The walls of Kistalfer hadn't grown any shorter or thinner since last he'd spied them, the reluctant leader of what amounted to a homeless camp combined with a field hospital for POWs remarked to himself.
"It seems odd to be returning now, so soon after my decision to take my love from this place." Voiced Adept Brodin, with his love in her usual location, glued to his hip.
"Thanks to you, I am slave no more, dearest. Take heart! Our strange savior will find the way forward to a new life." Comforted the Leor woman, her distinct feline features and slitted pupils denoting her Beastkin heritage.
Ulric considered the catkin girl, so human except for those minor differences in the broad short nose, the ever so slightly large eyes, and a difference in the cheeks and chin that gave her a pantherine cast to her facial profile. To say nothing of the catlike ears and the long tail that flicked around behind her, originating just above the flare of her hips. The feline Jormund were among the more Human in appearance. In the dark, they could easily be mistaken for a normal man or woman, albeit one wearing a funny hat. Under daylight, of course, their heritage was obvious. Still more obvious though were those of the Lupid clans, their wolf muzzles and shaggier fur made them distinct. The Sauri, massive of frame and with theropodic features, including the reverse knees and suede hides, with a jaw lined in knife sized teeth, were clearly the most divergent stock.
Brighteyes and Taipan had both told stories of an ancient progenitor race, the one that had come before the Aes'r and Svartalfin, together known as the Children of the Heavens, and the Valin and Jormun, together known as the Children of the Earth, had diverged, at a time before even the Elves started keeping history. Everything from that time was known by tales of legend and the odd piece of evidence gathered by daring the dungeons, vast labyrinths guarded by monsters and traps, fueled by Magiteck synthetic cores by what Ulric could make of the descriptions. Within the depths of those places, which the Aes'r considered bastions of the [Ancients] to guard their legacy or perhaps what may have been their final resting places, a few relics gave hints to the nature of those gone long before.
Ulric was stalling, which was why he was wool gathering about genetic drift and fae tales of lost civilizations guarded by magical dungeons instead of leading his people through the gates that stood wide open, draw bridge lowered in welcome.
"Fuck." He whispered under his breath.
A brown, elegant, if thoroughly calloused from weapons wielded for decades, hand laid itself upon his shoulder.
"It will be fine, Glade Chief. There are rules for Guestright that not even a mongrel dog of Prespang would violate. Should they do so, all the thoughtful races would demand their lives for the sin. Just as they do for use of the Soul Poison." Taipan soothed, knowing that he was reluctant to put so many people at risk who he'd decided to keep care of.
"Besides, if they wanted to slaughter us, they would already have begun sleeting arrows and ballista bolts from top of the walls and we would not now be having this conversation." She reminded him cheerfully.
Always a little ray of the Twins' light was Taipan. However, she was in the right, and he needed to sack up.
"Is this what it's like for Bald'rt? Constantly having to judge and weigh the lives of an entire host of people that can't rightly defend themselves?" He asked her as they crossed the girthy timbers of the bridge into the great port city.
Taipan tittered at that notion before replying, "Of course not! The Iriel'en would live on without my family almost unchanged. Should we vanish, there would be a new Lord of Iriel within the week from the greater houses, after fierce competition to determine the worthiest. I can think of three who would be likely to claim the throne from the tip of my ears."
She ruffled his hair and reminded him, "It is only you that decided to adopt strays that could not keep themselves. Father would have ashed his enemies and broken the bonds of his cousins, but he would not have then lingered to offer his protection."
The Iriel'en daughter of her Elf Lord father did not smile when she said, "To be Bald'rt is to be mighty, but still mortal. Those with such power must be careful, lest they spread their wings too far and bring too much under them to be tended with justice. Even the Lord of the Deep Wood has limits."
No doubt his Lady Wife was remembering that her once seemingly invincible sire was greatly reduced from his former glory. The payment of that debt was part of why the two of them were together. Ulric had himself a debt for those same peoples and Taipan was very traditional in the fae sense of what should be done about the clearing of obligations. Especially obligations for vengeance.
"Should I have abandoned the Orlethrem on that hill?" He asked, not jokingly or sarcastic.
It seemed cold but Ulric was learning the rules on Varda and those rules were, frequently, much harsher than those of his old life.
"No, Ulric. Because you had strength to spare then, and still do now, you can bear the burden of a few lives in your wake. What you needed was an anchor within this world, something to give weight to your decisions, which tend to be made without consideration of what next or who might be affected, even lifetimes after later. It is a Valin thing to not consider the ripples of your actions upon the future." Taipan chided lightly.
