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Owner	Pose
Marigold	This is Narcian. You've never met him before. At least, according to him.      Right now he's sitting across a wooden table laden with luxurious medieval snacks (all clustered near his side), in a carpeted-stone meeting hall draped with rich red banners, whose high glass windows look out on an improbably rich countryside.      The newness of the modest keep's stone, the alertness of its attending soldiers, the relative unimportance of the nearby town, and the fact that a natural warpgate was in the fortified courtyard speak to this place being built around it, probably for the exact purpose of safely receiving visitors like you. You aren't even told where, exactly, in Bern you are.      Narcian, compensating for things, is excessively smug. He so obviously loves negotiating from a position of strength, and often gestures at the map on the wall behind him showing Bern's forces concentrated at Lycia's border (though you can't count on it being honest). Even so, it isn't hard to verbally badger or intimidate him; he sweats, consternates, tantrums, and blusters until he re-establishes his position, or at least believes he has.      Running through the obvious tools you have to discourage Bern's aggression:      Threatening to keep the Fire Emblem: would be a national embarrassment for Bern, but he doesn't seem too menaced. Whatever their plans, he's sure they can go ahead without the Binding Blade.      Cutting off Multiversal trade with Bern: Doesn't faze him. This world only unified months ago; Bern has yet to become dependent on trade, and is glutted with resources.      Selling weapons to its enemies: Does faze him, but he tries to pretend like it doesn't.      Military invasion: He's openly derisive of the idea that any 'Otherworld' faction would care about Lycia enough to put large-scale boots on the ground about it, and regrettably, he's probably right.      There's no sign of Zephiel (yet?), but Narcian's entertaining to harass, and you can steal snacks from him (is that roast pheasant?) if you're fast enough.
Flamel Parsons	Part of being a spy is understanding that every dinner has an ulterior motive, and if you can't find one yourself, you're the one being ulteriorly motivationed upon. Despite that, Flamel Parsons already knows plenty of Narcian's mind, or at least he doesn't want to wear out his astral projection on Narcien. Don't fill up on appetizers, as they say.     With that in mind, during all of this he definitely got involved in some kind of complex thing where he had to use telekinesis, pyrokinesis, and invisibility to steal Bernian-- Bernish? Bernite? Bernch? He's stealing snacks and such for Guinivere. Nice, delicious food from her homeland should help boost her mood, is the important part. As a highly trained Psychonaut he knows that every feeling has a material motivation, and that the best way to improve feelings is to improve material circumstances. And as a Psychonaut, he also has a strong rivalry with the Gastronauts, and like the rest of his kind, enjoys filing reports that will be leaked to them in ways that enrage that organization.     Unfortunately, occupying himself with this is the best he can do until Zephiel shows his face. After all, he understands that any negotiation here is going to likely be fruitless. Not just because Narcien is Narcien. It's because what's happening here is bigger than him, maybe even bigger than his king. A military-wide and nobility-wide psychohazard that might have even made its way into citizenry. Nothing that's said here can do much -- or at least, that's what the Psychonaut thinks.
Aidan Proudpick	The simplest fit is probably the best here for Aidan. Sarracenia's breastplate, which has a single patch over where it was pierced by one of the Queen's spears - an red enameled steel heart, makes a good start. It's not one of the fancier ones, utilitarian, wedge shaped. Maybe that'll win him points? Black breeches with a dark teal masculine skirt that goes about to the knee. The skirt, mind you, is simple cotton with the best costume gold trim two chipmunk twins could try and conceal. The debate over whether or not make up would be a good thing or a bad thing went on for about an hour, before everyone agreed to err on the side of caution. Hopefully, the fact he's a six foot squirrel will keep anyone from noticing. It is also key in Aidan's awareness that diplomacy is NOT his strong suit in the least. Even if he were at 100 percent confidence, he definitely wouldn't put himself up to the task in front of the likes of Ru Li and Lilian Rook. As much as committing validharm on Narcian WOULD make Aidan feel much better. Okay, just a little. A careful pace around the room, nodding to the guards, trying to find ANYONE ELSE he can turn his bright smile and countryside 'charm' on. Aidan's nostrils flare up every so often and he lets out a rapid snort, making the map threaten to fly completely off the wall as wind gusts up underneath it.
Madeleine Cadrasteia	Formal negotiations call for formal attire. Madeleine steps through the warpgate in a dazzling white silk evening gown, matching satin opera gloves, and a white masquerade half-mask. Both the dress and the mask are subtly embroidered in silver. The mask does little to hide her identity, but it accentuates her starry-void eyes. Around her neck is a heavy onyx pendant on a silver chain. Her weapons are nowhere to be seen, but the black leather purse on her arm is large enough to hide a knife.     "General Narcian, is it?" she begins after taking a seat. "It's a pleasure. I must say you have chosen a fine venue for our first meeting. Such accommodation is only fair for an Elite such as myself, but I'm flattered nonetheless. Do tell me, how did you come by your position under the king? From the moment I heard about the dashing wyvern-riders of Bern I've been simply aching to meet their champion, and I am oh-so-curious as to how you built such a name for yourself." She's lying, of course. But flattery, unsubtle though it may be, could get somewhere with this sort of man. And besides, getting the fellow to talk about himself gives her a chance to sneak some cake from one of the trays on Narcian's side of the table.
Trudy Grimm	Expecting to meet royalty, Trudy Grimm has dressed up. In place of her furs and casual jacket and skirt is a knee-length black dress with ruffled layers. Tall lace-up boots and a fishnet top with sleeves that cover the backs of her hands but not her fingers. Of course, the witch still has countless beads of stone, bone, and numerous woods hanging in clusters at her hip and neck, and the Grimoire hangs at her side with its own retinue of beads and charms.     She attends with her companion from before, the old beareded one-eyed man Grimnir. He, compared to her, hasn't bothered to dress up at all. Still in the roughshod traveling clothes and big hat, he rubs bony hands together, "Well, well. What a fine feast you've provided. Don't mind if I do."     Grimnir doesn't wait for permission-- and, in fact, ignores objections-- as he brazenly starts collecting food for himself. In this way, he's acting as a distraction from Flamel's more clandestine thievery.     Trudy, to her credit, is focused on Narcian himself. His insistence that they'd never met before is brushed past once it's clear that venue is fruitless. Instead, her tactic twists into inflating his ego as a tactic for spilling information by way of boasting. Praising his sword, his soldiers, the lavish meal. She caps it off by suggesting it was Narcian himself who is responsible for such clear success.     Grimnir, stuffing his face with buttered bread, is doing a good job of not laughing at every hollow compliment the witch offers.
Desire Stars	EARLIER     The greenery of a public park is a great place to get some air.     "Hello, everyone," says Neon Kurama, a woman with short brown hair that ends just below her jawline. "Neon here. Wave." A curt little wave of her hand, for the benefit of an audience viewing her through the smartphone she's set up on the ground before her, pointedly out of the way of any passers-by. A venerable old oak is behind her, its brown bark offset by the afternoon sun, Neon's canary-yellow blouse and floral-print navy skirt. A guardrail stretches behind her, providing a safe place to look out over a bay. "Today marks attempt number 54--eh?!"     Ace Ukiyo's face takes up the entirety of the screen for a moment. "What's all this supposed to be?" he asks.     Neon's stream chat, already going at a rapid pace, scrolls faster than anyone without experience streaming would have any hope of reading even in passing. Excited emojis, exclamation points, the occasional bit of barely contained exhilaration--     "Is this some kind of collab between Mr. Ace and Ms. Neon?! No way!!"     A distinctly American accent cuts through the local crowd--and while they don't seem to look, Neon herself (and her chat) know them all too well.     Two huge guys that look like they could be bouncers--BEN, a man with umber-brown skin, a thin mustache and a fade haircut, and JOHN, a man with pale fawn skin, his brown hair styled in a crew cut with a close-shaven beard to match.     "Miss," says JOHN, the same way you'd respectfully say 'princess,' "It's time to come home. But first... can we get your autograph, Mr. Ace?!"     The two of them bounce excitedly, while Ace, having just finished filming a commercial for expensive cologne, signs the autograph books of two excited goobers built like brick houses. Neon quietly scoops up her phone and escapes, much to their surprised chagrin. Ace, by himself, checks his DGP-issued Spider Phone, while Neon, ducking into an alley as Ben and John sprint past, receives the same notification:                               BONUS MISSION START                                                                Sue for peace                                       "Eh?" Neon's face screws up into a perfect picture of confusion.     Ace smiles, already on his way to the Warpgate.
Desire Stars	NOW     Ace Ukiyo enters in as the picture of confidence, making sure to spare a smile for Narcian. He wears a black three piece suit with a striking red-white scarf draped on either side, tied together with a gold bowtie. His black hair is stylishly, immaculately parted.     Neon Kurama arrives just as well dressed, a moment after--floor-length black dress, a grey faux-fur jacket with a high waist, heels and silver earrings. By contrast with Ace, however, as much as she's dressed the part of someone attending an important meeting for matters of state, the confidence she has is much more obviously an affectation thereof--she makes the occasional sideward glance at her surroundings, and fidgets, ever so slightly, when she's seated.     It isn't until the first sign of bluster from Narcian that she realizes the strength of everyone's hand. *Maybe this isn't so different from talking with mom and dad's 'work friends...'*     She isn't the sort to needle, or play tricks. But Ace is.     "I'd like to know a little about that," says Ace, noding towards one of the banners (such that Narcian will have to look to see what he's referring to. just long enough for him to steal food). His face and hands are immaculate, even so. "What does the color red mean to Bern? What place does it have in your heraldry?"     Neon gives him a reproachful look.
Dysnomia	Dysnomia leans into looking as out of place and 'Otherworldly,' as possible. Her suit has a sleek, futuristic air to it that she hopes might make them wary--or at least, sit up and take notice. Narcian, at least, is fun to toy with.     "Just how is your wyvern, general?" She said, pleasantly enough, if one did not know the context--and Narcian did so insist that he did not know the context. "I heard that it lashed out. That must have been terrifying, for it to throw you off while you were riding it."     "I can't imagine, trusting and believing in something that could carry you, turning on you, when you need it most?" Dysnomia leaned over the table, slowly, snatching a large piece of meat from Narcian's plate. She picks it up slowly, leaving him plenty of time to see it, meeting his eyes. Daring him to protest.     "It's just so awful." There's a sharp CRUNCH as she bits into the meat--and through the bone--and SWALLOWS the bone--and smiles.
