**********Next Morning, Kistalfer Baron's War Room, Kistalfer Keep********************

A finely dressed man, dark of hair and beard, in well-cut long silk long coat, bronze with golden scrollwork depicting peasants bent over a field of wheat, with their little golden embroidered heads of fat kernals, stood with arms crossed behind him, overlooking his township. He was perspiring lightly, more from anxiety than from exertion. His healthy build, powerful and solid, said that exertion was no stranger and the scars and callouses on his hands attested to those muscles being hard earned. A great axe over the mantle place of the room was notched and its metal faintly stained, its ebony handle polished from the motions of generations of wielders, not a little of which was from the man's own action, to say nothing of the work done by his sire and grandsire.

The Baron’s stiff posture showed his dissatisfaction and that dissatisfaction translated directly to nervous shuffling in those who attended him, by his polite request at first bells this morning.

"It is full past time that the garrison troops returned." He said plainly to the gathered men and women of the room, his adjutants, lieutenants, and guard captains.

A few of them wilted further under the patent displeasure implicit in the Baron’s tone.

Continuing without inflection or increase in volume, in a voice that nevertheless filled the room with its authority, the Baron spoke again the source of his most recent chagrin.

“Take your choice of two score of the Federated Defense attachment from my garrison, scout for truth in the rumors of freed slaves, insubordinate battlemages, mutineers from the fleets, and rebellious elements from the nearby City States that seek to claim my outskirts for their little hamlet independent from Prosper’s authority, in defiance of my own. Determine the facts of the land, do not engage or contact enemy forces absent my command. Return with my men as soon as you may.” The Baron narrated, verbatim, his orders for the captain of the garrison before her departure.

“Captain Triella is late. My soldiers are missing.” He summarized, implicitly suggesting the failure of the absent Captain to follow his orders.

A sharp, narrow featured man of middling age, dressed in the resplendent robes of a Magister of Prosper announced arrogantly from his thick cushioned chair, the only one not standing at attention in the room, “It is Praetorian Triella now, your Grace. Her new position was ratified two weeks ago, and was only delivered into my hands this morning.”

The Baron did not shift, though his eyes narrowed as he stared out the window overlooking his city. He thought of his axe, though he said nothing.

“The Praetorian then, Magister, is missing with my men.” He granted, the temperature of the room dropping by a degree.

A massive human woman, red hair tied in a long bread, attired comfortably in plate armor spoke up without preamble, gauntleted fists clenched and pressing on the stone war room table, "The Praetorian Triella has not known defeat in her entire career. Are we here to believe that she was defeated by rabble and one rebel Battlemage?! An untested one, at that!"

The nearly snarling tone of his subordinate did not bother the Baron, who kept his honor guard for her ability with plate and arms rather than her social graces. Besides, she was drawing the Magister’s attention from her Lord to herself, distracting the man from the Baron’s obvious contempt, which he was having greater trouble hiding in recent weeks.

"Two days ago, Triella departed,” the Baron noted, intentionally omitting the Prosper granted title ascending her to the Merchant Lord’s private lapdog, “She took with her the greater part of my strength, to confirm the positions of reported malcontents abandoning duty and kin, spurred by rumor of the war's going ill and resentment towards our gracious Lords in Prosper. That supposed settlement was a bare half day's march from these walls, by best estimate. One full day of marching, and one full day to scout the surrounding forests." The Baron stated, the uninflected tone weighing heavily on the attendant crowd.

“The Praetorian is simply afield out of thoroughness, I am sure. Besides, there can be another detachment of soldiers spared from rallying points at a stroke of my pen. There is no reason to be concerned by a day’s delay.” Remonstrated the condescending voice of the Magister.

A wizened man in once lavish, now thoroughly ratty robes, who seemed almost totally dependent on remaining upright by virtue of being propped up by a metal staff holding an enormous spherical amethyst carved in countless glimmering facets, hocked loudly. The man drew eyes when he spat on the floor and cursed.

