High above, the sun shone a brilliant gold, clear as it was of any clouds.  Below it was a field that looked almost like any other.  Almost.  There was something off about it.  Perhaps it was because if you looked hard enough, you could see the glint of metal past the tall glades.  Maybe it was the guarded convoy that traveled through the lone road that tore through it, looking far too fancy for a rural field.  No, no, it was the fact that it shined red.

Artesiaste looked out into the field, thinking of how to punish a nation.  Though ‘nation’ might have been more than they deserved.  The orcish peoples of the north could barely be considered civilized.  Their most recent foray had proven it.

He let out a deep, heavy sigh, thinking back to similar scenes that he had passed on his journey.  Artesiaste doubted he would ever get those grisly images out of his head.  When the orcish army came into a village, they were rarely arbiters of mercy.  They were more like painters, with a penchant for the color crimson.  He rubbed his eyes.  And now it was his job to bring them to peace.

Artesiaste leaned back in his leather carriage seat as his head pounded with the weight of a troop of cavalry.  It was a lot to ask of a new diplomatic minister,  and trying to come up with a path to peace was proving to be impossible, and a massive headache.  He needed to balance the moral duty of bringing judgement on the orcs for their massacres, while getting those same orcs to agree to laying down their arms to accept their punishment.

However, it turns out that the orcs didn’t particularly care for being punished, nor did they want to lay down their arms - even if their army had just been decisively defeated in battle.  Still, they couldn’t let that army be free after the destruction it had caused.

I am going to want to kill myself by the end of this aren’t I.  He ritually rubbed an exquisitely designed metal crest in his pocket as his eyes tried to shutter.  More than anything, Artesiaste felt tired and overwhelmed.   On the bright side, he wouldn’t be the only one trying to come up with terms.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

He felt his carriage begin to slow down as it veered off the road into the crimson field, bumping up and down as it rolled over the remains of battle to a a hidden rendezvous point.  Artesiaste looked through the grasses looking for a carriage that should be more fancy than his.  Something with an… elven touch.

He squinted, the grasses gently waving as the wind blew across them and the heavy footsteps of the carriage’s horses brushed them aside.  Something was glinting near their rendezvous point, though whether it was steel or silver was yet to be seen.  Artesiaste pointed it out to his coachman who dutifully steered toward it.

When they got close the tall grass suddenly gave way to a small clearing that formed a perfect circle.  He looked closer.  The grass was perfectly cut down, as if by a spell, likely used during the course of the battle judging by some red stains left in it.

At the center of the clearing was the shining object he had spotted - the elven ambassador’s carriage resplendent in the early morning light.  His coachman slowed down his carriage to a halt as two heavily armed elven guards disembarked from the elven carriage to intercept them.  

Artesiaste sat back up in his seat and straightened his coat and trousers.  It wouldn’t do for the minister of republic to put on a bad first impression, at least for diplomatic purposes.  He did a quick check of all he needed, making sure his letters, quill, ink, and ceremonial sword were all on him.  Oh, and his all important diplomatic crest in his pocket.

The door swung open just as he stood from his seat, its oiled hinges working without a noise.  Outside was the elven guard, to which he presented his blade in keeping with tradition.  The guard then escorted him to the elven carriage, blade drawn.  His own guards fanned out across the unguarded clearing, forming a perimeter. 

Artesiaste rubbed his crest again.  It wasn’t usual for there to be such a light guard for a diplomat, though in all fairness he had none.  Perhaps they had shed them for speed?

At the doors of the elven carriage, he tried to get a glance of the elven ambassador - whom he had never seen.  After all, this was his first assignment.  But alas he couldn’t see through the darkened windows, likely tinted with elven magic.  Bracing himself, he nodded to the guard and opened the door.