4038/First Rays of the Prodigal Dawn

First Rays of the Prodigal Dawn
Date of Scene:	22 April 2016
Location:	Great Painting of Ariamis <PoA>
Synopsis:	At long last, Gwynevere returns home.
Cast of Characters:	Priscilla, 183, 253, Eryl Fairfax, Lezard Valeth, Reiji Arisu, 941, 974

---

Priscilla has posed:
    The reason people have been called to Anor Londo, or rather, openly invited, is actually entirely ordinary today. Something as harmless as organizing the next factional foray into the greater continent; tenuously something to do with 'what the hell to do with Darkroot after the last survey', relatively behind closed doors, as the concern is. That being the case, it isn't surprising that the court is adjourned for the day, literally in the case of those who were allowed back a noble title since returning from abroad to the land restored by the multiverse's efforts, and metaphorically in the case of those who haven't done anything but stew in their own salt since refusing to make the effort.

    Those people are of course, the old royalty; the lesser at least, since the main line is more or less dead. Gods, to be summed up. Anor Londo is the dizzying mountaintop metropolis that has been their home and seat of power for centuries, and it shows. Now properly aglow at daytime as the re-risen sun casts its light on the miles of marble, granite, gold and silver, the incredible tangle of high gothic architecture is almost exclusively sized at double the height a human should need, with normal sized stairs cut in narow rows aside steps that have to be jumped. Though the city is largely abuzz, if still slightly underpopulated, with the activities of mankind -- again largely the former Undead with a few months of proper supplies, facilities and rest -- different figures are a common sight, very much including the larger-than-life in greater proportion than any other race, save the ubiquitous, steel-grey knights standing as nine foot tall, heavily armed statues at every post.

    So in essence it's a lot of stairs, a lot of perplexing medieval elevators, and a lot of walking around unless you're a jerk who can teleport, with a lot of 'not looking down over a ledge' if one gets vertigo easily. An uneventful, if hopefully not boring day, until not even halfway to the gargantuan castle at the city's center, the cacaphonic sound of equally oversized church bells starts going off from multiple directions, echoing off the mountains that cradle the city in a way that suggests them being a prettier equivalent to great horns. A great crowd appears to be in the process of building not at the warpgate, but on the walkway leading up to the palace steps themselves, dozens of figures straight out of multiple kinds of western mythology forming double rows up ahead, flanked by equal hordes of men and women in obvious clergy and military attire, and then surrounded by a disorganized rabble of people who are probably just curious.

    Considering the number of times people have been here, they're sure as hell not rolling out the red carpet for visitors from off-world. It's a bizarre turn of events until one of them shouts a name (and is still bizarre for some without the context). A grandfatherly figure with a sword the size of a lamppost and drowning in enough layers of robes and trinkets to smother a veteran's convention booms out in a supernaturally loud, ear rattling voice: "Hail to Gwynevere! Princess of Sunlight! Hail to the Princess beloved by all, and hail to the flames that hath guided her back to her home!" And then many of them kneel. Including the actual gods. Hey hey, hold up, nobody got this kind of respect on /saving the world/. Then again, it only looks like a portion of people are in on the action. Many others are keeping a good distance and watching, especially from high balconies, including a distantly visible giant woman in black and man in golden armour.

Psyber (253) has posed:
    "Huh, is she actually real this time?"

    Psyber's initial reaction to the news of the 'Princess of Sunlight' returning is cautious suspicion. He was around the FIRST time the woman was present, or rather when she was an illusion used to prop up someone who wanted to put a claim to the throne. So you'll have to pardon him if he doesn't exactly take this proclamation at face value.

    He is, at least, thankful that he has the Sun-Slayer Greatsword safely stored away elsewhere, as he's pretty sure the open carry of that weapon is something of a taboo or faux pas around here. Instead, he's got his usual loadout consisting of 'some form of handgun and a pad of paper with a pen in his pocket'.

    He elects not to kneel. There are multiple reasons for this, one: He doesn't really kneel for anyone. Two: He doesn't follow the pantheon or religious system of this world. Three: After having to clean up their entire world for them, about the only people he respects are Solaire, Oscar, and Priscilla for the weight they pulled.

    So instead, he just re-echoes his earlier statement:

    "We're sure this is the real one, yeah?"

Reiji Arisu has posed:
Saving the world is never a one-day job.

    Especially when the world has its own, convoluted mess of politics, built-in factions and prejudices. Doubly so whn the politicians in question are literally the 'gods' of the world in question. Triply so when the person they're politicking against is one of your friends and comrades and fellow Savior of All of This Particular Brand of Creation.

    Of course, the gods of Anor Londo are not truly gods; they are larger than men, stronger than most, and attuned with some of the most fundamental forces of the world. But they were not the creators; they are not the eternal dragons, nor are they the bearers of one of the four Lordsouls. Still, they are gods, and so it falls to those who are accustomed to negotiating with them to do the dirty work of keeping the peace.

    A figure emerges from the throngs of worshipers, skeptics and miscellaneous passers-by. He is dressed in a heavy, red, bulletproof vest, and black-and-white otherwise. At his side, he carries the weapons of his station. Dangling for all to see at the very bottom of his arsenal is a weapon forged by the First of the Dead himself.

Reiji Arisu has heard-tell of suspicious politicking going on, and he has come to observe- and to intervene, if necessary.

    He's standing next to Psyber by the time the other man speaks. Reiji rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "Seems like it. They wouldn't be making this much of a to-do if it wasn't someone important. Kind of funny that she only comes back after all the hard work's done, huh?"

Reiji also does not kneel.

These ain't /his/ gods, after all.

Eryl Fairfax has posed:
    That's a lot of stairs. But no great obstacle to Mister Fairfax. He's certainly not build for speed, but none can deny the stamina of a man who spends most of his time on the move. Thus, the residents are treated to the sight of Eryl jogging up them without breaking a sweat.

    Good thing too, because this sudden revelation would make him sweat, were his sweat glands not under his conscious control.

    Lordran has recently undergone a great change, begun the slow climb from resigned stagnation to full recovery under Priscilla's leadership. The last thing it needs is a contest for the throne to distract from the restoration process.

    Slightly apart from Psyber and Reiji, he can't help but overhear. The real one 'this time?' He recalls the reports on Lordran from before his arrival. Ah, yes. A possible card to play, should it come to that.

    Anyway, he does actually bow. He's a diplomat after all, it's the polite thing to do. But certainly not as deeply as he could.

Mel Brock (941) has posed:
    Mel Brock is here, standing beside and behind the duo of Psyber and Reiji, her hands in the pockets of her trenchcoat; she's still relatively new to this world, so the vast scale of Anor Londo (and its inhabitants) has been... an experience, to say the least. After that last thing with the freakish shadow beast that may or may not have even had sentience or will, she's decided to take more interest in this world, if for no other reason than to get some context.

