image [https://i.imgur.com/fbfIPnE.png]

Over the course of several weeks, things progressed to course much as you would expect. The nights cooled as my hot, passionate, sweat drenched romance with Aiera the priestess progressed in ways in which I don’t feel are appropriate or necessary to detail in an official court document of this nature.

It dawned on me just how fast things were progressing one morning as I tugged my robes against a fell wind, crowded with the rest of the high court onto the narrow balcony over the palace gate. In peacetime it was a platform for the moon bishop of Dune to lead his people in mass prayer, but today we were silent as the parade rattled below.

A hundred Imga marched past, their stumpy legs thumping beneath unwieldy ape torsos. Each soldier bore a longbow taller than himself, and held it aloft like a sacred totem as their conical copper helms flashed sunlight off their cold-hammer dimpled faces. His Perfection leaned over to Baron Hoot-hoot. "Such bows! What range can your tribesmen fire them with effect-uh?"

The Baron stepped forward and with a gesture called a halt to the parade. In the hooting and hollering language of his people he called forward an ape-soldier, an especially brutish specimen, who in one motion drew an arrow from his hip, notched it, and sent it soaring over his compatriots. A loud crack rang out from a target wall across the parade ground, too far to see where it landed but by its crashing strike its point was made.

"A magnificent display-uh…"

The Baron gave a nod to his men and the parade resumed, a train of Bosmer skirmishers crossing before us next. They saluted their diminutive liege as they passed who hailed them back with the coolness of an emperor.

I turned to Aiera beside me, her wide unflinching eyes forward as the feathers frilling her coat's low neckline and were blown back and forth by the wind like fingers caressing against her long neck. His Perfection had been ecstatic when I'd told him of our relationship; anything that brought the newly aligned cultists closer to his influence he felt was for the best at this point, and the lesser cults (Azura being the greatest of course) were supposedly equally pleased to see us together and grateful for an end to their persecution. I gave Aiera's hand a squeeze and she warmed me with a smile.

Next were the Khajiit tribesmen of the eastern sink, black turbanned and dark but for the silver of their sabers and the jarid tips winking over their shoulders. They were unselfconscious killers as they half-walked in a shambling march for an event that must have seemed a wetlander extravagance to them. They were slow in passing as there were considerably more of them than I had previously realized.

"And more coming," Do'Qanar crossed his arms where he stood between His Perfection and myself, "the western hill tribes should arrive before Jone darkens."

"Good-uh, good-uh."

Sorvild edged forward, his belly sloshing against my elbow like a rogue hammock full of uncooked meat. "And a week until my dear Silverswords arrive into your service, my perfection."

"Yes, that will be perfection most high, thank you Captain."

Last came the landed house troops from the mountainous north and southern edge of Anequina. High nobles holding lances aloft as they rode Senche, or noble Senche bearing a man-at-arms as circumstances dictated. The lower houses followed in lacquered plate, burnished steel bucklers, and behind each a cohort of a few dozen levys in striped tunics. The more beastial formed Khajiit were padded with loose leather to catch missiles as they presumably would close in to use their claws, but of the bipedal types the larger sorts often bore long halberds and the smaller carried short bows. The nobles led them in a growling Ta'agra chant and their banners snapped in the wind as they passed; several bishops behind me murmured with excitement.

His Perfection’s fingers clenched the guard rail so that I could see the hairs rising. An intense heat of thought could be seen on his face, game theories churning endlessly within to see all the permutations of what was to come. His host was nearly assembled for the war I had been assured would never happen.

***

I had realized by then just how little time I had to avert war. I had not been completely idle however, and since the fateful banquet I had been joining my Mane during his morning calisthenics as much as was possible (but less than was seemly as I made a frightful sight as an aspiring athlete), but His Perfection seemed to appreciate my flailing efforts — cheering on my small victories and referring my physical training his 'special project'.

I of course didn't give a damn about my health (as this body of text will surely attest) but only strove to be nearer to him and able to ply him with ideas of peace talks. Aiera was quick to appreciate my muscular gains however, but it was hard going cardiovascularly as well as rhetorically as that damned muscle-cat Rokash was always attending our workouts to counter my points or psyche me out.

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I noticed a shift generally around that palace at this time: Rokash's Lion Headed Priests began to haunt the halls and provide honor guard services where previously they hadn't. They were about the palace quarter like flies drawn to the pestilence of our growing crop of soldier tents on the parade ground.

My persuasive efforts blossomed in the palace gymnasium one morning as we sprinted through His Perfection’s self assembled 'realm of self-mastery', a series of what I can only describe as small wooden castles. Each faux castle was about as tall as a ship's mast and linked to its fellows by rope bridges or hanging rings and bells.

