When Ulric woke up, muted chaos greeted him as windows, arched woven walls, and a large skylight revealed the muted light of pre-dawn. The table on which he'd dozed off had served as well a pillow as a pinched nut does a "how do you do?". Not fucking well. He was not the only man exploring the possibilities of bare table top as an orthopedic sleep aid. Many forms were seated, others draped, and some curled underneath its sturdy glory. All hail the table, final destination of the partygoers. Duties were roaming at large collecting leftovers, half-empty kegs sometimes, fully empty kegs most of the time, and the other detritus of a wild hullabaloo.

Not everyone had made it to Lala land with clothes intact. Ulric was treated to several shapely bottoms littering the room, sometimes with likewise stripped partners and sometimes alone. Surely things hadn't gotten that out of control though. Not in the middle of the grand Hall of their esteemed lordships. Surely.

Ulric could only hazard a guess on that count, Hal'et had taught him that when Elves saw someone they wanted they didn't pussy foot around. They also held no truck with casual monogamy, generally speaking, although Brighteyes claimed that marriage partners were frequently life-long and singular. Bald'rt's harem was more a function of political finessing, bindings of concords between tribes, and a healthy dose of intentional eugenics rather than business as usual.

History said pre-collapse pseudo-fundamentalism had infested societal norms in his home world. Already on the wane, most cults faded away completely when seven in ten humans died due to starvation, radiation poisoning, war, or any of a plethora of diseases that had run rampant during the century of collapse. Any that were left were ostracized when they attempted to resist vaccination, gene treatment, and controlled birth protocols. Not killed, just turned out from the subterranean shelters with a full pack of supplies and a pat on the back for luck. The beliefs of a few were not tolerated as being an excuse to doom the species.

He was raised by singular parents of a more traditional style but that was by no means the general rule, his folks were just introverted nerds that happened to luck into each other at a conference and stuck like ants in amber. They passed their traits on too well. Ulric didn't have the social stamina to be interested in juggling partners. Lessons learned the hard way, that.

Rubbing his eyes to clear the bleary wash of the party he looked around for something to drink. Water. He was looking for good, clean, pure water to drink. That beer had sucker punched him, all mellow and smooth. He hadn't noticed the potency until it was too late. Must have been a slow burn too, he normally woke up in the middle of the night from beer drunks. Not anything close to as aggressive as the spirits though and Ulric was grateful to whatever gods wanted to accept thanks that he hadn't gotten into any of that. That hangover was worse than a car wreck, and he would know. He found a pitcher that contained the good stuff and helped himself to a couple of mugs before pouring a third to nurse.

On closer inspection, one of the pairs of forms strewn about was Brighteyes and his Shadow. They were two of the wiser parties, having scrounged up a blanket and, somehow, actual pillows and taken their repose on the floor. They were cuddled up warmly and Ulric didn't have the heart to break up the pair. It was disconcerting to see his Shadow with that goofy drooling face compared to her normal rigidity. He was used to Brighteyes' snoring, they'd shared a shelter for weeks and the kid had sounded through a broken horn through some of it. Made a right cute pair they did.

The age thing for Elves was weird in Ulric's mind. While his brain throbbed, he couldn't help but consider the impact it must have on Elven development, if only to distract himself from hearing his own blood pulse behind his eyeballs. One of them a couple of decades, the other well over a century. Brighteyes looked like he might be ten, pushing twelve. Geyrt could have easily fit in at a junior college. For all their years though, they had experienced comparatively little compared to Ulric's estimations. He figured he could chalk that up to the lack of a way to access global historical archives at a whim.

On his old world, with the info web and social net being ubiquitous, especially once global infrastructure was restored only a few decades prior to his birth, all the knowledge of the human race was accessible at a relatively early age. Developing minds were exposed to the full range of human experience, lacking much of the emotional readiness or experience to contextualize it.

The result had been an odd blending of adulthood and childhood, mostly dependent on the mental maturation rate of the particular individual and to what extent their parents effectively managed child-rearing. That was a mixed bag, but lessons were learned from the post-internet upheavals of the precollapse. He himself had come away from that condition with a healthy level of mistrust for human motivations and a respect for the potential for the destructive impulse that could lead them to mob together to do all kinds of awful shit, especially where financial gain was involved. Historical archives were some sobering reads.

The Elves reminded him a little of that scenario only, instead of the internet being the complicating factor it was sheer longevity. You hang around long enough and you're bound to learn something, he figured. But the lack of communication and transportation technology vastly limited the scope of experience. Geyrt, for all her years, while no doubt a master of her domain in the Deep Wood, and a veritable globe trotter for one of her kin, would have almost no contact with island-faring or mountainous life and thus would be largely ignorant of it. Her attitudes toward magic and the extent of Ulric's own experiences were a good example of how settled their mentality could be on things. They were highly resistant to change or, at least, his Shadow had proven to be that way. Could be she was just stubborn.

On the other hand, Brighteyes had displayed remarkable emotional stability for a kid of his apparent age. Most Elves had that facet to them, that smooth evenness to their personalities. Grounded, that's what they were. His best working hypothesis was that their slow aging permitted them time to adjust to their physical condition and the lack of rapid fluctuation let them settle emotionally into a more comfortable arrangement. Humans aged so fast that they were, effectively, completely different physical creatures every decade, and that had profound impacts on their mindscape and emotional condition. Constantly adjusting to an ever-changing body probably had some role in Human instability. Aes'r were then, physically, less volatile than Valin.

Even that dead putz from the other day was waxing shrewd rather than flighty, even if he was a spoiled ass prince of his own puddle. Benefits of long years. Hadn't stopped him from drowning in deep water though and Ulric wasn't too proud to admit that was a lesson he most certainly should take heed of before it was him plastered all over some throne room.

Just don't talk shit to strangers, he told himself. Best thing you can do is shut up until you figure out who the dangerous ones are. He let those words of wisdom simmer while he downed another mug of water. Must be purified, he hadn't had any, let us call them Mexico City moments, since arriving. Regular as a clock he was. And grateful for it. His mind drifted back, as it did often, to the glade.

