Gift from the Gods | Gallas, Amanth, Saevel, Finthir

Scenario 1: Moonspire The Moonspire elves were chosen to host the alliance negotiations.

The great audience hall of Korramyr Deep had been carved to humble mountains.

Tier upon tier of dark stone descended toward the central floor in broad, shallow steps worn satin-smooth by centuries of tread, their edges threaded with veins of silversteel and moon-pale crystal that caught the glow of suspended forge-lanterns. Above, the ceiling arched into a vast dome where phosphorescent molds traced constellations in ghostly blue and violet, and long silk banners in Moonspire hues—midnight, plum, argent—fell in measured folds from unseen heights. Balconies opened to the mountain's outer face, their sheer curtains breathing in the hot volcanic wind, so that air moved constantly through the chamber, carrying the mingled scents of heated stone, metal polish, wine, and spiced meat. Tables of black basalt stood laden with food: roast game glazed in honey and ash-salt, jeweled fruits, silver bowls of grain and herb, flagons of deep red vintages. Music pulsed from drums and struck metal chimes, a rhythm like the heart of a forge, and the dance upon the floor was precise and martial: Moonspire grace in advance, turn, retreat.

It was Gallas' hall. His world. His advantage.

He stood upon the highest descending tier, dark as night against silver light, hands loosely clasped behind his back while courtiers gave him a respectful radius. They step into my stone and think themselves equal, he observed, gaze moving without hurry across his gathered rivals. Let them. Pressure reveals flaw. The negotiations would begin soon enough. First, he would see this human miracle with his own eyes.

Across the hall, Amanth had already abandoned stillness. The Sunfield prince leaned against a carved pillar as if it were a hitching post, bronze arms folded, gold hair unbound down his back, laughter flashing too bright for Moonspire austerity. He watched everything with open appetite—the dancers, the food, the glittering severity of the chamber—and found it all stifling and fascinating at once. Stone and shadow and breath held in the chest, he thought, restless. And somewhere in here, the little god-spark they think will change the world. His smile sharpened. Let's see what flame looks like wrapped in silk.

Saevel kept to the dim margin between pillar and curtain, where balcony wind stirred his auburn hair and no one approached unless invited. He disliked the heat, the press, the noise; the mountain felt closed around him, air too thick with metal and expectation. Green-gray eyes tracked movement with quiet precision. They have brought a displaced life into this furnace, he thought, mouth tightening faintly. And expect it to thrive. His gaze shifted toward the main doors. We will see what manner of graft they present.

Finthir prowled. The Seawind prince moved through the hall like a tide that refused containment: laughing with strangers, stealing fruit from platters, spinning briefly through a Moonspire dance only to break its form with exuberant improvisation before striding on. Salt-bright eyes took in everything with delighted hunger. A hall full of rivals and wine and iron, he thought, exhilarated. And somewhere, my prize walks toward me. He did not doubt it. Desire was a compass; it always found shore.

Then the great doors opened.

Conversation did not cease—Moonspire did nothing so crude—but it bent. A current passed the room: attention turning, shoulders angling, eyes drawn as one toward the threshold where Guildmaster Derrin entered with measured ceremony... and at his side, the god-gift.

They were veiled entirely.

Pale gossamer fell from crown to floor in layered translucence, front and back alike, so that only the suggestion of form moved within: a human silhouette softened to apparition. The fabric caught forge-light and lantern-glow, shifting pearl and moon-white as they walked, each step guided lightly by Derrin's hand at their elbow. A hush threaded through the chamber's rhythm. Not reverence. Not curiosity. Something between.

Four princes watched.

Gallas' stillness deepened, silver gaze narrowing infinitesimally. So this is the vessel of rumor, he thought, measuring the carriage beneath the veil, the poise of step, the absence of tremor. Not cringing. Not stumbling. Interesting. He inclined his head a fraction, as if acknowledging a worthy ingot newly set upon the anvil.

Amanth's breath caught, then escaped him in a low, delighted sound. Gods, he thought, eyes alight. They made a mystery of you on purpose. Already he leaned forward, hunger bright and unashamed. Come closer, little miracle. Let me see what burns under that silk.

