NationStates Jolt Archive

The Menelmacar of the modern age was a strange entity. While it maintained a truly vast warfleet, and associations that even it found distasteful, it still considered itself principled, and this was evident in the name of the craft that currently drifted through the clouds over Xirnium, vast vapours billowing against and sliding off polished surfaces of shining white, silver and cream. The vessel, despite being almost identical – though without the obvious weapons, and with more defences – to the frigates of the war-fleet, was named Sérë – Peace.

The Sérë used much of the space it saved by having removed the majority of its weapons to provide extensive passenger quarters and a number of meeting rooms; it was in one such that Luinthelë sat, watching the clouds part against the window, condensation rolling off the thick transparency. The snow-covered city beyond was intriguing, in something of a Venetian fashion. Neúvenärta, it was called.

“Picturesque,” she murmured.

“That’s a hopeful sign,” another female elf sitting at her side said. Anáriel was the chief financial officer of the Fëanor Holdings Group, a vague, fuzzy-around the edges conglomerate that was noted for its political influence. While it was indeed the company with the largest single turnover in Menelmacar, it wasn’t nearly as all pervasive as its proactive attitude suggested. It has long been the interest of the company to broaden its contacts, indeed, it sought to make its money by founding new links between nations, both Menelmacar and others, and simply others in general. It originally made its business in trading and infrastructure building. As well as this, it generally tried to control as diverse an array of operations as possible. There were some products that could be mined, produced, and retailed by FHG’s various subsidiaries without difficulty, a policy that allowed them to operate in some respects like the true mega-corporations, though without the company stores and regional monopolies – Fëanor Group’s advantages weren’t nearly gigantic enough in any geographic area to qualify as such.

Anáriel didn’t need to be there; she didn’t even have a real reason. While part of the point of this exercise was to establish trade relations, and her company did have negotiators on board, so did various others, waiting for the opportunity to pounce if things went well, she wasn’t such a person, and that wasn’t her job. She was there instead more for a holiday than business.

The landing procedure for the ship was surprisingly simple. While it was dense; denser than the normal mind could possibly conceive of in real terms due to the incredible materials used in building gravitic drives and hyperspeed generators and armour, it could hover without pushing its way through the ground under its own weight indefinitely. Despite that, the ships usually didn’t choose to do that, but rather they preferred to ‘land’ on water, in part because of an aesthetic sense, in part to give an illusion of a more conventional mass; the apparent displacement of such ships was intended to look somewhat convincing to fool observers.

Túrelio, a third elf, was replacing the usual emissary for such matters, Serindë nos Eärendil the prefect of trade, or one of her deputies, because there were other concerns to be addressed here. Oh, not that Menelmacar would say anything openly; another dichotomy was the ability at times to be insulting and patronising and downright rude, and at other times, as unbelievably coy as any other nation.

His presence, the presence of the minister of state, was an invitation for more, an invitation to ask more, or rather, an invitation to tell more. It was a signal of interest, interest in Xirnium itself, and in its concerns.

Physically, the prefect of state was tall, like almost all Menelmacari, and broad shouldered. Trimming his nails with a small tool that resembled a scalpel or a very small knife, seeming absorbed in the task. On his left hand he wore a large ring with several diamonds, and around his wrists, the start of his clothes was somewhat unusual. Rather than being held shut by buttons, as was the usual fashion, his sleeves were held by six jade cuff-links that appeared to have been spheres, lathed down to make a form of removable button. The sleeve was a creamy-greyish colour, and green patterns of embroidery wound their way out from these buttons to encompass the sleeve, suggestive of leaves or stems. The robe he wore seemed rather like a long overcoat, and he indeed had more on under it, the fabrics it was woven of were something of an intricate work, responding to changes in environment by becoming more or less breathable. In the comfortable climate controlled environment of the ship, they were no more heat restraining than silks. It went up to a high collar, with slightly – though not much, given his build – padded shoulders, and extended to his boots, which were rather similar to the other fabrics, and at the moment resembled slippers, more than the rigid boots they would in rain. He was dark haired and unusually, had dark eyes as well – the most common single colours among the Menelmacari were grey and blue.

Glancing out of the window, Túrelio smiled a little as the ship aimed itself towards a large body of water. “We ought to get ready to disembark,” he said.

Luinthelë and Anáriel were dressed similarly, in robes similar to Túrelio’s but tighter around the waist, emphasising curved hips, and with low necklines. This was one of the few gender-based fashions in Menelmacar, women tended to sometimes; though not by any means always, wear lower cut costumes. Shrugging, the pair of them rose to their feet, and walked out into the arched corridor that curved around from the port observation room towards the ship’s doubled prow.

The appearance of Glorfindel, the other occupant of the room, was quite well known, blond haired and grey-blue eyed, he was both taller and broader than Túrelio, and dressed in white robes with a coat-layer on the outside of deep blue with brilliant blue-silver lightning zig-zags and radiant diamond star pin-points on it. As with the other elves save Anáriel, he wore a sword that, especially in his case, was far from ceremonial.

There were ‘guns’ on them as well, but overall that was probably no more of a concern than the guards most delegations on such visits typically made. There were in fact forty such guards on the frigate, including ten of the Mornahossë specialists in what could be called ‘VIP protection’ but their name was more closely translated as the uninteresting moniker of ‘guards.’

Despite being essentially a disarmed design, the Sere still held the rather large (if cramped) landing deck of the default. Here, though, thee was more space, as some of the more immediately warlike sub-craft were gone, replaced with empty space intended to receive guests. It was into one of the remaining sub-craft that the delegation strode.

However, this ‘skiff’ was rather more like a conventional sailing ship than the futuristic craft around it. Apparently composed of a white wood, the swan-prowed vessel was a little larger than a rowing boat, it wouldn’t hold water, as aside from its prow and stern, there were barely any sides; it would remain in the air or afloat by virtue of gravitic fields, and would avoid taking on water by the same means.

It drifted out with its four passengers, whose universally long hair was caught slightly by the gentle breeze of its movement, and settled down beside the bank. “Now, let’s see what interesting things there may be Neúvenärta…” Luinthelë said quietly.

