1st Draft Fridays - A Fistful of ... (#6)

Marsdenfel to Breidentel

And this is why legalities are ridiculous and governments are just social conventions. Berthen scowls at the cavern wall, letting himself express himself freely while he can. As soon as he steps through that portal, he'll be in Breidentel and have to deal with shit that wouldn't have happened if anyone involved had actually followed the forsook laws.

That neglect being why he's slipped out from his court and making his visit unannounced, thank you very much.

He sighs, reaches into the royal magic he has as king of Marsdendenfel and thus the Crystal King of all elves (theoretically), and locks the portals behind him as he steps through.

Nobody will leave or enter Marsdenfel via magic, while he's away. If anyone wants to take the narrow pass west into Grehafen or trek south through magic-infested marshes into Salles, the more power to them.

Upon reaching the portal landing room in Breidentel, he politely sidesteps—basic etiquette in case of traffic. A female sylvanné smacks into the locked portal and lands on the rolled-up funeral tapestry being carried by those behind her.

The tapestry drops, rolls, but stays sealed, so it was properly sewn up.

Aghast murmurs of "Heilé!" are followed by a whimpered "How are we supposed to get home?" from a faster-witted male.

The female herself just gasps at the impact, quickly gathers herself, frowns at the portal—

And glances right to the most recent entrant: him.

Her eyes narrow, but she curtsies. "Your Highness, I presume."

That isn't quite the correct form of address for him, and mountaineer was traditionally inappropriate. Berthen chooses to assume the gasps as them noticing that rather than noticing his youth.

It's one thing to know your high king was a teenager. It's another thing to see it.

And he's intentionally come alone, wearing a simple tunic and trousers that don't try to hide the knives strapped to his arms. He lets his circlet announce what he is: woven lilies wrought in stainless steel so fine it seemed silver.

It's a delicate-looking creation that announces grief while subtlely alerting that the bearer is well aware of their authority and is willing to use it. Yuoleen comissioned it upon taking her throne, even worn in her first year, out of respect to her lost parents and siblings. She'd stopped for fear that it would be interpreted as expressing grief that her illegitimate daughter existed.

Liathen hadn't bothered to order or use some such symbol, but he'd ignored other elfin realms and focused on Marsdenfel. He hadn't needed to give others such a cue as to whom he was.

Berthen had considered commissioning his own, perhaps a more ostensibly masculine version of Yuoleen's, but...he liked this one.

The female who greeted him in mountaineer knows enough of the local history to recognize his crown. The mountaineer was likely intended as a kindness, acknowledging that he would've grown up in the human realm of Grehafen.

"Sylvanné," he responds, alerting the female that he comprehends her neck tattoo. The count of vines indicates she's in her third decade—very young, for the Bridge of magic she's on, unless she was born there. He was, but that's highly unusual among elves.

Her scrutiny is curious, evaluating, without being judgemental. "Vanatí," she replies, identifying that he's a telf on the same Bridge she is.

More gasps and murmurs and flurrying surround them. Rulers aren't supposed to be Bridgers—or rather, Bridgers are supposed to be advisors and aides to rulers, not rulers themselves.