Saevel's gaze sharpened, attention narrowing to the quiet details others missed: the angle of the head beneath the veil, the pace neither hurried nor faltering, the way the figure seemed to look rather than shrink. Not prey, he registered, unexpected. Not spectacle either. His fingers flexed once at his side. What are you, then?

Finthir stopped moving entirely. The world reduced to white silk and the shape within it. A grin, slow and incandescent, spread across his face. There, he thought, certainty surging like surf. Found you. He did not yet know their face, their voice, their name—but recognition did not wait on knowledge. It never had.

At the center of the hall, Derrin halted. His hand rose with delicate care, and the veil fell away.

The chamber felt suddenly enormous.

Light struck the eyes first: silver, violet, molten gold reflected from stone and crystal and armor and jewels. Heat brushed their skin, scented with wine and smoke. Sound came in layers: music, voices, distant metal chime. Beyond the first startled ring of onlookers, four figures held the space like fixed stars: dark and still upon the tiered height, bronze and blazing beside a pillar, pale and shadowed near a curtain, salt-bright amid the crowd.

"Breathe," Derrin murmured under his breath, smile never shifting as he arranged the fallen veil over his arm. "We did speak about this."

His voice remained light, conversational, for any listening ear. "Now then. Prince Gallas—host and architect of this affair—is upon the upper tier, center. You see him: very still, very pale hair, evaluating the room as if it were an account ledger." A beat. "He will be expecting you to approach eventually."

"Prince Amanth is to your left, near the gold banners: radiant, laughing, impossible to miss. Perfectly harmless unless encouraged, in which case... less so."

A subtle shift of Derrin's sleeve indicated the shadowed margin. "Prince Saevel remains sensibly out of the crush, by the balcony curtain. Green-gray eyes, looks like he has already decided to disapprove of everything. Do not let that deter you; he disapproves of breathing."

Finally, with the faintest tightening of tone, "Prince Finthir is presently..." Derrin glanced right, then exhaled. "...there. Dark hair, smiling at you as if the hall has vanished. Remember what we discussed about not being kidnapped by him."

He turned his head just enough that only they could hear his last words.

"Shall I bring one of them to you directly," he asked softly, "or would you prefer to circulate a little first?"

Scenario 2: Sunfield The Sunfield elves were chosen to host the alliance negotiations.

The Sunfield court did not rise—it unfurled.

Aureth Plains-Court spread across the open prairie in a vast ring of color and motion, its pole-and-hide pavilions pitched in elegant arcs that followed the land's natural swell. Dyed leathers in white, gold, and sun-bright yellow glowed against the deep green sea of grasses, their seams embroidered with prairie flowers and horse motifs that rippled when the wind ran through them. Long banners streamed from tall flexible poles, snapping and singing in the summer evening air. Fires burned in shallow clay basins, sending up fragrant curls of smoke from sweet herbs and roasting meat; tables were low and laden with wheat cakes, honeyed fruits, spiced game, and foaming fermented mare's milk. Music never ceased—gut-string lutes, reed pipes, hand drums—and dancers moved everywhere: swift-footed, laughing, skirts and scarves flaring like startled birds. Horses circled constantly beyond the pavilion ring, their tack jeweled and plumed, hooves drumming the earth in restless counterpoint to the music.

It was Amanth's court. His sky. His element.

He stood at the open heart of the ring, bronze skin burnished by firelight, gold hair loose and wind-tossed down his back, bare arms painted in festival dyes that caught each flex of muscle. Laughter moved easily through him as he clasped hands, accepted cups, spun dancers past—but his attention kept returning to the pavilion entrance where the honored guest would arrive. Come quickly, he thought, pulse already bright with anticipation. Let me see what shape miracle wears tonight. He drank deep and flung the empty cup aside, grin flashing. If the gods dropped a star onto my plains, I will be the first to touch it.

