In the terminal, several people are waiting for their flight or to meet travelers arriving with the Parsifal.
It is a fortunate thing indeed that the Königlich (Royal) Luftschwansa of Bayern station in Rome has relatively high ceilings, or the rail-thin figure standing before the window would be forced to hunch over to keep his headgear from brushing the ceiling. Even after subtracting a full foot from the expensive stovepipe hat, the figure stands almost eight feet tall. His clothing is understated, but of impeccable material and tailoring. An unusually small pile of baggage sits nearby, overseen by a valet and a footman.
Those who watch for any length of time (and many do) will notice that the figure spends most of his time simply gazing out the window in silent and almost motionless contemplation of the empty landing field. Employees of Royal Luftschwansa of Bayern tend to pass nearby in their orbits of the station rather more often than not, despite the fact that their offers of food and drink are almost always declined. On rare occasions, the figure will bend to speak in a low voice to his valet, or will turn to regard the room momentarily with yellow eyes which seem to glow with inner fire, and are black-slitted like a cat's. It can then be seen that the cravat of this Dragon Lord (for surely he can be nothing else), while as impeccable as the rest of his attire and perfectly knotted, is rather unfashionably plain, being of simple white silk. After sweeping the room with a casual gaze, and perhaps a nod or two, he returns his gaze to the landing field once again.
Apparently travelling alone, an Italian gentleman wearing a dark blue suit of fashionable cut waits comfortably on a chair in the general traffic of the station, sipping a glass of light wine suitable for the weather and delicate on the palate. His table has an excellent view of the field. Attentively eyeing the crowd, he plays a game guessing which are fellow travellers and which are awaiting the new arrivals.
Among the people milling about in the station, waiting the flight, one clearly stands out. She is a woman of almost unreal beauty, a delicately exquisite woman of Faerie origin who causes every eye to turn when she enters. She stands, waiting for the train, her clear, honeyed voice cutting through the noise of the crowd when she answers a question, though never does she raise her voice. The porters are remarkably attentive, offering drinks, snacks, and other simple amenities, each of which she graciously declines, with a smile that could melt ice. Although she is well-composed, an observant viewer might eventually notice that she seems ill at ease, even nervous.
Occasionally she glances at the tall draconic figure, her lovely face furrowed in thought, as she glances at a small object held tightly in one delicate hand. Finally, she seems to reach some decision, and walks purposefully towards the imposing Dragon Lord.
Reaching that worthy, she looks up to whisper something to him, clearly not meant for anyone else's ears. The tall form gazes down at the faerie maiden with a slight frown, but quickly doffs his hat. He turns briefly to the valet and nods, and that worthy moves forward to offer the woman a card.
Once she has had time to read it, he continues with a few words spoken in a low voice.
Behind them in the station, a young lady of medium build seems to float through the crowd watching for the airship. Her speed and ease of movement exasperates her porter, who struggles to keep up. Her eyes seem almost to match the forest green dress with cream colored lace. Keeping only a small bag on her arm, the darkly red-haired woman turns to wait for the porter. "Never mind me, sir," in lilting German, "just place my bags with the rest of the batch of luggage to be loaded. It's well marked." A charming smile accompanying her words makes the young porter seem to melt in his tracks. Though not a great beauty, the charm of Fiona Adelia Rohling make most people happy to be in her presence.
Espying the tall Dragon Lord and the Faerie Lady, she heads in their direction, trusting her direction to the porter will be followed. He sighs at her retreating back, then continues toward the travellers' stacked luggage with Fiona's overstuffed bags.
Moving towards the Dragon Lord and Faerie Lady with a smooth step despite the crowd, Fiona waits for an opportune moment to introduce herself.
The exquisitely beautiful Faerie woman is admiring the railings, her eyes drinking in their curlicues and engravings with the air of one who has never seen such wonders. Her pale fingers lightly trace the cool metal, following the contours of the design. She seems fascinated by the artistry put into a simple guard rail.
