Stone Politik
Thamas Daerlach -- The Manor(#22121Rn)
Wrought of marble, the manor house of Thamas Daerlach is two high-roofed storeys in height a mansion of masterful design and stunning craftmanship, dominated by the Grand Hall of the Bragollach. Rising as tall as the manor's two entire floors, the Grand Hall is as long as it is broad, and its immense ceiling is upheld by two rows of tall columns that march down its notable expanse. Each pillar is fashioned in a unique manner: a different statue of an ancient Lord of Men, clad in the proud garb of lost Numenor and clasping a star-hilted sword in massive hands, whose archaic emblem matches that of the circlet which crowns his high brow upholding the ceiling. Beneath the shadow of these Kings of Men stretches a single wooden table of dark mahogany, while light and warmth are provided by the gilded lamps and great stone hearths that dominate the walls on both sides. Hung tapestries pay homage to the clans of the House of Sudden Flame, including those of Anfalas, Ethring, Pinnath Gelin, and Erech. The banner of the main line of Dol Amroth is the most elaborate and fair, however, and reserved for the far wall behind the head of the dining table and opposite the main doors, hung high above the wide staircase that leads up to the private wings of Thamas Daerlach.
Beyond this staircase lies the private wings of the Bragollach of Minas Tirith the grand domiciles of a proud and noble people. The chambers of the servants lie nearest to the stairs, while beyond can be found the richly-appointed guest chambers that look out over the central courtyard. From there, separate staircases lead off to the private suites of the resident Bragollach, past red-carpeted hallways and tall windows draped with crimson curtains.
The curtains are drawn against the darkness of the night, and the flickering glow of candles and dimmed lamps battles against gloom. The occasional servant moves about on late duties, whilst two red-clad Bragollach guardsmen maintain a vigil in the Grand Hall.
[Gweneth]
Brought up the stairs of Thamas Daerlach, servants lead Arathis down the hall, past several doors, to a small sitting room whose door stands ajar. Inside, Lady Gweneth stands over her daughter, quiet whispers that seem to die just before the ear. The daughter's eyes leave her mother and fall upon the servant at the door before she announces herself. Gweneth notices and looks to the door herself, "Yes."
"A visitor, milady," then stands aside.
[Arathis]
The visitors are three: all tall, imperious men, heralded first by their smart cavalcade. Flanking is a pair of Guardsmen, marked by their sable wear and tall helms as Denethor’s and between them, now advancing a step past the opened port, comes Arathis, Isilrim Lord of the South and Voice of Imrahil’s Belfalas. At his neck, diffusing crimson in wave across his mail, hangs the token ruby of the Bragollachs.
He looks in plain survey upon the women, the younger sitting and the elder standing, ere settling a thin, expectant smile upon the former. Angling backwards at his hip, a martinet's wrist bids the Guardsmen to take position outside the sitting room.
“Madam, if I may speak to the Lady Bragollach in private.”
[Gweneth]
Dwarfed in both size and certainly in width, the presumed Lady Bragollach turns fully to the men, noting only Arathis with a slight bow of her head. A cup comes into view, the liquid amber within half emptied, that she lifts to her lips, eyes measuring the Isilirim Lord. Then the glow of the gem catches her eye and though she does her best to hide her reaction, those with the best of eyes catch hers widen in some hidden emotion.
"Prepare meats and cheeses for the Lord Isilrim," she intones to the servant who bows and takes leave. As her daughter moves to rise, her hand comes to rest on her shoulder, halting it, "She shall stay and listen and learn of whatever we are to speak of and how we speak it. Now come and find a chair, if it suits you, and a drink if you will be staying long."
[Arathis]
“You refuse me.”
Faint bemusement courses the Isilrim lord.
“Let her learn first, and I too, the hidden wisdom of your refusal. For the Bragollach’s allies are now few. Perhaps I am the last.”
Arathis does not proceed to a seat, instead striding freely about the chambers. The gem sways with his walk.
[Gweneth]
"The Bragollach do not find allies in times of rest and recuperation. But as always, when times become truly difficult, the enemy upon your shores, all generals find the Bragollach to cement the foundation of their lines. So it is today and so shall it be tomorrow."
