All I Ask

[rassafraggin]

Now Rebma knows how to fancy up a daily court. The shining palace remains a thoroughfare of blinged-up visitors from parts afar and lousy with treasure. The floors leading into the throne hall are liberally sprinkled with bangles and doubloons which have fallen from the litters ferried in by the envoys of these lands. The best of these are displayed on pedestals along the wall to one side off the dais. None of these, of course, signifies a guarantee of favour from the Crown... but it definitely doesn't hurt to make a memorable first impression, in some cases, second and third.

The coral throne peeks out with organically-sculpted scroll and polished branches, from beneath a softly undulating cloud of minty tresses. Cushioned upon her luxurious mane, Moire chills in a peaceful lean after dismissing a party of four. The bumpy-skinned toad-eyed envoys squat on their haunches as they mill backwards from the dais, trilling rather melodious blessings for the monarch.

Bleys strides within, sans entourage. He's gone for a familiar style of courtly attire. No lavish disguise or going overboard, other than his signature style. He relies on his presence moreso than resorting to new threads beyond-the-pale. To put it more succinctly: He's made an effort.

Bleys approaches the dais and comes into closer proximity to the unflattering looking denizens that take their leave. He heaves a sigh and contemplates how cruel nature can be before focusing on the Queen. One eyebrow arches higher than the other, and he adopts a confident smile.

The clusters of lingering courtiers have been graciously applauding the throaty quartet, but one by one their sound dims like street lamps fizzling with the passage of a negatively-charged entity. Soon, it's only the chirruping toadfish-folk who continue obliviously into their second movement, still bowing and scraping their way down the hall, backwards.

Moire watches the prolonged outro with supreme tolerance, but then her gaze slips off-center to the flame colours not all that muted in the Deep. Her relaxed grip on the armrests lifts as she signals faintly to her herald, a dignified female in trailing silks and silver.

The Rebman eyes Bleys with surprise, and leans over to get the scoop from a hurried aide who had been discretely trailing the lone visitor ever since he set foot in the palace. "Her Divine Majesty's Court thanks the Shaddri for their performance," announces the Herald, and the deep amphiboids trail off with bemused groks, finally taking note of the brilliant figure bypassing them for the dais. "The Throne now recognizes His Royal Highness of Amber.. Prince.. Bleys." That inflection could have hooked upwards into a query, but ends up evening out before her profession is disgraced.

Aside from lowering her hand back to the armrest, Moire's only other movement is a lift of her chin. Her eyelids fall with the adjusted angle and she watches the Amber Royal's approach through a veil of green lashes.

Bleys practically beams. Recognition! His bread and butter in these strange times. He holds his head high and approaches on cue. Attention on the very conscious looking Queen of Rebma, any doubts to the gossip that she has been returned are swept away like ocean currents. His manners are on display as he adopts a Princely pose, and his confidence runs through it all. It would verge on arrogance if he had a signature sword at his side. Rhyddid just isn't there, and is a notable thing if someone happens to be a geek about such things. "Your Majesty." He inclines his head. "Your return to the throne is a beacon in these dark times. It has drawn me here and urges me to pay my respects in person."

Moire takes it all in with an expression of gracious disinterest, really the best an impostor could even hope for. The court absorbs his opening statements with a flummer of whispers. They couldn't possibly discern the distinctions of manner and bearing between one prince and the next, let alone two cast from the same basic mold. What they do know is this is not the very first time the fiery-headed devil has come to Rebma, and presented himself to their ruler. And so far as they can see, presently, the very fine fellow is not being welcomed back with even a hint of warmth.

When his words take their final reverberation through the waters, she replies in a sonorous voice that carries further and fuller. "Be that as it may. If my return is a fair turn of the tides, what does yours signify?"

Bleys straightens. "I'm so glad you asked." A shrewd look, to compliment the poignant question. He swooshes his half cape over one shoulder before he speaks again. "My return signifies that all is not going well for those that would bring ruin to Amber. Nothing as grand to Rebma as what you represent.. Heavens no. Though if Amber gains stability and gets its act together, would this not benefit our fair neighbors beneath the waves?" He offers a grin. "Rebma is such an important place, and such a stalwart custodian of the past. I have my sights set on the future by nature, but find myself having to constantly check behind me to what has come before."

