[Prelude] Blow, the Winds of Change

[Lachesis]

Somewhen in Immanis, in the Season of Spring

Caught in that fragile moment betwixt looming night and fading day, the azure skies over Syl'rosia blushed a series of celestine hues as they softly relented against the pressing Dusk, while cold stars cast in brilliant argent arrayed themselves in rapt preparation for that eternal dance. As the chill evening sea breeze caressed the fabled Elfhome in it's salt-laced embrace, the dying light of day skittered across a secluded estate tentatively skirting the Restwoods tucked away on the southern outskirts of the city.

Somewhere, a tiny crystal bell chimed.

It's heavenly resonance resounded across the immaculate garden and stirred a sleepy elf boy almost on the verge of horizontal rest in a pavilion in the midst of a jade-green bamboo grove. Open, innocent storm-grey eyes blinked incautiously and as if the sudden realization of his half slumber just hit him, he scrambled guiltily to maintain his kneeling position. Smoky tendrils of jasmine incense curled lazily around him, lightly chiding his slumberous neglect as he hurriedly tended to the scrimshaw censer that writhed with intricate ivoried dragons in all manners of play.

His master did not look up; nor deigned to display any recognizance of his pageboy's near infraction. Ageless was his mien; filled with an elven vitality that suffused all his features yet calm and austere with dignity and a calm, intense intelligence. Flowing magnolia-white hair cascaded down his shoulders, then lost themselves in contrast in the simple white of his alabaster house robes. So simple as to be ascetic, so elegant as to be the very ideal of the most rarefied elven nobility. And yet, the merest suggestion of something perilous lurked in the lined corners of the ancient elf's eyes.

Right now, all his austere attention were convened upon a board covered in groups of polished white and black seed-like pieces. A single black piece lay ensnared between two elf-slender fingers as he pondered the implications on the board. Across the board, a stony-faced elf in plain, uncouth clothing sat. Unremarkable in every aspect, he moved not at all from his position save when he needed to place his own white seeds on the board from a wooden bowl next to him. The pageboy stifled another yawn that threatened to overwhelm him. Already, two cycles of the sun and the moon have passed since the game begun and both players had not exchanged a single word nor rose from their seats. One move, perhaps half a move, every few contemplative hours, mingled only with the interruption of a serving of Syl'rosian tea every few hours. And the unobtrusive shift-changing of wearied pageboys every half a day.

"I have been denied audience twice already this week. Not this time; I WILL see my lord Ash'lavriel." A calm, coolly confident voice raised itself suddenly in volume -deliberately?- from the house. The clamor rose through the patio to profane the shared sanctity of the game in the garden. The pageboy winced. He did not envy the butler's lot for failing to placate the young Or'lothiel lord.

Even the mildest rebuke (and he never went beyond that) from the lord Ash'lavriel could sting a dignified elven conscience into quiet weeping.

[Lachesis]

...House Ash'lavriel is a curious anomaly in the quaint Elfhame scheme of all things political. Even a single Minor House of Syl'rosia could easily muster a hundred sturdy retainers and harbor dozens of near and far-blooded family, yet House Ash'lavriel differed. Save a handful of household staff, House Ash'lavriel essentially numbered one and only one throughout it's history; the Lord Ash'lavriel. Lord Ash'lavriel never attends any meeting of the nobles, nor does he make any public appearances. In fact, it was only through a close reading of old and decrepit registers of nobilities that I discerned such a minor entity crowded amidst the ranks of Syl'rosian elven nobility. He must be a remarkably ancient elf, for the first record of Ash'lavriel was scribed close to a thousand years ago and there were no new record of anyone else taking over the House lord's mantle since.

Yet, the proud bicker-prone 'elflords' of Syl'rosia seem to accord to him a strange and almost automatic respect for which your servant fails to divine any perceptible rationale. I have attempted to drop a few casual questions about the House to a few of my elven colleagues on the Syl'rosian Combine and while they seem reticent or ignorant about the House and its Lord, I noticed a general tone of respectful deference when they referred to him.