Blemishine	And this is Maria! Oh, wait, no. Even if this isn't a combat operation, it's still an operation - and an important one, if King Zephiel shows up. Blemishine it is.     Which means she's once again in her close-fitting white mail, the internal mechanics that make it a bit more 'powered' than ordinary plate hidden away to where she doesn't seem anachronistic at all, arms idly folded across her chest. No need for keeping one resting near her blade at a negotiation! Well, one would hope so, anyway. She doubts even King Zephiel arriving, no matter how menacing his disposition ends up being, won't bring any real danger. Guinivere mentioned he might see this as a passing amusement more than anything...     ...although that fact doesn't exactly help any natural anxiety over meeting a man like that. But it's impossible to get someone's measure without seeing them with your own eyes.     Though until he actually shows up - if at all? - there's Narcian to deal with. Blemishine discovered pretty early in all of this, as if the debacle back at the village wasn't enough, that trying to work out any terms with a man like him is... not going to work. Even if they somehow got past his reinforced Multi-Stage Defenses, there's really nothing stopping his King from overturning it on the spot. She's exactly noble enough to know when seriously trying won't get them far.     And exactly ig-noble enough to not also take the chance to jab at the wyvern general while trying to scour some information. "I have to say, Sir Narcian," the blonde knight starts, her golden eyes drifting from him to the map behind him. Her voice doesn't /entirely/ hide away a hint of something between a forced-back snicker.     "You really have a lot of confidence in your invasion force. And with numbers like that, I can see why. But is there truly not a single Lycian lord or general that concerns you? We've heard plenty about Bern's overwhelming might, but I can't help but wonder if even you might meet your match somewhere out there..." The implication is so blatant, you can almost hear the phantom 'hehe' at the end of it.     She's also taking this time to look over the map in detail; honest soldier count or not, it's only helps to have a convenient layout of the land and national borders to commit to memory.
Odette Raskins	Odette's here, too! After promising to help Lucian and Guinevere with this matter, how could she not? Sure, she's not any kind of bigwig in the Watch in any capacity, her role in the Company is a PR stunt at best if they even remember she exists, and she's not exactly the most intimidating sort when even seeing Narcian around is enough to have her on edge. What she does have, however, is a potential angle to try and convince Zephiel not to go through with his aggression plan. She's not about to share it with Narcian, of course, but she does kill some time trying to ply him with curious-sounding questions here and there to try and get his guard down: "How did you learn to ride a dragon like that?" She hasn't quite learned the difference between dragons and wyverns yet. "How do you make those scary explosions with your sword?" Odette still shivers a bit just remembering it being directed at her. "Does everyone higher up in your army get to wear capes like that?" She doesn't have a cape of her own, just a jacket. Odette might also be/is definitely genuinely curious about those things. It helps kill time until the ruler comes, anyway, and it might even help her get some snacks if she can hold his attention while someone else in the food snatching gang takes advantage of the opening.
Kayoko Kirenai	Kayoko is not a skilled negotiator. She's sixteen, first of all, and only experienced in fighting monsters. The skillset of fighting monsters can *logically* be applied to the objectively evil Narcian, but in practice the similarities between them aren't as great as Kayoko would want to imagine they are. She's often capable of getting what she-- nominally-- wants around Meika and the Magical Girls, but only so long as what she wants lines up with what the Holy Refulgence wants, and *that* tactic of negotiating is even less effective here; especially since she listened to the explanation that Father Lucius gave in the radio about their 'saints'.     Information control, goal denial, and overwhelming force are the tools in her toolbox for fighting Temptations-- and even if that former option is something still applicable here, it's not like she can lie to a *king*. She's never even *seen* a king before! He's probably ten feet tall and wearing huge ornamental robes, with a gold and jewel encrusted sword, and she can imagine Princess Guinivere before she escaped with the Fire Emblem--     Kayoko is in the negotiation room with no plan but an absolute refusal to admit that. Dressing well means dressing as a magical girl-knight, and Kayoko can afford the transformations without a second thought, so she's armored in blue and gold semi-metal before even stepping through the warpgate. One thing she *is* suited for, in these negotiotiations, is an impenetrable lack of visible readability, such that her awe at the decor is masked by seeing it all before even entering the room, and her expressions and posture are neutral and controlled.     She does not steal food. That would be rude. She does, however-- extremely uncharacteristically of herself, and demonstrative of her disdain for Narcian-- offhandedly mask anyone else's attempts to steal food with illusory, innocent gestures and brief invisibility. She might be following decorum, but Narcian's authority isn't one that she feels justified in inflicting on anyone else.     Kayoko's only stance she can really argue from, given that she doesn't feel like she has any authority to negotiate on behalf of the Paladins as an organization, is the one that also appeals to her personally: as a hero of justice, by whose individual might and righteousness wars are always won.     "No matter how much you try to show off how strong you are," Speaking up is a problem for Kayoko, since her voice immediately reminds everyone that despite the armor and posture, she's just a kid, but she still does it after one of Narcian's blustering gestures back at the war board. "Wickedness never wins in the end."     "You probably know it too, if you're honest with yourself. Being greedy and-- and hurting innocent people, and *cowardly* like you are, means that eventually every brave person in Lycia will stand against you, and we'll stand with them. You'll always fail in the end."     Passively, partly out of curiousity and partly out of some vague suspicion that nefarious words might be traded behind closed doors, possibly with an evil vizier of some sort, Kayoko trawls her vision throughout any part of the castle that isn't sealed off. If she chances across King Zephiel as he approaches-- or doesn't?-- the meeting room, then he's her focus, but just the fact that she's in a real live (bare, hastily constructed, small) castle is enough to enrich her.
Lilian Rook	The temptation to think 'how cute of them' upon recognizing the unnaturally contained fort pointed inwards on a Warpgate is subsequently vapourized by Lilian remembering the sincerely far more overwrought security she's seen around her own world, and vanishes before she can speak it into existence.     Briefly and sharply, she is aware of the reality that it doesn't matter anyways. It's not as if she can break into a royal treasury here and steal another divine artifact, and it's not as if she can assassinate some kind of key military leader. There isn't even a meaningful case to interfere at all; the Paladins has not arbitrarily decided to side with Lycia over Bern because Lilian happened to be there for Guinivere last week. They could be having a picnic out in a grassy meadow and they wouldn't be much more threatened by her.     This results in Lilian taking out the confusing new feeling of 'being an unnecessary presence' on Narcian, whom she is-- visibly, at very first glance shared between them-- infuriated he dare show his face and pretend, and utterly gleam-eyed delighted that he's walked back into her metaphorical jaws.     She makes a game of watching where he looks; for food, cups, utensil, anything; distracting his eyes with slight sounds, sudden small motions, or opportune conversation, then taking it in the instant he glances away. Giving him suggestively menacing looks at every private crossing of gazes is actually just an accident. Though she makes no attempts whatsoever (for a change) to interject into anyone else's shitty ideas or lame threats, whenever Narcian has social momentum and seems to be feeling himself, he must studiously avoid looking back at her to evade further signs of evil fascination; mentally contrasting him against his 'sprinting through the woods in panic' image, probably. Hopefully.     Of course Lilian can dress for the occasion. It could be interpreted either way how respectful it is to largely reuse much of what she'd worn to Yinghua, though she dispenses with the needlessly exotic and wears no armour; partial or otherwise. Her hair is tied with loose, flowing knots that she knows much better than eastern styles of doing so. It's enough to spill back down to her shoulders again regardless, but clear of her arms, the window between her shoulders, and more deliberately framing her eyes; and the scar that comes with them. A statement she's made on purpose for the second time ever.     "Have some class, Dysnomia." is about the most she says against anyone else. "Or are you here to make me look good by comparison? If I were a king in this room, I'd be reassured to know my enemies have that little self-control and subtlety." Apparently, silently gaslighting someone is the preferred way.     "Besides, a Wyvern General of Bern would be more than familiar with danger on the battlefield. If a powerful enemy or two were to pose an obstacle, I'm certain he'd lay down his own life without hesitation for his country." Lilian says, creepily lacking any particular 'we both know' scorn at Narcian, and dripping with some other implication instead. "Little things like that don't decide the course of a war. They only change the fates of individuals during it."
Meika Kirenai	It feels awful, absolutely so, to step out of the warpgate and onto the grounds of the second castle she's ever had the chance to visit, and yet have no reason at all to justify burning one of her few remaining pages to show up in her somewhat-knightly costume, like her sister can. A teenager in dingy jeans, clunky boots, and a well-worn letterman doesn't belong in an inwardly-defended courtyard, let alone playing diplomat in a fancy meetinghall. She knows it, and anyone who looks at her can tell she does.     The surroundings are imposing enough to worry that a touch alone would break them, regardless of structural fortitude, the same way churches and administrator's offices tend to be, and so she's sat herself down nearer the far end of the table, and folded her hands up neatly in her lap, purposefully more out of the way. Hearing and speaking up won't be issues for her, obviously.     What could be an issue, (albeit one for Bern's delegation, not her,) is that she's just one amonst the quite-a-few present Elites who aren't quite so good at leaving the thoughts of others alone. It's plenty fine a spot to sit and eavesdrop from, and she's sour enough in mood to not even bother trying to convince herself out of doing just that.     {"Hey. Mister Parsons,"} Meika's whispering still needs her lips to move, but she figures it looks fine, or at least not unexpected, for a sulking teen to be mumbling to herself. {"The other day you said something about... my 'work', right? I lied a bit. Don't bring it up. But-"} >There's a sharp CRUNCH as she bits into the meat     There's a sharp, short stop to her magically shrouded words, as Meika flinches, and stares daggers right at Dysnomia, all the way across the room. Those bright-red eyes are unsettlingly visible, even at distance, especially with a furious scowl. "Shut-- Can't you just chew *normal*? That's- that's *so* gross." Quickly, the anger dissipates into shoulder-shivering discomfort. "... That's so gross."     {"Um. Where was I- right. You've done stuff like this before, right? If you need help with... that kind of work, tag me in, okay? Just pretend to say what you need and I'll be able to tell."} With that out of the way, and somehow more uncomfortable and guilty than how she started, she finally turns attention to others and- 'How did you learn to ride a dragon like that?'     It's totally a dragon. Very slight vindication comes at how Narcian got upset at the term before, and someone she is mildly friendly-ish to saying the same. "Oh, hey, Miss Odette. I- thanks for the help patching up, the other day. I- I forgot to say it, then." It doesn't sound like she's particularly happy to, now, but she's putting a little bit of an effort into it.     The last person in the room Meika's eyes fall towards is her sister. Inadequacy wells up hearing how storybook Cobalt's words are, and while she's silent herself, there's still the urge to build some sort of control and lash at something as her sister's tirade goes on. So- turning to Narcian, as he's addressed and focused on Cobalt, she takes the fun little chance to twist memories, giving credence to the other magical girl by making everything she says have precedence, time and time again from anyone important to him, such that each word will remind him he's failing.     It's out of jealousy more than malice. Meika wants whatever twinge of emotion that comes up on Narcian's face to be her doing. That's all.