His Perfection led us on laps around the structures between bouts, the hair of his mane bobbing as he ran. I ran directly behind him that morning, barely keeping pace with Rokash. We were all hot breath and slapping feet and footpads as we had traded our robes and finery for humble loincloths also of His Perfection’s design, high waisted things which he believed grew the bond between body and soul through the kinetic movement. Behind us were a dozen nobles, young bucks eager to prove themselves.

I was sweating, straining like usual, truly questioning the worth of my efforts, when His Perfection’s voice boomed, bouncing off the gymnasium's pale stone walls: "I was thinking about your words to me the other day, Fate Weaver, when we were doing foot hangs…"

I swallowed between gasps. "I… huh… am honored my words would be… hngh… worthy of your deep thoughts, Perfection."

"Honor is nothing in the shadow of wisdom-uh, and you challenged my thinking—

"The nerve…" hissed Rokash.

"‐‐‐and gifted me with a new stratagem regarding our foe. Perhaps we should be communicating — one moment."

We hit the first wooden wall which had pegs for scaling. My chest slammed into, stealing my breath before the mad scrabble up. It was doubly a challenge to keep pace as the Khajiit leapt up the first half of its length.

The smell of sweat permeated the cramped wooden interior as our steps thundered until we leapt out, suddenly swinging from rings to the next castle and each in turn smacking the brass bells of accomplishment at the far side. As we dropped to all fours to creep across the rocking rope bridge we were able to speak more. At least I tried to, the coarse tines were slicked by my sweaty palms (and my panic at seeing the stone floor below).

His Perfection continued, or perhaps he had never stopped speaking and I only now could hear: "For we can do two things at once-uh, conquer by sword and pen as the poets say. And should circumstances change we may need ceasefires — for our own benefit of course. And so I have decided: we shall send an ambassador mission to Seneschal."

"How unprecedented, most predestined one," said Rokash.

I missed the rope but caught myself, hardly believing what I was hearing. "Your… ahh… wisdom is unmatched, Perfection. Thank you."

Next we scaled down a sloped wall, more of an out of control roll for me, but it put me in the lead and I limped on at speed.

The Mane jogged beside me, leading us for another lap before we attacked his obstacle course from a different angle.

"But who should lead as ambassador-uh? I would send you Fate Weaver but as you've no doubt heard you're a wanted man there — a thousand septims for your head-uh."

"Inflation, our shared enemy," muttered Rokash.

I thought of all the possible agents of His Perfection who could do the job. My brother would be outstanding, but in similar danger as myself before he could reestablish relations. Do'Qanar was a damned hothead. Rokash was poison. Aiera would be perfect but was too precious to risk on such a mission. Perhaps one of the high nobles or an elder Clan Mother. I was about to name a few candidates when my reverie was interrupted by berber carpet as I crashed face first into the carpeted faux-castle wall.

Gasping, flailing like a landed trout, I threw myself at that carpeted edifice to no avail for I lacked the claws to gain purchase and pull myself up as my catfolk companions did. That wall was always the death of me.

His Perfection’s loinclothed behind winked over the wall above me, but he cried out: "Think on it-uh, we'll discuss later with the others."

I put on a show struggle for a moment more, grabbing a fistful of fabric as the noble lads passed me, but happily collapsed to the floor in the absence of witnesses. Cold stone against my hot neck; I smiled victoriously in my pool of sweat at a chance — a real chance — for peace, or at least a detente once the legion arrived. It would allow Benezia and I the time we needed to negotiate a long-term solution.

As His Perfection led the rest of the participants in a final lap about the gymnasium I gave up the chase and went towards the dust wash chambers. I was nearly bowled over at the shaded door frame when I walked into the sweat slicked pectorals of Rokash. How he had slipped away from the pack and gotten ahead of me I could not say, but there he stood, arms crossed beneath that familiar hate-glare he reserved for me in all of his incarnations.

"What is the Fate Weaver scheming, eh? It has a newfound love of the southern pretender?"

"Not in the least, I'm merely maintaining our strategic options lest —"

"Lest nothing, it lies," he breathed deeply through his nose, no doubt savoring the taste of my fear. "But what is the lie? Rokash still watches the Fate Weaver, one false move and its Lion Head Priests will have it treated like the imperial parasite it is… bloating itself on this sacred land."

"Really Rokash, can't we at least try working together?"

He snorted. "Imperial ticks are only good for one thing."

And with that he bowed before me, drawing his loincloth down with his thumbs before shoving the sweat soaked wad into my chest so hard I had to stagger back. It fell to the floor with a wet smack as he swaggered off, tail aloft, to the changing room.

The others came jogging up a moment after him, still fresh off their strenuous routine; each stripped in turn and tossed their loincloth onto the damp pile growing at my feet. I accepted it without comment as I knew all too well that by holy decree the slowest runner always had to serve as the loincloth collector, a dubious honor that had become my unwanted nom de plume of late.