Elon/Firetooth Clan

Christallo Manner had it's gates open and there was a simple, earthy feel to casual activities happening inside. The sound of a farrier's hammer could be heard coming from the stables, chickens and geese were dodging dogs around the corners of the buildings and servants were busy about their daily business, carrying buckets or firewood and standing about talking under the shade of the stable eves. On the farside, facing the sea cliffs, some tents had been set up and Garlog could just seen King Azlyn and a group of artisans sitting around a table. Several papers were spread over the surface, there corners ruffling in the wind. The king and his party were intent on their work and didn't notice the orc and his companion, as they discussed plans for the tournament over the steady crash of the surf before. 

Only the guards close to the gate noticed and they stepped forward with looks of surprise and curiosity. "You're Firetooth orcs. Never seen wargs this close up before." Gaped the youngest of the two men who met stepped forward, "Do you have guns with you too?"

His companion elbowed him and spoke to Garlog in a more professional manner, or tried to anyway. "I'll let the King know immediately, your lordship.. Sir, Chief." He cleared his throat, feeling a little foolish for fumbling his adress, then turned to hurry across the courtyard.

Before he'd gone six steps, a woman with dark hair came out of the stable, leading a horse and completely unaware of the two orcs and their wargs. The horse, however, took one sniff of the giant wolf like wargs and violently neighed and reared, startling the woman and nearly pulling her off her feet as it jerked the lead rope out of her grasp.

"Whoah! Hey" she yelled, stumbling slightly as the horse bolded away toward the King's tent.

Azlyn looked up at the commotion and leap up to intercept the hose and keep it from toppling the tent and everything into off the seasides cliffs. There was more commotion, as everyone finally noticed the orcs and the King caught the panicked animal. The guard cleared his throat again, as the noise died down. "Uhm, Chief Garlog of the Firetooth, Sire. He wishes for your hospitality for the night."

"Yes of course," Azlyn said, smiling as he gave the horse a last comforting stroke on the nose and then handed it off to a servant, "Though we may need to find somewhere besides the stables to house his mount."

"Welcome to Elon," he said coming forward, "We will be delighted to give you and your companion our hospitality, Chief. I was hoping to send word to the Firetooth Clan before the tournament in any case, so it is fortunate that you are here."  

"Sounds splendid," Azlyn said, "Though they'll find plenty of competition here in Elon. Everywhere I go, I see young men and women out practicing with bows, or going at each other with swords or sticks and every house wife has been working on garlands and banners to hang out of every window and over every door. Even my own wife is excited and she's not usually moved toward enthusiasm."

Rather then think to bow, or do anything else that was normal the formal greetings between monarchs, Azlyn offered a hardy handshake and another smile. This wasn't a thought out gesture, nor was it the result of a planned out subtext. The king of Elon did it without much thought. Azlyn was put at ease by the casual manner Garlog had introduced himself and by their common excitement for the upcoming event. His instinct was to meet Garlog as equals and as friends, rather than as leaders of nations, bound by protocols and formal etiquette.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, "I was about to send for lunch and wine to be brought out to the yard. And I'm sure we can find someone who can look after your mounts." 

The young guard was admiring the orcs weapons from a few yards away. Guns were practically nonexistent in Elon, but were a common feature of adventure stories and legends about far away kingdoms. In fact, the orcs their exotic wargs and weapons were all exciting enough to gather a small crowd around the area. Friendly curiosity was in everyone's eyes.  
 

"Good God, I hope they are," Azlyn said referring to the merchants, "I have no idea how you northerners can stomach the ale they make up in your chilly mountains. Caspian!" Azlyn called to one of his servants, "Bring out some of the best wine and a jug of the cherry whiskey as well."

He turned back to Garlog, "Our wine is excellent, of course, but Elonese cherry rum and whiskey is one of the best kept secrets in the north. Our merchants don't sell it because we want it all to ourselves. Please, come sit with us in the shade of the tents. Its a little warm for indoor halls and there's a good breeze and ocean spray blowing off the sea today."

He led Garlog across the courtyard to where the table under the tent had been cleared of its papers and ink pens. "I just got back from the Holy City myself and my people were helping me catch up on the latest plans for facilities and entertainment."

Azlyn's cheerful face fell into a frown. "Not an entreaty so much as ... Well it's a complicated issue. I dare say I'm not the best to explain it, but it had to do with the Aedakom laws on the practice of magic outside of their Tovenaar."

Wine was brought out, as well a jug of a rich honey colored whiskey. Azlyn poured a glass of the whiskey for himself and one for Garlog. "A local wise woman helped the queen give birth to our son. She's lived here years and years and we never considered her a magical practitioner. Wise men and women and seers have been a part of Elonese culture for centuries, but the apparently the Tovenaar can smell magic on a person and Annabella had the "gift" or whatever the priests like to call it. Now the Chief Priest is sending her across the sea to Messara and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it." He swirled his whiskey and drank it in small swigs. It was strong whiskey, with a sour sweet flavor and a touch of spiciness.

Azlyn looked at him a moment. The orc had gotten it all wrong, but, after a few moments consideration, Azlyn decided not to try to explain it better. He'd honestly had enough of trying to tangle through what was and wasn't magic and how it should be adressed. All he said was, "I never intended to burn her. Annabella Rose did my wife a great favor during the delivery," then tried to change the subject.

"I'm putting together an entertainment schedule for the tournament. We heard that you hired quite a remarkable bard up in Thundercrown and know how much the Firetooth value the sport and glory of tournaments. I was hoping to invite your bard to come and preform here for the festivities."

"Your constructing a cathedral?" Azlyn asked his green eyes lighting up, "That's wonderful! A true sign of faith in the north and no easy feat to build either. Of course we'll want to come seen it when its completed next winter. I can hardly wait." Azlyn was smiling again, his imagination alight as he tried to imagine what a Firetooth cathedral would look like. The orc had a very distinctive cultural and art style and he was sure they're project would be unique in every way. It would be an exciting advance in norther art and architecture as well as a step toward a stronger norther Aedakom, less depended upon the southern Vaekirate. 

"What architect are you using?" he asked, then added absently, "And don't worry about the road. I'm sure we can figure it out. It's the least Elon can do to assist you in a sacred endeavor."  

Food was brought out to the tables. Lunch consisted of dark venison, marinated in a sauce of oranges and honey along with fresh bread, grapes still on the stem and spiced sweet potatoes. Finishing off his whiskey, Azlyn poured himself a goblet of red wine. 

"I couldn't approve more," Azlyn said, "I wish you all Aed's blessings with the project and let me know if there's anything else Elon can do to support you in this."

"How soon can Dirgeheart get here?" Azlyn asked, "I will want to know which venue his work will be best suited for and if he would like any instrumental support from locals, I'll need to make the arrangements."