TheDarkDM
       Andres Bustamante    

A corpse lay silent on a cold bier.  Duke Ikunum II, Scourge of the Emperor, Guardian of the Gates, Lord Paramount of Dur-Shalkhir, Patriarch of the House of Fire, had ruled for 53 standards.  Dead at 97, one final journey awaited him.  He had lain in state above this chamber for a standard week, been mourned by millions, but now he was alone.  Stripped of his finery and the guardian pomp of tyranny, his thin body was wrapped in a simple funerary shroud of white Ophonic silk, harvested from the precious multitude transported in the years of exile for this very purpose.  No voice or breath disturbed the silence of the vault where the fallen Duke waited, his only companion the low and hungry thrum coming from beyond the trapezoidal blast door looming over his head.  It was an ancient thing, older than any chamber in the grand citadel-city, its faded luster still radiant with the weight of ages.  Every living eye to gaze on it in all the House's history had felt its desire to open, to unseal the burning hunger that strained beyond, but it was not the ancient portal that opened.  Instead, the hiss of air and slow turn of gears that broke the silence came from the shadows at the opposite wall of the vault, where a single figure stood ready.

Esarhaddon III, Chosen Heir of the House of Fire, Lord Commander of the Void Knights of Charax, hesitated at the threshold of his destiny.  It was not the first time seeing his father beneath his shroud - ritual demanded he aid in the funerary wrapping as the Chosen Heir - but lying before the awesome bulk of the Core Gate the thin figure radiated with terrible promise.  Esarhaddon hesitated, just as his forebears, but only for a moment.  Whether driven by his own courage or by the knowledge of hidden video receivers at his back, he stepped into the room on soft red slippers, his crimson robe of office trailing behind like a river of Old Sansar.

 Above, later... 

The twinkling bulk of Dur-Shalkhir loomed in the darkness of Mekhala, its enormity ringed by lesser satellites and pre-Elect warships of the House of Fire.  As the thrust plumes of visiting delegations lit the void like new constellations, messages of hospitality were relayed on all bands, flight controllers directing the menagerie of foreign craft to the dwarf planet's northern hemisphere.  Crouched there like a great metal predator, the Eye of Esarhaddon opened to allow entry, the gargantuan space port burrowing down kilometers into Dur-Shalkhir's surface.  Flanking the outer gates were the hulks of two christened I-Drive Battlecruisers, the  DVS Tiamat  and  DVS Bull of Heaven , each a silent promise of the House of Fire's reputation for strength.  The implied threat was only a passing shadow, however, as representatives of the Ducal Diplomatic Corps waited to greet each arriving delegation with at worst an approximate fluency with their native tongue.  Offered the immediate ceremonial host-bond of water in delicate crystal goblets, each arriving delegation was swiftly transported to gilded, mirrored elevators that sped deep into the surface of the asteroid.

The ducal throne room sat within a trapezoidal vault of polished black stone, the regularly spaced support struts giving the impression of entering the cavernous chest of some skeletal leviathan of void-farer legend.  Many hundreds of courtiers, vassal families, and officials filled the hall with the familiar susurrus of curiosity and ambition.  The ducal throne sat upon a three-tiered dais at the far end of the hall, its chaste simplicity camouflaging its unfathomable worth.  Allowed to the front of the hall where their places of honor waited, the visiting delegations saw that the ancient seat was of old-growth hardwood, its surface carved with a dizzying array of animals long extinct rising to an unfamiliar sky and eventually an imperial sunburst in glowing lacquer.  Behind the throne rose another memory of the House's past, the salvaged hull plate of one of the ships that transported them to Mekhala so long ago, the perfect red circle of their Brand of Exile still stark and unforgiving on the exotic alloy.  As they entered, each delegation was announced by a waiting herald, to be led unerringly to their seats where refreshments awaited.
bc56
  Announcing: Representatives of the Dwarven Industrial Coalition!  

