Deacon: Master of the grey

“Ladies, Lords, Your Majesty, I have the great and unprecedented honor to introduce, the son of Gregory of Nod, Mage of the Ebon Order, Master of the Grey, Duke of Jares, his grace, Deacon Black.” The herald stepped back into the crowd and the massive redwood doors of the hall groaned open on their massive steel hinges. A single figure, stepped from the shadowed hall on the other side of the now open doors, and strode grandly down the thick red carpet towards the King’s dais.
Mutters and whispers were immediate upon his entrance. Not that this was unusual, the court lords and ladies always gossiped in such a manner when someone new came to the court. What was unusual was how many didn’t speak. The first three rows of men and women said nothing, transfixed by the robed figure.
The man proclaimed to be Deacon Black, and, among other things, said to be a Duke, wore a simple black robe. Again, not unusual, in and of itself, many wizards and lords wore robes. What was striking was how little ornamentation he wore. The robe was simple linen, dyed black. It lacked embroidery of any kind, it was without the usual spills of lace, nude of the precious pins and broaches, bereft of markings of rank. Deacon’s hands were similarly naked. No signet’s or glistening gems graced the long supple fingers. He would be mistaken as a lackey or manservant if not for one little detail- he radiated strength. The room was filled by his presence. An aura of awe, radius of honor, surrounded the simply clothed mage.
The King hated it. His regal silks, his gem encrusted crown, his small army of personal guards in shining silver armor, his throne, a mountain of gold and velvet, all were nothing compared to this man’s simple existence. The young sire hid the hate, buried it deep with himself, and grinned a welcoming at Deacon.
At the foot of the dais, Deacon halted and dropped to one knee. With practiced grace, he swept the hood back from his face, revealing a middle-aged man, black hair and beard streaked with gray. His eyes met the young kings briefly before dropping to the floor. He saw the rage that burned in the youthful king’s eyes, he saw it and resented the boy for it. Five minutes inside this kingdom and he had made an enemy. The most powerful enemy this small monarchy had to offer. Just his luck.
Deacon was not one to bow before an enemy, when the king offered his ring hand to be kissed, a sign of allegiance, Deacon stood. A gasp echoed through the chamber. The king’s green eyes flared with renewed rage, his smile faltered. The steady obsidian of Deacon’s eyes met the seething green of the king.
“Your majesty,” Deacon began, “The Grand High Council of Elven Lords has sent me to negotiate a treaty between you’re nation and the Combine. We will begin negotiations tomorrow over dinner, if you have any questions about the Combine’s demands, you may ask my associate, the Knight Taleraed sol’Bellator. Good day.”
The chamber roared with chatter, only to be cut short by the sudden gaze of the mage. He walked out briskly, his simple robe flowing around him. The heavy redwood doors swung silently shut unaided, and the torches flickered wildly as he exited.
Deacon blew out a long breath, and turned to face the towering figure of Taleraed.
“You do know you’ve just doubled how long the negotiations will take.” The Knight said with a bored sigh.
“Of course I do.”
“Then please explain why.’
“Life’s no fun if it’s predictable, my friend.” Deacon grinned deviously,
“The torches were a nice touch.” Taleraed said smiling slightly, probably the closest thing to a grin Deacon had ever seen out of the Knight.
“I thought so, too.”