Upon noting the approach of the human woman, Constance looks up, her eyes sparkling. She watches her approach, taking in the forest color of her clothing, and nodly slightly in approval of such a wonderful color. When the woman gets close, Constance steps forward to meet her. She raises an eyebrow at the transformation in the young woman, but sensing no true Faerie charm at work, she relaxes. A fascinating thing, she thinks, this ability of humans to so nearly mimic the ways of true Faerie. So mercurial their moods, they are almost like us. She smiles at the woman, and nods her head in greeting.
Noticing the approving interest of the beautiful Faerie woman, Fiona blushes slightly and turns her attention toward her. She offers a graceful curtsy. "My lady, my name is Fiona Adelia Rohling. I would much enjoy your company on this trip, if it pleases you? And of course, the distinguished gentleman ...," throwing a belated but engaging smile (with dimples) at the Dragonlord. But eavesdropping is for cads and bounders. Consequently, The Dragon Lord has, by this time, moved politely out of earshot of the conversation, and is looking out the window once again. For this reason, he notices neither the smile nor the dimples.
Constance smiles charmingly at the lovely human woman, revealing perfectly white teeth. She nods to Fiona, and extends a hand to shake her. Her pale skin is as soft and delicate as a butterfly's kiss, as she gently shakes Fiona's hand. Then she glances towards the Dragonlord, smiles, and with an elegant flourish, produces a small card out of thin air, which she presents to the Lady. The card reads, in elegant flowing script:
"Human customs, must try and emulate human customs" she thinks to herself.
Fiona produces her own card from a small satchet bag at her waist. "Mistress Constance, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Your card is so lovely; I am almost embarrassed." Fiona's proffers her own card, which reads:
"A little bourgeois, I'm afraid, but then one must do what one can to get by. My mother is from Ireland, of a noble family. But alas, the English ..." a slightly harder edge enters her tone, "disinherited her of her property, so she fled to Bayern and married my father, a tradesman of Bayern. He is kind and wonderful, though. My family runs the shop - and I search out treasures to bring back." She waves her hand at the mound of luggage. "And what brings you on such a bold trip, if I may inquire?"
Constance takes the proferred card, and looks down at it intensely. She turns it over in her hand, running her fingers along the paper. "This card, it is made of trees, is it not? Is that the human way? Is my card not correct? I had thought that the more valuable the better. Hmmmm, your human ways are strange...."
Then she smiles, lighting her face, her deep eyes sparkling with hidden
mirth and joy. "I am on a great adventure, seeking a treasure beyond
any other, and I am most pleased and honored to make your acquaintance.
Tell me, are you at all familiar with the antigues and relics of the bygone
human place known as Rome? I have need of one who can tell me more
of an item I have found from that time, and I would be greatly in your
debt if you could help me."
As eight janissaries line up, a tall and lithe man in very oppulent Ottoman dress appears behind them, surveying the station with an apparent complete lack of interest. His rich tunic of red silk brocade is embellished with embroidery, and on his matching turban he wears a bright yellow feather held by a large emerald pin. With him is a shorter, much more discretely dressed attendant, as well as four porters strung behind. The janissaries are clearly bodyguards for the richly dressed traveler.
The attendant goes to the KLB counter and exchanges a few words with the personnel. After a moment, the conversation seems to become very animated, although the tone remains low so that the exchanges sounds like hissing cats. The attendant seems to become very angry; curtly, he turns away and walks back to his employer. His manner becomes once again subdued, although he is clearly still angry. He murmurs a few words near the rich Ottoman traveler's ear.
The latter slowly turns and scans the crowd; his face is the collor of burnished oaks, his beard is neatly trimmed and very black, and even from a distance, his eyes appears as two dark coals in his tanned face. His gaze comes to rest on the elongated silhouette of the Dragon lord, and his eyes narrow. He gives a small nod to his attendant, then looks away. The whispers in the room become more animated, as the interested onlookers speculate on the nature of the problem.
Constance watches the tall, elegant human with fascination. His clothing, his disdain for those around, and the pompous display of wealth and power remind her so much of what she has seen at the Seelie Court on the occasions she has attended Court. Her lovely features break into a bright smile, as she watches the wealthy human pretend that the rest of the world doesn't exist. Oh yes, she thinks, just like a Daoine Sidhe.