"Go touch Caecus! She took the entire mage cadre, the whole Choir, and my best student at its lead. If they are lost, then so too is the only Battle Mage detachment inside of a fortnight. The Golden Thrones will require sufficient explanation for this, or someone will hang from the walls." The old man croaked, his roughened voice that of a lifelong smoker's cough.

Murmurs spread throughout the room at that observation. It was, by now, well known that an attempt to assassinate the ancient enemy of Prosper, Bald'rt Iriel, had been ordered and had expended an incredible number of veteran Battle Mages, thinning the Empire's ability to support its frontier cities, which now relied almost entirely on the presence of the Magisters for magical talent. It was far less well known that evidence, in the form of evaporated regiments of soldiers, suggested that the Elf had survived the attempt. That he had not descended on them indicated that his potency was limited, but the very idea that the Golden Thrones had risked such a thing was unnerving. So too was the certainty that, sooner or later, the Blood Moon would rise over Prespang once again.

The Baron was hopeful that he would be dead long ere that enemy moved North to seek his vengeance. That eventuality might not be a concern if some force had made its way through the wilds unhindered and undiscovered, with strength enough to obliterate the troops he'd sent, all the mages with it, and not a single man alive to report the happening.

Reports were confused in recent weeks, ships had been lost and there was chaos in the Western city states. Something about a Beastkin uprising and ports being subjected to Wizard's fire. He had believed these rumors to be the result of ale sodden traders eager to run up prices, or, perhaps, the tall tales of deserters fleeing the catastrophic raid into Iriel some weeks ago, hoping to escape the rope with their excuses. Now, it seemed, he must entertain a different perspective on those whispered tidings.

A raised hand silenced the room immediately and the Baron took satisfaction from that. Small satisfaction, to be obeyed at a gesture was his right and their duty. Less would pull his displeasure down upon the undisciplined soldier. His displeasure was accompanied by pain enough to remind the entire populace of the price he extracted for failure to come to order. On occasion, he simply ordered the insubordinate peasant dragged to the walls, where he threw them a sword to affect some effort at survival, and then killed them in front of the city. His word was law and Baron Kistalfer was not one of those coddled pets who held their positions for the coin they generated his Liege Lords in Prosper. He was a warrior son of a warrior's son of a warrior's son, all steeped in the blood of Prespang's enemies. Enemies who knew that the men of his line did not use their voice in vain.

"Please, Geras, restrain your vulgarity in my presence. I value your advice and it would be harder to come by were you being treated for fresh lashes across your back." the Baron reminded gently.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The old man, High Mage of Kistalfer, chewed his cheek and briefly considered if he could turn the Baron to charcoal before the man crossed the room, that axe pulled from the wall. He gave it even odds. Those weren't the kind of probabilities that allowed him to grow old so he bowed slightly and held his tongue.

After another moment of contemplation, including whether or not Geras would choose to survive today, the Baron summarized the room's thoughts succinctly. He only wished he could find reason to send the Magister from this room so that he could speak openly his desires, without worry some objectionable detail would find its way to the ears of the powers that lorded over Prespang from afar. Powers that had displayed appalling incompetence and had wasted lives untold from Prespang's banners to launch a coward's trial against the Aes'r domestics. Among other horrors, if rumors were to be believed.

"We must needs expect the worst of our comrades' fate. What options do we have left to us?" He calmly asked of the room, almost as an afterthought.

Another man in light chain and scale mail with a silver hued metallic breastplate volunteered "The city guard stands at full readiness, three score."

The old man scoffed, which had the lightly armored man starting to argue on personal terms with the elderly magus' rude assessment.

"Enough!" Growled the plate wearing woman glaring alternately at the crude old man and the oblivious guard captain, "They are sixty light infantry worth perhaps a third of the combat potential of the force that was sent out of the city. Whatever slaughtered the Praetorian and her men would run through the city guard like a scythe through stalks of grain."

Nods went around the room gloomily, even from the guard captain. He was not a complete fool, just overeager to be of use to his Baron.

