Aerin
  This is an event for the ongoing (always recruiting!) world-building game,  Empire! 8 . If interested, please check out our recruitment thread  here . 
  The Coronation of Nathan L'Othaire  
  
 
 Spoiler: Content warnings (SPOILERS) 
character death, child death (sorta), mind control, realistic child distress
 

The location is the Grand Ballroom of the L’Othaire Royal Castle, the tallest structure in the mining city of Narsai. Through the tall arched windows of the ballroom, the red dust of the desert planet can be seen as it silently wails against the black brick walls of the palace. Little other than the raging dust storm can be perceived through the stained glass.

Under the Grand Ballroom, peasants shovel fuel into furnaces that heat water until it is nearly steam. The precious, life-giving liquid circulates under the ballroom floor to keep the mining Barons and their esteemed guests warm despite the frigid desert temperatures.

The emissaries from the other Elect that arrived a day early are guided to the Royal Castle through Narsai’s many tunnel-streets from their underground luxury suites by minor Nobles looking to curry outside favor. The tunnel-streets near the surface are spotlessly maintained for use by the aristocracy, with skylights swept clean of dust by peasants on the surface.

The emissaries just arriving just in time for the spectacle are received from their shuttlecraft in the large, manicured plaza in front of the ballroom. All around the landing pad and forming a corridor leading toward the giant wooden doors of the ballroom are the black-masked priests of the Black Tower, each holding or wearing their unique soul vessel as they mutter incantations to push the dust storm away and harden the particles to motionless pebbles.

Through the great, elaborately carved doors of the Grand Ballroom, trumpets and a crier announce the arrival of each notable guest. To the left, long banquet tables covered in red-orange and purple silk promise a feast to come after the coronation. To the right, musicians and their instruments sit or stand poised to perform. In the center, rows of cushioned seats are arrayed with an aisle down the middle leading to the raised area at the end of the hall where the throne sits.

The entire first row of seats is reserved for the Emperor and his dignitaries, even if only one is sent to attend. Should the number of dignitaries be great enough, additional rows will be reserved.

The rest of the left bank of seats is for the various mining Barons, their families, and other lesser nobles. The noble houses that are currently in political favor with the monarchy are seated toward the front, with the powerful Faustine Baronry in the second row directly behind the Emperor’s dignitaries. As is tradition among the Masque, nearly every member of the aristocracy is adorned with a fancy masquerade mask, their very own soul vessels.

The right bank of seats is the reserved space for the emissaries of the other Elect. The Iron Masquerade’s direct trading partners in the northern and southern oases, Nadiratna and the Cloudburst Confederation, are given the honor of second row seating. Behind them are seated the other envoys from Veehra, and then the Elect of other orbits at the back.

Once all the guests have arrived and been ushered to their seats, the musicians begin to tune their instruments.

A hush falls over the ballroom as conversations cease.

Between the twangs of the orchestra, the muffled sounds of a child throwing a tantrum can be heard from outside the ballroom.

“NOOOO! NO! I WONE GOOO!”

Muted tones of an adult male voice speaking calmly, too quiet to make out.

“NOOOOOOO! I WAN GO HOME! NO! NO! NO!”

The child’s voice turns to incoherent shrieks.

Then, with a sudden blast of trumpets, the coronation begins!

As the royal music swells, a pair of Black Tower priests wearing matching black masks open the doors at the top of a wide, curved staircase on the right side of the hall.

Historians, the nobles, and any Elect that performed any amount of research into traditional Masque coronation ceremonies would know this right hand door to be where the current reigning Iron Monarch would appear, then descend to sit the central throne in full royal regalia.

There is no current reigning Iron Monarch.

The late Monarch Andre L’Othaire and his wife, Delphine L’Othaire, passed away tragically young from a lethal illness which, fortunately and mysteriously, does not seem to have spread to any others in Narsai.

Alexandre Margaux, the head priest of the Black Tower, steps into frame at the top of the staircase holding the delicate form of the Black Butterfly upon a tasseled red velvet pillow. His face is utterly impassive as whispers erupt from the seated nobles. Margaux was recently appointed to be one of the late king's personal advisors in an unprecedented admission of the church's rising influence, and the petty jealousy from the Barons has yet to completely die down.

The carved hematite form of the Black Butterfly glitters and sparkles under the chandeliers. It is a masquerade mask so delicately rendering the form of a monarch butterfly with wings open that some of the veins and cells appear to be almost circuit-like in nature.

The head priest and the very symbol of royal authority in the Iron Masquerade descend the stairs in time to the swelling of the music. They pause adjacent to the throne, not sitting upon it.

A pair of Black Tower priests in matching black masks open the doors at the top of the symmetrical, curved staircase on the opposite side of the hall.

At first, no one appears.

Then, the late Monarch’s closest advisor and godfather of the current Soulbound Heir, Renald Gratien steps into frame. He smiles charmingly at the seated guests and waves gracefully with one hand. His other hand is clasped iron-tight around the hand of a furiously struggling and wailing four year old.

The soon-to-be Regent of the Iron Masquerade physically drags the Soulbound Heir into view of the procession.

Nathan L'Othaire’s face is rage-red and flooded with tearstreaks and snot.

When Nathan sees the mass of strangers in the ballroom all staring at him, he immediately hugs the legs of Renald, the very person he was just a moment ago fighting against with all of the surprising strength of being four, and ceases to wail.

Renald, dropping the charming smile aimed at his fellow Barons in favor of a more genuine one, squats down, pulls out an embroidered handkerchief, and gently cleans the tears from his adoptive son’s face.

He whispers words of encouragement to Nathan that are swallowed by the roar of the orchestra, and then the two tentatively begin to descend the stairs.

Nathan, as the higher rank member of the duo, leads and sets the pace. This causes the orchestra some trouble, and they improvise a repeating refrain to fill the unexpected extra time.

When the two reach the middle landing, the entire seated row of Gratien Baronry let out loud cheers for Nathan and their head of house. Nathan seems to take heart from this, and descends the next flight of stairs with more confidence.

Throughout the entirety of this spectacle, even as the Soulbound Heir approaches from the opposite stairway, Margaux’s face remains as impassive as if also carved from the same hematite as the Black Butterfly.

At last, the Soulbound Heir, his soon-to-be Regent, and the Black Butterfly stand on the central dias, the throne sitting between them with two priests kneeling at its sides.

Renald squats down and whispers for Nathan to kneel.

“All rise for the coronation of Nathan L’Othaire!” Margaux loudly commands, and the aristocracy stands.

Traditionally, the ruling Iron Monarch removes the Black Butterfly from their face and affixes it to the face of the kneeling Soulbound Heir by their own hand. However, this is not the first time in its 700 year history that the Iron Masquerade has lacked a Monarch during a coronation. In cases like today’s, in which there is no current reigning Iron Monarch, it is customary for the Regent to fill this role.

Today, it is Renald who lifts the mask and carefully presses the very face of the Iron Monarchy itself onto Nathan.

While there is historical precedent for lacking an Iron Monarch, never before has the Iron Masquerade been left with a Soulbound Heir so young that they have yet to transfer their soul to a soul vessel, a magical ritual typically performed after the soul has had some time to solidify - preteens at the earliest.

And it never will again.

Nathan L’Othaire’s eyes dilate completely through the eye slots in the Black Butterfly. Whatever color his eyes were before, they are now black.

“Nathan?” queries Renald, concerned enough to break ceremony and not use the proper form of address.

The being that used to be Nathan turns away from Renald and, as elegantly as it can given a four year old body, climbs atop the throne. The two priests of the Black Tower flanking the throne move forward to stand between Nathan and Renald.

“Your new Iron Monarch has taken the throne,” proclaims the being that used to be Nathan in a voice too smooth to belong to a human, let alone a young child. It grins regally, and outstretches its arms toward the congregation.

“Follow me, and I will lead you to paradise.”

As if on cue, applause begins in unison from the numerous priests of the Black Tower, and the nobles soon tentatively follow suit.

Renald, staring at Nathan’s black pupils in horror, darts forward, hand outstretched to rip the Black Butterfly off his charge’s face.

He is caught and knocked unconscious by the black-masked priests of the Black Tower. They look to the Iron Monarch for guidance, and he flicks a dismissive wrist toward one of the chamber exits. They begin to drag him away.

When the roar of applause dies down, the Iron Monarch addresses the still-standing audience.

“There will be no Regency, by decree of the Iron Monarch.”

The noise of Renald’s unconscious form being dragged across the floor stops, as the priests finally pull him through the exit at the back of the ballroom.

“And now for the part of the night that everyone has been waiting for. The feast!”

Hundreds of servants, many of which are sporting black masks, flood the Grand Ballroom to take away the chairs and clear the floor for dancing. To the side, cooks bring out dishes to lay upon the banquet tables.

“Let the music play, and let us celebrate and make merry on this momentous occasion!”

The unmistakable sound of an energy weapon discharge sounds from behind the ballroom in the direction that Renald was taken away.


 

 
 Spoiler: Opportunity 1: Speak with the Iron Monarch. 
The Iron Monarch itself is touring the ballroom, dancing with nobles of any gender. It is followed constantly by a small armada of heavily armed black-masked priests. Foreigners are kept at arm’s length, but still permitted conversation.

The proper form of address for the Iron Monarch is "your majesty."
 

 
 Spoiler: Opportunity 2: Gilbert Faustine is looking to exchange fosters with another noble house. 
The head of the Faustine Baronry is looking for an outside education for his third daughter, Johanne Faustine, and is offering the same in return. One foreign child of noble or otherwise elevated ancestry will be welcomed into house Faustine and given the best education and every luxury that the Baronry of the Iron Masquerade can offer in exchange for agreement to foster Johanne under the same terms. When the two children reach their majority, they will return to the land (or space habitat) of their birth.

(IC note: Gilbert is entirely well-meaning and intends to follow through with his word.
OOC note: Horrible things are going to happen to whatever character you give me. You will not be getting them back. Only one foster will be chosen even if (through some unexpected miracle) multiple people offer characters.)
 

 
 Spoiler: Opportunity 3: The priesthood of the Black Tower is eager to share the secrets of Arcane Amplification. 
The religion of the Soulbound Dance as practiced by the dominant clerical body in the region, the Black Tower, requires the transfer of one’s soul to a soul vessel. This ritual is complex and arcane in nature, but the priesthood is eager to explain the process. If one wishes, they can even give you a demonstration using your very own soul!

OOC note: Every mechanical attendee will be gifted Arcane Amplification unless they note a refusal. It would be very, very nice to receive starting techs in return (perhaps as a coronation gift?), but it is not required.
 
