Subject: The doors to the chamber swung open...
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Posted on: 2017-07-20 20:08:00 UTC

And revealed a motley assemblage of mostly-humanoid people. Half a dozen in total, five gathered closely around a single slender shape in the centre of the formation. On the left, a wobblingly corpulent figure with a cheerful visage that looked like it would ideally have been wrapped around some sort of cake accompanied a gangly mantis of a woman whose green, furtive eyes and ploughed complexion would have looked every second of its age had it lived for seven centuries. On the right, a battle-scarred mercenary who looked like she'd only retired from combat when she'd run out of bits to have blasted off by pla'tool sorceries glared out from behind a round little dandy in a pea-green frock coat and powdered periwig, whose watery eyes nevertheless held the glimmer of intelligence. Finally, directly behind the central figure was a truly vast man, stripped to the waist save for an enormous red fur coat with beige trim, the better to show off his hugely muscled chest, his constellations of scars, and the strange, spiky growths that erupted from every square inch of his skin like the peaks of the Wattufs.

They marched in unison until the middle figure was in plain view of the rest of the council, and then she took one more pace forward. She - though it was somewhat hard to tell - was more straight-backed than she had been seen to be in some time, but the most marked change was in her mode of dress. Gone were the rags and lucky heather cuttings that marked her as a tatterdemalion; gone was the faded motley of a wandering jester and kingsfool. Instead, she was decked out in brightest white, the robes of Spelin's old, old priesthood having been dug out and cleaned until they shone (aided by only the merest application of chalk dust). Of the greatest note, however, were the elaborate apparels that decorated her sleeves and hood; panels of silken cloth depicting intricately-stitched scenes from the holy texts of Spelin Tam-Ara, from Plortish history, and of the oral histories of the Mords, which only recently had begun to be laid down in writing. It was the enormously thick apparel at her neck that was newest, and perhaps most controversial: it displayed the central fess of the flag of Diskord, with delicate lines of alternating silver-filigree and lapis set against the rich, dark grey broadcloth that was a favoured fabric among the Mords; it was also pinned in place, as was traditional for apparels of that nature, by the seven white stars that symbolized the Seven Tjan'ulls, or cardinal virtues of Mordly society. Noh Tyss, the duty of decree, of openness as a sacrament; Djen Tjan, the duty of dialogue over drawn swords, of peace over war; Rhuud Ez, the duty of remembrance, of telling and retelling the legends of the Faith; Nar Cal, the duty of games, of refining the mind and body through the abnegation of work for work's sake; Oth Urp, the duty of creativity, of gathering knowledge and making it one's own; Rhex Blucz, the duty of charity, of the sharing of sustenance both physical and intellectual; and Ops Tayrs, the duty of rule, of governance in the name of all and justice for every Diskordant. At her left hand was an elaborate maniple depicting the bearer's arms in blood reds and cloth-of-gold; in her right, and doing no small amount of service in holding her posture so upright, was the kind of crozier that might have once seen use as a means of hauling Marizu knights down from their horses, the better to pound their wretched carcasses into the mud, its elaborately curved head looking capable of sending a tooth-rattling blow through even the most thickly-padded helm. It seemed fairly martial for a priest, but then, the bearer was (however technically) a Knight of Plort, and well-known as a subordinate of the most relentless scourge of the Marizu to ascend to baronial rank in generations; this was proven by the apparel about her right cuff, which depicted that baron's yellow roses intertwined with what looked for all the world like agricultural implements.

The richly garbed figure looked upon the council, too-old greenish-hazel eyes boring into Baron Huinesoron's own, and said:

"By the grace of the most holy majesty of Spelin Tam-Ara, whose Well-Written Word dost make itself heard through me, I declare mine desire to be seated at this Council for to represent the will of your goddess. Praise Spelin!"

And the smile of Ye Scape-Grace shone bright as a yellow sun above Krypton.

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