The Palace - Great Hall

The lord of all Sidhe, king of Tir la Morr, The Tyrant in Gold sat within the opulence of his hall. He sat within the golden armor he'd worn during his great and bloody war. The shining shell glowing with an ominous luster that drew the eye with its obvious splendor and chilled the blood with its subtle power. Yet even the imposing silhouette cut by his armor was nothing compared to the terror of his eyes. The Tyrant sat with perfect posture within his throne those glowing embers staring across the hall at the door as he waits for his court to arrive.

One year ago he'd started his campaign against the Sidhe. Six months ago it had ended with Lonan's surrender and his splitting of the old courts into the new Houses, equivalent to human Duchies. Now after a year to settle their affairs, the old houses working to adapt to their new roles, the new houses settling into them, it was time for a council. It was time for his chosen four to come before him and report on their progress and the news of the realm. It was time for them to participate in politics.

A letter arrived by way of raven and The Tyrant reads the scroll, when he finishes it he gestures. A servant approaches taking the letter and instruction. The ruler of Spring had written to inform him she would be late due to a lame horse. If this was true she would be forgiven but if she was simply stalling there would be repercussions. Still, the other three should be on time he wonders which will be first to arrive. Returning to his vigil The Tyrant waits.

Next to enter was Lonan, in the same ceremonial garb he always wore: a merging of traditional sidhe attire and seelie armour fit for a king, with a sword at his hip and a bow and quiver of arrows at his back! Unless the guards were absolutely adamant that he entered unarmed, in which case he would have reluctantly given them up. They were only for show, of course, but what was more important than that? Plus a bow could always come in handy, especially in negotiations with rival factions!

Despite the events of the last year, the summer-king seemed surprisingly free-spirited and cheerful and when he had walked far enough down the hall to look the Tyrant in the eyes, he lowered himself in an exaggerated bow with his arm reaching up behind him and his fingers curling inwards like spirals.

"I greet thee, o' great and humble one. O' MIGHTY and MAGNIFICENT overlord who rules over all fae without equal; whose muscles bulge and shine in the light like they have been oiled - even when no oil has been applied. Whose manhood is the largest and most masculine in ALL the overworld, and whose reasonably sized testes have not one hair and are like grapes to the average man's raisins!"

Rather suddenly, he lay back on the floor with his arms and legs out in the shape of a star. "I castrate myself helplessly before thy unrelenting and unmatched power! I beg thee not to have thy guards tie ropes to my limbs and pull me apart, or subject me to another and equally horrendous fate!"

He rolled backwards over his head and stopped on his knees, before springing up back to his feet. "This insignificant and powerless king is at your service, o' lord!" He cried, ending his rather stupid performance with his eyes closing and his arm reaching out towards the one in gold armour, only for it to curl back slightly inwards with his fingers closed into a fist and an expression of utter piety on his face.

Upon the arrival of the Winter Queen, of which there was never a doubt, the floor spidered with frost, advancing with every step. She moved with such grace that there was no bobble in her movements. Such jubilance was unsightly, better left for the fools of warmer courts to perform. No glare came to those who disgusted her with such a lack of restraint- it was hard to tell when she had eyes like a corpse. Still, the pervasive nature of the Winter Queen's being, the incessant itching at the back of the mind that was always there when she was around, seemed to spike for a rare moment before smoothing out to its usual, dull hum.

The icy fae was dressed splendidly, as was typical. Her dress, high-necked, modest, plain in color, could almost distract one from the bizarre scene that was the woman's wintry complexion and the reflective markings upon her skin. That was, until one looked closely, eyeing the bustle: at a glance they were roses, but a closer look revealed bony fingers twisted in spirals.

When she stepped before the Tyrant, she gave him a very formal, but far from superfluous, curtsey. It was short but respectful. Isolde understood her boundaries well,

The first to enter was Hayzea which did not surprise The Tyrant. The childlike Fae was often eager to please and while she made no obvious signs of subservience she at least maintained some semblance of composure even if she did giggle like a child. Better to giggle like one than act like one though as the King of Summer enters and immediately goes about making a mockery of himself. Of course, The Tyrant knew the purpose of Lonan's act it was to pay disrespect through exaggerated respect. It was an entirely Seelie way of dealing with things and The Tyrant wonders just how heavily Lonan's capitulation to the throne weighs upon the once King of Summer.

Next to arrive was Isolde who managed to toe the line between being comfortable within her subservience while also displaying her own power. Bringing in the winter chill with her every step but giving an obvious signifier of her subservience in her curtsey. Not surprising the Unseelie were ever more serious, at least on the surface, than their cousins. Isolde had also been present when the former Queen of winter had lost her head. Did that image still haunt the young replacement?

Last was Vanhin who also toes the line between respect for the crown while not utterly abasing himself. The old Fae had designs to maintain ownership of his forest something the previous rulers of the Fae had not cared for. In The Tyrant's kingdom though there was no room for neutrality not if one wanted to own land the size of Vanhin's domain. So the old Fae had been given the same ultimatum as he had the other rulers and it appears as though he'd chosen to serve.

"I will spare you punishment if you did what I bid Lonan. Though if you have not I will remember your fixation on genitalia when it comes time to decide your punishment."