The dwarves do not sweep gracefully into the grand hall. Six of them in all, wearing ceremonial vacuum suits plated with armor and studded with gleaming diamond gems, equally ceremonial carbide-edged pickaxes hanging at their belts, are not the sort to sweep, so much as stumble, bicker, and march just a little bit. They are hard-edged and scarred, smelling faintly of alcohol and exotic spices. The apparent head of the delegation appears older than the others, grey of skin and dusky tan of hair, a crest in the shape of a steel pickaxe and a golden fist on a background of orange emblazoned on the breastplate of his uniform. The same symbol appears in smaller form on all the dwarves' shoulder plates. The leader has to silence an argument between two of the other dwarves (something about the craftsmanship of the throne) before the party even reaches their seats. But they do reach their seats, drinking deeply of any provided beverages and occasionally complaining about the light fare ("This'll never fill a working dwarf's stomach!").
Silent_Interim
The Imperial delegation is small- a single, elderly woman, in fact. But though there is only one delegate, she is hardly alone. Accompanying her, as she sits in her hoverchair with a colourful quilt on her lap and a warm shawl around her shoulders, is a flock of a half-dozen flying drones. Some have cameras, some have graspers and manipulators, and all are seemingly controlled through a gleaming blueish halo made of some strange metal. The halo protrudes out on struts of that same metal from between artfully plaited groups of white hair, and to the psychically aware, seems... active.

She smiles at the diplomats that attend her in a way that might be grandmotherly if not for the teeth and the way she doesn't turn to face the people speaking to her with her head, only with a camera drone. She hardly moves even as her chair glides smoothly forward, hands folded neatly in her lap. Even when the host-bond is offered, one of her drones receives the proffered goblet and carries it to her lips.

The old woman seems... amused, by the proceedings, like someone watching a quaint village festival. She does not touch the offered refreshments; a camera drone floats close to inspect them, but no more.
Feathersnow
Snimt'Glek went with a bevvie of Heralds possessed by the Seniormost Queens of the Inner Duma, and a second array of Heralds ridden by Queens affiliated with every Teivosk with any power in the Outer Duma, and a fair few senior Workers, many Elder Brothers of Teivosks as nearly as powerful as Glek.   Everyone wanted to see! 

In Total, there were 29 guests, a significant number, it being the closest half 61 without going over.  Fourteen from the Inner Duma,  the same from the Outer, then Snimt, himself, the Parrot's Voice.

As was traditional, each Herald wore a top hat with the Heraldry of their possessor and rode a prosthetic of rotary wings.  Only Snimt'Glek was carried by legs, powerful, backwards jointed ones that could adhere to the floor even without gravity.

They went to see the bereaved kingdom of the Lord in Iron, more than to pay their respects.   Not that they would be rude, but this was a state visit. And knowing about states was part of a statesman's job...

What Snimt'Glek knew know terrified him.   This place was huge.   The Iron Kingdom was bigger than every Glic habitat put together, by an order of magnitude.  And their population was nearly as overwhelming.

And Snimt'Glek was perceptive enough to sense, if not simply realize the truth:  the other guests weren't impressed, not the same way...

 The Glix were weaker than anyone knew.  It was imperative no one ever know, and then it be made untrue. 
Frostwander
Half a dozen humans emerge from the sleekly curved star vessel arriving from the southern nation of Sansar. All are dressed warmly in colorful multi-layered vacuum-travel suits, though their helmets are retracted upon disembarking.  Most prominent among them are an elderly man in purple and blue, short graying hair framing a dark-skinned face full of smile-wrinkles and warm blue eyes. Beside him strides a pale young girl of perhaps fifteen years in a suit of gold and black, with silver wire adornments woven into her shoulder-length black hair, and dark eyes that do not always seem to focus on the same point. Each of these is followed by a functionary carrying informational digitablets and shepherding a floating crate of gift bottles; the last are a pair of honor guard, two cavaliers whose suits show evidence of some armoring, wearing long sabres that seem both ceremonial and functional.

They are announced as Eminent Ambassador Puala Lomchat, and Princess Monite Akari Ebonne d'Laforet, heir to the queen, of Caipe Ushere of Sansar. They take up the offered seats and sample the refreshments, noting and politely acknowledging the other delegations. As groups are being introduced, the functionaries present their displays to their primaries, refreshing them on the known details of each other nation represented.

In a moment unfilled by other ceremony, the princess looks up to the red circle dominating the back wall, one eye focusing on it while the other drifts down slightly to the throne itself. Her voice carries, though it does not seem loud - rather, other background sounds and murmur seem to mute as she intones,

" Hail the halls of the House of
Fire, with their pride alight,
Carved into iron as their will
Unflinching holds to strength. "
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 Mekhala 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 Exile female and a tree.  Perhaps slightly stockier than the average Exile 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.

She allows herself to be led to a seat that had been a relatively late addition to the seating plan - fortunately ships are visible for thousands of miles if one is looking for them and the Arkhive vessel had duly identified itself and its passengers allowing literally weeks to adjust the seating plan - but did not sit at it.  In fact, it wasn’t clear that her wooden body had even been designed to bend in the places that sitting would necessitate bending in.  She also paid no attention to the refreshments, just watching (if the eyes work?  Who knows) the coronation in silence and stillness.

