Pale cream walls, even more muted now thanks to the moonlight that draped over them, stretched upwards into the sky, sloping slightly to meet in an elegantly painted rotunda at the top. The triumphs and perils of the elvish race were displayed side by side as their history told in pictures spiralled upward. At the center of the rotunda - at the center of elvish history - was the Mother in all of her grace and beauty, ever-present and omniscient as deities are so want to be.<br/><br/>The overwhelming<span style="font-style: italic">existence</span>of the Oratory was too much for Siravii. The hushed subjects of the suspended fresco stared down at them with little but contempt.<br/><br/>“Fascinating, isn’t it?” an airy and whimsical voice spoke from his left. “The light elves have produced many a fantastic artist. That’s not even speaking to their unique architecture.”<br/><br/>Siravii reclined in his seat, his head rolling along the back of the chair to regard Desh Aloth. The desh was kind. Kinder a king than Siravii had ever known to exist, and certainly too kind to come to talk of turning tides in the war. “You give them too much credit, deshna.” It was almost a warning, but they both knew Siravii would never presume to give the desh an order. “Your mother was one of those fantastic artists.”<br/><br/>The desh hummed thoughtfully to himself and turned his attention somewhere toward the middle of the exorbitantly large round table. It was meant to be used to convene war meetings and ethics councils, so there was enough room at the table for a handful of representatives from each nation. This time there was no war meeting or ethics council to speak of; there were no humans, no dwarves, no fae - the four dark elves sat alone to bask in all of the spaciousness themselves.<br/><br/>“How long are they going to make us wait?” barked Paygan Naveen from a few seats down. He was a large man, and quick to temper. Siravii wasn’t fond of him, but he could appreciate why the desh appointed him as paygan; he couldn’t imagine anyone else at the head of their military. “We told them that this was urgent, and they throw us in this room to bide our time.”<br/><br/>Aloth was still pretending to examine imaginary dirt on the table, pointedly ignoring the protests going on around him. From between the desh and Naveen, a third low and smooth voice that reminded Siravii too much of poisoned honey spoke up. “Mind your tongue, Naveen,” Soma chastised him. “We are the ones pulling them from their beds. They know that the desh would not be here were it not emergent. Give them time.”