Ilúvatar Voronwé (vajra) wrote in caeleste, @ 2009-08-04 21:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | ilúvatar voronwé, ithacles, the heir, vedette uthral |
the stage is set (vedette, ithacles)
Ilúvatar strode across the plaza with the determination of a fool. Or a knight. He did not know which he was playing tonight, and which the other fellow would be. Only that he was here. That plaza - which was larger than the house itself, he thought - was laid out in wide stone wedges that radiated outward from a fountain. Always a fountain. So the plaza itself was a large circle, which served as a reproduction of the sky. Each star was meticulously recreated with etched gold and covered in good solid glass, with lines to connect the constellations. A fairly new contrivance. The children came here to play games in the spring, and in the summer, running with their feet bare to be Leironuoth the Lion or Stardriel the Priestess, the Magic-Hunter Ralthia or the goddess Lorien herself. Tonight there were no children in the grand constellation of stone, treading lightly over back lit glass and shrunken stars. Tonight it was only the rich and the well-known that frequented the plaza in numbers, the furs of the winter months traded for light capes of summer and the sun. Ilúvatar might have been impressed with the display, ordinarily.
Tonight he was only annoyed.
There were vendors, to be sure. There were always vendors. Some were selling copies on paper of tonight's performance - Alvohas - about a man who in the course of trying to do the right thing, was caught up between two factions and killed. Ilúvatar thought he'd seen it performed once. Long ago. Others were selling the glasses sold at such things, for seeing events in the distance. Ilúvatar never used a far-seer or binoculars for intense detail, but some preferred it that way. Still others were selling refreshments and the like. All of it was centered around the fountain, and all of it was loud, and the well-to-do were clapping with artificial and condescending excitement. As though the elves who sold the wares were the most unique creatures they'd ever seen. Ilúvatar grunted. Perhaps they were. No one was looking in his direction. At least, no one with any sense. The reason for that was simple. An armed party, faces hidden, did not attract eyes but instead repelled them. Ilúvatar could understand that. There were a great many other things to look at.
The Decora at night held a great many attractions for the eye. Here the stars so clearly visible above, playing both ghost and progenitor of the plaza below, were a dazzling sight for any with a pair of eyes to see. The face of the structure was a sight unto itself, carved out of marble, appearing for all who had the aforementioned eyes as one piece of solid stone. Ilúvatar was sure you could see the seams if you looked closely, but no one seemed inclined. Five columns of marble, each six stories high, towered over those who approached the shallow stair. Between each column there was a carving, statues but build into the wall of the thing itself, each one depicting an object of the goddess herself. Four in total - a tree of three stories, a lion of the same height, a star, and the moon itself. The other three of six stories on the face of the structure were taken up by stained glass. There was no pattern that Ilúvatar could see, but it was beautiful all the same, with alternating panes of blue and red and purple and gold and green. If he had to choose between that and himself to look at, he would choose that.
"Draw your sword!" a young fool cried.
"It is not a sword, but the arm of my goddess," the other replied calmly.
A clack of wooden swords. Street performers, entertaining a crowd which drank in the performance with equal parts consternation and humor. Ilúvatar did not pause, but the clearing they were afforded was wide, and it was difficult to miss them in any case. One fellow in the glimpses that Ilúvatar caught wore all white, including cape and boots and gloves, down to the white spill of lace that flowed from beneath his chin. The other fellow wore dark greens and black, his cape square, his clothing bereft of lace or softening folds. They belabored each other with swords fashioned of thin reed strips, bound together with glue and ties to form swords of roughly equivalent weight and design. They'd worked a few tricks out beforehand apparently. Back-flips and side-kicks dazzled the assemblage. Ilúvatar grimaced in their direction as soon as he realized what was happening. The others who watched should have grimaced as well.
"Yield, Eiron'aith the Foul, or be purged from this world and from heaven itself," the fellow in white intoned.
"Never that, Leironuoth. Never that!"
With a dramatic flourish the fellow in white drove his sword into Eiron'aith's breast. It had been a good deal more brutal than that, if Ilúvatar recalled correctly. Leironuoth had strangled Eiron'aith with his own colors, dragged each gasping breath out of him with rough hands molded in the jungle for one purpose. Death. Perhaps choking a man to death did not make for good street theater. Only the relative wealth of the crowd kept it from devolving into a brawl. Perhaps a duel, after the show. He would remember to watch for that. Some applauded, politely and quietly of course, while others stabbed glares into both men equally. Ilúvatar didn't believe in tamping down on street performances. Outlawing the things would only make them more potent, anyway, and they would continue to perform. It wasn't the sort of land he wanted to live in. Yet the street performers were raking in appreciative coin on a subject sensitive and dear to many hearts. One that Ilúvatar did not truly know how he felt about, himself. To say it was a tender subject was both understatement and joke. They should be more responsible in choosing their subject matter.
He and his companions could not have been more conspicuous, yet their presence was known tonight. The Thunderbolts were on hand and watchful, but they were not interfering with this group or stopping to ask their purpose. Look for me when the moon holds highest, he'd said, and in a group of three. Hoods drawn. Don't approach. Let us appear to be a party going on with their normal business. Ilúvatar could not make himself enjoy going without the braided cords of his rank, or the cape as opposed to the heavy cloak which settled fast upon his shoulders, but there was nothing for it. If he had to give orders he would do that when the time came. Until then all he could do was focus on the reason he'd come. The reason all three of them had come, wearing these too-heavy robes over their clothing of choice. The Master of Ushers, whose named escaped him, was not an easy man to track in a structure so large. They would have to be stealthy as they would ever be in a forest occupied by dangerous adversaries. The Thunderbolts would keep watch, but there was no doubt a fellow could slip undetected through their line.
No matter how close together they were.
Ilúvatar paused atop the constellation of Valvus the Fire-Arm, legendary slayer of the great flying orc, and turned to face them both. He was not used to issuing orders to those he did not command, but they had given their word to obey, so he would. Couching them as suggestions might rob him of authority he needed should they decide to go off on their own. Best to be simple, direct and to the point. They might not love him for it, but they would not hate him for it, either, and that was perhaps the best path to walk at the moment. Of his axes he carried only the tomahawks and the hurlbats, all neatly hanging from his waist, protected from common view by the dense and loose cloak dripping from his shoulders. Too hot by far for this sort of thing, but the magic in the House of the Sky would be their guardian and their protector. The rough sketches he had beneath his cloak were produced for their eyes, one to each of them. Of course it was not the first time they'd seen these drawings. He just wanted everyone to refresh themselves. So he offered one to each, with a gloved hand and a flourish.
"This is our man," Ilúvatar told them quietly above the noise of those who entered, just beyond their stopping point on the marble stair. "Dravath is his name. The Master of Ushers is responsible for organizing and commanding the considerable legion of ushers on staff for tonight's performance. His dedication to his duty is admirable, they say, so this is the best time to seize him. The trick will not be catching him - he never wrestled a day in his life, nor lifted a knife except to cut his food - but finding him in the rabbit warren of staff corridors inside."
A pause.
"I'm open to suggestions as to how we begin."