Once enough social cues had been gathered that free movement was permissible it turned 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 representative from the  Dwarven Industrial Coalition 
 Coedd is able  holding out a flask shaped from leaves which had been grown into a waterproof cup.  The smell rising from it was intoxicating but not in the way beer is, psychoactive but perhaps in a different way.  Perhaps it would suit the Dwarves’ desire for beer, perhaps it wouldn’t.  But it was the closest Coedd could offer.  If the representative was brave(?  Is that the right word for accepting a definitely mind-altering drink from a stranger?  Is “foolish” better?) enough to sample it, it is indeed a narcotic dissolved in fresh water giving a similar mind altering effect to alcohol but through a different chemical pathway to beer and without the frothy head, the taste or any of the other aesthetic properties of beer.

OOC - I’ll leave it to you, bc56, and potentially mine whether Coedd narcotics would be capable of meeting your DI (if you even want it to of course)

 Coedd is able  she rasps and then, apparently, considers the conversation over.  Turning stiffly away from the dwarf and heading towards the newly crowned  Esarhaddon III .  And, near him she will stand - patient and motionless as only a plant can be - until (and assuming) she is acknowledged.

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 newly-crowned Duke  into the depths of the palace.   Not-Coedd Not Coedd for too long.  Coedd can rectify  it begins without preamble.  Were the palace gardens in the direction it pointed?  A quick burst of mental cartography confirmed that yes, they were.   Meat has desires.  Coedd knows Coedd.  Coedd does not know meat.  Meat says desires 
JBarca
 The Khylokian Reign of Blood 

The vessel that arrives bearing the Khylokian delegation tumbles into Exile space more than flies, and throws itself into a shuddering, braking spin more than matches orbits with the battlecruisers. It seems as though it had been launched from the Reign of Blood with one explosion and stopped with another. Out of the hatch fall far too many Khylokians to have comfortably shared a ship for such a journey. A healthy mix of Khylokians of the Blood and Humans, the mass of warriors are all armed for a scrap: armored plates over vitals, intimidating spikes wherever possible, tattered cloth capes, and several practical knives and hatchets. With room cleared, the Bloodlord himself enters the receiving area. He quickly takes stock of space limitations, the finery of the House of Fire, and the attire of the DDC representative and gestures to the ship. His warriors will wait here.


In the grand throne room, the Khylokian delegation is announced, dipping into the rarely-used formal name of the ruler: Bloodlord Kheer L. Peter, Shrike of the Void, Deliverance of Blood.

The man in question is rather unimpressive. He's of medium build, medium height, medium complexion, and medium-brown hair kept short. His glasses are unornamented, his clothes are simple and professional. In truth, the only symbols of his rank are a wicked starsteel blade at his belt and a blood-red half-cape over a shoulder. Into the formal audience, he brings only five other people. Two Khylokians of the Blood serve as guards, in what approximates formal gear for these warriors. Two human Khlokians serve as advisors and record-keepers. And one other human, massive and bulky with a lifetime of muscle and scars, sporting a poorly-healed broken nose and a tattoo across his forehead in a Sansar script. Those familiar with the planet's northernmost inhabitants can read "TRY ME" in blocky, bold letters. This last individual carries a tablet in one arm and is constantly writing notes into its memory banks.

When the group is seated, Bloodlord Peter is quick to smile and nod in greeting toward the Dwarves, making a mental note to speak with them privately. The others, he knows of less well with the hosts notably absent, though he is visibly respectful and a little awed at the sight of the Emperor's delegate. The heir The Khylokians swiftly devour what refreshments they can stomach, and each member of the delegation visibly loses a layer of fat as they do so, thinning out over the course of half an hour or so as they await the beginning of the festivities.
Elemental
When the Ishtahn delegates disembarked at the House of Fire there was a bit of a commotion. It's not that their delegation was large or heavily armed or rude to members of the Ducal Diplomatic Corps. No, it was the fact that they had brought with them a large powerful quadrupedal animal with a coat as black as night, eyes that glowed like hot coals and a long mane of flowing fire, not to mentioned a tail of the same and flaming hooves. The occasional fleck of blue flame appeared in its fire and each step of its hooves drew sparks from the metal floor. Judging by its exposed fangs it was at least partially omnivorous and the look it gave the Ducal diplomats was that of a rather intelligent creature sizing them up. All in all, a terrifying animal.

