The Holy Titious Empire - HeartImperium - City of Titoñn - Year 23,478 AC - Month 24th 07.
Risen fifty years before, the estate stands a tranquil oasis amidst the bustling capital city, it's isolated location a deliberate choice to ensure seclusion and exclusivity. It's architecture is a masterful blend of elegance and refinement.
It's facade is a symphony of stone and glass, with intricately carved balustrades and ornate details that seems to dance across the walls. The roof is a deep, burnished slate, it's steeply pitched peaks evoking the grandeur of a bygone era.
The pluran liege approaches, the sound of gravel crunching beneath the circling wheels of his carriage gives way to the soft rustle of leaves and the gentle burble of a nearby fountain. The estate's meticulously manicured gardens seems to stretch on forever, with perfectly trimmed hedges, vibrant flowerbeds, and the stately presence of ancient trees.
The carriage at last stops as pluran knights open the doors for their lord. A tall lady approaches, her statuesque figure radiating confidence and poise. Her golden blonde hair cascades down her back in soft, luscious waves, framing a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones and a determined jawline. Her green eyes sparkles like emeralds, shining brightly with a hint of mischief and intelligence.
She wears a gown of pale blue silk, it's delicate folds draping elegantly across her curves, accentuating her slender waist and shapely figure. The gown is embroidered with intricate silver thread, catching the light as she moves, and a delicate silver circlet rests on her brow, adding a touch of regality to her already noble bearing.
By her side stands two knights, their imposing figures speaks volumes to their skill and loyalty. They are clad in the prince's livery, their armour polished and gleaming, with the bident sigil of the prince they served. Their eyes watch the surroundings with a mixture of protection and admiration for their charge. The lady's smile seems to light up the space around her, and her laughter is like music, warm and infectious. As she moves, her very presence seems to command attention, and her escort of knights only adds to her aura of dignity and importance. Despite her youth, she carries herself with a sense of authority and purpose, as if she knew her own worth and was not afraid to assert it. Her green eyes sparkles with intelligence and curiosity, hinting at a sharp mind and a quick wit, and her smile could charm the hearts of those around her.
"My lord" she bows curtly, raising a tip from each side of her gown.
"My Princess" Lord Dorran and his retinue of six knights goes on one knee.
"Please, rise. Come, the meeting has already begun" She points out.
"I apologise for my tardiness"
The princess chuckles.
"Please, I'm late myself, all these talks of war bore me. But my uncle insists I attend as long as I reside here".
They begin walking as she takes his left arm between her right.
"So, is the ice raiders truly dealt with?" She asks.
"N-not in it's totality, no. But they've taken a blow I doubt they can ever recover from. But all these will be said and settled at the meet".
"And what of this... Prince?.
"Your grace, How—"
"I am my uncle's ward..." she cuts him off "...little happens in this estate I'm not aware of"
"I see" he says sparingly. "He is Prince Deltmire Evarlar, the eldest son of king Varrick II of Vor'ros and he is heir to the Griffin's Throne. Such a... Match isn't beneath you princess, I wouldn't have brought it to the prince if I thought it was".
"Of course, I don't doubt your judgement. I was just curious is all, but I'm sure I'll hear all about it... Soon. Let us make haste, I'm sure they've already gone quite a distance without us".
They proceed in silence deeper into the estate following a well laid road of cubblestone built across the the Hardwarmgardens. As they go on, sounds of clashing steel and the murmur of voices carries on the wind. Their surrounding grounds are now a mix of manicured gardens and rugged training grounds, dozens of men come into view.
In the distance, shirtless and half naked or half armoured men walk about and run drills. At the extreme end of the training grounds, a tall figure stands alone, his broad shoulders squared and his piercing green eyes scanning the circle of ten men who advance toward him with snarls and raised fists. His blonde hair, tousling in the wind, shimmering like spun gold, framing a face that is handsome yet cruel—etched with hard lines that speaks of a merciless spirit.
The men are rough fighters, hardened by years of skirmishes and brawls, but none bears the aura of lethal precision that this lone warrior exudes. His gaze is cold, unyielding, as his lips curl into a faint smile as the first man lunges.
Without hesitation, the tall man shifts his weight, his movements fluid and swift despite his size. His first strike is a brutal uppercut that snaps the first attacker's head back, sending him sprawling to the ground, dazed and defeated. The others hesitate, momentarily stunned by the ease with which their comrade fell. But hesitation is a luxury they can not afford. They steel themselves and surge forward together, fists and feet flying in a chaotic storm. The warrior meets them with a ruthless efficiency, his hands and feet striking with the force of a hammer. A savage backhand sends one man crashing into a bush, while a powerful knee to another's ribs elicit a grunt of agony.
His green eyes are ablaze with a cruel fire as he dance through the melee, each movement calculated and merciless. He twists and ducks beneath wild swings, countering with precise blows that shatter bone and calls cries. His face remains hard, unrelenting—a mask of cold fury that unnerves even the most ferocious of his foes.
One by one, the ten men fall. Some lay unconscious, sprawled across the yard; others groan in pain, clutching broken limbs or bloodied faces. The tall warrior stands amidst them, breathing steadily, his chest rising and falling like a tide. His blonde hair clings to his sweat-slicked forehead, and his green eyes glints with the satisfaction of dominance. He turns to the direction of the princess, glaring.
The pluran knights in awe, mutter one word
"Ashlord"
"Pay no mind to my cousin, he's a beast" she says with irritation in her voice.
After several minutes of walking, they arrive at the Grey Manor, home to the Vaggotprince.
The Manor is built with light-grey stones. It's surroundings are nothing but cubblestoned roads connecting paths across the estate and flush green grass cut short. Nature has a great hold here, more so than the rest of the estate. The only noise are the singing of birds, blowing of wind, and the trickle of a fountain carved in the shape of an enormous bident, without it's rod. It's made in such genius that water sprays out from atop it, cutting the image of some sort of blast being released. Beyond it, are stone stairs that lead to a heavy wooden door of the prince's manor, it looms tall and unadorned, it's dark oak panels weathered by time yet solid as the stone walls that flanks them.
The entrance is framed by cold grey granite pillars, carved with simple, severe lines—no ornate flourishes or gilded embellishments marred it's austere dignity. The pluran knights knowing they cannot proceed any further break off, so does the princess' own.
A heavy iron knocker, shaped like a clenched fist, hangs at the center of the door before them, it's cold metal worn smooth by countless summons.
Within, the austere beauty of the interior is a surprise. The walls are adorned with trophies of the prince's many battles: swords, shields, and banners that tells the story of a lifetime spent in the service of honour and duty. The furnishings are sturdy and practical, reflecting the prince's preference for function over form.
The great hall is a cavernous space, it's high ceiling lost in darkness, with a massive stone fireplace at it's center. The walls are lined with suits of armor, their polished surfaces glinting in the light.