Rebma Versus Prince Caine: The Trial

[rassafraggin]

The city of Rebma shines in from the heights, glowing vaporously where the sun's diffused light gathers upon reflective surfaces. There is much that has been resurrected over a decade, grown organically to their former heights through necessity and desire. There are many nods to the architectural notes of the originals, though whether these are truly the originals and Amber's the mirror, or the other way around.. is a point never openly, earnestly questioned. There are just as many deviations from the blueprint, what some would call functional improvements and fitting aesthetic changes.

Then, there are the ruins, almost hidden away from outsiders behind a rebuilt facade. The neighbourhoods that once had comprised The Lower City have been overtaken by a broad sinkhole of shadow and murk, from which jagged buildings tilt, a maw full of half-swallowed teeth. The fact that the diminished population has no need for the residential space it potentially offered, is only part of the reason the pit has been let to fester as an eyesore and a painful reminder of the Cataclysm. Where better to stage the trial of the man long held as the catalyst of it all?

It is a stage. A large platform erected upon a scaffold bridge of opalwood, elevated over the ruins to permit an unobstructed view from the crescent-shaped dropoff and the open windows, balconies, and rooftops rising beyond, a massive coliseum of spectatorship. An attendance of what may be one hundred thousand individuals of the city and from throughout the civilized realm occupies these spaces, their every breath mingling into a sonic effect; the waters roar palpably toward the center, thrumming upon one's skin. Smaller steppes along the bridgework support groups of the VIP: the clergy, the nobility of the raised clans, the magisters, and the council; the accused's cleared family and members of the royal household stand together, for it to be understood by all -- these proceedings are pre-negotiated, thereby non-oppositional. In the spaces inbetween, above and below, only the royal guard and handpicked military escorts are permitted.

Dirk is swimming in place almost like a pacing. He has a serious look on his face matched with a worried look in his eyes.

Deirdre stands not far from the platform, speaking quietly with Fiona. She's dressed more towards Amber than Rebma today, for the sake of her official capacity as Ambassador.

Fiona arrived without fanfare and is standing with Deirdre, speaking quietly with her.

The trial of Caine? Of course the long missing Remi would find his way back to civilization and closer to Amber. The man tugging with him a bear trap on a chain as he swims from the city gates closer to the platform.

Dirk just paces around in the background. He's in human form.

Vialle, dressed in Rebman finery befitting the Queen's Ambassador to Amber, walks into the growing crowd. Threading carefully through the dignitaries, she makes her way to a spot that is currently open. Folding her hands, she stands as still as a statue to wait for things to proceed.

Remi seeing the pacing Dirk grins slightly making his way closer to the man, His voice sounding out moments later in that tell tale rough edge brought on by frequent drinking and smoking. "Figured might be seeing you at this.." The Minosian's gaze moments later drifting from Dirk to look over the others gathering for the nearing trial.

Dirk looks back and sighs softly. "Here to bask in father's trial and tribulations Remi?".

The words from Dirk bring Remi's brow to lift before a chuckle leaves him, A small shake of his head given moments later. The Minosian making his way closer to his brother before treading along with him as he falls into speaking in a more hushed tone with the man.

Eric stands in the background, his arms crossed, looking like thunderclouds were dancing in his eyes. A deep frown adds to that, and he regards everyone with a cold, dispassionate gaze, one at a time.

Dirk is talking to his brother quietly.

Eric nods to the conversation happening nearby, but doesn't chime in, his eyes on the gathering.

Giselle made her way down to Rebma for this, but stays well towards the rear to watch.

Ruby makes her way towards one of the sections marked for family of the accused. The sheer spectacle of everything might even take her breath away except for the particular strange properties of this area of Rebma. The collective sonic conglomeration rattles her some, causing a few facial twitches to ruin her poker face. She's taken the proceedings seriously and cleaned up. No amount of time in front of the mirror can hide the ruined runny tattoos on exposed flesh, though she pretends not to notice as she moves to claim a place amongst Caine's kin.

Deirdre continues speaking quietly with those near her as they wait.

All eyes are on the platform when the appointed time arrives for Prince Caine to be delivered hither, swimming between escorts or borne between them if he cannot quite manage the distance. His place is off center on the stage, across from a pedestal throne of clear quartz which has been carved especially for the occasion. But for a sole solemn armored guardian stood nearby, the prisoner is alone and on display. Save for his own efforts at presentation, the effects of the dungeon stay have been left upon him rather than tidied and trimmed away. The people have their assurance the accused was held as criminals are held, justly and fairly, but without comforts or vanities. Atypically, there is a distinct lack of physical restraints applied to his person.

