with a smile, "Sir, please, this way as you would like. You are just in time. Our Lord was considering putting an end to reviewing applicants. We received message ahead of your arrival, but his Lordship isn't always... the most patient sort." And he gestures you to follow him, leading you along cobblestone walkways flanked by finely trimmed greenery, "Do tell, sir: would this be your first time being presented to royalty?" He regards you with a neutral smile over his shoulder.
 

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Urien Konicek
Personal Quarters, the Royal Apartments

Solomoni space, home to some, is almost a year behind you with some of the best engines. But that's assuming you could find a J-5 shuttle willing to take you all the way back through Hierate space. Quite the commitement to put one's old life behind them, and answer what would smack to most Solomoni senses as a base call for foreign mercenaries to die in a local war.

What was it the old man had told you about those sorts of jobs, when training you?

Astrid gives a soft mewl from the corner of the royal apartment you were provided, batting at the half-full food bowl a member of the apartment staff had provided when you first arrived. You were one of hte first people to arrive - despite coming from the farthest away, from what you could gather - and while you've yet to be granted the King's audience you have been assured that the delay is just to allow for appropriate background checks.

Interview after interview. Asking if you have experience with this or that.

Do you know what to do in shipboard operations?

What is your experience with criminal sorts?

What sort of hands-on practice do you have with politics?

Would you like a red or white whine for dinner tonight, sir?

A million questions and you've been assured it all serves an end for the offering. And the room service, of late? Name it, and its been provided to you. It went from simply scheduled meals to a butler or maid stopping buy whenever you press a call button on the panel at the door to the multi-room apartment you were provisioned. They won't explain why the sudden shift. But its hard not to notice.

The apartment you were given has three bedrooms - all of them just for yourself - and Astrid has been furnished with meals and snacks at your request, as well as passing scratches behind her ears whenever she bats at the ankles of passing staff who come to your call. Is this what nobility usually live like?

There is a knock at the door. An older gentleman, in a pressed suit like so many of the other staff, is waiting for you with an inoffensive smile and a tray with what has become your usual morning refreshments, proferred to you the moment the door opens, "Good sir, I'm so glad to see you're awake. Did you rest well?" But he barely waits for an answer, "I have wonderful news. His Lordship is requesting a summons for the assembled company. Would you need a few minutes, perhaps?" Astrid gives another plaintive yowl, batting the bowl, "And would you like for me to attend to your feline - companion? - sir?"
 

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Dawappa-ta-pefoba-a-awapate-a-ka, the Bwap
The Baths, the Royal Apartments

While it wouldn't be an oddity in a commune of Bwap society, a mudbath isn't terribly common amongst many human cultures and establishments. Yet tucked into a back corner of the Royal Apartments, you were able to find one with just a bit of questioning. When you weren't being called away by staff for interviews and questioning, you've been given relatively free roam of the parts of the Royal Apartments that you've been shown so far. Though under the close watch of the Hawk Warriors standing at guard in full battle dress.

When you arrived, you were told you had arrived in the middle of the pack, but you were already standing out by being the only non-human who wasn't also sporting fur. You were initially put into more conventional housing elsewhere on the Floating Palace, but as the days went on and interviews were seemingly passed you found yourself upgraded to accomodations in the Royal Apartments, and you were shifted from being treated as one of a crowd to seemingly being doted on.

Some of the staff have even seemed to be trying to learn the basics of Bwap morning rituals.

It was an inquisitive maid taking time to read on Bwap culture who had realized you were possibly in need of more specific accomodations and had led you to the small and secluded mudbath - across the hall from a perhaps less appealing hot-tub. But the bath holds a nice, humid atmosphere, it isn't visited often by most of the occupants of the Royal Apartments, and after the second visit the Hawk Warrior at the end of the hall stopped asking you to identify yourself as the only Bwap in the royal apartments.

The windows in the mud bath are high up, not allowing anybody to peer inside - not that they could, given how many stories up you are - but it allows the golden light of Drinax's sun to shine in as the chronometer on the far wall tells you it is just now shifting to morning for the royal apartments. At about this time is when the staff and occupants are getting up to start their days, for the most part.

That is when you are able to hear the voices outside your door.

"I don't know what to say, do you? They're all about rituals."

"Of course I don't! Do I look like an amphibian to you?"

"Look, we need to - "

"You need to. You."

"I just want some - "

"You."

One of the staff outside clears their throat, just loudly enough to be heard through the thick wood of the door, before rapping their knuckles against it, "Sir? Good morning, sir. Are you decent?" And as if that is warning enough, the door is barely cracked. Though not enough to let anybody see in, it does clear up the matter of speaking through the door, "Sir, when you are ready, Our Lordship has requested to meet with you."
 

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Lindsey Zhukova, the Steward
Personal Quarters, the Royal Apartments

Home - if it was ever truly home to you - is a year away by the best ship. And that is only if the ship has quite the jump-drive and a captain with the tenacity, or simply the suicidal drive, to push straight through the heart of the Hierate. Your journey was made aboard a number of tramp freighters and merchants. Of particular note was a freighter who had as much fuel as cargo in her holds who ferried you across the "J-5 Route". "Comfortable".