That was a criticism he was more than willing to accept. It was one he'd levied against his own people frequently and he did not possess the arrogance to think himself free of the faults of his species. Humans were, at a basic level, narrowly focused on the now and the soon to be. Having these people tied to him did force him to consider things with a bit more foresight, a bit less selfishness. Is this how parenthood works?
He shelved that train of thought to make careful observation of the city into which he led three hundred trusting souls. There was a crowd out to greet them, but no cheers. No surprise there, they would be curious to see so many strangers and many who might be strangers now but were kinfolk but a short time ago. And lo! So many Elves, those of rumor, story, tales of heinous arts, devious battle, and cold beauty. It was a hell of a sight for the citizens of Kistalfer to take in.
The remaining garrison troops lined the main throughfare, their arms and armor polished to gleam in the evening light, golden light reflected from the Twins, who were nearly blocked by the towering walls of the city. Alongside them, at regular intervals, were the town guard, distinct by their uniforms and less overtly military gear. Where the garrison held long pikes, war swords, battle axes, and heavy plate and chain armor, the town guard wore leather jerkins, steel vambrace and shin guards, absent thigh plate or full helmet, only a skull cap to shield their noggins. They also carried short swords, light spears, or a variety of bludgeon, to mark their role as primarily thief chasers and keepers of the peace, rather than a strictly fighting force.
Ulric was slightly surprised at how few of the garrison troops remained, he estimated barely fifty. A good few of those had the young features and slightly uncomfortable posture of those but recently raised to full soldier status, still unused to their arms and armor. The Captain had well and truly fucked up leading those men out to be ambushed, failing the basics of field scouting and recon while in potentially hostile territory. They'd have been eaten alive by the Orlethrem, had Ulric's Elves been whole and hale.
"Do you notice, Ulric, how few of these warriors are competent?" His dusky Huntress asked quietly, just above the murmurs of the crowd, in her own tongue.
"This one does, Lass." Ulric confirmed, "Your art thinned their strength most substantially." He noted, referring to the poison gas that she had developed.
"It was intended to take warriors deep in their classes, or to bring down any more Greaters that we happened upon. That any of these soldiers survived it speaks highly of those Healers that gave their lives to keep their kin from death. I find no pleasure in what we have done in the name of keeping our kin alive. Perhaps they will learn to stop making war against us this time." Taipan agreed, with a bitter afternote.
The Elves did not love war, nor killing. But too many had thought that disposition a weakness to be exploited, and thus, the Iriel'en had become hard. Fire left the metal pliable to change. The hammer's strokes beat the weakness from it, cold forging it to unyielding prowess. He could not blame the Aes'r for adapting to the aggressions of their neighbors. Perhaps Prespang would indeed learn to stop making war against the Elves, absent Prosper's crop against their backs.
Any who, that was business for the future. Ulric was in a new place, with new peoples all around. His people watching instincts were on high alert, looking for signs of hostility, cultural cues, and any information that might be added to the catalogue of his knowledge of Vardan social structures.
As could be expected of a massive trade port, there was diversity in the makeup of the Kistalfin population. Very much so. Ulric saw more examples of the blended, not quite right ethnic groups of Valin that so jarred against his senses. The familiar races of Old Earth were almost not to be found; odd blends being observed in their place. There was a heavy sort of Mongolian bent to the Asiatics, whose eyes were narrower than the almond shaped eyes of the Elves and even more angularly tilted. These weren't as pale skinned as the prototypes of Earth though, they tended towards a more Indochinese or Pacific Islander hue. The dark colored folk he spotted appeared to have remarkably similar facial features to the Persian peoples of the Fertile Crescent but were ebon with straight platinum blond hair and blue or green eyes. Those of what he would have considered Euro-American were approximately normal, perhaps a bit favoring of an Italian or Spanish flavor to their features, although they were pale, milk white, which strongly contrasted their rich golden brown to black hair color.
In addition to the Valin there were a great many Jormun, mostly Leor, a smattering of Sauri, whose looming heights made them easily stand apart from the crowd, and a few clusters of blue pebble skinned Ogran, powerful, broad, and obviously given wider birth by the other citizens of the city. Ulric's two encounters with Ogran said that was a good idea, they were hell on wheels in a fight, and notoriously easy to goad into one. The Sauri here were wildly divergent in coloring, some pitch black, some nearly grey-white, others a mix of mottled greens and browns that would vanish into a forest setting, and one golden yellow that was distinctly possessed of tiger stripes. A few possessed feathered crests, but not many. Ulric wondered if the crests were something related to age, he didn't see any "young" looking therapodic men or women with one. Perhaps it was akin to Elves and beards, they didn't grow them until they were of great age.