Caine bears his role in this ceremony with a gravity that holds no joy or contempt. He takes the place he is led to easily enough, dressed stubbornly in the clothing of a sea captain, the same as he was wearing when he surrendered. If the ceremony is approached with gravity, the Cataclysm that brought out its need is... another thing. The maw of destruction is right there before him, and the prince fixes his gaze on the sinkhole for a long time as he waits.

Dirk turns and watches quietly.

Maereina steps forward slightly as Caine takes his place on the platform then relaxes back to her former place near his siblings.

Once things begin, Deirdre's attention moves fully to the platform and she is silent to watch.

The hush and stillness which fall along the fringes following Caine's appearance is momentary. After some initial squinting and deploying various vision aids from looking glasses to watery cantrips, observations are passed around and the sea hums grimly with renewed vigor and tension. It doesn't take an intellectual to understand the situation is political and that in the short course of a decade, Rebma has gone through its share of interesting times only to recover and come back stronger for it. This does not really mitigate the swell of emotion and unresolved anger that comes at this point, however. A negative balance of vibes washes across the ruins, marred by the occasional Dolphin titter.

Ruby folds her arms under her chest and tilts her head. She's located up in section reserved for spouse, siblings and spawn. Ruby tries to look impassive and all that. But one of her heels keeps tapping a beat to an unheard tune.

Among those watching from nearby, of course, are Prince Martin and Princess Miriam. Like most, they're silent.

Maggie slips into the throng, silent and watchful.

Fiona simply stands where she can see, quietly watching.

Queen Moire is remarked to be standing in the company of the Amberite elders, along with the Prince of Rebma and Princess of Tir. A gesture of continued friendly relations with the topside kingdom, though the ruler carries herself quietly aloof, gazing upon the various conversations in a gently absentminded manner. When Caine is ushered forth from the direction of the palace, she turns with her chin resolutely uptilted, her eyes on him throughout the wax and wane of her peoples' reactions.

Vialle senses when Caine appears. She listens to the reactions with all of her varied abilities before she focuses on Moire and Caine.

Watching closely, Eric regards the procession with a haughty air, studying how Caine was being brought into the area. Looking him up and down, he notes the shape he is in, and gives the man a careful nod of support.

If the stir of the waters around him from the people's impotent anger affects Caine, he doesn't show it. His arrival passed through it similarly, and here it does not provoke him. But as his first view of the devistation hit him squarely upon that arrival, his second view of it likewise holds his attention. The contemplation could be regret, could be scorn, or it could be the resolution of thoughts before jumping. Who knows.

Remi watches in silence as things begin to get underway.

From somewhere more distantly ranged, a sort of fanfare breaks up the buzz: The deeply sonorous note of a giant conch which Rebmans know and remark to be the harbinger of religious event. The Temple of the Cult of Lir has spoken, bestowing blessing upon this momentous occasion. On their mini-platforms, the priestesses commune with the long tonal sound until it subsides into the general hum of the living Sea.

Should Deirdre catch Caine's eye there is the faintest of nods for her brother, but otherwise she's still.

Dirk looks at Caine and gives him a nod.

Slipping closer, Maggie pauses when the sound begins, moving once more only when the tone fades away. Finding a vantage point, she watches, taking mental notes for later no doubt.

Eric moves closer to Deirdre, Fiona and Vialle. He nods respectfully at Maereina and looks at each of his siblings. Keeping his voice low, he says, "Sisters." He includes Vialle in his gaze with a slight smile. "Seems that our brother has himself in a situation. I..regret...not getting him out of this."

Vialle remains focused on the platform though her gaze is neither here nor there. Eric is offered a faint smile for his consideration though it fades a bit as her concentration is otherwise engaged, "I doubt that he would have appreciated that, to be honest,. This was his choice. He is doing a good thing."

Rising from its remnant eddies, the querulous cry of the royal herald is cast over the gathering. "Hear Ye All, the Peoples, Friends and Allies of Rebma, the Great Undersea Empire! All Hear Ye! The Deep Court Trial of Rebma versus Prince Caine of Amber is now in session, and all shall come to order! Prosecution statements shall commence, to be followed by statements from the Accused. Deep Court tradition shall then call upon Queen Moire, in Her divine majestic wisdom, to render verdict and sentencing upon the Accused!" Finishing, the noble Rebman official drifts back down among the magistrar, while another of their number prepares to take his place on the platform.