There had been dark times while he'd been experimentally foraging in the glade for edible plants. Most were fine, but there had been a couple of evil species. One particular shrub had edible leaves but the inner bark would squeeze your bowel into knots for hours while you voided hard enough to aerosolize. It was like labor but with a nightmarish payout. Add in a few other noxious herbs and some potently toxic ones and Ulric felt glad to be enjoying the bounty of safe foods again. Especially since winter was on in full. The air was distinctly cooler and had been sharp as he'd made his way to the hall yesterday, just the way he liked it. It wasn't cold if your skin didn't pucker on exposure.

These scrambled meditations from an abused brain were halted when the royal pups were wakened by Duties, who needed to pick up around them. They'd given Ulric a muted acknowledgment as they'd gone by, he'd absent-mindedly piled up spent mugs, stacked plates, and bowls as he'd sat nursing his hangover and rambling morning thoughts. Cleaning up while the liver and kidneys paid for your sins had been a tradition of decades, as he'd self-medicated by way of degenerative alcoholism. Fortunately, he'd been harvested by the Watcher before he could really explore all the wonder that particular abuse had in store.

The brother-sister pair stretched heartily and yawned. Geyrt made this exceedingly cute murmuring burble afterward that Ulric wished he could record and play back at her from time to time when she was being shitty, or when he was. She apparently noticed his observations because his Shadow abruptly put her game face on and rose, shaking Brighteyes to full waking before bustling the both of them over to the table at which Ulric was gradually reviving.

"Good morning young Iriels. Hope you slept better than I did, the table leaves some to be desired as a bed. Not its fault really, it was born to be a table and all, and who could have foreseen a fast promotion to sleepware?" Ulric greeted cheerfully.

"And to you Glade Chief. You rested well enough to be thinking strange twisty thoughts again. Why would a table be promoted? It is a table." Geyrt informed him smartly.

"Don't you talk about table like that, you don't know his hopes and dreams. Shhh, there, there table, she didn't mean it." Ulric consoled his table top.

These shenanigans made his Shadow scoff but she smiled briefly so he knew she wasn't completely beyond hope. No laugh though, so victory was not at hand.

"Good morning, Ulric. The Festival, it was an experience eh?" Brighteyes prompted through sleepy yawns.

"It was certainly that Brighteyes. You lot sure know how to throw a rager of a party. Hope I didn't cause too much trouble for your dad, but he seemed to have things well in hand, last I recalled. That shitbird's geezer seemed like he was about to try to cause problems but Bald'rt intercepted him nicely." Ulric said.

Not that he had to tell Brighteyes that, the kid had been front and center for the entire thing. Wild. A mere boy but overseeing duels. These Iriels were too hard core sometimes. Brighteyes only nodded, as if such things were commonplace. Which he went ahead and confirmed.

"Festival is a celebration Ulric but also a time for certain…conventions to relax. Many things are said on Festival day that would not be spoken aloud else when. This is why many couplings are formed on Festival and why so many travel to lands outside their own for the event. It is a chance to see and experience strange sights and clans outside one's own." the lad explained.

"Thanks to this mixing of peoples and the loss of inhibitions, duels during Festival are not uncommon at all. Eldest Sister here was responsible for almost yearly fights until she stopped attending. Father got tired of overseeing them so when I turned twenty he put me in charge of administering disputes. Mother Bathe was not happy, at first, but was glad to see me being trusted to represent our people at court at my age." continued Brighteyes with a chuckle at his sister's chagrin.

Ulric sat mulling that over for a minute. He'd been chewing on the dickhat's motivations on and off for the rest of the evening until he'd gotten drunk and forgotten all about him. While he chewed on it the two of them retrieved a plate of leftovers and another pitcher of water. The three of them picked at the refreshments as they talked.

"Brighteyes, tell me something, what was that fucker's problem? He pretty much walked up as soon as he physically could and I can't see that he wanted anything else than to get himself dead. Maybe by me, maybe by you, maybe by your sister. Hell, judging by what you told me, he qualified for evaporation by your dad at least twice." Ulric said sardonically.

Brighteyes laughed at that comment and Geyrt looked smug for some reason. If Ulric hadn't killed the guy she definitely would have, there was zero doubt on that account. Her social position and consideration for her family's reputation was all that had stopped her from burying him as soon as he'd started in, near as Ulric could tell. Probably she'd have waited for him to go take a piss and carve his spine to put on her wall, Predator style.

Brighteyes answered the question when he'd finished his mirth, his tone took on an edge of weight though to indicate that Ulric should pay close attention, which he did, sitting up straight.

"That was Heir Sam'sav Morion, first son and Lordling of House Morion. They are a Great House of the Zellusin, the river folk. You remember I spoke of them, yes?"

The golden-haired youth only waited a moment for Ulric's nod before he continued.

"That clan holds sway over a large part of the trade that comes up or down the Zelus and they have the most contacts in Prosper, the human citadel that controls access to the great sea Vatyn. Also, blood enemies of Iriel."

"He was a boorish oaf with hungry hands that made a nuisance of himself with the daughters of every hold he visited is what he was. And his House is a den of spiders spinning golden threads to choke their kin for advantage with Prespang's money." Interjected Geyrt hotly.

Brighteyes accepted that addendum with a raised hand as if to say "I'll allow it". Nice to learn the knob had been as pleasant elsewhere as he had been yesterday. And Ulric's Shadow had already tried to kill him once over it. Brighteyes had said she'd ended the drought beneath his feet so she'd gutted him in the middle of a Festival past. Cripes, and the guy still had the balls to shoot his mouth off in front of her? Ulric had done Orlethrem a favor, they were wasting resources feeding that idiot.

"For all his bragging, he was not overestimating his House's worth. They truly do account for around a third of the trade that comes through the river. As such his family is one of the richest in Orlethrem. They have also taken severe losses since Iriel closed trade when I was taken. Father put Orlethrem on stand by for war, as was his right as Crown." Brighteyes soldiered on past his sister's interruption.

Hmm…that would explain the grudge against the Iriels. Brighteyes' capture had instigated his father's lockdown of the borders and his sister had publicly shamed the lordling. So, the Iriels had, one way or another, cost the house money and face. But what did that have to do with Ulric? He voiced the question and the one-day Lord of Iriel answered with a greater awareness of political intrigue than Ulric was expecting.

"In all likelihood, their house's spies gathered that you, an unknown human of no repute, were by some method granted holding of the Sacred Grove, and this ownership had been acknowledged by my Father. It would be like them to immediately plot to take it through dishonorable means, such as killing the lord of the land in a duel, knowing there were no heirs. By this way they could revenge themselves against my family and gain a new avenue to enrich themselves because Morions are gilded jackals." The youth concluded.