The glowing embers of The Tyrant's eyes had swept over each of them in turn before returning to the Summer lord. The Tyrant's voice is deep and rumbling, yet perfectly clear. The voice of something from the sinister nightmares of mortals. He cared not how Lonan comported himself in word so long as the Summer Lord did as he was told. The Tyrant knew that trying to crush the flippancy from the Seelie was a fruitless endeavor and would not waste breath chastising the once king. However, a reminder of the potential cost of disobedience was certainly fitting. The Tyrant's punishments on those who disobeyed him were quickly becoming the stuff of legends and nightmares.

"Morrigan has been delayed but we will start without her. It is time for you to report on the progress you have made. What progress have you made in acclimating the Fae in your territories to the new rule of law?"

The Tyrant's attention goes to Hayzea now his intent is to have them give their reports in the order they came in. For the moment Vanhin would not be addressed as he was not a ruler within Tir la Morr and this took precedence. Should any of them try to interrupt the other they would draw The Tyrant's attention and displeasure.

"Just a little fun, Lord," explained Lonan, gathering himself after his display and then proceeding to take any seat that was offered or to stand in his designated place if not. First he would listen to Hayzea, but paid little mind to what she said other than feeling somewhat apologetic for those who were supposedly under her 'care'. Those unseelie fae were a strange lot; often so morbid or outright cruel! The Summer-King enjoyed his tricks but they were rarely pulled from a place of true malice and even those that were a little mean rarely resulted in permanent injury or death.

When it came his turn, he would proceed before the throne and bow again. "My cou- sorry, House, is quite well. In this past year I have put much effort into expanding its military power and seeking to protect our borders from its neighbours. Similarly great focus has been placed on the economy of the Summer-lands, where incentives have been put in place to reel in some of our 'wilder' seelie and instead have them join a productive workforce. Meanwhile, I have been sending fae to scout the lands beyond Tir la Morr in an attempt to find a suitable future partner for trade or other such relations... And lastly I have been making great efforts to re-organize the lords and ladies of my house to better align with your orders."

It might make sense to them that Summer was doing rather well. Lonan may have surrendered to the Tyrant, but it was he who was King of the Summer-lands before that and he who continued to hold the love of his people... Just as he had done since he himself was crowned King of the Seelie, so long ago. There was no period of acclimation to a sudden new ruler and those of his lands that had not been broken away to join the new house of 'Spring' found many things stayed exactly the same. The loss of warriors in the war had been a burden, but fae were nothing if not fickle and seelie wounds tended to heal in quicker time than humans.

Hayzea's expression grows thoughtful. Once Isolde is done, she opens her mouth. "It seems like a waste of resource to destroy these Crags.. Why not repurpose them to serve our lord better?" She asks. "Also, while I am unfamiliar with Ithilmir's magic, nothing has ever been immune to my touch, @isolde . If you seek them destroyed, I can easily aid you." She says calmly, likely shocking that the insane queen was being rational.

Vanhin smiled as the Tyrant directed his question towards him, perhaps it amused the old Fae in some way.

“Although I certainly spend far too much time in my pool, I dare say I am no fool. There is only one option in this scenario for me to take, I shall serve you until I ache!”

Pausing for a moment, Vanhin clasped his hands together in front of him, offering a bow once more, perhaps to emphasize his statement. Holding the bow for a moment, Vanhin unbends his back and speaks once more.

“Rest assured my Lord, the seals inscribed will hold back the hoard. Day or night, I will restrain them with all my might.”

For a moment there was something other than delight in the Fae’s eyes as he spoke, but it only lasted for a moment. He was back to his old joyful self, eyes gleaming mischievously.

Isolde watched silently, keeping her opinions to herself. She very much doubted Hayzea's ability to take down the crags all at once, they were so expansive. So much of Ithilmir's power went into creating them, Isolde was sure that it was the reason her defeat came as easily as it did: she didn't have anything left by the time the Tyrant came along.

Some enjoyment was had at Hayzea's scolding. After all, both fae never had any love for one another. One court was created to weaken the other, though Isolde was trying to make a point by covering the rumbling pines with snow every so often, so close to Hayzea's Court. Winter was still strong.

Then there was Summer, who seemed to be doing well. Isolde wasn't going to let that bother her. In time, her Court would grow, too.

She gazed at Vanhin as he spoke, listening to him carefully. Fae loved to hide messages in their words. Viewing the glee in his face, Isolde attempted to find anything hidden within his.

Hayzea's eyes narrowed at the proclamation, before she realized something. Her wings began to flap erratically, as she struggled to contain her energy. To one familiar with Hayzea, such as the Tyrant in Gold, they would recognize this as part of her innate magic, for chaos does not like to be restrained. To others, it came off as simple hyperactivity. Her eyes twitched, and she spoke in a low tone, unlike her bubbly voice. "So.. That means, the other courts are fair game?" She giggles, and suddenly something shifts.

Her gloves begin to deteriorate, the fabric being torn through space and time in every direction, burnt from the inside out.. No longer in existence were these gloves. Her hands were pulsing, her veins turning bright, burnt orange, much like her eyes. Hayzea floated upwards to prevent herself from destroying anything else. Nobody had ever seen Hayzea this excited, bar the Tyrant. A prickling sense of unease creeps up, Hayzea's unnatural smile and glowing veins and eyes hinting at something.. Dangerous, lurking beneath the surface.