The pavilion where Gilt leaves you has a cold buffet luncheon laid out. It would be a substantial repast by any standards but those of a hungry brood of Amber royals. The family descends on the buffet like a swarm of (polite) locusts, and soon, there is nothing left.
            For those in need of such, which is probably everyone, there are jakes nearby.
            After lunch, the ladies retire for a few minutes to a separate pavilion where they can  straighten their skirts and perform other female rituals best not seen by gentlemen, while the gentlemen remain in the larger pavilion to perform their own grooming rituals.

Unless Julian does some little nudge thing, Robin will stay with the guys.  She doesn't really feel the need to perform female rituals and she's as primped as she is *ever* gonna get.

Julian does so urge her, probably because some of the men in the family may not be comfortable doing their drinkin' and smokin' and belchin' and fartin' and talkin' 'bout guns and knives in front of Robin. She doesn't have to do any primping; Flora will probably do enough to take up the slack for her.

Robin reluctantly leaves the pavilion, pouting that she's going to miss out on the drinkin', smokin', belchin', fartin' and the *interesting* conversations.  But go she does.
            Once in the girl's tent, she looks more than a little lost but certainly willing to cost anyone a finger who tries to primp her.

Aisling keeps half an eye on the Julian-Robin interaction, and then allows the flow to carry her to the tent of the fairer sex.  She meets Robin's eye with a quirked brow and lyre-shaped streamers, _Unfortunate,_ah?_

Aisling's quirked streamers bring a self-acknowledging smirk out of the Ranger as she carefully does not pitch a temper tantrum.
            Then Robin cocks an eyebrow back at Aisling.  It's obvious Robin is a bit confused by the museum-quality dress.  Why anyone would *make* such a thing, much less wear it...

"Glorification of the occasion," Aisling answers.  "This is the only coronation in Amber I ever wish to see, and it is my duty to convey that conviction in my dress."  She smiles, with sparkling eyes.

"Your dress is a monument?"  Robin asks with arced eyebrows -- there's that 'what'll they think of next' expression again.  But she nods.  After all, the construction of Aisling's attire does owe more to architecture than tailoring.

"The monument says, 'This better be the fanciest I have to be in the next ten thousand years'," Aisling says with a grin.

The Ranger returns Aisling's grin as one hand absent-mindedly bats at her own much more modest skirt.  Spite is certainly something Robin understands.  Then confusion once more casts a fog on the girl's green eyes.
            "But why immobilize yourself for that?"  she asks with an almost innocent sincerity.

Aisling blinks twice, and her brows rise a bit as she throttles a mad rush of responses.  "I think," she says slowly, "That you may be underestimating my current mobility."  She tilts her head slightly, "But, to the degree that the gown appears to limit my motion, it says that I do not expect any being to be so gauche as to cause trouble for the King; nor have I any reason to fear attacks on my own person."

"A display of strength. With no real vulnerability."  Robin nods to herself, that almost makes sense.  The girl purses her lips and her brows furrow as she tries the idea on for size.  But soon, a scrunch of her button nose and a shake of her blonde head dismisses the idea as a personal strategy.
            Green eyes look back to Aisling ruefully.  And Robin blushes, well aware that she's just told a strategist specializing in misdirection that she herself prefers the straightforward approach.

Aisling looks, for just a tiny flickering moment, appalled, like she wants to rush over and pat Robin's facade back in place for her...  She isn't trying for fear, this time around!  But then again, if she's trying to be decent, shouldn't she try to correct the places where Robin's understanding of her seems to be swinging off-track?  But wouldn't that embarrass both of them further, informing only the ladies listening in?  This openness thing is deuced difficult.  Maybe she should have Robin over for a beer sometime?

"Your... vanes?  Are they always emotionotropic?"  Robin's not a master of the segue either, but at least she's still attempting to talk to someone in the girl's tent.

"They show what I let them," Aisling says, a faint echo of wintery sufficiency in her voice, the impact of which she immediately hastens to dilute, "Like my face, or my hands...  I've sometimes thought that, if I had a people, they'd live in tunnels off a desert, and use these as whiskers and for heat exchange...  But we're all unique." Aisling shrugs, trying with a smile to make this ending seem less weak.

