trees.
That was the elven way. The Mother, Gaia, was the goddess of the natural world, and in everything they did they gave thanks to her. Even in their city planning.
It seemed to him that all the elves had a deep and abiding love of beauty. It showed in everything they did, but unfortunately not in everything they were.
The people weren’t terrible. Strange with their long colourful hair hanging down to their waists, and with their pointed ears poking out at all angles through it, but polite enough. For the most part they were civil, uncommonly civil, and after two long years in the city, some of them were even friendly. A few. But they were the low born of course. Not those of the great houses.
The high born were too formal for his liking. Too proud. And too important for him. Iros might be the son of a lord of a realm in his own right, but his home was a rough farming province on the borderlands, not the king’s court. Even if he hadn’t been an outsider he would have still been too minor a lord for them to spend time with. Those of the great houses seldom bothered to speak with him outside of his official capacity, and when they had to speak it seemed that they always looked down on him.
But still even they were usually polite, even if their precious high lord and most of his court seemed to regard him as little more than a barbarian dressed in finery. It was a common view. The elves were nice enough people, save for the fact that they considered outsiders as just a little lower than them.
They called human’s utra, an ancient word for savage. Trolls they named urdan or wild beasts. And the gnomes, well they were vesans or vermin. As for the dwarves, they had a hundred terms for them, each more horrid than the last. And sprites would always be sani, or traitors. A term that went back fifteen hundred years to the age of kings, when the sprites and the elves had separated. When the silver elves had left the rainbow elves as the bards would say.
Still when some of them slipped up and let their disdain for him and his people show through, Iros let it pass. There was no point in creating a stir. Not when he knew that their pox ridden high lord, who was nothing more than a spoilt child, had probably encouraged the view.
In sooth Finell was the only real problem he faced in Leafshade. And he knew that the other envoys to the city had similar issues with the high lord. And though none of them would speak of it openly, most of them came back to the one single problem. He was a brat.
The kid, and even though he was nineteen and supposedly of age he was truly a child, needed a damned good thrashing. He needed to be put over a knee and paddled firmly. Or failing that he needed to take some time away from the Heartwood Throne to do some growing up. Not that Iros would ever say that to him, or even about him. Not in public. His father had schooled him well in the art of diplomacy even before he’d been sent away to the academy, and the first rule was always to think before you opened your mouth. It was a rule that had served him well in his nearly two years in Leafshade.
Besides if Finell didn’t want him around, he didn’t want to be there either. He’d rather be back in his home, playing with his animals or riding through the lush fields of Greenlands hunting game. Or better yet, drinking in the public houses, carousing with the bards, throwing dice, wenching and even brawling as he had done as a young man. Those were his passions. Not sitting in a court, wearing all the uncomfortable finery gold could buy, bowing and scraping to one and all, and acting as the mouthpiece for the distant king. The Royal Chamber was his definition of the nine hells, or at least a few of them.
And yet the sun was out, high in the clear blue sky, the air was warm and scented with the smell of wild flowers as spring reclaimed the land, and the laughter of the children as they ran around was
That was the elven way. The Mother, Gaia, was the goddess of the natural world, and in everything they did they gave thanks to her. Even in their city planning.
It seemed to him that all the elves had a deep and abiding love of beauty. It showed in everything they did, but unfortunately not in everything they were.
The people weren’t terrible. Strange with their long colourful hair hanging down to their waists, and with their pointed ears poking out at all angles through it, but polite enough. For the most part they were civil, uncommonly civil, and after two long years in the city, some of them were even friendly. A few. But they were the low born of course. Not those of the great houses.
The high born were too formal for his liking. Too proud. And too important for him. Iros might be the son of a lord of a realm in his own right, but his home was a rough farming province on the borderlands, not the king’s court. Even if he hadn’t been an outsider he would have still been too minor a lord for them to spend time with. Those of the great houses seldom bothered to speak with him outside of his official capacity, and when they had to speak it seemed that they always looked down on him.
But still even they were usually polite, even if their precious high lord and most of his court seemed to regard him as little more than a barbarian dressed in finery. It was a common view. The elves were nice enough people, save for the fact that they considered outsiders as just a little lower than them.
They called human’s utra, an ancient word for savage. Trolls they named urdan or wild beasts. And the gnomes, well they were vesans or vermin. As for the dwarves, they had a hundred terms for them, each more horrid than the last. And sprites would always be sani, or traitors. A term that went back fifteen hundred years to the age of kings, when the sprites and the elves had separated. When the silver elves had left the rainbow elves as the bards would say.
Still when some of them slipped up and let their disdain for him and his people show through, Iros let it pass. There was no point in creating a stir. Not when he knew that their pox ridden high lord, who was nothing more than a spoilt child, had probably encouraged the view.
In sooth Finell was the only real problem he faced in Leafshade. And he knew that the other envoys to the city had similar issues with the high lord. And though none of them would speak of it openly, most of them came back to the one single problem. He was a brat.
The kid, and even though he was nineteen and supposedly of age he was truly a child, needed a damned good thrashing. He needed to be put over a knee and paddled firmly. Or failing that he needed to take some time away from the Heartwood Throne to do some growing up. Not that Iros would ever say that to him, or even about him. Not in public. His father had schooled him well in the art of diplomacy even before he’d been sent away to the academy, and the first rule was always to think before you opened your mouth. It was a rule that had served him well in his nearly two years in Leafshade.
Besides if Finell didn’t want him around, he didn’t want to be there either. He’d rather be back in his home, playing with his animals or riding through the lush fields of Greenlands hunting game. Or better yet, drinking in the public houses, carousing with the bards, throwing dice, wenching and even brawling as he had done as a young man. Those were his passions. Not sitting in a court, wearing all the uncomfortable finery gold could buy, bowing and scraping to one and all, and acting as the mouthpiece for the distant king. The Royal Chamber was his definition of the nine hells, or at least a few of them.
And yet the sun was out, high in the clear blue sky, the air was warm and scented with the smell of wild flowers as spring reclaimed the land, and the laughter of the children as they ran around was
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