"That's…okay, I think I get it. The Morion fucker thought he had an easy target. Fair enough. Kind of fucked up that the first impulse would be to kill a guy to steal his shit, Brighteyes. Sort of makes me worry a little about my idea of building up relations with other tribes. But, alright, greed operates on Varda, same as gravity. Why in the hell was he going so hard after your sister then?"

It was Geyrt who answered, and she was still visibly pissed at the recollection.

"That is because I could not, by law, challenge him for spewing his filth. I am your Shadow now Glade Chief, not a citizen of Iriel. I am considered to be part of your household, part of your person. He was not insulting Iriel with his attack he was insulting you. It allowed the yak stool to say whatever he wanted without facing me or Father who could have taken exception on my behalf. I would have had to wait for him to leave Irielhos and kill him quietly instead of publicly. It could have taken years to catch the [Sap Weasel] in the wilds away from his escort." She said still smoldering.

"Oh. Well. In that case, you're welcome, although the only reason I didn't wait around is because I was afraid you'd get him first. That and I was mad enough to eat iron filings and shit horseshoes." Ulric admitted, deciding not to mention the doom whisper of instinct that had been kind of leading the charge.

A thought occurred to him.

"Geyrt, since you're my Shadow could I have let you take the challenge in my place? Or given you leave to snatch him out from under his minders and stuff him down a latrine or something?" Ulric asked.

Brighteyes didn't seem too thrilled about those prospects, but if Ulric was a betting man he would have bet the kid's more evil-minded sibling would have gladly done those things.

"I would have gladly done those things Glade Chief; nothing would have given me greater satisfaction than to cut Lordling Morion's yapping tongue free from his throat." the dark woman answered with enthusiasm.

She paused only a moment before continuing on, Brighteyes had looked about to speak and, it would seem, Geyrt was heading off some kind of commentary on that notion.

"I am glad you did not choose that route though; it speaks better of you among us that you would answer the challenge yourself and at that moment. Especially with Father."

That made the youth nod decisively.

"Exactly so, Eldest Sister. A Shadow is considered part of your person Glade Chief but Iriel'en disapprove of letting another fight in one's place. This is also a better way because any who doubted your claim to Lordship will know its veracity without [Scan] or viewing your status directly." Brighteyes agreed.

"There is also the way you killed Sam'sav Morion. Word will spread of this. That you refused any weapon or your own magical ability and mauled your opponent without shedding blood. Well, without much blood. It was very impressive Ulric. Some people here are fortunate not to have earned your ire with their flagrant antagonisms, despite knowing full well the contents of your status." the young lordling finished, with a parting shot for his sister.

Geyrt drew up and directed a scowl to her sibling.

"I have hunted far more dangerous beasts in the wild Lumyt'seit. If I had not run for three days on end because some kin of mine had been escorted back home like a stray kitten I could have taken him. If you will excuse me, Ulric Glade Chief." Exclaimed the proud young woman.

"Oh no, do go on, my Shadow. I think you're making enough excuses for all of us, I need not add any." Ulric chimed.

That earned him the transfer of her scowl and a wide grin from Brighteyes. Not that he didn't agree with her, just that he wasn't going to give her any ideas about it. The victor got to write the history and Ulric wasn't going to let her get away with thinking she could have stomped him any time she liked. Even if, maybe, she could have. All that mattered was, in this timeline, she hadn't and that was that.

Brighteyes managed to divert her with an expert hand though. Probably the result of much practice.

"Speaking of hunting Eldest Sister, I see you have acquired a new bow. It is strangely familiar though, I feel as if I have seen it before. Indeed, it almost matches the one that Ulric crafted from his glade, a strange thing, for that one was unlike any other that I have seen. You did not badger him into giving you his bow, did you? I would expect better Sister, even from you." Brighteyes teased.

Geyrt grabbed the strung bow she had been sleeping with—Hah! Knew it!—defensively before denying the charges.

"I did not! That is not what happened at all. Tell him Ulric! Tell him it was a replacement for my bow that you broke, that I had nothing to do with its giving." She cried, gravely flustered by the accusations.

Ulric decided that she would not be getting off the hook so easily. Not when the setup was this good. Ulric covered his face in his hands.

"You should have seen her Brighteyes. She would not stop accusing me of the murder of her bow. She claimed all sorts of things, life debt, the blood of a first child, my pension. For hours at a time. I had no choice but to give up my precious bow or never know peace." he said with feigned sorrow.

That got her going. Spluttering and wide-eyed she garbled some kind of protest while Ulric and Brighteyes laughed at her. It was only a few moments before she caught on they were both taking turns setting her up but they were sweet vengeance.

"You have spent too long with this man Lumyt'seit, you are picking up his bad habits. I cannot be surrounded by men who behave like Father, it is a fate worse than death." She scolded.

Bald'rt Iriel, [Lord of the Deep Wood] and Crown of Orlethrem, appeared behind his daughter as if summoned from one of the blacker pits of hell, and casually pinched his daughter's ear pulling a strangled yelp from her that echoed through the Great Hall.

"Worse than death is it, my little Shadow Panther? You would wound my fatherly soul with such vitriol? Add this to the crimes you have committed, including brow-beating your Honor into yielding his admittedly fine instrument to you. I had thought you raised better but now I see that I have truly failed you." the Elf Lord said loudly, so the entire hall could hear.

"Father!? Father! Please let go, I surrender! And we were all jesting, see? All in good fun, was it not Lumyt'seit? Ulric?" She appealed to her enemies in desperation.

Ulric shared a glance with his boyish comrade and then both of them with his host.

They burst out laughing while the woman soothed her pinched ear, now reddening from their combined efforts. She stuck her tongue out at them, which only made it better.

As much fun as heckling Geyrt proved to be, their mirth was short lived. Bald'rt had not come to harass his daughter, or, at least, that hadn't been the motivating factor, but when a target of opportunity arose, he gladly joined in the games.

Soon enough though he took up the thread of their prior discussion, which meant either he had very good hearing or he was picking up information from the ever-diligent Duties as they went about their business. Servants of the house spying for their master was a tale as old as time so Ulric made a mental note to consider words spoken before them to be as delivered to Bald'rt's own person.