    "Why wouldn't she be real? Did you run into some illusion or something?" Not one to keep a question back, Mel. "You people get involved in the weirdest shit, I swear." She's also not one to bow either, simply watching with curiosity for now.

Lezard Valeth has posed:
And you know what the best person to have to a convention of gods is?

Lezard 'Wants To Kill His Pantheon' Valeth. The Necromancer of Midgard is almost aggressive in his disdain for the trappings of godhood. Held in his hand like a badge of office is the Manus Catalyst, Lezard showing no fear in representing, in his own special way, the power of the Abyss in the middle of the seat of power of the Flame. He wears his power like a shroud, ensuring that anyone who gets /too/ vocal in their objections to the Necromancer's presence or attire will have a decent idea of what they are getting into.

And more appropriately, Lezard stands with the other Multiversal saviors of Lordran, looking upon the proceedings with some measure of disdain. "Forgive me if I am skeptical about this turn of events." He says idly. Obviously, he doesn't bow. There's one person in Lordran who can get Lezard to show deference, and that person is Priscilla herself. "But then, Anor Londo was built upon a foundation of lies in the first place. We shall see what will be happening here soon enough. If it is falsehood, I expect the Lady will take steps to correct the problem forthwith."

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    It may bear mention for those who otherwise wouldn't know that Mizuki is not here today; rather, someone else has come in her stead: Palora.

    And Palora, quite unlike her 'mother,' isn't one known for flashy entrances /or/ the contrasting bouts of brooding melancholy. She is much more a person for nonchalant loitering amidst chaos, or heckling that oscillates madly between rude and honest, depending on her audience. She would suppose that she needs little more introduction than that, though, as she is quite confident that her demeanor will speak for itself. In truth, it often does.

    She's wont to fade in behind Reiji and Psyber in her own good time, and in all likelihood she probably ventured here as a part of Psyber's no-doubt sizable entourage. She watches Gwynevere's parade of merit for just as long as she can stand before flipping a toothpick into her mouth and rolling her eyes. She spares Psyber and Reiji only a moment's glance apiece before shoving her hands into the pockets of an oversized hoodie and breaking rank, meandering perilously close to said grandfatherly figure. Hers is a swagger of infuriatingly casual style and a poise that makes her look spindly and on the verge of collapse, yet somehow it carries a sort of power that is just enough to command attention and inflame the regal aesthetic of Gwynevere's following. That said, she hardly needs to do or say anything for her presence to be a profound irritant of their every sense.

    Though true to form, she gives them all the reason they could ever want.

    Once the aged and weary knight's bellow has had its time to echo throughout the capital and bend the knees of the meek, Palora audibly spits the toothpick out of her mouth such that it would land at the man's feet. Should such a gesture call attention to her expression, she would be wearing one of exceptional, brazen confidence and bright feature as she tosses her bangs to one side with a deliberately errant finger. Before they have the time to respond, she would surely interject:

    "Yeah, yeah, fairytale princess, sings to the animals, everybody loves her, crap crap crap." She waggles a finger. "Y'know, the thing about fairytale princesses is that they take a lot of credit for things. Like, they plaster their names all over stories even when all they /actually/ did the whole time was sleep, or lose a glass slipper, or whatever. So that said, I got a question for you guys, if you'll let me. Actually, even if you won't! I'mma say it anyways." She twirls her finger, broadening her grin just so, swirling her leg in place before stamping her foot back down in time with her words:

    "Did your princess actually /do/ anything worth loving? Or do all you brawny knights just like her because she looks nice? Hmmmm, I wooonder~." Both hands whisk back to her sleeves, and she rocks casually in place.

    Such a tease.

Carna (974) has posed:
    Carna is something that Anor Londo seems to potentially have divested itself of recently, and yet also very different. She has existed as a thinking being for 'three journals worth', however long that is. Long enough to fill three journals with her thoughts and experiences? But when time has no clear measure, there is no sun and no moon to gauge by, and only one's own tattered thoughts, themselves unreliable, and the writings of those thoughts when they were fresh to offer any context, knowing whether she's been (relatively) sane for months, years, or centuries is difficult to determine.

    Since encountering people from outside of Lumiere, the ones from this enormous 'world' separate from the one she comes from, she has had to try to learn and adjust to many new concepts. One of the biggest being 'there is a giant fireball in the sky, and the thing that makes it NOT fall down and kill everyone is, infact, the thing that normally does the opposite of that. The blinding light and comparatively mild darkness that follows, are a severe shock. So are the wide variety of colors, scents, and beings. Normally, something that doesn't look human is some manner of Unlit, or a Lantern in very exotic armor. But there are many sane beings who have their own sanity and selves, who are not Dead like Carna, who are among the mythical Living, and yet separate from the ones she has heard of in stories.

    Priscilla unnerves her, and impresses her. And there is something familiar about her even if Carna is certain she has never seen or met anything like this queen of... Anor Londo? Or Lordran? The details are already foggy. She'll have to re-read the journal. But as part of familiarizing herself with the heroes, and the Living, and the world outside, the Lantern has come. A hollow shell of darkness, her Light stolen violently from another. A creature of death that finds the spectacle of this place, the paths and balconies and stairs and the architecture, all of it... To be much like Priscilla. Impressive. But unnerving. There are so many people here, and so many places to be ambushed from. Avoiding crowds like this is common sense where she comes from. Crowds are where you die.

    But she was invited, and she has yet to be attacked. So keeping hat low and cloak tight about her, the Lantern skulks about around the fringes. Her presence is no doubt known, since she only found her way here by direction from others, and some present might have the senses or sight to detect something like her either way. She does observe that there's at least a few smaller groups not part of the crowd who seem different from the others. Whether by appearance or behavior, they stand out as 'not belonging' (or so Carna assumes. Just as she likely does not appear to belong). She misses the talk of a 'real one', though the supernaturally loud yelling and banging church bells and so on may have done something to her hearing.

    For now, she observes. But getting closer is likely on the agenda.

Priscilla has posed:
    Well she certainly looks real alright. Okay, so she did before, but that was sitting in one pose in one room under dodgy lighting. Here it's open air, open sunlight, no props other than the cityscape at all, and she's definitely moving, even if hanging on the arm of someone unfamiliar; likely foreign as well. The trend of dress here seems to lean towards some kind of celtic/norse/anglosaxon renaissance, like what they'd draw in a book for being unable to craft it themselves, whereas the stranger is covered in mixed cloths, brass medallions and bright tassels, and his bright red hair, shortened to a functional rather than ornamental beard, stands out along with his more severe features from the relatively homogenous old guard gathered.