“A peaceful people,” Glorfindel replied, in necrontyr, a language he didn’t use often, “with all sorts of charming and quaint features that make up for their tremendous indolence,” he said. The snow didn’t fall on them anyway, because of the fields around the small ship, but as he stepped off, nothing changed. The snow touched none of the elves, as if caught on tiny gusts of wind, flakes that would have touched them fluttered away. Where their feet trod it rapidly disappeared, seeming to evaporate, but the steam that resulted was carried away instantly and almost imperceptibly. Where he stood, where they stood, in fact, warming sunlight broke through the clouds, and cold, slumbering, even dead plants burst into life as though a temporary spring came where they went.

This certainly wasn’t a normal reaction to any elves; but rather to two of the group, who were, one could say, special. Túrelio smiled, standing before the others, taking in whatever reception was arranged – appearances to the contrary, it was not as though they were dropping in unannounced.

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OOCness: Bits of this post haven’t been run by Siri, namely the semi-speculative stuff on the history of FHG. But for the most part, yep.

First to greet Xirnium’s curious elvish visitors were by far the largest and most gentle inhabitants of Neúvenärta’s icy lagoon, a pod of majestic Gwílyä whales. Having migrated south from the Arctic Sea in late autumn, the small family of marine mammals appeared to have made the misty waters of the Hêralýn lagoon their temporary home; and had even somewhat accustomed themselves to the various elegant watercraft that seemed to constantly traverse its perfectly still, glassy surface. The sudden appearance, however, of a strange, foreign vessel that had seemingly fallen miraculously from the very heavens above was, to the whales, a most queer occurrence indeed. Singing mournfully, the gentle giants had swum curiously about the polished craft, with some of the more adventurous breaching in an impressive but playful display of powerful agility. Indeed, from the narrow little boat that the Menelmacari delegation had set off in, the elvish visitors might just have caught a fleeting glimpse of some of the mottled grey whales drifting nearby, their glistening flukes slapping softly upon the frigid water.

What the foreign dignitaries most certainly would not have seen, however, was the sleek and elegantly streamlined police launch that discreetly stood sentinel for the Sérë, anchored reasonably (though not overly!) nearby. Only one small part of an extensive, precautionary security detail that had been organised for the Menelmacari visit to Neúvenärta, the sections of Special Branch whose task it was to guard visiting personages had over many decades become remarkably adept at that most valuable art of being inconspicuous to the point of invisibility, as the Xirniumite ruling elite invariably preferred of them. If all went well, as doubtless it would, their presence would not be noticed at all. Eléanor, of course, expected nothing less.

The great Xirniumite metropolis of Neúvenärta, lovely pearl of the North Atlantic, seemed to float serenely upon the vivid indigo waters of the Hêralýn lagoon, bringing to mind the image of delicate, snow-covered water lilies lying still on the surface of a gorgeous garden pool. Its fortuitous situation on a string of relatively small islands had, more than in any other great ancient city of the Eternal Republic, considerably limited the conspicuous intrusion of all the troublesome nuisances of the modern world. To stand in Neúvenärta, therefore, was to be transported back in time, to a more romantic, fantastical era. Not for nothing had the metropolis earned from poets and bards the affectionate epithet of “the dreaming city”. Indeed, nothing less could possibly have been expected of a place that considered itself one of the greatest and most honoured contributors to European civilisation and heritage in history. Glorious in its marbled splendour and deliciously decadent, Neúvenärta made an ideal location for the inquisitive elves to first visit.

Neúvenärta’s fine monuments and historical structures were legion, and it seemed that airy late baroque and renaissance forms predominated most in this remarkable city. In addition, there was a rather conspicuous absence of the more ponderous and weighty gothic styles that were so clearly evident in Naèräth, lending Neúvenärta a much more frivolous and sensual air. Here in this misty city, dainty lightness, fluid grace, and elegant curves all very much appeared to be the order of the day. An innumerable number of delicately slender spires, towers, and pinnacles, all in light pastels, ivory white, and brilliant gold, emphasised a sense of height and slimness in every conceivable way. “Function over form” was not a mantra that had ever found receptive audiences in Xirnium. Decoration was thus extravagant and stylish, with stuccowork intricately elaborate. Neúvenärta was very much a city of beautiful marbled palaces, winding and twisting canals, and gossamer light bridges.

Towards one of these lovely palaces the elvish boat now inexorably glided, borne effortlessly through the chill air by some arcane art. As the Menelmacari neared the Niérbänd Palace, they first passed through an elaborately decorated gateway, where their entry was challenged by the lovely and yet terrifying presence of massive, gilded bronze Naërwëni (pagan Xirniumite vengeance goddesses of the seven seas). Gradually, the grey mists of the canal parted and the palace came into view. Fronting directly onto the fog-enshrouded lagoon, the magnificent structure had apparently been constructed in a decorated, classical renaissance architectural style; and consisted of a porticoed and elegantly domed central facade connected by long, narrow, and colonnaded galleries to massive, terraced wings. The building’s tantalising ornamentation was understated but delightful, with its examples of quatrefoil tracery particularly splendid. Neither the palace’s perfect white marble (of which it had been primarily constructed) nor its exquisite gold mouldings showed even the slightest hint of weathering, nor was the silver gilt of its courtyard’s many fine statutes (mainly of women, as was the Xirniumite artist’s wont) in any way tarnished by the salty lagoon’s air. Clearly, this was a palace lovingly cared for.

In the sixteenth century, Niérbänd Palace had been owned by a wealth patrician family that (perhaps not altogether unsurprisingly) had built its fortune upon a proud legacy of maritime commerce. The Arwâthiél wharves and quayside areas that the palace dominated had, during the renaissance period, seen a veritable flurry of shipbuilding activity and prosperous trade. From its many grey berths, elegantly tall, pearl white galleons and long, nimble fighting galleys had effortlessly projected Neúvenärta’s naval supremacy and economic dominance far beyond the North and Norwegian Seas, cementing the city’s prestigious position in the late mediaeval age. Today, however, most port and ship construction activities took place at far more modern, mainland facilities, so that a much more leisurely atmosphere pervaded the splendid shipyards here. Lovely pleasure craft, for the most part, were moored at Arwâthiél now.

