Something about a great big hearth fire burning, with wood furniture that required a crane to move, and a table arrayed with five types of roast animal flesh puts a man in a mood to drink beer.
So it was for the Baron of Kistalfer, that worthy finding the bottom of a stone Steiner for the second time. Servants had brought in and tapped a keg of the finest, not long after Ulric had been convinced to shed his armor, and don lounging clothes. The first son of Kistalfer was wearing a resplendent deep gray silk shirt, laces done properly but with the collar untied, a staggering show of untidiness from the young ruler. Loose, bone white, flaxen slacks were tucked into knee high black boots that had been polished to mirror finish. By the man's own hand, Ulric was absolutely certain of it.
For himself, he wore the only travel robe that wasn't a blood spattered wreck of fabric. That is to say, the one he deliberately tried to shield from the worst of the road's depredations. His sturdy canvas slacks were just about beyond salvage and there was nothing to be done for it, the others were gone, torn by monsters and exertions. Taipan was almost entirely accoutered in her Hunter's garb, heavy coat hung from a tall cloak draped rack in the corner of the room, Blinder, her bow, propped strung thereby. Her clothes were ragged from being battered about and roving through dense bush on her way across Orlethrem and Prespang, but they were, at least, relatively clean.
Put together, he and his long eared partner were pulling down property values in the Baron's diplomacy room, if not for the fact that she was perfection of womanhood and he was, while not so pretty, about as healthy a specimen of Valin as could be found. They made for an earthy counter point to the refinement of dress and bearing of Tras Kistalfer, though that man was growing more mellow over the swapping of tales of his forebears in exchange for Ulric's recounting of his travels across most of two empires, one Aesir, one Valin.
Ulric, in the spirit of being a proper guest, was sipping the head off his second mug, having just concluded the story of the [Mind Worm]. He was going slow on the booze, it wouldn't do to get sloppy over small talk. Proper rude that. Sitting here, enjoying the first catered meal since leaving Bartala, he was able to lower his alert status a few notches, and just take in the scenery. Wall hangings were embroidered in scenes of battle and the hunt. Those ranged from the purely mundane, a man on a bold looking stallion, depicted as riding with spear to hunt a stag, to the fantastic, a knight in armor, great mace lit with flame, the knight's enemies scattered before otherworldly power. Tapestries aside, the few embellishments in the rather stark, if cozy meeting room included armor sets, mostly dented, scraped, and showing the signs of their use. A many times notched great sword was mounted over the mantle of the hearth, it's metal seemed to drink in the heat of the fire below it, giving it a soft orange fairie fire.
While his eyes roamed the room, the too smooth walls, seamless joinery of stone indicating its magical sculpting rather than the art of mason's chisels, he was struck by the marriage of the fantastic to the utilitarian. Handwoven tapestries, tables joined by clever cuts with a fine toothed saw and an eye for millimeters, glass of dubious clarity, blown from the sands of the surrounding coastal beaches all quite at home in the castles of old Scotland, or perhaps, the duchies guarding the coastlines or riverways of the Danes of old. How much of the modern world he'd come from would, to these peoples seem just as magical? An interesting perspective, that.
On the back burner of his brain, prompted by the archaic, if comfortable surroundings, the fine meal, and better beer, Ulric thought he had a bead on that vitality stat, after all this time. It was definitely a measure of physical robustness, but more, it also possessed an element of magical reinforcement. The higher the vitality the greater the durability and resilience of a body and also the more their core naturally supported them to resist being harmed. That included resistance to toxins, of which booze was a notable example. As the Baron was fair impressively demonstrating.
Elves did not natively possess a particularly high constitution, but they did have an incredibly efficient alcohol metabolism. Probably something to do with their genealogy being steeped in harvesters and cultivators of lethally poisonous plants and surrounded by a host of venomous beasties. Low tolerance to biological agents would have been a fierce selective pressure. It seemed the Jormun and Valin were significantly tougher in general however, they took a bit more of a beating to keep down compared to the finer framed Aesir and Svartalfin. Those that weren't wrapped in artifact armor or genetic freaks like Taipan. So. Another example of the potentially hands on guided evolution in some cases, but a distinctly magical imbuement in others. All woven together seamlessly to create the fabric of this odd world.
Bitter beer quaffed with a deeply contented "Haaaahg", the Baron of Kistalfer was ready to get down to business. He set his heavy mug down softly on the low table that had been pulled close to the hearth. There had to be some kind of custom or cultural implication to that, it was late spring moving unto summer and no chill needed denying by the practice. Whatever importance the gesture held, he would remain ignorant, the Baron was directing a most assuredly sober consideration on the Valin-Aesir pair sitting across from him.
"So then. It would seem that I owe the both of you a boon. That curse, woven into my brooch, was replicated on no fewer than six other traditional items of official duty. These are treasured pieces of noble office, worn or carried according to circumstance almost daily. It is a wonder any who held a Barony within Prespang managed to fight their suggestion to attempt revolt." Spoke Kistalfer, with no little suppressed rage on the matter.
