Fortunately for Louis, it was the Sylvanaar that entered next.

Though not the first time Whitecomb had seen a Sylvanaar, it was the first time he had seen Queen Iolantha and Highlord Vadrian Zilzana. Both had the pale grey skin of their kin, with slanted, almond shaped brown eyes and hair. Iolantha kept her long tresses loose to where they cascaded down her back in thick, wavy locks, and her husband wore his cut around his shoulders with a few braided strands woven into it. Crowns crafted of green, yellow and red aspen leaves and branches sat upon their heads.

In Louis's mind, they were stereotypically woodland.

He was amazed by how silently and gracefully the elves moved. It was hypnotizing almost; it was as if they were weightless beings passing over the floor. Their footsteps hardly ever made a sound, and contrasted greatly to the dwarves' rambunctious entrance.

He smiled broadly at them and ever so slightly bowed his head. His anxiety was slowly decreasing, and he was able to finally stop wringing his hands. "Queen Iolantha and Highlord Vadrian Zilzana. It is an honor to finally meet the both of you at last. I hope you've found our city quite hospitable?"

"The pleasure is o-ours, Lord Whitecomb," Vadrian returned. His dark eyes seemed to constantly shake, and his slender fingers seemed unable to remain still. His voice was velvety soft. "Rosepoint is a very l-lovely city." Then, seemingly remembering his manners, he swiftly bowed his head in respect.

Whitecomb couldn't help but grin. Not because he found Vadrian's awkwardness amusing, but because he was grateful that he wasn't the only one. "I-"

"My husband and I wish to be home soon, however," Iolantha said quietly, casting a quick glance at Vadrian. "Unfortunately, we too have felt whatever ominous feeling Amnestria spoke of in her letter, otherwise we would not have come."

Louis nodded in understanding. "I understand, my lady. Believe me, I too have felt this premonition. I am very glad that the Sylvanaar could make it." He bowed again.

Vadrian smiled at the King. "Y-you're much better a man t-than what I had expected, Whitecomb. That's good." With that, him and the others began walking towards their seats.

"They both look exactly alike," Ragnus grumbled to Isendir from where they sat. "I'm willing to bet my beard that they're actually siblings."

Isendir let out a long, exasperated sigh as he angrily crossed his arms. He cast the dwarf a furious sideways glance.

"I think it would be wise for you to keep your mouth shut during this, dwarf," Varenyl said quietly, eyeing Ragnus with sleep deprived blue eyes. "I heard about what happened last night. It's no wonder he's been so short tempered with you this morning."

Ragnus rolled his eyes. "Always looking for someone to blame, even when nobody is at fault. The lad felt he needed to leave, and thus he did. It was his decision." He stroked his neatly combed beard, his eyes narrowed and bushy eyebrows lowered. He watched as the Eastern Fae walked in. He saw a familiar mage with bright red hair and glasses walking beside a very beautiful woman in the front.

He also noticed with some amusement that Whitcomb's smile faltered.

"If something happens to him, Ragnus, I can never forgive myself," Isendir muttered. "I can't go through a child's death again."

Varenyl glanced over at him, then promptly returned to anxiously picking at his nails. "He's a Sylvanaar, Isendir. Those elves are known for their survival skills. Do not worry about him. We'll be seeing him again."

"Yes, but alive or dead?" Isendir mumbled harshly to himself. He watched with little joy as Whitecomb discovered he had to strain his neck when speaking to the fae, specifically Lorthrendel.

The three fell into hushed, somewhat angry silence. Varenyl continued to gaze at the floor, his unkempt blond hair falling into his eyes. He dreaded the ones who were due to enter next. He couldn't face his kinsmen again. Not after what he did. He was only at the Council in the first place because he felt he needed to hear what was going to be said. Otherwise, he would not have come. He had been unable to sleep at all the previous night. Unspeakable horrors flashed before his eyes everytime the tired elf began to fall underneath sleep's dark waves.

Sleep was beginning to seem like an unattainable luxury to him.

Eventually the Eastern Fae finished their brief introduction with the King and walked over to their seats. Whitecomb was glad to see them go. He didn't at all like how they had been looking at him; he had seen men gaze at bugs the exact same way. He straightened his coat and picked at his sleeves as he waited for the Sylvari. He let out a deep breath.

He gazed at the door in silence, growing impatient as he suddenly realized that he had been waiting for that door to open for quite some time. A part of him began to worry that something had happened to the High King, but he pushed that thought to the back of his mind when him and the other Sylvari abruptly walked in.

It was like watching a corpse move. Thin, wispy iron grey hair fell around the High King's head. Wrinkles kinked up around his dull, almost white blue eyes and thin lips. He was so frail and slender it was a wonder that a puff of wind didn't blow him away. Two white robed guards helped him walk.

The old man gently pushed the younger elfs' hands away. "I can stand on my own," he told them, somewhat exasperated. He shook his head as he turned to Whitecomb. His thin lips parted in a kind smile. "Ah! King Louis Whitecomb! It is honor." He bowed his head and offered the King his hand.

Whitecombed grinned as he gently shook Sebastien's skeletal hand. He grimly noticed the guards behind the King coldly eyeing him. "I am extremely happy to see you here, High King Sebastien," Whitecomb said. "I was worried the trip down here would be very hard for you."