Releasing his wanton daughter's lengthy ear, Bald'rt broached the reason for his early rise.

"Gladdened am I that you are so considerate of my position at court and amongst the confederations of Orlethrem, Glade Chief, but you need not worry on my account." The eerily pretty man proclaimed.

"My position is secure, both at home and abroad, and, in any case, there are none among my kin that would have the strength to dethrone me that I have not already made ally. Or wife. Or both, when they decide to stop circling above my head the way a Sky King circles a crippled calf and join me in affairs of state. I confess that I might hinder my own cause in this by keeping their feathers somewhat ruffled, but what is life without the games that make it enjoyable, eh?" Bald'rt grinned roguishly.

A few light nudges with his elbow on Ulric's arm suggested that he should know of what Bald'rt spoke, but Ulric had decided long ago that those three women were not worth the risks of death to rib. A cat didn't have enough lives, and not everyone could survive getting punched by the monstrous strength of Bathe. He didn't even want to think about how Shor set about getting even, the return stroke was probably years in the making and sharper for its delay.

Ulric chose to avoid putting his feet in his mouth where anyone could get word back to the great ladies and instead pushed on to more comfortable topics, such as mortal peril and Elf politics.

"I'm glad the Festivities and your affairs weren't overly affected Bald'rt. Brighteyes was just telling me some details about the pompous jackass weed I had to pull yesterday. It would appear that I've probably made an enemy of a somewhat higher caliber than the Heckler monkeys and some bandit thugs. That guy you cooled down looked like the type to hold a grudge, anything I should be looking for in the near future?" Ulric inquired.

The deep wood king's eyes briefly scanned the room as he considered before returning to Ulric.

"In the short term, he will probably not move." Bald'rt concluded.

"The duel was appropriate, was clearly instigated by his son, who left no uncertainty as to his ill-advised intent, and was executed with sufficient finality as to leave your own status unquestionable. Any retaliation now would be a strike against my Guestright, and thus at Iriel'en custom. I could not, and would not allow this to go unprotested and Sav'ris Morion would not survive long my displeasure." Said the Elf with eyes that spoke a ferocity underlined by his calm tone.

"However," the [Lord of the Deep Wood] continued, "You should, in the future, look upon Zelussin, the river folk, with whom you are not familiar with deep suspicion. Especially in their territory. Lord Morion has great sway in those lands, as does he in Prespang, where coin speaks more loudly than reason much of the time."

As if an afterthought, tone dismissive and apologetic, as if he was sorry to be wasting anyone's time with trivialities he informed Ulric, "It is likely he will at least send mercenaries to even the score when you leave my protection. For any opportunity that arises where he may make your life uncomfortable, such as partaking in trade or travel along the Zelus, the grieving Three-Tailed Scorpion will no doubt already be making arrangements."

Ulric groaned loudly, and suppressed a string of profanity, including curses on all pointy eared folk. Sonofabitch! What else was he supposed to do, just let fancy pants the recently departed, steal the glade out from under him and banish him to the wilds like some kind of vagrant criminal? Fucking Elves. Now he had some river dick maybe siccing, what, thugs, assassins, or some shit after him? His near pained grimace spoke volumes. It was all he could do not to spit on the floor. As much as he wanted to find a nice place to curl up and hide away, that was no longer an option, he was being drug into Matters of Court. More information. That's what he needed.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

"So, all that about me stealing Elven heritage and stuff, was that just his excuse to try to goad me or is that a viewpoint common enough that I need to be on guard?" Ulric asked.

Geyrt answered this, beating Brighteyes and her Father to the punch.

"That sort of view is a heavy minority Glade Chief, and goes against Father's proclamation of your status as Lord. If the All-knowledge has certified your station, then the world itself has acknowledged your claim. The Plateau is yours by right and what you do with its bounty is your decision, which none can gainsay. To attempt to do so would be tantamount to war, which Morion knew. If he had tried such a thing with, say, a prince of the sea-folk, the Aktinia, they would have loaded their ships with as many warriors as they could muster. Then they would have sailed up the Zelus, to peel his skin and sew it into their sails." His Shadow said gravely.

Brighteyes nodded his agreement and Bald'rt sealed the deal, saying

"This is so. That you are a nation of one, and that the Lordling was a spoiled fool, was the only reason he thought he might get away with it. If he could kill you, he could make a claim to your holdings, your title. His greed blinded him to common wisdom."

Brighteyes chimed in then his calm voice turning to anger "He would also have taken Eldest Sister to be his own Shadow. The coward would not face her himself, not where she could take up arms against him again. It was his piggish advances that got him near to slain last time he put his hands where they did not belong."

Both Father and Daughter's evil expressions at the reminder softened to sinister smirks, near mirrors in their satisfaction of the memory. Still creepy, the resemblance.

Bald'rt clapped his hands loudly as if closing the book on the memory of the loathsome Lordling.

"Done is done, Ulric. We will leave the dead where they belong and look forwards. I will say in closing that it gave me no small joy to see Savris' mewling get receive his reward. Festival places certain obligations of hospitality on the host, and that Plagueblood Vermin knew it. Shadow or no, my daughter deserves to have her dignity. Thank you, [Lord of the Ancient Glade], you have again earned my gratitude on behalf of my offspring." Thanked the normally light hearted Elf with sincerity, even ending with a short bow.

It was both a little strange, to be thanked for murder, and sort of nice, like someone appreciating your craftsmanship. This Varda place did weird shit to his Earth tuned notions of civilization and standards for behavior. When in Rome, Ulric reminded himself.

"No problem, Lord Bald'rt. It was, very literally, my pleasure. The only people who get to make Geyrt uncomfortable are you, Brighteyes, her mom's because who's going to say otherwise? And me." He finished.

Geyrt frowned at that but didn't actually object.

It was, after all, a statement of fact.

"Glade Chief am I going to need to remind you to remain civil? I can think of a hundred ways to make your life unbearable without violating the bonds of my position." She advised him.

"Just like her mother." Bald'rt sighed.

"Listen to her on this Ulric. Never had I known how many types of scowl could exist or how long a woman could nurse a grudge for any slight as Vedyr. I loved her on first sight, and we courted with fervor, but it was long years before I learned to live with her in peace." the Elf said sagely.

"Father, you have been banished to sleep in the guest quarters more years of my life than not." Brighteyes countered.

"So, you see, Ulric, I would know." Spoke the Lord of Iriel solemnly.