Silent_Interim
Two Courtiers sit in attendance on the Imperial Court's behalf. One watches the proceedings with a studied disinterest from within their heavy robes and head-scarf, while the other laughs openly with delight at every new development, seemingly entirely oblivious to the tone others perceive. The second is dressed as provocatively as zir fellow Courtier is conservatively, in a dress cut as flatteringly as it is low, and wearing a simple half-mask over zir face that doesn't quite hide how the skin seems stretched too-thin over the bone.

The second introduces zirself as High Lord Karim-12 as ze bow to the new Iron Monarch before a dance. Ze seem untroubled by the ridiculousness of a grown adult dancing with a toddler, and while ze do not quite manage  graceful,  ze still manage to make it look less unnatural than it should.

"I'm terribly sorry for how much of a  boor  High Lady Petra is being. They  hate  big gatherings, can't stand all the people. Honestly, I don't know why they took the posting, they had to know it'd be party after party after 'intimate get-together'. Might have been a punishment detail, haha. All I know is if I were half so miserable as they act, I'd already be Karim-13! Haha, just my little joke. Pity about the kid, though, don't you think?"
The_Snark
The Group of Seventeen has sent four delegates.

The first is a woman dressed in a stark black jumpsuit, vaguely suggestive of a military uniform, but without any rank insignia or other adornment; only a bit of silver trim at the hems and collar break up the monotony. Her face is covered in the fashion of the desert nomads - goggles and a thick veil - and a heavy red dust cloak falls over her shoulders. The  only skin visible is that of her hands, which are a dark brown.

The second is a younger woman, blonde and strikingly tall. In contrast to her companion's severe monochrome, she's dressed in warm shades of red and brown with just a hint of green, her jacket and layered skirts reflecting rural Ishtahn fashion. The veil covering the lower half of her face is clearly ornamental - it wouldn't stay put in a high wind - but serves the purposes of modesty well enough.

The third is a heavyset woman with greying hair, wearing a dull grey-green dress and a cloth mask that covers her nose and mouth. What little of her expression is visible contrives to suggest that she's seen all of this before, wasn't impressed the first time, and is already looking forward to going home.

The last is a middle-aged man, wearing the same uniform(?) as the first woman but looking  much  less comfortable in it. His sole concession to the desert tradition of covering one's face is a pair of flip-up welding goggles, currently flipped down.

The four of them watch the procession in polite silence, concealing any disapproval they might feel at subjecting a four-year-old to this ceremony with varying degrees of adroitness. Disapproval turns to shock as the coronation takes a sudden sharp turn for the macabre; fortunately, three of four have covered their faces enough to make up for any lapse in decorum, and if the fourth is visibly alarmed and confused, well, he's hardly the only one in the room, is he?

As the servants clear the dance floor, the four take advantage of the commotion to hold a hurried, whispered conference:

 "Is that... normal?"

"I'm gonna go with  no . What gives, Rasha? I thought you said these guys were just your regular garden-variety rich ******s!"

"Keep your voice down, Todd. I thought they were. Let me think... I didn't look too closely, but their church doctrine has something about keeping their souls in objects. Maybe the royal mask is one of those? A relic imbued with the souls of all the past rulers, which passes on their knowledge?"

"Yeah? Then how come the kid's godfather or whoever that was -" 

The muffled but unmistakable sound of an energy weapon discharging cuts Todd off, briefly.

 "Welp. Time to leave."

"Can't."

"Are you kidding me, Marge? They just took a guy out back and shot him, and you want to stay for dancing and canapes!?"

"Yeah. They shot him  outside . You wanna go outside where people are getting shot, be my guest. I'm staying in here."

"She's right. Leaving would draw attention, and I don't think they'll do anything in full view of all these emissaries. We're safer if we stay put and act like everything is normal; as soon as it isn't rude, we'll make our excuses and go. In the meantime... this isn't the best of circumstances, but we may as well do what we came here to do. Janice, I know we agreed you'd talk to the new king and his regent, but under the circumstances I think you should stay well away. Todd, stay on hand in case one of us needs you to provide technical details, and try to remember that your life may literally depend on being polite. Marge... you don't need me to tell you what to do. And watch out for the priests; whatever's going on here, they don't look surprised by it." 

The four split up: Rasha and Janice linger near their fellow Elect, while Marge makes her way unerringly towards the banquet tables. The man follows, but after obtaining a small plate he makes his way over to one of the black-masked priests.

"Hi there. Todd Stevens, 35348. Is it true you guys keep your souls in jars? How's that work?"

 
 Spoiler 
Sub-action: accept Arcane Amplification. The Castaways will offer Aclaustrophobic Psychiatry freely to anyone who is also sharing tech, regardless of whether they already have the relevant technology.
 
Lumaeus
Mortimer Red, the seven hundred thirty-first and seventy-five hundredths, is often a shocking person to look upon. His enthusiasm for each subfield of his study only rivaled by the ephemerality of the obsession, a few research dives into conflicting traditions of facial tattooing and later reversal for the next set has left his face a blotch of half-inked scar tissue. At this event, however, he has, of course, embraced the Masque tradition of facial covering, and wears a waxen mask in a rough marriage of Masque style and honeycomb motif--a pattern that extends to his formal gown that is hexagons all the way down. Also at the bottom, since rigid wax boning ensures the hem maintains six faces. Even if significant collision deforms them, heat and pressure can restore it well enough to avoid embarrassment.

As the abomination unfolds before him, Mort is transfixed by the beauty of the Black Butterfly. Despite being in a room of some of the grandest masks he'd ever heard of, there is just something about the artifact that seemed to shift the gravity of the place. A mask like that could change a man, make him more than himself. Or--not just change a man, since the boy seems to be transformed by the Butterfly as well. How wonderful!

Mortimer is slow on the uptake as Renald is taken away, since who can account for foreign ritual. The mask and its boy are far more interesting, and the transformative qualities of even this brief donning of it...is this all part of the rehearsed plan? Regardless, the theatre of it all really shows the glory of masks, and Mortimer is among the first and most enthusiastic of the applauding assembled.

Coming from the peaceable Arkhive, Mortimer Red does not recognize the sound of an energy weapon.


 


When the chance arrives, Mortimer Red seizes the opportunity to speak with the Iron Monarch, words nearly slurring together as he tries to get everything out. It is no secret that the Arkhive Æternal is one of the more...surprising members of the Elect, and he cannot be certain to be long suffered. But if he can get through the necessary formalities, he can actually comment on the things that matter. Like masks.

"Your majesty, I bring greetings from the Arkhive Æternal and the personal congratulations of its Queen, Constance of Comment the First. She wishes you a long and untroubled reign and offers you whatever knowledge the Arkhive holds whensoever you have need." He pauses for a half second. "But also I just want to say that this place has so many masks, really inspiring pieces, and it's wonderful to see such a large scale appreciation, and when I got here I was already impressed--and this is my field, understand--but then tonight, with the formal attire? Everything shines like the stars in the sky but then, your majesty, the Black Butterfly puts every other mask in this place to shame and it's like looking at  Ophon  compared to the petty stars except grander and I can't thank you enough for allowing me to witness the most beautiful moment the system has seen in millennia."

...

"Your majesty."
Feathersnow
 Glix Combined Commonwealth  

Smot'hljk was sent with a simple mission.  Get food and secure good relations.  It wasn't the easiest job for a Glix, but he and his Brothers from Hljk Teivosk expected success.

Glix Workers are all empathic, all bred from distant ancestors that could be puppetted by their mothers.  In extremis, modern Workers still could be, though it wasn't done except for professional Heralds to be fully possessed.

Though they long ago evolved autonomy, and then won political power,  Workers were still, at heart, delicate psionic instruments built to receive and perceive the greater powers of others.  This is not to say they were kind beings.  Sadism and bloodthirstiness require empathy as much as kindness and gentleness, perhaps more.

What happened here shook them, all the same.   The mission to Veerha had ended before it began.
MappyPK
Okan Kiniun claps and lets out a hearty laugh from the second row, surrounded on either side by armed retainers. "Bahah! Good show I say, good show!" Given the Lion's position near the front of the Grand Ballroom dressed in elaborate robes, many glare in his direction.

He nudges the man to his left, "It warms my heart to see the Iron Monarch so strong and powerful. Very inspiring, indeed. Now, shall we feast and mingle, sharing the good word of Avva?"

 Regarding Opportunity Two... 

At the reception, God-King Kiniun finds himself mingling with the head of the Faustine Baronry, intrigued by this educational exchange of sorts. "It has been a long time since one of our esteemed nobles have received enlightenment on the economic customs of the Masquerade, you know," he jests while collecting a plate of mixed meats. "Though Avva provides us with all that we need, it would not hurt for a refresher. In fact, I believe Duke Itanran of House Agbawo has an son of the adventurous sort. A fine and pious sailor, he is, but a bit unruly. Hard to get him to listen to his tutors... Maybe a change of pace is what he needs?"

He chomps down on an oversized drumstick before continuing to speak, "Perhaps the fine maiden Johanne Faustine could make better use of House Agbawo's sailing expertise, hm?"

[Any Veehran nation that would like Wet Navy Ships can trade it for their starting technology, regardless of whether or not the Confederation already has it. Ping me on Discord to claim.]
Tentreto
 The Counts of Mirage 

Very few of the Counts had been willing to leave their positions of power, even for such an occasion, thus it fell to Baron Mayweather, a direct vassal of the Mirage herself to attend. The Old Pelduo had a fairly practical mask, carved from marble and painted with bright yellow spirals covering most of his muzzle, however it did very little to cover his emotions, nor that of his retinue, none of who appeared to be too at ease.

On one hand, they had forced a child into wearing a mask that was not theirs! While there was a few strange humans who passed down masks, few would keep the same designs as those before them. It was disgraceful for the child to not be allowed to alter it. Mayweather was quite glad that those priests had taken the man away, although execution was somewhat harsh.

However, the mask itself...was something strange, and magic, and any good masklander knew to be wary of magic, especially as he wasnt sure what had remained of the poor child. He might not like this affair, but he needed to serve the Mirage, and gain whatever he could here. he quickly whispers to his guards and servants, gesturing at a few of them to approach the priests.


As soon as he can, he seeks a brief audience with the Iron Monarch themself.

"My congratulations on your coronation and non-regency your majesty," he chitters to her, likely dwarfing the small sized human. "It reminds me of the ascension of my own Mirage."
Kythia
Coedd was here.  It was, to be honest, a little of a surprise even to Arkhive - the closest thing Coedd had to an ally and a confidant.  To everyone else?  Well, lacking magical divination, it was utterly unpredictable.  And yet, Coedd was here.  Two months ago it had negotiated passage on Arkhive ships travelling to Veerha and, yes, Coedd was here.