Of course this effect was somewhat dulled as its handler gave it an apple and started bombarding one of the Duke's representatives with all the details about how to care for such a creature, "Alright, this is Thorn, he's a nightmare from the royal stables. We thought your Duke would like one. I don't think he gets much chance to ride, but Thorn'll need companionship or he'll get sad. He'll also need a lot of space to run around in or he'll get sad," he hands the official a book titled 'The Idiot's Guide to Nightmare Care', "Now, if you turn to page seven it'll have a table of their nutritional requirements..."

The remainder of the delegation, three individuals in total, followed their guides down to the throne room in anticipation of the coming festivities and were duly announced upon their entry.

"Announcing Prince Caden of High Ishtahnos, Lauren Sanders Nighthowl, Ishtahn Minister of Foreign Affairs..." the herald briefly looked down at his notes to confirm, "And Sam."

It was pretty easy to tell each member apart. The guy with the coronet of gold and diamonds atop his long, wavy black hair was probably the prince. The older politician looking chap with glasses had to be the Minister. Which meant that the intimidating seven foot nine black furred werewolf with two swords belted at his waist had to be Sam by sheer process of elimination. They took their seats and waited patiently, enjoying the refreshments, though Sam for his part didn't engage in conversation and instead took stock of the other delegates.
TheDarkDM
       Andres Bustamante    
 Below, before... 

A touch of Esarhaddon's hand was all it took to activate the hidden machinery of the bier, the hum of ancient maglev tracks nearly indiscernible from the distant roar of the Core.  The polished stone slab now floated weightless millimeters from the floor, allowing Esarhaddon to gently push it towards the looming gates.  At the approach of Duke and Chosen Heir, the gates groaned in protest and began to sink.  Immediately, the dim light of the antechamber was banished by the consuming glow of the machinery beyond, as the lowering gate revealed an observation deck overhanging a mammoth sphere of black-gold alloy, its surface ringed with arc spikes that shimmered with equalizing energies, top and bottom held in place by enormous control/connect pylons.  In stark contrast to the baroque majesty of the Core, the observation platform was as chaste as the antechamber behind, a half-circle platform with a rectangular depression at its center, curved staircases leading up to a command platform.  The console atop that summit had only been seen by Dukes and Core Seers since its installation many centuries past, and marked the true Ascension of Esarhaddon III.

The bier came to a stop above its waiting cradle at the center of the room, the maglev cycling down so it slid into the rectangular depression without a whisper.  In an instant, it was as though Ikunum II had always rested here.  Daring to look only so long at the Core even with his pupils constricted to pinpricks, Esarhaddon fell to his knees to rest his forehead against his father's, communing with the old tyrant one final time.  Ikunum himself had knelt in the same place, Esarhaddon mused, some fifty-nine standards earlier when he had ascended the Ducal throne.  It was a rare moment of empathy between the two men - though Esarhaddon had loved his father, it had been as he loved his people and his country.  In the heady days leading to the ascension of the Elect, the affairs of the House of Fire had left little time for the small paternal luxuries that might have fostered real affection.  In his secret, unspoken heart, Esarhaddon dreaded that loss of closeness with his own children.  But duty was inexorable and inescapable.

Lost in such thoughts, Esarhaddon did not hear the hiss of the second door opening in the room, though his memory would construct a noise of suitable gravitas later.  In ages past, when the Dukes of the House had been advised by true Core Seers, the senior Seer had entered through the Ophonic Gate to escort fallen Dukes on their last voyage.  Camouflaged by radiant Core energies and the dim sheen of time, the golden circle beneath the command platform had not opened for five hundred years.  And yet it stood open now, framing the towering majesty of ancient myth given new life.  Rising from his silent reverie, Esarhaddon swept his arms wide and brought his foot forward in a practiced bow.

  "Core Seer Zabir, your holiness.  The Duke of the House of Fire awaits his final sacrament."  

Maintaining his posture, Esarhaddon stepped back from the bier.

 Above, later... 