They ignored Geyrt's obvious peeve and discussed more pleasant topics before a runner brought news of some matters that required Bald'rt's attentions. He begged off, but not before securing from Ulric a commitment to attend dinner in the near future. Off in a flash, the room seemed substantially less full for the absence of a single man.

Brighteyes chatted for a few minutes and then reminded Ulric that the normal business of Irielhos was resumed and that he had to go attend his lessons or face his Mother's ire. That meant that Ulric's own lessons were approaching and he was still standing in his rumpled attire from the party. Thus spurred, they said their goodbyes and parted to begin the rigors of improvement.

"Let's head back for a quick bath and a change and see what Magister Gother has in store eh?" Ulric prompted.

Geyrt examined her braid, which had become slightly less ordered with some dissatisfaction and agreed readily. On the way, she flagged a Duty and requested a set of casual clothes for Ulric, which consideration caught him off guard. Her casual attitude felt a little forced but she merely told him "Your honor is my own." as if such things were expected when he thanked her. Maybe she wasn't used to being thanked. Or being considerate enough to be thanked for it. Eh. Whatever.

The baths were jammed full of bodies this morning. The pair of them actually had to wait in line to change in the entry room. Its rows of lovelingly carved and immaculately fitted drawers were more full than not, packed with the belongings of bathers. With a little work, they managed to find a spot to scrub and soak in the massive place and they were soon settled into a cubby in this palace of heated water. Ulric was going to have to have one of these baths installed in the glade. He couldn't go without any longer, not now that he'd been shown heaven.

Nearby bathers had taken notice of the pair when they'd entered but none volunteered to break from their circles to engage outside of some friendly and some appreciative gazes. Mostly towards his Shadow, of course, who remained a particularly fine jewel in the treasury that was the Elf form. At least to Ulric's eyes.

It was very possible that there were drastically different standards for beauty between Elves and Humans, though Ulric doubted this very much. Too many overlaps had he experienced between Hal'et's tastes and his own. Ulric was greatly appreciative of the fact that there was no hard rule that said Elves had to at least mostly share the same sexual and emotional features of attractiveness as those with which he was accustomed. They could have all been natural foot fetishists. They could have all found that the greatest mark of attractiveness was a gap-toothed smile and back hair. They didn't, but they could have, and Ulric was grateful for more conventional standards of beauty. The Young Miss Iriel was pushing full marks for all of them.

Speaking of the physical wonder that was Geyrt Iriel, she was re-braiding her hair. It was the first time she'd let it loose that he had seen and the midnight waves, so dark they nearly shimmered blue were an impressive sight. Efficiently she went about using a comb to remove kinks, and stray hairs, and then put it back to order with deft fingers. The maze of winding fingers made that woven braid, with its ribbon of green silk intermeshed, a work of art. His fascination with the process was complete. And entirely above boards, thank you very much, his stupid monkey brain was starting to accommodate with Elven casualness regarding nudity.

Looking around the heat-misted wash of bodies in the baths Ulric, if pressed, couldn't have thought of a better place than Orlethrem to harden oneself, *cough*, psychologically that is, against sheer attractiveness. I am vaccinated against improbable beauty by ruthless exposure, Ulric thought sardonically. It reminded him that last night's Festival had included a series of dances that made a few of the racier salsas look mild. That they were carried out with the grace of decades unto centuries of practice made them all the more enchanting.

Ulric had been tempted to cover Brighteyes' peepers as such things could taint young minds with their suggestions. The young Elf's running commentary regarding the histories of the dances and their geographical variations between clans had been too interesting, however, so he'd been forced to allow the boy to risk being corrupted. Ulric had even turned down a couple of invites pleading incurable clumsiness that his prospective partners had merely smiled off before finding another no doubt more capable dancer. He'd never been able to dance, and it made his back itch to think of trying some of the subtle steps, hops, or gestures that so occupied many of the partygoers. It had been a blast to watch though. Made a Russian ballet troop look like amateur night at a trucker bar.

Musing about the fae night before put Ulric into a fugue. It had been nice to listen to Bald'rt's kid spout random facts about Orlethrem cultures, histories, some geopolitics, and absolute trivia regarding some of the guests. The boy made sure to barb his sister about this would be suiter or that and she would return fire with commentary about sending a guide with him to go to Festival nights in the future to keep him from getting lost in the Woods or mauled up by Root Badgers or some such. Each dry observation was laced with just enough truth to sting but not enough to constitute an overly hurtful insult. Their prodding demonstrated years of practice razzing one another and familial warmth that had reminded him of his own family which he'd had to divert himself from quickly or sour the evening with bittersweet thoughts on what was now lost.

Music with varied and interesting measures, free-form beats, melodies that ranged across scales, and bounced between octaves hauntingly was background to the entire thing. All in all, Festival, after the initial unpleasantness, had been the greatest party Ulric could ever remember attending. Ten out of ten, would do again. Probably sans deathmatches though.

All too soon, Geyrt prodded him out of the warrens of his own mind. They had business to attend to and something of a walk to get to the creepy old Academy.

With the silent efficiency that was typical of them, the Duties had replaced Ulric's lived in blacks with a set of fresh clothes that reminded Ulric of well-tailored jogging clothes. Loose but fitted and of a much denser fabric that Ulric would soon think of as Uberwool. He didn't know what plant or animal created such fibers but they shed water like neoprene and were about as warm as flannel. Part of him longed for a microscope to examine the fiber compositions and some solubility tests to determine their chemical treatments. No way did an animal just grow this stuff. Or, maybe, it did he told himself. Magic was a thing. Magical Ubersheep might be out there grazing on a hill somewhere that would provide the stuff. Hell of a thing to be able to trade.

Geyrt, for her part, was wearing a new get-up. It was a little less Legolas, and a lot more Japanese Shrine Maiden. She wore what looked like a series of robes that were designed to overlap. The end result was a more delicate, more refined appearance for his Shadow. The starched stiff, thick Uberwool outer robe was heavy with the greens and browns and vibrant, if minimal, gold accents but the thinner silk under robe was pure white. The flowing cloth was gathered into leg wraps that started at the knee and went all the way down to the feet, which were covered by thick socks. Those thigh boots, of which Ulric was the biggest fan, had been traded for a set of sandals that strapped across the feet and around the ankle. All in all, a good look, Ulric was on board.