    Gwynevere herself should be just as Psyber remembers however, though less preposterously enormous, 'only' as tall as everyone else, at most perhaps a little above the average. The same absurdly ideal picture of feminine beauty, strikingly 'natural' rather than deliberately glamoured or enhanced to appear more impressive or exotic, with the same flowing auburn hair, bright gold eyes, and physical features that have clearly been given to her more delicate daughter to various degrees. The same clothes too, though those might just be because Gwyndolin had opted for her more iconic wardrobe, or what she left in. A whole lot of beautiful white silk trimmed in lace and woven, inscribed gold that would have kept a hundred people in cushy jobs for years, as well as more literal gold additions in the form of bracelets, necklaces and circlets all done up with engraved celtic knots, which departs from Priscilla's dress sense in that she's wearing a lot less clothing in general. The bare feet just sort of seem to be a thing with female deities though; maybe fashion. The only real difference is that the lack of excessive (and fake) golden sunset lighting makes her look a lot less tanned.

    Carefully matching visual detail for detail aside, it certainly doesn't look like she's been bad off, and even for the uninformed, her appearance screams 'royal family' even compared to the other gods. Foreign pilgrims now living in the city have steadily flocked into a mob as the word has spread, indicating that people all across the world have at least heard of her, indicating she must be an extremely popular deity with humans in particular. The 'in' crowd are pointedly paying them no mind however. Instead, the majority of them continue to indicate that she is their literal princess by birth.

    This means that Palora meandering out into the cleared runway at spitting at the decorated old man's feet goes /exceptionally/ poorly. The number of replies she gets actually makes all of them unintelligible, booming voices shouting over each other with what are certainly some choice epithets and not managing to drown out the surge of human ones either, all eyes suddenly on her. Aside from being literal sacrilege, it seems like a lot of them are genuinely, personally upset, like she'd just trashed talked their girlfriend or their mother rather than their prophet or messiah. The grandpa and the foreign man go so far as to immediately draw their weapons in simultaneous fashion, probably competing to declare a duel (or else maybe some kind of Japanese feudal law ripoff about beheading uppity peasants, who knows). They don't get all the way to violent action before Gwynevere actually interposes herself between them, suddenly looking surprisingly stern for such a pretty lady.

Priscilla has posed:
    "Uncle! Dearest!" Well that immediately explains her relation to both of these men. "Uncle especially, thou art too old for this! Pray, leaveth matters of honour to the young who hath need of proving themselves. And dearest, thou knowest full well already what impression thou hast yet to make. Thou art in the presence of mine /family/." Oh boy. Hasn't met the parents huh? The old man dithers with his sword in frustration, but Gwynevere's husband puts his away pretty fast, crouching a little disrespectfully to peer down on Palora. "Right then, so who'd like to explain to me what this little thing is and what it thinks it's doing calling my wife's worth into question?" The language he uses is even more obviously foreign, far more current and pragmatic just to listen to. It seems like he can tell that Palora isn't any random human even beside the hoodie. In fact, it seems quite a few of them are starting to have misgivings as they notice the multiversal crowd. A number of stares start going Lezard's way, clearly of the 'what is /he/ doing here, does he have any sense of decorum?' persuasion frustrated hostility, like frowning at inconvenient rain, whereas those that go to Carna are of the kind of quietly masked contempt that will take some explaining later. "Dearest, that is not why we art here. Thou made promise thou wouldst behaveth until I am again to see mine brothers and father."

    There is abruptly a long, awkward silence. Jesus this is complicated.

Reiji Arisu has posed:
    Reiji has never met Palora personally. Oh, he's definitely heard her on the radio- it's impossible not to hear Palora on the radio when Palora is on the radio. But this is the first time he's seen just how... Vibrant her personality can really be.

Dealing with that fallout is what the diplomats are here for, though, and Gwynevere seems to at least have the good sense to keep the two warriors-- relatives on the other side of the pond-- in check. But there's something worrying about what she said, aside from the implication that she'd let one of the younger gods off Palora with a sufficienly large sword.

Gwynevere apparently has not been told the bad news.

    Reiji grimaces. The sword at the bottom of his rack feels all too heavy all of the sudden. Its presence means only one thing- that the job of informing the relatives of the deceased ultimately falls to him.

Damnit Nito. Did you know this would happen eventually? Probably just a coincidence, but he IS the God of the Dead.

    Reiji steps away from Psyber and the rest of the entourage, giving Lezard a quick nod-- though there's not much approval there. It can't ever be a good idea to bring Satan's own pitchfork into the Vatican. He steps past Palora, gently- but firmly- pulling back on her shoulder in the universal sign of 'oh my god stand back before someone kills you.'

    "Excuse me," Reiji calls up to the deities. He inclines his head- in greeting rather than as a gesture of deference, "Gods from across the sea. I am Reiji Arisu, a foreigner to these lands and friend to the high throne of Anor Londo. There is something regarding your relatives, Princess Gwynevere and honored guests, that I and my entourage must speak with you about."

"Privately," Reiji says with more than a little gravitas. Darkdrift clatters soundlessly. "If it would please you."

Psyber (253) has posed:
    "I'll give you the truncated version suitable for public ears," Psyber says pretty blandly. He takes out a crumpled pack of Lucky Strike filterless cigarettes and puts one in his mouth. He hands the pack over to Reiji if he wants one.

    "Welcome back, I suppose. You've been gone a very long time. Things got much worse, and now things are much better. But there's a new set of leadership now, and your daughter is Queen here," Psyber notes, taking out a lighter and flicking it to ignite his cigarette, "In the time it took you to return, with no one else to count upon, this world's heroes asked those among us for help, and we answered."

    He's not being disrespectful, but he's being very frank and candid, "If a lot of us don't respect your station or title, please understand that it's because we put our own blood, sweat, and even more blood into fixing this place up in the absence of all its other guardians. We're, understandably, a bit skeptical of a wayward monarch returning at the 13th hour after all the trouble has passed, seeking to bring light back to her kingdom."

    As if added as a passing note, "People call me Psyber. I work for the Union. I'm a private investigator and a problem solver."

Eryl Fairfax has posed:
    Why can things never be easy?

    Not even a minute into this evolving quagmire, and it becomes a million times more complicated as Palora walks out, /spits at their feet/, and implies that she's worthless. This knot is on the verge of becoming Gordian. Palora may have just painted every Multiversal guest of Lordran in a poor light.

    So, since there is no chance of making things /worse/ right now, Eryl too, walks out onto the clear path. He comes up behind Palora, goes to put a hand on her head, to try and push it down into a bow. Even if it doesn't work, he does the same.

    "Forgive this child, Lady Gwynevere. She comes from a realm where her outspoken nature is encouraged, and has not yet learns to contextualize it. I assure you, her views do not reflect those of others from beyond the realm of Lordran." He rises, and offers a winning smile to the Princess and her escort.

    "But, in rushing to apologize, I have forgotten my manners. I am Eryl Fairfax, diplomat for the ReGenesis Corporation. I and they have pledged to help Lordran in any way we can." Thankfully, the Princess is more level-headed than the man with her, who speaks in a surprisingly modern way. Hmm. "You are kind and gracious indeed Princess. Thank you."