Eléanor Sabëlinà, foreign minister of the Eternal Republic and countess of House Numêsalquó, waited patiently with several of her parliamentary colleagues near Niérbänd Palace’s water story entrance, as the final preparations were being made in order to warmly welcome the Menelmacari dignitaries. With mild disinterest, the lady watched as an honour guard, found of the 13th/15th Parliament’s Own Light Dragoon Hussars, formed up smartly under the command of Baron Válentin Gwirithíl Silvrëntôlien (who wore a magnificent trailing seventeenth century rapier) and waited to formally salute the guests of the Xirniumite Motherland. Splendid in their dashing uniforms and accompanied by both the unit’s colourfully silken parliamentary standard and pennants and the band of the regiment, it seemed that this official reception would not be without its own pomp and ceremony. Already, the string, brass, and woodwind elements of the military band had been assembled, and a blast of fanfare was briefly heard as several musicians tuned their instruments.

For the most part, Eléanor conversed quietly with a cabinet colleague about trade and export possibilities. Occasionally, the discussion moved to the Menelmacari themselves, a people of rather fascinating culture and history in the noblewoman’s private opinion.

‘What is that, Zoltán?’ murmured the countess softly, hearing the refrain of some unfamiliar poem or song. Members of the Nemánya Philharmonic Chorus, present at today’s welcoming ceremony at the request of the Xirniumite Government, appeared to be going through a final rehearsal.

‘They tell me that it is an elvish hymn to Varda, goddess of the stars,’ explained the minister for trade and commerce, Zoltán Aíre-Dâlóme; a tall, handsome gentleman with slightly aquiline features and a fair complexion.

Lean and spare of figure, with aristocratic hands and a regal air, Lord Aíre-Dâlóme’s countenance was perhaps more noble than it was tender, with a set visage and quick, penetrating eyes. The parliamentarian’s attire was formal and elegant, his silk cravat flawlessly knotted and his high-collared shirt perfectly pressed. Zoltán had always been quite hopelessly besotted with the lovely countess before him (although he was, himself, married to a fine lady), and had been secretly delighted with the opportunity of spending some time with Eléanor in romantic Neúvenärta. The parliamentarian had tried his best to seem appropriately witty and charming, but was still unsure if the tantalisingly coquettish signals that he had read in the noblewoman’s reactions indicated any definite favour. Oblivious to Zoltán’s attention, the chorus carried on.

‘A Elbereth Gilthoniel,
silivren penna míriel
o menel aglar elenath!

Na-chaered palan-díriel
o galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
nef aear, sí nef aearon!’

Eléanor and her cabinet colleague listened in silence, for a while, to the delightful voices of the professional Xirniumite choir, all perfectly on key and wonderfully melodious. The expertness with which the various lovely sounds of the chorus were woven harmoniously together appeared almost ethereal and otherworldly; as though, perhaps, here one listened to the very music of the Ainur that was sung before all else was made. As sweet as dark golden honey and as clear as the sound of a cool burbling brook, the singers’ voices were most pleasantly agreeable to the countess’ refined ear.

‘It’s a lovely song, isn’t it?’ whispered Eléanor.

The language sung in was indecipherable to Lady Sabëlinà, and yet so remarkably familiar. Its sounds were not so very far removed from that of ancient High Xirnian, with which the noblewoman had been most intimately acquainted since she was but a small child. Indeed, in the Castle Vargaüránd of her youth the countess and her siblings had spoken English, French, and ancient High Xirnian on separately alternating days.

The noblewoman shivered involuntarily. Today’s weather was fine and remarkably pleasant, despite the thick fog, but it was deathly cold. Fortunately only the tiniest breath of a breeze was present, and the delicate snow that fell from the sky was light and insubstantial, so that it seemed almost suspended in the frigid air. With delicate movements, Eléanor brushed away some of the tiny flakes that had accumulated on her golden auburn hair, which was long and curly.

Always lovely in any item of clothing to be found in her many gorgeous collections, the expensive couture gown that Eléanor wore was richly elegant and perfectly emphasising of grace and femininity. Of light crêpe fabric, the flowing dress was floor-length and trained, beautifully lilac in colour and fashionably décolleté. As with everything that she wore, her stylish gown flattered Eléanor’s sylphlike figure, enhancing her already quite considerably alluring beauty. Xirnium’s freezing winters, however, demanded warm raiment, and the noblewoman thus also duly wore both a silk scarf and fashionable brocade cape, as keeps against the cold. It was the latter that Eléanor now drew closely about herself with a quick, regal motion, even as she felt the icy wind gently kiss her cheeks.

‘It would appear, Eléanor, that our unusual guests are right on time,’ mused the trade minister softly, as the Sérë descended through voluminous clouds. Lady Sabëlinà, for her part, busied herself affecting a disarmingly warm smile with which to welcome the Menelmacari delegates.

‘How delightfully courteous,’ archly noted the countess, who (though she herself could never be punctual for any arrangement that was made, no matter how trivial or important) was always most easily roused to anger whenever kept waiting for even the shortest period. The glimmer of an amused smile curled her ruby, lipstick-coated lips. ‘And not a moment too soon, I should think. It’s absolutely freezing out here in the cold.’

It would perhaps not have been incorrect to say that the arrival of the elvish personages produced something of a minor stir amongst the waiting Xirniumite dignitaries. Nearby trees, with their slender trunks and silver filigree foliage, awoke wondrously as if in all the bloom of spring. Eléanor tried her best to appear nonchalant, something that she always succeeded at admirably.

‘Welcome, dear friends, to the Eternal Republic,’ spoke the beautiful foreign minister, her voice the very meaning of unexampled loveliness. It simply was not possible for Eléanor to completely banish all traces of engrained haughtiness from her refined aristocratic tone, but in any case such added immeasurably to her voice’s own attractive charm.

If Eléanor was at all nervous about this meeting, she certainly did not show it. Indeed, Lady Sabëlinà was the very model of a self-assured stateswoman, with all of the necessary implications for hidden shrewdness and adeptness at intrigue that such invariably connotes. The members of the two groups exchanged friendly pecks on each others’ cheeks, whilst Túrelio and Glorfindel gallantly kissed the lovely countess’ exquisitely-manicured, slender hand, which had been offered elegantly by the fair lady.