Who would have dared, against that kind of…insidious anxiety and growing terror? Men and women who had tremendous will, nigh unbreakable. Or balls that dragged the ground behind them. Maybe both.
Ulric raised his mug in salute, "To the return to sanity of all of the City-States then. And a hope that they rally to drive Prosper's robed mind slavers from their lands."
That merited a refill of mug and a joined toast.
"If not for the worm eaten mind of mine mate, whose unending wanderings take him down shadowed paths few even consider to tread, what would be the fate of Kistalfer, Baron of Prespang?" Taipan asked, when all had lowered their drinks.
Eyes narrowed and mouth twisted, tasting a vile turn of mind.
"I suspect that I would have harbored a growing paranoia until it drove me to madness." The man answered with candor.
This was without a doubt a matter that weighed heavily on their host.
"Already I was beginning to see the signs that heralded similar turns in other lords before me. My father died before his will failed him. It would seem that the circlet was made heavier than necessary, the hearts of those who bore those tainted artifacts broken by their whisperings." He continued, with a sad shake of his head.
Intense eyes stared out from beneath a furrowed brow as the Baron told the two strangers who had, in spite of the blood between them, nevertheless done their enemy a kindness, "The man who held the name Kistalfer before my family, some three hundred years gone, a line six generations deep of mighty warriors and strong-hearted patriots, took his entire family and all who would follow and strode from these walls into the wilds, never to be heard from until they were raiding trade routes as a Barbarian tribe. No offense intended to your kinfolk, Lord of the Glade."
Taipan and he shared nonplussed looks. So. That was how the outer reaches had been populated. Not random chance but by the resistance of a few potent souls to the influence of the charms on them. They'd abandoned everything, rather than be subservient to a master they did not deem worthy of following. The brave rebelled, the cowards led armies to crush them and a more pliable replacement found, where possible. It was another example of cruel calculus designed to suppress the peoples of Prespang.
"I'll call any debt between us square if only you'll turn your men aside from conflict with Orlethrem. Not even your sword, or axe, rather, against Prosper would I ask. I've got a vendetta against the Golden Thrones that I'll see to its end and not having to cut my way through good men and women, acting under false auspices, to get to them is all I want." Ulric summarized his desires succinctly.
A nod of agreement from Taipan confirmed their position, but she felt it necessary to clarify her people's angle.
"Crown Lumyt'seit of Iriel has a debt of blood to settle with Prosper. There are smaller matters of obligation that those who followed the stringing of their puppet masters will needs be redressed, but, above all, it is the will of the Orlethrem that the Golden Thrones do not survive their transgressions. They have made and used the Bane against my kin. We will not permit any to stand in the way of justice for that evil. Root, stem, nut and flower, we will reap those responsible from Varda's surface."
Pretty black and white, if he had to say so. The Elves were done mucking about, especially since it was the son of the one who had been nearly assassinated by the species poison calling the shots. Brighteyes hadn't been in a forgiving spirit, last Ulric had seen the lad.
A calloused hand, grown strong holding the hilt of weapons since boyhood thudded down on the table, the Baron agreeing in principle with that stance.
"It must be so!" The dark haired man declared without hesitation, "Be it Aesir, Valin, or whoever, there are lines that must not ever be crossed with impunity. Bane is the work of the Abyssals upon Varda, their scheming cannot be left unchecked or doom upon us all."
Abyssals? Ho now, Ulric's attention was completely fixated on every word uttered. He'd first heard about the time demons from the Watcher, in that oh so brief meeting with the creature that had pulled him dying from his old life and tossed him into this one. They had come up only infrequently since, and never to the good. According to all that had crossed his hearing, the things more or less existed to try to undo creation, to turn everything to chaotic entropy.
"Is there a way to detect directly these beings? To use the aether to sniff them out, so that their workings can be eradicated?" the White haired once upon a time scientist inquired.
Most energies left signatures that could be detected. His mana sense was sharp enough now to resolve minor fluctuations, to distinguish between flavors of magic. There were as many variations of fire as there were octaves of the note "C". Different magics harmonized more or less strongly with these varying resonant modes, cores and wills shaping the mana in different ways, depending on the mastery and wisdom of the adept. His Elementalist class growth had granted Ulric subtle but profound insights into the nature of the various manaforms. Shame he didn't have the training and background to really abuse what his abilities were able to reveal to him. Even so, if he could ever get the opportunity to "feel" whatever these Abyssals had to do to re-enter the timestream, he could probably figure out a way to trace them. He'd taught himself to see electromagnetic images on his skin for fuck's sake, it couldn't be that hard to find a monster that didn't even belong on this plane of existence.
Kistalfer enjoyed a chuckle at that idea but shook his head in denial, "None that any wielder of the art has ever spoken of in my hearing. Few enough even are willing to discuss the abominations that haunt the river Time. Most think them ghost stories for the disturbing of children's sleep. Those who know better mostly hope and pray to the Watcher for providence against the things." He explained.