    And so, he tries to usher Palora off the path. He says nothing to her, but maintains a very stern expression.

Reiji Arisu has posed:
    Reiji does in fact take one of those cigarettes. He holds it between his fingers as he ever-so-slightly pulls the base of Karin's blade from its sheath. The tip of the cigarette catches almost immediately, and he brings it to his lips to take in a long draw. This is bad for him- it'll kill him someday. But thta day is not today. "Yes. As my associate said, much has changed," Reiji continues, blue-grey smoke wafting from the gaps of his teeth, "The news I bring is related, directly, to what has transpired since your departure-- and all that we have done to resolve it."

Mel Brock (941) has posed:
    Pelora taking a step out puts a little tension in Mel's stance, but not much.

    The 'divine' response to it, has her a lot more on edge.

    Her hands are out of her pocket, her shoulders square, and her entire body holds a faint hint of tension. The sharp-eyed might notice that the way her coat subtly flows and shifts around her legs is completely unconnected to any breeze that might be blowing.

    This has some potential to get very ugly, very quick, especially with the huge crowd here. And Psyber just gave at least some part of the bad news. So understandably, rather than give her name just yet, she has her eyes on the people, how they're responding. If the gathering turns dangerous, she wants to see it happening.

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    "Oh shit," Palora says, folding her arms coolly, toothy grin never wavering in the ensuing wake of contemptuous rancor, "and so the gallant princess walks out to stop a would-be social disaster where two grown men massacre a poor, defenseless little girl. Or 'scuse me," She says, raising a finger and briefly locking eyes with 'Sir Uncle,' "defenseless girl-/thing/." She collapses that finger back into a fist, shortly fixing it against her thigh.

    "Honestly," She says, raising the opposite hand in a half-shrug, "this is freaking /textbook/. Obviously they taught you well at princess school. Or maybe you've just been around the block a while, I dunno." She closes her eyes briefly, batting the back of her hand to the air. "But it's suddenly not that surprising why people like you. You're goooood, lady~. You're your own PR!" After that, Palora finally allows for a short, tense silence... although she can hardly expect the crowd to afford her the same. And she doesn't. Instead, she just waits for the next opportunity when Gwynevere will inevitably quiet the next eruption of white noise to come from her band of sycophants. When such a time arrives, Palora continues thusly:

    "Y'know, though, lady," She points to her with a finger, bobbing her hand up and down, "there's more to good rulership than just 'looking good.' Hell, it's pretty easy to impress people who are already practically groveling at your feet!" She bats her hands back and forth against the air again. "Nah, nah -- if you're a good ruler, you'll be able to convince even your /hecklers/ that you're fit to rule. That's what matters, right? 'Cause lemme lay a few things out for you, here." To begin, she raises a lone finger.

    "One. A good ruler wins each war they enter. The best ruler wins without ever waging a war at all, right?" She raises a second finger. "Two. You /could/ just let your band of musclezombies take Anor Londo by force for you, sure, but think about it. If you turned around and said, 'oh, that was my failure!', 'oh, their violence is entirely my responsibility!'," she says, making wide gesticulations inclusive of clapping her hands together and daintily raising her foot at intervals, "it won't /just/ make them flock to you and reverse-psychology themselves into believing it /wasn't/ your fault. It'll also prove that you really /were/ inept in controlling them to some degree, right? So it's even /more/ in your best interest to try convincing us first. For the future stability of your illustrious sun kingdom or whatever."

    "And three," She says, narrowing her eyes slightly, "I bet you want a chance to prove me wrong. I bet you want a chance to make me eat my words when I say that you're a prissy, manipulative royal wannabe whose rule would just give birth to a twisted shadow of what Gwyn's kingdom was rather than making it -better-. Don'tcha? C'mooon~. I don't know what yet, but let's have a challenge! If you think you're as fit to rule as your, uh, little consortium."

    Jesus Christ she's a presumptuous brat.

Lezard Valeth has posed:
Lezard simply watches this play out, his stance utterly relaxed as if this was nothing that concerned him. The glares that go his way are returned with a pleasant smile.

The eyes, however, are hard and unforgiving.

As for decorum, the Necromancer of Midgard shows he has more than Palora, though his gaze as he looks upon her is not one of disapproval at all. Rather, he looks on with amusement, perhaps even tacit approval on his own, though he doesn't directly move to support Palora.

No, at the moment, he wants to see how this turns out. No, he's biding his time, watching the environment intently.

Carna (974) has posed:
    Carna can practically FEEL the contempt aimed her way. It's not something she's ever experienced before... Or she thinks so, at least, but she can recognize it now that she sees it. She decides not to go any closer, but she does move from behind the pillar-like obstruction she was standing near and remain on the fringes... Even if there is danger... There's something about that woman... The one who has stood in the way and prevented violence that Carna was sure was going erupt. One man seems to be encouraging it even. And that bears all the signs of 'time to either get out of here and getting into a sniping position incase there's some benefit to picking off the survivors'. But she fights those urges.

    ...For now.

    Because, at this moment, this 'Gwynevere' everyone is going on about, even as she gathers some of the details from listening in as Reiji Arisu, Psyber, Eryl Fairfax, some manner of man who is getting a similarly hostile response to Carna herself, though... Even more so, for reasons she does not yet understand... And this abrasive 'Palom', and a very rigid companion. She has to concur with what was she heard through her Chattering Skull. This is a very convoluted situation.

    Also, she wishes she had the chance to write all these names down before she forgets them.

    And yet, despite the risk to herself, she wants to move closer. Because there's something radiating from Gwynever. Something that stirs her hunger for Light. But survival instincts and simple self control win out. She keeps her approach slow and steady. A few steps at a time, and preferably when people are more focused on Palom that a lowly Dead woman.

    If at all possible, she will maneuver more towards Lezard than the others. If they're getting similar looks, perhaps he is Dead too. And standing together with one like her might be at least something close to protection.

Priscilla has posed:
    "You're addressing Flame God Flann of the south, warrior." The tone is a little brusque, but the address of 'warrior' seems to have some kind of connotation of mild respect from him, like he prefers humans who carry around a bunch of obviously useful swords than those dressed up in fancy and expensive armour or priestly robes. "I'll forgive you for not knowing my name if you're not from around here either. Everyone's heard of my beautiful wife though, so don't go thinking you can tell her whatever you like without me hearing, yeah?" Yeah. There's /nothing/ she'd hide from me. That kind of tone. It holds a pretty hefty weight of confidence before Psyber goes next, and then his expression pretty clearly flashes as a neon sign spelling 'Daughter?!'.