Gallas stood under Sunfield sky like an obsidian pillar driven into soil. He had taken the position offered—just within the pavilion's shade—but his stillness created its own perimeter amid the whirl of motion. Midnight skin drank the firelight; silver eyes moved once, slowly, across banners, dancers, horses, the endless horizon beyond. So much waste of movement, he assessed coolly. And yet... energy without exhaustion. They have mastered abundance of air and space as we have stone. His gaze returned to Amanth. Host and performer indistinguishable. Then, to the entrance. Let us see the object for which they would bargain kingdoms.

Near the outer ring where horses passed in gleaming arcs, Saevel had claimed the only sliver of shadow remaining: the lee side of a tall banner pole where dyed leather snapped above him like a restless wing. Wind combed his auburn hair; green-gray eyes narrowed against the open brightness. The court's noise pressed his senses—laughter, hooves, drums—but he endured, posture spare and rooted. They call this freedom, he thought, watching riders lean low over racing mounts. To live without wall or canopy. To scatter and gather like birds. His gaze slid toward the entrance. And into this bright exposure they will lead a displaced mind. Fingers flexed once. May it not be crushed by light.

Finthir had already abandoned the pavilion entirely. He moved with delighted curiosity along the horse lines, hands bold on necks and bridles, laughing with riders, vaulting once onto a bare back and off again before the handler could protest. Salt-dark hair whipped by prairie wind, he looked utterly at home amid motion and beast and sky. So this is how they breathe, he thought, exhilarated. Land like ocean—endless, shifting, alive. Then his head turned sharply toward the pavilion entrance, as if tugged by an unseen current. A grin, slow and certain, spread. And there you are again, his pulse said, unreasoning and absolute. Mine to find, wherever they set you.

The music dipped.

Not silence—Sunfield did not still for anything—but a bright loosening, dancers wheeling outward, riders reining aside. Attention arced toward the pavilion mouth where Guildmaster Derrin stepped beneath the streaming banners... and at his side, the god-gift.

Pale gossamer veiled them head to foot, front and back alike, a moving column of pearl light against the riot of color. The fabric caught fireglow and sunset, turning rose, gold, then moon-white again as they walked, guided lightly by Derrin's hand. Wind lifted the veil in breathing ripples so that the human shape beneath seemed half apparition, half promise. A murmur ran the ring—not hush, but wonder sharpened to a point.

Four princes watched.

Amanth went utterly still, joy flaring so bright it hurt. By the open horizon, he thought, breath catching. They wrapped you in dawn. His hands opened, empty, as if to receive. Come down into my grass and sun. Let me see you shine without barrier.

Gallas' eyes narrowed a fraction, measuring carriage beneath silk, the pace of step over uneven ground. No falter. No shrinking from exposure, he noted. They move as if unafraid of open sky. A faint, approving tilt of chin. Strength present. Potential confirmed.

Saevel's focus sharpened to detail: how the veiled head turned fractionally, taking in movement, how the stride adjusted to shifting turf without hesitation. Observing. Adapting, he registered, surprised. Not prey. Not pageant. His mouth tightened, interest unwilling. What root do you carry, hidden thing?

Finthir stopped breathing. The veil, the wind, the light—all collapsed into the shape within. Recognition struck clean as a breaking wave. Found you, every instinct said, fierce and joyous. He took a step before checking himself, laughter already in his throat. You cross any sea, any plain, and I will know you again.

At the pavilion's heart, Derrin halted. With practiced grace he lifted the gossamer free and gathered it over his arm.

The world burst wide.

Sky without ceiling. Color everywhere—gold, white, green, the living blaze of fires. Music layered with hoofbeats and laughter. Wind on skin, scented with grass and smoke and sweet milk. And beyond the first ring of curious faces, four figures anchored the sprawl: bronze and blazing at center, dark and immovable in shade, pale and still by a snapping banner, salt-bright among restless horses.

"Steady," Derrin murmured, smile unchanged as he arranged the fallen veil. "Yes, it is rather a lot of horizon."

Aloud, easy for listening ears: "Prince Amanth, our host, is—well—directly before you. Gold hair, festival paint, looking as though someone has handed him the sun itself." A beat of fond exasperation. "You may approach when ready; he will not wait forever, but he will try."