In keeping with your servant's appointed mission, I've made it my task to request an appointment with the Lord Ash'lavriel at his abode. His written reply was set with seals hundreds of years old and though his assent was clear, dictated in an obfuscatory literary style redundant with archaic devices that would properly belong in the antique libraries housed in the Imperial District of Aelyria Prime.

On the day so appointed, I travelled to his estate on the outskirts of the city proper. The butler received me and conducted me to a plain and barely adorned room and after a short while, the whimsical old elf came out to greet me himself, all simple-minded pleasure at the presence of a rare visitor. He was thin with a fragile build and I wondered that even a lord such as himself cannot afford a maid for his hair was tangled and almost unkempt. He spoke a distorted Common I could scarce understand and I was glad of the company of Qi'ristal, my elven acolyte so that he could translate the Elvish corrupted gibberish into something I could actually comprehend.

We exchanged half an hour of meaningless pleasantries and when I gently probed him about his House, he afflicted me with a long, droning discourse about the accomplishments of far off ancestors who were probably not much more ancient than he was. Two weary hours passed and I was about to rise and take my leave, having regrettably spent an unproductive afternoon humoring an old anachronism, when he asked if I played qu-mentari.

As Your Worship would be aware of, qu-mentari is a strategical elven board game analogous to chess that is played by two players alternately placing black and white stones on the vacant intersections of a line grid where the objective is to control a larger part of a board than the opponent as a result of having placed one's stones such that they form territories that cannot be captured by the opponent. I have been in Syl'rosia for the better part of a decade and I fancy myself to possess some little accomplishment in this game, having oft beat elven opponents over the board and I agreed. It only affirmed my expectations of his senile oblivion that he laid his pieces erratically and in complete ignorance of the most conventional theories of gameplay. Yet he seemed somehow sharper and keener in his faculties as he leaned over and pored over my moves though I am sure it was merely an illusion for I dominated the entire course of the game, forming entire blocs of territory that edged out and consumed his own territory such that with ten moves left to play, the simple old elf smiled and conceded the game.

I am obliged to conclude that his noble peers' attitude towards him as I have previously commented upon seem to be an outdated relic, particular to that amusing elven deference to all things senile and old. House Ash'lavriel is entirely insignificant and it is only in the pursuit of a most complete report on Syl'rosia that I venture to mention this little detail to Your Worship.

As a minor note for the records, I asked the lord for his full name that I might properly address him. It took a few tries before I could sufficiently convey my meaning, in fact, my silly elven acolyte seemed distraught and struggled to frame the question; apparently, as he later explained to me, it was a grave offense in elven custom for a stranger to inquire the full name, even indirectly, of an elflord as lofty as the Lord Ash'lavriel. Yet for once, the old elf seemed to understand me properly for he smiled and replied,

'Xi Ash'lavriel'

---Seventh Report to the Mother Church, Father Hiriam
Undated

[Lachesis]

Each elf, aristocratic and plebian, was as moved by the noisome clamor as tall, statuesque pine trees amidst soft, autumnal winds; unfettered from all mundane disturbances, their manifest attention never diverted from the oak-carved board. With quintessential elven aplomb, the Lord Ash'lavriel raised his seed of midnight onyx and lowered it with an audible 'click' in the middle of the board. Stirred by a nuance beyond the conception of any trivial observer, his opponent raised his blank gaze to meet the lord's for the first time.

At this pivotal moment as the twain matched gazes, the lordling Au'varien Or'lothiel strode into the inviolate garden with cool resolution. Tall and slenderly lithesome, Au'varien was garbed in the ethereally elegant garb of a noble elven courtier as befit an Or'lothiel scion. Long, sable hair with slender intricately knotted braids at each temple framed a sculpted face of lionesque proportions, roofed with an untameable forelock of silver-grey. Violet-pupilled eyes smouldered with a grim light attainable only by masters of arcane mysteries, which coupled with the sleek ivory-hued casting gloves the lordling sported spoke well of his arcanic accomplishment.

