skin, bone, and arrogance

One could be forgiven for being reminded of an old Galidraani murder mystery novel or film. An eclectic group gathering at the idyllic country estate of a wealthy matriarch was a classic of the genre. Playing the role of the grand dame and inevitable murder victim was Natasi Fortan. The usual suspects:






Natasi rather doubted that she would fall victim to foul play this weekend. Even if there was a motive -- and George didn't seem to be that eager to take the reins from her -- with Dyrn by her side, no assassin stood a chance. Besides, each of the guests was chosen because the weekend was no ordinary social gathering. It being held out of town, at Natasi's private summer retreat, was not just for the fresh spring air but for privacy. There were matters of discussion afoot that would set the direction of the Renascent Heirate's foreign policy for the foreseeable future, and she wanted the opinions of those closest to her -- those whose opinions mattered, regardless of their possession of a title in government.
The other guests would be arriving later in the afternoon, to give them time to settle and dress for dinner. After lunch, Natasi gathered The Firm -- the family -- in her private sitting room, away from the prying eyes of the domestic staff. It was a casual affair, with no protocol strictly enforced. Natasi perched, by habit, in a plush, upholstered armchair by the fireplace, though in the warmth of the season no fire had been laid. She carefully stirred her cup of coffee before setting the spoon in the saucer and setting the whole works to one side, watching the comings and goings of her family and those soon to join it, dark eyes impassively drinking in the scene. Despite the circumstances, she was grateful that they could all be together, all whole, all in one piece.
Her legacy, as it were, if she were to die today. A strong Heirate with a strong heir, who would have all the benefit of a strong and stable stepfather in Dyrn, a compassionate advocate in Reima, and a competent strategist in Wedge -- all without the burden of the hidebound, haughty old woman that was Natasi Fortan.
"You've all seen and heard the latest by now," she began unceremoniously as the last of them filed into the room, and Reima shut the door, leaving them secluded. "We'll know more about how things will play out when the Senate chooses its next chancellor, but I think it would be beneficial to discuss our path forward in either case. I suppose we can all them Plan A -- the Alliance elects someone with a backbone that will stand against the Empire; and Plan B -- the Alliance chooses one of the wets that will sell parts of the Alliance down the river. Whether those parts are to include the Renascent Heirate remains to be seen and I suspect even those pushing for such appeasement have not landed on a firm limiting principle." She really meant to say the bottom of their own cowardice but she didn't want to poison the well of the discussion.
"The Government will have their own ideas, but they will be looking for my input. But since this your home, your work, your lives, as much as it is mine, I am looking to you for input." She paused and gestured to a notepad she had balanced on her other knee. "I'm taking notes, but that's just to keep track of questions, action items, etc. Nothing anyone says here will be quoted publicly with your permission, so feel free to speak freely. I hate the phrase no bad ideas in a brainstorm -- so let's say, instead, at this point nothing is off the table."
With that, Natasi leaned back, picked up her pen, and prepared to listen.