The final leg was from the very border of Hierate territory where you managed to secure passage aboard the vessel of a muddy-colored Bwap by the name of Rachando. To find a Bwap so far from the heart of Imperial space, while not uncommon, was enough to make the strange-speaking fellow stand out in the starport when you had been inquiring about passage. When you told him where you were going, he was more than happy to charge you only a modest fee for a stateroom aboard his ship.

When you first arrived here, they had put you in what the guards and staff had kept referring to as "general housing" while arranging countless interviews. Sitting in some nice room while your background and credentials were gone through, they'd picked at every past experience you'd had and what skills you would bring to a crew. It was around about the time you brought up your time spent as a stewardess and estate tender that you had seemed to really pique their interest.

The next day, you had been shifted to the Royal Apartments, and furnished with a multi-bedroom estate to call your own for the time being. Three bedrooms, an included kitchen, and a well-furnished foyer that looked as if it had been well lived in for many years judging by the state of things. Of course the new move came with the addition of guards in battle dress at certain doors, but...

Rising from your slumber, you are met with the view of your south-facing windows, which grant you a view of the towering obelisk of the Scholar's Tower - what you were told is one of the Floating Palace's few exports to the greater world, knowledge. Backlit by the purple flashes of a rising storm far to the Palace's south that they have been outrunning for the last several days, rather unintentionally.

You barely have time to glance at a nearby chronometer before knuckles rap against the door, "Ma'am. Morning tea, ma'am. Further, I was asked to inform you that Our Lordship has requested your audience. May I come in?"
 

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Eirene Kovačević, the Corsair
Loacation

Piracy is such a funny word, isn't it? If you were to peal away the labels and just describe it bluntly - engaging in criminal affairs for personal financial gain - there isn't much difference between what you have done in life, and what corporations do. So with that in mind, the Hawk Warriors who have been guarding the Royal Apartments these last few days could trust you at least as much as they might trust some corporate billionaire. But the way they look at you whenever you pass by - and you can't confirm they're glaring - tells you that isn't the case.

During the past weeks of interviews, they managed to pry the hints of details about your past careers from you. You had noticed a tonal shift in several ways. The first was that they had moved you into the Royal Apartments at a certain point, telling you that you had passed muster, and were going to officially be extended an offer once the rest of the crew had been vetted and compiled. The second was that the Hawk Warriors seemed to always be watching you intently whenever you stepped from your apartment.

Of course, that could have also been your nerves and past experience talking.

The apartment they provided you was a two-bedroom affair with a kitchen and living room of sorts. Hardly something that would fit the Solomoni aesthetics of spartan design and "comfortable simplicity" but at the same time, whether it clashed with some Party member's sense of decorum didn't make the bed any less warm or the meals delivered each day any less filling.

One feature - love it or hate it - was that the windows of your apartment are west-facing to open sky.

And Drinax is a world with an east-to-west orbit.

The sunrise shoots into the room with brilliant golden rays, illuminating the sea of rooftops outside your window, and back-lighting the towering sillouhette of the palace's center where you have been told King Oleb rests his head. Though you, and to your knowledge none of the other applicants, have been given access to the throne room or audience with the noble responsbile for arranging all of this, just yet.

You have time to go about your morning preparations. You had at least a footlocker worth of possessions, and you've found there's more than enough room in the quarters to place your possessions and stretch your legs. In fact, if you had a mind to stay in your private quarters all day, you'd likely still not feel like you were running out of space to stretch your legs.

Almost timed for the end of your morning preparations - you wouldn't be surprised if the staff had taken note of how long that normally took you, and had been waiting - there comes a knock at the door, "Good madam, I hope the morning has found you well." The butler calls through the door, "I bring news. Unfortunately the morning's scheduled breakfast has been delayed. I've been instructed that Our Lordship has requested your audience. Are you decent?"
 

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Edited May 3, 2023 by DJ P4NTSL3SS (see edit history)

[Dastardly Tristar]

Need to know basis. 

A tour aboard a Solomani cruiser, manning the sensors. Plus the odd cross training with Engineering. 

He's had a few run ins with the unsavory sort in Imperial space, and more pleasant meetings in Solomani theatres. 

8 years posing as an idiot with blue blood from the frontier space of the Third Empire. Politics was all he had to learn, and more. 

None- whiskey, on the rocks. 

 

Urien remembered the initial discomfort of having to act as though he was born special compared to his fellow peers. The quickness to apologize, the awkwardness of being seated in a chair that had more nett worth than the average Vilani citizen. It was all automation now, ingrained in his bones and muscles. The subtle sneer, a pervasive reminder of superiority that followed in his footsteps. Old habits died hard. Memories, too. 

He sat on a couch, tracing its intricate upholstery and trying not to think too hard about his reasons. He had spent a full year ruminating; if he hadn't found peace by then, Urien needed to act like he had. Astrid curled up on his lap and purring gently comforted the man who, despite his calm and melancholic expression, felt nervous. 

When the knock was heard, his feline compatriot abandoned all pretenses of comradery and placed herself by the feeding station, yowling in agony, at the idea of an empty bowl. Urien walked over to the gentleman, thinking of his next words. Decades of service in SolSec had taught the man the power of words- good or bad, the wrong inflection, poor choices of words - it all meant more than an offended conversational partner the Confederation. Sometimes it meant an internal audit, and a warrant signed by yours truly.