"Geras used to lay all the evils of the land upon the actions of the Abyssals. This failed harvest is demon touched, that kraken attack on a trade ship and its escort was demon touched. That sort of thing. We mostly assigned it to the colic the man was born with and refused to outgrow." Baron Kistalfer told them, scoffing somewhat but now his expression was seeded with doubt.
The normally reserved man was showing more emotion these past few minutes than at any time before. Maybe he was feeling the booze after all.
Taipan, from a people whose archives stretched much farther back than those of the Valin, courtesy of their longer lives and reduced generational entropy, provided the Elven perspective, saying with assurance, "The Entropic demons carry no magic with them."
The daughter of Bald'rt would tell you to your face that she held only the scarcest interest in the mage arts. She made no bones about preferring the lore of beasts, wild places, and the skills to efficiently kill the former in the latter. This topic though was central to the Aesir, they were grove tenders, and the Abyssals had a place in their culture as a blight that appeared to spread disaster. Hence she was forthcoming about what she knew on the matter, even in the presence of the Valin, her odd companion aside.
"They are outside Varda's flows and cannot touch them, not with the Watcher's vigilance holding the world laws in place. What they may do, however, is impart their timeless knowledge to a mortal agent, using a vessel to touch the land by proxy. These Void touched are only known to be Abyssal tainted if they are slain: their souls evaporate, rather than rejoin Varda's flow." Taipan informed the room.
Prior to his reforging, Ulric wouldn't have put much stock in fairy tales involving souls. He was, however, undoubtedly transported across realms of time and space, and, potentially, reality. His body hadn't crossed those impossible dimensions, but here he was. What other explanation than there was a more fundamental mode to what constituted a person that may or may not be a soul? He was agnostic, not a moron. Evidence had to be used to model reality or you were just living a convenient delusion.
Ulric's scars and the torrent of lightning magic in his core were as much evidence and more for a reasonable man to withhold any firm judgements on the matters of spooks, haunts, spirits, and god things. The dark did indeed go bump out here on Varda. Even a stout heart should steel itself before taking a peak to see the cause. Images of a flailing set of orange red tentacles, burrowing themselves into a monster's corpse to animate it into a flesh golem flittered through the Reforged man's memory.
"Am I losing the thread, or is there a suggestion that these Abyssals are somehow related to our present circumstances?" the fledgling Vardan asked, trying to pull the pieces of the conversation and his incomplete understanding together.
Both his mate and the man with whom they were treating focused their attention on him, staring with expressions that held some degree of realization.
"The artifacts…Abyssal workings?" Whispered Kistalfer, his hand going to the place the brooch had hung, feeling for the source of long years of compelled fear of disloyalty.
The Baron's visage went distant, his thoughts angling down possibilities unaccounted for, battles fought that had not needed fought, enemies slain who might have been friends, a land that knew no peace, in spite of the seemingly endless wealth that flowed through it. All spiraling inevitably towards the fires of continental war. And the chaos that followed. Just the sort of notes the neverborn played, joined to a song of annihilation that they hoped would cover the world.
Smiling sharply, Taipan warmly announced, "This is why I keep you around Glade Chief, twisty thoughts that pierce through the fog to find hidden truths. That and your shoulders. And those hands. And-"
"So nice to be appreciated!" Ulric squawked hurriedly, before she got specific about other anatomy or what they did with them.
Blasted She-Elf. They were conducting high stakes diplomacy here! Speaking their minds on the fate of a continent. He'd have to smash her thoroughly later for disciplinary purposes. Nothing to do with the smoky gaze being leveled at him or the smallest push of that bosom, the alters of his pagan worship, in his general direction.
The ridiculous flirting did have the effect, probably intended, of brushing Baron Cool over there out of his funk. Had she stopped there, he'd have said his Elf was learning tact, or at least, applying it instead of goading him.
"Isn't it?" Taipan echoed innocently, the lilt to her tone making clear she was taking the piss while she daintily sliced up something that had been approximately avian. Her assault on his dignity continued when she tried to feed him the little chunks, but he bore it with grace, refusing to permit the Baron or the body guard woman behind him from seeing his-
Ulric flinched, driving a smear of grease up one cheek when he realized that the huge armored woman that had been present at their initial meeting was there in the room, having silently joined them sometime. How the fuck do these people do that in armor, he wondered, fending Taipan and her Maybe-Turkey breast off. At least he hadn't yelped, the surprise had been too complete.
His notice of the big lass didn't go unnoticed itself, by the amused and not a little smug tilt to her expression. That turned to outright grinning as he napkinned off the meat sauce from his face. The dusky Elf beauty next to him still wasn't satisfied that he had suffered enough and offered the mild suggestion that if he felt he needed greased to fit into his helmet she'd have to stop feeding him.
"If you are done playing your jest with my guests, please, join us Miria. The game was taken earlier this morning and I've broached one of the better kegs for this occasion. It has been long since we have sat this table in peace." Tras Kistalfer offered, indicating a seat to his right.