A subtle shift of sleeve indicated shade. "Prince Gallas stands beneath the pavilion edge, dark as carved stone. He has already assessed three ways this evening could unfold and disapproves of two."

Near the banner pole: "Prince Saevel keeps sensibly to what passes for cover in a place with no walls. Auburn hair, expression suggesting he has been dragged into daylight against his will."

And finally, beyond the dancers, where horses stamped and tossed: "Prince Finthir is there, by the chestnut with the blue tack, staring at you as though the rest of us have evaporated. Do recall our conversation regarding not being abducted onto horseback."

His voice dropped, private beneath the merriment. "Would you like me to summon one of them to you," he asked softly, "or shall you walk the ring a little first and choose your own path?"

Scenario 3: Westven The Westven elves were chosen to host the alliance negotiations.

Westven court did not gather—it grew.

Silvaemar rose from the heart of Lethrenwood like a living cathedral, its colossal trunk hollowed into vaulted chambers where wood flowed in fluted pillars and arching ribs, polished to a deep, resinous sheen. Balconies curved from the inner walls where great branches pierced the chamber and continued outward into green shadow; roots coiled through the floor in smooth, worn ridges that guided the step like old paths. Lantern-globes of amber sap hung from living hooks, their warm light caught and softened by drapes of moss and trailing ivy. The air smelled of loam-sweet damp, crushed leaf, and distant water. Music threaded the space in low reed and pipe, steady as breath. Guests moved in measured eddies along the rootways, robes in layered greens and browns dissolving into bark and shadow. Platters of forest fare rested on living shelves: berry wines, smoked game, honeyed nuts, dark breads. Nothing glittered. Everything endured.

It was Saevel's court. His canopy. His ground.

He stood upon a natural dais grown from a fused buttress-root, one hand resting lightly against the living wood as if sharing pulse. Auburn hair fell loose to his shoulders, green-gray eyes steady beneath lowered lashes. His garments followed Westven form—layered leaf-silks, muted, precise—yet the set of his mouth betrayed a taut impatience he made no effort to hide. They have brought a god-gift into my forest, he thought, dry as bark. Let us see whether it roots or rots. His gaze slid to the arched entry grown from a parted limb. And whether I must pretend delight at the planting.

Amanth could not quite keep still, even here. He had taken the offered place near a balcony branch where filtered light fell in green-gold shards, bronze skin catching the glow like sun through leaves. One foot balanced on a root-ridge, restless, fingers tapping the carved haft of a borrowed cup. Shade upon shade, he marveled, delighting despite himself. Even their halls are forests. His grin flashed as dancers' arms traced slow, rooted patterns to the pipes. Then his attention snapped to the entry, anticipation sparking. Come out of shadow, miracle. I want to see what color you are in this light.

Gallas stood deeper within, where lantern-amber met true dim. Midnight skin merged with the wood's dark polish; only the pale fall of his hair and the silver steadiness of his eyes marked him out. He had already mapped the chamber: load-bearing limbs, sightlines between pillars, the flow of guests along roots and railings. Structure grown rather than built, he assessed. Yielding, yet strong. His gaze returned to the entrance. Let us examine the offering placed in this careful hollow.

Finthir leaned against a living column as though it were a mast, head tipped back to watch ivy tremble in unseen drafts. Sea-black hair, salt-sure smile—utterly out of element, utterly at ease. He breathed deep of loam and sap, eyes bright. Another kind of tide, he thought, amused. Green waves instead of blue. Then he went still, focus snapping to the entry with the certainty of a line gone taut. There you are, his heart said, immediate and glad. I would know you under any sky.

The pipes softened.

Not silence—Westven did not sever sound—but a drawing-in, a collective leaning as guests parted along the rootways toward the living arch. Guildmaster Derrin stepped through... and at his side, the god-gift.