When he commented on it, Geyrt said it was a traditional attire for winter wear when you had no plans to go into the deep wood. When he'd asked why he hadn't seen anyone else wearing it she'd said, a little defensively, that many of the warriors and visiting Houses had different traditional garb and that they were going to be late if he kept wasting his air asking about her clothes. So, maybe she wasn't used to being in, quote-unquote, civilian clothes. Just another layer to add to the mysterious onion that was his Shadow.

Certainly, the new garb did nothing to slow her down, she seemed hell bent on power walking all the way to the lift and even Ulric's long legs had to work to match her pace. As it turned out, the haste was necessary, they only had a minute to spare between arrival at the dim cloisters of Elven scholarship and the entrance of Instructor Gother, purveyor of dry attitudes and even drier knowledge.

There were a similar number of students as last time, seated in the same positions as the last session as well, although nothing suggested assigned seating. More like, with Gother, you just kind of found a place to settle in as best you could and let the current of his voice wash over you.

On this occasion, he picked right up where he'd left off. Bark harvesting. Oh! Wait! In a new twist, Gother was now discussing the various methods of processing this bark. The particular tree, which Ulric found out was the large branching evergreen he'd seen co-dominating the landscape as he and Brighteyes had hiked in, was called Azure Cedar. Or, at least, that's what it translated to in his brain. He couldn't dwell on the speciation or naming parallels that were surely being constructed in his brain. Synthesized by the Akashic language mystical nonsense these people just took for granted because Instructor Gother was on a roll.

Azure Cedar Bark was processed to make a host of goods or materials. It could be removed in sections from the trunk of the tree without harming the tree and would regenerate after a few years, thus the Azure Cedar made up a renewable resource and was grown in large commercial groves in the northern reaches of Iriel. One such product involved scraping the bark. A sharp blade could be used to raise long fibers which could then be braided into durable twine. Peeled, aged, and dried, the bark could be hardened into tough platelike sheets which were cut into the tiles he'd seen on structures in the sprawling metropolis below Irielhos. Soaked in alkaline waters the bark leeched a substance that could be rendered into pitch which was highly flammable but also waterproof. Burning the bark in a confined container produced a charcoal that, when mixed with various other herbs, could treat infections or reduce the effects of certain poisons. On and on and fucking on did Gother go about this godsdamned bark. Unlike the previous day, there was no looming Winter's Herald to save him. This lecture was a full three hours long. Three. Hours. Of. Bark.

Ulric was going to have dreams about it. Woody, piney, evergreen dreams.

At least, the rain of facts did cement in Ulric's mind that the Elves of Orlethrem did not live in total isolation. There were many mentioned sundries for trade and where they were most heavily profitable in Gother's Saharan discourse on the topic. The tree only grew in Iriel so its trade constituted a major source of income for the more insular tribe of Orlethrem, both between other clans of the confederacy and the lands of the Otherkin, as the Elves called them.

The tiles, in particular, were of high value since they did not shrink with age and, couple with their pitch derivative, would create water sealed roofing for potentially centuries. There was, in this world of minimal technology, almost no better solution to creating a durable, lasting roof, that didn't involve heavy stone. These facts seemed near random but began to build a picture of the world around him. A bark-based picture, at the moment, but a picture.

It wasn't that Ulric wasn't interested in the topic of bark and bark accessories, it was that Gother somehow managed to make super trees the single most boring thing in the entire universe. He was committed to remaining attentive, however. If the information presented here was thought to be important enough to deliver to the children of the remaining Lesser and Greater Houses that remained in Irielhos, then it must be worth knowing for Ulric. He gritted his teeth and committed the lecture to memory. At last, at long, long last, Gother freed his victims from his monotone test of endurance. Ulric fled immediately.

Geyrt Iriel, paragon of Elvendom, committed lifelong to his protection and furthered interests, unwavering in her diligence to her duties, had fallen asleep standing up. She started when Ulric opened the door, a full body flinch, and he saw her turn her head, as if examining the empty hall for threats, to wipe a thin smear of drool from her chin. And now, his Shadow refused to meet his eyes despite his attempts to catch them with his accusatory glare. After a few moments of determined optical blaming, Ulric turned to make an exit of the Scholarium. The dark visage of his guardian, now slightly reddened from bashful self-recrimination, followed demurely. It had been a late night for everyone, Ulric admitted to himself. But still. HE hadn't gotten to sleep through Gother's lecture and that was all that mattered.

Unlike the prior day of instruction, the full length of Gother's mental punishment would preclude an extended break between morning lessons and afternoon training with Idra. Ulric was determined not to be late for that so he skipped lunch to head directly up to the eleventh floor, the housing and drill site for the royal guard of Iriel. As before, the pavilion was empty save Idra'se, Bald'rt's right hand man and the leader cum instructor for the most elite of Iriel'en soldiery. The bitter Winter cold did not touch him, not even in his light exercise garb. Frost laden the limbs might be but Idra would wear only the blacks of his Warrior's garb.

Barely had Ulric greeted the weathered warrior though before other members of the guard appeared carrying racks of practice weapons, wooden dummies, and various other training implements. Most were dressed in blacks with an overlayer similar to Geyrt's stiff wool robes. In a short few minutes the pavilion was sorted. Ulric would have helped by grabbing something but the near mechanical harmony of the two score men and women moving things to proper position by rote would only have been disrupted by his effort.

Idra, content with the completion of the drill area set up turned to Ulric with a hearty greeting.

"Welcome back Glade Chief! Have you thrown off the worst of the after-effects of Festival? I would have you ready to make betterment today, especially now that I've seen how you move during combat. Your base speed is good, and your power exceptional, but there is great room for improvement in the precision of your movements. I will credit your Undan ready though, it was as firm as I could expect from so little training and you appeared comfortable in its initiation of combat. The Morion should have paid better attention to his Zellusin instructors, they will doubtless be shamed at how easily he was taken."

The Elf spoke of the killing as a fisherman speaks of the weather. The clouds were out but no rain, fish on. Ulric felt a little pride at this warrior's praise, he had a feeling it didn't come often. He was also even more convinced that he needed to be here.

"Thanks, Idra'se. I didn't think I was going to be providing the entertainment when I accepted the party invite, but Morion didn't leave me much choice. Nobody gets to breathe my air and then use it to be that stupid." Ulric said firmly.

