Chased Out, Part Two
Political event
1319B.C.W
11/10
11/10
1319B.C.W
16/10
16/10
Not many people know how it happened or even when, but at some point, whispers started to dance the warm winds of Chavia. Black words, utter in passing, rattling by the polished stones of Oraselle Alvroșa. Rumors about the young Rós Berúon mingling with a Ynellian. Of course, the fiâsi was small, at first, the somewhat modest chattering of young nobles.
Talk of Trade and Spices: Marríz Chavia
The Wroyè, too, was wary of the Kaedyns. Marríz Chavia was less than a thousand years old, a few centuries younger than any other Dhakonnúrian kingdom. Like a small child in the eyes of a giant. Though they boasted great resources and foreign magicks, would that be enough against more established crowns?
This partnership would allow them into Dhakon markets, bolstering their prestige as a hub of herbs, spices, sugars, paper, and culture. And with House Kaedyn's backing, their claim to the Daghei would be far more secure. The deal was so vital that the Se'gwellian, herself, ordered her brother, Dakur IV, and his family as emissaries. A show of honor as well as strength. While the Wroyè, himself, hosted them in the vaunted halls of Chastele dea Oarttaea Dacru, the Palace of Black Spring.
A feat yet heard of by all Marrízians at the time.
An Ill-fated Star
Not many people know how it happened or even when, but at some point, whispers started to dance the warm winds of Chavia. Black words, utter in passing, rattling by the polished stones of Oraselle Alvroșa. Rumors about the young Rós Berúon mingling with a Ynellian. Of course, the fiâsi was small at first, the somewhat modest chattering of young noble ladies.
"They say she burned a nuabil for gawking at her."
"Toamna Kaedyn broke the first princess's nose!?"
"Cea Toamna snuck out of the Oarttaea Dacru!?"
"Does she pay the Wroyé no face?" It was a little puddle in the well, especially when it came to those royal types. Everyone and their mother knew of the... 'impassioned' temperament of Dakur's favored daughter. Of the warm ashes sent to the families of once impertinent young noblemen. So, only a fool spoke ill of the White Sword Iddan. Well, in the open. But that didn't stop the rumors from stewing, the gossip about the young Ynellian fluttering about Toamna Coléo's toes at night. Nor, the ire roused under Old Dakur's brow. As the saying goes, "In every whisper of bread and wine, there lies a crumb of bare gold." A truth, while muddled, is yet unveiled. And Dakur, he knew this very well. As a man born of the sword but raised off the courts, there was no escaping this simple fact. That no matter how mangled and twisted it may be, "gold is still gold." If it can be said, then a nuabil tongue has spoken it. And for Eamónn, THIS-WOULD-NOT-STAND. So, without a second thought, Eamónn Dakur IV strode from his chambers under the cold moonlight of Oraselle Alvroșa. Walking out into the guest courtyard of Chastele Dacru with naught in hand, but his wand, "Saergrynåld," the Thread Serpent of Black Light. And he bellowed, "Låsr ån bhryntessa iea dsalla." (Lock the princess in her room.) "For it seems, I have some unfinished business with their dear Wroyè." It would be on that cold night. As Iulian sat on the amber sands of the Daghei, waiting for Colèo, a princess that would never come. That Lord Eamónn stormed the blackened halls of Chastele Dacru, the white walls of marbled stone holding no sound save the thundering steps of an enraged tyrant. It was said as the black tides washed ashore, deathly rays of red hot embers spilled forth from Dakur's lips. Horrid visions of running blood and Cèrysh steel, flowing into the ears of the Wroyé.
"Toamna Kaedyn broke the first princess's nose!?"
"Cea Toamna snuck out of the Oarttaea Dacru!?"
"Does she pay the Wroyé no face?" It was a little puddle in the well, especially when it came to those royal types. Everyone and their mother knew of the... 'impassioned' temperament of Dakur's favored daughter. Of the warm ashes sent to the families of once impertinent young noblemen. So, only a fool spoke ill of the White Sword Iddan. Well, in the open. But that didn't stop the rumors from stewing, the gossip about the young Ynellian fluttering about Toamna Coléo's toes at night. Nor, the ire roused under Old Dakur's brow. As the saying goes, "In every whisper of bread and wine, there lies a crumb of bare gold." A truth, while muddled, is yet unveiled. And Dakur, he knew this very well. As a man born of the sword but raised off the courts, there was no escaping this simple fact. That no matter how mangled and twisted it may be, "gold is still gold." If it can be said, then a nuabil tongue has spoken it. And for Eamónn, THIS-WOULD-NOT-STAND. So, without a second thought, Eamónn Dakur IV strode from his chambers under the cold moonlight of Oraselle Alvroșa. Walking out into the guest courtyard of Chastele Dacru with naught in hand, but his wand, "Saergrynåld," the Thread Serpent of Black Light. And he bellowed, "Låsr ån bhryntessa iea dsalla." (Lock the princess in her room.) "For it seems, I have some unfinished business with their dear Wroyè." It would be on that cold night. As Iulian sat on the amber sands of the Daghei, waiting for Colèo, a princess that would never come. That Lord Eamónn stormed the blackened halls of Chastele Dacru, the white walls of marbled stone holding no sound save the thundering steps of an enraged tyrant. It was said as the black tides washed ashore, deathly rays of red hot embers spilled forth from Dakur's lips. Horrid visions of running blood and Cèrysh steel, flowing into the ears of the Wroyé.