Gweneth turns the lock on the door before moving deeper into the room to follow the Herald, "Gondor is built on the foundation of the Bragollach, even more so than the stone of your family. Stories fade in time but the product remains. So though you may be our last ally -- and if so, then you are quite welcome here -- there are more pressing matters at hand than 'who's my friend today?'."
"Or so I guess else you would not be here. Unless the Council of Lords will have a session soon? You have long been absent from them and your voice was missed by most."
[Arathis]
Arathis considers Gweneth as she speaks mirth arches his features as she ends. “You think highly of your fathers.”
He resumes his stride, looking between the women and room’s particulars. “Lady,” he levels then, “I would recount to you the fate of the House of Elendil, whose, alas, story remains but product has faded. For that most eminent line, another has arisen.
“And after, if you have also forgotten, I would tell the tale of Caldur. For there, our generals say, a fiery Lord and Captain -- a denouncer, they say, of both the Good God and the Knight’s Oath -- conspired fair Amroth into a folly war, his purposes sportive at best and high-treasonous at worst. Amroth’s defeat there, these generals say, has resulted, alas, in most difficult times, a Pretender upon our shores, and a shaken southern line for our Kingdom of Stone.
“This Lord and Captain, the generals say, fled westward when he learned of my return, and, at the specter of Justice in the Prince’s Court, grew fey and chose to fall upon his sword. He was one of your esteemed Bragollach: the last to wear this stone.
“Of him, a wicked story remains to anger our noble Steward and Prince -- of the Bragollach machinations whereby he first became Lord, of his unmatched hubris, apostasy and defeat --, but so too has the product faded.
“So do not find the matter un-pressing, Lady, when I, Ambassador in various manners of both Steward and Prince, name myself your ‘last ally’, lest you believe yourself and your kin more say than is true in what is to come today and what shall be tomorrow, and earn so a First Enemy and with him, a Second and a Third.”
[Gweneth]
"Your generals then paint a picture of half-truths at best and slander at worst."
"Imrakhor had his failings, but his training came from Imrahil's own hand. And despite your words, it was not he who led the attack, but another, fallen in battle. You make him into a more capable leader of men than he was. For even Lord Berengardh had allies, Imrakhor among them certainly, but do you root out the others? Your kinsman stood at Imrakhor's side at Caldur. Have you taken him to task? Or is this fluff to intimidate me for some purpose?"
Gweneth narrows her eyes at the Knight-Herald, "Your facts are perhaps bound more in your pride than in the events that they are based on. As to friends, I served Imrahil for a decade before you were even born. And the Steward for another while you were learning the differences between men and women." Her voice rises some, "And though Imrakhor was Lord, I have run this house for the majority of his tenure because he was not a leader of men. He was a sword, held aloft by others. Imrahil knows this, for how could he not? And under my rule it has prospered, and though Imrakhor's follies have sullied our name some, those that work with us know that indeed, little has changed."
Her arms cross, "Now, if you please, dispense with these attempts to rile or cower me, and instead speak of your reason being here? Certainly to return my family's stone, and for that you have my thanks. But what else? I am sure it is of some import for you to stoop to such tactics."
[Arathis]
Arathis heeds, a sharp tongue yet equanimous: “Be not so wed to yesterdays, Lady. Whatever account you favor, I now speak the one of the Lords’.
“You are keen to understate Imrakhor. But he like the Admiral has already been marked guilty in a just manner. Those not thus dead are uprooted: the Marshall has been retired, and the prominent House Vinyatar flees Amroth for Pelargir in shame.
“I battled aside Imrakhor. He was not so meek as you say. To every knight slain and retreated, he was Captain. Many avow it was indeed his charisma that won us war in the councils, just as it was his command that lost us war upon the field. It is by the buoyancy of his name that foul word of the Swan now travels.
“But what should it bespeak, heir of Indilkhor, if Imrakhor were incapable as you profess? Was not his ruby a spoil of your rout? Though you are regarded still a skilled purse by the courts of the Steward and the Prince, it is begrudged there too how what he wore was first yours and how your loss was paid for in end by the blood of our defeat.
“There is scandal (that I am to probe) even upon Hir Gwendion, the last of your name maintaining office for if he resigned himself amidst Caldur’s process, he ought to be deemed unfit to lead as Captain.