Robin tilts her head as she considers that.  "Tunnels... pheromone emitters and sensors would be useful as well."  She offers with a weak smile.  The Ranger isn't really sure what she's doing wrong, but damn it, the times for running away are over so she'd better learn.  "Would you want to find such a people in the future, sometime?"

Aisling kind of hmms.  "Maybe, sometime.  Not for awhile, though.  After all my fine speeches about trying to become like the Amberites, it'd be a pity if I ran out on them for mere surface characteristics..."  She grins.

"Surface characteristics..."  Robin tastes those words as she looks around the pavilion, smelling the powders and perfumes, hearing the flutter of feminine voices, seeing the curling irons and shades of cosmetics.

Aisling grins wider, a twinkle in her eye.   Yes!  That was exactly the connotation she was hoping to put across!

She cocks her head contemplatively, then returns Aisling's grin with a chuckle and a rueful shrug.  Yep, no running because of surface characteristics.
            "Dame?  Have you had a chance to examine M'Corli eyes?  I heard my brother mention his name to you."  Definitely not the master of the segue, no.

It's like blindly riding a gliding frog crossing a searing stream on stepping stones...  Entertaining.
            Aisling frowns.  "Yes, Sir Jovian took me to see him the afternoon he returned.  M'corli should be seeing; his body is fine.  It is magic that keeps his sight from him."

"Hmmmm."  Robin rubs her chin.  "A paranoid thought occurs.  Could someone else be seeing through his eyes?"

Aisling looks appalled again.  Then her look at Robin takes on a certain appreciation of a master of paranoia.  Slowly she answers, "From what I hear of when he was injured, it didn't sound like there was enough time for something that complex...  And I'm told that sorcery is difficult to command in Amber--" she stops; but then, they're not in Amber, are they?
            Ignoring the slight blush she's gotten from accidentally bringing this up, she finishes, "It is possible.  I don't know."

Robin cocks a half-smile at Aisling's look, yep the Ranger's become quite the jumper-at-shadows recently.  "I'll have to talk to Jovian, and some other people, about that possibility, then.  Thank you though," the girl bows Aisling-ward, "for your help."

Aisling bows in return.  "It is my pleasure.  We should get together over a beer sometime and discuss less frightening things..." she grins.

The half-smile dances at Robin's lips a moment longer as she considers the possibility.  "I... yes.  I think I'd like that.  Somewhere more private though.  And perhaps less surfacely characteristic'd."  She chuckles back.

Aisling smiles and nods.

Folly retires to the ladies' pavilion without a fuss, but she doesn't do any primping.  In fact, she doesn't do much of anything but stand unobtrusively to one side, silently observing the proceedings.  The faraway look in her eye suggests most of her thoughts are somewhere else entirely.
            She looks rather like she's not gotten enough sleep.

Lilly has little interest in primping. It was simply not in her to care how she looked. What she was interested in was speaking with Paige. Making her way over to the redhead, she greets her with a warm smile.
            "Good day cousin. You look absolutely beautiful. Green is truly your color." Paige can tell the compliments, while sincere, are meant for the those who might over hear. There is definitely something more on Lilly's mind.

Paige is sitting near her Aunt Fiona, looking a bit concerned, and happy for the distraction. "Thank you, Lilly. You look wonderful yourself. Join us?" she asks.

With a slight nod of the head, Lilly finds a seat nearby and makes herself as comfortable as possible.

"Blythe should have everything ready in my chambers at the Castle," Paige comments. "I took the liberty of thinking we could get prepared together, making it easier on her."

The grin that lights Lilly's face has a slightly mischievous quality to it.  She suppresses it quickly but not before Paige could see that she had been planning to arrange that same thing. Sometimes it was good to have someone who could read your mind. "Yes. That would be wonderful. After this dress putting on the costume should be a relief. Unless of course I am putting too much faith in Blythe's designs?"

"It just as much a dress, Lilly," Paige chuckles, "or if you will, less of one."
            "I can assure you that you'll have more movement at least."

"At this point that will be relief enough. I never was one for dressing like a girl. Skirts tend to get in the way when sword fighting." The matter of fact tone is accompanied by a mischievous glint in Lilly's eye.