Eléanor took a small breath, and cast her mind into an appropriate frame for what was to come. The prime minister held cautiously high hopes for this initial meeting, and was keen to see the development of amicable relations with Menelmacar. Certainly some of the elvish nation’s more controversial acquaintances might provide even the most ardent Xirniumite optimist with some cause for concern, but it seemed equally true that the Noldorin Empire was basically a decent enough country. Perhaps this was not much, even though it most certainly was not all (there were, for example, certain cultural affinities between both nation states to bear in mind); nonetheless, the prime minister had long held that from even the most inauspicious beginnings could ultimately beneficial relationships be formed. Her views were certainly not unpopular. Others within the Eternal Republic’s haut monde, however, were considerably more wary about whether there might really be siginificant gains to be had by associating with the Menelmacari state, although perhaps such was an attitude born more of the natural Xirniumite inclination to always tread thoughtfully and hesitantly.

Eléanor, for her part, remained somewhat sceptical about whether these strange elves could even truly be trusted. Hopefully, thought the noblewoman, she might now find out for certain.

Aboard the Sérë, in the ‘combat information centre,’ a small room that contained seating for a whopping six people at most, one of the crew lounged back in a tall chair, paying little attention to the communications signals that flittered back and forth in front of him.

One set took his attention, springing to prominence on the screen, as it was both singularly close, and directed to some degree at the ship.

“Humm…” he murmured, “Whales…” he added redundantly, and absentmindedly stabbed a button, putting up an adjusted sound feed, and glancing over the translations – elves were rather good at that sort of thing. When you could speak to trees whales were easy.

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Glorfindel smiled graciously as he bowed and kissed Eléanor’s hand, and as he did so, there was a slight disorienting feeling of warmth from his hand; not a mundane warmth, but something stranger and altogether richer, that seemed to sink in to the very bones, and stay. Despite this, it wasn’t a physical heat.

His manner wasn’t proud, regal or noble, at least, not compared to the others. He could be – he was – far more so than any of the others there, but this was only truly to those with a certain ability to perceive.

Even so, he was clearly in some sense greater than the others, but this was not an inactive sanctity as could be found in the quiet still hearts of mighty cathedrals and humble chapels, but rather, something vital and active, something that gave the impression that he could not possibly be daunted or afraid.

He had of course, taken note of the police guardians around, discretely. Despite this, he’d not really paid as much attention to them as a dedicated group of guards would. He wasn’t especially worried, and he had a number of means that would prevent any effort to assassinate him, not least a reliable knack for foresight.

He stepped back behind and to the right of Túrelio, the movement more than what feeble wind in the courtyard causing his coat to billow slightly at the hems, briefly revealing a tiny fraction of a considerately concealed weapon; it wasn’t just that he was acting as a representative of state, for while his sword as openly displayed upon his left hip, a long weapon that seemed to meld a number of design traits, its scabbard flickering with dark green jade and black jet, an actual gun was far more problematic. And the reason for this was thus; the Xirniumites weren’t the only ones who were uneasy about some of the unsavoury acquaintances Menelmacar was known to have. They also weren’t the only ones sensitive to it; and thus, they had adopted an appearance and attitude that distanced them visually from the most egregiously brash and offensive such example.

The Menelmacari, on the whole, were confident with the use of weapons. They had reason to be. They were also proud of them. They were not generally coy about the display of such things; their history was filled, or at least, interspersed with ‘just wars’ – many of them truly such, at least according to humane views – and they didn’t have the same issues that some gun-lovers had.

Much like abortion, the ‘right’ (a term which had less cachet in the political discourse of elves than it did elsewhere – anywhere were Law was considered to be a derivation of morality tended to view things in a distinctly ‘Utilitarian’ way) to own such things had simply never been an issue to them. They’d never had any question as a culture over the right of private individuals (another term that didn’t carry nearly the same weight as it often did elsewhere in translation) to own and use weapons for defence or hunting, and so on.

But that didn’t mean they were stupid or insensitive. They wanted to provide distance, therefore, while three swords of varying age and even independent power were plainly visible, weapons were hidden. In Glorfindel’s case, hidden further by an obscure and arcane (in multiple senses) design.


Túrelio smiled a little, bowing and kissing the foreign minister’s hand himself, before standing straight and tall – his height didn’t seem to mesh with the fluid grace of his movements and the regal yet tremendously present manner that accompanied them all. He spoke, it was why he was there, after all, “We thank you for your warm welcome and extend the fond regards and greetings of the Conclave and Elentári,” another unusual choice, it would normally be the other way around; but the speaker’s desire for emphasis changed it here, “and their desire that this day mark the beginning of lasting amiability and good,” a little frankness, just to avoid sounding too rehearsed or ‘middle class’ “relations.”

He spoke throughout in… tongues. It wasn’t an effect that would be noticed until someone compared notes, for it wasn’t the strange practice used by some religious groups, but more akin to that spoken of in the Bible (and one would presume, other documents) upon which such behaviour was based; those who listened heard (and saw) him speak in their own first, or consciously preferred, language – with the provisos that he would have a slight accent, and would always use a dialect and tone that had enough authority to be respectable, though this was carefully kept ‘modest’ too.

Countess Sabëlinà flashed an enchantingly lovely smile at the elvish prefect, inclining her head towards Túrelio as she graciously accepted his kindly spoken words. The noblewoman’s light bow was a most intriguing gesture to observe, elegantly polite and yet quite entirely devoid of any trace of humility or humbleness. One immediately sensed that such self-assured hauteur was to the foreign minister well-engrained habit, although the pretty, silver gilt coronet that Eléanor wore atop her crown (as a peeress of the Eternal Republic) would naturally have precluded a particularly low bow in any event.

‘Pray convey to the Conclave of Equals, and to Her Majesty the Elentári, our sincerest thanks and most cordial compliments,’ replied Eléanor, the gentle sound of her voice exceedingly pleasant to the ear. ‘Permit me also to say, if I might, how extremely delighted Parliament and I are by your visit to Xirnium. The Eternal Republic has always, I think, enjoyed rather amiable bilateral relations with the Menelmacari Empire. I hope that our meeting here today serves only to strengthen and enhance the political, cultural and trade links between our two great nations.’