“The Bragollach are beset know it and do not labor our meeting more. Your words loosen as if I am pleased, forgetting that by many marriages we are kin. Indilkhor’s line is born from the Isilrim, and even now Solitar’s heir, Sirion the Youngest, is born from the Bragollach.
“Do not hear vainly when I name myself your ally. I come to right both horses, our chariot twined.
“First, I, Lord Isilrim and Prince’s Herald, return to the line of Indilkhor what is truly theirs, in hope that the Younger Gweneth may learn to bear it soundly from the Elder.”
The gem is removed and advanced upon open palm towards the latter.
[Gweneth]
"You place too much of the decisions of my brother and cousin at my feet. Were the path of the Bragollach solely decided by me these many decades well..." Gweneth does not finish, instead choosing to finish her drink. "And indeed," she takes the gem, overly disinterested, then makes a motion towards her daughter with it, "Sins of that past certainly will not be replayed."
"My thanks, true, for the service. Know that our family would never hold from yours that which is theirs and if this kindness is chanced so that we may repay it, we shall."
"As to Gwendion... despite the familiarity of our names, I know the man little save rumors of a history not unlike Imrakhor's that caused him to flee his post, of a sort. Stationed on the western shores, uninterested and unwanted, until brought here by you - you know him better than I. His rise to prominence is not looked upon with complete favor for a keystone of gold is valuable and bright and yet, in time, your house will crumble from its weakness."
"So too I fear it with him. But I have little sway in the affairs of the Swan and turn my attention to troubles my hands can reshape."
[Arathis]
The Lord Isilrim watches the turn of the gem. Again, a thin smile marks him.
“I mean to have the Lady Bragollach’s hand.
“I mean for dowry the promise of a son, and that what is due the Lord Ethring’s first child be given her and her first son in turn.
“I mean that our joined kins, eased by tithe that I am to levy upon Imrahil’s vassals, commission a pillar upon the southernmost point of Tolfalas, its sun-wrought heights marbled in the name of Caldur’s fallen and King Eldacar of Old.
“Let both Amroth and Umbar heed us.
“Then whatever sway in whatever affair is yours. With Gwendion it shall be as you please. The Bragollach are thus restored, with thee as foundation and I as cornerstone.”
[Gweneth]
Gweneth's lips purse in thought, eyes narrowing as she visibly measures the man before her her daughter's eyes widen slightly, a faint blush to her cheeks, but says nothing. "The trade is unbalanced, Gweneth for Ethring, for the lands of Gondor are eternal and alike to any other, but none have been crafted so meticulously as my daughter. She is for the line of Stewards, were the line of Kings not lost, and though Lord Isilrim and his family are suitors for most women of the land, certainly not...."
Her words are cut off as the younger Bragollach speaks, her voice wavering but for the first word, before firming to a clear, strong sound, "If Lord Isilrim takes first place at the Grand Tournament of the Prince this year, and when presented with his prize by Prince Imrahil, shuns it and asks instead for my hand during the ceremony, then I shall take his hand and the agreement shall be done."
Anger flashes in her mother's eyes, jawing clenching, but again but for a moment before she pronounces, "So be it," and looks to Arathis.
[Arathis]
The mother's protests weary Arathis, her words grating one of his eyes shut and guiding his deliberate stride away towards the room's port. He there turns to make leave, but proves instead halted for the young Lady Bragollach finally speaks, and the Lord Isilrim listens well.
So grows his thin smile, now fully a-bud.
"So it shall be. To win the tournament is but a small feat that I have practiced before.
"Now, if you would join your champion southward, dear Lady, I mean to travel aside the Silver Ship Company for Amroth upon the morrow's dawn."
With this, Arathis awaits any further address, ere opening the door and departing with the Guardsmen.
[Gweneth]
Now it is the younger who speaks, "The morrow is too soon for my responsibilities, I fear, Lord Arathis. If you cannot wait, I shall follow close behind but a half day's travel. And fear not, it is a trip I have made dozens of times before and of little consequence for me."
"So, until next time, either at the Gates of Minas Tirith at noon, or in Dol Amroth in a fortnights time."
The mother says nothing, seemingly fading into the background nearest the wall, the shadows of the room slowly covering her face with each step until at first glance, there is but the pair in the room and naught else. A slow smile creeps upon her lips.
A curtsey from the young woman, practiced and formal in all regards, "Till then."