    Gwynevere only looks awkward however. Far from imperious or outraged, she looks as if she's just been put on the spot; made to have a conversation she had been hoping to avoid. "I hath heard . . . some word of this, sir knight." she begins, guessing a little bit at what to address Psyber by formally. "I see very well the sun that hast risen over mine home again, as I thought I might never behold again. Please, I wish only to see the faces of mine loved ones again. This is well enough difficult as it is. I wouldst not demand the deference of one so new to these lands, but I wouldst ask of thee the respect that thou wouldst at least show to a woman regardless." There are a few sympathetic boos at Psyber's camp from the more unruly back rows. The ones at the front are either old blood aristocrat, non-human, or smart enough to keep their mouth shut within line of sight. Gwynevere does look a little hesitant to let that one from Palora slide though, twisting her lower lip faintly as Eryl rushes to explain. Is she legitimately offended, or is there only so much she can forgive in public?

    "Well met, diplomat of ReGenesis." She says it like a country. "I shalt do mine best to understand, but likewise understandeth that I cannot find it within mineself to deny the hearts of those men who wouldst taketh umbrage." She looks like she's flat out ignoring Palora, but not out of contempt. Maybe it just stings too much to answer. Flann isn't being so courteous though. "You're making a hell of a lot of assumptions aren't you? Little pink dog. Sure like running your mouth. My wife sure as hell hasn't needed your advice before, and she doesn't want to hear the lip now, got it? Nobody cares what you think, nobody asked what you're thinking, and I don't think you even are with all that trash you just put out without knowing a thing about what she's going through." Alright, to be fair, if anyone has a universal right to deck someone for shit talking a lady, it's her husband.

    "And that is quite enough of all this!" Old uncle finally says. "Mine own neice shalt not be hurried away by strangers to fill her ears with agenda before being allowed to set foot in her own home! The White Lady hast made it obvious that she wishes thee treated with respect, but she hast made no proclamation that we bend to thine wishes. Least of all-" he points to Psyber. "Pray tell, how art thou to tell the poor girl of her brother's fate? Let it not be carried away behind private doors. Every one of us is aware that it is by thine hand that he lies dead." Even Gwynevere can't help but look a little shocked before the crowd starts breaking out into yelling again. Perhaps stunned. More and more, it looks like she's being caught up in the middle of this rather than having any idea of what's going on. Who the hell arranged this reception then? Probably not the human in the brass armour making neck-slitting motions at Psyber. It even seems like Lezard is getting off the hook here, despite being the blatantly evil sorcerer wielding a Blasphemy Stick as obnoxious open carry. Everyone over seven feet tall seems to want to make this as political as possible, save the two overseas arrivals.

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    For the first time, Palora seems to actually calm down. Something about Gwynevere's reply - or lack thereof, really - is interpreted as some more genuine measure of reservation and strain. As a small frown forms on Palora's face, she begins to consider that, maybe, possibly, Gwyn's heiress isn't quite as calloused as she had taken her for. This in turn elicits a bite of the lip and an inwardly-reflective utterance of 'Shit,' her teeth grinding together as she scrolls her eyes through the audience of increasingly rancorous supplicants. Palora shrinks away from the group insomuch as they allow, careful to put a natural distance between herself and the other multiversals (as though it mattered at this point), her eyes staying trained on Gwynevere at all times.

    /Almost/ all times, anyway -- her eyes do briefly meander to the husband, to whom she offers a slight, character-defying bow of her head. Something that will likely never get across now is that all the poison Palora was spewing wasn't actually put out /solely/ to grate at these people; more, it was meant to level the playing field and make things as open book as possible. This was also done with the assumption that Gwynevere would be able to take it, and that she was quite a lot more hardy than she might in reality be. Looking at her now, Palora considers that Gwynevere is either a truly phenomenal actress or... maybe... just seriously hurt by what she was saying. If if she is, well, it's like she said earlier:

    Shit.

    Palora sighs emphatically, turning up a palm in another mock-shrug to stifle her own, growing feelings of shame. Shame over misreading the situation, or shame over being a complete bitch? A little bit of both, maybe, but she's definitely not sorry to the people in the audience. After all, if what she said /did/ make Gwynevere uncomfortable, and if she /isn't/ actually that eager to prove herself the most worthy monarch, there's a pretty good chance she's doing it out of obligation to these people. And if that's the case, that just sucks! If that's the case, then Palora really wishes that she had called /them/ out rather than the subject of their unhealthy reverence.

    You win some and you lose some, she supposes. But for now she's gonna shut up until an antagonizing presence may be beneficial somehow. She's definitely not gonna be anything else after that little display.

Psyber (253) has posed:
    Psyber keeps his stance fairly neutral, calmly smoking his cigarette, "I'm treating you no different than I treat most people. I apologize if you find it rude, but I believe that until proven otherwise, I should treat those around me as my intellectual peers rather than coddle or mince words," He tells the woman rather bluntly.

    When the old uncle attempts to call Psyber out, the half-angel quirks his eyebrows and then says, "You are not incorrect. I have done many things in this land for the good of all. I would set the sun so that a new one could rise over the horizon. I have faced Calamity itself that you all would not. I have seen the origin of your world and I have ensured that you will never see its end. However, I have taken one act selfishly," He admits, stepping forward and spreading his arms a bit as if to present himself for judgment.

    "Gwyndolin, Lord of the Darkmoon, was felled by my hand. And it was not for the good of the world that I did it, though I would consider that a side effect," Psyber stares out over the crowd blandly, unflinching. He's not afraid of who he is or what he's done, he's far grown beyond that in recent years. His regrets have grown few, scarred over into the resolve that allows him to act on the level he acts.

    "I killed Gwyndolin because he falsified your identity. Marred your image. And he used it to break the heart of someone who wanted only to meet her mother and receive an affection that every child should receive," Psyber stares at the old man flatly, "And because she sought that love, he called her monster and abomination. So I chose to show him what those words truly meant. It was not altruism, it was a vendetta on my part."

    He narrows his eyes and then takes a pad of paper out of his pocket. He tears off the first sheet, revealing a black and red longsword that he thrusts a few inches into the ground so it can stand on its own, "So I will make this simple."

    He tears off another sheet, two swords appearing. One is long, silver, and flawless. The other is broken, held together by a twisted sort of nightmare magic. He lays these swords down next to the first one, "And issue this candidly."

    He tears another sheet, revealing a silver and blue hammer into his hand. Heavy-side down, he drops this to the ground, letting the weight of it drop.

    And finally, he draws the last sheet. And in his hand appears the Sun-Slayer Greatsword itself. This, he slams into the ground and lets the blade carve a foot down, standing in front of him with its eldritch fire as it releases the grip and lets it free stand with the other weapon.

    "If you wish to judge me, you may pick up any one of my weapons and try to strike me down with it. Most, or all, of them are fully capable of killing me. The true question is this..."

    He stares at the old man. At the knight making a gesture. At anyone who boos him.

    "Does anyone here with a jaw strong enough to hurl words of judgment..." His eyes flash red, "... have an arm and back strong enough to carry the true weight of heroism's sin?"