"The city guard has its part to play," Commented the ruler of Kistalfer, not bothering to say that role was keeping peasants in line, not fielding against a real enemy combatant, "We must turn elsewhere to see to our defense from outside the walls."

"To whom, Baron?" Asked another man with skepticism laid bare and no little anger.

The close-cropped hair, sprinkled with gray and trimmed beard denoted a man of military background, as did his firm posture, despite the right leg missing from the knee down.

"What is left of the men we have given to Prosper's armies? Perhaps one in ten that left their barracks to attempt the raid reported back to muster. And where now are those that had massed to march on the Legranel and the Melondi once the Deep Woods had had their welps killed like sheep?" He asked of the Magister assigned to Kistalfer.

The man's tone turned bitter as he waved a hand towards distant Prosper, answering his own question while the rest looked on, not entirely failing to hide their disdain for the reality being laid bare before them.

"I will tell you what you all know: Prosper serves Prosper, as always she does. The Golden Thrones use our men and women at arms to protect their own worthless hides, even while they send Magisters to breath down our necks, jerking tight the chains to remind who is the master." the salty old dog of war snarled, directing his grimace towards the robed man still in his chair, intentionally disrespecting the Lord of the City in so doing.

The seated Magister locked his eyes on the old Salt of a soldier. Such words treaded very close to opposition to his masters. This would be reported, there would be no tolerance of those who spoke treason, or even hinted at it.

The Baron knew that his veteran Sergeant was speaking truth, but it was a truth that did not serve his immediate interests, nor did it slay his enemies. That meant it was irrelevant. Prosper was to be obeyed, not because he was a loyalist, but because the Baron was a realist.

Even should the Orlethrem put pressure on the Empire, even if they, somehow, bent their forces upon the Gilded City and sacked it, the Merchant Lords would find a way to escape, would reassemble their power. And they would remember those who broke faith, who tested their hold upon Prespang. For almost five hundred years, the economic might of the great trade companies had bought their supremacy. Those who did not bend the knee found themselves without grain come the winter, and an army on their doorstep the next spring.

He would not be the one to end his line ruling Kistalfer, not even when the yoke grew heavy indeed to wear.

"The Gilded Thrones are a mountain I will not climb." Declared the Baron without hesitation, brooking no argument, "I would not have defied their will with all my forces at the ready and I will not with a bare fraction of it remaining! As my father and his father before him, I and Kistalfer stand in allegiance with Prosper and with the joined City States of Prespang."

The Baron's gloved hand clenched into a fist, warning his attendants that his patience was at an end, "Enough doomsaying! I do not stand here to listen to the frustration of my advisors, I stand waiting to hear what you assembled men and women will do in service to your lord and land."

The room subsided at the not so veiled threat. He would be forced to deal with the Magister's attempts to have his man executed at a later date. Once again, in spite of the gnawing in his belly at the consequences, Baron Kistalfer considered putting his axe through the preening maggot and his resplendent robes. Kistalfer had once been a free city, its people hardy and adventurous, and its lands held by their strength alone. He yearned for those days, more and more. But not yet. Not until he could be certain he didn't consign his people to the flames.

Chastened, the old warrior bowed low saying "Forgiveness, my Lord. It only rankles to have so little to offer in our cause. I can raise a levy from the township. They will not be fully armed or armored but I can empty the armory and have them able to wield bows from the walls, and spears at the gates. No matter what foe comes, the number will make up some little for their lack of skill."

Others stepped forward then, and the real discussion got under way for the coming defense of Kistalfer. When the hour had gone there was in place a plan of action to turn the great walled city into a thorny problem for whomever approached her with ill intent. The Baron found he could not be pleased at the results of this gathering, but he would settle for satisfied that it was the best that could be done. Come what may.

******************Kistalfer Forest, Midsunsrise************************************

"If I was a paranoid man, I'd think you tried to cripple me." Ulric mumbled towards his consort, who had been in a chipper mood all the morning.

