Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-24685738-20170605191359/@comment-24685738-20170606174817

The Wedding was set to take place in the Chapel of the Nine, the great temple built by the Emperor Baleon nearly sixty-six years before, to replace the Chapel of the One, which was lost during the destruction of the Imperial City at the start of the Fifth Era.

Staring at that great beast of a temple, Princess Rhaela Morgan, first of her name, felt a shiver run down her spine. She couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason for it, but it might have been the disgust and horror she felt at the whole concept of this wedding. The thought of her sister being forced to marry… to marry…

“You look lovely, sister.” A voice purred in her ear.

Him.

Rhaela whipped around, pushing herself away from her older brother. Her brother, Prince Aerion the Bright-although she preferred to call him “The Monstrous”-looked like a god himself, in his pure white garb. He wore white scaled armor on his torso, with the emblem of his house clasping a pure white cape to his shoulders. The only thing not white about his ensemble was the crown that was perched in his platinum hair, a black thing that appeared to have a dragon’s neck rearing out of it. His bright purple eyes stared into her own, and she instinctively looked away. Although he wasn’t much taller than she was and he appeared quite thin, she knew that his kind face hid an evil greater than she had seen before.

“What do you want, Aerion?” She demanded. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for your wedding?”

“Oh, sweet sister.” He whispered, raising his hand to cup her chin, tightening his grip to hold her in place when she tried to move away. “I came to give you good news…”

Rhaela waited, not feeling confident enough that her voice wouldn’t waver if she tried to speak. Luckily, Aerion continued, before she could display how terrified she was of him. “Father says that if all goes well with my marriage, he will wed you to Arik. You would like that, wouldn’t you? Helping your family secure its line, after you tore our family apart?” He laughed. “Tore our mother apart, really...

Rhaela’s eyes opened wide at the thought, bile rising in her throat. “No… No, he wouldn’t…”

“Oh, sweet sister.” Aerion whispered, moving closer to her face so that Rhaela could smell the scent of sour grapes on his breath, indicating that he had been drinking his fill of wine. His free hand trailed its way down to her hip, brushing it gently. “Perhaps, if something were to happen to our dear brother… Father would give you to me…”

Rhaela shoved him away, knowing that doing so would invite retribution later, but she could not stand the feel of his touch anymore. She heard his crown clatter against the ground as she lifted her dress, giving her the room she needed to charge down the hall, sprinting away from her brother.

As she ran down the halls of the Imperial Palace, passing statues, portraits, and servants, she heard the sound of footsteps running behind her. When Rhaela felt the hand on her shoulder, turning her around, she instantly lunged out with her fist, taking her assailant in the gut.

“What the fuck, Rhae?” The man wheezed, doubling over.

“Sorry, Arik.” She murmured, whispering a sigh of relief as she helped her favorite brother to his feet. His blue-black eyes stared at her own, searching for what could be troubling her, his platinum hair shining in the light of the torches.

“I have… I have terrible news, Arik.” She murmured, standing on her tiptoes to whisper into his ear what she had learned from Aerion. Based on the look of shock that registered across his features, he too thought that they had to do something. Anything.

The Temple of the Nine was built like a decagon, with one side holding large double-doors, embellished with the dragon that had been the symbol of every dynasty since the Alessians.

The other nine sides served as temples all their own, with massive, thirty foot statues of each of the Nine Divines standing in their own alcove, with altars before them for their worshippers. Each of the statues were made of pure white marble, and behind them were massive, stained glass windows depicting events in their mythology. Akatosh’ statue, depicting a man with a dragon curled around his feet, stood opposite the doors, with Mara on one side and Dibella on the other. Mara appeared as a stout, matronly woman, her arms outspread in a gesture of peace, while Dibella was a beautiful lady, bare from the waist up, her long, thick hair curling around her waist. It was under the eyes of these three gods that most weddings took place, although none were so grand as the one that was taking place right now.

The other six sides of the Temple had been set up with stands bearing chairs, so that the invited noblemen and noblewomen were all able to see, sitting under the Divine of their choice. The most important men and women, like the Counts of Cyrodiil or the Royalty of the nine Provinces, sat closest to the statues of Akatosh, Mara, and Dibella, under either Stendarr or Talos.

When the doors opened for the first time, it was for the Emperor, Maerys, a tall, well-built man whose dark hair had started to gray. He moved straight down the aisle, flanked by Legionnaires in the Red-and-Black armor that denoted his personal guard. Next came the High Priest of Mara, flanked by beautiful young initiates, members of the Cult of Dibella, bare from the waist up, who danced and released doves as they moved down.

Next, the groom himself, Prince Aerion, moved down the aisle, riding on the back of a snow-white horse. Behind him came fire-throwers, men from Hammerfell who had mastered the art of casting fire spells in such a way as to form shapes, or images. They sent flowers, stars, comets, and animals streaking across the ceiling, at one point casting an intricate dragon that flew around, swooping down near enough to the stands for the nobles to feel the heat of the flames.

Finally, the bride came marching down the aisle, her face covered in a lace veil, keeping her face from view, which was not typical Imperial fashion. She walked, instead of riding like her husband had. Princess Dera did not even have a train of people walking behind her, as princesses deserved. She had chosen to walk by herself, allowing the long train of her white gown to drag in the dust of the temple. Murmurs ran through the crowd, wondering if it was meant as an act of defiance against her father.

When she reached the end of the aisle, the High Priest began his speech, glancing at Maerys once, perhaps nervously, as he spoke of the legitimacy of the union between this pair. Soon after, he began the vows. While Aerion recited his loudly, and boldly, so all could hear, Dera’s were nought but a whisper. When Aerion lifted her veil to seal the union with a kiss, those nearest to the pair could see the tear streaks that had run down her face, leaving tracks through her makeup.

Aerion whispered in her ear, a look of hot anger flashing across his face, and the bride’s face paled, hurriedly recovering her face with the veil as the pair once again strode down the aisle, led by their father and followed by the soldiers, fire-throwers, and Acolytes of Dibella.

The Grand Feast that followed took place in the Ballroom of the Imperial Palace, with the Royal Family seated on a dais overlooking the dance floor. Those with relations to the Morgan line were seated closest to the Royal Family, then Royals and Counts, then lesser nobles, and finally knights behind them.

Prince Arik V and his sister, Princess Rhaela, were sitting quietly, occasionally whispering to each other, not joining in the revelry or celebration. Even their father, the famously stern Emperor Maerys, was laughing and clapping and at one point danced with a young noblewoman.

Many of the people who had not been invited to be seated to watch the ceremony, those who watched from outside the Temple and had not been invited to the Ball, had flocked to the Black Horse Inn for a celebration, as the Barkeep had promised a buy-one-get-two deal on alcohol, to all who attended after the ceremony. Some noblemen had even foregone the stuffy party that followed, choosing to partake in the drunken party at the Inn.