Flamel Parsons	Flamel doesn't need any movement to reply to Meika! Telepathy probably works. He thinks: "Hey there, Chevalier Vermillion! Don't worry, lying to authority figures by instinct actually just indicates you still have a great survival instinct. You're right, though, I might need to get you involved. If Zephiel has a really strong psychohazard, or if he's got anti-psychic training, I'll need plenty of help! I'll put a plan together if it comes to it. And I think it will!" His optimistic, friendly grin flashes across his face without any clear explanation. "I'll look forward to working with you!" He thinks.
Dysnomia	"... That's so gross."     The clear discomfort in Meika's voice was clear enough to give Dysnomia pause. She hadn't considered that her little attempt at intimidation might have splash damage. "You're right, Vermillion." She decided on, eventually, deciding to frame it as an allowance for the General's comfort rather than draw attention to Meika by acknowledging her discomfort. "I wouldn't want to make our general uncomfortable."     "Have some class, Dysnomia."     There's a laced thread of irritation that flashes through her, at being undercut in front of their opponent, sinking any chance of being seen as a united front. "Am I not? You'll have to forgive me then, Dame Commander. I can't say I've even been to dinner in a castle, before." As though that had any bearing at all on the way she'd been acting.     "Tell me, General." She addressed Narcian. "I'm not pressuring you, am I?" To say 'yes' would be to admit vulnerability, to confess weakness, to admit he'd been shaken. But you'll never admit to those things, will you?
Marigold	The red-clad spearmen by the doors are both extremely bored and largely resistant to country charm, in that zoned-out way. The best Aidan can get from them is a polite smile, which slowly turns to dead-eyed exasperation from one of them as he has to keep putting the map back up.      Narcian resents the foodtheft, but it's obviously supposed to be for you too, and he's only got two hands to try and shove thieves away. He stuffs his grumpy face with a fluffy jam-cake. "Hm? Red? Ahaha, it's an enchanting color, isn't it!" he says, eager to use patriotism to patch up his dignity. "Bern has always been a land won through blood. In the Scouring, it was the last bastion of the dragons. The great hero Hartmut... hey!!"      He glares at Mia's brazen pheasant-theft, lets fear creep in when she dredges up bad memories, and then jumps a little in his seat when she crunches down. "I... I assure you! I don't know what you're talking about! You beast!" He scrunches his face and waves, a little too violently to be dismissive, to banish Blemishine and Mia's implications. "I think I'd remember it if my perfect record had ever been sullied!!!"      the map shows Bern's forces in Ilia and Sacae as well as the Lycian border. They've committed relatively few forces to pacifying their conquered territories, apparently, which fits with Guinivere's statements about turning local factions against one another. Most of the troop buildup is at the narrow pass between two mountain ranges that nearly wall Lycia off from the continent's east.      Kayoko falls right into a familiar trap. Narcian's eyes practically gleam; he's played this conversational line before, and flourishes with a chewed pheasant-bone while leaning forward. "Of course. Good always wins, because the winners define goodness. And no-one has more goodness in their heart than I, Narcian-- because no-one is stronger, either! Mhmhmhm~ ... hm... hhhh." Lilian's challenge utterly extinguishes his triumph and sends him scuttling back to furtively chewing on snacks.      Mia's follow-up challenge makes his eyes slide off to the side. "N-no. Of course not. I've never been *pressured* in my life." Little worm. "Oho? I see my name's reached even your exotic lands!" he says to Madeleine, freshly enthused to meet an apparent admirer. "But it's Wyvern General Narcian. Even if I'm... waiting on a new wyvern, but..." He clears his throat uneasily before smiling, unwholesomely, at Madeleine again. "Well! That'd be the heroism, mostly! And the tactical genius. And my dashing good looks no doubt played a part too. Stunning charisma. Once-in-a-generation talent. Wealth- um, no, nevermind that one. Phenomenal experience. Awe-inspiring--"
Marigold	WHAM. "Eeek?!"         _______________________________              KING ZEPHIEL THE FIRST               RULER OF THE KINGDOM OF BERN          TRUE HEIR OF HARTMUT THE HERO             AND WIELDER OF ECKESACHS        The door behind the general is flung open. Instantly you understand who Narcian is a poor imitation of. Zephiel's presence is so bracing that it feels wrong it didn't penetrate through the wood. Kayoko's imagination was exactly right. Ferocious, knife-sharp eyes sweep the assembled Elites, and a heavy pause hangs before he speaks.      "Wretches. Come to grovel for 'peace', have you?" His eyes pierce deepest into those who stare back; those who flinch from his gaze are beneath even scornful attention. His boots crack sharply against stone as he advances to the table, and Narcian falls sideways out of his chair to scramble out of the way. "Y-your majesty! I had no idea--" But Zephiel doesn't even look at him, either. He gestures subtly with his strange three-pointed scepter.      "I thought to judge your worth, but you have none. Children who know no morality but flinching from blood. You know nothing of our past and less of the present. Fools are owed this mercy: leave. When next you come, you will be ground to pulp beneath Bern's heel." He looks like he's almost considering just doing it now. Even his own spearmen are nervously sidling for the exits.      The only one in the room who doesn't seem suffocated is the purple-robed woman(?) who slips in after him, to stand by his side. Her face is hard to glimpse, but her posture is utterly relaxed.
Flamel Parsons	Agent Parsons freezes in his chair. Static crackles around his temples for just a moment, but it's gone just as quick. Warmonger leaders get to him, badly. He shifts posture, after several long seconds of frozen position, swallowing down the response before he returns to his bright, positive bearing. "Your Majesty." He replies, instantly, to the term "wretches" as if it were his name. "It's true! I can grovel for peace, but I'm also here to bargain for peace, or compete for peace, or fight for peace -- see, when it's geopolitical peace that's at stake, I'll do just about anything! And groveling is included there. But it *sounds* like that wouldn't really work. So I'm here to find out what would. Or at least why nothing would!"     Ideological. Driven, specifically, by compelling ideologies. Can he pass up an opportunity to let that ideology stretch its legs? But more important is getting a good look at his mind. He thinks, to Meika: "Hey Vermillion. Gonna try getting a decent angle on his mind. See if you can help get him talking. His social boundaries are his psychic ones too, so we have to make him want to open up *at least* enough to see the scale and type of psychohazard I'm facing here, hopefully any useful surface info too. He needs to start explaining. What do you think, any ideas?"
Trudy Grimm	Trudy blithely listens to Narcian spar (and fail against) the others' posturing and jabs. He deserves it, but it seems her angle isn't going to find the traction she had hoped for. The witch glances aside to her companion, currently halfway through his own helping of roast pheasant with his one good eye focused on the King.     "'Wretch' is correct, my King," Trudy offers with a calm demeanor, "How magnanimous of you to join us. Your subordinate's talents in entertainment and hospitality are..." Her head tilts slightly, fixating on Narcian with a sideways glance of glowing green eyes, "Limited."     "I will however remind you that I was /invited/," She lifts her hands up, gently lacing her fingers together, "To throw me out when I've scarcely said a word is awfully rude, isn't it? One could even say you are inviting the wrath of the goddess of Hearth and Hospitality for doing so."     Rummaging through the beads dangling from her neck, Trudy plucks a square rosewood charm loose and reaches forward, placing it down in such a way that the prominent Fehu rune-- the Rune of Frey, wife of the Allfather-- is face-up.     Grimnir chokes on his wine, shooting a look sidelong at her, "Is that necessary? Invoking the Goddess in this way could create quite a curse."     "That's the King's decision, no?"
Desire Stars	Being greedy and-- and hurting innocent people, and *cowardly* like you are, means that eventually every brave person in Lycia will stand against you, and we'll stand with them. You'll always fail in the end.      Ace and Neon, who both theoretically have something to lose here, don't seem particularly thrilled with Kayoko's opening argument. Neon politely clears her throat; Ace's smug smile thins and he pointedly looks Away from her. Good always wins, because the winners define goodness. And no-one has more goodness in their heart than I, Narcian-- because no-one is stronger, either!     "Please excuse her," says Ace, as if it's his place to make that request. "She's new to this kind of thing, and passionate." A little cold reading, to boot.      Neon, driven by an urge to comfort and blunt the edge of his words, adds: "Not that it's bad to be passionate. Only... well, if words like that were enough to stop armies from marching, nobody would bother spending the time and money to raise one, right?" She frowns thoughtfully, musing to herself without realizing how many different kinds of mind-reader are here. *We need to approach this like business. 'Here's what I have and want, here's what you have and want.' I don't think it's right, what they're doing. But if we open up as hostile as that, we might as well not even be here...* I think I'd remember it if my perfect record had ever been sullied!!! "Of course," says Neon, fine with letting Narcian scoop up some spare dignity. She hasn't previously met him, after all. Wretches.      The color drains from Neon's face--a familiar feeling overtakes her. It's the feeling of the walls closing in, of having hard-earned leverage, built fastidiously up, wiped away with as simple a gesture as a wave of a scepter. Before she realizes she's done it, her vision flinches away, and returns to the table, hands folded neatly in her lap.      Ace, however, smiles, meeting Zephiel's gaze straight on. In his brown eyes, there's nothing but the utmost confidence. He looks like he's not out of his twenties, but it's easy to get lost in the gaze he returns the king's way--like he's had this sort of confrontation many times before, whether he walked away whole or not. "King Zephiel," he says, savoring the name. "It's good to finally meet you in person. One thousand years ago," he says, "Nine divine weapons were turned against the dragons, to stop their war of extermination. The greatest of these, the Binding Blade, was wielded by your ancestor Hartmut, alongside Eckesachs."      Steepling his fingers, he parts them, in a brief little shrug. "Bern was the last stronghold of the dragons, who were killed to the last--and I understand that your father hasn't been a concern for years, either. Forgive my ignorance," he continues, a little gleam in his eye, "But what kind of victory is still out there to be had, that you'd want the Binding Blade for it?"