At once, the sounds of the throne room were drowned out by the distant sound of a bell.  Whether a true thing of metal or a sonic recreation, the sonorous tolls demanded silence.  The light in the room dimmed, and as the shadows lengthened across the visiting delegations hidden projectors stabbed beams of light down on the empty throne and on the bloody circle floating above it.  In silent unison, the nobles and courtiers of the House of Fire arranged themselves in neat ranks stretching back into the hall, sinking down to one knee as a side door slid open perpendicular to the dais.  Darkness yawned beyond that portal, thick with threat and anticipation.  Then, a spark.  A flame - a true _flame,_ not some quirk of stylish artifice - flickered to life in the bronzed gauntlet of a towering figure, its frame swathed in heavy robes, girded by plates of rune-etched bronze.  Dim light emerged from the translucent bubble of an environment helmet, its radiance altogether stranger than the crackling torch in its hand.  Stepping forward, the Archmage Zabir led a procession of chrome-and-black armored Void Knights to their position before the dais, a wide brazier of fire-darkened bronze carried between them.

The brazier, like the throne above it, was intricately carved.  However, in place of animals or atmospheric themes, runes circled the ancient vessel in distinct bands, a frozen mirror to the sacred geometries of the rings of Ophon.  The depths of the bowl glinted in the torchlight, promising further spectacle, but the Core Seer and his entourage seemed content to wait as statues.  The bell tolled again, and though no head turned from the throne the weight of expectation flooded back to the entrance of the hall.  A single figure proceeded down the broad avenue left leading to the throne, his tall frame wrapped in a crimson robe that trailed behind him in a sinuous train.  A hood was pulled low over his pale face, the heavy golden embroidery of the robe's hems catching what little light there was before it could reveal anything save glinting eyes.  Dagged sleeves and billowing skirt revealed a severely cut uniform beneath the robe, black with gold piping, the embroidery curling like armor even here in this most secure fastness.  The scarlet wraith moved slowly, each quarter of his journey marked by another tolling of the bell, until he came to a stop before the brazier.  Kneeling down before it, he opened his arms wide to embrace a sudden gout of flames as Zabir cast his torch into the waiting pitch.

  "Fire is all."  
Silent_Interim
The High Lady leans forward in her chair as the proceedings begin. A couple of her drones gently buzz forward and up for a better view, while the rest remain in a loose ring around her. Her wizened hands move to grip the armrests at her sides, clenched in anticipation.
bc56
 
 Originally Posted by 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 Mekhala 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 Exile female and a tree.  Perhaps slightly stockier than the average Exile 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.

She allows herself to be led to a seat that had been a relatively late addition to the seating plan - fortunately ships are visible for thousands of miles if one is looking for them and the Arkhive vessel had duly identified itself and its passengers allowing literally weeks to adjust the seating plan - but did not sit at it.  In fact, it wasn’t clear that her wooden body had even been designed to bend in the places that sitting would necessitate bending in.  She also paid no attention to the refreshments, just watching (if the eyes work?  Who knows) the coronation in silence and stillness.

Once enough social cues had been gathered that free movement was permissible it turned 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 representative from the  Dwarven Industrial Coalition 
 Coedd is able  holding out a flask shaped from leaves which had been grown into a waterproof cup.  The smell rising from it was intoxicating but not in the way beer is, psychoactive but perhaps in a different way.  Perhaps it would suit the Dwarves’ desire for beer, perhaps it wouldn’t.  But it was the closest Coedd could offer.  If the representative was brave(?  Is that the right word for accepting a definitely mind-altering drink from a stranger?  Is “foolish” better?) enough to sample it, it is indeed a narcotic dissolved in fresh water giving a similar mind altering effect to alcohol but through a different chemical pathway to beer and without the frothy head, the taste or any of the other aesthetic properties of beer.

OOC - I’ll leave it to you, bc56, and potentially mine whether Coedd narcotics would be capable of meeting your DI (if you even want it to of course)

 Coedd is able  she rasps and then, apparently, considers the conversation over.  Turning stiffly away from the dwarf and heading towards the newly crowned  Esarhaddon III .  And, near him she will stand - patient and motionless as only a plant can be - until (and assuming) she is acknowledged.

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 newly-crowned Duke  into the depths of the palace.   Not-Coedd Not Coedd for too long.  Coedd can rectify  it begins without preamble.  Were the palace gardens in the direction it pointed?  A quick burst of mental cartography confirmed that yes, they were.   Meat has desires.  Coedd knows Coedd.  Coedd does not know meat.  Meat says desires  
 