The long journey had given her plenty of time to fine tune a body and this one had been created as a synthesis of an average Masque female and a tree.  Perhaps slightly stockier than the average Masque female given the fibrous matter making its body, clearly made of wood and naked - to the extent that word applies to plants - but also, in some way, recognisably human.  Arms - though stiff and without the micromovements common to animal life.  Legs, although the gait is slow and ungainly.  Nothing except a certain slimness of the face and perhaps (perhaps?) a curve to the body identifying her as female but equally nothing to identify as male. But reading to most as female. The long voyage had even given her time to grow a voice box and the accompanying gas movement structure - though the voice was low and rasping, perhaps the only physical aspect reading more as male than female.  And no journey was long enough to make that alien mind think in an animal-friendly way:  the voice was low and rasping, its words were confusing and cryptic.

There was no visible reaction to the events on the dais - Coedd stood utterly motionless prior to Nathan’s arrival, during Renald’s removal, during the Iron Monarch’s speech, during any of it.  If it recognised the sound of the energy weapon there was no sign, it stood motionless.  It did turn slightly during the first dance - perhaps to look at a nearby couple twirling (though did the eyes work?) perhaps even as a clumsy attempt to join the dancing.  But the first major movement she made was to walk - lurch, really, it wasn’t a natural mode of locomotion and generally it was believed that making the effort was a show of good faith on Coedd’s part - towards the new Iron Monarch.

OOC - Opportunity 1

 Coedd is able  it rasps removing a section of bark from its side.  Now separated it was clear it was in the shape of a mask - a simple thing, little more than two holes in an oval but beautiful in its way.  It snapped a leaf off itself and drew it across the wood of the mask, leaving a mesmerising emerald sheen on the mask that seemed to glisten in the light.  And, the more acute-nosed might be able to determine, a slight smell that promised a fuller one would be intoxicating - probably literally, Coedd was known to generate custom narcotics after all.  It held the mask out for precisely the length of time it would take the young monarch to reach out and take it then released it - either into the hand of the monarch, into the hands of one of his courtiers or to fall clattering to the floor depending on whether the mask was taken.   Coedd is able.  Coedd is all, not-Coedd is not Coedd.  Coedd can rectify   She turns slightly - her stiff body meaning the entire being turns rather than twisting and raises an arm to point in a direction slightly behind the Iron Monarch - into the depths of the palace.   Not-Coedd not Coedd for too long.  Coedd can rectify 

Were the palace gardens in the direction it pointed?  A quick burst of mental cartography confirmed that yes, they were.
moossabi
A couple days before the event, a nondescript shuttle is launched from a newly arrived rotator ship, standard Imperial make and model. Its passenger descends the exit ramp while it is even fully deployed, flashing a collection of paperwork at anyone inquisitive of his role before retiring to the offered apartment. Oskar dei Fiori did not wish to waste a moment more than necessary, poring over as much literature as he could lay his scaled hands on through both day and night. Occasionally he walks the surface, marking astronomical notes in a rudimentary notebook, heavy hood raised to ward off the biting dust storms. Observers would note his pale hair and complexion, Fiorid trademarks, though the latter was tainted by unnerving scales and his glasses can only do so much to disguise the slit pupils in his red eyes. An unpleasant figure to be around at the best of times, yet throughout everything a coy smile never leaves his face.

Not as he takes his place in the coronation hall to the backdrop of earsplitting fanfare, not as the child screams in terror, not as the mask is lowered onto its host to the sound of thunderous applause, and not as the would-be interloper is dragged out the back door and shot. The latter occurrence even evokes an amused chuckle from the young man, who contributes a polite series of claps to the final celebrations. As soon as the call to feast is delivered, Oskar draws his notebook from an interior pocket of his noble garb and completely bypasses the throng of gluttonous revelers, making a beeline for the nearest priest.

  What's Behind Opportunity #3?  
Truth be told, Oskar doesn't care one iota about the priesthood and their mass rituals, and he never allows the Iron Monarch to escape his view. His prime target, however, would ill-appreciate an extended inquiry into matters entirely mundane to its being; thus it was a prudent move to approach its ideological scions to secure a passing knowledge of basic fundamentals. The dynast, per usual, wastes no time, introducing himself to a priest before anyone else can snatch away their attention.   "Oskar dei Fiori of Sansar, your holiness."   His head nods in a fashion akin to a minimalist bow.   "As an outsider to these lands, I find your rituals as fascinating as they are mysterious. I require no lengthy demonstrations, just the answer to one humble question."   Oskar's notebook is open, a pencil poised in his scaled hand as a grin remains etched into his serpentine features.   "What is a soul?"  
 
 Spoiler: Character Visual Aid, produced in Heroforge 
 
 
BladeofObliviom
Yaki Soom wore her steel face with modest discomfort at the sight before her.

She and her honor guard of attendants alike wore a traveling outfit of wrappings (though they'd done their best to remove excess dust before entering these halls, having stayed the night in Narsai prior and had an opportunity to wash) and similar smooth steel masks to present a unified front. Those unfamiliar with the clans might assume her attendant Janda was in charge, with his grim and high posture along with his visibly displayed trophies - including a pair of shoulderpads with spiralling horns attached to them. She had no such fortune with her hunts, and her most unusual mark was that she had pinned her hair to the side of her head - among the Soom-clan, a distinction reserved for members of the main branch.

She and her attendants averted their eyes from the display at center stage, while Janda stared directly at it (though even he shifted in his seat). This was going to be a long day.
Dawsnow
The 6 representaives of Nadiratna arrived dressed in their brightly colored traditional garb and crystalline visors covering their entire face.
Vyrith, Ssikritaari of New Macitrone, is wearing a pitch black robe a bright cyan sash. His mask is the same color as his sash.
Nyxara, Ssikritaari of East Krinydonia, and Zel'nar, Ssikritaari of West Krinydonia, arrive in identical outfits. They are wearing glistening silver robes and blood red sashes. Their masks have a constantly moving static pattern.
Syylvester, Ssikritaari of Sskarra, is wearing a brown dust colored robe and a dull green sash. His visor is a dark purple, almost black except for when it catches the light.
V3nthr4, Ssikritaari of the Crystal Spires, is the golem mask which her mute partner is wearing. The partner is wearing an iridescent robe with sheens of purple and green. Her sash sash is a dull yellow. V3nthr4 matches the color of the sash with orange eye shaped blotches over her partner's eyes.
The High Siifoh, Ssilaan Tikaar, arrives last and is wearing a dark red robe, alnost the same color as dried blood. His sash is a metallic gold. His robe is embroidered with snakes of the same color. His mask an ever shifting swirl of the two colors.

During the entire ceremony, the Nadiratnan representaives sat completely silent and still.

[Oppurtunity 3]
Nyxara and Zel'nar both go to the priesthood of the Black Tower to learn how to transfer souls to vessels.


Nadiratna offers to teach other nations how to create sentient golems (Algorithmic Imagination) in exchange for technology.
Elemental
For the ascension of a fellow Veehran monarch it had been deemed necessary for the High King himself to head to delegation to Narsai, anything less would be seen as a snub to the Iron Monarchy. And so it was that John IV, High King of Ishtahnos found himself and his seven foot two frame crammed in the third row of the assigned seating. He wore a long, heavy coat of Aurochs leather trimmed with fur and adorned with simple golden stitching around the edges. A heavy golden chain of office hung around his neck from which hung a bejewelled sun pendant and atop his long black hair he wore a platinum crown set with rubies.

The rubies of his crown glinted in the light as he looked down at a golden pocket watch to check the time before letting out a sigh of relief. It was his own fault for arriving early, but the wait was very nearly soul crushing with no one but politicking courtiers and nobles to talk to.

It's not that he was alone, but his loyal bodyguard Ira was the epitome of the strong silent type and the only sound he made was to growl threateningly at any members of the Masque who tried to get overly familiar with his charge. He was also in wolf form and towered over most everyone present. Given his bulk and the inch long claws extending from each finger one would assume he didn't need weapons, but an enormous two handed sword was strapped to his back. Judging by the ample quantity of silver in Ira's otherwise coal black fur he was quite a bit older than the king he was here to protect.

John watched the proceedings of the coronation with concern. Four was surely too young, a simpler less public ceremony would surely suffice until the young prince was old enough. He had half a mind to give Sir Renald a piece of his mind.

But then everything went to hell for the young Nathan. John's emerald green eyes widened with shock and he almost stood up to voice his protests loudly if not for the firm hand of Ira on his shoulder. He took a deep breath as the two of them heard the sound of weapons discharging, Ira's ears clearly pricking up in response yet still his expression remained impassive. They both waited a few moments more before standing to take part in the banquet.
Tychris1
The great Doomweaver Thalus had arrived a full week before the sprawling events. From the towering frigid lifeless heights of New Kildora the trek to Narsai could be easily managed in that time on foot or by trusted cracked reclaimed Syvine transport buggies (A common sight ranging across the Khassian sands) but the Principle Doomweaver wanted to truly entrench themselves in such a historic moment and so descended from their Tower of Power aboard their Pleasure Yacht  The Pleasure Python . It was a grandiose and sleek predator, formed from a variety of massive cylindrical tubes interlocked with seamless gravitational magnetic power, and a bevy of shack-sized crystals orbiting within a halo generator. A small carnival of horrors and mutated monsters are paraded for a fivnight in Narsai, bread and wonders displayed for the rabble to partake, and many a miner has the greatest and final night of their lives (Or are never seen again).

When the day of the Coronation itself properly arrived Doomweaver Thalus arrived with a host of thralls and a retinue of three Sorcerers. Each Sorcerer wore a simple black bolero mask with a snake circling and devouring its own tail on one side. Carved from hematite and accented with real thrall-grown snake leather peeled and cured off the back the night prior. They were all of average build and height, dressed in fine beige robes with green or gold accents, and wielding staves of coiled brass serpents. Doomweaver Thalus, an elderly man with dark tanned skin hardened by the years of Veehra, long white hair manicured to a frightening level of obedience, and a purple robe decorated with images of towers and coiling snakes. Where his lesser Sorcerers wore simple respectful masks, Doomweaver Thalus wore a monstrous hulk of a mask, carved from gold and silver and studded with enough gems to make any minor Baron jealous. Three gold snakes wound in ambush rested upon the Doomweaver's head, their proud heads flayed out, fangs bared, tongues proudly hissing at the air, and their eyes twinkling with desire. A massive plume erupts from behind the head, a lengthy ceremonial trail of ribbons, boas, and streamers the combined heaving weight of which was borne by eight masked thralls. When the Doomweaver took his seat in the middle of the Elect his massive headpiece obscured the view for rows behind him.