Odette Raskins	Kayoko calling Narcian out directly, as expected, puts that worried look right back on Odette's face. Even though she's fairly confident the combined group of Elites here could take him, she's not confident in her own ability to survive through that, never mind a brawl with whomever else might be coming to join him here. The EMT tries not to make it too obvious she's shaken herself, but her jaw tensing up and trembling lightly sure is a good indicator of that anyway. Weirdly enough, she's actually somewhat relieved when Narcian seems to take that as.. A compliment? Something to be pleased about, at least. Meika's got the right idea for keeping her calm-ish, at least, and that greeting even gets Odette to straighten up a bit, like she's trying to look just a little bit more put together than she did before. "Hi, Meika! Oh, you're welcome. It was... I mean, that's what I came to do, right?" She chuckles, trying to sound casual and just sounding nervous instead. "F-for my job, I mean. Someone has to make sure nobody dies of easily treated injuries and infections. Lilian's arrival has the EMT gawking, of course, partially from her striking choice of attire/none armor that just hits Odette with that level of utter confidence, and partially from what she actually says. Even though Odette can't quite put her finger on why those comments about Narcian laying down his life catch her attention, it's still something she has to mull over to try and grasp with considerable difficulty. The fact that both Lilian and Narcian specify wyvern instead of dragon does get her raising an eyebrow curiously. "I-Is there a... Uh. Difference?" She asks, hesitating briefly and fidgeting uncomfortably as she starts to get the sinking feeling that she might not actually she belong here in such a high stakes meeting. Odette's still too much of a coward to reach for the food even with so much interference, too, and it takes too long for her to finally muster up enough courage to do so. By the time she does, it's right around when the doors are flung open, and the sheer volume of the sound is enough to get a startled yelp out of her and nearly have her her jumping out of her seat. She stays in her seat, but only because banging her knees on the table in front of her stops her from getting up properly. Sitting back down hastily to try and play it off like she didn't just do that, Odette's eyes lock right onto Zephiel's. Her survival instincts tell her not to, of course, but turning away would require moving at all, and she's just a bit too terrified to look anywhere else. Her hands lay stiff in her lap, too, and she even inhales more quietly than usual so as to try and look as small as possible. It's not until after Flamel addresses him that she's finally able to make sounds again. "K... King Z.. Zephiel?" Her throat feels so dry right now, and the look on her face is that of someone that wants to be anywhere but there right now. Stupid non-functioning legs betraying her. "What would... Um. What would it take to stop the fighting? I-um.." Odette doesn't know where the water is, and she's not about to look away from Zephiel, no matter /especially because of how scary he is. "I don't know your history, or... A-any of that. I just don't want... Um. P-people dying if it can be avoided."
Aidan Proudpick	The door hurtles open. Aidan turns his head and sucks up the next spell he was going to cast. The aura that comes into the room is enough to set his teeth on edge. There are few bullies that Aidan likes to tolerate, and worse yet, he will lash out at them. But this man... Lilian as a guy? No, he's more terrified of Lilian. But it's in the same vein. His fists clench, but the aura of this man. The fierceness in the eyes. Conviction that if Aidan tried to stand again, he would die. A man fully willing and capable to kill Aidan. Then the figure. Aidan stares at the feminine figure, tilting his head this way and that. A puzzle. A slow glance around them room. Narcian's an idiot. Anyone should be able to see that, especially this King. It's bait. It had to be bait. Anyone would have treated that murdered as slime. Finally, Aidan steps up. He takes a courtly bow, even going so far as to actually respect this man's station by making it deep. Respect the laws of the na- Fuck, no, respect and integrity. HIS code. Not hers. "Your Majesty. We thought we were gonna meet you. Not this..." Aidan waves a hand at Narcian, oh, come on, what's a good word? "soldier." Fuck, he should have said underling. Don't boast. Don't grandstand. Don't tell him about your exploits. He wants to throw it all into his face. Push that defiance down. It's what keeps getting people killed. "Please, tell us about the present. We came here to learn."
Flamel Parsons	Flamel's gotta get that data. The *atmosphere* is, itself, hitting his psychic senses hard. Spearmen fear pollutes the room. The social effects of that intense intimidation make it hard for Flamel Parsons to keep his focus -- he can't help but feel a little intimidated, facing the scorn of a warmonger king. But he's an expert. A powerful and well-trained psychonaut, one with the clairvoyance and mental scanning ability needed to see the shape of minds.     A partial astral projection should give him what he needs. Not enough to enter a mindscape, but enough to perceive a mental silhouette. What does the mind look like? Damaged by stress and circumstance? Has it become overdeveloped in some way? Affected by something external that pushes it into a terrible state, or neglected and left to grow or heal improperly? Or is there something more paranormal near his mind? Any recognizable surface thoughts that look relevant to an investigation about the psychohazard?     If the others in here can get some of those natural caution barriers down, he might be able to see the answers to at least a few of those questions. And maybe a quick examination for the woman too -- she seems significant, and has a surprisingly clear mind based on the posture. Maybe she knows some secret or another, held in the surface thoughts and justifying her total absence of fear.
Dysnomia	The instinct to surrender to the flow of a strong will, like overactive mirror neurons, flashing so hot it threatened to overwhelm Dysnomia, warred immediately with the learned response to spurn it. When his eyes met hers, it wasn't bravery that kept them steady--Though she'd like to imagine it was. The force of his conviction was like a bright star in the night, enough to begin to make the other stars seem dull.     The meat fell down to her plate with a soft clatter as her hand opened in awe. She forced her hands to clench into fists. She struggled not to stand up at his command. Breathe in. Breathe out. The strongest friendly personality for her to latch onto would certainly have been Lilian, but her presence was, as always, muted and concealed, leaving her floundering for something, anything... The prospect of actively delving into his mind filled her with cold dread.     She should say something. She should do something. This was the hour of greatest tension, where the fate of countries was at stake. She grappled for words, but the taste of wretches burned at the back of her mind like a brand.     Dysnomia swallowed, hard.     "Maybe she knows more about what's happening, I'll check her mind too if I can get a minute."     A plan of action. A hole for her to fill. A purpose for her to latch on. She picked Parsons, as mild as he was, as her rock. Her thoughts came to the Psychonaut. "I'll...Look at her...First."     And look she did, trying to squint and pick out her mind, give her something else to focus other than the King, skimming across its surface to examine its froth.
Madeleine Cadrasteia	The words of King Zephiel's speech are nothing Madeleine hasn't heard before. His delivery, however, has her shift uncomfortably in her seat. She's known gods who spoke with less surety. This is a man who seems used to getting what he wants, and Madeleine knows that is a dangerous sort of man indeed. If he really believes that he could, as he said, grind the Elites beneath Bern's heel, he'll go lengths to see it happen. For a moment she regrets not bringing her spear... but then she realizes she'd just have drawn more attention with it. If there would be a place and time for her own legendary weapon to clash with Eckesachs it was not here and now.     Madeleine does her best to regain her composure, and speaks. "Your Majesty. Well met. Who is your fair companion? We haven't been introduced. I'd hate to leave without even knowing my hosts. Unless you'd rather Narcian's name be the one I remember." The huntress's gaze shifts to the robed figure, hoping to provoke the mystery woman into speaking on the King's behalf.
Blemishine	Little things like that don't decide the course of a war. They only change the fates of individuals during it.     After committing the map of Bern's military forces to memory, Blemishine seems contemplative of Lilian's remark, and of Narcian's response to such. "Hm..." All-out war. At least in the likes of Bern waging it in this way... Well, she keeps her thoughts to herself, rather than giving Narcian something to pipe up about so soon after being cowed.     However, the entrance in the room that comes so soon after would be enough to cow /anyone/. Narcian becomes an unintentional afterthought, simply from the sheer amount of weight in the air that Zephiel's presence brings. It's intense, even when he's at his equivalent of 'at rest'. She thinks she has an inkling of an idea, just from how the entire room shifts just upon him entering and saying a single word.     And he is a very 'ideological' man. Not of any ideology in particular, but... if he heard an argument he could not refute, it would keep him up at night. There is no shrugging his shoulders and ignoring a thing.     Whatever cause he holds in his heart now, she's not sure even an entire Multiverse might change his mind.     "...King Zephiel," she begins, quiet and low. However, she doesn't break his gaze, no matter how much parts of her might be begging to do otherwise. Her golden eyes lock against his, slightly furrowed, but determinedly and forcefully steady. Decorum and politeness won't have any sway here; that's what she feels. She's not sure if he even cares about maintaining such himself. She doesn't think so. "...You're very right about that. As outsiders, we do know very little."     "That's part of our being here. The only flinching away from blood is when it's unnecessarily spilt-- so can you tell us what makes this war that Bern is waging against the entire continent necessary? What in your past, in your present-- ...brought this about?"     It takes a lot of effort for her words to come as braced as her focus is. It's only several seconds after saying such that the knight's attention barely shifts to the robed woman beside the king; her posture makes her seem as if she's either used to being by Zephiel's side, or she's simply not as intimidated by him as anyone else. Guinivere doesn't seem to know who she is...     But her curiosity has been stoked, too. Whoever she is, she must be someone who has some kind of importance, to be walking in alongside him. And so, she shunts as much of the overwhelming atmosphere in the air away, her tuned sight trying to pick out any detail she can from beneath the shadow of the woman's hood.     She doesn't fit the description of Brunnya at all, from what she can tell. But if she can discern enough...