The dwarves appear confused by the arrival of Coedd.  "Is that wood... talking?"  one whispers to another. The leader sees the offered cup and considers it.  "As loath as I am to turn down a free drink, now's not the time."  The coronation is a somber affair, unlike basically any gathering of the dwarves. But at least this dwarf understands the need to retain decorum for the duration. It's currently time to watch, it will be time to drink later.
Frostwander
Princess Monite watches the procession, standing in still silence with the others of her delegation. All of them watch with respectful attention, but a certain detachment that comes from a lack of understanding the particulars of the ceremony and symbolism. Monite's eyes give a greater scrutiny, though. Her drifting eye remains on the center of the spectacle, now the brazier and the two figures closest to it - clearly a priest and the subject of the coronation. Her focused eye flickers rapidly across different parts of the procession, noting how the details of the hall itself interact with the proceedings. From the lights to the etched designs of the priest's plates and the armored knights in their rigid poses, she watches with rapt attention, her lips moving almost imperceptibly as her racing thoughts begin composing further prose about the ceremony.
TheDarkDM
      Mathieu Barbe   
 Below, before... 

His father now in the care of the Core Seer, Esarhaddon turned his back on the bier.  Ascending the curved metal stairs towards the waiting command platform, he knew the moment the hidden elevator began its inclined transit towards the outer shell of the Core, the Archmage Zabir chanting the lost paeans of the Core Seers as he guided Ikunum II to his final rest in fire eternal.  The smooth panel of the Core Authority Interchange was already alive with restive light when Esarhaddon reached it, its bound spirits well aware that Ikunum's Ducal implant had passed beyond the last gate.  Placing his right hand flat on the warm surface, Esarhaddon flinched as electric thorns lanced through his palm to the cluster of nerves and processors nesting between his ulna and radius.

 House of Fire Top Level Clearance Recognized. 

Though he had been trained for this moment since the death of his elder brother some two decades prior, Esarhaddon still felt an adamant weight settle in his stomach at the ritual words.

 Core Function Control on Voice Recognition. 

His mouth dry, the new Duke spoke directly to the wellspring of his people's prosperity.

  "The Chosen Heir, Esarhaddon III, accepts fealty protocols.  Verify Ducal imprint."  

A sudden heat from the console as it interrogated his genes for any falsehood, tasted his blood for coercion or weakness, and at last he was released.  The web of electric thorns receded, and Esarhaddon could only stare down through layers of cloth and fabric to where the proof of his authority now hummed with the fulness of its promise.

 Fealty Protocols Verified.  All Hail Duke Esarhaddon III. 

Without further ceremony, the console winked out, leaving only a mirror to reflect the Duke's stricken face.

 Above, later... 

Still facing the roaring fire of the brazier, the kneeling figure in crimson intoned a response to the Core Seer.

  "Fire is eternal."  

His right hand reached out to the nearest Void Knight, who presented a bared dagger hilt-first.  While the shimmering armor and basket-hilted monorapiers of the Knights were sublime in their form, the dagger was a jagged and ugly thing.  Whatever craftsman had tended to it had managed a passably wrapped hilt, but it lacked guard and the blade's angles spoke more of the jetsam of space than noble battle.  Taking the black knife in hand, the robed figure raised his left arm to reveal bare, white skin.

  "With my blood, I feed the fire.  As my blood becomes a part of it, the fire becomes a part of me.  Eternally it shall burn in my breast, until the time comes for my final journey."  

Bringing the jagged knife against his forearm, the kneeling Duke pierced a deep divot in his flesh.  A new shade of crimson blossomed from the hardened point, and he lowered his arm that it might pool in his palm.  The noble blood danced with chaotic patterns in the firelight, and when at last he flung it into the waiting flames each drop seemed to hang a moment in the air like rubies in the heart of a star.  The dagger was returned to its Void Knight attendant, and from a hidden reservoir in the brazier the Duke removed a narrow ladle.  Holding his left arm over the flames so that his blood could drip down with a rhythmic hiss, he scooped a shallow cup of incandescent fuel from the conflagration.

  "With the fire, my wounds are healed.  As the fire joins with my blood, so to does my blood burn within it.  Let its radiance guide me with strength.  For the House of Fire.  For Ophon.  For our Emperor."  

Without hesitation he poured the flaming liquid directly onto his waiting wound, wordlessly swaying as he fought against sudden pain.  An undercurrent of cooked meat joined the cloying smell of the fire, and when the Duke turned to face his people the first sight was an irregular, circular burn on his left forearm.  Pushing his ceremonial cowl aside, Duke Esarhaddon III surveyed new vassals and new friends alike.  His hairless skull was ringed with geometric circlet of gold, the glint of it dancing with the deep green sliver of iris in his wide-pupiled eyes.  An expressive face sat flanked by defined cheekbones, though every muscle was aligned in practiced solemnity.