"I should remain on guard, Baron, to serve-"
"Sit to my right and eat, you make me nervous with your staring while I dine and make merry." Commanded her liege, not without humor.
"Very Well, my Lord. If that is your wish." Miria the Buster Sword wielding knight conceded, going to her Baron's side and evidently pleased to do so, in spite of her earlier protest.
Once settled, they made a handsome sight, the dark featured man and the impressive woman. There were none in the room but they the four, a stray, battered soul taken in by a mysterious Watcher, a wild creature stuffed into lush Elf skin, a man who, in the past of Ulric's world would have been a king, and a giantess who seemed contented to serve at her master's side, her blade made for cutting polar bears in half leaning propped against the table. Somehow, Ulric seemed to pull in odd one's like a magnet drew iron filings.
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The heaviness of just a few minutes ago had evaporated, alcohol on a table top, carried away by cheerfulness and careful maneuvering by his sometimes subtle wife.
"Spooky time demons aside, I think it time we decide what arrangements be made for my taking the Orlethrem, and former Prespangers, too, I suppose, out from hazard's way. I seek ships, fairly purchased, crewed only by those captains and sailors willing, to make the passage down the Zelas to safe harbors. From there, they will be guided away from the battle lines to such safety as my connections with Iriel's Crown can provide." Ulric said, bringing the affairs of state back to the fore.
His offer was plain and held no hidden intentions. In spite of all that had happened these past few weeks, the plan was the same: Go to Prosper and end the Merchant Lords. Single minded pursuit of a sole objective was one of Ulric Einar's strong suits. Prespang had done nothing to diminish his focus. On the contrary, having seen the extent to which the people of Prespang had been repressed, made less, his determination had only solidified.
Varda needed a course correction, this part of it did, anyhow. He had no doubt that Taipan's kin would see a sea change in the relations between the Elves and the other races, hopefully without too much bloodshed from the Aesir or the poor schmucks that had been gaslit into buying into Prosper's imperialism. Brighteyes' plans to completely reorganize trade routes across Aesvartheim, bypassing and blockading Prosper's chokehold on the Zelas and Vatyn, creating independent sea routes and, eventually, making the Merchant Lords' power base irrelevant were well considered. They were also, as might be suspected of the race that lived for centuries, long in the doing.
Ulric wasn't going to wait. He probably couldn't stop Taipan from heading out on her own if he tried.
Steepled fingers raised to cover most of the stern, if not so emotionless features, indicated that Kistalfer's ruler was still considering the matter.
"I am in agreement, in principle. But the price is not coin. What I want, what Kistalfer needs, now, is allies. You will have four ships to carry your people, two to remain in your possession, two to return to my port, bearing writ signed by the Crown of Orlethrem and the Lords of Elves that declares Kistalfer independent and recognized to be no part of Prosper's Empire, with no debt of honor or blood between our kith and kin, henceforth. I would have an end to senseless wars and I have not the stomach to send what remains of Kistalfer's sons of honor to die on foreign soil, for no good cause." The Baron announced, resolute.
"It is enough. Has been enough, for too long. The robes of a Magister, wearing what remains of their owner, now marks my city outside the Golden Throne's law. There will be consequences. So close, Prosper will not sit idly while a fortress town sits in open defiance. I can defend the city, of that I am confident, especially when my soldiers abroad receive the call to return to hearth and home, to abandon the fool's errands on which they've been wasted." The serious man told the room, now sat back as if feeling the weight of the decision more fully, with the words in the air between them.
He sighed, scrubbing fingers through a thick beard before he continued, "What I cannot do is feed my people if they cannot leave the city's walls for fear of Hunters roaming the wilds, ambushing and disappearing those who try to harvest from the land. The Aesir have never come in force to Prespang, but I know well of what they are capable. This meeting with you, Ulric Lord of the Ancient Glade and your noble Aesir wife, this is providence. Both in the discovery of Prosper's deception and in the bridge you may yet form between peoples long divided by conflict. What say you?"
What say he? Somebody was asking Ulric, a reformed hermit, only half a year reconstituted through the cosmic Juicer, and greener than the grass outside to be responsible for the fates of thousands? Absurdity. Verrückt. He bought time by downing the contents of his beer mug in a single, long pull.
"Haagh. Well. When you put it like that, I cannot rightly say against you." Ulric decided.
"I'll put my word with yours, and I'll ask the Orlethrem to consider Kistalfer independent territory, on its own merits. That's about the best I can do, my shadow isn't so long as to be dictating terms to the Aesir. It's about all I can do to keep just this one here in line, let alone chart course for the Blood Moon and his wives." Ulric agreed, making clear that he didn't have the power to make guarantees.
"We shall see who keeps who in line, Glade Chief." Promised the Elf by his side darkly, already plotting on him.
"Yeah, yeah, I know, Taipan, I know, " the newly minted Lord of peoples said to his fay wife, "Say, what do you think? Will your father and Brighteyes go along with this? They aren't as openly vindictive as you are, but I know Bald'rt Iriel has no love for the descendants of those who took his first son. Will he see past it, to try for a peace?"