Eryl Fairfax has posed:
    'There is a right time and a right place' Eryl had said on the radio. And it appears that the words have gone unheeded, as Palora throws down the gauntlet. Right here, in front of everyone, to the newly returned princess. Who just learned of her family's death. And is tangled in the machinations of the uncle, it seems.

    And now Psyber is doing more of the same, challenging those who took issue with his actions to just... kill him, right now. Clearly banking on no one having the nerve.

    Right now, it's all in the air. Had he less artificially-enhanced resolve, he would be rubbing his face in frustration. A plan is formulating in his head... but it banks on the reactions of everyone else.

    So he waits.

Reiji Arisu has posed:
    Something something warrior gods, something something respect for people with weapons. Reiji gets it. Japan is full of this type of thing. He just came back from swordfighting with Susano-O of all deities. Reiji cants his head up at Flann and heaves another shrug out of his shoulders. "I didn't intend to. You deserve to hear of what's happened just as much as she does- family is family, by marriage, blood or circumstance." At least Flann seems like... A decent sort- if brash, prideful and arrogant.

Standard fare for a War God, in other words.

    "I mostly didn't want to cause a stir among your admirers," he thumbs over towards the throngs of people gathering. "What we have to say is--" Sensitive information? Controversial? Maybe kind of sacriligeous in SO many different ways?

All of the above?

    He doesn't get a chance to say, because immediately, the old man-- 'uncle'-- is looking like the one responsible for this whole mess. Flann is too brash, Gwynevere is either a masterful actress and puppetmistress, or the doe-in-the-headlamps look she's got is genuine. That old guy though; she called him uncle.

An uncle of a war god can only mean one thing.

    Old bastard's probably head of some foreign pantheon. And he probably thinks he can get his hands on Lordran too, if he causes enough of a stir to get his son and daughter-in-law put up onto the throne.

Of course, nothing can ever be that easy.

    Reiji turns his head up towards the Old Uncle. He squeezes his cigarette between two of his fingers and takes a nice, long draw as the crowd whips itself into a frenzy. "So." Reiji says, puffing. He's special forces. Dealing with this kind of situation is sort of outside his wheelhouse- but he must make do. "You already know. About Gwyndolin, I mean."

    Smoke wafts gently from his mouth. "But how much do you know about her father?" Reiji asks as Psyber reveals *that* blade- the one that could only belong to one man- one god. "Or her daughter. Or," he taps some ash aside, continuing seamlessly onwards, "Her elder brother?" The exorcist inclines his head slightly, "Now, I wasn't here when Gwyndolin fell. I was for the rest of it, though. All of the rest. Everything we did, we did because it was necessary, or because it was for the betterment of this world."

    He pauses for a moment to bask in his own smoke, puffing softly on his cigarette. He steps forward, then, and lightly taps Psyber's shoulder with the ridge of his knuckles as he passes. "Not that I mean to presume, but who are you, anyway? I know your son's name, now, and Gwynevere was known to me. But to turn the dead from their graves-- amongst their own people, for that matter-- that sort of right belongs only to one." His hand drops, falling to the black hilt at his side. Darkdrift hisses with a susurrus of soft, deep whispers, "Nevermind that you decided to wait until right here and right now to tell your daughter-in-law about her brother's passing. Who ARE you, Old Uncle, to keep something like this to yourself- to wield the death of another as a mere tool? Because unless you trump the Gravelord, I strongly suggest you reconsider using Gwyndolin to prove your point."

Mel Brock (941) has posed:
    Well, that certainly was... something. Mel is currently staring at Psyber with a mix of incredulity and perhaps a bit of respect. Whatever else may come of that display, he's at least provided a spectacle so over-the-top that the crowd is probably stunned to silence just about now. But that can't last forever, Reiji's got the right idea.

    So the officer takes a step or two back, giving herself just a bit of clearance, and calmly unbuttons her longcoat, sweeps it off her shoulders, and spreads it out on the ground. Then steps on it.

    Then it floats up into the air as if it were a platform.

    With her arms folded behind her back, now clad only in her Marshal's jumpsuit, the psychic floats herself up until she's at eye level with the elder man. "If I may have just a word, sir. Mel Brock. Marshal for the Sol Territories Alliance. Marshal Brock is fine, if you like." She nods downward, indicating Reiji. "I'd like to echo my colleague Arisu here. There's a lot of things you folks need to work out here, I appreciate that. I'm an outsider to this situation myself, but I can see it's pretty tangled. But this crowd here... they don't know most of it. All they know is you're getting agitated, we're getting agitated, everyone's getting agitated. And if the crowd gets agitated too..."

    She gives a little shake of her head. "I don't think anyone here wants to start a riot. See good, innocent people get hurt. So please, however we're going to resolve this, let's take it somewhere less public." When she says that, there's a brief look at Gwynevere specifically. She's hoping the Queen of Sunlight will pick up on that.

Lezard Valeth has posed:
Lezard watches the proceedings, studying the reactions of the notables intently. No, not the masses, but those that, for dint of their possession of a better grasp of the situation or their knowledge, don't react like a mindless angry mob of random minor 'deities'. Carna's approach gains a subtle nod. Lezard can sense the Death wrapped around this creature like a cloak... So familiar... Yet different. He smiles, reaching out to quietly put a welcoming hand on Carna's back with a wordless touch.

Meanwhile, he turns back to his examinations. The human in the brass armor gets an especially intent look, but he leans back on the Catalyst, his smile cracking a little wider, perhaps even showing a slight tinge of something... darker, as the challenge is made. His hand curls about the Manus Catalyst for a moment, but the Evil Asshole with the Blasphemy Stick doesn't strike or interfere. Not yet.

Carna (974) has posed:
    This is all over her head. Carna knows it. The challenges to duels, the attempts to placate, the realizations of mistakes made, and the offers of excuses and 'taking this elsewhere'... Everyone seems to have an agenda and there are interractions and dynamics at work here that she does not have context for. She has put forth her best theory for a sequence of events that could spawn from this interraction, but she has a better grasp of murder and deception than social maneuvering and kingdoms and gods.

    Until recently (and even still, somewhat), the Living were mythical, almost demi-god like beings of such savage destructive capabilities that not even they could endure their might when unleashed. As a being of death, from a world thereof, she was somewhat in awe of them. Not fearful, but awed by just how GOOD they were at killing... And also that they once laid claim to the entire World of Ashes above. Not unlike 'the heavens' in some worlds she's heard of since.

    She is still trying to reshape her mental image of the Living, since she didn't know that much about them in the first place, but this whole situation is leaving her quite lost. The only thing she can think of, as she sees these legendary destroyers talk and haggle over who will or will not kill/fight whom, and who will claim ownership of lands, and none of them seemingly interested in that Light that Gwyenere possesses...