"I will be there after coffee. " he answered, picking up the steaming mug. "Do not worry about Astrid, I will be taking her with me." Before he could interject, a third hand whipped around from beneath Urien's coat, revealing a walking harness for the cat. At the rattle, Astrid's meowing grew louder, batting at Urien's legs. "I know, walkies time. Come on." Urien carried the plate with his left hand, and waved the gentleman away with his third arm, harness and leash swaying lazily. 

 

Urien didn't eat too much in the end. The rest of it went to Astrid, who made a mess that was the servant's responsibility later. Harness attached and cat wrapped around his shoulders like a giant fur coat, the former agent opened the door of his apartment to the Floating City. "Well," he said to the messenger. "Take me to Oleb."

Edited February 3, 2023 by Dastardly Tristar (see edit history)

[Niraverine]

Formality. So much formality. Come to think of it, people here weren't much different than the higher spheres that were inhabiting the Imperium or the Confederation. Eirene smirked to herself and opened her mouth, a cheeky answer on the tip of her tongue... before she thought better of it. Speaking before thinking was the root of at least some of her problems.

 Instead she hummed non-committaly and looked into the mirror with a slightly furrowed brow. Slight paleness and dark shades under eyes, a testament to an early wake up - courtesy of the administrator who pegged her as an admirer of sunrises. Stiff posture. Slightly disheveled look but that would be easy to fix. She ran a hand through her dark hair and straightened her jacket before answering. 

 Eirene was however in a philosophical mood.  "That depends", she drawled nonchalantly. "Am I a decent person? I would hope so. Is my profession decent? Debatable. Am I both ready to leave this place and in a state that won't scandalize anyone? Indeed I am." Truth be told, she'd prefer the meeting to happen after breakfast. Knowing her luck and the rituality of some places there was not so small chance of this meeting to drag on.

  She tapped her foot impatiently, took a deep breath, and moved in the direction of the door. Before opening it, she relaxed her posture and smirked lazily. The Warriors' attitude was bothering her but that clearly worked both ways - and she had certain image to uphold. She opened the door with a flourish and moved past the butler with a swagger. "Where to? Lead the way."

[Emmettmcglynn]

10 minutes is not a long time to spend on a ship when interstellar travel measured in a week at minimum, but when waiting in the office of one of the highest ranking men in the star system it stretched considerably. Habitually drawing his pipe from the loop it was kept in, he began to idly fidget with it during the wait. Twirling the corncob from Asim around his fingers like a bored student with a pen, he mulled over the old childhood dreams of running a vast fleet fromt this very office. After a minute and no reapperance, he rises to his feet and walks to the window to watch the swirling storm. He didn't look at Drinax proper often, and when he did it rarely raised his mood. A garden world, the history books said, with sprawling fields and thriving cities full of priceless art — and priceless lives. He ached for the memory of the Kingdom of Drinax, ruling from Asim to Paal bringing peace and prosperity to eight systems. Drinax was dead, and any semblence of unity in the Trojan Reach had died with it. Now the Aslan send waves of warriors to seize land, the Empire pretended it could stop them, and reavers thrived in the abscence of firm leadership. 

His reverie broke with the return of the secretary. A quick glance to the chronometer showed it had been nearly ten minutes, spent daydreaming of a dead nation. With a shake of his head he followed the secretary ushering him into the next room, murmering a reply to his old Captain before stepping through the final door to the Admiral's office. It was, even having brought messages before, still disorienting how low-key and underdecorated it was. Regardless, he was halfway through his salute when the Admiral waved it off and so awkardly lowered his hand. Sitting slowly in the offered chair and gingerly accepting the offered cigar, he shook his head.
"I must confess, Lord Admiral, I do not."

Edited January 22, 2023 by Emmettmcglynn (see edit history)

[Sneaksby]

The long journey was finally over. Skipping from system to system, only stopping long enough to secure passage on the next grubby vessel with room for a passenger, it was wearying. Kesper wasn't picky about his accomodations. He was a star marine of thirteen years, after all, fully accustomed to cramped living on ships. It was the company that drained him. Foreigners of every stripe buzzing with disordered thoughts and willful, chaotic behavior. It was enough to drive a decent man mad.

Luckily he was afforded the privilege of privacy more often than not, and could retreat to his room when it all became too much and he just needed a break. It was exhausting, having to keep his guard up. But this wasn't a pleasure cruise. He could deal. Meditation techniques and breathing exercises kept him calm and centered, regular exercise helped work off the anxiety. All in all he kept his composure. Kept his thoughts in right order.

On this, the last leg of his journey he had shook off the scruff and bleariness of a long voyage and made himself as presentable as he could manage: beard trimmed, eyebrows plucked, jewelry polished, makeup carefully applied.

He looked down at Sal with a little smile, his reply letting slip a trace of humor.

"Thank you, small one."

And he stepped off the ship and into a galaxy teeming with the criminally insane.

- - - - -

Kesper was a towering monolith among the petitioners, hands clasped behind his back as he serenely endured the wait imposed on him. The quiet man seemed content to languidly absorb the sights and sounds of the palace for an age - until he slowly wandered off to do a little sightseeing. A servant had to politely but firmly nudge him toward the Royal Gardens, and his pace was quickened at the promise of refreshments.

While searching for a cup of something cold and fruity, Kesper was accosted by the butler. He graced the man with a relaxed smile.

"I'm glad to be considered at all. My only desire is to be of use to the King."