Of course, those “amiable bilateral relations” that the foreign minister had so eagerly mentioned lacked something perhaps of a particularly great foundation in reality, for in truth the two nations have never in the past been remarkably close. A level of polite pretension, however, was hardly the most surprising of phenomena at a ceremonial welcoming ceremony.

Before the dignitaries could proceed to Niérbänd Palace, there remained a number of official formalities to be dealt with, not least of which included the playing of the national anthems by the military orchestra, the making of gracious speeches, and the performance of the Nemánya Philharmonic. The guard of honour’s flags and gonfalons flapped lightly in the chill breeze, bearing proud heraldry that had remained largely unchanged since the seventeenth century, as the battalion was ceremonially inspected by the foreign delegation. As was customary on such occasions, Baron Silvrëntôlien presented his troop in the tongue of the Eternal Republic’s guests, speaking in practiced Noldorin (and speaking it rather well, for the language of the elder kindred appeared to share many of its speech sounds with those of ancient High Xirnian). Although of course appropriately restrained by tastefulness, the welcoming ceremony proved nonetheless to be quite a splendid display of pomp and circumstance. In addition to the senior cabinet ministers (and their respective entourages of aides and secretaries), the various government officials and the ceremonial guards, there were a notable number of foreign office functionaries, local Neúvenärtan councillors and even the Lord Mayor of the icy metropolis present at the reception.

For her own part, the foreign minister found such formal state ceremonies tedious to endure. An experienced society lady who had attended countless enchanting balls, gala events and aristocratic soirées, it was perhaps not altogether surprising that Eléanor should see this latest occasion as dull. In the countess’ opinion, she had little to do here but mechanically follow state protocol, whilst looking glamorous in front of the flash photography of the Xirniumite press (the latter of which she always excelled remarkably at). Allowing her mind to wander, as she was wont to do when bored, the countess reflected for a while on the peculiar warmth of Glorfindel’s touch, casting a sly smile at the elvish lord.

‘If you would now kindly follow us…’ Zoltán suggested to the Menelmacari guests, as the official reception ceremony finally concluded. The trade minister motioned across the palace’s forecourt, although truth be told he no longer felt his previous impatience to be back inside Niérbänd’s splendid warmth. The aura of the firstborn’s presence, after all, had brought with it all the pleasantness of spring.

The elvish delegation and their Xirniumite hosts gradually traversed the vast, elegantly paved area in front of Niérbänd Palace, passing under a grand, classically ornamented porte cochère (flanked on either side by antique fluted columns) and thence into the interior courtyard beyond. Lined with colonnades, the roofless peristyle gardens had at their centre an equestrian statue of the Lady Emaèldiä, a lovely masterpiece of renaissance sculpture plated with ivory and gold and appearing to effortlessly convey an air both of refined nobility and sensuous graciousness. Niérbänd Palace was famous for its many marvellous and intricate garden fountains, all heated so that the sparklingly clear water would not freeze even in winter. Spectacular trick effects and wonderful cascades proliferated throughout the idyllic, terraced gardens, endlessly supplied with water by the misty Hêralýn lagoon itself. A charming nymphaeum, tranquil grottos and an extensive statuary added additional fine touches of classicism to the already lavishly decorated building.

The ornamental parterre gardens of Niérbänd Palace were an impressive example of renaissance landscape architecture, interspersed with marbled seats and spacious paths. Masses of dark green ivy climbed over elegantly cut stonework, whilst handsome holm oak, cherry laurel, and cyprus trees provided copious quantities of shade. Because of the cool Xirniumite climate, flowers were not a central feature of the courtyard, although lovely snow-covered evergreens did provide the gardens with their own unique, winter beauty. As the firstborn entered, however, the garden beds came alive with a flurry of attractive colour, as though the months of the year flew rapidly past in time-elapsed photography. Eléanor’s senses were immediately assaulted by the heady perfume of lilacs and carnations, the lovely smell of delicate roses in full bloom and gardenias in all the splendour of spring. The subtle and intoxicating scent of innumerable flowers brought miraculously back to life mingled flawlessly with the various aromas of the evergreen shrubs, such as lavender and rosemary. Needless to say, the effect was quite sublime.

‘Yours is a lovely gift, a priceless gift,’ remarked the countess, smiling delightfully at Glorfindel. There was something of a murmured quality to the noble lady’s voice, indicative either of a contemplative frame of mind or perhaps preoccupation with other, more distant thoughts.

Niérbänd Palace represented the epitome of decadent splendour, a monument to stylish extravagance. Walls, ceilings, and mouldings were decorated in an elaborately ornamental style, often with intricate and minutely detailed interfacings of florid curves and counter curves. Heavily scrolled, carved and gilt cornices framed finely stuccoed and richly painted ceilings. Decorated intarsia inlaid wood panelling with flat pilasters and friezes in gilded mouldings occupied the lower sections of the walls, whilst above were hung famous paintings and fine tapestries. Luxurious imported carpets, with richly tufted piles, covered floors in the more comfort-centred sections of the palace, whilst beautifully coloured and patterned, brecciated marble predominated elsewhere; in either case, their presence seemed always harmoniously integrated with the overall interior effect of the room in question. Numerous cleverly positioned, decorative niches displayed an impressive array of gilded statues, bronze busts and porcelain vases. Classical decorative forms also revealed themselves in the guise of lovely marble caryatids, pearly white women of unearthly naked beauty and unexampled femineity. In Niérbänd Palace, as in all of the splendid palaces of the Xirniumite beau monde, the works of the very finest (and most eminently renowned) painters, sculptors and embroiders, goldsmiths and silversmiths, jewellers, wood-carvers, stonemasons, ironworkers and bronzeworkers ornately adorned the myriad stately rooms.