"If word of this treaty got around, it might cut the legs off of Prosper, might catalyze a shift towards peace, other City States seeing that even the Deep Wood is willing to have an end of it. Except for Prosper, of course." The white haired man told his sylvan mate, knowing he'd put his foot in mouth with the turn of phrase earlier, but confident she would reserve her punishment for later.
He didn't mean it literally, of course, their days of Shadow and Liege were more or less over, but Taipan took things intended as jokes seriously on occasion. Mostly because those mistakes gave her a chance to fuck with him with sound enough justification, so far as he could tell. Ah, well. Nothing for it, she was going to have him doing full body massages and all of the laundry for a week or two. Come to think of it, hadn't he been doing all of the laundry for, like, the last month they'd been reunited. Seemed like she always found a way to lever him into…that hussy! She just hated doing laundry, was what!
Ulric shot a knowing look at her, his piercing gaze letting her know he was on to her game.
She kept him from airing her crimes aloud in company though, hiding behind matters of state, "It is likely that, under my brother's judgment, any course that hastens the decay of Prosper's power, so long as it does not cost Aesir lives, will be acceptable. To tender recognition of Kistalfer as independent of the Golden Thrones weakens them, to offer alliance in joining arms against Prosper threatens our enemy and will erode the strength of others. My father Bald'rt would not have granted alliance, he would have wished you all luck but from afar. Crown Lumyt'seit has a broader strategy in mind, beyond merely the borders of Iriel." Taipan answered, clearly just trying to distract him away from her avoidance of her most hated camp chore.
Tras Kistalfer watched Ulric, carefully blank for a moment, but said nothing, reminded again that the Iriel'en pearl before him was the fey Hunter of men known as Blood Thorn, the eldest daughter of one of the most feared individuals on the continent. His bodyguard had no such tact though.
"If the Elf lass married any further down, she'd have needed shovels to hold the ceremony. What did you do to convince her to wed a rascal like you, anyway?" The armored tank of a woman asked him, brushing back a lock of hair.
Caution caused him to rethink his initial words. He was going to say something along the lines of "Helped her brother, whipped her ass, put her to work as my body servant, and saved her paps". That would have been, in broad strokes, true, but as in many cases in life, just because something is true, doesn't mean it is the right thing to say, especially where your wife is involved. Sometimes, you need to be gracious and, just ever so slightly willing to give her the win, before she handed you a series of losses. For a very long time.
"We are bonded by shared purpose, mutual respect, and the fires of battles with our backs trusted to one another. And she enjoys bedding me. Loudly." He said, unable to help returning the earlier teasing from her earlier.
Rather than anger though, Taipan just offered a reluctant "He speaks no lie." to the big woman.
Mutually assured destruction avoided, Ulric returned to the matter at hand, giving the Baron hiding a small smile behind stoic regard, his full attention.
"You've my word that I will present your cause as just." He reiterated calmly, before he went and had a good idea, getting more excited as he thought aloud, "If you would permit, I would strengthen the argument by taking one of those cursed doodads for inspection by the practitioners of the Elves. Barely the surface of its enchantments can I fathom, there are others with greater skill and more experience who might unearth more. Surely the existence of such a thing would rally some sympathy to your cause, and, perhaps, the cause of Prespang generally."
It wasn't a bad argument in the favor of the leaders of these city states. Ulric had experienced only a few seconds of the mind fuck and it had been enough. Wearing one of those things for years…that would be akin to torture. Every stray thought towards disloyalty or disobedience met by a wave of sharpening fear, the sensation of inevitable doom. No wonder Prespang's history didn't make sense, it was warped by the malicious influence of Prosper's domination hex.
The fuckers.
Miria pounded the table lightly with her gauntleted fist, marking hearty agreement, "A fine gesture, my Lord, and one that moves your cause rightly. Never have your forces been directly set against the Orlethrem, never by your decree or by your father's, or your father's father's. Even the Elves must listen if proof of sinister intrusion can be provided."
Tras Kistalfer leaned back in his chair, digesting both the suggestions and the settling meal, stroking his beard while he pondered.
"I can see no loss in this, it is wisdom." He certified, "Take the brooch, hells, take all of the wretched things. I would know though, if you have the arts to tell me, how did such a thing never alert me to its foul magic? How did I never become aware? I am no coward, but this curse nearly unmanned me when I came to be conscious of it."
Ulric had wondered much the same thing in talks with Taipan. He had then gone on to ask Mage Brodin, the Black Sky, and any of the Elves that had some knowledge of sigil magic or the kind of influence that the artifacts possessed. Two days of investigation later and he had an inkling, if no certainty.
Fingers snapping by one thigh, Ulric organized his thoughts so he didn't make an ass of himself in front of the important people. When he was satisfied that his answer wasn't patently absurd, by Vardan standards, that is, he proposed the trick, "The spells exploited filial piety. They were designed to home in on feelings of devotion to clan, to father, to crown, and to then twist those into associating with the Golden Thrones. Every thought of Prosper's masters was linked to thoughts of your sires. Prosper herself was married to your own land in your mind. To betray one, was to betray the other."