Kayoko Kirenai	There's not much Kayoko can do about Meika's admittedly pathetic arrival besides create a new set of more acceptable clothes for her, something which she chooses not to do. After Narcian's prod about Kayoko 'bullying' her last time, she can't say anything out loud in the meeting room about how she's entirely unsuited to being here, so the best she can do is give her a side-eye laden with the condensed disappointment of all the teachers who'd seen Meika come into class late and hungover before. "Am I not? You'll have to forgive me then, Dame Commander. I can't say I've even been to dinner in a castle, before."     Authority is recognized in Lilian, and challenging authority is recognized in a transparent, passive-aggressive deflection from Dysnomia. Kayoko sits up a little straighter in her chair, one of the few to not be visibly hassling and roughhousing with Narcian and the meal, and cooly turns bright blue eyes to Dysnomia.     "I hope you wouldn't use an important peace talk as an opportunity to practice civility for the first time, would you? Presenting yourself is a skill you should work on developing *before* people's lives are on the line." "She's new to this kind of thing, and passionate."     Being immediately told off, and having people wince and look away, after Kayoko's little heroic speech slaps her in the face with embarrassment. Sure, in her internal monologue earlier, she'd been entirely aware that she was new to this specific thing, but when *called out* on it, she immediately bristles with the justification that she's been a magical girl for two *years* now. "Only... well, if words like that were enough to stop armies from marching, nobody would bother spending the time and money to raise one, right?"     Poutily, and at odds with her politely neutral expression, Kayoko whines a bit. "That's different from me being *wrong*. Maybe it was silly to hope that General Narcian would have the sense to not make himself more of a villain than he is, but I still want to remind him how much a war will cost everyone, even Bern." "I think I'd remember it if my perfect record had ever been sullied!!!"     Fuck this guy. The Elites *earned* their win against him last time, and he ran off like a *coward*. He doesn't *get* to pretend like it never happened, just to clean his own reputation; it's not hypocritical at all that Kayoko would give herself far more leeway in a similar situation, since she's one of the good guys, and Narcian is a villain who's just embarrassed. And most importantly, Kayoko has the ability to obliterate Narcian's haughty persona with one little, well-practiced if not recently-used, trick.
Kayoko Kirenai	Meika feels a jab of golden light smack into her thigh, visible to only those closest to her as a small flash below the table. Scrawled onto her hand in glowing letters, without Kayoko looking in her direction at all, is 'Embarrass him on cue. Aiieeeee!!' The mocking screech wobbles on Meika's hand like it's shivering, the patheticness of the word calling to mind exactly the sound Kayoko means.     The scene of the burning town of Laphet around the warpgate flickers into illusory miniature in a wide open space on the table, playing out the very end of the battle from their last visit. Narcian, arrayed against the Elites, knocked off his wyvern and snottily declaring his last stand, then screeching and running away-- aided, of course, by Meika's illusory replica of his voice.     While it plays out, Kayoko tries to keep her voice as innocent as possible, hands in her lap while she addresses Narcian. "Is that how it went for you? Maybe your record is faulty? Does this help you remember, General?" "Wretches."     Kayoko stiffens up, visible to everyone. The effect that King Zephiel's entry has on her is more properly conveyed as electric shock tension than cold water, but her mood is doused either way. In the face of that presence, the hero-stancing magical girl can't muster up defiance to his scolding of her ideology; instead, she folds, entirely.     "My apologies, Your Highness. We've had little opportunity to learn about the circumstances surrounding the war besides this meeting here, but we're here to listen. If we can better understand your reasoning by learning about your nation's history, then we'd appreciate the opportunity to learn if you're willing to share."
Lilian Rook	As though Lilian thought the same thing at the same time, Lilian replies to Dysnomia, "Must I? We aren't allies. And I don't have a terribly high opinion of your employers." Even the table talk version is horrendous for any attempt at trying to outnumber and intimidate Narcian-or-otherwise, which means Lilian has already dispensed with the idea. It doesn't set a good example, for the magical girls she's always trying her best in front of, to look at Dysnomia Like That, but she falls into it out of habit. "Politely, don't test my commitment to mutual decency. That goes for your friends, too."     'I-Is there a... Uh. Difference?'     "Of course there is." Lilian says far more patiently for Odette, whom she knows even less than Dysnomia. "Dragons are people, a wyvern is a sort of majestic beast. Riding an intelligent being around would project a different sort of air, wouldn't it? Not to mention that dragons are ill-remembered in this country. A noble general wouldn't be caught invoking the name of a demon."     'Perfect Record' is what finally buys Narcian a reprieve from her looking a him like a mesmerizingly clumsy animal wandering towards a trap. For a fraction of a second, Lilian doesn't want to think about herself or anything that might cause her to empathize. Seeing even this awful human being, surrounded on all sides by overeager bullies and forced to defend his class, position, reputation, and dignity, in his own shitty way, makes it slightly hard not to.     'Wretches.'     Lilian breathes a tiny sigh of relief and then tries to conceal it as a startle too late to be convincing. For an instant, at a polished table in a high tower surrounded by hostile men and a fairweather crowd, hearing one of them bluntly insult her out loud had felt nearly euphoric for its utter lack of ambiguity.     Not good for a negotiation. Lilian has to smooth her game face back on, concerned about the very real possibility that she might appear delighted instead of politely holding back displeasure. The way she turns to look at Zephiel is still slightly too lively. Too searching. A tiny hint of hoping that he'll draw his sword and start cutting people down on the spot still leaks of out a disobedient mirror neuron and catches a spark in her eye. It saves her from reading Neon's body language.     "I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but though I imagine I might understand your disappointment,--" Lilian says, and means 'at everyone else' with unfortunate clarity. "--I am not at liberty to leave so immediately." She nearly continues on with what she originally intended to say, but just then, Lilian finally takes in the figure that has arrived at Zephiel's side without her noticing, and something causes her to default to a reliable truth. "'Thy station is thee and thou art thy station. Speak always with its authority, and do not speak that which would tarnish it.' I am sworn thusly, and I have already given my word that I will speak here, to you or your representatives. If the mighty heel of Bern must be involved, then I should have to speak more loudly."     There. Hopefully that presents her as something other than a wild freak currently enraptured by envy at the utter disinhibition of a man who'd publicly assassinate his father and threaten to kill diplomats the instant he sees them. It's difficult for even Lilian to maintain a deferential tone of neutrality, with so much quiet mania fizzling on the boundaries of her thoughts. She herself hasn't quite sorted out what she suddenly, desperately wants to see from him.
Lilian Rook	Lilian lets her gaze obviously drift to the purple robed figure as she applies the obligate physical gestures of formal respect. She's less able to suppress her attention wandering from diplomacy when she does. "May I ask . . . No, I suppose it isn't mine to do so." she says. "If a more private occasion with more selective recipients would better suit the purposes of this discussion, I would be amenable. But at the very least, I must know, if not for the Fire Emblem, then what need could Bern even have of Lycia."     She only insinuates a suggestion of looking at the map. "I've no intention of begging to be patiently taught by the king of a nation. I'm simply not blind. I can see the stark differences between the two nations; at a table, and out on their streets."     No. No good. She's looking at the vizier(?)-like again. It matches up with one of her two guesses from before, but that's not it. She peers at her hood as if she imagines she might be hallucinating her; as if only that could explain her existence.
Meika Kirenai	{I'll look forward to working with you!}     Excitement was not the response Meika expected. She misses the friendly grin, she's not looking his way at all. Vermillion, not Meika- even out of costume. She doesn't try and guess or pry at Flamel's reasoning or angle for that, but it does tie a bit more purpose into actions and presence, here. 'I mean, that's what I came to do, right?'     "Yeah. I- I get it. I- Don't worry about it. I won't either." The nervous tone hits Meika and reflects back more so, a positive feedback loop of discomfort with conversational pressure. "It's fine." 'Bern has always been a land won through blood.'     "... Why does red in stuff always have to just mean blood? Flowers and fall leaves are red, too. And the sky, and..." She's genuinely pouting a bit, even if overall it's a point in agreement of Narcian's first claim to the color being enchanting- it's her favorite one, after all. Her first time, here, even addressing Narcian, and she's only talking adjacent to a topic to which he's contributing. ' I don't know what you're talking about!' 'I think I'd remember it if my perfect record had ever been sullied!!!' 'Because no-one is stronger, either!' 'Embarrass him on cue. Aiieeeee!!'     A jolt, at the light-jab, and Meika's already subtly looking down to check the message she knows is coming. Its not hard at all to guess what's coming, and Meika sits upright, watching and waiting for the cue, a tiny little smile on her face. His face better be so good after what you've got ready, sis...     In a familiar-to-some faked-real glow, albeit hideable by her sister's efforts, Meika adds more than just the asked-for prompt. Quiet rain, sword-clashes, footsteps and wingbeats to the end of the village's fight, depth and tangibility to Cobalt's illusory demonstration. Words aren't something she can falsify in this real of a capacity, but Narcian's pathetic screech, punctuating right at the end as he bolts away, echoes and rings throughout the room in blistering accuracy to the actual one.     Meika doesn't snicker.
Meika Kirenai	>His boots crack sharply against stone as he advances to the table,     It's immediate, the shift. Even Meika's breathing doesn't make a peep. Still and quiet, her eyes fix on a point six inches to the left of Zephiel's mouth, nearly unfocused. His words and tone meld together in her mind into a noxious slurry, blanks and pauses and breaths filled in with anything scrambled-at in her memory associations of this type of speech, of this type of man, of this type of situation. Fingernails dig deep enough into the back of her opposite hand's fingers, with how she's clasping them together- and skin breaks again where band-aids recently covered up still-healing scrapes. {Hey Vermillion. Gonna try getting a decent angle on his mind.}     Attention redirected, Flamel's thought loud enough for her to distract herself with. Her eyes flicker his way, but that's motion, at least. Meika doesn't *want* to hear more from the king beyond the words he's actually saying, but it's like releasing a tensed-up muscle to try and do so anyways. For better or for worse, it's always easier for her to, than not to do that.     {"Ideas? I don't know what I'd talk about, what he'd want to. He's-"} He's not the type of person Meika is good at dealing with. Flamel's own worry feeds into hers, and her lips stop working right, stop moving right, thoughts and efforts stuck through. Kayoko buckling, at least, is familiar enough for Meika to latch onto and try, loosely sympathetic, to offer her sister a steadying glance. Enough to build a little flicker of anger, and anger is enough to-     "... I guess heel-pulp is what your general turned some weeds into as he ran like that. Flower pots must be shivering across the realm..." It's just a mumble, a sour jab to play off comments she purposefully knows better than to, just to pull whatever fragment of ire or contempt she can. She's already picture-perfect for a wretch, here, so she may as well see if an opening for Flamel can come of it.