She watches his beleaguered aide attempt to gain some kind of concession from the personnel, and begins to make her way closer to the group. She is careful not to approach the janissaries too closely, but she makes her way around so that she is as near the elegant human as possible. Her brows furrow, as she becomes aware that the human looks very familiar. Certainly she has seen him before, she thinks. Or at least heard of him.
Turning at the disturbance, the Dragon Lord's head swivels until the golden eyes therein come to rest on the turbaned figure at the counter. At this, the astute observer will notice those same golden eyes narrow to slits, and the Dragon Lord stand quite still, watching the exchange at the counter. When the dark eyes of the human turn on him, he gives the briefest of nods, and once eye contact is broken he withdraws a card from his jacket, fiddle with it for a brief moment, then bend over to speak in a low voice to his valet before turning back to the window. The valet in turn hands the card to the footman with whispered instructions, and that worthy hurries forward towards the group at the terminal counter.
The Important Traveler's attendant watches sternly as Lord Swiftwing's footman approaches. The Important Traveler Himself is looking away in calculated indifference. When the footman gets near the watchful janissaries, the attendant steps forward, placing himself between his master and the footman. Without a word, he receives Lord Swiftwing's calling card, looks at it briefly, and pulls another, larger card from a cardholder. The cards looks almost square, perhaps thirteen by ten centimeters (five inches by four), and of very stiff material. Even relatively distant on-lookers can catch the glint of gold playing on the tracery decorating the card as the light reflects on it. The attendant turns the card over, scribbles a few words on the back, then hands it to the waiting footman much like one hands alms to the poor. Lord Swiftwing's footman bows, then walks away, bringing the card to the Dragon Lord, without looking at the message of course.
Reading the card, the Dragon Lord's eyes narrow once again, but a slight upward tugging at one side of the mouth indicates the possibility of amusement. After a moment he hands the card to his valet, who places it in a handy card holder, and speaks quietly to the footman, who hurries back across the room.
Once more, Lord Swiftwing's footman approaches The Important Traveler's entourage. Instead of delivering a note or a card, this time, he murmurs a few words to the man's aide, who nods stiffly and anwers in a low voice. The footman bows, then retreats to the Dragon Lord's side.
Meanwhile, the aide claps his hands, attracting a couple of waiters' attention. A table is promptly set up for The Important Traveler, with the janissaries taking position around him, at the Ottoman version of parade rest. The aide fusses over his master for a moment, making sure the waiters bring refreshments, finger food, cigars and newspapers. One of the janissaries seems to act as taster, verifying everything that will be brought to the master's lips.
When the imperious but laconic Presence seems to be comfortable, the aide bows deeply, then hurries towards Lord Swiftwing. Upon reaching the Dragon Lord, he bows again, although not quite as deeply, and starts talking in a low voice.
The vizier's aide bows to Lord Swiftwing in graceful yet showy fashion, with a whisper of stiff silk and a rustle of feathers. "May the rays of the Ever Munificient, Ever Watchful, lightYour Grace's path," he salutes. "This modest one is Abdelhassìb Zàhed, secretary to His Blinding Wisdom the Vizier Esrar Giray Sefik. I bring you His Wisdom's greetings, may his eyes always be bright. His Wisdom hopes you understand the difficulting the Bayernese have created. As a representative of His Most Sacred Exaltedness the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, Protector of the Faithful, His Wisdom needs to be suitably lodged. It is inappropriate that anyone be placed higher than the Protector's direct representative, unless it be a monarch. This is not for His Wisdom's vanity, you understand, for he has none. It is for the Glorious Name and dignity of the Protector."
The aide is a man of average human height, perhaps 1m75 (5'9" or so), and would have to crane his neck to look into the Dragon Lord's eyes - which he easily avoids by bowing his head with apparent deference as he speaks. His beard is curly, kept somewhat longer than his master's, and peppered with gray. His lavishly elegant Ottoman clothing is carefully tailored to draw attention away from a stomach somewhat thicker than perfection. Whereas The Important Traveler wears red brocade, gold tracery and yellow feathers, his aide keeps to sober but elegant silks in dark blue tones, embellished with silver trimming.
