The Etra Anthology

61st of Gnielm, 88 RI

Kesserine, Athal

Micai Ranavar would be an estimable warrior. That much he knew. As he walked up through the city, armored brightly and flanked on either side by a retinue of comrades, he tried not to be too distracted by the attention that it brought him.

Still though, his mind wandered over his legs. What must he look like, to them? He was tall, broad in stature, and possessed of all the lupine grace that was natural for a young high elf. The saber at his side was Dawnmaker, a blade that had passed to him through generations of noble hands. It had been used to save the Ranavars, in the ravages of the time before, so said his father. 

All of this contributed to a general air about Micai, the way that greatness simply radiated off of him. The gasps of passers by, the kneeling salutes, all the glory, it did thrill him. He was their prince, and he would die for them.

Kesserine was a city of gates, six grand baileys in total, situated betwixt two impenetrable mountains which faded quickly into the aether around. It wasn’t until the fifth and final of his intended passes that Filauriel caught him.

“You’re late.” From someone else it might have come off as judgmental, but she said it as a statement of fact.

“I know it,” He motioned his guards to walk on ahead, leaving him a private moment with his lady paramour, “The Wraith’s Road needed my attention.”

Filauriel pursed her lips at that.

“Do you disagree?” Micai led them out from under the gate, through an open market in the direction of a grand amphitheater.

“The kingdom has aspects other than it’s wartorn border.” Filauriel rehashed that argument of theirs. “King Miacyne says-”

Micai scoffed, immediate and interrupting. “The king consort lives too much in his own head. He spends his days lost in the castle, writing all his life away in those blasted letters.”

“He thinks those are important.” Filauriel was gentle in her reproach, “If they keep him happy, keep his mind off the horrors he’s seen, what’s the trouble?”

“The trouble is that no soul will ever read them! He burns them all to crisp, so what was the point in the first place?” Micai passed loudly through and into the halls of the amphitheater, weaving now through small crowds scholars and merchants, patrons and soldiers, courtiers to his family all.

When it became clear that Filauriel was not intending to respond to his outburst, he took a deep breath. “My pater isn’t the point. I’m sorry I interrupted you.”

“Thank you for your apology.” Filauriel squeezed his arm comfortingly. “I just wish for you to think on your place in this kingdom.”

“My place as the prince of this kingdom is as a protector. Do you not agree that the orcish uprising is a threat to our people?” Micai pressed once more.

“Of course it is.” Filauriel headed up a set of spiraling stairs. “I’m not telling you to abandon military pursuits. I only meant for you to consider that one day you will be prince no longer. That you will be king, and that a king makes for a poor man-at-arms. There are other skills to statecraft, skills that attending events such as these will hone for you.”

“I’ve considered that.” Micai made what final adjustments to his appearance that he intended. “Father will abdicate, we’ve discussed it on more than one occasion. He’ll hand over the throne when the time is right, and I will have many long years to absorb his wisdom as an advisor. The joy of these elvish lifespans is that I will always have more time to learn what I need.”

Filauriel was silent at that.

“I see what you are saying. I am here, after all, even if it is not when I was meant to be.” Micai acceded, cresting up to the corner just around which he knew he would find his responsibility. He paused there, just long enough to lean down and tenderly kiss his beloved. “I know you have my best interest at heart, and I have much love for you on that account. All will be well.”

“I know you, and I love you too.” Filauriel whispered to him as they stepped out into the light of the amphitheater together.

It was a crowded affair, the half-crescent sitting boxes packed with all manner of movers and shakers from Ranavar and beyond. Micai could tell that, in his tardy approach, searching eyes were pulled to him. He had been noticed, and noted.

It mattered little to him. He was of a state that he was proud to be seen, it served only to focus him.

Surveying the invited parties back, Micai found that the vast majority of seats were swashed by people from there in Kesserine, elves and half-elves and the like. Some portion went also to the human folk of the outlands, from the Escarpment of Verdalin all the way up and through the demiplanes which made up the strange and harsh Alkniss Isles. Mingled amongst them were orcs and goblins, defectors from the wastelands who had proven their loyalty to the monarchal cause. In one box his uncles and aunts sat, tightly clustered, grumbling to each other conspiratorially.

His father Llywelyn had taken the foremost podium, a pillar of kingly goodwill. He paused his speech and nodded to his son and to his daughter-by-marriage, acknowledging their presence, before turning back to the matter at hand.

In front of him, central to the entire proceeding, stood four figures. One was an human man, posh in his doublet and bracers and slouch hat, strung by bow and strength of arm. Next to him there was a wiry elf in a capelet, a jut of black hair atop his head, looking for all the world like he had never sat still in his life. On the other side there was a lass who seemed to have some orcish blood, armored in holy vestments of the Stria Intranscendent. Finally, there was a severe gnomish woman, a witch by the look of her, togged all in red with a wide-brimmed pointed hat atop her head. In all, they had the look of those that had some hunger for the world.

“In the pursuit,” Llywelyn continued, “of a reunified cosmos, there must be those who are brave enough of heart to venture out to the aether and beyond. Those who are quick enough of hand to evade those outside the borders of the civilized worlds who would seek to hold us back. Those who are wise enough of will to balm against the trials of such endeavors. And, perhaps most importantly, those who are keen enough of mind to understand what has been seen in all those long travels to come.”

Llywelyn paused a moment, letting the weighty remarks linger in the minds of his audience. 

“It is in this pursuit, and under the charge of my kingship over this fair country which I have vowed to protect, that I have gathered you all here today.” Llywelyn motioned then to the four gathered in front of him. “Please, kneel.”

The assembled adventurers took their knee, one by one. Fighter, rogue, cleric, wizard.

“You will arise, and in so rising you will be granted the commission of a new league of explorers. It will be your purpose to survey and secure the length and breadth of all places, domestic and foreign. You will have the sanction of the crown to walk freely in all lands and to conduct yourself as you see fit. You will do so with a sense for justice in fair principle, just as in turn the crown has authority over the direction of you all as its subjects. You will be a hand, to reach through the veil that our reality has fallen under. I, King Llywlyn Ranavar, declare it so.”

The first members of the Athalial Explorer’s League rose then in official commission, the crowd cheered, and all of its significance slipped past Micai as though it would not come to be some great diminishment of his place in the world. He would not see it so, for he would be dead on the battlefield well before these seeds would come to fruit. In that way, at least, his glory was preserved.