Idra laughed at that claim and several of the warriors in attendance joined in. Even Geyrt smirked in amusement. They had all been present for the fight and word had spread of the provocations. Many of these attending Elves had made coin on the resulting "duel".

Ulric, in his heart of hearts, considered it cold-blooded murder. Even if Elven society had not had in place the social infrastructure for settling disputes through personal combat, Ulric knew that he would have spent whatever effort was necessary to see to it Sam'sav Morion reached room temperature that night. He hadn't had to; things had worked out as well as could be circumstances considered, but he knew what he'd done and had long since left behind regrets about what he was becoming in this world.

A second life didn't mean redoing what you'd already done, it meant transforming into what you wanted to be. What he wanted to be was a person who could rid themselves of nuisances like Lordling Morion as they arose. He had a home to protect, allies whose reputations he considered valuable, and a status of his own to carve into the world. You don't get to do all that by being a doormat for ambitious psychos. And, as much as he'd changed already, it wasn't enough. Not yet. Not by a long shot.

That buffoon of a merchant's son had been a freebie: arrogant, pampered, lacking in fighting experience, and devoid of self-preservation instincts. He was in the vast minority, even his own sire had presented a far more dangerous front. By far, most of the Elves Ulric had met, especially the ones wearing their simple finery had all moved like tigers. Even if Iriel's war stance had skewed that proportion observable in Irielhos, they were all of them raised on a world of far greater savagery, more habitually violent, than the time in which he had lived on Earth. Ulric was struggling against years of societal conditioning but finding his natural inclination was lining up more intuitively with the rules here on Varda than in the Before.

Ulric couldn't pretend that he wasn't concerned about a potential assassin hired to even scores between him and the Morion household, not when they had the means the Iriels had described. Men like that held power far beyond the more transparent aspects of their public businesses or they didn't get to that level of wealth and influence. They had ways of disposing of competition or frowning on interference in their affairs that were frequently terminal. Even amongst the movers and shakers of his old world, with all the codes of law, world governments, geneva conventions, watch dog organizations and so on and so forth, the men of fantastic wealth routinely had prying journalists killed and competitors "discouraged". Frequently the discouragement came by serial muggings or suspicious warehouse fires. Power was power, no matter its source

Since Ulric didn't and wouldn't have contacts and connections or sheer economic means to combat the resources of an Elven merchant consortium, he was going to have to cultivate a more old school kind of deterrence. Something more of the salt the ashes and fields when he leaves variety. If he could gain enough raw strength, he could force any hostile parties to let bygones be bygones or risk personal destruction. Imminent threat of bodily harm should do the trick for being left the hell alone or having more games like the one at Festival being played around him. That meant putting his every effort into learning combat arts from the people who seemed to have truly mastered them.

Amusement aside, Idra gestured Ulric to a place within the formation of warriors and Ulric obligingly stepped to stand next to a lightly armored form. When he saw the warrior's face it turned out to be Sinna, Hal'et's sister. She nodded her greetings and made a hand gesture with which Ulric wasn't immediately familiar but had observed. He returned her gesture with a brief wave. Barely had he even set his feet in place but Idra had begun.

It was stance work, of course. They were run through the drill of called steps from their combat system, their Thousand Steps Dance, to a cadence beat by Idra'se's practice sword against the heartwood pavilion floor. By the metronome's half beats did the formation move from one position to the next, Ulric being significantly slower and far less precise than the rest. He swallowed his mild embarrassment though, this is just how it is for the FNG, the fucking new guy.

After a half hour he was getting the hang of it, meeting Idra's command of Undan and Fyir, the southpaw and orthodox ready positions; Branch-side, Branch-back, Branch-forward, the side backwards, and forwards lunging steps respectively; Twinned Roots-low, Twinned Roots-high, the squared feet, braced positions, and then the whole thing mirrored from the Fyir ready where the rooted leg was reversed. Then came the half steps for everything they'd already done. Then came the crossing steps one leg in front of the other, then one leg behind, and then the same crossing steps in reverse. One thousand steps indeed.

Ulric was just starting to think he was getting the hang of it until Idra began to beat staccatos against the floor. The tempo elevated. The steps were called in rapid fire, quarter beats, double time, in groups of four, with a half-second delay between each set. This new exercise was a complete disaster. Ulric could barely get his feet planted at the old cadence, he lacked the fluidity, the muscle memory to assume the exacting positions with speed. To make the transitions at this new pace was a distant dream. He was soon out of synch with the group, and his legs burned with the effort. The veteran warriors of the royal guard made the exercise look effortless but Ulric was pleased to note the flare of nostrils struggling for deep breaths and the light panting of exertion from his comrades in suffering. Their rigor didn't detract from their utter precision. They hit every stance, made every transition with complete grace and the fluidity of years of Idra'se's adamantine discipline.

This tortuous exercise continued for half an hour, the end of which found the entire formation standing upon jellied legs, with the exception of a few exceptional individuals, who must have had steel in their thighs instead of meat. Ulric noted that Geyrt had not been a part of the formation and that the exclusion grieved. Her eyes longed to join them in this and Ulric both understood the sentiment and was amazed that anybody could miss this kind of pain. It was far worse than the mandatory military training from his old world. By kilometers. His Shadow had instead stood at rigid attention observing Ulric's every move, noting every imperfection for later correction, in between scanning the surroundings for hostile moths or whatever might earn her ire. The pressure of her silent judgment had not made the goings on any more fun, at all.

When at last Idra commanded "Rest" he was taken at his word. About a quarter of the elves in formation dropped to sit, legs splayed out. A few beat fists upon thighs and calves, loosening knotted flesh. Ulric's legs were simply numb. He'd pushed himself hard in the glade, had run, climbed, and jumped to his heart's content, at full tilt. He'd never had a sadist standing a few meters away squeezing the energy from his very bones until they had none left to give. He didn't drop to a sit, he just dropped and hoped the floor stayed where it was to catch him. Deep breaths pulled air into his lungs while his heart beat a rapid, regular rhythm to try to restore the oxygen to his muscles.

Geyrt strode over, at last able to rejoin his side and freed from the painful exclusion from her onetime comrades. As the numbness in his body gave way to the lactic acid burn of depleted muscles, she began to enunciate clearly Ulric's failings. They were many. Sitting in the shade of her stern beauty, Ulric listened to her clinical explanations, delivered in a matter-of-fact tone, and tried to commit to memory her corrections. He would fail this task today and in many of the days to come, but still, he listened. This was necessary pain.