  "So does Ikunum II pass to his final service.  So does Esarhaddon III rise to rule you."  

From behind the guests, there was the practiced boom of ritual response.

 "SO DO WE SUBMIT!" 

Nodding in satisfaction, Esarhaddon III turned and favored the waiting Core Seer with a low bow.  Then, circling the fire of his noble baptism, he mounted the dais and sat upon the throne.  There was a cheer from somewhere deeper in the hall, and as the lights rose they were accompanied by festive music.

  "Come friends of old and new comrades in the Elect.  Let us celebrate a new era!"  
Frostwander
With the apparent conclusion of the observation part of the ceremony, now with Duke Esarhaddon III enthroned atop the dais, the Usheret delegation shifts in posture. The functionaries begin recording details of the ceremony to be shared back to Caipe Ushere and culture notes on the proceedings of the House of Fire. Ambassador Lomchat begins to maneuver himself and the princess into the reception line to be able to introduce themselves to the new ruler. As they approach and the festivities begin, Monite keeps her attention on the duke himself. She speaks, and as before, her voice seems to carry to all ears present without any great impression of volume.

" Procession,
projection,
provenance,
proclaimed.

Ignition,
function,
vocation,
devotion.

We are witness
to the burning
heart of flame
and the nation

in passing a torch
in taking a mantle
in guiding by fire
in ruling a people ."
Elemental
The Ishtahn delegation remained stoic throughout the solemn ceremony, their eyes gleaming in the light of the brazier as they watched the proceedings intently with the only movement being Sam's lupine ears twitching slightly from the sound of sizzling flesh. They seemed almost surprised when the lights came up and the festive music began but the moment passed and they rose from their seats to approach the dais.

Once it was their turn to pay their respects the three Ishtahn ascended the steps as far as they were allowed and knelt down respectfully. Prince Caden took the lead with the others remaining a few steps behind and he removed his crown and held it over his heart like he would a hat.

"Your Grace, it is our honour to extend to you the warmest of greetings from His Royal Highness, John IV of High Ishtahnos," he says, his voice strong and confident, "He wishes you a bright and prosperous reign and has elected to send you the traditional gifts such an occasion would merit among our people." When he finished he put his crown back on and stood up. "Alright, that's enough formulaic ceremony from us. We didn't know what you'd want so we kind of winged it a bit and if the gifts are inappropriate we'll exchange them. Sam, the box."

The lupine-formed man reached into his coat and took from an inside pocket of his coat a surprisingly large mother of pearl box which he handed to Prince Caden who opened it to reveal a rope of black pearls as dark as the depths of space and a gold sun pendant. "We also got you your very own nightmare, Thorn. He's a good boy, but don't give him more than a square of chocolate even if he deploys the puppy dog eyes. And whatever happens, when you ride him you need to trust that he won't burn you, he can literally smell fear and he might-"

At this point Minister Sanders took a step closer and coughed gently to interrupt the Prince, "I'm sure there will be time for His Grace to learn about nightmares if he desires, I suspect he will be far too busy to learn the ins and outs of it. A strapper has volunteered to remain here at Dur-Shalkhir to ensure Thorn's well cared for so that neither you nor your household need worry."
Morph Bark
"Go dim." Halford whispered reverently to his compatriot. The human man stood next to a llort and by an imperial foot the shorter of the two. Both wore form-fitting suits of crystal weave, dark with the stygian colours of space, a shimmer to them you could only catch from the corners of your eye. Lines of light were etched into it like a visual exoskeleton. Similar light shone from the llort's eyes and the crevices of her horns. Those eyes were fixed rapt upon Duke Esarheddon III with great interest.

"Go dim, Donce." Halford urged.

Yessicruz Donce stirred, looked at Halford, then complied. The light of her suit, horns and eyes dimmed as she focused. The latent magick of the llort blazing within her seeped out naturally, but in a ceremony of fire this was clearly a disturbance. They had no intention of causing a disturbance, not within the House of Fire itself, not with a House most clearly aligned with their own values when it came to faith.

Yessikruz's eyes returned her attention to Duke Esarheddon III, leaving Halford to flit his interest about. He saw peoples whom their notes had shown were clearly from out of orbit. He wondered if he, as a diplomat of the Llort Society Protectorate, should strike up casual conversation. He only hoped none of them hated small talk to the point of murder. He'd read some stories about Veehra's moons regarding that.
TheDarkDM
 The Throne Room 

Now endowed with power both real and perceived, Esarhaddon III eagerly embraced his role as the voice of his House.  As delegations from lands near and far approached, they found the black-in-green eyes of the pale man alight with curiosity and warmth, though whether it was sincere or a trick of the firelight still burning between crowd and dais was left to those who knew him.  As the Princess Monite intoned her verses, he raised the slender fingers of his uninjured right arm to rest lightly over his heart.