It was a mean trick, was what it was. The ruthless bastards could be kept in thrall through sheer greed and the promise of power. Decent men had their love of home and country turned against them. Ulric told the Baron as much.
"Quite." Kistalfer asserted, the brevity of the statement holding a wealth of unuttered curses.
There was a whole heap of repressed anger there, held under an iron grip. Baleful seemed an apt description. That kind of rage boded ill for somebody, and Ulric was glad if it wasn't going to be him. Most of his plans for dealing with an entity that exuded the kind of front loaded power, Ulric's intuition got off of Tras Kistalfer involved long distances, a [Vortex Flare], and, if all went as intended, the Baron on open ground.
"Official documents bearing my seal, as well as a request for initiation of diplomatic exchange can be drafted on the morrow. For the rest of this day, I would be honored if you and your consort would accompany me on a tour of Kistalfer. Perhaps seeing the people who you have chosen not to kill will bolster in your mind the rightness of that decision." the Baron announced.
How the hell did he know Ulric had decided not to kill anybody?
"How did you discern that I had chosen not to levy war against this city? I had only solidly arrived at that decision while approaching your keep." He informed the man, absent guile.
The foundation of establishing a properly above board relationship was trust, and trust was framed by honesty.
"Had I found myself in your position, it is what I would have considered. Laying waste to the citizenry to force an enemy to the table, if they were not willing to do so on their own. Nothing so completely undermines a ruler's mandate as does impotence, and, absent the mage core, there is little I could do to stop you raining lightnings down on the city. I have seen the like done, if not participated myself. Should the worst come to worst, there are few other options a man such as you could find against a fortified city in a hostile land, absent parity of forces. And also, it would have been a last resort, unconscionable while alternative existed, which I was quick to offer." Kistalfer answered.
Taipan gave reply, speaking his own thoughts aloud, as she did sometimes, "Surprisingly sound judgment, Son of Prespang. Many of your peers have lacked the sense to put first the lives of their citizens. My Glade Chief did not wish to bring harm to these folk, but, if left no choice, he would have been forced to drastic action. Thank you for sparing him the need."
She lowered her voice, as if sharing a secret, "My Valin is no coward, but he loves not conflict or being the center of politics. Even so, when motivated, his tendency is towards catastrophic damage, without restraint, so that he does not have to make the same choice a second time."
Was that a play to win him sympathy with the warlord, or a threat? Both? Both, Ulric decided. Gods he missed those primordial woods and the peace he'd known there.
"Too dark, people, far too dark! Let's not contemplate the what might have beens, there's already been enough real grief to conjure the imaginary kind." The would be scholar and homesteader objected.
"Aye and seconded. We have here peace on our table. Let us go and savor it amongst the common folk, whose lives are enriched by the wisdom of my Lordship." Miria pitched in, rising with almost no sound from her plate armor before chivvying her Lord out from his chair.
The armored knight then offered a short bow, taking up her liege's axe to carry as swordbearer, sort of forcing him to follow her or be left without his arms or his attendant.
So it was that Ulric and Taipan were taken on a tour of the city, the first time he'd known a traverse through a population of Varda since Irielhos absent even slight concern for his safety. Even in and amongst the Elves of Trachn'ir and Legranel there'd been a serious note of caution to his journey. They'd been moving all cloak and dagger, had been avoiding notice where at all possible. Pretenses were now a thing of the past. Ulric found himself enjoying the company of the Baron and his bodyguard, and even ever alert Taipan, more at home nestled on a perch in a tree spotting for monsters or invading agents, seemed relaxed.
Up bumped another notch on Ulric's regard for their host, the people of the city displayed genuine gladness at their ruler's presence amongst them. Bakers offered slices of buttered toast, a weaver gushed over the fineness of the silks that had been negotiated for better than fair prices, and, throughout it all, not one person gave he or Taipan one stink eye. Apparently, if their Lord was involved they gave their faith that all was well. That kind of loyalty didn't happen over night, and it meant that, contrary to what he'd seen in Bartala, this was truly a people unified under common flag, by bonds beyond hunt for opportunity, greed, or power.
Cobbled streets, kept clean of the leavings of the various types of draft animals, which included a huge monitor lizard, built stocky like an iguana on steroids, the thick, paddle like tail indicating its prowess at towing boats in the heavy surf outside of Kistalfer's sheltered harbor.
The port, every bit as large as Bartala's, was completely full of ships. Even more than when he'd observed the city those few days ago. Ulric had his suspicions for why that might be, but he wasn't going to pry into the Baron's business. Not just right now, anyhow, not and spoil one of the rare bits of his new life that hadn't so far proven frought with horror, violence, or the promise of it. Instead, he concentrated on the men and women climbing rigging like spiders, the captains yelling orders too distant to be heard clearly, yet every bit of their intent being understood. A Sauri, head and shoulders above the crowd was hawking roasted meat. Ulric double took when he realized he was looking at the scaled form of the fabricator of kibab divinity to whom Ulric had given his jar of Reaper Fern, a spice native to the Ancient Glade.