After listening to the man, Lord Swiftwing looks down upon the feathered turban with an expression which just MIGHT hold the barest hint of wry amusement. He answers a few words, still without raising his voice, which seem to throw the aide into a fit of sputtering. "I understand your difficulty, my good sir. Perhaps if, in the future, the secretary to His Blinding Wisdom the Vizier Esrar Giray Sefik were to reserve His Wisdom's quarters further in advance, such misunderstandings might be avoided."
Before the inevitable apoplectic fit that this response seems to evoke can come to full fruition, the tall Dragon Lord motions to his servants to care for the luggage and strides off to the ticket counter. Upon arrival, he addresses the ticket agent in apparently genial terms.
"Sir, it appears that a somewhat... difficult situation has arisen here, in that a representative of the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire appears to require accomodation aboard the Parsifal. While I am grateful to Koeniglich Luftschansa of Bayern for the hospitality it has offered it strikes me that as KLB is owned by King Ludwig himself, any perceived difficulty might reflect badly upon His Royal Highness, and consequently Bayern."
"Consequently, I wish to cede my complimentary accomodations within the Royal Suite. Furthermore, now that said accomodations are available, I wish to book passage in that suite for the Vizier Esrar Giray Sefik, who will be travelling as my guest. In addition, I shall require two additional first class cabins for myself and my servants respectively, and suitable accomodations for the remainder of the vizier's entourage. Finally, the vizier and his staff will eat at my expense during the journey to Sophia."
Watching the encounter surreptitously but with interest, Fiona glides several paces behind Lord Swiftwing, and waits until he comes to a stop at the ticket booth (and to listen to what he intends there) before stepping in, seemingly by chance, to introduce herself to him.
The vizier's aide trots behind the longer-legged Lord Swiftwing. Upon hearing the Dragon Lord's words to the KLB employee the aide starts sputtering. "This is completely unacceptable!" he exclaims, loud enough to be overheard by anyone paying attention. A bit lower, but in a hissing tone that carries a good distance, he continues: "His Wisdom's expenses are the Ottoman Empire's business. It would be inappropriate to..."
He is interrupted by a single handclap from the vizier, somberly regarding him from his table. At the sound, the aide freezes in place like a hare under a the gaze of a serpent. He bows deeply towards his master and steps back a few paces, clearly flustered. The vizier rises from his seat and moves toward the counter; when his janissaries start to follow, he raises two fingers and immediately six of the janissaries fall back to parade rest, while the last two follow their master.
Gliding with ease and confidence, the vizier reaches Lord Swiftwing. Despite their difference in height, the Ottoman manages to look poised as he addresses the Bavarian Dragon. "May the Ever-Benevolent smile upon Your Grace," he salutes mildly but audibly. His voice is low, cultured, and his accent in German is impeccable, if a trifle exotic. The rest of the conversation, however, is whispered between the vizier and the Dragon.
The vizier smiles thinly at Lord Swiftwing. "I'm afraid," he says gravely, "that my aide has taken the matter far more seriously than it deserves. I beg you to overlook his zeal, as it is well intended. I shall be perfectly comfortable in a First Class Stateroom, as I understand they are far more pleasant than the best train's accomodations. Please consider the matter closed."
The Dragon Lord swivels his head slowly, and momentarily transfix the secretary with a predatory glance that appears human only inasmuch as it uses humanoid facial features to convey its meaning, then return his attention to the vizier. Removing his hat, he bows graciously. "May the merciful and compassionate one grant you health, O Shaykh," he intones solemnly. Then, "If you will not accept my hospitality in this matter, oh wise one, then please accept my invitation to dine as my guest tonight aboard the Parsifal.
The vizier gives a small nod. "Until then, o Ancient One." He retreats back to his table, flanked by his janissaries, the aide following without a backward glance.