Only a lesser monarch would be outwardly provoked by words of bluster. Moire accepts his response with a nod which understands such pleasantries will continue between them whilst the public looks on. Her slender hands curl over the front scrollwork of her coral throne, the majestic chair looking none the worse for wear despite the shenanigans with its analog in Amber. "We would see the sister realms restored to glory, yet it is not clear to Rebma that the Past wisdom ought remain true," she states coolly. "That you would gaze hence, to guide your steps forth, Prince Bleys, would be my own wish for you. Can you, however, is the question."

Bleys maintains his slick courtly ways for the onlookers. What he considers silky at any rate. He's all bluster and no baggage train of supporters for this visit after all. Garments and demeanor are all on his version of auto-pilot, though there's a tension that goads him to talk more and say less. And deliver fast, like he's got a seahorse to catch by a certain time. Bleys takes pains to rein this back but he's got tells. "I'm not so long in the tooth as to be completely stuck in my ways. A template is just a suggestion, and everything after that really defines things. Much as I believe Rebma has redefined itself, and from what I've heard for the better. Only time will tell if I can side step the usual obstacles towards stability and then growth once more. But I can assure you the motivation to do so beats fiercely in my chest." He spreads his arms to either side. "One of the reasons I am here is to pay my respects. But also to improve relations where my siblings have been negligent. Oh, I know you speak evenly of some of my brothers, and always with a level head. I assume you like to side with the one that will be the least hassle? Your voice carries influence from the docks since you awakened in one form or another." His eyes dart for a muscular blond fellow and return. "I think more communication and support between our peoples is paramount."

"No prince nor princess nor regent may claim my support, who disregards Rebma's wish for justice," says Moire, perhaps unsurprising in her agenda. The Eddies ruffle the queen's long tresses so they drift in a lazy, rising cloud of mint-green, though not a strand moves to join the jeweled bling in failing to cloak her seated form. "Only by my absence in deep slumber has this matter been allowed to linger unseemly for years. Now, shall I have Prince Caine brought before this Court to answer for his crimes." Finally she moves, sitting up taller upon the throne, and the Rebman nobles and visitors from beyond hush and take notice. "Shall you be your brother's deliverer, as Corwin before you brought Random to face justice beneath the waves? In this way, the Past shall be renewed, and form a bond that much more powerful."

Bleys is also taking notice, and has to give props for the way the Queen commands her court both directly and indirectly. After Moire puts that question to him, his smile falters and he appears to make a regretful sigh. "No." His chin lifts then and he levels a proud look to the Queen, his profile to the court a resolute stance. "I will not deliver my brother, or any other, to you. I am not Corwin, and it helps me sleep far better." He pauses for a beat, which is probably not going to result in levity, and then continues more soberly. "I am not an instrument of Rebma's 'justice'. I am a Prince, not a Gull."

At this, the murmurs of the court rise to a low roar, as the prince who only just proposed improved relations, refuses their beloved ruler the one thing that might do the trick.

Moire's hair-raising display does not abate with Bleys' no doubt disappointing response. She regards him with the beginnings of a frown, and her voice is deeper in pitch as she says, "It matters not if you are lacking in conviction or blade, you are not the one who shall bring the realms together." Sinking back into the cushion of her mane for a second, she then rises with easy grace from the Deep Throne. "Fair tide unto you, Prince Bleys, wherever your fortune takes you." Her handmaidens step forth from the sides of the dais to take up trailing positions for her slow-flowing exit.

Bleys' jaw works, to jut his patch of reddish chin hair out a notch. Appearing to be a courageous looking fellow ready to withstand tsunami or tongue lashing. The audience appears to be over. There's a touch of color to his face over the comment about being lacking in some essential qualities. He does not nod to this, to avoid an outward sign of agreeing, but he does sweep a courtly bow. His eyes stay locked onto her as he dips until he's practically peering through his fire colored brows. He also gives her the last word on this.

A ripple of genuflection moves through the hall, as though following his example, though it could just be coincidence. When the monarch enters or leaves, people are going to show respect. The unscheduled audience looks to be over, but the pleasures of the court are not. Moire's anthem, played solemnly from the juliette balcony, dissolves back into parlour music once the billowing green train of her hair disappears through the private corridor, fluttered after by five ladies-in-waiting.