Caine shakes off his stare at the pit as the herald makes his statements, laying out how this will end. He looks up then, seeking his siblings but not returning the nods. His gaze then roams briefly, habit dictating the paranoid check.

Dirk does his best to make eye contact and smile.

Her Royal Majesty, Queen Moire, having waited among the other royals, now takes steps to cross over and share the platform with Caine, though for her part she will be seated upon the throne. She's regally gowned in white satin that anchors at the shoulders from a standing collar of gilded scallops and abalone, crosses sarong-like over her chest before flowing open in long furls, precious gold and pearls accenting her scanties and sandals. Elaborate braids keep her long hair tamed and coiling back from the silver crown nestled past her hairline. Ceremonial rings and wristguards flash and dazzle with every graceful gesture of her hands, drawing and holding attention from afar, even when she settles in with preternatural impassivity and poise.

Martin's face is calm as he takes note of all who have come today and acknowledges those he can make eye contact with. He keeps an eye on the proceedings but also has a preverbal third eye on everything else. He certainly isn't a passive spectator. His gaze never stays long in one place. So many assembled in such a location requires additional scrutiny and protection. One never really knows what might slither out of the shadows of the deep in support or defiance of the situation at hand. He watches his Grandmother move to take her place.

There is no grand entrance, bouncey energetic swirling through the water for a change to mark the arrival of the gypsy, Sye. Moving through the water with a smooth easy grace and dignity to approach the gathering of so many from above and below. Selecting a position to allow her view, but out of the way and off to the side.

Caine moves slightly to square up and face Queen Moire upon her crystal throne. There is no bow or obsequence, nor is there open defiance or anger. He studies her with slightly more sharp attention than he did the yawning maw of destruction, and waits.

The Rebman official selected to conduct the prosection is a fine Mairwen lord from the older set, pale blue hair pulled back from thinning temples. He carries a fine glass slate, ostensibly etched with legal verbiage, though it may just be a prop. Rising with a few flutter-kicks, he alights on the edge of the platform and performs a deep bow from the waist to his monarch. Once favoured with a nod, he straightens and offers Caine a formal nod. Drifting to the center of the stage, he turns in a slow glance over the ruins to those in their places of honour, and then over the throng assembled. Lingering, as though to catch the eye of each and every single Rebman. He is, after all, representing all of them... if they like it or not.

At some point or another, no doubt a bit late, Clive had arrived for the big show. With the usual unflinching expression in place and no words to accompany it, he presses on through to take up a spot in the midst of others from House Ygrayne. From here, he watches what is about to transpire with arms crossed.

Murmurs ripple through the gathering from different points of observation, covering the distances quickly in that manner. The prosecutor is identified as Lord Carranthe ap Mairwen, Head of the Magistrate, a learned Rebman of great oratory prowess.

Martin looks with grave respect to the Magistrate, but he otherwise does not comment.
Eric frowns, crosses his arms across his chest again, and then pointedly regards Caine with a thoughtful expression, before looking sideways at his siblings once more. "Interesting."

Caine returns the nod from the prosecutor likewise, though his gaze does not leave Queen Moire's face. It could be that his role is to endure until her word is given, or endure until his are.

Ruby took a cue perhaps, because she was needing to peer over at that big nasty reminder of cataclysmic things. Her attention sinking upon Caine and his current state, trying to gauge him. She wrinkles her nose in agitation, finding the environment and situation not conducive to the attempt. She'd probably have an easier time piercing the shadow of the sea.

Lord Carranthe now speaks: "My friends, today it is the duty of this court to imprint the catastrophic event of ten years Past afresh in your memories.. though it should bring us pain to inflict such anguish on the surviving victims and the families of the fallen. These words I shall speak are of a necessity, to banish speculation and hearsay, to rise above myth and make truth the legend.

"On that day, a destructive will wrought itself upon the sisterly bond which held our two realms in mystical reflective unison and harmony. The dark power unleashed upon it did thus shatter that bond, and in its dying tremors seized upon the ghost city of Rebma; the sacred city sought and found by Lir, through whom all who followed Him there were thus named Rebman, along with all their faithful kin throughout the lands beneath the waves. From this city of Rebma, seat of divinity and of royalty, thus was the empire of Rebma forged.

"Thousands of years. One hundred thousand lives.

"One day to tear them asunder."