    Well, she is content to not even attempt to introduce herself. Instead, she pulls out her journal and starts writing down names. 'Mel Brook'. That's one of those she hasn't heard yet, right? What were the others? Gwynever of course, and... Reiji... Alice? Aramais? No, that's not right... And then there's the one with all the weapons... Saigar? Sigfried? She just heard someone say 'Solaire'. Maybe that's his name. She writes down 'Solaire'.

    When Lezard touches her back, her initial impulse to react violently is squelched. Perhaps because, out of everyone present, this man is the only one who feels familiar at all. He looks towards him for a moment, silently acknowledging the contact without either endorsing it or shunning it. But she doesn't move away either. Perhaps that is acceptance for what it seems to be. An attempt at providing comfort.

    Like the Peacemakers of the Church of Bleak Mercy.

    Though loathe to offer trust blindly, the warrior at least offers her name. "I am Carna, of Lumiere. You too seem to be an outside observer to these dealings. When they are no longer distracted, do you believe they will turn their attention on us?"

Priscilla has posed:
    Pysber has a good question. It seems it'll go unanswered if someone here can beat him, but it seems that at least one person has the stones to to give it a try. For being an overdressed old man, it seems Gwynevere's uncle must have been something or other in his youth, because straight away he reaches for Gwyn's former favourite sword and wrenches it straight from the ground without a word; without delay or flourish or witticism or hesitation, exactly like someone who means just what they're doing. It takes precisely all of one second for him to drop it again once the occultic flame bites back at his hand, the black fires of embittered Humanity scorching that which they were tempered to kill. The massive sword, appropriately sized for him at least, cracks the flagstones where it bounces, and then before he can so much as howl, Gwynevere is two steps across and her hand is straight across his cheek, shocking the crowd into silence with the resounding crack.

    "Lloyd!" using his proper name now. Not even his title. "What is this?! What is this . . . this /mess/ that I am to arrive to whence thou went so far to assure mineself that . . . I even went as to . . . didst thou /plan/ for . . . dost thou hath no answer to this better than trading blows?! Nothing to say for thineself?!" She then sharply looks to the kneeling rows behind her. "Dost /any/ of thee?!" She sounds like a woman who's barely raised her voice in her life; bewildered and not quite sure what to do with the feeling of being angry and distressed. Reiji might have misestimated a little, but he may also be correct. The incredible disappointment in her voice indicates that she knew 'uncle Lloyd' long before leaving, and yet at the same time, it's less the kind of disappointment one expresses in a parent saying something horrible, and more the kind that one expresses in a relative trying to get your money.

    There's a good chance he isn't a foreigner, but still a much better chance that he hasn't been relevant here in a long time. Maybe coasting on a name or a reputation, maybe just unable to measure up to Gwyn (admittedly a difficult bar to pass), or maybe any other number of reasons that all equate to essentially the same motivations. It's reflected in the fact that, though he has more of a spine than most, -- the forgotten second brother kind of irrelevance rather than the coward's kind -- he clearly isn't ready to start something involving Gwyn's eldest; Priscilla's favourite, Gwynevere's surviving brother, and all said and done, General of the army and thousand year old war hero. Instead, he looks to Mel, a little misgivingly with her hovering on a bunch of stones like that. He probably doesn't like looking at humans at eye level. "I reserveth mine right to be attended by scribe and priest, but perhaps this is indeed not best for the ears of the common . . ." he trails off implicitly. Airing the family drama is no longer advantageous. He looks backwards for something, but fails to find it, as a goddess in deep reds has walked off already, with a human in brass armour and two protoges melting into blue wisps as part of the same motion of turning to follow her, easily visible to Lezard and Carna.

    He looks to Gwynevere for assent, and then Flann for backup, but the former only looks up with visible tears in her eyes, hands clutched over her mouth in restraining herself from crying. Not at him. No. He doesn't mean /quite/ that much to her. It's at what Psyber said. For a really horrible moment, it seems like he might have bullied the woman into tears by grandstanding about killing her brother, but then she lowers her hands the squeeze at her sleeves instead, taking a deep breath before saying hoarsely "Please. Allow me to see her. At least this. /Please/."

Priscilla has posed:
    The amount of backfiring going on is so deafening that it wraps back around into silence so leaden that one could hear a soul drop. A silent explosion of such catastrophic proportions that there's nobody left to run damage control. Everyone knows Priscilla's blood relation to Gwynevere because that sordid little piece of history had to come out to claim ascension by lineage. Apparently nobody was important enough back in the day to know the rest of the story.

Psyber (253) has posed:
    One by one, his weapons vanish back into his notepad as he writes down their names. The last one, the Sun-Slayer Greatsword, Psyber bends down and picks up. As he does so, the black flames run up his arm and gnaw at the appendage. He looks at the blade in his hand unflinchingly and then at Lloyd. Whatever excruciating pain he feels wielding the sword, it at least reminds him the weight of his own actions.

    Psyber lifts the sword again and holds it so that the tip rests against the ground for a few moments. And then he bows at the waist. He does not kneel for her, but he does bow himself to about a fourty-five degree angle, hand resting on the hilt of his blade as he does so, "The others are correct in one thing. I apologize for the rudeness of my proclamation and for the distress it has caused you, Lady Gwynevere. In my last declaration, I did not honor your request to treat you as I would a lady. I allowed my emotions to be carried away by those who spoke intent for you."

    He finishes, "For this, I apologize. Please forgive me."

    When he stands up right again, he's looking her square in the eyes. It's with a degree of respect that wasn't there before, and as he lifts up the sword wraps it in the tattered, beaten tarp that he usually covers it in when he carries it on his back, he lifts it up to rest between his shoulders and then says, "I will take you to your daughter."

    He pauses and then adds, "She will likely be overjoyed at your return, so I will depart after guiding you."

    He knows that certain moments are meant to be private.

Mizuki (183) has posed:
    Well, shit. That turned out a lot, uh... better, than it could have. Palora just rubs the back of her neck, eyes flitting between the various players on the stage as Gwynevere has a veritable breakdown. Truth be told, she feels /beyond/ shitty right now, and her sole comfort is in knowing that her acting the way she did kind of, sort of gives Gwynevere something to displace her likely overpowering mental fatigue on to at this point. Beyond that and the fact that her being brute force in the beginning might've helped speed this epiphany along, though, she... doesn't actually have a whole lot else to say anymore. She just sighs, eager for an opportunity to properly apologize that will likely never come. Thankfully, this isn't exactly the first time Palora's had to deal with leaving people with lasting, negative impressions of her for plural centuries. So she'll manage, if anyone is actually concerned about that.

    As far as letting her see Priscilla, she doesn't see why not. She reserves the right to use her already dismal position in everyone's esteem to be the jerkass who will be monitoring for assassination attempts even as they walk into the audience chamber, though. Just in case, and that will at least spare the others from the same concern. So they, you know, have time to kind of, sort of patch things up if Gwynevere /doesn't/ end up being a sociopath. Honestly, the stack of dominoes in that tower is looking pretty high right now.

