'To my Empyror and Dearest Nephew,

  It is with a heavy hand that I write to you of your uncle, the Noble Praefect
  Justinius () Jove, has taken his place beside the Kronian and left this world. 
  The final battle fought with injuries sustained in the his great service to your  
  people in the Praetorian Guard is over; he was in comfort and great joy at the  
  return of our long thought lost son, Julius, and died peacefully in his sleep. 
  The arrangements were small as his wish.

  In those arrangement was also a particular item he wished you to have; he was 
  very proud of your accomplishments and spoke highly of you until his final days. 
  With this letter, I will soon send my son with that very package to be delivered 
  to you in person.
  
         With great affection and the best of wishes,
  
         Calista Olympia Jove
    

    

    

    

    Atrium - Hall of the Sky - Palladium - Haven

     Columns line this room on either side, ringing the impluvium in the center 
     of the floor. Above, a rectangular square in the ceiling allows sunshine, 
     moonlight, or rain--depending on the time and the weather. Most often though, 
     the breezes that drift in are sweet and warm--perhaps partly due to the last, 
     lingering effects of this place's resident.
     Settees and chaise lounges are angled at various spots in the room, allowing 
     visitors to sit and converse. Statues of important ancestors line the walls, 
     and lit tapers or oil lamps illuminate the chamber at night. At one end of 
     the hall is the doorway leading out into the courtyard; at the other is a 
     smaller one, though no less grand, leading into the emperor's private chambers.

Contents:
Drusus


The smell of dinner still lingers in the hallway: fresh citrus, roasted meats, rice,
and the faint tang of wine. The servants are just lighting the night's braziers, 
their faces lit up by the light of the flames they are kindling. It's pleasantly 
warm and the fountain in the compluvium is pattering to itself. Drusus is in his 
office, where he usually is, pouring over a stack of missives.

Julius is escorted into this carefully setting atmosphere, a laquered box held 
under one arm. He looks about a bit unsuredly, carefully looking over the man at 
the desk as if trying to find something on him of recognition... he remains quiet 
as the guard at his side speaks, "Pardon me, Empyror, Julius Justinius Jove is here 
to see you..."

DRUSUS
      Pale is the word to describe Drusus, a tall Empyrean with strong 
     shoulders tapering to narrow hips. His skin is almost white and his 
     short hair certainly is, here and there reflecting the light in a 
     silver gleam. His eyes are pale grey rimmed with silver and they are 
     cold and dead, showing no insight as to the man behind them. His clean-
     shaven features are chiselled: a long nose under cats' eyes, high cheekbones, 
     a strong chin, slender lips. He appears to be in his late twenties or 
     early thirties. His wings are slightly larger than average - they are as 
     white as pure light and just as hard, with feathers strong and sharp and 
     just missing the ground when he walks or stands. When he moves he moves 
     with an unconscious efficiency, no motion wasted for flash and barely 
     enough to give the impression of grace.
      He is wearing a shortsleeved tunic, the cloth starched to a blinding 
     whiteness under a dress curiass made of deep maroon cuir bouille, with 
     matching bracers and greaves buckled over his forearms and calves. The 
     curaiss' only decoration is the elegance of its construction and the low 
     shine of its surface. A pure white toga is wrapped around his shoulders 
     and waist, an elegant drapery held in place with its tail end looped over 
     his left forearm. The hem of the tunic has been worked, not in Aegian purple, 
     but in a thick wavy embroidered pattern in the hues of bronze, wheat, and 
     gold. His sabre, sheathed in plain and battered black leather, hangs from 
     his belt. A strap loops around his thigh from the sheath, loose enough not 
     to displace the hem of his tunic.
     Gold glistens on his brow: a narrow band is settled there, partly 
     obscured here and there by a strand of white hair.


Drusus glances up. The future events that will leave him to utterly exhausted have 
not occured yet, but he is still busy enough with the aftermath of the war that he 
has an unhealthy paleness to his skin. But his wings are held alertly by his shoulders,
tips sweeping back to avoid touching the ground. Drusus stands and his chair scrapes 
the floor. He dips his head. "Cousin. Please, come in." He nods to the guard, who 
departs.

Julius steps forward as the guardsman steps back, leaving an empty space in the middle 
of the room. He continues to look at you with a steady gase, the lump on his back, hidden 
under the folds of his cloak, shifting awkwardly. He opens his mouth and speaks with a 
voice broken and harsh, barely even above a whisper. "It has been... a long time, cousin." 
he says rather warmly for the tone; and considering the last time you might have seen was 
when you were 9 or 10 years old... it certainly has.

"Aye." There's no pity in Drusus, but that's because he figures Julius would be dead if he 
were incapable of handling what he has become. "Be seated, if you like. I grieve to hear about 
uncle Justinius; how is your mother faring?"

Julius says "Well," and continues to stand for now. Untucking a dark wooden box from his arm. 
It's a heavy-looking affair, with thick carvings and a solid golden clasp; he holds it out to
 you, "She wished me to bring you this."

Drusus takes the box and gently sets it down on the table. He rests his fingertips against the 
lid but does not open it, not yet. "How fare you, cousin Julius?" A simple question, and yet 
it manages to mean a wealth more than the words themselves would seem to indicate.

Julius looks back at you and for a brief moment the question is left to hang. "I am... 
faring better." Julius' absense wasn't helpful to any conversational skills he once had. 
"And yourself?" He looks you over again...