The Sorcerers watched impassively at first. They were familiar with the rite and some had even witnessed a coronation prior. When Renald was taken away and the sound of laser fire filled the air however The Doomweaver began to clap uproariously and the Sorcerers in attendance to him joined in.  "Brilliant, I was worried there would be no merrymaking at this coronation."  Doomweaver Thalus darkly chuckled, his voice cracked and as heavy as the stones of New Kildora. Thralls prostrated themselves to form a staircase for the Sorcerers, their scarred flesh rippling with each footstep, and bore the cabal down to the feasting and dancing.


Opportunity 1:

Doomweaver Thalus approached the Iron Monarch, his host of Thralls trailing behind him as he hobbled closer. His emerald eyes, wizened and piercing, sized up the child, and immediately he shook his head. The Imperial representatives had been distant from the Elect, but the Sorcerers had kept their keen eyes well aware of their comings and goings. No outsider had ever danced with an Iron Monarch on the day of Coronation, the Barons and Priests obsession with secrecy and security was too tight to ever let a finger wiggle through and hold hands. This was a clear break from tradition and a fracture in the power balance.
Thalus saw an opportunity.

 "Dance with me, child. I demand it. New Kildora has long been a proud sister of Narsai. Our history is long shared and our union of magic is ancient. I can provide much to your burgeoning reign, especially with the loss of your incompetent frightened regent. None around you understand the true culling of the desert, coddled within their precious mines, and detached from the predator waiting in bay. They will dripfeed you honeyed lies and empty platitudes, no doubt what you have heard all your short life. You have no friends now, Your Majesty, and I will educate you on this ramification of power. Take it."  He held his calloused hand out.

Opportunity Three:

Doomweaver Thalus and the three Sorcerers approached the Priests. They laid down chalk, mineral dusts, began lighting candles, and strapped a drugged up thrall to the center of it all as Doomweaver Thalus looked the Priests over one by one.  "Your magics are impressive if ephemeral. But they are a radical experiment in the grand design of the weave of fate. Grandfathered by trusted studied sorceries, witness the power of true Sorcery."  He waved his hand over to the Sorcerers, one on their knees drawing a circular chalk outline still, and another dripping incense and pressing gemstone buttons on a strange metallic box whilst humming hymns and intonations.

 
 Spoiler: The Doomweaver's Mask (Just the headpiece and not the massive ceremonial trail) 

 
 
Aerin
 
 Originally Posted by Silent_Interim 
 Two Courtiers sit in attendance on the Imperial Court's behalf. 
 

One does not refuse the Emperor's Courtiers a dance, and so the Iron Monarch graciously accepts High Lord Karim-12's offer, bowing in return. The height difference doesn't make the dance easy, but the Monarch has all the fine motor control of someone who has been taught and practiced the proper steps, at least.

"The Iron Masquerade is most honored by the presence of zirself and High Lady Petra at our humble ball. I am glad to hear your are enjoying zirself! Please do not hesitate to let an attendant know if you require anything."

At the mention of the child, the Monarch smiles a bit ruefully.

"It's true I prefer them a bit more ... solidified? Well-aged? But alas. By the next time we meet, I hope to have rectified this situation."

It winks.


 


 
 Originally Posted by The_Snark 
 The Group of Seventeen has sent four delegates. 
 

The four delegates are not the only ones shaken by the events of the coronation, and thus find it rather easy to blend in.

The priest looks ecstatic that someone has finally expressed interest in what she does on a technical level. She immediately launches into a highly academic description of the arcane process.

"That's reductive, but ultimately cuts to the essence of the practice, yes. In order to avoid negation of the metaphysical self-identity when its sympathetic links to the biological vessel are severed, the practitioner uses their spiritual manipulator - you're familiar with the concept of direct arcane interference, yes?"

She does not wait for a response from Todd before relaunching into the explanation.

"-to extend similar polarity channels between operational patient and the desired target. When the sympathetic links are cut, then, the metaphysical self-identity naturally seeks to reestablish preexisting neuromagical pathways, and thus migrates into the artificial vessel. When you understand the underlying theory, it becomes immediately obvious why physical separation of the biological puppet and the artificial vessel is so dangerous after the procedure."


 


 
 Originally Posted by Lumaeus 
 Mortimer Red, the seven hundred thirty-first and seventy-five hundredths, is often a shocking person to look upon. 
 

The Iron Monarch is seemingly charmed that an uneducated outsider is treating it with the reverence and adoration that is deserves. Even soul-eating, millennia-old artificial entities can be flattered, right?

"Send my well regards to Queen Constance of Comment the First, from one royal to another."

"You, my dear apisphiliac, have  exquisite  taste. I intend to write your Queen a formal request for a resident Librarian, and I do hope that she will deign to send me someone half so discerning."


 


 
 Originally Posted by Feathersnow 
 Smot'hljk was sent with a simple mission. 
 

Smot'hljk and his Brothers are hardly the only ones reeling at the events, though their unique abilities may have rendered them more sensitive than most. They would not be the only ones who chose to quietly make their leave, if they so desired.


 


 
 Originally Posted by MappyPK 
 Okan Kiniun claps and lets out a hearty laugh from the second row, surrounded on either side by armed retainers. 
 

Gilbert Faustine is aghast at Kiniun's table manners before thinking better of his immediate reaction. At least the King certainly had an eye for luxury foods and a taste for the finest of meats! If Johanne were to end up among the houses of the Confederation, she would certainly not lack for good food.

An offer to be seriously considered, indeed!

"And perhaps the fine young Agbawo lad would lose his rough and tumble sailing ways out here in the dry dust desert!" Gilbert replies to the King, as he strokes his mustache thoughtfully. "Give me a moment to think about it."

[OOC note: leaving this open-ended for the moment in case others express interest in the fosterage opportunity]


 


 
 Originally Posted by Tentreto 
 Very few of the Counts had been willing to leave their positions of power, even for such an occasion, thus it fell to Baron Mayweather, a direct vassal of the Mirage herself to attend. 
 

The Iron Monarch inclines its head politely in thanks for the congratulations.

"Please convey my well-wishes and thanks to Mirage Sahara. If you have the moment to spare, I would quite interested to hear the tale of her ascension, particularly any role that an esteemed individual such as yourself had to play in it."

Baron Mayweather is affixed with the Monarch's acute attention.


 


 
 Originally Posted by Kythia 
 Coedd was here. 
 

Coedd's glimmering emerald mask is released into the hands of one the many priests surrounding the Iron Monarch for protection at a busy event with so many foreigners.

"Animated vegetable matter, how quaint! Thank you for your gift, young sprout of Coedd," an ironic epithet, considering the current age of the Monarch's body, "but there is nothing in need of rectifying here tonight."

When the Iron Monarch takes its leave of Coedd to attend to the myriad guests who each want its attention, its many priest-guards follow. The one holding Coedd's gift seems to be having trouble walking in a straight line.

If Coedd attempts to continue toward the gardens (really more of an enclosed greenhouse with potted succulents), it will be rebuffed at the doors to the inner palace by a pair of bored-looking guards. The ballroom exit is in the other direction.


 


 
 Originally Posted by moossabi 
 A couple days before the event, a nondescript shuttle is launched from a newly arrived rotator ship, standard Imperial make and model. 
 

The priest that Oskar dei Fiori approaches is different from the individual that Todd will later talk logistics with. The hearty clergyman laughs cheerfully and returns Oskar's grin.

"I don't know! That knowledge is only for the savior himself - he who wears the Black Butterfly - to know for certain, and for us clergy to endlessly debate the nuance! There are as many answers to that question as there are soul vessels in this room, I wager."

With a more serious demeanor and the coaching tone of someone used to teaching religious theory to those just grappling with the concepts for the first time, he continues gently.

"I can't tell you what a soul is, but I can tell you what having a soul allows you to do. Every time you move your pencil, as you are doing right now to record my words, your hand is executing the will of your soul. When you are touched by the beautiful gemstone hues of a dusty desert sunset or wonder at the novel taste of popped sun-kissed maize, that is the feeling of your soul brushing up against physical world and shivering in awe. To grieve for a lost loved one is to have your soul reach out a metaphorical hand to fumble for a light-switch that no longer exists. Without a soul, you could do none of these things."

The priest appears to have hit his stride and continues on with a bit more zeal in his eye regardless of whether or not Oskar is still paying attention.

"The things that your soul allows you to do are miraculous! Gifts from the very savior himself, even! But they are inherently uncontrolled. The sympathetic connections between your body, the world, other people, and your soul are unorganized. Shifting. Unpredictable. A talented follower of the Dance, properly trained and with their soul safely contained outside of their body to be accessible, can exert a small level of influence over these connections or even create new ones. The very first lesson our few mages learn is how to forge a connection between their souls and the very aether around them, so as to bend it to their will."


 


 
 Originally Posted by Elemental 
 For the ascension of a fellow Veehran monarch it had been deemed necessary for the High King himself to head to delegation to Narsai, anything less would be seen as a snub to the Iron Monarchy. 
 

The High King of Ishtahnos with his fine golden pendant, ruby-bedecked crown, and seven feet of height is an unmistakable and unignorable member of the audience. To not greet the High King, when he had traveled all the way to Narsai for the coronation, would no doubt be seen as a snub.

After the two guests have had their fill of the banquet, the Iron Monarch and his guard retinue of black-masked priests, including Alexandre Margaux, approach John.

"Welcome fellow monarch, High King of Ishtahnos! We are honored by your presence within our splendid halls. I trust that you have found the Iron Masquerade's hospitality to your liking?" asked the supernaturally smooth voice emanating from its toddler host.
Silent_Interim
 
 Originally Posted by Aerin 
 One does not refuse the Emperor's Courtiers a dance, and so the Iron Monarch graciously accepts High Lord Karim-12's offer, bowing in return. The height difference doesn't make the dance easy, but the Monarch has all the fine motor control of someone who has been taught and practiced the proper steps, at least.

"The Iron Masquerade is most honored by the presence of zirself and High Lady Petra at our humble ball. I am glad to hear your are enjoying zirself! Please do not hesitate to let an attendant know if you require anything."

At the mention of the child, the Monarch smiles a bit ruefully.

"It's true I prefer them a bit more ... solidified? Well-aged? But alas. By the next time we meet, I hope to have rectified this situation."

It winks. 
 

The High Lord returns the wink. A perceptive observer might note the way zir eyelids don't quite meet across the eye.

"You know, I consider myself an advocate for human potential," the High Lord remarks in an apparent non-sequitur. "I've been around a minute, y'know? What I'm saying is, I'm no Lady, so you can ask my age, but I might not remember right away, haha. I've been around the block enough times to see some things."

Ignoring the previous rhythm of the dance but somehow still perfectly in time with the music, the High Lord twirls away from the Iron Monarch on an outstretched arm, before whirling back inwards. In a whirlwind of ruffles and lace, ze are suddenly knelt behind the shorter body of zir dance partner, head leaned back almost against the Monarch's head just as the music comes to a break.