He followed the butler with long strides, easily keeping up.

"I visited here once to attend an event hosted by His Lordship, but I never had the privilege of meeting him. I can't say if I merited his notice then."

He took in his surroundings with evident pleasure.

"The palace is as beautiful as I remember. It's good to see it again."

Then, as though flexing a dormant muscle, he unfurled his mind and reached out an inquisitive mental finger to brush against the butler's thoughts. A staggeringly intrusive act in the eyes of anti-psionic foreigners, but to one such as him, practically second nature.

(Telepathy: Read Surface Thoughts)
(PSI: 9/11)

Edited January 23, 2023 by Sneaksby (see edit history)

[kostyora]

And so, at last, her travels had - temporarily at least - come to a close. Lindsey had served at the right hand of the closest thing the Confederation had to a noble for over a decade, and she recognized the familiar thrill of some sort of intrigue being cooked up behind closed doors course through her. Enough that even with the generous and spotlessly clean quarters she had been appointed (and the armed guards), which reminded gratifyingly of her life in the Solomani Navy, she had been unable to sleep well. Thus she had spent the hours reading some tawdry novel she had rescued from Rachando's crew's hands... or whatever the proper biological term was. She needn't have bothered. She was disappointed to find she had read it before, years previous.

Then... a knock, and a voice not totally dissimilar to one she herself employed around old Matsuko. Bland, inoffensive, but perfectly respectful.

"A moment, friend." Sitting up from the delightfully soft bed she had been provided, she checked her reflection in a mirror before she answered further. The blemishes around her eyes resulting from her lack of sleep could not be helped but otherwise? She was very proud of her appearance, and taking a position in the room where she would be the least obtrusive, finally allowed the domestic access. "Please, do come in." She would not insult them by opening the door; this was their job and any usurpation of its procedures by a principal did nothing but upset their rhythm. 'Though,' she thought to herself, 'this would not have been how I would have arranged this space.' She shook the thought away and stood neutrally with an expectant expression and slight smile, with her hands clasped in front of her. Not the time to be criticizing her future patron's choice in decor... whatever it was he wanted her services for.

[Kiro Haas]

The Bwap stirs.

When soaking alone in a mud bath, there was truly very little reason to, well... do anything but soak. And so, the Bwap had been doing exactly that. Soaking, while meditating upon the passages of the Wapawab, as was dictated in the aforementioned tome.

A pair of eyes emerge from the mud.

They open, one after another. First, the outer eyelids, then the inner nictating membrane that allowed the Bwap to see clearly underwater. They look at the clock above the door, as the voices come from beyond the mudbath chamber. Viscous bubbles form, and promptly pops, as the sole resident of the muddy receptacle lets out a snort of annoyance.

Too hasty...

The eyes submerge once more, and the mud ripples as the lean amphibian figure within propels itself smoothly and easily through the treacle-like contents of the bath, before - with a powerful flick of that long tail - erupting out of the mud and onto the tiled surface of the room.

"Please, a moment a Bwap give," the bather croaks out in heavily accented Galactic. Webbed feet slap against tiles as the blue-green figure moves to a basin containing pure water. Clammy fingers grasp the handle of a ladle, before proceeding to pour water over mottled skin, washing off mud - which drains back into the bath - and leaving the bather 'clean' by humaniti's standards.

Then, with more slapping of webbed feet against tiles, the glistening amphibian moves to a locker, where they produce their armoured and temperature regulated kaftan. They dress, following traditions older than the entire culture of Dirnax. Likely older than any racial memory humaniti might possess. And throughout, the Bwap is producing a low basso rumble, a sign of annoyance that they must rush through the morning rituals.

In a proper mud bath, the Bwap would have taken at least twice as long, before letting the sun bake the outer layer of mud, then brushing it off, before cleaning in water, while enjoying a hearty breakfast of fruits and grubs, before reciting that morning's passage of the Wapawab while dressing. This haste was just uncouth. Unseemly. Within the amphibian heart, the urge to complain to the maid was lurking, but it was an urge as quickly squashed as they would eat a bitter-grub. The maid at least tried to understand. The Bwap had dealt with humaniti and the other sophonts long enough to understand that none of them truly appreciated ritual like the Bwap.

With the last piece of the kaftan in place, and headgear strapped securely in place, temperature regulator humming, humidifying waters coursing through the datawoven ballistic cloth, the Bwap nods to themselves. They were ready.

"Bwap is ready," it croaks, approaching and pushing the door open, presenting their short stature to the maid. "To your lordship, Bwap take."

[DJ P4NTSL3SS]

Ensign Mahan, Star Guard
The Office of Lord Wrax, Star Guard Barracks

The Captain and the Admiral exchange a look over you at your answer, and the Admiral raises a brow. An unspoken question.

Whether or not you take an offered cigar, the lid is brought shut with the hard clack of varnished wood, and the veritably antique container is thrown atop the desk behind the silver-haired naval officer while he turns to regard you fully, "I can't say I'm happy to hear that." He sighs, "I'm sure you've heard what our King has been doing. Putting out calls, wanting foreign aid." Shifting atop his desk, he glances over his shoulder at the windows, before looking back to you, "To keep things simple for you, he's intending to give leave of a Drinaxian naval vessel. A vessel from my navy, to help make this plan of his happen. And he wants it crewed with damned foreigners." He eyes you from head to toe and suddenly its every dress and parade inspection you ever had in your career, as if he's judging your dress, "And seeing as I've nobody else to spare-  I want to see you on that ship."

