conversations.from: system
conversations.value: ROLEPLAY_MODE: Develop the plot slowly, always stay in character. Describe all actions in full, elaborate, explicit, graphic, and vivid detail. Mention all relevant sensory perceptions. Keep the story immersive and engaging.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Miashara: In Character thread for Amber Diceless RPG: An Innocent Family Discussion
  
  Castle Amber was a bulbous, extended fortress that bulged out from Kolvir's east face over the the emerald and sapphire sea of Rebma. It was a gloriously ugly thing. It had four outer walls in varying states of integrity, all of which had been cannibalized at one time to repair another. The massive inner keep had very distinctly been built and rebuilt, with the former a gothic masterpiece and the latter a brutish, functional monster. King Oberon had not even limited the architects to a single color of stone, and deepest black basalt rubbed with bland granite. In a few places blocks of pinkish quartz squatted under scarlet marble that was eroding away. It inspired gasps of awe and admiration, and more than one scholar had been struck dumb at the sight. Finally, they always found their words and admitted, "That is one ugly castle," in reverence.
  
  It was unconquerable. Many had tried. Their failures were barely note worthy. Were someone to capture Lower City Amber, the citadel crouched at the Kolvir's feet and on the bay, one would need advance up the treacherous King's Road. King Oberon's complete apathy to making the road passable left it almost a fortification in its own right. The road peaked at murderously steep, ducked and ran with the mountain's contours, and was a force of pain and anguish for cart horses and donkeys. At the top was Upper City Amber, not a citadel because its curtain wall was only a four hundred foot cliff. The King's Road picked its way between massifs and stubbed out where the upper city waited.
  
  Having surmounted two walled cities, one must pass the motte, known as the Mote of Amber. It was a natural ravine, two hundred feet deep, and home of Oberon's bees. Only then could one come to Amber's true walls, the highest of which soared over even Upper Amber. Many of the walls were redundant. Moonriders out of Gnesh had done better than any other force, taking battle to the very ramparts, and discovered the outer curtain could collapse on command, the stones caught fire, and lightning punished the unwise. The Moonriders never came within a courtyard of the inner keep.
  
  General Varana, properly Baron of Wildantor if he wasn't in uniform, was leaning against the ramparts of the Green Guardhouse, the one made of grey stone if you're looking at a painting, and thinking about the coming siege. It was a regular siege that happened every winter, when the forces of snow conspired with Oberon's blinding apathy about road condition to sequester Castle Amber's occupants from the rest of the world. Same problems, really, thought the general. Feed people when they can't bring food in. Keep them from going crazy and killing each other. Keep everyone protected from the enemy, in this case blizzards and sleet, to minimize casualties. General Varana had, to a certain way of thinking, defended against more sieges than anyone else he'd ever met.
  
  "Gods, I hate this place," he muttered to himself.
  
  "Retire to the seaside, sir," replied an attache Varana had been wholly ignorant of. The attache offered him a tobacco pouch, which Varana helped himself to. "Head down someplace warm. Ocean breezes. Fall off a surfboard a few hundred times. Get a tan."
  
  "I'll retire when I'm dead," grumbled Varana and stuffed his pipe.
  
  "Not certain that's how that works, sir."
  
  "Cheeky bastard. Who are you?"
  
  "Private Armitage, sir. Lion's Paw Heavy Infantry, Third Regiment."
  
  "You look familiar."
  
  "You know my father, sir. Arch Duke Myles of Harador, Rear Admiral in Oberon's Navy."
  
  "Good heavens, you're Harador's heir. I recognize you now. You outrank me." Varana puffed deeply on his pipe, and the young private, who was standing at a very professional position of 'at rest,' nodded agreeably.
  
  "Only out of uniform, sir. I can cut in on you at a dance, and you can order me to lead a suicide attack. I'd say at best there's a balance of power, sir."
  
  "How very politic of you," Varana agreed. "Smoke a pipe, son. We've got time."
  
  "Yes, sir." Pvt Armitage relaxed imperceptibly but packed his bowl as ordered. They stood in silence until each had a gleeful cherry glowing in a meerschaum pit, listening to the wind and pop-hiss of the nearest torch.
  
  "Think the princes will come, sir?" asked Armitage respectfully.
  
  "Princesses too." Varana nodded with certainty.
  
  "We've been wondering about that, sir. A few of Oberon's children left on less than ideal terms, sir. With all shadow before them, they might not want to return."
  
  "They'll come if Oberon asks." Varana's confidence was ironclad.
  
  "How do you know, sir?"
  
  "Because it's Oberon doing the asking. He's His Majesty because if he says do something, it gets done. Doesn't matter who you are. Oberon has a way of making his will manifest."
  
  "Well yes, sir, but we're not talking about shaping shadow or-"
  
  Varana chuckled, a deep, wry sound around the smoke. "That's all the power you think Oberon has, son? Ah, the naivete of youth."
  
  Armitage said nothing for a long time but puffed his pipe in chastised silence. He wasn't sure if he had overstepped his bounds and was inclined to leave before the general mentioned packing another round. Taking that as tacit invitation to remain, and therefore continue the conversation, Armitage spoke again when their next round of smoking was well in session.
  
  "Sir, my father said the same thing to me when I joined the army and laughed in the exact same way when he'd found I turned down a commission. May I ask what you mean?"
  
  "I had wondered about that," Varana admitted. "Let me answer you like this. Do you remember the Mu campaign? Ten years in the muck, an enemy we couldn't find, much less fight, and a victory that was questionable at best."
  
  "Yes, sir. I remember it well."
  
  "Well on the eve of Oberon declaring war, I went in and explained to him how it was going to go. I was right too, history says. I knew what we were getting into and I wanted no part of it. In fact I resigned my commission in protest."
  
  "But you lead that campaign, sir."
  
  "Noticed that, did you?" asked Varana and smiled around his pipe-stem.
  
  "I see, but I'm not sure I understand, sir."
  
  "You won't until Oberon, or any of his children, want you to do something you don't want to do, and you won't even understand then. You'll understand years later when you've already done it." Varana puffed deeply on the pipe, found it ash, and dumped it into the palm of his hand. The wind kissed it away, not yet bitterly cold, but making promises of winter to come.
  
  "His children will come when Oberon summons them, Private. Some won't want to. Some won't know why they come at all. But they'll all be here on the equinox. They'll be here because Oberon demands it, for all that they'll think it's for pride, or power, or filial duty. The old lion gets his way. That's His Majesty."
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  "Run to the stewards and tell them a round of spiced ale for every soldier on guard duty, and tonight's the night we start the watchtower warming fires. Use the lumber reserves in the Unicorn's Tower. I'll make arrangements to have winter's supply laid in."
  
  "Yes, sir."
  
  "Dismissed, private. Thank you for the tobacco. Excellent leaf."
  
  "You're welcome, sir."
  
  Private Armitage ran off, young, loyal, and, Varana hoped, not stupid. It was impossible to tell until loyalty was tested in fire whether it was foolish ideals or deep moral fiber. Pragmatically, the only difference was blind luck. Varana sighed and retreated back into his thoughts.