"So take it as a compliment, one monster to another, when I tell you you're a real bastard."


 The four delegates are not the only ones shaken by the events of the coronation, and thus find it rather easy to blend in.

The priest looks ecstatic that someone has finally expressed interest in what she does on a technical level. She immediately launches into a highly academic description of the arcane process.

"That's reductive, but ultimately cuts to the essence of the practice, yes. In order to avoid negation of the metaphysical self-identity when its sympathetic links to the biological vessel are severed, the practitioner uses their spiritual manipulator - you're familiar with the concept of direct arcane interference, yes?"

She does not wait for a response from Todd before relaunching into the explanation.

"-to extend similar polarity channels between operational patient and the desired target. When the sympathetic links are cut, then, the metaphysical self-identity naturally seeks to reestablish preexisting neuromagical pathways, and thus migrates into the artificial vessel. When you understand the underlying theory, it becomes immediately obvious why physical separation of the biological puppet and the artificial vessel is so dangerous after the procedure." 

High Lady Petra drifts vaguely towards the technical conversation. They loom quietly over the captive Todd and the lecturing priest, listening and watching with an intensity they had not evinced during the proceedings earlier.
moossabi
 
 Originally Posted by Aerin 
  
 Spoiler 
The priest that Oskar dei Fiori approaches is different from the individual that Todd will later talk logistics with. The hearty clergyman laughs cheerfully and returns Oskar's grin.

"I don't know! That knowledge is only for the savior himself - he who wears the Black Butterfly - to know for certain, and for us clergy to endlessly debate the nuance! There are as many answers to that question as there are soul vessels in this room, I wager."

With a more serious demeanor and the coaching tone of someone used to teaching religious theory to those just grappling with the concepts for the first time, he continues gently.

"I can't tell you what a soul is, but I can tell you what having a soul allows you to do. Every time you move your pencil, as you are doing right now to record my words, your hand is executing the will of your soul. When you are touched by the beautiful gemstone hues of a dusty desert sunset or wonder at the novel taste of popped sun-kissed maize, that is the feeling of your soul brushing up against physical world and shivering in awe. To grieve for a lost loved one is to have your soul reach out a metaphorical hand to fumble for a light-switch that no longer exists. Without a soul, you could do none of these things."

The priest appears to have hit his stride and continues on with a bit more zeal in his eye regardless of whether or not Oskar is still paying attention.

"The things that your soul allows you to do are miraculous! Gifts from the very savior himself, even! But they are inherently uncontrolled. The sympathetic connections between your body, the world, other people, and your soul are unorganized. Shifting. Unpredictable. A talented follower of the Dance, properly trained and with their soul safely contained outside of their body to be accessible, can exert a small level of influence over these connections or even create new ones. The very first lesson our few mages learn is how to forge a connection between their souls and the very aether around them, so as to bend it to their will."
 
 
 

Oskar jots down notes throughout the priest's elaboration, internally satisfied that the priest is willing to admit that he has no idea what he's talking about. Such hegemonic compliance in the face of a plainly withheld truth reflects well upon the Iron Monarch, reminding the elf of what his father had accomplished in his prime. By the conclusion of the priest's speech, two key notes are underlined on his page:   soul = emotional responses, ritual displacement   and   savior WEARS butterfly; is not butterfly itself  . He proceeds with a follow-up question, still scribbling furiously regardless of how inaccurate his listed theories may be.   "And this Aether, what does it consist of?"  
The_Snark
 
 Originally Posted by BladeofObliviom 
 Yaki Soom wore her steel face with modest discomfort at the sight before her.

She and her honor guard of attendants alike wore a traveling outfit of wrappings (though they'd done their best to remove excess dust before entering these halls, having stayed the night in Narsai prior and had an opportunity to wash) and similar smooth steel masks to present a unified front. Those unfamiliar with the clans might assume her attendant Janda was in charge, with his grim and high posture along with his visibly displayed trophies - including a pair of shoulderpads with spiralling horns attached to them. She had no such fortune with her hunts, and her most unusual mark was that she had pinned her hair to the side of her head - among the Soom-clan, a distinction reserved for members of the main branch.

She and her attendants averted their eyes from the display at center stage, while Janda stared directly at it (though even he shifted in his seat). This was going to be a long day. 
 

As the hosts busy themselves with dancing and feasting, Rasha 11931 locates the people she was most hoping to talk to: their closest neighbors. The Castaways have enjoyed a tense relationship with the nearby desert nomads ever since the advent of the Loop, sometimes trading with them for invaluable supplies and knowledge, sometimes fending off opportunistic raiders. In recent years the relationship has swung more and more towards the former, as the Castaways have become too numerous and well-armed for smaller clans to risk attacking; most of those not willing to co-exist peaceably have left in search of easier targets. The Soom-clan, however, is on a different level entirely... and with them now in possession of Imperial starship engines, the hundred klicks between Anyport and the Soom's traditional roaming grounds mean very little.

She approaches, offering a slight bow. "Greetings, friends. I am Rasha 11931, of the Group of Seventeen. Do I have the pleasure of addressing the Soom-Clan?"


 
 Originally Posted by Aerin 
 The four delegates are not the only ones shaken by the events of the coronation, and thus find it rather easy to blend in.

The priest looks ecstatic that someone has finally expressed interest in what she does on a technical level. She immediately launches into a highly academic description of the arcane process.

"That's reductive, but ultimately cuts to the essence of the practice, yes. In order to avoid negation of the metaphysical self-identity when its sympathetic links to the biological vessel are severed, the practitioner uses their spiritual manipulator - you're familiar with the concept of direct arcane interference, yes?"

She does not wait for a response from Todd before relaunching into the explanation.

"-to extend similar polarity channels between operational patient and the desired target. When the sympathetic links are cut, then, the metaphysical self-identity naturally seeks to reestablish preexisting neuromagical pathways, and thus migrates into the artificial vessel. When you understand the underlying theory, it becomes immediately obvious why physical separation of the biological puppet and the artificial vessel is so dangerous after the procedure." 
 

Todd 35348 is delighted to have found the one person at this party who can hold up their end of a  real  conversation, as opposed to diplomacy or etiquette or whatever other nonsense the kind of people who throw these parties like to talk about. He is not, in fact, familiar with the concept of direct arcane interference. Todd has about as much magical know-how as the average rock. That's fine though; he doesn't know what negative muons are either, but did that stop him from fixing up a half-melted muon inverter back on Station 242? No it did not! He'll pick it up as he goes.

"So, not jars then. Jewelry? Something you can wear - oh, of course, the masks." He snaps his fingers in realization. "That makes sense. How dramatic are the effects of separation? It can't be instantaneous, you'd have people dropping dead whenever their masks slipped off and that's just not practical... Some kind of gradual degradation, I'm guessing? Sympathetic links and souls aren't my field at all, but it seems like there oughta be something you can do about that problem, if you work at it long enough."

Todd's chances of surviving the night have gone up considerably, as the technical discussion distracts him from prodding for answers about the Black Tower's involvement in what looks an awful lot like a coup. He either hasn't noticed the High Lady hovering nearby, or has decided they're not important until they speak up.
Elemental
 
 Originally Posted by Aerin 
 The High King of Ishtahnos with his fine golden pendant, ruby-bedecked crown, and seven feet of height is an unmistakable and unignorable member of the audience. To not greet the High King, when he had traveled all the way to Narsai for the coronation, would no doubt be seen as a snub.

After the two guests have had their fill of the banquet, the Iron Monarch and his guard retinue of black-masked priests, including Alexandre Margaux, approach John.

"Welcome fellow monarch, High King of Ishtahnos! We are honored by your presence within our splendid halls. I trust that you have found the Iron Masquerade's hospitality to your liking?" asked the supernaturally smooth voice emanating from its toddler host. 
 

Ira stands behind John, eyeing the priests with a polite look of intimidation as if daring them to try anything. John, for his part, looks down at the Iron Monarch. Were he of the opinion that Nathan were still Nathan he would have kneeled down so as to be less intimidating to a young child, but he does not.

"Your hospitality is greatly appreciated Iron Monarch," he said with as much politeness as he can muster under the circumstances. He thinks for a moment before kneeling down as though he were speaking to a child and lowered his voice so that only the two of them and their closest attendants could hear him, "Your courtiers may be too stupid or afraid to confront you for what you are but I see you for thief you are and I think you're pathetic."

He smiles at the Iron Monarch, though it clearly does not reach his emerald eyes.
BladeofObliviom
 
 Originally Posted by The_Snark 
 As the hosts busy themselves with dancing and feasting, Rasha 11931 locates the people she was most hoping to talk to: their closest neighbors. The Castaways have enjoyed a tense relationship with the nearby desert nomads ever since the advent of the Loop, sometimes trading with them for invaluable supplies and knowledge, sometimes fending off opportunistic raiders. In recent years the relationship has swung more and more towards the former, as the Castaways have become too numerous and well-armed for smaller clans to risk attacking; most of those not willing to co-exist peaceably have left in search of easier targets. The Soom-clan, however, is on a different level entirely... and with them now in possession of Imperial starship engines, the hundred klicks between Anyport and the Soom's traditional roaming grounds mean very little.

She approaches, offering a slight bow. "Greetings, friends. I am Rasha 11931, of the Group of Seventeen. Do I have the pleasure of addressing the Soom-Clan?" 
 

Four masked faces turn from their seats, and slowly rise into a matching shallow bow.

"Received, Friend Rasha," calls out a teenager's voice, from the one with pinned brown hair. Though the Soom are not fully familiar with the Castaways beyond limited word of mouth from the easternmost bands, they don't suspect a five digit number to be a clan name. "Yaki of the Soom-Clan and her company greet you under a mark of peace." She spares a glance to the antics outside her immediate focus. "As long as that persists. I am afraid to report unfamiliarity with the Group of Seventeen - you speak from...the east?"
Tentreto
 
 Originally Posted by Aerin 
 The Iron Monarch inclines its head politely in thanks for the congratulations.

"Please convey my well-wishes and thanks to Mirage Sahara. If you have the moment to spare, I would quite interested to hear the tale of her ascension, particularly any role that an esteemed individual such as yourself had to play in it."

Baron Mayweather is affixed with the Monarch's acute attention.  
 

"Ah of course," Mayweather replies. "The current Mirage ascended to her position less than a year ago herself, elected almost unanimously. Indeed my lands certainly played there part, I in fact personally sourced the ornamentation for her from our deepest tunnels. The ceremony was certainly something to behold as well, with her accepting her new mask and identity. I am sure that when the time comes she would be willing to invite one with such a great mask to attend her successor." he stammers slightly.