Dysnomia	BEFORE THE KING'S ENTRANCE     "Must I? We aren't allies. And I don't have a terribly high opinion of your employers."     An old frustration reared its head, but Mia struggled to keep her voice cordial. "You don't have any opinion of them, one way or another. I am fairly certain that I've not said a word about any 'employers.' To anyone." It was irritating, that so many people immediately labeled at as someone in the Watch, without her say so. It was even more irritating that they were right...Or at least would think they were.     Employers...? Bah. Showed how little she understood. Or perhaps cared to. She cut herself off before she bickered more in front of hostile general, silently chastising herself.     "Presenting yourself is a skill you should work on developing *before* people's lives are on the line."     For the second time in the space of a few minutes, a knight tried to cut Dysnomia off at her ankles, and she was fucking through with it. "Do you make it a habit of trying to undercut people on your side of the negotiating table, little knight? You should know, for future reference; that is bad form. But, you're a child." The patronizing gentleness of her tone insinuating that Kayoko NEEDED that gentleness. A delicate glass figure, that might shatter if handled roughly. "It's normal to not know these things."
Marigold	"You are not a guest but a beggar. Know your place." King Zephiel looks down at the rosewood hospitality-charm on the table's edge. He raises a foot, plants his heel squarely on the charm, and then stomps to slam his boot through the table- breaking a chunk off its edge- and grinds the charm against the floor. Crunch.      "May your gods be wiser than you."      Seemingly only then does he register Meika and Kayoko's figment on the table. He studies it for a long second. Narcian, only just clambering back up into his seat, freezes cold. "... Narcian. Is this truly how you lost the Fire Emblem?" "N-n-n--" "I see."      It takes a split second for his three-pronged scepter to transform into a blade, and he's so practiced at the timing that it does so between the start of his swing and when the flat connects with Narcian's skull. That sends the poor general sprawling onto the floor again, and a flick of Zephiel's wrist electrocutes Narcian with a bolt of lightning from the sword.      "Then you lied to me, Narcian," he says with pitiless contempt. Whatever emotion Kayoko and Meika hoped to see on Narcian's face, it probably wasn't that raw, spirit-broken terror. The General raises his hand feebly against an anticipated third blow, but it never comes. "P... please..." "Inform Galle that he has your title. You owe it your life that I'm too busy to do it myself." "Nghh... y-yes, Your Majesty!" Narcian whimper-sobs, staggers to his feet, and leaves after daring only a brief instant to shoot the magical girls a venomous glare.      Zephiel doesn't even look after him when he goes. The greatsword he'd held one-handed like a toy morphs back into a scepter, smoothly shedding what little blood had stuck to it.
Marigold	Though Ace is viewed with slightly less naked contempt than most others, his words erode that standing. Zephiel's eyes narrow. He objects to nothing in the substance of that account, but: "Speak not of Hartmut or the Binding Blade. His blood dishonors me." Then his eyes slide across Aidan, Blemishine, Kayoko, and Flamel, without really noticing any of them. All three are asking the same thing.      "Hear me then. I will say it once."      "We are part of the universe," he says, only slightly softening his tone for the teaching. "Through war we make the universe reckon with itself. It is our only higher court of pleading, and it is never wrong. But sometimes its reconciliation is incomplete. And foolish men take the provisional verdict for the final." He picks up a chewed pheasant thigh-bone and turns it over in his fingers, heedlessly staining the purple of his gloves with grease.      "There are cards still to play. There are elements yet to be reconciled, though of course they are beyond your feeble knowing. I will be the one to take them before that higher court. And the self-evidence of its final verdict will put an end to your sophist squawking."      He snaps the pheasant-bone between his fingers while looking directly at Lilian. "The purpose is the annihilation of the false and the establishment of the true. Or do you not understand what violence is?"      Reading Zephiel- at least, his surface emotions- is easy. He is searching for a way to rationalize and 'correct' his pain, and has projected it as an irreparable fault of the universe or the status quo- or at least, a fault that can only be repaired through overwhelming bloodshed. The material benefits of conquest aren't the point at all; neither is establishing superiority or extending the reach of his throne. He's being honest, if vague: it's all to correct an impossibly vast injustice which he is utterly convinced of, and yet doesn't believe anyone else would understand.      Reading his purple-robed companion reveals . . . absolutely, utterly nothing. She has no detectable mind, heart, or soul. Either she has some absolute defense, or she shouldn't be breathing, let alone walking. Blemishine can see mismatched eyes, the suggestion of a slight figure, and ever-so-slightly lavender-tinged pale hair. That isn't Brunnya at all.      "You need not know her name," Zephiel says to both Lilian and Madeleine, and shifts a half-step in front of her as if protectively. "She is beyond you, and it is not your place to address her."
Aidan Proudpick	A single roll of the arm, of the shoulder, and Aidan leans backwards, away from the sight as Zephiel is able to swing the blade so fluidly, and then crush Narcian with the flat. With the flat. Aidan files that information away. He is either so overwhelmingly above them that he doesn't see anyone as a threat, or he is still a man with some sort of code. Some sort of mercy. Because to imagine ONLY the first would be... Even the urge to run, to shout, to drive himself into Zephiel with the Aegis, vanishes under the wave of realization. This is a man Ru Li would consider 'heroic'. A man who is an implacable stone wall. A man with conviction that is towering into the sky. Zephiel IS the wind, unyielding, willing to ground everything into dust with time and patience. For the first time since that day at the beach, down in Touta's world, Aidan feels small once more. A tiny fish in a massive pond. Only Flamel's suggestion that this is not the man himself, that this is an artificial barrier, keeps Aidan standing up straight, shoulders back, looking back at Zephiel. There is room for a miracle here. All he has to do is say something hard and cool. "Alright."
Trudy Grimm	The edge of the table is smashed off and with it, Trudy's rosewood charm. Her seated posture straightens, staring down at that armored boot as the King grinds the wood under his heel until it cracks into pieces. > "May your gods be wiser than you."     "Ahaha, you might like to think so," She sideglances at the little display of Narcian's cowardice, and then the resulting fury from Zephiel. Laughing away how nervous she suddenly is, that's the best she can do. > "The purpose is the annihilation of the false and the establishment of the true. Or do you not understand what violence is?"     "Violence is violence," Grimnir speaks up, his voice hoarse. Slowly, the old man stands up and collects his walking stick, "Even animals commit violence; to survive. The wolf hunting the elk does not make the elk any less 'true'. The elk is still an elk, albeight a dead elk." Lifting his free hand, the elderly scholar gestures with the heel of bread he's holding, "'Food' for thought, eh? Heh heh..!"     Trudy follows Grimnir's movements, after that he opts to take his leave the way he came. When her eyes return to King Zephiel, he's stepping protectively in front of his guest.     She pauses, thoughtfully, fingers touching her chin and lips as her mind rotates the possibilities. Her eyes remain firmly on the woman now partially obstructed by Zephiel's body. She doesn't say it, but her gaze speaks clearly: I know what you are.     Because I would do that too.     "Very well, my King," Trudy speaks out loud finally, closing her eyes and rising to her feet. She takes a moment to straighten the ruffles of her dress and run her fingers through the beads and charms affixed to her hip. Her other hand comes to rest on the Grimoire.     "Though such a station does befit creatures such as myself, I did not come here to beg. Only one noble soul has my devotion for that sort of behavior," She flashes him a wide, triangle-toothed smile, "By your leave, I will excuse myself as my companion had."
Dysnomia	Dysnomia can taste his sureness. She can't help but mirror it. She can't help but want to see the conclusion. To chart the way and see it for herself, this thing that has has invested this universe in. The satisfaction of that moment that will baptize the world with fire and blood, purge the cruel and the unjust from the face of the universe, leaving only the king's cold, self-evident truth.     Oh, mother help me, no. Her grip grew tighter, and she conjured up reminders of times past. "I know where this goes. I know where this goes. Stop." Oh, why was everyone's minds so enthralled by this man? THere was nowhere she could turn without being smother by his shadow. Everything, subordinate to his dream.     "Why." She finally managed, pushing to her feet. "If you're so sure. If you're so unshakeable. Why entertain us at all?"     She's looking at the king now, trying not to hyperventilate. "Just to entertain yourself? To see what the 'Otherworld' has to offer? Why spend your time meeting us, when you could be making real your Truth? I know there's a reason. This wasn't just a flight of fancy."
Lilian Rook	Lilian is, without effort, able to watch the man stomp right through the table and not flinch. She'd silently wondered what information Trudy had that suggested her gods would be respected here, but she'll ask later. It's Zephiel striking Narcian that straightens her spine a little bit further. She watches the ordeal play out with silent lips and wide eyes, drinking in every gruesome detail with dark fascination well beyond bile and into realms that humans have no name for. She can't even summon up the inconvenient empathy she should feel for Narcian in the moment; and that failure isn't brought on by how much she hates him, either.     Watching the authority figure storm into the room bellowing threats and invective, single out a terrified subordinate on unilateral presumption of moral failure, and crack his skull with a sceptre in the same breath as he strips him of his dignity, is an experience bordering on hellish religious rapture for Lilian to be on the sidelines of. By the time she can think at all, Narcian is already gone.     The way she looks at Meika and Kayoko is silently, wildly unpleasant.     'Speak not of Hartmut or the Binding Blade. His blood dishonors me.'     §That's interesting. Is there some great, heroic failure of Hartmut I need to read up on? Does he not live up to his standards, somehow? Perhaps he sees something short-sighted about allowing this 'scouring' to end as it did. I'd hope he doesn't feel a spiritual homeland in . . .§     The pheasant bone snap brings her around again.     'The purpose is the annihilation of the false and the establishment of the true. Or do you not understand what violence is?'     "Unfortunately, your Majesty, I do." says Lilian. "I'd rather wish I didn't." Disoriented to the point of dizziness, her attempt at a nervously assuaging smile is tainted with something more honest. "It's making me a little bit jealous." boils up out of somewhere deeper inside of her, and so she clears her throat to implicitly ask that it be forgotten.     "My apologies, then, but I must ask you another question, Your Majesty." Lilian says. "If your purpose is so clear, and your conviction so strong, then what need was there to allow us within a million miles of this castle?" Lilian folds her arms against herself, gloved over bare. "If your heart is set on the highest court we humans have, then even laying eyes on us is a worthless waste of time."     Her hand drifts up to her throat as she speaks. Her fingers curl delicately around the pendant resting at her breast with the watchful caution of a gunslinger.     'You need not know her name. She is beyond you, and it is not your place to address her.'     "I see." says Lilian. She sounds as if she already knows. "Coming here to look me in the eye, and dismissing your general from the room, only to declare that violence is the only arbiter that you believe will sattle anything that matters . . ." She's forgetten 'us' again. "Is a very strong sort of provocation. The only way to defend Lycia, then, would be to take you captive on the spot."     Skipping several steps, as if Zephiel should somehow understand her racing thoughts, Lilian adds, "It stands out to me that you'd step in front of her."