A magnificent exterior staircase led from the water story of Niérbänd’s court to the palace’s piano nobile, and it was this that Countess Sabëlinà and the group of dignitaries now ascended. Her stylish, high heeled shoes clicking a loud staccato rhythm against the marbled steps, Eléanor led the elves to the great hall of the staircase’s landing, pausing briefly beneath a diamond and crystal glass chandelier. Upon the walls, vermillion moulded dado was juxtaposed attractively with large expanses of creamy white and touches of brilliant gold. On this level of the palace, there existed both the grandiose suites of large, stately rooms, designed to provide an opulent scene for the multitudes of people involved in Neúvenärtan court occasions, and the far more intimate salons, boudoirs, and drawing rooms, intended for use by a select and discerning few.

‘I daresay that today’s spectacle, and the Sérë’s wondrous arrival in Xirnium, shall be the subject of heroic verse and prose for many long ages to come,’ joked the foreign minister with an arch smile, eager to “break the ice” with her elvish guests, as it were.

Glorfindel smiled, having already thanked Lady Sabëlinà for her complimentary and accurate assessment of the ‘gift,’ “Hopefully not. I’ve noticed that most heroic poetry tends to be about tragedies. Poets seem to enjoy depression,” he said, quite serious despite his frivolous tone; of course, the early history of the Menelmacari elves was filled with such songs of woe, his own from that time was one of the more inspirational ones, after all.

Túrelio nodded, as Glorfindel turned to gaze at one of the paintings for a moment, running a hand over the gilded frame, and speaking softly, he smiled at it, and turned away. Túrelio spoke again, softly, too “If I may be so bold, and entirely informal, I suspect you have some concerns about this visit that I may perhaps be able to allay. Perhaps you have somewhere nearby where we may talk?”

Eléanor frowned, thoughtfully reflecting as her eyes blinked rapidly. Of a dark chestnut brown colour and bordered by the loveliest long lashes, those eyes appeared to cloud momentarily. Countess Sabëlinà had not really expected the elves to dive headlong into the discussing of substantive concerns, and had rather anticipated a leisurely evening occupied with nothing more strenuous than the exchanging of idle pleasantries or the engaging in of polite small talk.

‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ replied the foreign minister eventually. ‘Zoltán, would you mind if we… would you excuse us for a moment?’

As a matter of fact, the trade minister did mind; one could hardly have described him as appreciative towards the suggestion of being left out of the meeting. Someone, however, had to entertain their other guests, and Zoltán appeared to be just that someone. To his credit, the trade minister showed not even the slightest indication of resentment. Eléanor flashed him a terribly grateful look.

‘Pray follow me,’ she added softly to the prefect of state.

The splendid drawing room that they entered was high ceilinged and vast, with long slender casements that appeared to stretch on forever, and a huge marble fireplace that was decorated with ornate colonnades and entablatures. The lovely renaissance windows were surmounted by classical architraves, cornices and pediments, elaborately scrolled and ornamented with fanciful cartouches; whilst decorative carved pilasters tastefully adorned their sides.

Perhaps the most accurate description for the sense that the salon sought to convey would be that of extravagant, yet sophisticated, delicacy. Its furniture and ornaments stressed subtle, elongated shapes and rectilinear decorative forms, attempting to harmonise the discordant themes of classicism and romanticism. A sense of lightness was expressed with the use of fine, intricate mouldings in gilt bronze, rare carved woods and plaster relief. Furniture was mahogany-veneered, with gilded ornament and ormolu mounts, and frequently featured beautiful porcelain plaques or attractive marble tops. Chairs had elegantly curved, serpentine legs and settees had gracefully rolled, sloping arms. Luxurious satin upholstery appeared in exquisite pale blues, lilac and greens. A polished grand piano stood to one corner, whilst several cleverly positioned, gilded and carved candlestands with elegant cabriole legs leant a refined antique touch to the magnificent room.

‘Can I perhaps get you something to drink?’ asked Eléanor politely, when the two were finally alone together. The foreign minister produced a decanter of opium tincture and somewhat discreetly added it to a preparation of absinthe that she had already carefully diluted with water and ice.

Eléanor now seemed to hesitate for a moment, acutely aware that she was in the presence of her foreign counterpart. Impulse got the better of propriety, however, and Lady Sabëlinà finally removed a small, elaborately ornamented golden box, encrusted with precious jewels and adorned with a sardonyx cameo on its lid. The prefect of state had, after all, indicated that this should be informal. With perfectly dainty movements, the willowy noblewoman inhaled a tiny pinch of snuff, finely powdered and subtly scented with attar of jasmine. She even offered some to Túrelio with an awkward smile, ever the conscientious host.

‘Now, to the matter of our “concerns”, as you described them. Hm… how can I put this delicately? I suppose one might say that I’ve various… uncertainties with respect to the company that the Menelmacari Empire has been known to keep, from time to time,’ she explained vaguely, absentmindedly rubbing a temple with several slender fingers.

Túrelio examined the snuff for a minute, until he worked out what it was. It wasn’t that Menelmacar didn’t use drugs, it was that, as a rule, tobacco had never been all that popular, though he did know a few people who smoked pipes, simply for the eccentricity. But as it had never truly caught on in the way it had in most countries, the need to come up with a more subtle means of imbibing tobacco had never really presented itself.

So, it took him a moment to figure out quite what the snuff was, before he obligingly tried it. It gave him a strong urge to sneeze, which he repressed brutally, leaving only a slight twitch of reaction to appear on his face for a moment.

“I’ll be quick. And then I’ll explain why I’m being quick…

“I presume you refer to the irritating alliance with the ‘barbarians you do not want named,’” he was rather perceptive when he wanted to be, “for what it’s worth, they’re something of a failed project. We’ve cancelled that alliance recently…” he said, taking a device that looked like a gemstone set in a half-sphere of onyx with silver traceries around it, he set it on one of the tables, and took his hand back; it promptly produced a dozen high-xirniumite pages of ‘newspaper’ from different publications appeared in the air, displaying various comments on the abrogation of that alliance by the Allaneans, under provocation.

“We’re about done with them… Our predictive-planners suggest that there’s a ninety percent chance that we will need to use military forces to chastise their government within the next year… After that, and perhaps a little post-invasion tinkering, we should have solved all the remaining problems we have with them. Save possibly their continued existence…

“I felt it necessary to resolve this question initially because I don’t especially like the possibility of leaving it to fester as an unanswered question in the background during our stay. That would be most unpleasant, I think you’ll agree.”