It was almost too much to take in at once, there were tens of thousands of people hugging the great avenue through Kistalfer. Ulric hadn't ever been in the middle of such a gathering, had never had so many eyes on him, and he found that the attention made him want to climb into the nearest gutter and slither into the safe darkness of a sewer. Extreme, perhaps, but true, he had always hated crowds and this one was a friggin doozy.
As was usual, to keep his overactive mind from chewing on itself, Ulric put it to work observing minutia. Just now he was studying the fabrics and patterns of dress of this new City State. Where Bartala had enjoyed a more robe heavy style, the odd kilts or sari, with radical choice of flowing patterns and vibrant colors, the Kistalfin loved pants and long-sleeved shirts, bearing geometric interactions between blacks, reds, violets, whites, greens, and golds. Almost no other colors could be observed, and he had to wonder if they had trouble obtaining dyes or if there were rigid social meanings behind the colors. Interlocking squares, triangles, and circles made for an almost eyebleedingly complex backdrop given volume of humanity on display here.
Architecture was nearly identical to Bartala, very North-Middle Europe, perhaps a touch more Byzantine. That indicated a common period of founding, or maybe, just a well-entrenched architectural tradition. It might also be a result of defensive considerations, the buttresses and stonework would most certainly give these cities resistance to assault by flame, wind, water, and storm.
In a world where a single entity might be wielding flame, wind, water, and storm as weapons that was a good call.
Ulric's procession, and it was a procession, gods help him, continued down main street. For a man who had no love of crowds, being now the focus of a few thousand foreigners was intensely uncomfortable. He felt the chewing need to become invisible. If not for Taipan next to him being nonchalant about the entire thing he'd have probably started jogging, anything to get this over with. His anxiety about the situation was made worse when the draw bridge pulled up and the four-meter-tall heavy gates slid smoothly closed behind them.
Full commitment now. If anything went wrong, if the situation deteriorated, Ulric would have what history's soldiers described as one of the great horrors of war: a battle inside a populated city. Probably a short one, given that he and his people were already surrounded by the potential opposition.
"Stop it Ulric, your fidgity hands are making me nervous." Taipan commented from the side.
So much for hiding his discomfort.
Ulric clamped down on the nerves and stilled himself. Stay cool, stay frosty, nothing's wrong, all according to keikaku, he chanted to himself. Oddly enough, the ages old meme did somewhat relax him. This really was the plan. As bugfuck stupid as it seemed to him.
"Okay, Taipan, I've got it under control. Let's just get the hell through this crowd and figure out what it's going to cost to ship these people back to Orlethrem." Ulric told her resignedly.
Thus, shoring up his courage, the former hermit turned mage turned reluctant leader of men continued to permit himself to be escorted through a major metropolitan trade center under the eyes of its populace. Many were simply curious. Others hopeful, for some reason, their expectant gazes seeming to anticipate something. Not a few were less than welcoming. The worst were the families of the soldiers he'd killed though. Those knew the reason their loved ones would not return, and they cursed him, cursed his family, cursed everything he would ever touch.
Ulric would never blame them for that. They had every right to their pain. Had he to do it over though, those people would be just as dead. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know the outcome of a hundred-armed men led by a zealot stumbling over a more or less equal number of their ancestral foes, weakened and wounded, and far from home. There would have been a massacre. Did the Elves’ sorrow mean any less than these Prespangers?
That was the truth of warfare. Nobody really won, in the long run. The victors would, by necessity, be forced to sacrifice their decency to see the thing done. The losers would suffer the whims of their conquerors. It was a shit sandwich everybody had the fun of eating. Better to be the winner, of course, your sandwich had the mayonnaise of writing the rules after the fact to sweeten the deal. Which was why Ulric Einar was going to win, no matter how many jeers and crying families he created in the doing.
"Does it make me an awful person if I would kill every single one of these people, break their families and ruin their lives to keep you and these folk following me safe?" Ulric asked of his partner.
The former princess of the Iriel'en smiled at him and took his hand delicately, squeezing it as she told him "This is the truth of being a Lord. Your duty is to your own and, if any would put themselves under your blade, that is their own decision. They should be ready to accept the consequence or play not the games of war."
Hard, as usual. But comforting, nevertheless. Kindness was for those who either had no one for whom they were responsible or for the naïve, who knew not the cost of it to themselves or those who relied upon them.
"Just checking lass." He informed her.