"I am sure we both value the power such things bring."
farothel
The Bafatis dynasty has elected to send the brother of the current Duke, Earl Vikesh Bafatis, together with the usual collection of lower ranked functionaries.  The Earl will do the high level talks, while the lower level functionaries will then work out the details.

After the coronation, Vikesh, who has been briefed, will go talk with the priests about an exchange of technology.  He will politely refuse to be used as a test subject, but he's very much interested, as all Bafatis' are interested in magical stuff.  He has been given leave to offer the ability to build fusion reactors in return.

He also has something else to bring to the table.  The Duke has thought long about this and he would like to band together with others in a mutual defense treaty.  The details have to be worked out, but at least the basics can be discussed here and then worked out later.

-all signatories agree that any attack on one member is an attack against all members.  This is does not apply if a member attacks first.
-the treaty applies to Veehra only
-members will retain adequate military forces (OOC: half of unit cap at minimum).  They can choose freely between space and ground forces, although a mix of both is preferred.
The_Snark
 
 Originally Posted by BladeofObliviom 
 Four masked faces turn from their seats, and slowly rise into a matching shallow bow.

"Received, Friend Rasha," calls out a teenager's voice, from the one with pinned brown hair. Though the Soom are not fully familiar with the Castaways beyond limited word of mouth from the easternmost bands, they don't suspect a five digit number to be a clan name. "Yaki of the Soom-Clan and her company greet you under a mark of peace." She spares a glance to the antics outside her immediate focus. "As long as that persists. I am afraid to report unfamiliarity with the Group of Seventeen - you speak from...the east?" 
 

"East," Rasha agrees, "but not as far east as the northern mountains. You might know us as the Castaways of the Loop. Or you may not know us at all; we are neither a numerous people nor far-ranging. Though I suppose that last may change, now that the Emperor has seen fit to grant us the status of Elect." Her voice takes on a sour note as she says  Emperor . She may have to swallow her bitterness and smile when speaking to Imperial emissaries, but she doubts the Soom will care either way.

"On which note, we were intrigued to hear of your ascension to the ranks of the Elect. Might I ask where your newly-won wings will carry you?"
BladeofObliviom
 
 Originally Posted by The_Snark 
 "East," Rasha agrees, "but not as far east as the northern mountains. You might know us as the Castaways of the Loop. Or you may not know us at all; we are neither a numerous people nor far-ranging. Though I suppose that last may change, now that the Emperor has seen fit to grant us the status of Elect." Her voice takes on a sour note as she says  Emperor . She may have to swallow her bitterness and smile when speaking to Imperial emissaries, but she doubts the Soom will care either way.

"On which note, we were intrigued to hear of your ascension to the ranks of the Elect. Might I ask where your newly-won wings will carry you?" 
 

Won: A flattering choice of word. This person didn't seem like a member of a clan, though she was surely a dustdweller. Perhaps one who understood, or at least sought not to agitate her. Yaki could respect that, and relaxed her posture after a moment of silence. If she had a reaction to Rasha's choice of tone for the Emperor, it was concealed behind her mask.

"West," she replies after a long moment. "Mother has begun the process of gathering the clan motors to push west, to cross the Serpent's Spine into the plentiful greenlands. There are old grudges to be reckoned, and fewer caravans travel through Khassia than in prior years. Many of my kinsmen tire of living off scraps and what we can barter from Kildora." The fervor in her voice diminishes, and intoning more softly she asks: "What of your people? I fear I am as yet naive, as I know of Narsai and Kildora, a bit of the Masklands; I've heard tales of Vesper and Ishtahnos, and I know of course of the Greenlands. But I know little of the Castaways you speak of." She didn't ask if they were exiles and from where, but the questions lingered unsaid at the tip of her tongue.
The_Snark
 
 Originally Posted by BladeofObliviom 
 Won: A flattering choice of word. This person didn't seem like a member of a clan, though she was surely a dustdweller. Perhaps one who understood, or at least sought not to agitate her. Yaki could respect that, and relaxed her posture after a moment of silence. If she had a reaction to Rasha's choice of tone for the Emperor, it was concealed behind her mask.

"West," she replies after a long moment. "Mother has begun the process of gathering the clan motors to push west, to cross the Serpent's Spine into the plentiful greenlands. There are old grudges to be reckoned, and fewer caravans travel through Khassia than in prior years. Many of my kinsmen tire of living off scraps and what we can barter from Kildora." The fervor in her voice diminishes, and intoning more softly she asks: "What of your people? I fear I am as yet naive, as I know of Narsai and Kildora, a bit of the Masklands; I've heard tales of Vesper and Ishtahnos, and I know of course of the Greenlands. But I know little of the Castaways you speak of." She didn't ask if they were exiles and from where, but the questions lingered unsaid at the tip of her tongue. 
 

"Of course." Rasha's voice shifts, adopting the rhythmic cadence of someone telling a well-practiced story. "Our history is not a long one, next to yours. Three centuries ago, the Empire established a research outpost in the wastelands, studying a mystery they never shared. Ophonese largesse gave them everything they needed to not just survive but flourish, and if you put water and green in the desert, others will come: local nomads, miners out of the highlands, traders and exiles from other lands. It was a tiny oasis in the middle of the waste, shielded from the storms by a dome of Imperial glass."

"Forty-five... no, it was forty-six years ago now, something went wrong. We still do not understand what happened; all we know is that everything around the town died in a firestorm that left the land cracked like clay in the kiln. Dometown itself was trapped in time, reliving the same day over and over again. This is what we now call the Loop. It is completely impervious to every tool and weapon at our disposal; even Ophon may not have the means to crack it. Nothing enters. Nothing alters what happens within. Nothing leaves, except for what - and  who  - left on that day forty-six years ago. We Castaways are the people who left Dometown on that day. Every day, we leave again and discover our home is lost to us. When I say I am Rasha 11931, I mean that eleven thousand, nine hundred and thirty Rasha Isaks have walked out of the Loop before me. Many more have followed in my footsteps.  There are seventeen different people spun out of the Loop each day - hence the Group of Seventeen."

"Our ancestors knew how to live in the desert. We have spent the last few decades teaching ourselves what our parents forgot. It has not been an easy process, but the Rasha who leaves the Loop today will find shelter and food waiting for her, rather than famine and desperation."
Silent_Interim
  Science and Soul Jars  

 
 Originally Posted by Aerin 
 The four delegates are not the only ones shaken by the events of the coronation, and thus find it rather easy to blend in.

The priest looks ecstatic that someone has finally expressed interest in what she does on a technical level. She immediately launches into a highly academic description of the arcane process.

"That's reductive, but ultimately cuts to the essence of the practice, yes. In order to avoid negation of the metaphysical self-identity when its sympathetic links to the biological vessel are severed, the practitioner uses their spiritual manipulator - you're familiar with the concept of direct arcane interference, yes?"

She does not wait for a response from Todd before relaunching into the explanation.

"-to extend similar polarity channels between operational patient and the desired target. When the sympathetic links are cut, then, the metaphysical self-identity naturally seeks to reestablish preexisting neuromagical pathways, and thus migrates into the artificial vessel. When you understand the underlying theory, it becomes immediately obvious why physical separation of the biological puppet and the artificial vessel is so dangerous after the procedure." 
 


 
 Originally Posted by The_Snark 
 Todd 35348 is delighted to have found the one person at this party who can hold up their end of a  real  conversation, as opposed to diplomacy or etiquette or whatever other nonsense the kind of people who throw these parties like to talk about. He is not, in fact, familiar with the concept of direct arcane interference. Todd has about as much magical know-how as the average rock. That's fine though; he doesn't know what negative muons are either, but did that stop him from fixing up a half-melted muon inverter back on Station 242? No it did not! He'll pick it up as he goes.

"So, not jars then. Jewelry? Something you can wear - oh, of course, the masks." He snaps his fingers in realization. "That makes sense. How dramatic are the effects of separation? It can't be instantaneous, you'd have people dropping dead whenever their masks slipped off and that's just not practical... Some kind of gradual degradation, I'm guessing? Sympathetic links and souls aren't my field at all, but it seems like there oughta be something you can do about that problem, if you work at it long enough."

Todd's chances of surviving the night have gone up considerably, as the technical discussion distracts him from prodding for answers about the Black Tower's involvement in what looks an awful lot like a coup. He either hasn't noticed the High Lady hovering nearby, or has decided they're not important until they speak up. 
 

The High Lady, when they speak, does so with a soft, high voice, very slightly cracked from disuse. "Long-distance high-grade soul links are considered an open problem, to the best of my knowledge. They call it the Lich's Dilemma. It is very easy to maintain a stronger link between puppet and soul jar if you're willing to accept significant personality drift. Usually a radical reduction in empathy, often similar to the manifestations of sociopathic behaviour. The research of the Iron Masquerade was a significant breakthrough, trading viable distance for a more consistent linkage. It's not a popular area of research on Ophon, though. Most of the people who want to undergo such a procedure want to do so for reasons that make even partial or questionable ego-death a deal-breaker, and even for those who don't, there's stigma around voluntarily becoming a sociopath. You would hope, with the advances that have been made in the fields of psychology, that that wouldn't be such an issue, but people get so fussy."
BladeofObliviom
 
 Originally Posted by The_Snark 
  
 Spoiler 
"Of course." Rasha's voice shifts, adopting the rhythmic cadence of someone telling a well-practiced story. "Our history is not a long one, next to yours. Three centuries ago, the Empire established a research outpost in the wastelands, studying a mystery they never shared. Ophonese largesse gave them everything they needed to not just survive but flourish, and if you put water and green in the desert, others will come: local nomads, miners out of the highlands, traders and exiles from other lands. It was a tiny oasis in the middle of the waste, shielded from the storms by a dome of Imperial glass."

"Forty-five... no, it was forty-six years ago now, something went wrong. We still do not understand what happened; all we know is that everything around the town died in a firestorm that left the land cracked like clay in the kiln. Dometown itself was trapped in time, reliving the same day over and over again. This is what we now call the Loop. It is completely impervious to every tool and weapon at our disposal; even Ophon may not have the means to crack it. Nothing enters. Nothing alters what happens within. Nothing leaves, except for what - and  who  - left on that day forty-six years ago. We Castaways are the people who left Dometown on that day. Every day, we leave again and discover our home is lost to us. When I say I am Rasha 11931, I mean that eleven thousand, nine hundred and thirty Rasha Isaks have walked out of the Loop before me. Many more have followed in my footsteps.  There are seventeen different people spun out of the Loop each day - hence the Group of Seventeen."

"Our ancestors knew how to live in the desert. We have spent the last few decades teaching ourselves what our parents forgot. It has not been an easy process, but the Rasha who leaves the Loop today will find shelter and food waiting for her, rather than famine and desperation."
 