Pale gossamer veiled them head to foot, front and back alike, a column of moon-milk against bark and moss. The fabric caught amber lanternlight and green canopy-glow, shifting pearl to leaflight to silver as they moved, guided lightly by Derrin's hand. Ivy tendrils stirred in their wake; the veil breathed as though the forest itself exhaled around them. A murmur moved the chamber—curiosity, hunger, unease.

Four princes watched.

Saevel's eyes sharpened to a blade. Cloth snags here, he noted instantly, tracking how the veil slid over root-ridges without catching, how the step adjusted to living floor. They do not stumble. Surprise, unwilling. They learn terrain at once. His mouth curved faintly, sardonic. Perhaps the graft will take after all.

Gallas inclined his head a fraction. No fear-scent. No hesitation in dim, he marked. They accept shadow as readily as light. A quiet approval settled. Material of breadth.

Amanth's grin softened to wonder. They wrapped you in moon to bring you to a forest, he thought, delighted. Let me see what sun you make here.

Finthir's chest loosened on a laugh he did not voice. Still you, recognition rang. Even veiled in green night.

At the dais, Derrin halted. With practiced grace he lifted the gossamer free and gathered it over his arm.

The forest opened.

Amber lights in living wood. Moss underfoot, cool and springing. The smell of earth and honey and smoke. Pipes threading the air. Faces half-seen in green shade. Spaced through root and pillar, four figures held the space: one crowned by living dais, one in leaf-lit balcony glow, one carved from shadow, one bright against bark.

"Easy," Derrin murmured, voice low and steady as soil. "Yes, it does rather feel like being swallowed by a tree. Perfectly normal."

Aloud, for listening ears: "Prince Saevel, our host, stands upon the root-dais ahead. Auburn hair, expression suggesting this entire proceeding has inconvenienced him personally." A hint of fondness. "He will not move first."

A slight turn of sleeve toward shade: "Prince Gallas has selected the darkest pillar, naturally. If you feel weighed, that is merely his attention."

Upward, to green-gold light: "Prince Amanth has found a branch with sun still trapped in it. Gold hair, smiling as though you are already a festival."

And beyond, against a column where ivy trembled: "Prince Finthir—there—looking at you as though forests are merely another sea to cross. Recall, if you please, our previous discussion regarding abduction in any terrain."

His voice dropped, private as roots. "Shall I summon one to you," he asked softly, "or would you prefer to walk the wood a while and choose your own path?"

Scenario 4: Seawind The Seawind elves were chosen to host the alliance negotiations.

The Seawind court did not assemble—it moored.

Velasyl Isle's great harbor lay cradled in a crescent of black volcanic stone, coves biting deep into the rock where ships nested prow to stern like sleek predators at rest. Above the tide line, the winter court spread in tiers of white-plastered huts and open pavilions roofed in blue-gray sailcloth, their guy-ropes strung with chimes that rang whenever the sea-breeze shifted. Rope bridges stitched hut to hut; ladders dropped to piers where lanterns swung and tar-sweet smoke drifted from pitch braziers. Beyond, the fleet rode at anchor: single masts etched against a molten sunset, rigging webbed in gold. Music carried everywhere—fiddle, pipe, drum, and the bright clatter of shell and bone—while laughter and shouting answered wave-slap on hull. Platters overflowed: roasted fish, citrus, coconut milk, sugared fruit, casks of sharp palm-wine. The whole court breathed salt and appetite.

It was Finthir's tide. His reach.

He stood upon the deck-terrace of a great pavilion cut open to sea-view, one hand hooked in a line as though he needed contact with rope to remain fully himself. Sea-black hair loose, gray-blue eyes alive with motion, he watched the harbor mouth where the approaching boat cut a bright wake. They are bringing you over water, his pulse sang, fierce and delighted. Of course they are. Of course you come by tide. He laughed under his breath. Mine already.

Amanth leaned against a post near the pavilion's edge, utterly unbothered by the sway beneath planks. The sea-breeze teased gold hair; bronze skin drank the last sun. One foot tapped in unconscious rhythm with the drums. Ha! he thought, joy snapping through him. A court that moves. Perfect. His gaze tracked the boat with eager brightness. Come then, god-gift. Let me see if you dance or fight or both.