Kayoko Kirenai	"Then you lied to me, Narcian,"     The strike and followup happen too quickly for Kayoko to register the shift in emotional tone. As Evil-- or as Lilian put it, heinous-- as Narcian is, and thus making retribution towards him ontologically correct, the presumption of being able to banter and snipe back with illusory callouts is shattered by Zephiel. Corporeal punishment is a step beyond anything Kayoko intends to evoke with her little diorama; the naked fear on Narcian's face several steps beyond that.     Kayoko doesn't meet Narcian's glare; she doesn't even acknowledge it. She notices the look regardless, but in the instant that Zephiel moved to strike him, he ceased to exist as something that Kayoko would visibly direct her attention towards, to entirely separate herself from the punishment by ignoring the punished. Even Lilian's scolding, instinctually, is deflected towards Meika instead as the instigator, rather than herself.     Whatever this demotion and subsequent replacement might mean for the war effort is entirely irrelevant to her. She can barely even imagine a war consisting of more than the forty people who razed the village of Laphet. The way she looks at Meika and Kayoko is silently, wildly unpleasant.     Lilian's look is treated exactly the same way as Narcian's, in fact. Obsessive, frantic observation of every detail, from every angle, without so much as a twitch of her eyes towards her direction. Whatever disapproval or harm might come to her for this isn't something she has to confront immediately, so if she just sits pretty and attentive while Zephiel reluctantly explains his logic, maybe it never has to come at all. "The purpose is the annihilation of the false and the establishment of the true. Or do you not understand what violence is?"     Kayoko understands nothing at all. At this point the words practically go in one ear and out the other, uncomprehended besides what she needs to retain to mimic a conversation, like a chatbot. "I see. I think I understand, Your Highness." She doesn't.
Flamel Parsons	Narcien is thrown out of his confidence, his position, and even the room. But this spy knows how men like that work. They bounce back, much to their own detriment. And he dreads dealing with whoever replaces him, and whatever gang of replacement subordinates he finds.     Flamel's examination and Zephiel's explanation happen simultaneously, and reach their climax simultaneously too. But when it finally reaches the end, Flamel's in a much worse position. He's scanned over the shape of the mind, using the way he speaks to get a decent angle, but when he tried to apply telepathy to the mysterious woman...     He falters, looking completely taken aback. What? Did he just lose telepathy? No-- he can still detect the others. What is this? He tries again, scanning. Examining. Re-checking. He can't... find anything there. There's *nothing there*. His mind doesn't even recognize how to process this. He's trained to avoid ever even considering the idea of a p-zombie, and what else is there? Is she a proxy-body, operated telekinetically, some type of artificial being? There's no trace of that, even a robot would contain psychometric traces. There's just... nothing?     What could that even mean?     He realizes, too late, that he's frozen up completely. Unblinking, unmoving, like a statue. "Uh-- ah--" He stammers, for a moment, before gulping. There's a shift, like someone wrenching the gear of a mechanism back into place. He forces himself back into that optimistic, hopeful, friendly tone. "Wow!" He says. "That's a pretty powerful conviction on a pretty specific worldview! I have to admit, most of the people I've ever run into who drive their whole nation into war like this don't have a reason they can say."     His friendly tone never stops, even while he's talking this out with the warlord king. "I don't really know what to do! Gonna admit, you've got me on the backfoot. I'll need to think a lot about what you've said... From the sound of it, I'll need something strong and true to be part of that reckoning, if the verdict is on its way. If peace isn't an option, the only good approach is to have something worthy of the court. People with my job are always about engaging the enemy in his own mentality, after all!"     He turns to look at her again. Another long stare. Not his place to address her, huh? He can't help but... take a few nervous steps back. No words. Just stress. She's like a living blind spot, and every bit as stressful as it would be to find someone you can't even see the absence of.
Blemishine	It's very, very difficult to not feel at least a little bad for Narcian, after that display - irrevocably heinous or not, the man was beaten, electrocuted, and stripped of his high title in one fell, horrendously abrupt swoop. If not out of any undeserved shred of sympathy for the man himself, then it's still a shocking enough act simply for how much it speaks to the kind of man Zephiel is. Less for the physical strength exerted, and more his quality in every other capacity.     Blemishine observes the massive blade that the king wielded so casually transforming back, and she puts that sight away to a corner of her memory as well. For more reasons than one.     "..." Rather than any immediate words, it's strain that crosses the knight's face at first; first at his disparaging at Hartmut - why would he have that kind of opinion of his heroic ancestor? Did he not seek to wield both Eckesachs and the Binding Blade, just as he had? None of it was out of any respect for his forebear, hen. And second, at the story he gives. It's not one easy to process on the initial hearing.     It takes ruminating on it in her head to wrap her mind around it, even some. When she speaks up again, her voice is even quieter than it was last. "...So it's not waging war with the world. It's waging it with the entire universe, the way it is now." It's less any kind of remark, and almost more speaking to herself out loud, like to confirm what's on her mind.     She watches him half-step in front of his companion, that strange woman whom seems an empty void to their psychics, and with that striking appearance beneath her hood, and Guinivere's words once again come to mind. From the very same moment as the last, even. He was sharp and proud, but compassionate, almost overcome with the pain of others.     ...Is whatever this woman is to him a form of that compassion still lingering in his heart, or is it something else completely?     She's silent, for a short time. "...Then there was no suing for peace from the start. I hear that much... King Zephiel."
Odette Raskins	EARLIER Lilian's explanation of the differences between dragons and wyverns captures Odette's attention quickly, and it sinks in almost nearly as fast. "I see... Yeah, that makes sense. I-I mean. Um. yes, that-" She pauses to clear her throat briefly, then nods once, as though she didn't just let something slip out in her brief moment of feeling like things clicked the right way. "That'd just be asking for a scandal..." Meika's positive feedback loop of relative youngster awkwardness, even if Odette's supposed to be older, is actually somewhat refreshing for the EMT. It might even help more that Meika's a magical girl in that same context, too, even if Zephiel's arrival does end up pushing all thoughts of calm way out of Odette's head. NOW When Zephiel puts his boot through the table, another strained inhale can be heard from ODette without an exhale to follow. The fear gripping at her keeps her gaze fixed on him, and it's not until his scepter transforms into a blade in mid swing that her expression finally shifts from terror to... Awe? Yes, that's definitely awe, like she just saw something amazing. It doesn't last long, though, as that strike against Narcian's skull snaps her right back to reality, and then the electric followup draws another anxious inhale through her teeth. Although she doesn't move from where she's sitting, she does actually manage to look over towards Narcian as he leaves, looking worried for that brief moment before having her attention drawn right back to the King when he demands attention once more to speak of war and the universe. Like with the prior lesson, Odette tries her best to absorb it all. She doesn't nod or get a confused look on her face, either, as it starts to click even with her limited knowledge of war beyond what she's read. There's still a lot she can't quite agree with, but... "The purpose is the annihilation of the false and the establishment of the true. Or do you not understand what violence is?" "... No, I get it. It's the only thing that'll work sometimes." Odette replies quietly with a troubled look crossing her face as she starts to recall what drove her to start traveling outside of the safety of her stations in the first place. "And if you don't replace all the... Um. E-everything you were fighting to replace, then whatever's left could just turn into something else that gets worse, or draws other people into the..." Odette suppresses another anxious noise finally as she crosses her arms over her chest, slumping in her seat for a few more moments before remembering where she is. Once she does, she straightens back up with her hands on her lap and her normal level of nervousness returning rather quickly. "O-oh! Um. If that's the case, then... Is Lady Maria right, then? About... Peace not being an option because of... A-all that."
Desire Stars	Through war we make the universe reckon with itself. It is our only higher court of pleading, and it is never wrong. But sometimes its reconciliation is incomplete. And foolish men take the provisional verdict for the final.      Ace's smile remains, his eyes stay locked on Zephiel. Something is different about the look in those eyes. Could it be anger?      "Thanks for indulging me," he says, outwardly calm. "And my apologies for the insult, your majesty--none was intended." He straightens his scarf with a crisp flick of his wrists. There are cards still to play. There are elements yet to be reconciled, though of course they are beyond your feeble knowing.      Ace's smile widens. A spark of something like challenge flickers across his eyes, just visible enough that it can't be denied as a trick of the light. "There are still cards to be played," he agrees, evenly. His thoughts speak the rest of his sentiments, privately. *My hand might not be the best right now. But I've been playing this game since before you were alive.*      Neon's fingers bunch up and grab handfuls of her dress beneath the table. She's gone from fearful to a mix of that and angry reproach. Though her face is a stony mask, the tremble of her lip, the way it struggles not to scowl, gives the lie of impassivity away and reveals the truth of the terrified loathing she feels. It stands out to me that you'd step in front of her.                                BONUS MISSION FAILED                                    A monotone voice, authoritative, all but solidifies the state of the proceedings.      "Great," says Neon, bitterly, quietly. "I might as well have stayed home. At least then... at least then, I wouldn't be looking at going -back.-"      "'Not winning' and 'losing' aren't the same thing," Ace asides to her. "As long as you avoid the latter, eventually, you can win."      Neon chews on the thought, quietly.      Ace's attention turns back to Zephiel. "You sent fresh troops to Laphet," he notes. "That you still *have* fresh troops, with all the territory you're holding, is pretty significant. I guess 'settling accounts with the universe' is something a lot of people can get behind, in a vacuum." His smile remains.      "If you would, I'd like the answer to another question." Outwardly, he's just as calm (borderline smug, really, as if he has all the answers) as ever. Inwardly, his mind turns over how best to ask, and get a productive answer. *'Hartmut's blood dishonors me.' 'Sometimes its reconciliation is incomplete. Foolish men take the provisional verdict for the final.' 'The annihilation of the false and the establishment of the true.'*      "...what was the 'provisional verdict?' It wouldn't have anything to do with the war, one thousand years ago, would it?"