He steps off from his desk and slowly makes his way to the nearby liqour cabinet, setting out glasses, and a bottle of Sindalian brandy. Uncorked, he takes time silently pouring a trio of glasses before beckoning both yourself and Captain Cho to join you. The Captain gives you his best showing of a reassuring smile and steps up to take a glass, "I've managed to get the ear of our King, and after some persuasion he's allowed me to put one of our own aboard the - "

Captain Cho clears his throat, and gives Lord Wrax a pointed look.

"Right. I suppose its still above your pay-grade until you've been officially brought aboard." Lord Wrax finishes his cigar, "So. A footlocker, plus your standard issue. Standard naval affair you're used to. Boarded up and ready by this afternoon." Extending the third glass to you, he quirks a brow, "Sound fair, Ensign?"
 

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Kesperziaiepr, Zhodani Guard
The Pavilion, the Royal Gardens

Led further into the garden, you flex familiar and well-trained 'muscles' to reach out to the staff member leading you. You sweep over the surface of his mind, catching the points of thought and action as they rise up. There are the usual thoughts your experience has taught you to associate with proles. And of course you can only see what sets at the very top of his mind, actively in his focus. He is perplexed by your sense of fashion, and your claim of having been here previously is dismissed as something that must predate his time as royal palace staff. He seems more hurried to accommodate for the 'special request' that your presence denotes than anything else. Orders from the Princess, post-haste.

He gives another inoffensive smile while leading you through a milling crowd of... various sorts. You can see aristocrats and bankers, men and women hiding armor under suit jackets, and more brazenly dressed mercenaries. All of them are busied with drinks and meals but you are led through them as if they are so much chaff through the gardens, making an almost direct line for one of the Royal Palace's entrances - the one you had used years ago when here attending that ball, "Indeed. It is truly something else. His Lordship ensures we keep it immaculate ffor the viewing of those brilliant minds who come to study at the tower."

He affords you enough time to grab a small refreshment. A beverage, a sandwich. But he's still hurried.

As you draw nearer to the doors, the guards step aside and part them for your presence. The two of you are ushered into that most ostentatious foyer where you and other party-goers were brought many years ago. And waiting for you, you can see a curious assembled group of... individuals. To put it bluntly. Just as much outsiders in this place as yourself. In front of them, an attendant paces about while studying a datapad in his hand. The servant who escorted you clears his throat into a gloved hand to draw attention, beckoning you with a nod, "If you would wait here, sir? Our Lordship is certain to be with you shortly."
 

---

Urien, Dawappa, Lindsey, Eirene, Kesperziaiepr
Personal Quarters, the Royal Palace

The butlers and maids who were sent to retrieve you are, to the last, professionals. Your presence here is something they've had many days to grow accustomed to - some more than others - and so it is nothing but inoffensive smiles and polite nods or small-talk as each of you are assembled amid your morning routines. Most of you are brought singularly or in pairs, taken through the halls of the Royal Apartments to waiting closed-compartment air/rafts to be shuttled the admittedly short distance to the Royal Palace. Some of you arrive at the parking area almost on top of each other as preceding transports depart to get the others. Others were kept close enough that it is merely a walk across the street.

But in the end, you all are brought to the forward room of the Royal Palace before a pair of imposing jeweled - and likely armored - doors that you have been informed previously lead to King Oleb's court. They sit shut at present, with a duo of Hawk Warriors standing at guard in full battle dress as if the lot of you might decide to rush the inner most chamber after all the administrative busy-work you've been through. And you are all brought before a sharp eyed older attendant in robes that seem far more decorated and ornate than those of the staff who brought each of you here. Which is saying something, given the measure of what is around you.

His glasses - round-lensed, sat on the very bridge of his nose - seem as much for appearance as to help him read the tablet he has in hand.

He looks over each of you, pursing his lips, listing of names one at a time. Though as he lists off one 'Sun Mahan' he looks over all of you. And he frowns, clearly noting an absent with a disdainful grunt. Then moments later, behind your assembly, a throat is cleared. An attendant steps aside to 'reveal' the tall and lanky form of the bronze-skinned man behind him, addressing him, "If you would wait here, sir? Our Lordship is certain to be with you shortly."

The man in front of all of you frowns deeper still as he checks the tablet. Double-checks it. And, seemingly, triple-checks it before finding what he is looking for. "Ah. Very good of you to join us." He regards you all with a withering stare, "So good of most of you to join us in a timely manner." A glare shifts from the newest arrival, to one of the halls leading out from this forward room, and settling back on the lot of you assembled, "I am Herald Medan, of His Lordship's Court. I have been entrusted with briefing all of you before you hold audience with Our Lordship. I suppose it might be too much to ask that any of you know the proper manner in which to bow and entreat nobility on first meeting?"

Edited January 24, 2023 by DJ P4NTSL3SS (see edit history)

[Dastardly Tristar]

The Floating Palace certainly didn't skimp on its luxurious decor, and although Urien had a decent amount of exposure to the excesses of nobility, the sights still took his breath away. It was that, or Astrid's weight on his shoulders, mewing inquisitively at every passer by. Along the way his entourage quietly merged with that of a few people, some that he recognized. 