A squeeze from the hand sculpted to hold knives and steady bow staves added reinforcement to his rocky nerves. So did the fact that she had resumed her scan of the surroundings. Despite her assurance that the base tenets of Vardan civilization would hold, she had not abandoned her vigilance. That was Taipan all over. She hadn't released his hand though, so at least they both needed something of the reassurance that, at the end of the day, they had each other to go through whatever needed going through. Which, right now, was a bit much.
Out of all the things that had changed since waking up in the middle of that ages old wood, that was the most unexpected one, to his thinking. He'd been ready to go it alone, again. Had expected to. Not doing was fine too, so he was learning.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
While the crowd pressed around, the architecture loomed high, and the paved stone clicked beneath his booted feet, Ulric Einar and company were granted passage through the fortification of the city. As one does, Ulric began to note that the signs of wealth, and was pleased to see that they were not so blatant here in this place, nor so drastically lacking in disparity between the most obviously affluent and the humble. In dramatic counterpoint to most of the largest trade centers he'd witnessed, the Legranal Moot aside, there were no ghettos within Kistalfer's walls. There hadn't been in the Iriel'en stronghold either, but Irielhos he wasn't really counting since it was more a castle keep than a city itself.
Ulric had to concede some mental props to Baron Kistalfer and crew once again. The Baron was running a tight ship and, to all appearances, tending well to his flock of Prespangers. No ghettos, no rundown pits of desperation to breed crime, no flaunting of limitless inheritable wealth. In other words, none of the signs of a broken, exploitative social compact. This here was good clean hereditary monarchy, practice guided by an attentive and sophisticated master.
Philosophers in the old, old world, that birthplace of the democratic concept had determined that the best form of government was a benign and educated dictatorship. A captain of the ship who commanded with absolute authority for the utmost good. Most of the time that idea mutated in the womb, whelping another self-aggrandizing god king who inflicted destitution and misery upon the populace, using their suffering as the bar for their greatness. Not here though. Perhaps he'd been too harsh in his estimations of Prespang. Perhaps there were some few holding power who knew their duty was to serve their people, for all that their people raised them up higher.
By the evidence presented in the coastal metropolis and its people, Ulric would be wrong to bring anarchy and chaos to this place. These people didn't deserve his animosity, however much they belonged to a larger entity that he had to see die.
"Taipan, we are not allowed to make war on these folk." Ulric decided aloud, audible only to the sharp eared woman beside him.
She turned an ironic look on him and knocked his house of cards down with a simple observation and a casual question.
"It is not yours alone to decide whether war comes between us, there are two sides to conflict. And what will you do if they choose to make war on you?"
Well, she had him there.
"Okay, so, we are not allowed to make war on these folk, unless they do something stupid, like try to molest or harm us harmless Gladekin. Then we fuck them up properly." He corrected.
"Better." Taipan informed him.
Yeah, just because this place was doing well for itself didn't make it untouchable. A good reminder. Hopefully, it never came to that. Ulric pinched himself viciously for trying to incur the wrath of the Irony Gods, who waited with their jinx mallets to rue his day for him.
On command, a scuffle broke out. Somebody had gotten the bright idea to charge one of the Elves with a dagger, shouting about their "Larrakan" or some such. The worthy was pinned swiftly to the ground by the escorting warriors, their offense, declared aloud tersely as "Impinging the Lordship's Peace", and summarily caned. Hard. They turned the man loose with bandages for his welts and a parting swat on his head, to remind him what would be taken should he take another sip of stupid with his ale.
Ulric's procession was delayed a mere five minutes and the crowd most certainly had lost some background notes of aggression. They knew their Lord's will now and would not test the men carrying it out. Very interesting. A tight ship indeed.
"I'm gonna have to take notes. This guy is clearly winning in the His Lordship category. Even if I'm prettier." Ulric remarked, once they were under way again.
Behind him, in the gravelly tone of the older wizard who'd failed to whack him with Zeus's spear, he heard "The Baron and his family have served Kistalfer for forty generations. Even before they held the scepter they were regarded as respected leaders of men, holders to Justice, and implacable enemies. I've watched that lad learn to rule this land since he had a tit in his mouth, and his Lord and Lady before him were just as much revered as he."
"High praise, from a guy who got himself sold off as blood price for attempted murder and insubordination." Ulric rebutted, for no real reason other than to razz the crotchety asshole.
A hacking cough was followed by a chuckle, but Ulric didn't look around to see. He was keeping his eyes forward and trying to be regal or some shit. Best not to let the peasants know you sweat. Which was a wild thought, given that he'd always considered himself a fine specimen of peasantry. Ahh, how Varda turns strangely betimes.