 
 

Yaki stared as Rasha spoke, filing away the lecture for later, but after a low whistle she nodded along. "Okay. Okay. That's. A lot." A bit of embarrassment crept into her tone as her diplomatic decorum fell apart. "Not that I mind! I just...actually meant to mirror your question. Where won-wings might carry you. Though...in a way you remain just as bound to the soil as us, don't you?"
The_Snark
 
 Originally Posted by BladeofObliviom 
 Yaki stared as Rasha spoke, filing away the lecture for later, but after a low whistle she nodded along. "Okay. Okay. That's. A lot." A bit of embarrassment crept into her tone as her diplomatic decorum fell apart. "Not that I mind! I just...actually meant to mirror your question. Where won-wings might carry you. Though...in a way you remain just as bound to the soil as us, don't you?" 
 

"Ah. Forgive my presumption." Rasha laughs softly at herself. "But perhaps it's just as well; understanding where we come from will be helpful in explaining where we are going.  You are quite correct: we cannot forsake our home. To do so would mean abandoning our future kin to the mercies of the desert. Nor have we forgotten our friends and family trapped inside the Loop. We cannot free them with the tools and knowledge we have now - so we will send people out in search of a way. We don't know what it will look like, or where to find it. Very likely it does not yet exist, and we will have to create it ourselves. I think our chances better if we look abroad for answers as well as within."


 
 Originally Posted by Silent_Interim 
  
 Spoiler 
The High Lady, when they speak, does so with a soft, high voice, very slightly cracked from disuse. "Long-distance high-grade soul links are considered an open problem, to the best of my knowledge. They call it the Lich's Dilemma. It is very easy to maintain a stronger link between puppet and soul jar if you're willing to accept significant personality drift. Usually a radical reduction in empathy, often similar to the manifestations of sociopathic behaviour. The research of the Iron Masquerade was a significant breakthrough, trading viable distance for a more consistent linkage. It's not a popular area of research on Ophon, though. Most of the people who want to undergo such a procedure want to do so for reasons that make even partial or questionable ego-death a deal-breaker, and even for those who don't, there's stigma around voluntarily becoming a sociopath. You would hope, with the advances that have been made in the fields of psychology, that that wouldn't be such an issue, but people get so fussy."
 
 
 

Todd has at this point taken out a tablet and stylus, and begun scribbling notes. "Lich's... Dilemma... so what are the perks? I'm hearing a lot about the risks and side effects, not so much about the benefits. Is it a longevity thing? Immortality? What's the sales pitch for a soul transplant?"
BladeofObliviom
 
 Originally Posted by The_Snark 
  
 Spoiler 
"Ah. Forgive my presumption." Rasha laughs softly at herself. "But perhaps it's just as well; understanding where we come from will be helpful in explaining where we are going.  You are quite correct: we cannot forsake our home. To do so would mean abandoning our future kin to the mercies of the desert. Nor have we forgotten our friends and family trapped inside the Loop. We cannot free them with the tools and knowledge we have now - so we will send people out in search of a way. We don't know what it will look like, or where to find it. Very likely it does not yet exist, and we will have to create it ourselves. I think our chances better if we look abroad for answers as well as within."
 
 
 

"I can respect that.", Yaki says after a pregnant pause. "I must apologize; at a glance I thought you and yours were displaced Greenlanders, but there is more than meets the eye. To our people all things move in cycles - loops, even - I am no Priestess, but the mystics of Kildora may offer insight I lack."
Silent_Interim
 
 Originally Posted by The_Snark 
 Todd has at this point taken out a tablet and stylus, and begun scribbling notes. "Lich's... Dilemma... so what are the perks? I'm hearing a lot about the risks and side effects, not so much about the benefits. Is it a longevity thing? Immortality? What's the sales pitch for a soul transplant?" 
 

Warming to their subject, the High Lady continues. "Well, of course, immortality is the traditional benefit of the long-distance version, though it remains controversial whether it is a  true  immortality, one of what we call the Noble Eternities. There is also, of course, the resistance to soul-based attacks that travel via the body- very common in some times and places. There are occasional medical reasons for it- certain surgeries are more easily performed on both soul and body when the two are separated. And, of course, there are religious and cultural reasons, but I expect this fellow would be the expert on those." They gesture vaguely to the priest.
D&D_Fan
The Arvaxine Populate makes no big show of introductions. Granted, they aren't seen much outside of their own region. They nearly always send some sort of emissary of some another species. But not this time.

They simply shuffle into the room, only a handful of arvax themselves, their forms hunched over to match the height of most other attendees, blanketed in drab robes, shadowed. Even in public They watch the ceremony quietly.

After the ceremony concludes, several of the arvax make their way to the banquet, where they extend their pallid claws from out from their robes, obtain their desired meal food, and retract said hands back into the darkness just as quickly. A few in their number instead home in on different targets.

As well, some of their scientists, clad in white robes, approach the representatives of the other attending parties. The arvax' servants nervously translating the arvax own language into a comprehensible message which goes onto espouse the Arvaxine Populates's "superior" fusion reactor design, and strongly encourages the exchange of technologies. A few of the other white-robed arvax will approach the priesthood of the Black Tower seeking to understand the arcane practices they speak of.

Following the ceremony, the leading figure of the Populate steps forward, their 'President' as it were, their speaker and representative, and greets the new Iron Monarch, making his best attempt to respectfully nod, though this is not easy as he is well over twice the size of the body of the child that the Monarch has made its vessel. He keeps his distance from the Monarch and the surrounding guards, though this distance is not necessarily kept by respect.

In a voice that is his own, but is not human, he acknowledges the Monarch.   "I do hope our nations may achieve some form of 'understanding' in the present and future years."   He stares into the eyes of the child under the mask, but he does too stare into the eyes of the mask itself, perhaps addressing them both.   "We may not be as different as we would seem to be."  
Aerin
 
 Originally Posted by Tychris1 
 The great Doomweaver Thalus had arrived a full week before the sprawling events. 
 

1. "It is true that New Kildora has been a proud sister of the Masquerade for centuries, but that relationship is one of equals. Your demands for control over my rule and outright vassalage of my state are grossly inappropriate, and you belittle the accomplishments of all who live under the Masquerade with your ill-considered insults. Due to the long history between our regimes, I am willing to forgive  New Kildora  this slight.

But I cannot and will not forgive  you . Leave. Now.

Or be prepared to suffer the Masquerade's hospitality indefinitely."

The toddler-occupying entity makes a gesture to his guards, who move in to flank the Iron Monarch and encircle Doomweaver Thalus's entourage. Some reach for their back masks, ready to channel their very souls in defense of their Savior while most reach for mundane weapons and armaments.

Alexandre Margaux, head priest of the Black Tower, for the first time tonight allows an emotion to cross his countenance as he eagerly steps between the Savior and the threat. A fervent, almost feverish light enters his eyes as he makes his existence useful to the object of his worship.

3. The priests generally mill around and try to stop the Sorcerers without resorting to violence. This is so outside the realm of what they expected that the response is generally bafflement? At the very least, it seems like the ritual takes an obscene amount of set-up time and won't be completing any time soon.
Tychris1
Thalus looked over at the guards, the priests, and the throng of thralls that lurked behind. His eyes squinted, the skin roiling almost as his gaze settled once more on the Iron Monarch.

 “No.” 

He smiled and closed his eyes.

 “I will leave when I am ready. If that means extending my stay, well, we shall see about that.”  The Head Doomweaver dropped his hand and turned away from their majesty, brushing past Alexandre without paying him any mind.
Aerin
 
 Originally Posted by Tychris1 
 Thalus looked over at the guards, the priests, and the throng of thralls that lurked behind. 
 

Brushing past Margaux was the elderly white-haired Doomweaver's biggest mistake, alongside leaving the midst of the throng of thralls.

As Thalus passes, Margaux smacks the elaborate headdress off of the elder man's head. The overly-elaborate, weighted serpentine form drags the Doomweaver off-balance as it begins to fall, ripping out a chunk of white hair. Margaux continues to move fluidly, using the Doomweaver's lack of stability to shove the man forward onto his knees while pinning both of the caster's hands behind his back.

As the  CLANG  of the headdress hitting the floor rings out across the ballroom, the Doomweaver is forced into a kneel before the Iron Monarch. (He is still taller.) Margaux takes off his black cloak and wraps it over the Doomweaver's head.

"This is the proper level of deference when in the presence of the ruler of the Iron Masquerade," the Iron Monarch states patiently, as if talking to a small child.

"I remember the days, centuries ago, when the Sorcerers of New Kildora were among my most-feared enemies. It almost saddens me to see what you have been reduced to."

Addressing Margaux, "High Priest, lead this imbecile to his new quarters. Make sure he is unharmed; I have a use for him yet."

Taking advantage of the sudden dead silence in the ballroom, the Iron Monarch raises his voice, "With the large amount of more  sensible  foreign diplomats attending this splendid occasion, I've prepared a high table for us to address a few pressing matters of international policy. If I may direct your attention the front of the ballroom, you'll find a proposal regarding the spread of dust hardening techniques and a proposal regarding adequate preparations for defense against interplanetary invasion."

"For the rest of my guests, please, continue to dance and enjoy the banquet."

He gestures, and the increasingly worried-looking musicians begin to play as if their lives depend on it.

[OOC: The two proposals are as follows. You can choose whether or not to sign or propose alterations of your own.

1. No trading Dust Hardening to any nation or Organization with a capital not on Veehra.

2. Should any Veehran territory or Veehran moon be invaded by a force originating from outside of Veehra's orbit, all signatories pledge aid in defense.]


 


 
 Originally Posted by Silent_Interim 
 The High Lord returns the wink. 
 

"Compliment taken," the Iron Monarch manages to get out, after straining to keep up with the High Lord's rhythm.

"I, also, delight in finding yourself to be a like-minded individual. It bodes well for future dealings between the Masquerade and his Imperial Majesty."


 


 
 Originally Posted by moossabi 
 Oskar jots down notes throughout the priest's elaboration, internally satisfied that the priest is willing to admit that he has no idea what he's talking about. 
 

"Raw magical energy." The priest answers, smiling. He's clearly pleased that Oskar is still taking notes, listening, and appears eager to learn. He provides no further details.


 


 
 Originally Posted by The_Snark 
 Todd 35348 is delighted to have found the one person at this party who can hold up their end of a  real  conversation, as opposed to diplomacy or etiquette or whatever other nonsense the kind of people who throw these parties like to talk about. 
 


 
 Originally Posted by Silent_Interim 
 Warming to their subject, the High Lady continues. 
 

"It's not instantaneous, but it is drastic. With enough distance and duration, the result is always fatality of the subject.