He hadn't expected Eirene to be here of all places, although he should really start expecting bad surprises by now. The two of them had dated for an indeterminate amount of time. The man was vague with the timeline and didn't need a recounting of his past failures. He kept a socially acceptable distance away from the woman whom he hoped had as bad of a memory for faces as she did a penchant for holding onto jobs. 

They were soon joined by a motley of characters - there was another woman that he did not recognize yet, a Bwap that he dared not to presume identity (they all looked vaguely similar to him) and . . .he racked his brain to remember the name. 

Casper. Kesper? Casper. The Zhodani he met on a business meeting all those years ago, back when he was Captain Konicek. He wasn't quite sure why they had all chosen to answer King Oleb's summons, but he was at the very least, happy to know someone in the group of strangers. But there was no time for chit chat. 

Administration took its usual dull course - he had to point out that his cat, Astrid, did not count as 'personnel', and was in fact a mere pet. After that short kerfuffle he fell back in line by Casper's side, hands clasped in front of him as the Herald said their piece. "So what brought you to the neck of the woods?" he whispered to the Zhodani.

At Medan's question, he snapped his fingers; Astrid took notice and leapt to the ground in a dignified manner, seated with expectant eyes. Urien made the motions of bowing and noble etiquette that culminated in the flourish of a non-existent feathered hat, and a wry smile. "I remember a thing or two."

[Emmettmcglynn]

Mahan considers the offer - if it was an offer - for only a scant second before nodding. Truth be told, he'd heard the rumors of the call for volunteers but had discarded it as just the spinning of the mill. However, if it was true and a warship of Drinax was going to be staffed entirely by foreigners, then that would just be galling. With a nod and a serious expression, he voices his assent.

"Of course, my lord. I'll have my kit stowed and be ready to ship out before noon." He takes a sip of the Sindalian brandy, savoring the rare flavor and its combination with the cigar smoke. "If I may, do you know the mercenaries I will be serving alongside? For that matter, what mission is so critical that it needs a vessel from the Star Guard yet can't be entrusted to our own crews?"

Edited January 27, 2023 by Emmettmcglynn (see edit history)

[kostyora]

She had almost, almost missed the Herald's question. She had observed various despots with pretensions to royalty as well as the genuine article before, from the relative anonymity of the domestic staff, whose mark of professionalism and competence was in fact to be seen hardly at all. She was confident she knew the answer to the query, but instinctively hedged in her reply. It would not do to step on another of her kind's toes. He was there to ensure everything went correctly when they were introduced to his employer, and thus would show them anyway.

She made to speak before being pre-empted by the admittedly handsome one of the group... Solomani, like herself, if she judged his accent right. "I remember a thing or two," he remarked as he came upward from his flamboyant introduction. She thought it was a trifle overdone personally, as a simple bending of the neck and inclination of the head and shoulders forward was all that was required for what the more feudal-minded considered a gentleman. But, she also thought, if he were Solomani -- perhaps he was simply making a good natured joke while he could. Or perhaps he was simply no gentleman, which she could credit as a hypothesis.

"Perhaps there is a Drinaxian custom I am unaware of, but, for myself and you," she spoke softly while incling her head at the other woman, "I am given to understand we do this." Keeping her upper body subtly rigid and her arms relaxed by her sides, she slowly and deliberately swept her right leg behind her left and rested on the ball of her foot before descending a few centimeters, and rising to her original position again.

"But, I am happy to be instructed if I am wrong." Having said her piece, she scanned her would-be compatriots. A Bwap, a perhaps Solomani, a... Zhodani from his stature, and... she could not tell. Whatever she was, she looked like a coiled spring. 'Interesting," she thought idly.

[Niraverine]

Eirene stared at the doors with some astonishment. Someone who designed them clearly had a bigger budget than the sense of aesthetic, she mused and then decided that the design was personally offending her tastes. On the upside, the hideous object was also a clear indicator that the job here could set her for life and allow to forget about all the misfortunes that happened. Maybe erase some records too. It would be nice… She considered the doors again. How much would they be worth, she wondered. How to even take them off? Transport? Who would be willing to buy them? All those ponderings were entirely theoretical, to kill the time and settle her nerves. Still, the Hawk Warrior standing guard caught her prolonged stare and glared at her as if privy to her thoughts. She glared back (she didn’t do anything! Yet…), crossed her arms and finally shifted her gaze to the newcomers.

The Bwap looked eerily familiar. Or she was being paranoid. There was no way she would meet any acquainta-… Someone caught her attention. She nearly grimaced. The luck, her faithful companion for the past few weeks, clearly decided in that very moment that enough is enough and abandoned Eirene. The man was definitely familiar. Talk about awkward reunions, she thought with some resignation. She barely registered the arrival of the rest of the group. There was a woman… and a rather colourful individual that could be a Zhodani.

She finally shifted her attention to the attendant. There was an air of offended superiority around him. It brought memories of clerks from university and a certain type of people that she met back when she was still an agent. Even the scowl and posturing was similar. The corner of Eirene’s mouth twitched, then she ducked her head and remained silent. Let Urien and others show off. Observe, remember, repeat if they are correct. Don’t commit social suicide just yet. Something was nagging her though. The accent. The bloody accent. She looked from the corner of her eye first at Urien then at the woman. They were both Solomani. And in the case of one of them she really should have noticed it sooner. She closed her eyes. Bloody perfect.

