Ensign Mahan, Star Guard
The Office of Lord Wrax, Star Guard Barracks
Lord Wrax doesn't smile - he hasn't smiled since Asim, some say - but he gives a nod. Just how voluntary his offer is can be read in his body language and from the smile Cho gives, as if relieved of some previously invisible tension. Wrax's smile is in thin lips, and it doesn't reach his eyes before it drops and he throws his head back to drain his glass in one long pull, "Marvelous. Marvelous stuff, Ensign."
He clears his throat and steps over to his desk, fetching a seemingly random collection of pocket-items. Personal possessions that are tucked away as - to the air in front of him - he asks, "Bring the ride around, gentlemen." And then he turns to you again, "As for the outsiders you'll be serving with? I have been entrusted with conducting investigation into all of them. An Imperial. A Bwap. Two Solomoni - far from home, oddly enough. And sent ahead by messenger, a Zhodani. You, of course, will be granted the privilage of getting to know them all quite well. Better than I did, I wager."
He motions to the door out of his office but then takes the lead through the familiar barracks of the Star Guard.
He doesn't answer that last question - the mission - and he leads the way to the entrance of the Star Guard Barracks where an Air/Raft is waiting for you. Cho stops short, clapping a hand on your shoulder, "Best of luck out there, Mahan." He smiles again, "We're all cheering for you from here on out." He then nods to the Admiral and renders a proper Sindalian salute that is quickly returned, "Sir."
And with that, it is you and the Admiral loading into the back of an Air/Raft with two Star Guard sailors up front.
The ride is a short one from the barracks to the center fo the royal palace - to the throne room where King Oleb XVI sits. It is about that time, that the Admiral finally offers, "As for the mission, I'll admit even I have been given only limited information. Good Lady Rao," he almost seems to snap the name, as if he's trying to break it between his teeth. "is the architect of it. I can only assume she will imporat the details to you."
The Air/Raft lands, and one of the sailors in the front steps out to open your door for you, "Best of luck, Mahan." The Admiral nods.
Urien, Dawappa, Lindsey, Eirene, Kesperziaiepr, Mahan
The Royal Palace
The Herald meets all of your answers with more or less the same withering expression of disapproval. Urien and Kesper seem to draw the hint of a barely restrained eye-roll, from among all of you, and when demonstrations are made he clicks his tongue in disapproval and shakes his head, "No no no. This won't do at all." He turns to the pad in the crook of one arm, grumbling to himself almost inaudibly as he taps at the screen with an obviously growing sense of frustration.
The next moment, the doors many of you arrived for open once again, admitting a young Drinaxian man by the looks of him, ushered in by the door guards, and with an Air/Raft that can be seen lifting away behind him before the doors firmly shut. The Herald looks up, furrows his brow, and offers, "Oh. So good of you to join us, Ensign." He beckons to the rest of you with a wave of a gloved hand, though his expression seems to soften a touch. Or perhaps its a trick of the light. But either way, he continues, "I was just about to show our guests the proper way one is to present before Our Lordship, the good king. Perhaps they can learn from both of us, yes?"
He extends his arms out wide to his sides - parallel to the floor and angled slightly forward of his body with palms facing down. The Herald's left leg comes forward, settling gingerly on the heel, and he bends his right knee almost to a 45-degree angle. At the waist, he ever-so-delicately leans forward, and at the same time drops his head enough so as to be looking towards his extended left foot. Held. 1-2-3-4-5 and just as gingerly he rises up to be standing wholly up right with both feet planted. He looks to each of you with a raised brow, "Simple enough, yes? Surely you - "
The doors to the throne room bust open, swinging wide and fast. And with enough force to cause the Hawk Warriors to step forward. But they don't turn about.
A portly man with a thick but well-trimmed black beard comes stomping through the doors. He has a heavy gut that hangs just enough to hide the buckle of a roughly secured gravity belt, nearly knee-high polished black leather boots, and a heavy and ornately jeweled crown sat atop raven black hair that is pulled back into a thick bun. He bellows, "Mahan! Where are my damn guests!" He sweeps his gaze over all of you. For at least one of you - Mahan - it is easy enough to recognize your monarch. He was there for several ceremonies involving your vessel, after all.
The Herald shoots to turn about, "Oh - um - yes, my lord. I was just instructing the - "
"Teaching them how to bow, yes, yes! They know well enough, Mahan!" He points one chubby finger at the first person he seems to settle on - Lindsey - and demands, "You! Give us a bow, then!" Though he's beginning to grin. All it takes is the first committed motion from Lindsey before he declares, "Good enough! Lets have it then, follow me!" He turns about and, with a portly swagger, walks into the throne room.
There you are treated to what might be the pinnacle of oppulance. Black marble floors with swirls of gray and white are under your feet, and those of you who take an interest in it might soon realize that there are holes of various sizes - though differences are small - across the floor. And shining down from above, lights hit gems embedded in those holes to see them glowing soft yellows and warm oranges or reds. The especially observant and travel-minded soon realize you are walking across the Trojan Reach, scaled to be displayed across the entire floor of the throne room.
And ahead of you, the Dragon Throne.
Large. Heavy. Dark metal, sharp angles. And the nose-piece of an Aslan vessel taken as a trophy, poised above it and angled down to make you feel as if you are under the pointed beak of a bird of prey.
King Oleb XVI turns about and throws himself back into the throne, heavily, before clapping his hands. From one of the back corners behind you, a hurried-looking young man appears with a silver tray balanced on one hand and a fat bottle in the other. The tray is festooned with glasses - eight in total - and as he approaches the King, the monarch is quick to usher him in your direction with an irritated grunt, though he's quick to give the boy a smile as he corrects himself, "Damn it, boy. You think I invite guests in to watch me drink?" He gives a bellowing laugh, "Alcohol does no good taken alone!"
The attendant approaches each of you, lowering his head in a slight bow as the long-stemmed crystal glasses are presented to each of you.
Once each of you have all but had a beverage foisted upon you, he returns to the king's side and presents one of the final two glasses.
And when he is left holding a tray with one glass remaining, he gives the offending libation a confused look.
King Oleb looks to the wine. Then to the young attendant. He visibly shifts his gaze from one to the other a few times until the attendant finally looks at him in kind, "Well? Drink up, boy! I don't ask for eight drinks because I think its a good number!" Another laugh.
King Oleb takes a hearty drink. For those of you who take a moment to examine it, the glass is filled - far more than would typically be appropriate for such a glass - with a bubbly golden liquid. Each movement stirs a cascade of bubbles to stir and rise up and pop at the surface, making for a sweet but hard to place scent. The taste is something like a mixture of a dry wine and a sweeter champagne. It leaves a tickling sensation in the mouth once swallowed. A glance at the bottle in the young attendnat's hand will see that the bottle is "Sindalian Golden Sweet" judging by the delicate white font on a predominantly black label.
With a pleased sigh, King Oleb lowers his now nearly half-empty glass, and regards you all, "Well. We all know who I am. So who the **** are you?" He grins anew.