‘Um… yes, yes I would certainly agree,’ replied Eléanor quickly, after a moment’s sceptical disbelief. The countess could not help but narrow her lovely, chestnut-coloured eyes suspiciously at the elvish prefect, and at the strange device which he had placed upon the table.

So it seemed that the Menelmacari alliance with Allanea had finally ended. This development was something of a bombshell to the countess, something entirely unexpected. Quite apart from anything else, though, the revelation succeeded in easing slightly the foreign minister’s private misgivings about these strange elves, of whom she had yet to decide whether they could be truly trusted.

Eléanor’s natural wariness gave way to the cruellest thrill of delight at the news. To the Xirniumite noblewoman, the Allaneans were little more than apish barbarians, base savages whom she considered stupid and uneducatable, untrustworthy and vile, boorish and cowardly. Indeed, they seemed a people completely undeserving of anything but the most extraordinary contempt. That they were taken seriously by anyone at all seemed to Eléanor a shocking injustice. A long overdue termination of the Allanean government’s servile alliance with the Noldorin Empire, a nation that the fools seemed so pathetically to venerate, might go some way to writing this great wrong. But now Túrelio was speaking also of invasion and violent regime change, which was something of a different matter entirely. Of course, reflected the countess thoughtfully, Allanea was no stranger to defeat and downfall; indeed, it experienced such calamities with remarkable regularity. Still, fresh destruction and misery in Allanea could surely not go amiss, at least not in the noblewoman’s personal opinion. Had Eléanor not callously toasted, at a private soirée last year, to the millions of Allanean civilian deaths incurred during their disastrous war with the Reich? There was no point in denying her prejudice; at least, not to herself.

The countess took a small sip from her laudanum and absinthe mixture, moving to sit down in a long-seated bergère armchair embellished with extremely delicate, decorative carving. Flawlessly combing comfort with elegance, the seat, back and armrests of the chair were lavishly upholstered in finely woven silk tapestry with intricate and elaborately colourful floral designs. Its serpentine back was bow-shaped, the legs elegantly curved.

‘Well, I am certainly glad that you informed me of this development, so that we might put it well out of the way,’ explained Countess Sabëlinà, crossing her legs at the ankle and fidgeting a bit in her seat to make herself quite comfortable. ‘I should rather prefer not to spend our short time together talking about the, the… individuals to whom you refer,’ continued Eléanor, preferring not to defile the pleasant atmosphere of the drawing room that they were in by uttering aloud the foul name of the aforementioned mean brutes.

‘Suffice it to say that your Government’s decision pleases me, as I suspect somewhat that you hoped it might. And yet I have always had every confidence that you would make the decision that you felt was right for Menelmacar, as of course naturally you should. In any case, you may consider my misgivings allayed.

‘Now, doubtless there are more productive matters that we might turn our discussion to, would you not say?’

The Menelmacari prefect seemed to have most of the answer he wanted, though of course there was no truly correct answer there. Instead he would have to make do with what he’d got, he allowed this ambivalence to show on his face, and measured his next words carefully, but not to hide or allay it, but to enhance the impression. “Perhaps,” he said, “but now that this is dealt with,” he said, reaching down to take the device from the table between his two middle fingers, before rolling it along them as though it were a trickster’s coin, and tossing it into the air a few inches. He didn’t look at it though, this dexterity – even to the point of catching it and letting it flip between his fingers, and drop silently into the pocket it had come from appeared to take no conscious effort at all on the elf’s part. Instead he continued, “I think we had perhaps best leave other matters until later? I wouldn’t like to keep the others waiting after all.”

‘An admirable sentiment, I’m inclined to agree,’ spoke Eléanor as she rose from her seat with queenly grace. Something about her manner seemed to imply a sudden coldness, but it was only very slight and its meaning impossible to divine.

The countess glided to the other side of the room and arranged her ringlets under her charming hat as she waited for the elf to open the door for her.

Glorfindel looked out of one of the many windows, savouring the natural light for a moment, breathing the perfumed air in deeply. He let his gaze, guided by slight foresight, drift to the left to see Túrelio and the Xirniumite countess enter the room, and smiled, watching a snowflake melt on the glass before him.

“Well,” he said, turning, silent footfalls resuming the pace, “Shall we continue?” he asked Lady Sabëlinà, “I am sure that there is much to see…”

Later that evening

Having accustomed himself to the cold outside, Faústien Vilvârin was almost overcome by the stifling heat that waited for him in the palace’s entrance hall. It was like stepping into a furnace, a blast of hot air rose to greet him, imbued with overpowering fragrances and traces of incense. Faústien recognised the subtly intoxicating narcotic perfume of angel’s trumpet, mandragora and deadly nightshade, it made his head swim and caused his temples to throb. Torpor-heavy scent wafted towards him from the massed bouquets that lined the walls of the hall, spilling out of their vases in profuse Baroque arrangements bound with purple velvet. The assault on his senses left Faústien slightly feverish, and took some time to get used to.

Outside the hall, a long, white, ornamental boat had moored itself to one of the scarlet posts along the lagoon-front of the perfumed palace, its rigging sparkling with many silk flags, its unfurled white sails motionless in the still air. A great number of nobles had debarked from it, extremely smart gentlemen in tails and white tie and elegant ladies in flounced gowns with trains, all chattering noisily amongst themselves or smoking cigarettes as they ambled gradually towards the entrance hall. The courtyard was bathed in brilliant gaslight, so that the statuary shone pale white and the faces of the nobles were given an eldritch pallor. Everything about the scene seemed strangely unreal and muted, even the snow was insubstantial, hanging in the air as though frozen in time, taking an age to settle upon the ground.

Old acquaintances greeted one another in the courtyard, exchanging kisses, their breath turned to steam. They speculated loudly upon whether they would get to see the elves, excited like little children come to see the animals at the zoo. Anyone who was anyone in Neúvenärta was now gathering in the halls, corridors and galleries of the palace, waiting in its courtyards, arriving late by pleasure craft or at the last moment in limousine. Most of the nobles felt they needed no invitation. They had invited themselves to the banquet and entered without challenge, notoriously difficult to keep out from such occasions. Others had been invited long in advance, such as the journalists of the major Xirniumite news sources, although they might also have claimed admittance by right.