Clearing his throat loudly, Geras huffed, "It was best for both of us. I am a relic of his Lordship's father's council, too stubborn to kindly die off and leave the younger men unattended. Too often the Son took a path walked by the Father but not exactly in his footsteps and one like me is too set in ways to abide even small change quietly. Probably I bitched about leaving to watch my great grandchildren roll around on the ground while the Barony crumbles too often. Besides, Lord Kistalfer never much appreciated my sauce, or the ladle in which I damned well served it. Uptight tosser. I was considering retirement before ever I made the mistake of striking a Ceraun touched with his own strength."
Ulric was certain the old mage hadn't consciously intended to refer to his former liege as a "tosser", but decades of being a curmudgeon didn't disappear just because you'd gotten yourself exiled once or twice. They did a rather good job of informing others as to why one had been exiled, however. It was a long speech for the elder mage, and Ulric was starting to get a better bead on the man for it.
"I see." Ulric said, leaving out his opinions.
The geezer was hardliner, one of those types that any long running operation collected. Every engineering department had one like him. Ancient bastards that have been around since fish figured out how to evolve lungs and know everything there is to know about how things used to be. Forget that these were where most of your fine trade tricks lived, your techniques and methods and sheer awareness of what could go wrong born of decades of doing. They were irreplaceable parts of the working environment. They were also, mostly, sonsofbitches to work with.
"Are you too, too wise in your years to hear the wisdom of a mage sculpting power before your sire ruined a woman's life making you?" The mage challenged.
Way he'd heard it, Ulric's father had been cornered by his mother at the clan get together, her mother behind her, and commanded to get his skinny ass in that bedroom and make the babies before Oma does it herself. Those being the options, he wasn't sure that his Pops had, had much choice. She had done it to herself, really. Tangents, Ulric.
"I dunno," Ulric replied keeping his expression calm and determined as he tried to present a stolid exterior, "Does the wisdom of the ages include knowing when to keep your mouth shut before the exuberance of youth drags your dry bones out into the street to finish what time hasn't gotten around to doing?"
"…It does." The old man admitted after a moment.
It was good that they understood one another, Ulric reflected. He didn't know what it'd take to put the old goat into the ground, but he was willing to bet that there shouldn't be bystanders around when it happened. Still. They needed to know where they stood, especially stubborn fuckers like Geras.
"Then I see no reason why we will not enjoy a cordial working relationship. There is much I don't know about magics. For all that I have been attentive, there is only so much the best of teachers can do in half a year to educate a-"
Ulric was cut off by a choking sound behind, as if an indrawn breath had caught spittle, pulling saliva deep down into the trachea to induce sudden aspiration. Or so it sounded, he was still not looking around anymore than he could manage so as not to appear nervous.
"Half a year!?" Barked High Mage Geras, indignant.
"My best stroke, subsumed by a fucking infant! How do you even know how to weave threads of Ceraun, let alone hold an Awakened core!?" The bewildered magus trailed off, clearly incensed.
Good. Best thing for a wily old greybeard was to know they were outclassed by the new talent. Normally, they came on board to get a taste of what might be if they were at all in love with the craft by that time. Such was the way with the machinists, the programmers, and the organometallic chemists that he'd worked with.
He couldn't restrain heckling Geras a little, now that he knew he had a lever with which to move the man, "Of course, even without magic, your clumsy attempt at wielding lightning was easily deflected. A long copper rod and some metal wire would have done much the same thing. Granted, I couldn't have woven a Faraday cage in a few moments, magic does have incredible immediacy, but still, if that was supposed to be finesse, Gother Cenur'it would hand you all your asses, wrapped in ribbon and give a lecture on bark stripping while he did it."
There was a heavy pause behind him.
"You know of the Archmage of Iriel?" Geras asked, suddenly without any interest in japes or jibes.
It was Taipan who answered now, sparing Ulric the need to turn from his dignified scan of the slowly advancing procession.
"Honored Instructor Gother Cenur'it has long since excused himself from the circles of mages, and teaches our children instead. He took up the obligation for my partner's training when his original instructors had to prioritize their other duties, thanks to Prespang's actions on behalf of Prosper. If you face the Endless Grove's legacy it is your own faults."
More choking arose from behind him.
"I knew it!" Shouted the man, without care for his appearance to the people around, "I knew I smelled that bearded Elf's weaving!"
