<div style="text-align: justify;">As the son of the light elf queen, Fyr was of course one of the few lucky enough to be woken up in the middle of the night to attend an extra special meeting. Fyr, generally happy with his responsibilities and duties that were far heavier than what a normal young elf of 42 could usually expect to have, didn’t much appreciate this 3 AM news. <br/><br/>“What’s it even about,” he grumbled at his mirror, as he hastily smoothed his unruly platinum hair. He might go straight from the bed to the meeting (and back to the bed afterwards), but he wanted to look somewhat presentable, at least. “Not peace negotiations, already, that’s for sure, they’d never come crawling for that even before a single life has been taken…”<br/>He caught up with his mother, Seifr, and the paygan, Tïris, in the seemingly endless hallway leading to the beautiful oratory where he knew that dark elf delegations were waiting for them.<br/><br/>“Your hair, <span style="font-style: italic">min</span>,” Seifr said with a disapproving look at his locks. Fyr blushed, and wished he had a comb.<br/><br/>Seifr opened the large double doors leading from the hallway to the oratory; though enormous, they parted smoothly and silently at her firm push. She was the tallest woman Fyr had ever known. He was fully grown now, and still, she towered over him. The moonlight made her elegant white gown shimmer. She looked as ethereal and untouchable as the light itself; no doubt on purpose.<br/><br/>“Welcome, honored guests,” she said, gracefully extending both her arms as if she wanted to embrace the whole, circular room. She let her gaze fall upon the table, frowned, and then whistled deafeningly at the still open doors. Seifr turned once more to the desh and his entourage, and smiled apologetically. “I’m very sorry that no refreshments have been offered to you. I assure you, they will be here soon. No one will come to my lands and not be treated as hospitality demands.” The queen took her place, and bade Fyr and Tïris sit next to her. Seifr steepled her fingers in front of her face.<br/><br/>“It’s a strange time you’ve come,” she began. “Peace negotiations before even a proper declaration of war has been issued?”<br/><span style="font-style: italic">No,</span> Fyr thought. <span style="font-style: italic">She knows that’s not it.</span> But what else could it be? Things were tense between the two elven domains; they always had been. The only thing they could ever seem to really agree on was to stay away from the mountain range to the South, as neither civilization had ever made any attempt to colonize the fertile area at its foot for millennia. Fyr didn’t exactly know why; they were stories so old that they barely counted as history.<br/><br/>Two pale elves in pale, forget-me-not robes entered quietly and momentarily tore Fyr’s attention away from the meeting. A goblet with golden liquid was placed before each of the seven attendants; as were small wooden platters with each their delicate arrangement of moist bread, paper thin slices of smoked ham, and apple slices. The servants left as quickly as they’d come with a deep bow before Seifr, who nodded, and dismissed them. The double doors shut gently behind the servants, leaving the company once more in silence and soft moonlight. Fyr took a sip from his goblet. He could recognize the desh and the paygan from his mother’s descriptions, but he did not know the other two.</div>