Eberron - Scarred Elf Campaign
Gaius - 20 Olarune, 998 YK
The next day was the Day of Mourning. As Gaius awoke the Ring of Syberis was beginning to fade in the lightening sky. Most of Eberron’s moons had set, but five were nearly full and sit low on the western horizon: gray Therendor; blue Rhaan, bright and tiny; lavender Dravago; white and black Lharvion, looking like a slitted eye: and of course orange Olarune, with its fringe that looks like a shield rim, appearing at it’s largest during the month that bore its name.
They ate an unfamiliar breakfast of creamy spiced rice and made themselves as presentable as possible. For Gaius that meant a military turnout in polished boots and armour which (Mika thought) was rather spoiled by slinging a utilitarian crossbow over his back; for Rune it means a polished body. For Mika it means a bath and a lot of primping, donning a gown borrowed for the occasion, and concealing the various rods, wands, vials, pouches and powders that an artificer feels naked without. She left her morningstar and crossbow behind and settled for a dagger.
Another skycoach ride and they arrived in the wealthy residential district of Platinate. The townhomes were large and well kept and clearly displayed the wealth of the occupants. There were many private guards, and servants bustled about on errands for their masters. The Lord Major appeared to be doing well for himself.
Following the instructions in the invitation they find the location of the ceremony, which appeared to be a rooftop patio accessible from the street. As they were entering they passed the Lord Major. He greeted them enthusiastically, and thanked them again profusely but advised them that, regrettably, urgent business has called him away and hoped that they would enjoy the service nonetheless. Shortly afterward, a servant drew them aside and slipped them a purse of gold coins, “as a token of the Lord Major’s appreciation of your rescue of him, and for the good work Mika is doing in New Cyre.”
It was a sunny morning, unseasonably so for southern Breland, and the guests – from their dress displaced Cyran nobility and elderly military brass – stood around a fountain as an elderly gentleman droned on about remembrance.