    Palora narrows her eyes faintly at 'Lloyd,' though he's not like to notice in the commotion of his ambitions dissolving before his eyes. So she just casually cradles her head in her arms, leveling her expression to an unusual neutral, fading into the background just like her mother might have done. Only, she kind of has a better reason to be doing it, today.

    Living and doing things is hard, man.

Eryl Fairfax has posed:
    And it all plays out. Both aspects of the plans Original Face had conducted become unne<span style="color:essary.

cxterm2">TWO MAJOR CONCERNS
    LINGERING RESENTMENT TOWARDS PSYBER.
    POWER PLAY BY THE UNCLE.

BREAKING DOWN PROBLEM 1.

    -PSYBER MURDERED GWYNDOLIN OUT OF SELF-CONFESSED ANGER.
    -OFFERS OTHERS A CHANCE TO JUDGE HIM.
    - PSYBER CLAIMS MORAL HIGH GROUND, AS HE HELPED REBUILD LORDRAN.
    -SHOULD NO ONE TAKE CHANCE TO JUDGE HIM, RESENTMENT LINGERS.

SOLUTION: JUDGEMENT BY ONE IN SAME MORAL POSITION, WHILE GIVING CITIZENS A CHANCE AT MORAL HIGH GROUND.

OUTCOME: RESENTMENT SOOTHED.</span>

    The uncle (who is named Lloyd, it seems), did have the spine, but chose poorly. This resentment may not go away today, but no one is going to chance trying again. Especially since Gwynevere finally starts speaking on her own.

PROPOSED SOLUTION TO PROBLEM 2: Try to drive a stake between 'them' and 'her', I guess. I dunno.

BREAKING DOWN PROBLEM 2:
    -UNCLE USING GWYNEVERE AS EMOTIONAL BANNER TO RALLY AROUND.
    -USING HER GRIEF AS EVIDENCE OF NEGATIVE EFFECT OF OFFWORLDERS.
    -ALL OF THIS OCCURS JUST AS SHE RETURNS.
    -WAS VERY BLUNT IN MENTIONING IT.

SOLUTION: HOLD UNCLE EQUALLY GUILTY OF CAUSING GWYNEVERE'S STATE. REMIND ALL THAT HER HOMECOMING SHOULD BE ABOUT HER.

OUTCOME: REMOVE UNCLE'S AUDIENCE, NEGATIVE FEELINGS TEMPORARILY BURIED TO BE DEALT WITH AT LATER DATE.

    Indeed, she is more than capable of standing up for herself. Everyone who was braying their own agenda is now clearly too shamed to speak up again. Capitalizing on the silence, Eryl gives a quick nod to Mel for her role as peacekeeper before turning to the crowd.

    "Make way for Princess Gwynevere!" he bellows at anyone who might have bunched up in the confusion.

Reiji Arisu has posed:
Lloyd. Allfather Lloyd. Gwyn's brother.

Now it makes sense.

    Reiji rolls his shoulders back. He breathes a long, tired sigh as the Allfather proves himself to be approximately as pestulant as your average five year old. But at least it looks like he knows when to quit.

Even if that point is apparently demarcated by his niece's palmprint all across his face.

    "Like I said before, family's family. Blood or otherwise," Reiji says from around his cigarette. "Whatever happened in the past, now is a time for change and renewal- though we hardly have the right to deny a mother the chance to meet her daughter."

Reiji holds back the question at the back of his mind though: 'Why did you go and leave her behind?'

That's something that Priscilla should be allowed to ask, herself.

    "Though I'd request for Allfather Lloyd and Lord Flann to give Lady Gwynevere and Queen Priscilla their due privacy during their reunion," Reiji says after a moment, but before turning to follow after Psyber. "I'm not sure that sort of thing is something that anyone else needs to see. There'll be plenty of time for discussions afterwards."

Mel Brock (941) has posed:
    Marshal Brock responds to the looks of misgiving as if they hadn't been given; with her arms folded behind her back, she nods lightly to Lloyd, appreciative. "Thank you. I'm... I'm a captain of the guard, sir. More or less. My job to worry about the people. I appreciate your willingness." To those who've only heard her free-mouthed banter on the radio, hearing her put on the 'cop voice' and act professionally may come as something of a surprise, but she's capable when she needs to be. Having helped to quell things, the psychic floats back downward, her spread-out coat holding her as surely as a platform until she steps off - at which point it floats itself right up to her waiting hand.

    She shakes off the dirt, swings it around herself, and pulls it back on, buttoning it up with smooth, practiced movements.

Lezard Valeth has posed:
Carna speaks to Lezard, and he replies as the political debacle continues towards an end. "Lezard Valeth, the Necromancer of Midgard." He chuckles. "I am something of a resident of these parts. A poorly tolerated one, as I tend to remind them of uncomfotable truths." There is a pause as he watches the red and brass leave, and his eyes narrow faintly before he glances back to Carna. "Be calm. Stand straight and be confident. Do not show weakness here."

There is a low gleam in his glasses. "This is a land that devours weakness, from the depths of tht Abyss, to the highest point of Anor Londo. That fact has never changed, even in its rebirth. If anything, it has become even more etched into the universe."

He adjusts his glasses, and gestures. "Come to the Duke's Archives when you have time. I find you curious, perhaps we can exchange some mutual knowledge."

He looks back to the gathered. "The main event seems to have concluded." He says to Carna. "If you are concerned for your life, you may join me." He turns, and steps away, raising his Catalyst. A magical circle begins to manifest, the Sorceror calling on his own teleportation magics. Carna can be taken with him as he takes his leave, if he steps into the circle.

Carna (974) has posed:
    Necromancer is not a term Carna is familiar with. But still having her journal out, she writes that down along with Lezard's name. So much to remember for such a tattered mind. "The Abyss is it?" That sounds familiar. Like this 'Darkness' the Peacemakers preach about. The talk of archives and an exchange of knowledge peaks her interest, however. She wants to know more. Much more. "I believe I shall take you up on that offer..."

    She looks around at those assembled, watching after the phantom-like knights who followed the brass-garbed woman. They are not the central spectacle. That sword that causes black flames to burn those who touch it, the challenge that one man/god attempted to take up and failed at, only to then get smacked across the face.

    The distressed goddess who Carna still feels the desire to sink her teeth into, even as she feels that she should not, that this is against what she aspires to be from now on... That other people are not just things to feed her power. That there must be limits.

    Everyone assembled seems to be coming to their own conclusions about all these complicated politics. "I have no life to take. But I don't care to be slain regardless, and I'd just as soon gain a greater understanding of this world." She has need of both knowledge and power. And from what she can tell, Lezard is powerful indeed.

    Though she eyes his sorcery skeptically, she does step close enough to be teleported away with him when he does so.

    She just hopes the others are right about Priscilla being safe. The woman may unnerve her, but she also respects her.

    The others... She has yet to form an opinion about.

    Yes, even the loud one.