Several of the other warriors, both those sitting on the floor and those who had remained standing, traded looks and grins as the verbal surgery of his Shadow carved away the layers of Ulric's mistakes. Sinna observed drily that "those who stood closest to the suns felt most keenly their burn", which got more than a few chuckles and a half smile from Idra. After ten minutes of this, with no end in sight, he was saved when Idra paired off the formation into sparring sessions. Geyrt subsided and Idra'se took her place.

Evidently, Idra was no more pleased with Ulric's performance than had been his Shadow. Ulric he drew off to the side to receive more focused attention. Where Geyrt emphasized the specific misplacements of feet, and the misalignments of the body, Idra'se was coming at things from a more global perspective. He started things off on a good note.

"Ulric Glade Chief you move similarly to a newborn. There is a lack of familiarity with your own limbs, an absence of balance. In normal circumstances, when you are doing things with which you are familiar this does not become apparent, the body knows what it should do and you are able to leverage your power. When you do anything that is not familiar, you have the grace of a drunken Svartalfin." Summarized Bald'rt's personal guard.

This fact had not escaped Ulric's own notice. If he could go slowly and visualize what he wanted to do he could normally do it fairly competently. If, like during the staccato drill, he was forced to hurry it felt like his body belonged to a stranger. A clumsy one. He listened as Doctor Idra began to prescribe his own medicine.

"It is clear that you have spent at least some time practicing what I have shown you, there are many small improvements and you do different things wrongly than you did before. This is a good thing, it is growth. Daily I want you to begin an exercise for balance. Much of your problems stem from your lack of body awareness, which makes you work harder than you need to correct for this failure. The small misalignments, the positions of your spine, and how you carry your weight, these and a thousand other consequences stem from a failure to balance properly and the inability of your mind to judge your own position. This exercise you will do from now on, and do it with your eyes closed."

Idra combined words with deeds and closed his eyes before beginning a set of steps as if on a balance beam. His feet stayed along an invisible path, toes never landing but in an exact linear distance from their previous position, the floor might as well have been chalked for cutting. The Elf went ten steps forwards along the line in various lunges, squats, a couple of quickstep hops, a cartwheel, a back handspring, and then a low spinning sweep pivoting on one leg with the other held horizontally a handsbreadth above the floor before returning, mirroring the motions as he returned to where he had begun.

"You will be able to repeat this routine in its entirety will you not?" Idra asked with complete innocence as if it were nothing to memorize a gymnastic floor routine in a single viewing.

Geyrt interjected before Ulric could speak, cementing this newest addition of pain into his life.

"I will see he completes it on rising and before returning to his sheets Idra'se."

Left with no choice, Ulric accepted this most recent stone to his burden with a resigned "Yes sir, Idra'se sir."

Satisfied that he had started a foundation from which to begin correcting Ulric's flaws, Idra then spent the next hour correcting Ulric's posture in the regular stances. Hips pushed into alignment, elbows tucked here, arms raised to there, a foot nudged to point slightly outwards, and so on. Like a sculptor, the Master used a tap here, a tap there, to achieve the perfection of his mind's eye. Ulric did his best to be like the marble beneath the Master's hand, unmoving beyond the touch of the hammer. Eventually, Idra released Ulric to his Shadow's mercy, Hah!, who continued the instruction through each and every step of their gods be damned Dance. With exhaustion murmuring under the skin of his legs it turned into a battle of will against himself and Ulric was much gladdened when the practice was called to a halt.

For the first time since he could remember he was utterly physically tapped out. Not even the miraculous gift of the Watcher could withstand the Iriel'en elite's doctrine for military preparedness. It was, at least, a relief to Ulric to see many of the veteran warriors of the pavilion looking as wrung out as he felt.

Idra called the group back into formation, thanked them for their dedication, and then released them to their duties. The tired men and women cheered for their freedom and clapped one another on the back. It would seem he wasn't alone in his thinking that Idra had given them something a little special today. Elven elite warriors wooped and carried on in the manner that soldiers encouraged one another after getting smoked by their drill instructor. Through it all, Ulric noted the regret in his Shadow's expression. Truly, losing this camaraderie was a biting edge to her father's punishment.

"Is there anything I can do about this Geyrt? Can't I order you to train to maintain your edge as my bodyguard or something?" Ulric said without preamble as they left the pavilion, hoping for a way to give her back at least this much.

Besides, his misery would absolutely love some company right now.

She glanced at him as if surprised that he had picked up on her distress before a sudden shake of her midnight braid put the kibosh on that.

"Thank you, Ulric, for the offer." She said allowing some of the regret into her voice.

"It would not be appropriate, not any longer. I may correct your deficiencies and may act as a trainer for yourself, that is within the scope of my duties." Geyrt lamented gently, "But to join the group would count me among them and that I may not do, not without impinging on the honor of Idra'se and the guardsmen. I am not one of them, not a Warrior of my kin nor a Hunter." Finished the Iriel'en paragon.

It struck Ulric then as a tremendous irony that, if not for her being so utterly committed to her vendetta, if not for a single lapse in judgment under duress, she would have been chief amongst those partaking in the defense of the Elven homeland. According to those who knew her best, it was almost without question that Geyrt Iriel would perish if and when war came; she was like a stilletto, driving too deeply into her enemies before breaking off. While her abilities were doubtless great, she was still too young, too lacking in the raw power that her sire brought to bear, but with all of his storied aggression. Hence the judgment the Elf had levied.

Bald'rt's sense of both humor and justice could run a little on the sharp side, Ulric was both her punishment and her protection. Given what he was coming to know of the woman's disposition though, he found himself siding even more with the Elven King's decision. It was very likely the only way the Elder Iriel could avoid either ordering her death himself or allowing it to occur in the natural course of the coming war.

Too heavy man, Ulric thought. He was tired, mentally and physically, and the day was not over. Still to come were the arcane lessons with Geyrt's mothers. Today would be the Crimson Sphinx, Shor. Ulric was not looking forward to it, for once. The woman purely unnerved him with her unreadable expression.

"I need a pick me up Geyrt. We've got an hour or so before we need to be at the mage training, right? Let's grab some food." Ulric suggested.

His Shadow was in complete agreement, for once.

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