What were the friggin odds? Ulric wondered, before he tacked hard towards the Beastkin trader. In his wake he pulled his mate and, as leaves caught in the draft of a truck, the Baron and his bodyguard followed.
The large Sauri man almost dropped the skewer he was currently loading, having caught sight of the unusually prestigous group bearing down on him. Eyes wide, the surprisingly emotive muzzle revealed surprise, and he turned to stuff a grease dripping morsel into the hands of a sailor, who cursed when the hot drippings slathered his skin but chose not to make issue of it when the great bulk of the kebab merchant turned away and the tail sitting unharmed in the fire where it normally held meat at its ideal distance from the coals swatted him gently in the rear with force enough to almost launch him into the crowd.
"You!" Roared the Artisan of the street, pointing a shaking claw at Ulric.
"Me!" Ulric shouted in return, not certain why, but feeling it was the correct response, and he leveled a finger in return towards the towering beastkin.
They converged on each other, the milling crowd of porters, traders, shoppers, and off duty sailors parting. The assemblage of knights escorting their Baron and his guest were conflicted, not having desire to interfere with the guest of their lord but also feeling that something should be done about the situation. Their concerns were alleviated when the Sauri smiled broadly, pearly daggers bright in the afternoon light of the Twins.
"Providence! Well met, benefactor of the spice! Fortune favors us both, that we should find ourselves sharing trade winds so soon. Already the container you donated lies empty and every culinarian who has a tongue has declared its contents to be sublime. Tell me there is more, please!" Begged Olivander Greytooth, without care for the armed men on standby.
"Easy lads," Ulric gestured to the guardsmen, hands waving downwards to suggest they lower their hands from sword hilts and spear hafts, "This is a business partner of mine, who I had not thought to see so soon. Well met, Sir Greytooth. Still do I remember the depth of your craft. I have not returned to mine home in these long months, I must beg patience." Ulric told the Beastkin, offering his hand to be buried in the mitt of the Master chef.
A firm grip and a shake that moved most of his arm with it and Ulric got his hand back only slightly the worse for wear.
Reptilian eyes took in the scene, finally acknowledging the armed men and the regal person of the Baron.
"Most auspicious is the company you keep this day! How does a Barbarian merchant, even one with so fine a product and companion with which to sell it, find his way to be granted personal tour through Kistalfer by its own Lord?" Olivander asked blunt for his surprise, having recognized the Baron only just now.
Good question.
"Clean living, Master Greytooth, and no small amount of luck, bad and good." He said, warming up to a bit of storytelling.
Saying out loud all the belligerent nonsense that had happened to him since leaving Irielhos was slightly cathartic.
"I ran into some trouble with slavers in Trachn'ir, they thought my lass would make for high profit and we had to defend ourselves aggressively. Those worthies bore papers that indicated a grudge against my person, prosecuted by the Trade Minister, an Ogran who ordered the attack. I'm afraid my partner and I were unwilling to let go the insult until the minister was no longer a threat. Or breathing. Then we made way to the Legranel Moot, where we enjoyed the hospitality of the herdriders. A triad hired by an enemy I made defending my honor, who also had a hand in the slavers mess, made an attempt on us both there. After we'd dealt with the hired blades, we left the Moot, rather than bring more trouble to our hosts. I found myself in Bartala after becoming lost out on the plains and witnessed the coming of its troubles, which saw me departing with haste. From there, we crossed the Highlands, an untapped wealth of wilderness here in Prespang, acquiring some choice materials from the hunting of some of its nastier denizens. We made our way from there to here, and, thanks to the far sight of his highness Kistalfer, resolved a long standing dispute between the Barbarian tribes and this fair metropolis."
Taipan choked, trying not to laugh at the narration of the tale, which had not mentioned his part in inciting revolt of the Lupid Beastkin in Bartala, the razing of various ports across the Vatyn, or the salvation of the Aesir from their fate of being tortured until they died or became fuel for the Bane, and the accompanying assault against the Baron's detachment, led by an inquisitor of Prosper against his standing orders, as the pair had learned later.
"Ahuh." Grunted the Sauri, clearly dubious about the veracity of that telling, but having no reason to doubt it.
"When did you find time to sleep for stirring all that trouble?" Greytooth asked, wrapping his head around the scope of the trouble.
"Mostly from the seat of a wagon or under the protection of dearest Taipan here." He said lightly, "It's been a spring for the ages, more happenings than I'd ever thought I'd find when leaving my home's comforts."
And how! He'd left his camp in the glade, a primitive shelter burned into the trunk of a primeval giant of a tree, with a rough plan to take a child to his parents, earn some goodwill with his neighbors, and maybe sell knowledge or goods to the Elves before returning some week, two at most, later. Not quite how things had turned out.