This is the topic of research that my lab has been attempting to resolve, in fact! It's been slow progress these past decades due to lack of test subjects, but since we recently partnered with the Black Tower," she nods towards Margaux, "we've been making some real headway."

When Lady Petra gestures towards her for input on the benefits of bottling one's soul, she'll volunteer, "Religious and cultural reasons  are  the most common reason why the majority of Masque undertake the endeavor, but there are a fair few arcanically-minded individuals who simply want the easily accessible magical power source."


 


 
 Originally Posted by Elemental 
 Ira stands behind John, eyeing the priests with a polite look of intimidation as if daring them to try anything. 
 

The Iron Monarch smiles a canned smile back at the looming King, and responds in a similar low voice, "I will not pretend to be anything other than what I am."

Then, much louder. "Please, excuse me, High King. The night is young, and there are many others who would like to similarly congratulate me upon this eve of my coronation. Enjoy the banquet, and safe travels back to the Highlands of Ishtanos."

He takes his leave.


 


 
 Originally Posted by Tentreto 
 "Ah of course," Mayweather replies. 
 

"Your Mirage is lucky to have such a talented and devoted servant," the Monarch muses with a thoughtful expression.

"A servant which surely has other important matters to attend to at this diplomatic event! Please, enjoy the banquet and the dancing! Let us both mingle with the other guests and show off our powerful masks."
The_Snark
 
 Originally Posted by BladeofObliviom 
 "I can respect that.", Yaki says after a pregnant pause. "I must apologize; at a glance I thought you and yours were displaced Greenlanders, but there is more than meets the eye. To our people all things move in cycles - loops, even - I am no Priestess, but the mystics of Kildora may offer insight I lack." 
 

"A fair suggestion. We count a number of scientists and engineers among our number, but none of us are well-versed in the arcane sciences. We have heard tales of the sorcerers of Kildora, of course, but their reputation is not welcoming to strangers... especially not strangers begging aid. Perhaps you might introduce us, or offer counsel on what they might ask in exchange for their wisdom."


 
 Originally Posted by Silent_Interim 
  
 Spoiler 
Warming to their subject, the High Lady continues. "Well, of course, immortality is the traditional benefit of the long-distance version, though it remains controversial whether it is a  true  immortality, one of what we call the Noble Eternities. There is also, of course, the resistance to soul-based attacks that travel via the body- very common in some times and places. There are occasional medical reasons for it- certain surgeries are more easily performed on both soul and body when the two are separated. And, of course, there are religious and cultural reasons, but I expect this fellow would be the expert on those." They gesture vaguely to the priest.
 
 
 


 
 Originally Posted by Aerin 
  
 Spoiler 
"It's not instantaneous, but it is drastic. With enough distance and duration, the result is always fatality of the subject.

This is the topic of research that my lab has been attempting to resolve, in fact! It's been slow progress these past decades due to lack of test subjects, but since we recently partnered with the Black Tower," she nods towards Margaux, "we've been making some real headway."

When Lady Petra gestures towards her for input on the benefits of bottling one's soul, she'll volunteer, "Religious and cultural reasons  are  the most common reason why the majority of Masque undertake the endeavor, but there are a fair few arcanically-minded individuals who simply want the easily accessible magical power source."
 
 
 

Todd 35348 is consistently ranked in the bottom 10th percentile when polling for Most Punchable Todd. Demonstrating why, he heroically refrains from offering the first three suggestions that pop into his head. He's an engineer who first heard of the soul linkage problem five minutes ago; he's not likely to have any insights this woman hasn't already thought of in the course of decades of study.  Not until he's had at least a month to catch up on the relevant literature, anyway.  Instead, he asks, "Does your lab publish papers, or make the research available on the InterPlaNet somewhere? I'd love to get a look at what you've tried."
MappyPK
 
 Originally Posted by Aerin 
 Taking advantage of the sudden dead silence in the ballroom, the Iron Monarch raises his voice, "With the large amount of more  sensible  foreign diplomats attending this splendid occasion, I've prepared a high table for us to address a few pressing matters of international policy. If I may direct your attention the front of the ballroom, you'll find a proposal regarding the spread of dust hardening techniques and a proposal regarding adequate preparations for defense against interplanetary invasion."

"For the rest of my guests, please, continue to dance and enjoy the banquet."

He gestures, and the increasingly worried-looking musicians begin to play as if their lives depend on it.

[OOC: The two proposals are as follows. You can choose whether or not to sign or propose alterations of your own.

1. No trading Dust Hardening to any nation or Organization with a capital not on Veehra.

2. Should any Veehran territory or Veehran moon be invaded by a force originating from outside of Veehra's orbit, all signatories pledge aid in defense.] 
 

The God-King lightly rubs along a few of the luscious locks of his mane, not dissimilar to a human stroking their chin while deep in thought. "This... dust hardening you speak of. I don't quite understand it, but I can tell it is important to your people. The secret is safe with us." He nods, then walks up to the podium and signs this proposal. Before commenting on the second, he steps back and listens in on the discussion.
farothel
 
 Originally Posted by Aerin 
 The two proposals are as follows. You can choose whether or not to sign or propose alterations of your own.

1. No trading Dust Hardening to any nation or Organization with a capital not on Veehra.

2. Should any Veehran territory or Veehran moon be invaded by a force originating from outside of Veehra's orbit, all signatories pledge aid in defense. 
 

While the Bafatis want the treaty to be a bit more than this, it's something they can get behind and then in a second round they might be able to get a better connection.  So after a quick call to the capital, the Duke's brother agrees to the counter proposal.
moossabi
 
 Originally Posted by Aerin 
  
 Spoiler: The priest 
"Raw magical energy." The priest answers, smiling. He's clearly pleased that Oskar is still taking notes, listening, and appears eager to learn. He provides no further details.
 
 
 

Displaying no change of expression at the vacuous answer, Oskar simply scrawls further notes into his journal:   firm hegemony - will not or can not tell more (latter suggests greater power of monarch)   and   Aether same as umbrella 'magic', Masquerade/Veehran linguistic counterpart  . Clapping the journal closed, Oskar now has all the baseline knowledge necessary to engage with his true objective.   "Thank you for your time, erudite one. You are a credit to your liege."   Any hint of mockery is masked beneath a perfect shroud of dignity, well-situated upon such a marred visage.

The Fiorid removes his spectacles as he turns away, rubbing off a small stain with a handkerchief before easing them back into place, slit eyes scanning the crowd for a hint of the diminutive monarch. As if to cater to his will, a sudden crash drew all eyes to the precise location of his would-be interlocutor.


 
 Originally Posted by Aerin 
  
 Spoiler: The Monarch deals with the Doomweaver 
Brushing past Margaux was the elderly white-haired Doomweaver's biggest mistake, alongside leaving the midst of the throng of thralls.

As Thalus passes, Margaux smacks the elaborate headdress off of the elder man's head. The overly-elaborate, weighted serpentine form drags the Doomweaver off-balance as it begins to fall, ripping out a chunk of white hair. Margaux continues to move fluidly, using the Doomweaver's lack of stability to shove the man forward onto his knees while pinning both of the caster's hands behind his back.

As the  CLANG  of the headdress hitting the floor rings out across the ballroom, the Doomweaver is forced into a kneel before the Iron Monarch. (He is still taller.) Margaux takes off his black cloak and wraps it over the Doomweaver's head.

"This is the proper level of deference when in the presence of the ruler of the Iron Masquerade," the Iron Monarch states patiently, as if talking to a small child.

"I remember the days, centuries ago, when the Sorcerers of New Kildora were among my most-feared enemies. It almost saddens me to see what you have been reduced to."

Addressing Margaux, "High Priest, lead this imbecile to his new quarters. Make sure he is unharmed; I have a use for him yet."

Taking advantage of the sudden dead silence in the ballroom, the Iron Monarch raises his voice, "With the large amount of more  sensible  foreign diplomats attending this splendid occasion, I've prepared a high table for us to address a few pressing matters of international policy. If I may direct your attention the front of the ballroom, you'll find a proposal regarding the spread of dust hardening techniques and a proposal regarding adequate preparations for defense against interplanetary invasion."

"For the rest of my guests, please, continue to dance and enjoy the banquet."

He gestures, and the increasingly worried-looking musicians begin to play as if their lives depend on it.

[OOC: The two proposals are as follows. You can choose whether or not to sign or propose alterations of your own.

1. No trading Dust Hardening to any nation or Organization with a capital not on Veehra.

2. Should any Veehran territory or Veehran moon be invaded by a force originating from outside of Veehra's orbit, all signatories pledge aid in defense.]
 
 
 

Oskar dei Fiori sticks to the sidelines throughout this entire affair, tuning out the conversation of regionalism to listen for another gunshot. Even over the buzzing din of renewed conversation, he would have heard it; its absence begets a vicious smirk from the reptilian elf. A savvy ruler ought use all potential resources at their disposal; this coronation had been an excellent showing thus far. Were the Doomweaver even slightly less of a pretentious man, he might have suspected the entire affair to have been staged, but the Iron Monarch would not debase itself by constructing so bombastic a figure to be its foil.

When the opportunity presents itself, Oskar glides up alongside the Monarch, offering a respectful bow akin to the others that he had observed throughout this event.   "I must commend you for your success today, Iron Monarch. You have proven beyond doubt that I was correct to undertake the lengthy journey to Veehra, and that yours will continue to be a career to keep track of. My name is Oskar, a humble scion of Sansar's Firoid bloodline."   He moves to withdraw his journal from its pocket.   "Loathe as I am to squander the valuable time of one such as you, my intellectual curiosity would be greatly satiated by a few short questions..."  
 OOC note: As the round's close is imminent it would be wrong to go fully in-depth with this conversation, so instead I have decided to list out a basic series of questions. Oskar will ask each one after the answer to the previous has been given (if given the go-ahead on his original request), opting not to challenge any vague or unsatisfying answers out of respect for the Iron Monarch's power. 
 
 He flips to a page of his journal and circles something out of view before making eye contact to ask his first question.   "Why not seize a host possessing an intact soul? What would happen if you did so?"   
 Scrawling avidly, his next question is asked without looking up from the page.   "Why remain tethered to one dynasty of hosts instead of prioritizing the most valuable candidate?"   
 Next, he glances to the priests.   "How far do you wish to spread your religious doctrine? Or, for that matter, the boundaries of your state?"   
 Finally, a hint of a chuckle escapes through lips which have twisted into a devilish grin.   "Oh, also, on a less intellectual note, I've just thought of a way to toy with an elder brother of mine. Though I am not here in an official capacity and ultimate discretion is in the hands of my state's Chancellor, I am greatly interested in advocating for our state to invest in your hematite reserves. Would you have any interest in supporting- or at least condoning- such an undertaking?"   
 