Random, Vialle, and Martin remain closeted in their own private pavilion.
            When the primping is complete, Gilt rounds everyone up again and gets them into the correct carriages for the ride down to the city. The Royal procession to the docks takes the place of the traditional parade this year, so everyone is in an open carriage. The people wave at everyone as they ride by on the streets leading to the docks.

The various carriage groups are:
Benedict, Reid, Aisling, Lilly
Marius, Caine, Corwin, Merlin
Jerod, Cambina
Bleys, Paige, Brennan
Fiona, Conner, Brita
Llewella, Ossian, Folly
Flora, Lucas. Solace
Julian, Jovian, Robin
Gerard, Solange, Vere

Aisling waves back, happy to do so.  Unless someone in the Benedict/Reid/Lilly carriage wants to start a conversation...?
            Yep.  Waving it is.

Folly seems quite pleased with her company in the carriage, and not only because they're gonna win the "most entertaining array of hair colors" competition hands-down.  Unless Aisling has gone iridescent for the occasion, that is....

Ossian is the perfect gentleman, helping the ladies into the carriage in whatever way is appropriate.
            "How lucky I am!" he exclaims as he sits down, turning towards Llewella "here I try to find an excuse to have a chat with you, my lady, and then we end up in the same carriage."

She looks at him.  "And how have I drawn your attention, Ossian?"

"First, all beautiful women draw my attention" Ossian says smiling.
            "Then, and probably more important; mirrors."  he shrugs "My main interest lies in visual art and I know a fair amount about mirrors. But nothing that would lead anyone to break them. I'm curious." he smiles a sad smile.

"I am as well.  As is half of Amber, it seems.  Intrigued, I imagine by the image of thousands of small, deadly glass shards floating freely in the darkened water.  I wonder if there was any blood?  What's your theory of why someone would break them?"

"If the mirrors weren't very ugly, which I suppose they weren't, I suppose someone must know a way to use them. And someone, not necessarily the same, thought the mirrors shouldn't be available anymore. I hope I don't offend you if I say that the suspect for the first someone would be you." Folly and Llewella will hear from Ossian's voice that he is more interested in the use of the mirrors than the reason for the crime.
            "I'll have to make a lot of experiments myself before I can tell how mirrors can be  used with or instead of Trumps. But the connection might be possible."

"I think I shall like you.  You imbue what I considered a very ordinary life in Rebma with mystery and possibility. "  She grins at him, shallowly.  "I don't know very much about Trumps, I'm afraid.  And there aren't that many painters in Rebma."

"Naturally." Ossian says, grinning back. "I don't know all that much about mirrors either. And ordinary life in Rebma is much of a mystery to me; I don't know much about it. Do you know much about mirrors? Except that they normally return a beautiful picture when you look in them, of course?"

Folly, who has been listening to the conversation with half an ear while interacting with the crowd along the parade route [in whatever manner is typical and appropriate for the Spring Festival parade; probably smiling and waving, I suppose, although she may be suppressing an urge to throw beads and shout, "Show us your tits!"], can't suppress an amused grin at Ossian's flirtation.

Llewella says "One of the differences between Rebma and Amber is that in Rebma magic is, if not commonplace, at least grudgingly accepted.  Magic is about leveraging shortcuts to make up for lack of inherent personal power.  I know that one such shortcut can use images.  It is not something I ever needed to learn, although I knew those who did."

"Am I correct to assume that some of those people are in Amber right now?"  Ossian asks.  "Could they have found a way to use mirrors too?"

"No, the people here tend to use magicians, not magic.  And yes, their magicians could have tried to do something to my mirrors.  But I can't really know anything until I go and look."

"Ah." Ossian says, his intrigue inexperience showing; he is clearly on too deep waters "I wonder if one could extract the old images from a mirror? Of course that is only one of a myriad possible uses."

Robin rides silently in the carriage with her brother and her father for a while.  But wheels are turning within her head – not the same distracted and repressed wheels as earlier though.  Now her eyes look more animated, and her expressions are those of a woman planning as opposed to a woman mulling.
            Eventually, she looks over to Julian, wets her lips and says steadily.  "Sir?  If I may, I'd rather serve our King as a warrior and a ranger, than as a princess."