She slapped his leg from her cross-legged seat on the blankets, enjoying how her slow to rise mate tried to hide from waking by huddling under the woolen covers. She'd wrung him dry, let him sleep for a few hours, then waked him to do it again. Then, when the Twins had barely cleared the horizon, she'd roused him to battle once more, this time not to rise again. Ehem. At least for a little while, he had claimed. She had plans to test his protestations and he was hoping she didn't injure herself in the doing.

"Many would take up the knife to have the chance to suffer such abuse, my husband." She reminded him, grinning at his worn out form.

She considered the rather impressively athletic doings of the last few hours with a glowing approval of her mate's attentions. Praise earned was due, she would not be thought uncharitable.

"I do not think so very many would have taken so long to admit their defeat, Ulric. We haven't gone so many times since that day in the deep cold outside of Trachn'ir. If the glow in my belly isn't reward enough for you, you may also have the honor of washing the bedding today, because we have made a wreckage of it in the doing." Taipan joked.

Ulric smiled beneath the blankets but he wouldn't let this man eater see it. She might get ideas and he was tapped out. He couldn't manage much more than a rather sedate big spoon at the moment. For a second he had to think about the odds that doing the laundry after boffing your wife senseless was actually some kind of Elf mark of high praise. He dismissed that after a bit however. The clue was that, if that were so, Bald'rt would have been a professional laundress and Ulric simply couldn't see the man standing out next to a wash line hanging sheets. No, much more likely that Taipan was just sassing him.

He flopped the blanket back to see her leering at him, which confirmed that she was, indeed, teasing him. Sighing hard, as if put upon, Ulric climbed free of the blankets and joined his Aes'r wife for a lovely breakfast of yesterday's bread and some stew reheated on the small coal bed inside their teepee. He had to admit, the bedding needed washed it definitely smelled like sex funk in there.

"I'm gonna have to start killing folk more often." He mused out loud, earning a light whack with a wooden spoon on the back of his head.

"Perish the thought, Glade Chief. I will not have you out risking yourself simply to have me waiting to devour you. If it be necessary, this Shadow will simply have to see to it that you find yourself in present condition more frequently." Taipan threatened smugly.

She started trailing a finger over his bare chest, tracing lightning scars.

"Oh no you don't, you succubus! How can you even still be ready to go, weren't you complaining about walking earlier this morning?" Ulric challenged, catching her hand before she got too absorbed.

"I can walk on my hands." The Elf said without any trace of shame.

"And I can eat with my feet, that doesn't mean either of us need to go around and do it! Besides, I'm pretty sure we're already going to have to suffer the attentions of the peanut gallery out there. You, uh, got a little loud last night." Ulric said, slightly proud and also a bit embarrassed.

Taipan's fuck yodels were, simultaneously, incredibly arousing and, when she got good and revved up, not particularly quiet. It got especially bad when she forgot herself and started giving directions, in precise and anatomically correct terms.

His commentary received a disdainful sniff and a wave of her hands, gesturing "Let them talk."

"My cousins have taken solace in their own games, besides, they have no room to complain when their Lord finds respite from his responsibilities."

"Fahh! I'm not Lord of these folk." Ulric denied, face scrunching up in disgust at the thought of having hundreds of people in his care forever, "Just giving them a hand until they can get back to their homes and back to their lives."

Taipan leaned over and cupped his chin, pityingly rubbing her cheek against his before she took his hair and roughly gripped it, holding him so she could stare into his confused gray eyes, her own emerald irises burning into him with her intensity.

"Ulric Einar, [Lord of the Ancient Glade], you are worms in the head. What did you think you were doing when you took the lives of these broken Elves into your care? They gave their honor, their allegiance unto you, and joined their cause to yours. These people are yours now. Forever. They will follow you, and their children will follow yours. You are their Lord now, and they the first vassals of your house." Taipan instructed, deadly serious.

Oh, fucking hell, Ulric cursed, he'd tripped across more weird Elf shit.