In the contemplative silence extending from this opener, Carranthe patiently allows the effects to sink into the Rebman emotional collective, ounce by profound ounce.

Caine, listening along with the assembled multitude, drops his gaze from Moire finally as the history and event are given deep context. A mild squint has set up, and tension from his clenched jaw, but he says nothing and does little else but these slight signs.

Syeira remains at her current vantage point with slow steady graceful movements of her limbs watching quietly over the proceedings before her. Her face remains void of expression.

Martin watches as the people have mixed reactions and some are openly emotional. He does offer those of his people afflicted by such strong emotions, supportive looks.

Melina has kept her gaze moving most of the night from her husband whose hand she holds and to the platform and upon caine on whom the gaze now settles on the speaker's pause, thoughtful

Moire's arms are set on the throne's carved surface, her bejeweled hands curled over cool quartz. Her eyes, at first for Caine, however calm and inscrutable, move to the magistrate as he speaks, and for a moment they warm with a deferential acknowledgement of the man's bardic ability. With the next soft exhale, chill fixes her features, and her regard as it slips back to Caine carries a depth of sorrow.

Vialle shifts slightly as the proceedings continue. Her attention shifts from the peocecuter to Caine, then to Moire where she lingers for a moment or two.

Miriam looks first towards Martin, studying his face as he watches the people react. Her hand finds his as she then also looks to those reactions.

Vialle's attention drifts slowly from the Monarch of the Deep to the accused.

Eric fronws once more, and looks at Moire and then at Caine. With a shake of his head, Eric sighs and leans back against the wall.

Dirk watches Eric and then turns to watch Caine.

Llewella joins with Martin and Miriam watching the proceedings with a sober expression.

The Lord Magistrate turns to Caine after several well-timed beats, before the murmurs of the Rebman crowd can grow restive. He says, "The Accused stands before us of his own volition, having surrendered himself at long last to Rebman justice." Then continuing to address the broad populace, with or without confirmation from the prince, "Justice shall not be ultimately served, however, in the absence of guilt. In his surrender, Prince Caine has accepted responsibility for instigating the terrors of Cataclysm upon Rebma, Rebmans, and the Deep Peoples. Let the court and all who attend now bear witness to his admission of guilt."

There is a faint wrinkle about Deirdre's eyes as she watches her brother, lips pursed slightly. Concern for him, perhaps? That might be a hard sell. It could just as easily be morbid fascination as she waits for him to speak.

Melina archesher brow a bit at this. though relaxed would hardly describe her previous posture during the proceeding, increased tension is evident ass she watches caine most notably in her vice grip on dirk's hand.

As the time comes for Caine to speak, or not, Vialle's focus steadies.

Caine stands a moment after the Lord Magistrate delivers his prompt. Then, loud enough to hear, his gaze fixed on the Queen before him, he says steadily, "Let me explain my guilt. Well before I willingly surrendered to the justice of the Queen of Rebma, I had already lost everything that defined me as a Prince of Amber to myself. Since coming to Amber a thousand years ago, my heritage and service to my father has formed and defined me. I was the one of us who would do the unthinkable so that others didn't have to, to protect Amber. Even... try to kill my most dearest brother and friend, when he became a threat we couldn't fix." He cannot look at Moire directly at that admission, and gazes up at the unseen surface high above, his jaw working. It's a few seconds before he can speak again. "Because that was who I was, that is what father made me, because that is what he needed. Except I became a threat, myself. I became that, not at all willingly." He pauses again, still looking upward, and his voice is notably rougher. "You should have killed me right away. To be honest. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid you would find the will to carry it out. Then I tried to do it myself, three times. Once while I was Regent. By then it was too late to take out an enemy, and I was just wanting the pain to stop." It's the eyes of everyone listening to this that face him when he looks back down, his own dark eyes rimmed in red. It is thousands of times worse than his admission in court, many years ago. "But no one did, because even if I thought everyone would be better off with me dead, my brothers and sisters didn't. Amber didn't. Somehow." He shakes his head, lips coming back from his teeth in a grimace, but his gaze turns fierce to keep on Moire's face. "I am not telling you all this for your pity, but to explain how difficult and painful it is to tell you that I am guilty of many things, but willfully damaging the great Kingdom of Rebma is not one of them. To explain how hard it is to ask for your mercy here, when I exhausted it for myself years ago. But I am asking. And I am... genuinely, and without reservation, sorry. For so many things."