Jovian smiles, a look of knowing satisfaction warming his countenance gone thoughtful in the silence. "I doubt he'll bind you to the court if you don't want to be bound; that doesn't seem to be the kind of show he wants to run. And besides, the Warden of Arden already has one child in the Crown's direct service," he adds, contemplatively fiddling with the shiny, intricate new signet ring he now wears.

"I should hope so," says Julian. "Why do you ask, Robin? Has someone suggested that you take a post at court?"

"Hunh?"  Robin replays the conversation in her mind to figure out how it got away from her.
            "Oh, no sir.  No one has suggested a post for me.  It's this stuff."  She pokes at her clothing.  "I... Jovian didn't have to wear a skirt, sir.  If something bad had happened" _or still might_ "I'd be bound.  And a long way from my fang.  I... I'd rather not be so hindered, if I may sir."  She's actually not pouting about it – as strange as that might seem.  She's trying to understand.

"It's not customary for young men to wear skirts at court," says Julian.  "Although perhaps a kilt ..." He looks over at Jovian to see how his son is taking the suggestion.

Jovian's response includes an eyebrow that makes no bones about his gene pool, but includes no words. Amusement is the dominant theme.

"At court we have very rarely had events that have merited drawn blades.  Eric's coronation was an exception, of course. And despite the number of weapons you have seen today, I do not believe that Random has yet relaxed the customs concerning who may go armed in his royal presence. He may yet relax it by a failure to enforce, but I cannot advise you to flout the rules of arms at this time."

Robin tcchs her tongue thoughtfully and nods at her father's words.  Customs and advice, things she's grown up with, like "Don't eat cluster berries" and "Keep the wind to your face."  Things that are meant to keep one safe, even though they seem to entrap or restrict.

Julian looks Robin's ensemble over. "I am not sure that you will be called on for something quite so formal as this coronation for many years.  Trousers are probably too outre for court wear, but I am sure you can find some fashion less restrictive than what you are wearing today that will also suit for court. Perhaps you could explain your concerns to the Queen or one of my sisters and solicit their advice."
            After a moment, he adds, "Not Flora."

Because Jovian is a son of Julian, he does not burst out laughing.  Because he is a scion of Amber and strong, the effort does not cause him to hemorrhage.

The Ranger nods again and thinks.  "Father.  Whose word will you accept that I may wear trousers and blades to court?"  Oh, she's setting her sights on some poor schmuck, that's for sure.

"I was not aware you required my permission to dress yourself as you please, Robin," says Julian mildly. "You have asked my advice, and I have given it. I am sorry it does not please you better."

That gets a exasperated teen roll of the eyes from Robin, but there's a smile lurking in the rolling green.

There's a certain tightening about the lips and jaw of her brother. The very observant might even catch him holding his breath for just a second, suppressing an involuntary sound perhaps.

"The garb of court is a language of its own, one as certain as the language of the falling leaves or the track of roe and hart: one that I have apparently been remiss in teaching you. To those who understand that language, every detail of an outfit such as yours or mine speaks of many things. But even to a lesser initiate, the outfit a man or woman wears says certain things."

Julian turns his gaze to his son. "Jovian's choice of garb today conveys a message, one I am glad to see from him. Had he chosen to wear the leathers of a Calusan wingleader, he would have conveyed a different message."

"Yeah," he chips in, teasing. "That Vent couldn't be bothered to find me anything. I considered it, actually," he admits, "but Prince Martin suggested that the new King wanted to run a less overtly militaristic court than his predecessor. I support him in that." His not quite absent-minded brush at the black velvet of his doublet just *happens* to be where his belt knife conspicuously isn't.

Julian nods and looks back at Robin. "Before you choose to flout the rules of dress associated with the court, you would do well to be certain of the message you will convey by doing so. Your errors will not be punished by a well-intentioned parent, but by a harsh and uncaring world."

As ever, when Julian is making sense, Robin is all ears.  She considers his words carefully, nodding to herself.  Especially at the bit about a harsh and uncaring world.