Meika Kirenai	<J-IC-Scene> Lilian Rook says, "Trying to bully him in that immature way, in the middle of his home country, surrounded by his soldiers, when you've no credibility and a chosen method that is utterly trivial to play off as an illusion and not a recording, though . . ."     Terror isn't what Meika was hoping for. Anger, frustration, embarrassment, sure. She flinches hard, and doesn't yelp, in sympathetic expectation as Narcian gets battered to the floor.     She does yelp, as the king's magic burns air into ozone around the cast bolt, as hair burns, as Narcian shrieks. The half-formed thoughts, of 'sorry', of 'I didn't mean to-', of 'is he alive?' die before they make it to her lips, and her shocked-wide eyes fix on the sword's motions. She misses Narcian's glare, as he shakily rises, as he's ordered off, as he leaves, but that doesn't matter. She feels it bore holes in her skin, still, felt even before his eyes cracked back open once again. <J-IC-Scene> Meika Kirenai says, faint, "... I- I- I'm sorry. I thought it'd be-" <J-IC-Scene> Meika Kirenai says, "It's- I didn't think it through. It's my fault."     It's automatic. This fuck-up, far more severe than needed or wanted, is hers to handle. She doesn't need to glance to her sister. I should have known better than to play along, I should have warned her, so it's right, really, that it's- "... My fault," she repeats, mumbling. A side-glance catches Lilian's own look, and she hunches her shoulders up like she could somehow vanish within her jacket. Vanishing isn't in her wheelhouse, though, and there's no chance she could ask her sister for anything at all similar to help, right now. Shallow, silent breaths barely calm a heart that doesn't pound in her ears.     Plenty much else slips into her hearing, though. It's not as if the king stops talking and thinking, just as her processing does- and Meika wants to throw up, watching the king toy with that bird's bone, on top of everything else. It's gross. Something died for that, and-     And it's sickly perfect for his thoughts and words together, gut-felt more than understood. Most of what he says lands, to her, in that realm. Higher concepts and deeper angers glance off her or sink in a way she can't put thoughts to herself, but she knows that it feels a hollow and incomplete type of 'better' to kick and break things when you hurt, and it scares her to pick up on the depth of it, for him. Like he found some sort of tipping point, and fell into that feeling forever. It's scarier to her, where musings can go, herself, thinking much at all about the impression she's read into.     Quietly, nails dig back into skin. Tiny drops of blood haven't dried yet beneath chipped-down fingernails. "... I'd- I'd like to-," Not make it worse. Not be here. Not think about this. Not be looked at like this. Not be looked at at all. Not be scared. "-to go. If I c-can excuse myself. I'm... I'm sorry."     Her chair doesn't squeak as she stands, as her fingers nearly f-f-flicker through the rim of it. Her footsteps don't echo as she walks back, awkwardly slipping past guards provided they not stop her- all the while worrying maybe, just maybe, under this acute reminder of shame and guilt and anger, she'd just fall through the floor forever.     It's almost dissapointing that her boots still find purchase.
Marigold	"The world still has elk," the King says to Grimnir, and though the meaning may not be clear, the words somehow drip with self-evident foreboding.      "Why entertain you?" Zephiel tilts back his head, looking down his nose at Mia and Lilian both. 'It's making me a little bit jealous' coaxes a puffing breath out of him; the closest he's come to mirth. "I know you understand. My blade will crush the world, but better that it should glide smoothly. If you realize your inadequacy, leave and never return. If you still harbor delusions of victory, attack me now and be destroyed. Either suits my purpose."      'peace'      Odette and Maria both get their disdainful, impatient answer: "The world has never known peace. It will come only when every impurity is scoured from it." That word that slipped... but that's certainly a no.      'It stands out to me that you'd step in front of her.'      Zephiel's nose wrinkles, but his lips part in a subtle satisfied smile. Annoyed, but gratified, that someone understood. "She deserves better than to be sullied with your blood. ... Although, perhaps I shouldn't presume."      He holds up a hand to imperiously signal Trudy and Meika to stay, then turns to look at her. "Iðunn. Would it please you to kill them all?"      "I care not whether now or later, Your Highness." Her voice somehow oozes with indifference.      "No matter, then." With a swish of his cape, he brazenly turns his back on everyone to leave. 'Iðunn' stares from under the edge of her hood at those who examine her- no, through, not at- and then follows the King.      Ace's question halts him, just as he's about to vanish. Over the brim of Zephiel's fur-lined collar, Ace can see his face tighten- and his eyes gleam with something like perverse delight. Then Zephiel's stare shifts, oddly, to his own soldiers. Is he conscious of what they might hear?      "It is not for you to know what will be built atop your bones," he says. Then he tilts his head to the side, and the door slams shut behind him without any obvious cause.      One of the spearmen by the exit gasps for held breath and puts his hands on his knees. The others are subtler about it, but still eagerly make way for you to leave.
Lilian Rook	Seeing Zephiel single her out in the room, and acknowledge her own understanding, alone, fills Lilian with a dual surge of euphoric recognition and mirror-sympathetic, gut-dropping dread.     'If you still harbor delusions of victory, attack me now and be destroyed. Either suits my purpose.'     "Haha . . . I've been considering it this entire time, Your Majesty." says Lilian. "But you feel confident saying that because she is here, don't you? Just as everyone else here feels confident fucking around because I'm here. And seeing as I don't sense any openings . . . perhaps I'll take your advice for a while?"     Lilian, finally, drifts her attention away from the robed figure, and locks them with Zephiel, even though she has to crane her neck. "But if I find one, I expect there'll be no complaints if you lose. Not before the court of war, yes?"     'She deserves better than to be sullied with your blood.'     "Yeah." Lilian agrees, without hesitation. Without clarity as to why she does. "You sort of act like she deserves better than you too."     'It is not for you to know what will be built atop your bones'     "Goodbye then, Your Majesty." Lilian calls after him, curtsying as if nothing at all had happened. "I hope you'll be satisfied by the results of your work."
Desire Stars	It is not for you to know what will be built atop your bones.     Ace smiles, as if Zephiel had said something bitingly ironic, genuinely funny for that quality. Maybe it's the first genuine smile he's worn the whole time. He procures from his jacket pocket a golden denarius, older than most of what's in this room. Leaning back in his chair, he flips the coin. The golden, stamped face of emperor Caesar Augustus flickers in the light as the coin tumbles end over end, before Ace catches it, the legs of his chair hitting the ground.     Neon shudders, quietly excusing herself and departing somewhere--anywhere--she can have a moment to herself.     The 'Star of the Stars of the Stars' makes a much more relaxed exit, almost insultingly so, with both hands in his pockets and a swagger that's very much at odds with literally everything that just happened--until he passes by the soldier catching his breath from the force of Zephiel's conviction.     The showman act stops, then, and the smile runs away from his face, scared off by something more real than an act. "It's frightening, isn't it? When childish dreams are swept away so quickly. Hard to say it's an adventure when you peek behind the curtains." He frowns, straightening the lapels of his tuxedo, and leaves, too.
Meika Kirenai	'It is not for you to know what will be built atop your bones.'     That's how it always is, isn't it? Something stops and whatever comes from it is gone and out of reach. Shut up. Shut up about it. Everyone knows. I know. I don't even get to have my own bones while they're still around. Someone else is going to have them, and I won't get to see, and I won't get to know, and maybe you should have had her kill all of us in here anyway because then, at least, that'd be something we can kick and hurt back against and nothing else would have to grow from the remains, and that's almost better than walking away just to change or rot or-     Stopped, where she'd halted at the king's gesture, right as he finishes speaking and implicitly releases them, and a moment before she continues her own exit, Meika turns and spits on the ground.
Dysnomia	Given the excuse to obey him and get away from him at the same time, Dysnomia can't help but get out of there. She walks, her body shaking with the memory of what fear is supposed to feel like, waiting for the resonance of his presence to bleed out of her mind.     But with people like these, it didn't. Not quickly. The taste of his certainty lingered under her skin, seeping into her like microplastics settling into her bones. An answer without a question.     She starts hyperventilating the moment they get into the courtyard, breaking through the warpgate in a dead run, the king's word running through her like a hammer's imapct through a gong.     They echoed in her ears long after she passed out of that world.
Madeleine Cadrasteia	Madeleine is oddly composed and awfully quiet through Zephiel's explanation of his motives and philosophy. The more perceptive Elites might even catch her nodding along once or twice, if their attention isn't fixed on the king. After the door's slamming shut ceases to echo through the hall, she carefully stands, checks her purse - knife's still there, good - and walks to the exit. Something about the king's words have... not quite put her at ease, necessarily, but quieted her nerves. He's given her a lot to think about.
Odette Raskins	"The world has never known peace. It will come only when every impurity is scoured from it." Odette's shoulders slump just a little bit further at that, largely because she knows he's right. She's seen quieter places from time to time, but actual peace? Not since home, really. It's kind of depressing to think about, but terror at Zephiel's presence still keeps that at bay. Asking Iðunn whether or not she'd like him to kill them all certainly puts that right back at the forefront of her mind, too, and Odette very nearly jumps out of her seat again until the hooded woman appears to keep his scepter-sword at bay. It's not until Zephiel finally leaves the room entirely that she finally remembers to breathe again, trembling lightly and taking her hands off her knees with slight wince. She's more than happy to leave, although she does linger for just a moment to make sure Zephiel hasn't changed his mind and started following them. Once she's sure about that, she scurries right out of there alongside everyone else. "How the heck do we even...?"
Trudy Grimm	"And wolves still hunt them. Is this 'war' too? Heh heh..." Grimnir doesn't turn to address the king as he speaks, he only raises his free hand in a Tired Old Man Wave, "We'll meet again, I'm sure of it."     King Zephiel has taken his leave, as has his mysterious consort. Trudy follows the pair with her eyes but has nothing further to say. She had, after all, just been about to depart herself. She casts a glance towards Kayoko-- then Meika-- and finally Lilian. On the third face, the witch dips her head respectfully and turns to depart.     She hums an unfamiliar tune as she walks.