Grousing away, as was his semi-permanent state of being, the former High Mage of Kistalfer bitched steadily, terminating in a pointedly directed complaint, "…Eat my working like a grilled bass…Lad, I do hope you have some appreciation that a legend thought either dead or in seclusion has lent you talents revered for nearly five hundred years in the craft. A priceless gift. Wasted on a barbarian ruffian."
The accusation was not entirely uncalled for. Ulric was, for all intents and purposes, a neophyte in the arts magical. Extensive background in applied physics and chemistry were doing some heavy lifting in his use of the arcane.
"Technically, I earned the aforementioned talents of Master Cenur'it, when I saved the youngest child of the Iriel'en King from the butchers sent under cover of an artifact's cloaking to kidnap him." Ulric informed his new senior staffer in arcane horseshit.
"Maybe stop pushing the Elves into corners every couple of hundred years and they'll stop having to massacre you idiots or teach people like me their ways to help improve our own breed." Ulric thought to himself.
He quite deliberately did not share this last with the mage, because he'd rustled the geezer up enough and he needed to save ammunition to lay into the sourpuss again later when he'd gotten cocky or too aggravating. There was an art to baiting people, too much at once and it lost its impact and Ulric was a master in the field of baiting.
Ehem. Phrasing. Once again.
Just like that, the wide thoroughfare saw an end to the side streets, alleys, pavilions, and other nooks that cities seemed to possess that allowed them to fold up in to mazes of life, labyrinths that swallowed great masses of humanity, creating ecosystems within the urbanity that defied attempts to catalogue them all. As the corridors of trade and traffic vanished, so too did the surround of the crowd, lapping now like waves against the encircling escort, unwilling to relinquish their view of the panoply of wounded and maimed Elves, former countrymen, and the strange, armored man who led them alongside the sylvan goddess of hunting at his side.
Or so Ulric liked to think of her when she wasn't ribbing him too ferociously.
The Keep, viewed from afar on that hilltop distant was a gray stoned declaration that those who lived in its shadow were subservient to its master's desire. No doubt whatsoever, with those battlements, murder holes, and rearing towers that nothing happened that the crowned being who looked out from its heights did not decree. Whoever did the architecture could have given cathedral builders tips in buttresses and fine stonework. The keep loomed every iota three hundred meters high, a clear symbol within Kistalfer and without.
Varda was nothing if not full up with monuments of power and glory. The Deep Wood Elves had their Irielhos. The Merchant Lords had their iron walled Citadel City Prosper. The Legranel had their more subtle but no less impressive plain.
Any who thought its defenses lacking, for the lack of walls, was a fool. Unless you could fly, no force was ever going to find its way all the long way through that grassy vista. Not while the Herdriders saw to it nothing that could be eaten would be found, nothing that could be drink would be safely drank, and, perhaps the grass would be brought to blazing life, a conflagration sent with agreeable wind to teach invaders the errors of their ways. Naïve adventurer that he had been he had lost himself on the plains long enough to come to understand the devious nature of the Legranel Elves' "castle".
Alas, the silver haired Reforged's wandering thoughts were now required to serve him again against that Prespang Lord of Kistalfer. This time in the heart of his power. The Baron had convinced Ulric that he was a fair man. Fair didn't mean Ulric didn't want to spend any longer in this place than necessary.
Get the Elves in his care to safety and be on his way to Prosper, that was and is the plan, the reluctant leader of peoples reminded himself.
The honor guard melted away, their duty complete. The soldiery now standing around looking like Serious Business were what remained of the hard core of fighting power left to Kistalfer. As might be surmised from recent history, those were not well pleased to be looking upon those responsible for the thinning of their ranks. Tough shit don't go to war if you don't like eating its leavings the aggravated former engineer thought.
"Nice welcome you made for us, Baron Kistalfer. A better show of hospitality than our first meeting, I must admit. And a fine city, I applaud your governance." the Lord of the Ancient Glade began, stealing initiative from the dignified Lord of Kistalfer.
That was a pro tip from Taipan, given from her experience in dealings with the Great Houses and the jostling that went on amongst the movers and shakers. Sometimes deliberate rudeness was a way to establish one's own power, if not taken to the extent of insult, where a challenge could be made to remedy an overstep. Bald'rt and his second wife Shor were notorious in their maneuverings to bring distasteful visitors over the cusp of such, allowing them to remove the more loathsome visitors, those that were otherwise untouchable due to the obligations of Guestright.