He adds, "And since we speak of lessons, let me hear yours: name your cousins and their lineages."

"Oka-ayy."  Robin hedges but only a little.  "My cousins as they currently are known to be are;  Reid, son of Osric and Pastoral.  Lily, daughter of Benedict and yet to be determined.  Cambina, daughter of Eric and Whisper.  Jerod, son of Eric and Rilsa.  Merlin, son of Corwin and Dara.  Marius, son of Deirdre and yet to be determined.  Brita, daughter of Fiona and Vidar.  Conner, son of Fiona and Slays like Wind."  Whew!  Thanks for that one, Conner!  "Paige, daughter of Bleys and yet to be determined.  Brennan, son of Brand and yet to be determined.  Lucas, son of Florimel and yet to be determined.  Daeon, son of Julian and Artemis.  Vere, son of Gerard and Corvis. Martin, son of Random and Morganthe."
            And with a grin, "Jovian, son of Julian and..." she glares at her brother mock-fiercely while she waits for it.

Jovian wrinkles his nose at Robin, looking tempted to stick his tongue out - but he's being the Respectable and Trusted Big Brother now, and besides, it's Julian's drill. "Rimona," he contributes fondly - and is not quite cool and fast enough to hide the flicker of worry that comes up behind his eyes for a half-moment and is gone.

"Other lineages of note include;  Aisling, descendant of Benedict.  Dara, descendant of Benedict.  Ossian, unknown lineage.  Folly, unknown lineage.  Hope, daughter of Lucas and Solace.  Philippe, son of Lucas and Solace.  And Solange, my sister."
            Robin finishes with a wrinkled nose.  She's still not happy about the five 'yet to be determined.'

"Your list," says Julian, "is correct so far as it goes. For future reference, you may add: Solace, daughter of Harmony, paternity attributed to Eric, as well as Calliste's unborn children and those of Paige's union with Daeon. And, of course, Dione, daughter of Julian and Artemis, now deceased."

Robin presses her lips together thoughtfully as she memorizes and adds those names to whatever tangle representing a family tree that she's got in her head.  "Okay.  Got 'em."
            Then she slumps back in her seat.  One hand rubs the other elbow almost as though the girl was chilled.  Eventually she scoots along the carriage seat until she is closer to her father and leans against his side, giving comfort for his loss, taking comfort from his presence in the big scary world of clothing and messages.

At the dockside, the carriages disembark in rough order of arrival/precedence. There is a platform, again, and everyone arranges themselves on it to hear Random's speech. The crowd beneath is mixed between dignitaries and docksiders, according to the ancient rule of the festival.

Jovian catches Folly's eye upon noticing this and there is a little relief there, the comfort of the familiar. Folly might get the sense that Jovian's home society is a little less stratified than Amber's.

Folly responds with an understanding smile and a tiny nod.
            She herself seems more comfortable here than she did during the Coronation ceremony: her stance is more relaxed, and every now and then she shoots a surreptitious wink at one or another of her friends in the crowd.

Those who have attended a number of Dedication ceremonies think Random deliberately wrote a very traditional speech, lauding Amber's naval virtue and the greatness of her expected trade this year, lightly spiced with references to his new reign. Caine and Gerard keep looking at each other at various points in the speech as if they've heard it before. It is, those of you who have attended the ceremony when Oberon was king think, just possible that he has actually re-used one of his father's speeches.
            The moment for the dedication of the new vessel comes and the newly-minted Lord Worth is given the signal honor of rowing the King out to break the wine-bottle on its bow. This Random does with grace and decorum that is only slightly spoiled by whatever jest causes Worth to visibly squelch a laugh.
            The crowd cheers wildly when Random dedicates the new ship, the Queen Vialle.

It is just as well that the noise of the crowd drowns out Folly's own cheer -- which is really more of an amused cackle.

