In the Hall of Laus (LCO)
Jul 13, 2015 16:40:11 GMT -6
Post by Wein Lowell on Jul 13, 2015 16:40:11 GMT -6
Wein couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering as he was led through the halls. The exterior of the castle had been what anyone could expect, but the interior was filled with decorated pillars, high arches, sprawling murals, and a whole assortment of paintings and sculptures covering subjects from former leaders to famous battles. It was like a vault of Lausian history. Wein had never actually been in a Marquess’s keep before. Yes, in his youth he had attended plenty of noble balls and banquets, functions for the aristocracy of Lycia, but those he’d been allowed to attend had always been some lower noble’s attempt at garnering attention or sympathy from those above them.
It was a pretty safe, standard strategy as far as noble politicking went: Throw a bunch of money at a party; invite a bunch of important people; invite a bunch of other people to pad the guest list and make yourself look more important than you actually are; hope one of the important people actually come; then isolate that person, impress them, and hope they’re sympathetic to whatever cause you’re trying to promote, whether it be funding for a project or just shameless ostentation. See, the Lowells had been a respected family, but not a particularly influential one. They got invited to all the functions, just not the ones that actually mattered. So this trip was new to Wein. This was Marquess Laus’s stronghold, which was arguably the greatest seat of power in current Lycia. And you could tell. The castle was filled with life. Attendants mulled about, attending to their various duties, while hurried diplomats juggled scrolls as they darted around crowds of knights and officers, who in turn seemed to be either discussing battle tactics, playing wargames, or heading to their own next destinations. It was really quite impressive.
“Please understand that a sudden audience like this is quite rare, Mister Lowell.”
The voice, though soft and whispery, somehow caught through the ambient noise and demanded Wein’s attention. It had come from the mouth of a thin, wiry man with the wispiest, whitest hair the Ostian had ever seen. His nose was almost non-existent, as if something had taken a bite out of it, and his neck thin like a sapling tree branch. He wore boots that seemed two sizes too big for him, and an embroidered tunic of rich blue and yellow that barely seemed to stay on his incredibly boney body. In fact, if it weren’t for leather belt fastened tightly around the old man’s waist, Wein was sure that man’s clothes would have slipped right off.
“Uh, yes Mister Chamberlain,” replied the Ostian, unsteadiness lacing his voice. The archer gave a quick nod, which elicited a nod in return from his skeletal handler. They were approaching a door. A big door. That was right, they were on their way to see the Marquess. Oh word, now Wein was getting nervous. He’d never even seen a Marquess before, much less been granted audience with one.
“You will address the Marquess by either ‘My Lord’ or ‘Marquess’,” the chamberlain continued as he stopped in front of the door to the main hall, not bothering to look at Wein. “You will bow when I introduce you, and you will only speak when spoken to. Do not interrupt. Do not argue. Do not make any…” the chamberlain made a waving gesture with his left hand, “...foul noises.” There was a long pause, and then, “Are you ready?” Wein, now apparently forming a habit, just nodded silently, and while the chamberlain had not looked at the Ostian he must have somehow noticed the gesture. He placed his hand on the door. “Please speak up when speaking to the Marquess.”
Two knocks and the doors came creaking open, revealing the inner sanctum of the Hall of Laus. If Wein had been impressed by the architecture of the rest of the castle, well this was just icing on the cake. Two rows of columns, a dozen in total, framed the hall, supporting the high arches that held up the vaulted ceiling and creating mirrored ambulatories between the pillars and the outer walls that could easily be walked through. Like a cathedral of Elimine the walls were covered with iconography, some religious some not, and lined with alcoves that members of the court could rest in away from the center of the hall. This all culminated in a sizable fresco that sat just over the Marquess’s throne, depicting a battle between a heroic man wielding a massive sword and an enormous dragon wreathed in darkness and spitting fire. Roland versus the Dragon King. That was a story all Lycian children heard growing up, but there was something to be said for seeing it in giant mural form within the hall of the Marquess himself, especially for an art buff like Wein.
In the center of the room ran two tables, lined with chairs, no doubt for the great feasts the Marquess would hold, and a number of people, important looking people, sat in said seats. Most looked to be have been talking before the doors had opened, and now everyone was stairing straight at the Ostian. Goodness.