Sebastien chuckled. Despite everything that had happened to him, he seemed genuinely happy. "I'm five hundred years old, Louis. At my age, everything is hard for me." He patted Whitecomb on his shoulder. "Enjoy your youth while you can."

"With all due respect sir, I think I'll do good enough just to reach seventy five," Whitecomb joked.

Sebastien laughed again and slightly shook his head. He began walking towards his seat, causing his guards to quickly make sure that he wouldn't trip on the air and fall.

After the Sylvari were all seated, Whitecombed cleared his throat and looked around the room, forcing himself to remain calm. He was terrible at addressing a wide audience, and, to put it frankly, terrified of it.

"Esteemed rulers of Almora...welcome to The Almoran Council." He spread his hands wide. "I hoped to never attend one of these in my lifetime, but that's just my luck." He smiled. "I'm sure Falkscis the Great hoped to never be eaten by a dragon in his lifetime as well, but we all know how that turned out, now don't we?"

A few chuckles resounded from the room. Even Isendir smiled smally at the King's comment.

Whitecomb looked over at Amnestria. "My Lady Wintermourn. I leave the floor to you." He walked back to his seat in front of the Crownguard and sat gratefully down, immediately resting his head on his hand and letting out that breath he had been holding in.

Isendir shifted in his seat. He glanced over at Varenyl. The elf still had his head lowered, picking incessantly at his nails.

"Thank you, Lord Whitecomb." Amnestria stood up to better project her voice. "Not long ago, I sent you all a letter, summoning you here to the capital of Dalyntarth. I wish to first apologize for the short notice, and the vagueness of my letter. But I did not really know how to explain it." She clasped her slender hands together, her violet eyed gaze going over everyone in the room. "Clerics all over have lost their powers, their clerical abilities seemingly stripped from them overnight. The gods are silent in the heavens, their presence noticeably absent. And now, something from children's nightmares has entered our world." She briefly turned to the Sylvari before continuing, her eyes filled with sympathy. "Lyrenbel, the grand capital of Sheeth Dorei, has been utterly and completely destroyed."

At this, Varenyl ever so slightly looked up, his eyes dark. Then, with a small shake of his head, he quickly looked back down.

A few gasps erupted from the Sylvanaar at this. Iolantha's eyes widened in horror. "What? How?"

"Perhaps the High King should be the one to explain the events," Amnestria said with a nod towards Sebastien. "If he is comfortable with it."

"You're very kind, my dear." The old elf smiled at her, the wrinkles kinking up around his slanted eyes. His smile slowly faded. "I think we're all still in shock of what happened. We fell asleep that night, completely unaware of what horror we would awake to." He shook his head, his gaze downcast. "It was...the screaming that awoke me from my slumber. It was terrible. Screams of pure agony and terror, sounds that no mortal should ever be forced to make. The guards immediately rushed me out of my chambers. The palace was being ravaged by bright red flames, flames hot enough to melt marble and stone.

"I heard...a dragon's Banshee Call." Sebastien's brows wrinkled. "I felt panic try to overtake my body. It was stronger than any Call I had ever heard from a dragon. We went through the underground tunnels to escape, but I saw everything from a window." He stopped talking for a moment, remembering the horror. Every gaze in the room was glued on him. Then, with a small sigh, the High King continued, "This...monstrous, unworldly black dragon with glowing eyes of crimson flew above the city, its body and wings so massive that it blocked out the light of the moon and stars. There were these...creatures, who walked upright like a man, but had the complete anatomy of a dragon."

"They were slaughtering any man they came across," one Sylvari soldier commented softly from behind the High King. "And for the women and children...."

"They tied them to stakes in the center of town," another finished quietly. A single tear slid down his cheek. "And let the dragon breath out her red fire on them all. In the end, all that remained of them was ash. Our families, gone with our city."

"Hmm." The High King lowered his head in grief. "There were few survivors."

The audience fell into stunned silence. Iolantha had her hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. Even Lorthrendel seemed horrified by what he had heard.

It was the dwarves that eventually broke the silence.

"But where did this dragon and these dragonmen come from?" Drenmyr questioned, his brows furrowed. "And where did they go?"

"We know not." The High King shrugged his thin shoulders. "We saw no more of these dragonmen after that, or the dragon. One of our own even went out to search for it shortly after...."

Varenyl's heart skipped a beat at those words. He kept his head lowered, praying to the absent gods that they wouldn't recognize him.

"It couldn't just vanish," Whitecomb said shortly. He paused. "Could it?"

"With all due respect sir, I think I may help with that answer," Omar quietly interjected. He glanced over at Isendir, who, catching on to what his friend was going to say, gave the knight a stern, "don't you dare" look.

Whitecomb looked at the knight from over his shoulder. "Truly?"

"My friend was at Iksyn City when it was destroyed, just a few days ago, supposedly by the same dragon that was at Lyrenbel. Isendir Shatterstorm." He gestured towards him in the witness section.

In a short second, Isendir found that all the rulers of the entire Almoran Continent had their gazes on him, and were expecting an answer.

***🐉***
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