Maereina barely moves during Caine's speech but someone who knows her and looks at her might see the knuckles of her left hand turn white where they have moved to rest on the hilt of her sword. Her face shows nothing.

Martin rummages into his pack and hands a small flask to Llewella wordlessly after she whispers at him. He came prepared, apparently. The entire time he keeps his attention on Caine, however.

That wrinkling about Deirdre's eyes deepens as Caine speaks, but that's all the reaction apparent to those that don't know this Princess of Amber well. What she does do though, obviously aware of what's around her though she never looks away from her brother, is shift towards Maereina and rest a hand gently on the woman's arm.

Melina looks to caine,expression one of conflict as she regard him, nodding through some of his speech, but it is turning to look at dirk that her ownn composure gives way. she may be conflicted he is not and tears well inn her eyes as she regards his pain

Syeira listens to the speach of her Uncle. Her expression remaining devoid of emotion. Her movements remain fluid, subtle, and graceful holding her place of viewing.

Llewella's attention to the flask wavers as she listens to Caine speak in the end it's only the fact that Martin's hand is outstretched and offering it still that makes her rember that she asked for it.

Clive gives a soft snort half-way through the speech, followed by some muttering. While much of it is unintelligible, his look more than gives away that it all falls on deaf ears. And he probably would have been happy to help the Prince with his performance problems.

The Honorable Lord-Magistrate Mairwen watches Caine with steely eyes and mouth an immovable line, holding his piece while waiting for the entirety of the prince's intentions in this moment to play out. He doesn't trust this fellow to come through, to meet expectations, to know his role. This so-called Prince of Lies. He shall be surprised at nothing, nothing.

Until... he is. Carranthe's gaze shifts slowly to the side, as Caine's journey off-script heads into unfamiliar territory. Tensely, he casts a look into the galleries of watchers and reads confusion there, even as murmurs fall away into fascinated silence. Lord Mairwen frowns, turns back, and takes a deep breath to intercede, halt Caine in mid-exposition, and direct him to a plainer, straightfoward statement.

Carranthe only gets as far as opening his mouth, when a movement by Her Majesty catches his eye. Her sparkling jeweled right hand, lifting.. and tilted toward him. Shushing him.

Ruby is lifting her chin to try and stretch out some tension in her trapezius. And then she gets a full-on muscle knot when Caine speaks up, like grapeshot was suddenly surgically inserted in there. Her lower jar juts forward and her body leans in that direction as well. Arms crossed beneath her chest initiate an agonizingly slow heimlich.

Giselle may be listening to the Magistrate and Caine with the rest, but her eyes are on Moire as she studies the Queen of Rebma with great interest during this proceeding.

Vialle's head lifts slightly as Caine speaks. She drifts forward just a little, her movement unconscious and unintended. Still it is slow enough that only those near her might be aware of it. One hand lifts toward her throat, resting halfway there, the gesture as abortive as something said. Or not said.

Moire's discretely imperious gesture subsides so that her hand can resume a precise lock upon the armrest, deceptively gentle. Likewise seated just-so upon the throne, she appears to attend Caine's startling wordiness with the barest glimmer of human interest through a shield of regal sangfroid. Those who make a point of close study may note that the already slow cycle of her breathing deepens, the careful rise of her chest under the satin wrap controlling the lividity that threatens to pulse at her throat and temples. Her gaze flicks to the nearer of the audience platforms, where her family bears witness, Vialle included, absorbing their reactions in a blink. It moves back to Caine, calmly, as he concludes. She grants him the barest of nods, but it is her prosecutor whom she bades continue now.

Wordiness can be the death of people in covert dealings, something Caine is very aware of. After blurting out what had been building in his dungeon cell, he lets out a breath and picks a middle distance to rest his tired gaze. Some spot that doesn't have eye in. And then he waits for the rest.

Something said, or unsaid, sends a shock of recognition through Vialle. Again her focus intensifies and it becomes clear to those near her that her expression is figthting to display some deep emotion. It is probably a good thing that she has learned to keep her features still and her mein gentle.

Carranthe pouts faintly. How to follow all that up? He composes himself. "...While... it is... worthwhile to know, Prince Caine, the path of your actions and state of mind, both leading up to the event in question, and as a consequence..." His brow knits, and his persuasive tone returns in force: "You have managed to offer a qualified denial of your guilt in this great crime, rather than give clear admission of it. Let me ask it of you again, Your Highness. For the upheaval of the city of Rebma and the loss of tens of thousands of precious lives. What do you plead?"

