It appeared to be another routine social gathering, one that has become monotonous and drowned in the context of a Cold War conflict darkly looming over the lands, in particular the Caelum Dynasty. Every year, the higher-ups would put forth the futile effort to assemble all of the kingdoms of the world (or key players, so to speak) and discuss the most reluctant topic that would surely bring about the greatest uneasiness:
The peace treaty over the possession of the last crystal.
Centuries ago, the crystals were prevalent in the world, purposed to serving human kind to their benefit. However, as corruption was ignited within the deepest recesses of the human nature, crystals declined. They were lost in warfare or destroyed, overtime the fall of such powerful valuables increased exponentially until there would be only one left. That very last crystal was housed under Caelum’s rule, and consequentially, the neighboring nations keenly watches the advanced kingdom’s every move, envy very much evident in their power-lusting eyes.
Despite the tension, everyone was truly frightened of a cataclysmic war that threatened to tip the world out of balance, which is why everyone calls for the peace treaty, desperately clinging to some amount of equilibrium. That is what dubbed the era as Cold War. Attempts at resolving the conflict was there, but so did the tension linger as a backdrop.
All honesty, it began to grow tiresome for the Caelum heir. Blue irises surveyed the social gathering with an impassive look, a low hum emanated from his throat wearily. Every year was the same. Every word exchanged, every promise proclaimed, he has heard it all before. But they would prove to be empty actions. Dark thoughts plagued the prince’s mind—many a times has disappointments chipped at his heart and begotten a refine sense of cynicism. Perhaps.
The prince turned away from the translucent windows above him, the view of the night sky contributed to the illumination of the ball room. Countless stars, countless possibilities, and yet, he still felt trapped.
Quickly did his train of thought break, however, when he heard a commotion arising just a few meters from his position. Turning over his shoulder with perplexity engrossed on pallid features, dark brows arched up as a rambunctious woman raved madly towards some of his imperials. The same woman was being escorted out, only to be replaced by what appeared to be a male companion of hers. Even with the fiery woman gone, the conversation between the man and his officials did not seem to let up anytime soon.
And hearing his title definitely cued for the prince to take action. He sighed, but admittedly, this does not happen too often. Or perhaps, not at all.
“Ah, your Highness! Thank Etro you’re here!” the gentlemen, who was actually a man from another nation known as Tenebrae, placed an arm around Noctis’s shoulders, leading him into the conversation and shooting a deadly glare at the stranger. “You do best in executing proper punishment for this man and her dirty female friend.”
“Tell me what happened first,” Noctis said firmly, eyes hard upon the two parties. But he really did not care whatever wrong has been done. His solution regardless of what he would be informed is to end it with his say, his command. Nothing more out of this—it was easier that way, for him at least.
“—Your name, stranger?” Noctis inquired, placing a hand on his hip subconsciously. “I do not think I’ve ever seen any person like you before.”
The man before him gives off an air that is nothing akin to that of the Count, the pompous, prideful aura that surrounded his boss was absent from the scene and it's really only from the title those around him are whispering that he realizes he's standing before a prince. Still, that doesn't make him any less noble and polite or not, Yurick has experience his fair share of being stepped on by those of higher-blood, putting no faith in the raven haired male merely because of a humble tone.
"Yurick." He answers, apprehension to his tone that the mage does not attempt to mask, "I'm not from around here." To put it simply, at least. There's no need to elaborate past that and he can still see the man behind the prince giving a rather dirty look in his direction. Scum, dirt beneath his boot--that's how Yurick is seen, no doubt, by the nobles here and it's with great strength that he bites his tongue.
Dagran would have his head if he ruined their chances of becoming knights.
"There was a small dispute; my friend doesn't particularly enjoy being referred to as a whore, and that man seemed to believe it was a proper term." There's obvious disdain when he speaks, tone sharp, cutting. It isn't as though this is rare in any terms, but that doesn't mean the sorcerer finds it acceptable. One day, perhaps, they'll be done with the slurs and judgement, but not here, not now.
Perhaps that's something only found in Heaven, and he sure won't be going there with the blood on his hands. "If it's that much of a disruption we're happy to leave. Wouldn't want to soil the mood, of course." Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mirania talking to Syrenne, attempting to get the woman to calm down with hushed reassurances and it's a comfort to know that at least the huntress is being kept from unleashing her fury upon the crowd.
Out of all of them, Syrenne is the only one who continues to act out when people treat her badly, as though she expects some sort of different outcome, different gaze, if she beats their heads to a pulp.
Well, a lifeless gaze is certainly different; he'll give her that much.
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