"Ah!" Ulric realized he was being rude, "Forgive my lapse, I hadn't expected to see an acquaintance from my travels through Celestin. This is Olivander Greytooth, a genius practicing his art as street vender. He has a god’s granted gift for the preparation, spicing, marinading, and complimenting of roasted meats. Never a finer craftsman of a skewer has lived, I'll lay any kingdom you can name on it."
Gesturing to the man who ruled the city, perhaps unnecessarily, but such is how these things are done, Ulric introduced the Baron of Kistalfer.
"Master Greytooth, this is Baron Tras Kistalfer, a man but recently come into my awareness. His city is the finest I have seen in Prespang, and its people flourish under his rule, long may it be. He has been gracious enough to show me his realm, and I am honored to witness its glory, alongside this pillar of a lass, Mistress Mirium, his fidelitus."
A little bit flowery, but Ulric wasn't being flippant. This really was the best example of a Valin civilization that he'd seen. It was clean, it was efficiently laid out, prosperous for the many, not just the few, well defended, and, now above all, free. What more could a man ask of a place where so many congregated to call home? Now he made the comparison, it was the human cultured equivalent of Irielhos, even if Tras was as similar to Bald'rt as a Raven to a Shoebill.
"High praise, Lord Einar of the Ancient Glade. I am gladdened to rate so highly in your estimation." Tras said, absent any note of sarcasm.
Taipan in his ear whispered, “You see, Ulric Glade Chief, this is how alliance is made. With Kistalfer’s ports and an agreement on trade from it, the artisans amongst the Xefati who labor under your protection will make wealth, from which the Root tithe will create a land of plenty.”
Ulric whispered back just to be ornery, “What if I just want to be left alone to read books, play with magic, and make Ceraunic engines to revolutionize production?”
She giggled softly but her tone was serious, “You are not allowed to be left alone, that was not the reason for your Reforging. You are an instrument of the Eternal Gaze, that one does not intervene unless drastic action is required. Drastic action is what you are, Ulric, in all your worms in the head glory.”
Ulric whinged quietly, “But I don’t wanna.” and the sharp teeth flashed at him from her smile.
They were well sidetracked now, following the rut of an old shared joke now.
“Too bad, I thought to end your pain swiftly but you kept dodging arrows.” She said, poking him lightly in the side.
“I’m fucking tricky like that.” He returned, catching the offending finger that searched for space between his ribs, “Oh well, maybe when you grow up you can challenge my powers, you cross eyed wench.” Ulric dared, spewing pure, unadulterated horseshit.
She’d basically failed to kill him because she’d thought him so far beneath her as to require almost no effort. A mistake, and Varda punished her for it. At his sally, she snorted daintily and prepared to list the vastness of his defects, most of them congenital on account of his being born human.
Miria interrupted their banter, injecting her own commentary, “Forget sleep. It is a wonder the pair of you found time to cause so much trouble for trying not to fall down each other’s britches.
They realized that they’d been ignoring their surroundings in favor of their flirtatious jousting and subsided. Ulric coughed into his hand while Taipan’s ears twitched a few times in embarrassment.
“Ehem, well. I’ll just have you know that there is a fantastic bottom stuffed down those pants, and mine is even nicer. It’s only natural we’d get distracted.” Ulric proclaimed, unashamed to extol the virtue of his rump.
The professional bodyguard went blank at that before laughing openly, joined by the Sauri who loomed skyward nearby. The Reforged restrained a grin, playing the straight man. How long since he’d been around people he didn’t mind giving a little hell? Probably not since his spars with Bald’rt. Odd the small things you find yourself missing.
“He won’t even let me play with it, it is a waste of so fine a set of haunches.” Taipan added, creeping him out with a grabby motion of iron strong hands, roughened by hard living and bushcraft.
The Baron, for all his cool regard, could not help but betray some nearly invisible sign of good cheer, a slight twitch of cheek. In truth, he found himself enjoying the company of his enemies. They were nothing but what they were, absent any pretense: Dangerous. Keep-eyed and sharp, he’d noticed their dissection of every alley, every square, processing the environment into a set of advantages and disadvantages should they be forced to combat. But, on top of that underlying predatorial instinct, they were not without warmness or empathy, or even a fair wit of humor.
The Aesir was, unexpectedly, proving to be a fine counterpoint to her mate, supporting him discretely and ably, without overshadowing him, in spite of the clear difference in their relative experience. It spoke to the innate talent of the man, not to be underestimated, if one of the long lived was impressed enough to take a subordinate position in their dance. How it came to be that a Barbarian of the reaches had come into such powers so tender young was a mystery that made the Baron’s feet itch. He didn’t like mysteries. They made for surprises, complications to his stratagems.
When even his hard to win over Miria was in favor of these leaders of Elves and displaced Prespangers, Tras Kistalfer knew he had charted a proper course to build alliance. Better to burn the old ramshackle and build anew atop the ashes. The people of Kistalfer would flourish, that was his purpose. He was the vessel that would brave the storms whipping change across Prespang to carry them through to safety.