  "And it is my honor that you should bear witness, Princess."  

While the Duke had not been present to hear each delegation's heraldic introduction, the dossiers of the diplomatic service were thorough.

  "Your Highness and Ambassador Lomchat are most welcome.  Though I fear we can offer little to compare to Caipe Ushere's viticulture, I hope you will enjoy the fruits of our small paradise."  

As the line of well-wishers progressed, the Duke was eventually face to face with one of the animate trees of the Coedd.  Or perhaps simply Coedd itself?  Far from the grubby concerns of Sansar, the diplomatic service had not seen fit to engage in speculation on the philosophy of personhood within the strange arboreal hermitage.  Esarhaddon quirked a brow ridge as the ambassador-form pointed towards the heavily-guarded vault of the royal gardens, but it was only a measure of heartbeats before he spread his fingers in apology.

  "Welcome, Coedd, to Dur-Shalkhir.  You flatter us with your interest, but integration of your spore is not so simple.  Each of our enviro-vaults has been carefully tailored to sustain ecosystems lost to the House of Fire since the War.  The memory of worlds lost and flowers that no longer bloom under any star.  Any addition would require a full biological analysis by the House's botanisages."  

Leaning back against the worn leather padding his wooden throne, the Duke gestured vaguely towards the ceiling.

  "We would of course gladly accept your contribution, in the hopes of being able to provide an environment for it to thrive in the future."  

As representatives from Sansar passed and the delegation of Ishtahn approached, Esarhaddon nodded his respects at Prince Caden's gracious show of deference.

  "Be welcome, highness, and may both our peoples' prosper in the light of Ophon."  

Leaning back he contemplated the gifts.

  "Exquisite craftsmanship.  I must admit, my family has developed something of a fascination with your Nightmares since the first reports were delivered to me.  My son, especially, finds the idea of the creatures most thrilling."  
 Later 

As the formal introductions were concluded, one of the numerous heralds ringing the hall stepped forward.  With a voice clearly augmented with hidden amplifiers, he cut through the scattered clusters of conversation.

 "Gracious Lords and Ladies, guest Plenipotentiary and Regnal, the Duke Esarhaddon III invites you to sample the fruits of Dur-Shalkhir.  I and my compatriots stand ready to escort you to the sites of celebration - Paradise Dome 3 stands ready for lawn games and pastoral meditation, the Ducal residence is prepared to host ball and banquet both, and the Duke's private box is open to oversee the coming week of celebratory Games.  In the name of the House of Fire, his Grace bids you take your leisure on this most sanctified of days." 
Tychris1
The delegation from New Kildora was relatively restrained. The winding pleasure yacht that arrived (Endless Ecstasy) sumptuously docked within the meteoric bays. The gilded walls of its sleek void trekking frame purred silently with the vibration of a purple gem sequestered within. A crew of thralls, sycophants, and stowaways laired within as only three departed the Yacht. A Sorcerer and two Thralls. One clearly a personal attendent and the other a writhing rippling mass of muscle. The Sorcerer was dressed in fine red and white trimmed robes with subtly patterned serpents in the threading and a cobra’s hood overhead. The Sorcerer partook in the intrigues and festivities of the courtly folk, laughing, gasping, and fawning to various polities of the Exiles.

 He referred to himself only as The Serpent.

He watched the proceeding coronation with rapt attention, squirreled away from the other Elects and wormed into the throng of natives as he was swept in their motions. The slit pupils of his golden eyes tightened to a razors edge when he gazed into the flame. A power he could faintly taste. When the time came for the various visitors to pay their respects he approached the Duke with arms spread wide and his attendant thrall holding a locked silver chest in both arms.

 ”Most honored Duke. I come from far Veehra to represent the Doomweaver Cabal. The sorcerers within New Kildora have worked tirelessly to perfect a gift worthy of your historic impression. I have the honor of being the bearer of such a gift, a Foeskyn jacket, expertly tailored to your exact specifications.” 

He bowed ceremoniously as his Thrall opened the chest and revealed a black leather jacket with fine militant iconography and a nearly invisible stitch of a patch of the Exile’s Brand.