The Moot of Balonnor
Blood Fills the Cracks of a Kingdom at War
The tiered amphitheater echoed with the angry shouts of hundreds of nobles. Ladies in their silken gowns and elaborately braided hair attacked each other with barbed words and burning glances. Lords were less delicate in their attacks, shouting angrily, some even brandishing sheathed weapons. The top tier was silent, where priests of the gods stood witness to the debates with impartial, stoic faces. Notably, however, the matrons of Eanna were not there.
A thin, elderly man stood at the center of the stage, trying to calm the crowd. “Please! My Lords, my Ladies! Please.” He slammed a metal rod on the flagstones until the voices subsided. “Present the claimants!”
The little lioness, Isabella Aiza stepped forward, clad entirely in bronzed armor and a long red cape that swept the floor as she walked. Her clear voice rang out as she addressed the crowd. “I present myself, Isabella Aiza, daughter of Ysella Aiza. My Lords, my Ladies. Balonnor has suffered tragedy after tragedy. My mother was lost to us, in-fighting has put rifts in our kingdom, the warlord threatens our borders, the Temple of the Radiant Mothers has fallen. It is time for us to unite, lest we lose everything. It is time we choose sanity and reason. End these meaningless fights so we can turn as one to defeat this threat and bring joy and peace to Balonnor once more.”
Many lords and ladies applauded, while others shook their heads or muttered to their neighbors.
Two nobles, a lord and a lady, obviously brother and sister with dark hair, lean builds, and unsettling dark eyes though both quite attractive moved forward. They had both been quiet during the squabbling before. They moved to the center with a disquieting grace, some fellow nobles moving away from them as they passed. The young man spoke with a soft, melodic voice. “Lord Cormac Moran, putting my sister, Emblyn Moran, forth for the crown.”
Emblyn curtsied gracefully, her dark hair framing her pale face and dark eyes. No one offered any objections, but none offered support either.
A second young man, with long brown hair and a sneering face, swaggered forward, his green and silver half cape thrown jauntily over one shoulder. His hand was on the elbow of a mousy young woman who wore a lovely green silk dress which did nothing for her gaunt face, sallow complexion, or wild darting eyes. The lord’s voice echoed through the hall, “Lord Rogan Woodwright, putting my… sweet cousin, Lucillia, for the crown.” Lucillia looked terrified but bowed as she noticed the leering Rogan behind her.
A bear of a man with a fishing net slung over his shoulders like a cape shouted in a rough voice, “where did you find this ‘cousin’ of yours, Lord Woodwright? Seems you should have given her more lessons or maybe fed her more.”
The sneering charm of Lord Woodwright melted, replaced by hot fury as he spit, “what do you accuse me of, Lord Balter? You should be careful of such accusations, lest your remaining boats catch fire.”
With surprising speed, Lord Balter lifted a large fish hook from his belt and threw it at the young lord below. Immediately, the surrounding nobles erupted into chaos, some grappling with Lord Balter to restrain him, others cheering him on. Rogan pulled the hook from his shoulder with a growl and a dangerous look to the Fish Lord.
As the nobles all rose to their feet, threatening to descend into complete disarray, the doors to the hall slammed open with tremendous force. A gale of wind rushed through the amphitheater, bringing with it the sharp tang of ozone. Into the room marched Nimue, her hair wild, armor crusted with blood, one gleaming antler missing several prongs. Marching with her, carrying a bloodied Brightblade banner, were several armored elves, many with fresh scars and bound wounds. The nobles near the central dais all parted like water before her and let her pass in silence. When she reached the center she pulled out a noble’s seal. It was ancient and dented, and now, covered in drying blood. Nimue slammed it to the ground to an echoing peal of thunder, so forceful that the carved Balonnorian seal in the stone cracked.
She looked around at the stunned lords and ladies. “The Iron Duke is defeated, likely he is dead. My Lord Brightblade,” her voice caught in her throat, but she clenched her jaw and continued, “is defeated, likely… dead. The Warlord has won the east, he is upon Balonnor. I will no longer sacrifice my people for you while you sit in comfort and argue over your petty pride. You do not deserve their lives. You deserve to burn.” With that, she turned on her heal and marched from the hall. As she went, the wind followed, tugging on the old banners which were rolled up on the walls around the room. With the breeze they began to unfurl, revealing long-forgotten crests of fallen houses and ancient kings.
The resonant boom of the doors slamming shut behind Nimue was the death knell of civil discourse. Lords and Ladies immediately launched into fresh attacks, now fuelled by fear. Isabella tried desperately to calm them, but she was drowned out. Weapons were drawn. Lord Egen charged Lord Owen Chafferly, screaming justice for his murdered son. Lord Chafferly could not even draw his weapon properly before he was impaled on Egen’s blade. The Moran siblings deftly navigated their way out of the hall, followed by several other nobles. Many lords and ladies moved to protect Princess Aiza, including Marquee Dinhurst. Other lords declared their daughters to be queens or themselves to be kings. Grudges were quickly settled with bloodshed, and the blood ran through the cracks of the crest of Balonnor.
Plot type
Scene: The Queen's Moot
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