By couching his technical violation of conduct in praise for the Baron he'd taken the teeth from any complaint the dark-haired man might make without seeming petty. It was a reminder that Uric wasn't one of the Baron's normal supplicants, cronies, or some merchant there to barter trade rights. Wrapped in the forged and shaped bones of an ancient terror, a blade of peerless magical metallurgy on his back, and filled with power innate to his Ceraunic core, Ulric was an independent power, with enough strength to own the ground beneath his feet. In most company, anyway.
The message was taken begrudgingly, a thinning of lips but no more marking the Baron's dissatisfaction at being headed off from having the honor of first word. Small scale prick waving, but necessary prick waving. Things worked differently at this level of social ladders. Oh, the things Ulric had been forced by his loving Elfen princess's insistence to learn.
"It is good that you find my lands to your liking. Seeing as how you have seen fit to build upon their outskirts absent my writ." The Baron raised a gauntleted hand to forestall any protest, "But that is ground trodden to mud, come, you and your mate may walk with me to discuss our terms for departure. Your people may find their comfort here in the lower levels of the keep."
Hawkish eyes roved briefly over the motley crew behind the two leaders of glade folk before returning to them.
"So many bear great injury." Baron Kistalfer noted aloud, not without some compassion in his tone, "You led these in this condition across the wilderness? Surely not across the highlands."
"The highlands is where I freed them from the crimes being committed upon their dignities and persons. We came this way because it was the only seaport I haven't burned inside a month's journey by land." Ulric returned.
His time being a pirate and magical mangonel flinging [Stormfire] into ports was not regretted, even if it was, perhaps, a bit of him allowing his temper and that nagging bestial destroyer in his head to lead him down a more aggressive road than was wise. Wise or not, it had shaken Prosper's control of Prespang and that was exactly worth it.
Turning aside, a raised hand summoned a robed man to the Baron's side immediately.
Baritone laden with authority rang out, unmistakable, "My guests have injured amongst them. Use what arts are among you to ease their sufferings. War has been made, between us all, but these are here in the name of peace and alliance against an evil too long allowed to walk among the peoples of Prespang. I have excised a rot and will see more burned out in due time. These people are not my enemies, not any longer."
Goddamn. Right off the top of his head? Why couldn't Ulric make speeches like that?
"Probably because you're a professional geek engineer and a wanna be bush mage hermit, not a fucking trained from birth Duke of Cool or whatever." He told himself.
It was some consolation that he was getting better at dealing with people, given Taipan's tutoring and the practice of being forced to take care of the Elves.
"You should indeed be noting the ease with which our host bears the mantle of rule and emulate his carriage." Whispered Taipan at his side.
"I'm scribbling the mysterious workings of Noblesse Oblige in my think meat even as I hear them." Ulric retorted quietly into her long ear.
Just for good measure he blew gently on it which made her twitch not a small amount and look around in brief panic before flashing her teeth at him. He wasn't certain yet whether it was a smile or promise of vengeance.
When none nearby seemed to notice their little byplay the tall, lithe vixen brushed her hip against him to let him know his attentions were not unwelcome. They were both under pressure and something to lighten the feeling of holding up an entire people was welcome, or so had been the idea guiding the impulse to tease his partner in public. It was, fortunately, easy to lose himself in the sight of her, the exotic smell of her, and the general Taipan-ness of the Iriel'en woman.
"Ehem. This way, Lord of the Ancient Glade. If you and your consort don't need a brief privacy first." Commented the Baron lightly.
Ah. Yeah. He must have spent longer than he'd intended. Game face.
He smiled roguishly beneath his scruffy dark beard and shrugged, the gesture exaggerated by the pauldrons of his armor, before leading Taipan forward, the pair still not releasing their enjoined hands.
"My pardon, Baron, it has been long weeks on the road. The comfort of your hall reminds me of calmer days. My thanks, again, for the hospitality of your home." Ulric apologized, not wanting to slight or demean the man who'd just offered to help treat his wards.
According to his way of thinking, the Baron had just put him in debt, offering aid for those poor Elves, black hearted jackals that they were.
Surprisingly, the Baron nodded in understanding, "The challenges of the field take their toll, especially amidst hostile territories with many wounded. It weighs heavy, the circlet betimes."
Unexpected humanity detected, antisocial systems crashing. It shouldn't have been unexpected, just about everything Ulric was learning about this young Lord pointed to a man who was doing his utmost to lead his kin and kith to prosperity. The real kind, not the ghost of it Prosper liked to use to haunt people into willing servitude.