Caine lifts his head slightly and turns it to give Carranthe a tired side-eye with an added bonus of an uplifted eyebrow that questions the other's mental capacity. TL;DR. "Not guilty."

Vialle's hand falls back again, fingers lacing together with the other. Silence, at least for now, holds her still.

Fiona's expression is calm and serene, as she stands there. She might be watching a boring golf game.

Martin watches attentively. He frowns slightly at the proceedings but he doesn't appear surprised.

This might be one of those times to wish the waters' enchantment didn't work quite so well. The syllables of that succinct statement travel quickly along, bypassing the vaguarities of the currents, and reach the crowd in their tableau of dramatic stillness. In the next moment, comes the roar of amazed outrage, mingled perversely with grim vindication. Surprised, but not surprised. Where're those fish, for it appears the time has come after all to shake them!

Deirdre's lips purse. Her hand remains on Maereina's arm as the reaction to those words spreads through the people of Rebma. It might tighten just slightly.

Way back in the back, perched where she can see the proceedings fairly well, Maggie takes in the ripples of reactions as her uncle's pronouncement ignites outrage and indignation, anger and confusion. She shakes her head once, then settles in again. Though she really wants to leave, it would not be right to miss the results of her kin's peculiar statement. Besides, she might learn something.

Vialle staggers a little, but regains control quickly enough.

Still seated, Moire waits as the prosecution gives Caine another chance to get things right. Her eyes rest with quiet focus on the prince, having observed the finality in him long before he affirms it. No, he did not stutter. In the scant seconds before the surrounding city erupts with chaotic emotion, her expression thaws with the surreal relief of one finally pushed far enough to see the path through the fog.

Dirk is looking rather sad and teary eyed.

As the throngs erupt around the spectacle, Caine looks away from the prosecutor and closes his eyes, listening to the roars and shouts. Then his eyes open and he gazes at the Queen, calmly, waiting. There is less tension to his shoulders and face now, as laying his mind bare so publically seemed to have released something. Whether it is a flash of relief before dire punishment still remains to be seen.

Giselle continues her study of the Queen of Rebma, eyes intent upon the woman sitting in judgement over Caine.

Remi stands near Dirk, The Minosian's features shifting as he watches Caine. A look of concern finally showing in his gaze before he is looking towards Moire.

Dirk moves like Remi almost as if they were synchronized. He now watches Moire.

Lord Carranthe resists becoming himself carried away by the tide of Rebman venom, noble and righteous though it may be. He darts a look to the platform of the Magistrar, summoning the Herald-Bailiff to rise up and call out for order.

His voice is barely heard over the rumble.

The soldiers posted below the lip of the sinkhole, guarding the people from overstepping that gloomy perimeter, step alertly with spears turning broadside, in case they must present physical barricade with these latest developments. Silt and crumbles of rock cascade from the broken ledges onto them, like an ominous manifestation of memory.

On the bridged platforms, clergy and palace officials weave and brace against the tremor that passes up the structure. They start to kick up into the waters to retreat to more stable ground, but are summarily forced back down by the arrival of the royal guards: Four swordsmen, clad in sculpted overlapping plate, cruising past to flank both the monarch and the man on trial, though a good distance still remains between them.

Vialle remains near Deirdre and Maereina. Her expression fights for calm, hinting toward a tempest. Then something shifts and she regains her equalibrium.

Maereina's knuckles go whiter where she holds the hilt of her sword but she does not otherwise move.

Martin keeps his features calm, this does not seem to surprise him but very little does these days. He tracks the movement of the royal guard and makes a subtle gesture here and there to individuals presumably under him. Extra security had been in place and prepared for possibilities such this. No aggressive movements occur beyond what is immediately noticeable, however.

The queen regards all of this with a roving, wide-eyed gaze, for a few moments stunned by the burst of energies across the deep waters; though perhaps it really is a moment of reflection, of seeing the patterns of the Past take shape.

In the next moment, she has risen to take steps from the crystal seat, down to the stage, flowing effortlessly from beginning to end as though having become a part of the waters. Seams of cross current swirl outward from her and ripple from the stage, overrunning the stands and quelling the multitude of errant eddies breathed from every hostile soul... Bringing them back into the fold. "Be still," Moire commands, and so the tremors dissipate.

The people of Rebma mill slowly in the ebbing of the tide, momentarily unified by the singular demonstration of mystic power, and reminded. The Sea is with them. This was not a cataclysm to be so quieted, to be certain; rather, a lapse in faith.