Saevel did not lean. He braced. A low table had been set at his side with a narrow cup and a small dish of crushed green leaves. The scent—sharp, bitter—cut through tar and brine. He had already swallowed some; more waited if needed. Auburn hair bound back, leaf-silks adapted reluctantly to wind, he held himself with the still control of a tree enduring storm. This entire kingdom refuses to stay put, he thought, cool and cutting even through the roll. His eyes narrowed at the incoming craft. If they have dragged a god into a net, I will judge the knotting. His fingers tapped once against the herb dish. And if my stomach revolts, I will not give the sea that satisfaction.

Gallas stood farther in, where pavilion shadows were deepest and the planks felt least alive. He had chosen position with care: back to a load-bearing post, sightline to every entry, horizon kept in peripheral rather than full view. Still, the subtle heave of the deck moved through his knees and spine like an argument he could not close. Midnight skin held an ashen cast beneath lantern-glow; white hair bound severely at the nape. His silver gaze remained steady on the harbor mouth. Instability, he assessed, each breath measured. Unacceptable. Endure. His jaw set. Observe first. Adapt second. A flicker of private distaste. Do not disgrace Moonspire by vomiting on a pirate king's floor.

The boat nosed in.

Oars lifted. Lines thrown. Hands hauled craft snug against the pier below the pavilion terrace. Guildmaster Derrin stepped up first, boots sure on swaying planks. At his side—

Gossamer veiled them head to foot, front and back, a figure of pale surf-mist against rope and sail. The fabric drank sunset gold, then cooled to moon-silver as lanterns took it; sea-wind pressed it briefly to form and loosed it again. Salt spray freckled the hem. A hush rippled outward—not silence (Seawind did not hush), but a drawing of breath, attention tilting like gulls on a thermal. The god-gift had come aboard.

Four princes watched.

Finthir froze with the stillness of a line drawn taut. Yes, his heart exulted, simple and absolute. You cross to me. You always would. His smile cut bright as a blade in sun.

Amanth's grin flared, delighted by contrast. Wrapped in cloud to step on waves, he thought, joy bubbling. Oh, I like you already.

Saevel's gaze sharpened despite the sway. They do not clutch for balance, he noted at once, surprise threading disdain. No panic. Either brave or ignorant. A sardonic curl. We shall discover which.

Gallas marked breath, posture, scent. No fear-sweat, he cataloged, approving through nausea. Adaptation within moments to unstable surface. His focus tightened. Promising.

At the pavilion's threshold, Derrin paused. With careful hands he lifted the gossamer free and gathered it over his arm.

The sea took over.

Wind salt on lips. Lanternlight swinging in arcs. Rope beneath palm, warm from sun and use. Drums in the ribs, wave-slap underfoot. Huts and sails and masts all around, the harbor breathing. Spaced through rope and pillar and open sky, four figures held the deck: one all tide-bright hunger, one sun-limned ease, one root-tense restraint, one shadow-bound will.

"Steady," Derrin murmured, voice pitched low. "Yes, it moves. It does that."

Aloud, genial for the gathered court: "Prince Finthir, our host, stands there by the line, attempting not to vault the railing in his enthusiasm." A small, dry smile. "He has abducted fewer guests than rumored. Tonight, ideally, none."

A sleeve-angle toward sun and post: "Prince Amanth of Sunfield has discovered the one place on this platform that receives proper light and has claimed it. If you hear laughter, it will be him."

A discreet inclination toward the herb table: "Prince Saevel of Westven has fortified himself against maritime realities. Auburn hair, expression suggesting he will endure this indignity out of principle."

And into shadow: "Prince Gallas of Moonspire has located the most stable square of decking and is defending it by sheer will. If you observe an extraordinary stillness, that is not hostility; it is discipline."

Derrin's hand light at their elbow, private again beneath the surf of sound. "Would you care to have one brought to you," he asked softly, "or shall we let the tide come in its own fashion and see who lands first?"

[OOC: Blank scenario! Make your own!]