[Sneaksby]

Idly feeling the texture and contours of the butler's thoughts, Kesper decided this was a good fellow who knew his place well in the order of the Palace. In deference to the butler's admirable focus on his duties, Kesper only paused to snatch up a finger sandwich (which he cramed into his mouth in one go) and take a small drink before nodding at the man to continue on.

It was an unpleasant surprise to spot a familiar face upon arrival. Urien Konicek. Solomani Security. Rank, Captain. Remembered details tick off in his mind as his gaze rakes over the man. SolSec was similar in its own way to the esteemed Tavrchedl' or their less reputable Tozjabr cousins - if one was inclined to compare a butcher's cleaver to a finely honed scalpel. But the presence of a foreign agent was troubling regardless, assuming his affiliation was unchanged.

"I'm no longer a member of the Guard, so I'm hoping to enter the King's service. More honorable than mercenary work, hopefully not as boring as retirement or the civilian sector."

His claim was technically true, even if he left out details. Certainly if one made an inquiry with the Consulate they'd find that Kesper was no longer on the roster. Officially, he was honorably discharged - voluntary redundancy, surplus to requirements, etc. etc.

He was just about to echo Urien's question back to him when the Herald began to speak. The pointed accusation of tardiness was met with an expression of utmost innocence on Kesper's part.

"Regretfully, I don't."

Edited January 27, 2023 by Sneaksby (see edit history)

[Kiro Haas]

The Bwap followed obligingly along, following the Maid on the tour through the Floating Palace, webbed feet slapping along the expensive tiles and marbled stone. The amphibian waddles behind the assigned guide, glancing hither and yon upon all the displayed wealth. If the former courier was impressed, it didn't show upon the Bwap's features. And having delivered sensitive mail to high ranking nobles across the Third Empire, it wasn't exactly a new situation either. So, the Bwap simply continued to follow the maid, arms folded together within the confines of the kaftan.

 

The Bwap's arms remains folded within the damp confines of the kaftan as the herald lists off their names, and there, finally, the amphibian is forced to speak.

"Incorrect," it croaks, before licking it's left eyeball, then blinking twice. "This bwap, Dwappa-ta-pefoba-a-awapate-a-ka, is named," it helpfully corrects the herald, putting a particular emphasis on the clicking noises in it's name. "And Dwappa-ta-pefoba-a-awapate-a-ka would be remiss, if your own introduction and name being required, Dwappa-ta-pefoba-a-awapate-a-ka pointed out not."

The Bwap then proceeds to lick it's left eyeball, as casually as if it was a human trying to contain a cough. 

"But hasty human can assured rest. Dwappa-ta-pefoba-a-awapate-a-ka has many nobles and royals met," it continues, arms still folded together within it's moist robes, it's long tail flicking back and forth behind it, occasionally delivering a soft and wet slap as it impacts the expensively tiled floor. "Dwappa-ta-pefoba-a-awapate-a-ka is most familiar with most royal customs. Dirnax customs, perhaps less. But Bwap will full ritual of greetings for highest leader use." It finishes, before giving what might perhaps be an approximation of a reassuring smile to the herald, if an overgrown salamander ever were to try and mimic a human smile.

It then glances over at Eriene, and with what might have perhaps been considered a 'conspiratory' croak... had it been perhaps kept ten decibels lower, utters: "To see you alive, Bwap is glad. When last saw, was worried."

[DJ P4NTSL3SS]

Ensign Mahan, Star Guard
The Office of Lord Wrax, Star Guard Barracks

Lord Wrax doesn't smile - he hasn't smiled since Asim, some say - but he gives a nod. Just how voluntary his offer is can be read in his body language and from the smile Cho gives, as if relieved of some previously invisible tension. Wrax's smile is in thin lips, and it doesn't reach his eyes before it drops and he throws his head back to drain his glass in one long pull, "Marvelous. Marvelous stuff, Ensign."

He clears his throat and steps over to his desk, fetching a seemingly random collection of pocket-items. Personal possessions that are tucked away as - to the air in front of him - he asks, "Bring the ride around, gentlemen." And then he turns to you again, "As for the outsiders you'll be serving with? I have been entrusted with conducting investigation into all of them. An Imperial. A Bwap. Two Solomoni - far from home, oddly enough. And sent ahead by messenger, a Zhodani. You, of course, will be granted the privilage of getting to know them all quite well. Better than I did, I wager."

He motions to the door out of his office but then takes the lead through the familiar barracks of the Star Guard.

He doesn't answer that last question - the mission - and he leads the way to the entrance of the Star Guard Barracks where an Air/Raft is waiting for you. Cho stops short, clapping a hand on your shoulder, "Best of luck out there, Mahan." He smiles again, "We're all cheering for you from here on out." He then nods to the Admiral and renders a proper Sindalian salute that is quickly returned, "Sir."

And with that, it is you and the Admiral loading into the back of an Air/Raft with two Star Guard sailors up front.

The ride is a short one from the barracks to the center fo the royal palace - to the throne room where King Oleb XVI sits. It is about that time, that the Admiral finally offers, "As for the mission, I'll admit even I have been given only limited information. Good Lady Rao," he almost seems to snap the name, as if he's trying to break it between his teeth. "is the architect of it. I can only assume she will imporat the details to you."