“My Lord Marquess,” came the echoey voice of the chamberlain as two men entered the main chamber. Wein initially stopped at the doorway, but the chamberlain continued approaching the throne, so the archer followed in kind. As he walked the Ostian spotted the Marquess sitting at the end of the hall, upon a throne that was, oddly, hardly impressive as the hall it sat in. Just a large wooden chair with a bear skin draped over the back. “May I introduce Wein of House of Lowell of former Ostia.”
It was a pretty safe, standard strategy as far as noble politicking went: Throw a bunch of money at a party; invite a bunch of important people; invite a bunch of other people to pad the guest list and make yourself look more important than you actually are; hope one of the important people actually come; then isolate that person, impress them, and hope they’re sympathetic to whatever cause you’re trying to promote, whether it be funding for a project or just shameless ostentation. See, the Lowells had been a respected family, but not a particularly influential one. They got invited to all the functions, just not the ones that actually mattered. So this trip was new to Wein. This was Marquess Laus’s stronghold, which was arguably the greatest seat of power in current Lycia. And you could tell. The castle was filled with life. Attendants mulled about, attending to their various duties, while hurried diplomats juggled scrolls as they darted around crowds of knights and officers, who in turn seemed to be either discussing battle tactics, playing wargames, or heading to their own next destinations. It was really quite impressive.
“Please understand that a sudden audience like this is quite rare, Mister Lowell.”
The voice, though soft and whispery, somehow caught through the ambient noise and demanded Wein’s attention. It had come from the mouth of a thin, wiry man with the wispiest, whitest hair the Ostian had ever seen. His nose was almost non-existent, as if something had taken a bite out of it, and his neck thin like a sapling tree branch. He wore boots that seemed two sizes too big for him, and an embroidered tunic of rich blue and yellow that barely seemed to stay on his incredibly boney body. In fact, if it weren’t for leather belt fastened tightly around the old man’s waist, Wein was sure that man’s clothes would have slipped right off.
“Uh, yes Mister Chamberlain,” replied the Ostian, unsteadiness lacing his voice. The archer gave a quick nod, which elicited a nod in return from his skeletal handler. They were approaching a door. A big door. That was right, they were on their way to see the Marquess. Oh word, now Wein was getting nervous. He’d never even seen a Marquess before, much less been granted audience with one.
“You will address the Marquess by either ‘My Lord’ or ‘Marquess’,” the chamberlain continued as he stopped in front of the door to the main hall, not bothering to look at Wein. “You will bow when I introduce you, and you will only speak when spoken to. Do not interrupt. Do not argue. Do not make any…” the chamberlain made a waving gesture with his left hand, “...foul noises.” There was a long pause, and then, “Are you ready?” Wein, now apparently forming a habit, just nodded silently, and while the chamberlain had not looked at the Ostian he must have somehow noticed the gesture. He placed his hand on the door. “Please speak up when speaking to the Marquess.”
Two knocks and the doors came creaking open, revealing the inner sanctum of the Hall of Laus. If Wein had been impressed by the architecture of the rest of the castle, well this was just icing on the cake. Two rows of columns, a dozen in total, framed the hall, supporting the high arches that held up the vaulted ceiling and creating mirrored ambulatories between the pillars and the outer walls that could easily be walked through. Like a cathedral of Elimine the walls were covered with iconography, some religious some not, and lined with alcoves that members of the court could rest in away from the center of the hall. This all culminated in a sizable fresco that sat just over the Marquess’s throne, depicting a battle between a heroic man wielding a massive sword and an enormous dragon wreathed in darkness and spitting fire. Roland versus the Dragon King. That was a story all Lycian children heard growing up, but there was something to be said for seeing it in giant mural form within the hall of the Marquess himself, especially for an art buff like Wein.
In the center of the room ran two tables, lined with chairs, no doubt for the great feasts the Marquess would hold, and a number of people, important looking people, sat in said seats. Most looked to be have been talking before the doors had opened, and now everyone was stairing straight at the Ostian. Goodness.
“My Lord Marquess,” came the echoey voice of the chamberlain as two men entered the main chamber. Wein initially stopped at the doorway, but the chamberlain continued approaching the throne, so the archer followed in kind. As he walked the Ostian spotted the Marquess sitting at the end of the hall, upon a throne that was, oddly, hardly impressive as the hall it sat in. Just a large wooden chair with a bear skin draped over the back. “May I introduce Wein of House of Lowell of former Ostia.”