Amber merchant ships are heavily enough armed and her warships have enough cargo space for provisions on long voyages that there is no immediately obvious way to tell the difference.
            Those of you with harbor experience know that ships named after a royal, such as the Queen Vialle, are royal vessels of one sort or another. Other vessels can be "The King's/Queen's/Prince's/Princess' [whatever]", frex, the Princess' Charge, but any vessel named after a royal is owned by the Crown of Amber.
            Members of the Regency Council are aware that Gerard had this ship commissioned as a royal trading vessel with a planned completion for dedication this year at the festival. Many of the Council members, particularly Vere and Ossian, could probably even tell their cousins what the ship's name was supposed to be a month ago.
            Afterwards, it's back to the castle in the open carriages, with the royal family receiving the good wishes of a happy populace as they ride. It is almost sunset by the time everyone has debarked from their carriages and returned to their chambers. The servants have arranged to serve dinner privately in chambers for the royals so they can dress for the Masquerade, which will begin soon enough.

Aisling does more beaming at the crowd, or perhaps talking.

Once at the Castle, depending on when she begins her foray into the fine Benedictine art of Patience, Aisling does not have to wait more than two minutes longer than the arranged time for a confident knock.
            Assuming it is answered, Marius bows generously.  "Your escort arrives," he announces himself with the voice of a herald.  (Borrowed for the occasion.  It's a much different voice than he used earlier today in announcing his knights.)

Aisling applauds the picture he presents there, framed in the doorway, and grins impishly, dropping him a curtsey in return.

The grin catches on with Marius, although he attempts to hold something slightly more solemn.  He's at least somewhat successful.
            To describe Marius, one would be best using tactile senses and descriptors.  The colours are rich, yet supple.  He seems...sleek.  There is a hint of sly in his smile.  Where he was dressed in cold metals in the sunshine, here in the evening he is dressed with tints of gold.  Honestly, someone far more shameless might just want to rub up against him for the hint here and there of fur.  Alas, it doesn't look friendly, more feral.  His mask is hinged more on the idea of an otter, rather than a literal translation.  It is a creature with whom he will cleverly describe to Aisling should she show no familiarity.

Aisling's costume is somewhat subtle, and grey and silver-toned.  She further contrasts by seeming soft and fuzzy, and yet matches him in daring the bold to experience the costume by touch; this all by virtue of the choice of fabric of her dress, which is a variable grey angora/cashmere shot through with occasional threads of silver. 
            In style, it mimics a cheongsam above, with a fuller, Amber-styled skirt.  To cover her hands and arms she wears very thin grey suede opera gloves. The sweeping wings of the moth are made of grey-tan gauze, with a dense enough weave to conceal the existence of the streamers that stir them.  They are painted with powder to match the markings of the common miller moth. 
            Aisling's hair is in a French braid that hides all the blond streaks, leaving only lavender.  A silver circlet holds two plumes for antennae; her domino mask is of cloth-of-silver, sewn with opals.  The dress has occasional small opals, diamonds, or freshwater pearls breaking the silvery-grey; her hair has silver pins with those jewels; and she wears a necklace with a large opal.
            She seems, in fact, pleased by the way they balance each other.

Marius takes a moment to admire her.  Not too long, for it would be inappropriate, nor too short, for that too, would be an insult.  "Ah, there are many who would be candles tonight," he says, simply.

Aisling blushes.  "Your words are as fine as your dress, Sir Marius."

Otherwise, his plan is to whisk her away with pleasantries, and always keep a dagger's-length of distance anywhere but at the hands.
 
Aisling is in concordance with this plan.

On the way there, he does strike up a bit of a conversation.  "I had curiosities," he says, "of what one assumed to hold the shaping of different forms might find of the idea of costume."

Marius merely smiles what might just be the first sincere smile Aisling has seen on him.  Or maybe that's just more of the Masquerade.

"Striving towards an ideal," Aisling tosses off, watching out of the corner of her eye to see if she can get him to crack up, the impish grin hovering in the wings.

Alas, Marius is too philosophical for that.  He takes Aisling seriously.  "Ah, would we be an impoverished cousin, mocking our elders, like a child with a wooden sword following his brother out to fight, or would those of your worlds strut themselves truly in these outrageous forms as a... fashion show?"

Aisling accepts this veer into solemnity.  " 'You must be able to change,' " she quotes.  "That which cannot change will have change imposed on it, and it will break.  Thus, to play at changing appearance demonstrates a certain lack of rigidity."