The Air/Raft lands, and one of the sailors in the front steps out to open your door for you, "Best of luck, Mahan." The Admiral nods.
 

---

Urien, Dawappa, Lindsey, Eirene, Kesperziaiepr, Mahan
The Royal Palace

The Herald meets all of your answers with more or less the same withering expression of disapproval. Urien and Kesper seem to draw the hint of a barely restrained eye-roll, from among all of you, and when demonstrations are made he clicks his tongue in disapproval and shakes his head, "No no no. This won't do at all." He turns to the pad in the crook of one arm, grumbling to himself almost inaudibly as he taps at the screen with an obviously growing sense of frustration.

The next moment, the doors many of you arrived for open once again, admitting a young Drinaxian man by the looks of him, ushered in by the door guards, and with an Air/Raft that can be seen lifting away behind him before the doors firmly shut. The Herald looks up, furrows his brow, and offers, "Oh. So good of you to join us, Ensign." He beckons to the rest of you with a wave of a gloved hand, though his expression seems to soften a touch. Or perhaps its a trick of the light. But either way, he continues, "I was just about to show our guests the proper way one is to present before Our Lordship, the good king. Perhaps they can learn from both of us, yes?"

He extends his arms out wide to his sides - parallel to the floor and angled slightly forward of his body with palms facing down. The Herald's left leg comes forward, settling gingerly on the heel, and he bends his right knee almost to a 45-degree angle. At the waist, he ever-so-delicately leans forward, and at the same time drops his head enough so as to be looking towards his extended left foot. Held. 1-2-3-4-5 and just as gingerly he rises up to be standing wholly up right with both feet planted. He looks to each of you with a raised brow, "Simple enough, yes? Surely you - "

The doors to the throne room bust open, swinging wide and fast. And with enough force to cause the Hawk Warriors to step forward. But they don't turn about.

A portly man with a thick but well-trimmed black beard comes stomping through the doors. He has a heavy gut that hangs just enough to hide the buckle of a roughly secured gravity belt, nearly knee-high polished black leather boots, and a heavy and ornately jeweled crown sat atop raven black hair that is pulled back into a thick bun. He bellows, "Mahan! Where are my damn guests!" He sweeps his gaze over all of you. For at least one of you - Mahan - it is easy enough to recognize your monarch. He was there for several ceremonies involving your vessel, after all.

The Herald shoots to turn about, "Oh - um - yes, my lord. I was just instructing the - "

"Teaching them how to bow, yes, yes! They know well enough, Mahan!" He points one chubby finger at the first person he seems to settle on - Lindsey - and demands, "You! Give us a bow, then!" Though he's beginning to grin. All it takes is the first committed motion from Lindsey before he declares, "Good enough! Lets have it then, follow me!" He turns about and, with a portly swagger, walks into the throne room.

There you are treated to what might be the pinnacle of oppulance. Black marble floors with swirls of gray and white are under your feet, and those of you who take an interest in it might soon realize that there are holes of various sizes - though differences are small - across the floor. And shining down from above, lights hit gems embedded in those holes to see them glowing soft yellows and warm oranges or reds. The especially observant and travel-minded soon realize you are walking across the Trojan Reach, scaled to be displayed across the entire floor of the throne room.

And ahead of you, the Dragon Throne.

Large. Heavy. Dark metal, sharp angles. And the nose-piece of an Aslan vessel taken as a trophy, poised above it and angled down to make you feel as if you are under the pointed beak of a bird of prey.

King Oleb XVI turns about and throws himself back into the throne, heavily, before clapping his hands. From one of the back corners behind you, a hurried-looking young man appears with a silver tray balanced on one hand and a fat bottle in the other. The tray is festooned with glasses - eight in total - and as he approaches the King, the monarch is quick to usher him in your direction with an irritated grunt, though he's quick to give the boy a smile as he corrects himself, "Damn it, boy. You think I invite guests in to watch me drink?" He gives a bellowing laugh, "Alcohol does no good taken alone!"

The attendant approaches each of you, lowering his head in a slight bow as the long-stemmed crystal glasses are presented to each of you.

Once each of you have all but had a beverage foisted upon you, he returns to the king's side and presents one of the final two glasses.

And when he is left holding a tray with one glass remaining, he gives the offending libation a confused look.

King Oleb looks to the wine. Then to the young attendant. He visibly shifts his gaze from one to the other a few times until the attendant finally looks at him in kind, "Well? Drink up, boy! I don't ask for eight drinks because I think its a good number!" Another laugh.

King Oleb takes a hearty drink. For those of you who take a moment to examine it, the glass is filled - far more than would typically be appropriate for such a glass - with a bubbly golden liquid. Each movement stirs a cascade of bubbles to stir and rise up and pop at the surface, making for a sweet but hard to place scent. The taste is something like a mixture of a dry wine and a sweeter champagne. It leaves a tickling sensation in the mouth once swallowed. A glance at the bottle in the young attendnat's hand will see that the bottle is "Sindalian Golden Sweet" judging by the delicate white font on a predominantly black label.

With a pleased sigh, King Oleb lowers his now nearly half-empty glass, and regards you all, "Well. We all know who I am. So who the **** are you?" He grins anew.

Edited February 2, 2023 by DJ P4NTSL3SS (see edit history)