And that's good enough. Men, after all, do not pry: when one does not wish to speak, the 
other refrains from prodding. Most of the time, at least. Whatever concerns Drusus might 
have, he will not pry, not for now. Drusus says, "Busy. There is so much to be done. 
It's a web of tasks and associations and puzzles and obstacles. A...challenge." 
That's putting it diplomatically. Drusus' eyes are on Julius as he speaks, but after his 
own statement his gaze drops to the box. He opens it.

Julius waits paciently as your attention now falls on the box. 

Inside is nestled in a lining of rich fabric is a immaculately polished helm, the bright 
crest of a Praefect nearly lifting the lid on its own. Kept in excellent condition and 
finely crafted, the wearer could nearly be a man of status serving today. Julius speaks, 
his throat strangled to bring his voice to the top. "My ... father told me that in older 
times, it was custom for ... Praefects to bring the Empyror their helm after a successful 
campaign..."

The stoic, unreadable expression of the Empyror changes as he reaches out to touch the helm. 
He does not touch it, though, not wanting to mar the perfect finish of the metal with his 
fingerprints. Instead, his fingertips hover over it, as if somehow this thing of glory could 
impart to him some measure of promise by its aura. Eyes normally so cold and empty change: 
there is a soul there, one kept carefully hidden lest it interfere with the execution of his 
duty. He does not touch the helm, but it touches him, to the core. What is there to say, when 
faced with such a thing? He says, quietly, "the lares are blessed to have Uncle among them." 
But he feels despair: everything that has happened to him is beginning to convince him that 
there are no such things as gods or lares, and that when someone dies they're just dead. Gone. 
Finished. Forever. Nothing remains. Uncle Justinius is gone and there is no going back, 
no meeting up; he will never know this man whose helm he now regards and whose memory is 
already mostly gone, lost in Drusus' forgotten childhood. The helm catches the room's 
reflection and shows it back in wavy, glimmering bronze. It shows the face of a white-
haired man in whose eyes can be seen two-thousand years' worth of regret and sadness.

Drusus looks up and those sad eyes fix Juilus. He says, "are you all right?" This 
question, too, means so much more than the words themselves would if they were 
taken out of the context of this situation.

Julius is silent behind you, rather hollowed eyes meeting yours for a moment before 
reflecting back inward. "I... do not know what I have lost," he says raspingly. 
"I would ask the same of you... Drusus." sorting through the gravel of his tone 
is a deep note of consern.

"I do not know what I have lost either," Drusus says regretfully. "But I know I 
have lost something great, in not knowing." Eyes normally so dead are for once 
expressive. "You're his son, though. If you want to know him, know yourself." 
His hands fall away from the box. He does not close it, though. It remains open, 
its glittering trophy held in velvet.

Drusus adds, "you suffered much, but you survived it. I think he would be proud 
of you. I am." It's not said solicitously; he means what he says. "What are you 
doing now?"

Your words get a slightly worried look, his eyes moving from you and on some small 
niche of the Empyror's office. Quiet, he returns with, "There is nothing to be said 
...of surviving," he makes a modest cough, held behind a fist. "Currently, I am merely 
assisting my mother in her affairs... spends more time instructing me than on her business..."

Drusus' expression lightens somewhat. "She keeps herself busy with you," he notes. 
"Are you learning much, or humoring her?"

From afar, Selene ooohs at your location :)

Julius says straightforwardly, "I have much to learn."

 Julius says, "Geez, people notice I'm in a scene with you and the pages roll in... ;/"

"Do you now?" Drusus asks, a retrospective tone to his voice. The ancient soul is 
fading back into the depths of him, back behind the walls he so carefully tends 
to keep it at bay. "I take exercise every other day, at least. If you'd like to 
spar sometime, come to the gardens in the morning. Likely, you'll find that you 
know more than you think you know. And I would be glad of your company."

 Drusus laughs. I'll take that as a compliment. Unless they all want to 
know if you've got done killing me yet? ;)
 Julius laughs! "Hardly. I'm 'special' now... ;D"

Julius lifts an eyebrow in a rather stoic fashion. "Sparring?," he says with surprise. 
"I doubt I'd be anything worthy of your skills..." he says not in defeat but more plain 
surprise...


"You're family. You're worthy," Drusus says plainly. It's a telling statement of faith. 
"And if you're not worthy, we'll just have to make sure you /become/ worthy, hm?" Humor 
twinkles in his eye for a moment, tempered by the lad's loss of his father and wing and 
that chunk of his soul that the Varati stripped from him...or /think/ they stripped from 
him. Just then, Flavius Publius comes fluttering in in a state of high agitation.

"Oh!" Exclaims the pudgy clerk. "Please excuse me, Deus, Dominus." He bows to Julius and 
tries very hard not to wring his hands. "Deus, I apologize for interrupting, but a rather 
important issue has just come up..."

Drusus nods. He's become very familiar with these kinds of issues of late. "Of course, 
Flavius. I will be right with you." If it bothers Flavius, it must be serious. "Cousin 
Julius, meet Flavius Publius, my aide. Flavius, my cousin Julius Justinius Jove."

Flavius bows again, wings tipping out to counterbalance the courtier's gesture. 
"Ave and well met, Dominus." He casts an anxious glance at the Empyror.

Julius nods and carefuly steps aside. "I will take you up on that offer, cousin. 
I shall speak with you further at another time." a bare hint of a smile crosses 
his face as gives a bow. "Excuse me.."


*fin*