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2412, Xavem 30, Reshpe
Cyrdel watched people file inside the war room.
Calling it a war room was a bit of an understatement. It was a freaking armory, conference room, and a library all rolled into one. The circular layout and domed ceiling wasn't architecturally possible considering what Cyrdel knew of the Capital's layout. Then again, the ice sprites had hidden brilliance. Besides, the floor plan was the least of his worries now.
Like a recurring theme on all the rooms in the Ice Capital, the war room's walls were decorated with sculpted ornamental arches. By this time, Cyrdel knew that these arches were not just mere decorations but were actually transport systems. The dark shadow that seemed to ebb from them was enough proof.
The domed ceiling hosted the light source that shone down into this room. Cyrdel craned his neck to look at the bright ball of luminescence that appeared like it was behind the wall of ice. Cyrdel knew better. It was the ice itself.
When he first stepped foot inside the Ice Capital, he thought that the walls must have some kind of space between them where the light source resided. When he had the time to inspect it further, he realized that the ice shards of the ceiling that collapsed the first time he arrived here still glowed even though they're "disconnected" from the source.
With that logic, Cyrdel concluded that there were fairies here who could produce luminous ice and could control when they would shine light or not. Amazing. He hasn't known any race that could produce light apart from the pixies. This was an innovation at its finest.
If there was anything he loved more than Ravalee, it's innovation.
One of the arches to his left shone, replacing the dark shadow wafting by it. A figure stepped out before trudging towards the circular table installed in the war room's center. Cyrdel had to bite his lip to prevent himself from doing any facial expressions except that frozen nonchalance he was taught to have during formal occasions.
The figure wore what could easily be called an ice sprite light armor, with a simple breastplate and simple shoulder pads and greaves atop the ice-blue robe. The metal cast glinted when the figure pulled a seat back and settled in it.
Cyrdel kept his stance rigid even though his shins and ankles hurt from standing. The man who had just arrived and a woman with red hair were the first ones here. If the number of seats has to be filled, then he'd be standing for a while.
He restrained the urge to run for a seat and sit down. The attendant who fetched him from his given room hissed the instructions at him like he's tired of repeating it over and over again for non-ice sprites.
Rule one—guests shouldn't speak when the Grand Marshal hasn't asked. It's considered disrespectful and won't sit well with the other Generals if violated.
Rule two—one mustn't find a place on the table until the Grand Marshal and the rest of the Generals arrive to take theirs.
