@Marcus Aumont et al
The hearts of the Eirish folk boiled. Regardless how ruthless they could become, or how often wars errupted over the perpetually competing fiefdoms of Eirelunn, Harrul worked hard to distance himself from such sentimental behavior. He could see the virtue, and the protective tendancies the Eirish had over their kin and theirs, yet he knew well this was darker a thought than what those who could notice believed. Especially with the Ulfbitenn. Especially with Harrul, and his long deceased father, Sichfrith...
To Harrul's mind, the ability to embrace a cold behavior, suppressing the sentiment that usually sparked most conflict, was to be able to evaluate and strategize in ways that never truly applied in Eirelunn. Now, with the curse that had at this point spread greatly within his mortal kin, he had begun accepting the new state of affairs, looking for ways to use the advantages the Ulfbitenn now possessed... And oh, it did work. More than he even anticipated.
The harsh tone in which his kin spoke to the Vampire King was yet a reminder of the Eirish way. Something that had dawned in Sylvia ever since he could remember, as a mortal still. Her ascension, however painful to his conciousness, was a blessing to her. Unlike Harrul, Sylvia was quick to embrace the Night, and so dine by the Moon she now was so close to, while Harrul spent countless nights in Ulbbitham's darkest cellars; A self-inflicted punishment, by his weaknesss to accept his new form. He eventually grew to terms with it... And yet, in times like these, his mind went adrift, by the whispering sound of the Beast Within...
The Duchess' approach, fearlessly and, some might say, mindlessly, threatening the King, was something he would never had done so, to such direct level. A moment he nodded to his kin. A nod of approval. The Ulfbitenn, unlike most of the Bloodlines in the Night Court, were the ones who held their ties with their Mortal kin. A challenging balance to maintain, and yet, what made their House; Their Bloodline awhole, what it was. Marcus would do well to remember, the Isles Cabal would never bend to a foreign rule, regardless the benefit. That, would be a choice his willpower, even if forced, would never be enough to enforce it to his own. Especially not upon Sylvia, the one who had bled the most, for him, worse so, on occasion, by his very own blade, during the cursed years of the Secession.
It was now both Taillte and Sylvia making the point clear, and thus, allowing Harrul to approach in a much more civilized, to his eyes, way. Applying enough pressure was sufficient, but overdoing it could alter entirely the diplomatic standing between the two Pureblood in the Night Court.
As his gaze met with Sylvia's, a slow nod was offered in acknowledgement. Harrul, unlike Taillte, was in favour of formalities and protocols, something that usually conflicted with Sylvia's somewhat affectionate behavior. Deep within, he craved it. But there was no way that he would express himself in that way. He had, for the better or worse, the agoge of a royal; Growing up with all eyes upon him, and any failure becoming a mark he could never rid himself off of. Taillte, as horrifying as it could be, had the misfortune of being taken by the claws of Hildrabrenna, being returned a deraged, crazed person more than anything. Sylvia? Well... She was the luckiest of all, and thus the one to pay arguably the greatest of prices, when it came to the cursed war that marked the line of Adrius.
"Sylvia" he intoned. "Always a pleasure having you in such occasions." His gloved arm fell, resting upon the pommel of the sword sheathed by the belt. "The Sparnish have a tendancy not having iron in places other than the battlefield, I hear..." his cold voice wet by the slight glimpse of irony. "I'd feel naked without the Iron Lady nearby..."
In Eirelunn, indeed, it was a formality not to bare arms in events, such as feasts and gatherings, save for those household guards who guaranteed the flow of the evening. Alas, the sword, should it bore the mark of one's own house, or order, was not considered a weapon, but a mark of honour, rendering requests for disarmement insulting. That being the case, violence in feasts was rather often in Eirelunn... And, with swords at hand, and drink in their bellies, nobles were sometimes quick to drop the act of nobility, for a good old brawl...
His mouth openned, then, perhaps to speak of Vestvinfol... Maybe to address their plans in Sparnia...? None would ever know, with Harrul himself casting any thought he could have had from memory, upon seeing the, although in slight anticipation, unexpected gesture of Sylvia, outright -picking- the, comparably tinny, Taillte at hand and then lifting her enough for her to sit on Sylvia's shoulders.
Oh, the horror!!
"Weeeeeee!" Taillte bursted laughing, arguably out of her own crazed mind, exploding by the sudden spike of andrenaline, or by the influence of the drink she had, still half-emptied, unspilled, in her pale hands, now both razed up in cheering, as she danced to the sound of the music by the troubadours.
There was silence. Harrul turned his black eyes to Marcus, trying to remain cold, not to indicate his personal discomfort of the events unfolding... Unfortunatelly, for Harrul, Taillte had no intention of changing the new state of affairs, stretching her seemingly weightless body, held by apparently no effort by Sylvia, all the way back to grasp two glasses by a nearby servitour's disk, before equally acrobatically return to her straight posture, offering the drink to her beloved Sylvia.
"We should do this more often!" she jested, before drinking, casting her other, emptied goblet away, only for Harrul to "accidentally enough" be at its way, grasping it with a simple timed motion of his hand, before offering it to a passing servitour's disk.
"Right..." he muttered to himself.