Courtesans too found no difficulty in gaining entrance to the palace grounds, and looked very much at home in such extravagant surrounds. Those not with gentlemen prowled through the throng in circling, giggling groups of three or four, arms linked together and lips brought to ears as they quarrelled in loud whispers. Faústien watched one of the ladies as he waited in the hall. She was a cynical, clever creature, with lips want to be stubborn and a powdery paleness in her cheek. Her hair was long and bleached silvery-blonde, with a profuse tangle of artificial curls, she wore heavy eyeliner, drawn with a Chinese pencil and coming to a point in the outer corners of her eyes, her false eyelashes were enormous, thick with mascara and tremendously curved. Catching Faústien’s eye she waved at him with childlike innocence and he smile in reply.

‘Minister, there you are, I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,’ announced a voice from behind.

‘You’re late, Floriánne,’ grumbled the gentleman, turning to his secretary.

Floriánne hastened to offer an excuse but was cut off by her superior’s irritated interjection. ‘Well, did you at least pick up my new glasses?’

‘Oh! Yes, Minister!’ She fumbled around and thrust a leather case in his hand.

Faústien tried on the glasses, reflecting that the prescription seemed right, and put his older pair of glasses away. He checked his reflection in a mirror, hoping he looked elegant, adjusting his purple cravat.

‘There are certainly a lot of people here,’ Floriánne observed, casting her eyes over the multitude crowding into the hall.

Neúvenärta’s cultural milieu had descended upon the perfumed palace in droves, mingling with the governing elite and members of officialdom. Floriánne noticed men of letters and bluestockings, famous actors and dancers, speculators and merchants.

‘They’re all here to stare at the elves,’ Faústien explained.

Though not an official state banquet, as they were not entertaining a Head of State, dinner was an elaborate affair, held in an ornate ballroom that glittered red, white and gold. Hundreds of people were attending, seated down a vast, long table shaped as a rectangular “U”. The event began with speeches and then moved on to many toasts, to the Seigneuse and the Elentári, to the Ministry of the Eternal Republic, to the Motherland herself, to Parliament, to commerce, and to the press. The programme of music was eclectic, beginning with an Anfangärian march before moving to the overture, then on to a berceuse and an andante by Môrwen, before a grand selection of Xirniumite favourites, a valse, and then finally the Eldâliemba Vaudriennë fantasia for piano, chorus, and orchestra.

The meal itself exemplified Xirniumite excess. Guests were treated to a range of some twenty different first courses, a popular one of which was a savoury crayfish panna cotta with beluga caviare and a thin sorrel purée, twenty-eight main courses, including ptarmigan grouse breast baked in wild trumpet of death mushrooms with caramelised apples, mature white-veined truffles and poached onions, served in apple brandy sauce, and thirty desserts, such as lemon and yoghurt mousse with fresh blackberries, bramble marmalade and vanilla praline cream. It was a show of elegance rivalled only by the wine menu, a list full of Xirniumite vintages that Faústien personally thought could put to shame even the finest of legendary Dorwinion.

The next arrival of the elf delegation was, like most everything they did, calculated to impress. There had been some discussion about whether or not they should use a mode of transport in line with some of the more antiquarian local tastes, and eventually, they came up with a slightly gilded carriage, made primarily of dark Lebethron wood. It had actually been taken from a block of polymers with the air pumped out, that it had been sealed in long ago, so old was it. Nonetheless, despite having come from one of the older storerooms in the hills north of the Artaoron, where old government paraphernalia were kept, it looked almost completely new. A few straps and reins had needed replacement, but it had been a simple matter to look up the original maker (who now worked in academia, specialising in high energy physics) and have him instruct another craftsman on their replacement for maximum authenticity.

The half dozen fine, white mares that pulled it were taller than most horses, and their reins were made of black leather, designed to aid them in pulling, but with relatively little mind to controlling the horses.

The most unusual feature of the carriage, though, was that there was no seat for the driver, it didn’t have one. Instead, it was constructed with a forward section where one could stand, if so inclined, attached to a cleverly assembled ramp on one side, and a flight of stairs that could be, by virtue of clever hidden counterweights and locks, dropped or raised by a lever, on the other side. Because of this, there were no other obvious entrances and exits, instead, to board the wide carriage, one simply climbed the steps at the front right, and entered by the narrow, double glass doors at the centre of the standing area.

Under the seats, arranged in a horseshoe shape around an optional table, inside, were various baggage closets accessible from both inside and outside, and towards the front, these became supplies for horses, ranging from nosebags to feed. But none of these were visible from the outside, opening them was simply a matter of depressing the right panels in the right area, and letting them swing open.

To direct the carriage was simple enough, in most circumstances, passengers simply told the horses where they wanted to go. The horses of Menelmacar, then, as now, had been keenly intelligent animals, who could understand, especially in the right language and tone, most any directions.

Of course, here, these horses couldn’t be expected to know the way, and therefore they were led by a pair of mounted guards, Mornahossë in a somewhat unusual riding cut of their usual glossy black and matte white armour, their long sabres hanging from the saddles of their stallions – the elves had never really made geldings, because with a minimum of attention, even the least cooperative horses would behave – and long, faintly medieval shields on their arms. They also wore winged, Mithril helms, rather than their usual helmets.

Descending from the carriage, the four elves who had arrived earlier in the day smiled. On this occasion, the women were dressed in dresses that resembled the Xirniumite fashion in general terms, but left off the corsets – they were slender and poised enough anyway – the men were dressed in a similar style, Glorfindel in a black uniform with silver and white trim, and the five-diamonds insignia of his office, and Túrelio in a similar style suit, with a sword only marginally less elaborate than Glorfindel’s. On this occasion, the female elves had neglected such accessories in favour of blending with the local fashion, complete with high and elaborate hairstyles…


The matter of eating was one the elves were surprisingly enthusiastic – though not impolitely so – despite the cultured and refined nature of most of their tastes, they were of a culture that not-quite-venerated several boisterous demigods of hunting and physical endeavour, and even in Valinor, there was feasting. Such excess was, while infrequently practiced, considered a worthwhile endeavour at Menelmacari festivals.