Leadership was, so far as he could determine, in large part sharing the pain of your people without joining them in their suffering. Understanding it and dipping your hands into it to know its origins, that you might relive it. An effective general and feudal ruler was something like a battlefield surgeon. The harsh realities were that you weren't going to save everyone, but you were going to damned well get red to the elbows trying, and the decisions you made in so doing weren't always going to earn you friends, even where they were the correct ones. People saw dispassionate logic as uncaring, which wasn't true, but couldn't really be helped. It was what it was. The King couldn't afford to be seen as too compassionate or some dick hat would think that to be weakness. A façade of callous unflappability forced those sinister elements to stay conservative, to always be guessing, unable to find obvious weaknesses to exploit.
Per usual, Ulric's thoughts drifted to the counterpoint: Bald'rt Iriel, Lord of the Deep Wood. That one flittered from casual to coldly calculating, to flamboyantly uncaring of consequence. He was a storm, a summer breeze, and winter's heart all in one. Where the Baron of Kistalfer had to carefully cultivate a persona of rule, to instill steadiness of rule under his power, Bald'rt simply was and everyone knew that they stood far, far below. Power absolute operated under different rules.
Would Ulric be so apparently carefree if he ever mastered his powers and found himself in that highest echelon of magic, the arch magi? Maybe. Now the hard part: living that long.
These musings kept him occupied while they climbed about a hundred thousand stairs. Unlike the Elves, there was no great lift to traverse the height of the Keep's upper reaches. You just had to have godlike cardio and legs that didn't quit.
"Tell me you don't actually live up here and walk these stairs all of the time." Ulric finally conceded defeat.
He just had to fucking know.
A rare gout of laughter escaped the Baron, echoing down the long staircase, off the thick wood of the doors at each level.
"My apartments reside on the fourth level. This tower is a last redoubt should Kistalfer's citizens need a refuge. It has come to that only thrice in our history, and never since the outer walls were consolidated. Still, ceremony is important, as are symbols. Official functions between Lords are conducted from the topmost level to remind we who rule the scale of our decisions. And to exhaust our lessers into poor decision making for negotiation purposes. You aren't winded, are you Ulric?"
That teasing jest at the end solidified Ulric's reluctant liking for the Baron Kistalfer. This here was a man. He really hoped he never had to try to kill him, it would be a tragedy for a whole variety of reasons. Foremost being, the only recently tempered Ulric wasn't exactly certain he could pull it off, not from close range.
"I'll have you know, Baron, that I regularly climbed taller trees in my glade for the sport of shooting game from under the waiting claws of terrors that would have your troops soiling themselves. This is a refreshing exercise to warm the blood before our discussions." Ulric rejoined.
It wasn't a lie, the towering arbors around the glade were half a kilometer and more. He'd spent many a morning free climbing to get to a safe hunting vantage.
A single dark eyebrow raised at that sally, "For soothe? This glade of yours, I am deeply curious about it now. Since our first meeting I found none with knowledge on it. Not one who had seen it, heard of it, nor read a map of anything that could be recognized as such. It is not every day that one recognized by Varda's will appears. Would your glade happen to reside on that plateau haunted by a horror beast to the South?"
Oops. Well, not like Ulric was exactly hiding, not anymore.
"That's the one, aye." He confirmed with a slight nod.
"And the horror beast?" Kistalfer asked.
"Dead. I ended the poor creature with my own hands. I regret that, it was the last of its kind, but it was dying, mad, and starving, and, I think, death was a gift to end centuries of suffering." Ulric said, granting the Baron his thoughts on the matter.
Ulric did not talk often of the [Forest Lord], as important, even pivotal as his encounter with the creature was. Without the benison of its body, he probably would have died of starvation in the [Forest of the Forgotten]. It wasn't until a few weeks after the creature was dead that beasts started to return to the Plateau. Until then, a green desert was the place, and he wouldn't have walked his way out of it in time to avoid hard times, finding himself too weak to survive the other critters that crawled across Varda's surface. Like Taipans. So, with the creature's corpse for food and materials, Ulric had prospered. He'd also taken the first step towards ownership of the glade, although he hadn't known that at the time.
Both men observed a small moment of silence. There was something tragic in the loss of a great beast of the wilds. A majesty to be respected, even where termination was necessary. So it was for all those who lived by killing. Honor to the fallen, for you and they are not so different, and you will one day be they. For a man raised in a world without wilderness it was odd, to say the least. That was one of the reasons that Iriel'en grief was so alien to Ulric. They didn't lament a death the way he did. For them, it was natural to end abruptly and, mostly, in violence, becoming food for the forest, part of the ever-looping chain of energy. The Deep Wood was a hard place, cultivating a hard people. Gardeners they were at heart, but not soft. Never that.