As Au'varien neared the pavilion, his eyes strafed the shadows about the Lord Ash'lavriel with a searching, yearning glance; as if seeking a lovely shadow of something lovelier still. A minute flicker in those violaceous orbs betrayed a vague quasi-disappointment and faded. With casual aplomb, the lordling knelt smoothly on both knees before the steps of the pavilion with head bowed, patently awaiting Ash'lavriel's pleasure. Utterly ignoring him, both players' gazes have fallen back onto the board; as if some allusive understanding had passed between them, a series of 'clicks' took place in rapid succession. Each player decisively made his move with studied incision, penetrating the other's territory in quick order.

After a mere few minutes, the board was entirely filled with seeds. The game which had taken two days to reach midway found it's end in scarcely a fraction of that time.

Lord Ash'lavriel's opponent abruptly rose and with nary a bow or even courteous pleasantries of leave taking before the two lords of elven nobility, turned and left the garden brusquely. Lord Ash'lavriel himself remained seated, pondering the board and fully oblivious to the manner of his opponent's exit. Au'varien remained kneeling before the pavilion, patiently mirroring the lord's oblivion.

Some half a quiet hour elapsed ere Au'varien ventured, "An exceptional game, I trust?" Lord Ash'lavriel sighed with absent regret and with a light wave of his hand, dismissed the grateful pageboy, leaving the two alone in the garden. "My beloved nephew, it was beyond exceptional. Behold the set game for yourself; it is a draw." Something akin to sharp surprise took Au'varien for his next words left his pale lips with hurried emphasis, "A draw? Uncle, is that possible? Of what great House did that elf hail from?" It was a concept alien to Au'varien, that there was someone in all Syl'rosia who could match Lord Ash'lavriel in that strategical depth and tactical thought an intense game of qu-mentari demanded.

He must therefore, be a talent hidden deep in one of the Houses of Syl'rosia.

"Great House?" Lord Ash'lavriel laughed shortly. "He is a dock supervisor off the ports. Within humble backgrounds do sleeping dragons lie. It was with some fate and diligence that I had found and invited him to the board. One such as he would not willingly accept an invitation or even an order from a lord, but a challenge from a player of matched skill is another story." He smiled wryly, stretching weary arms, then crooked a wizened finger in beckon for Au'varien to rise and come within the pavilion.

"Enough. Come. You have things to say."

[Lachesis]

Au'varien bowed his head in obedience and stepped forth. Taking the vacated place of the departed opponent opposite Lord Ash'lavriel, he knelt himself down upon silk-lined cushions, gloved hands at rest upon his knees. With quiet self-possession did he match the thoughtful gaze of Xi Ash'lavriel. He spoke, elven-melodic voice still and calm as the mirrored surface of some lonely forest lake, yet quivering portent lay in his words.

"My Uncle. The Time is upon us."

Lord Ash'lavriel sighed, a whispery sound that wafted softly upon the autumnal wind and then was gone. In his mild sigh were conveyed a thousand sorrows.

"To put a-right things that were and things that are. Such a Time is come."

"Perhaps." With his bland reply, Lord Ash'lavriel clapped his hands thrice. Two servant-boys came swiftly at the crisp summons, one balancing a tray lined with a porcelain teapot and three tiny cups of the most delicate construct and the other a small, portable stove upon which to boil and prepare the tea. Au'varien held a pregnant silence and Lord Ash'lavriel shuttered his eyes contemplatively as his servant-boys ritually prepared the tea with flawless detail.

As soon as their summons were accomplished, the servant-boys retreated with a bow, their exit as unobtrusive as their entrance. Lord Ash'lavriel picked up the teapot and with effortless ease, measured out three tiny cups of tea. Leaving the first cup untouched, he proffered the second to Au'varien and held the third for himself.

Au'varien sipped and nodded. "It is good tea."

"Even so, it is not the best under this roof."

Au'varien quirked an eyebrow, as if the tatters of some hidden meaning was snared upon his awareness. Lord Ash'lavriel gazed afar as he sipped from his cup, then turned his gaze back upon Au'varien.

"I would hear your reasoning."