GM Note: This one got a bit away from me, sorry. Moratorium for 3 hours. Once that's passed, feel free to vote even without me saying anything. Sorry for issues, delays, etc.
Trident Meeting 2338 And More Part 2
As you finish the seventh flask, you finally pause for breath. The buzz has finally progressed just a tad further into actual drunkenness, a comfortable and familiar state to you. Sure, you had to essentially skip past the wines and such and go straight to the dwarf ale flasks, but that's fine. Blinking, you huff before finally clasping the top of the flask back on and sliding it into your bandoleer. Stephan and the others are still waiting for your response to the situation, but it's not like it took you more than a minute or so. But you've had enough time and drink to help you think, now it is time to act upon your conclusion.
"Stephan, could you get a pavilion set up outside the city?"
Your friend blinks before nodding.
"Aye, certainly."
"Good, get one set up as close as a midway point between the docks and wherever it is the Wood Elves have shown up from," you say firmly before turning first to your wife and then rapidly back to Stephan. "And…put it in Nordland colors."
Natasha and Otrud, perhaps channeling their communal wife powers, speak next in disturbing unison.
"Are you sure about that, Frederick?"
You don't appreciate how they both share a look after that.
"Yes, I'm sure. This is still Stephan's bloody province, and I didn't tell the Wood Elves to talk to Stephan only for them to ignore him," you say calmly, clasping a hand on your friend's shoulder and looking him in the eye. "So, is that possible?"
"I'll get to it, sure," he shrugs, "I just don't know how well it'll
work, but I'll get to it. It'll need to go near the South Gate."
He begins marching off immediately, a small number of his Greatswords accompanying him.
"As for you, my lovely wife," you draw her fingers up toward your mouth and give them a light kiss, drawing a small smile from her, "I shall send
you to the High Elves. The Everqueen took note of you as well, and they cannot deny
that."
She hums, but other than a thoughtful look on her face doesn't respond, merely quirking her lips and tilting her head at Magnus with an eyebrow raised. Of course she knows who you're going to send to the Wood Elves.
"As for you, my son and heir," you draw him close with a look, "You shall go to the Wood Elves. Your blood marks you, as well as anything might. And I know not who they send, but I know and trust you for certain."
Your son flushes slightly in the cheeks, perhaps at the praise, perhaps not. It's not as if you're the only Ostlander whose been drinking this morning. But he nods at your order all the same.
"I'll see to the children, don't worry about it," Odelia smiles brightly, literally so given the faint orange glowing in her eyes.
With that, everyone breaks into the various duties. Odelia chivvying everyone else along towards the innards of the castle. Magnus heading out towards the castle exit which will lead him to where he's going, your wife striding towards the docks with some of your most venerable looking Greatswords. As for yourself, you turn to follow after Stephan, Ortrud joining you at the same time. A flurry of activity has spread throughout the castle, but between two Elector Counts it is not that hard to push through the crowds of servants and men-at-arms scurrying about.
"Interesting choice. I would have thought you'd pick one or the other," Ortrud huffs from next to you, though there is an amused note to it. "But this? Instead of having one group pleased with you, and the other incensed, they'll just…both be incensed."
"Eh," you shrug. "They'll deal with it. They clearly requested me, and knew about each other. All I'm doing is being a neutral party about it."
Doors are slamming open before you reach them now, the servants of the castle propagating the news quickly. You find, after a moment's thought, that you and Ortrud are actually marching in lockstep, rather than simply walking. Huh. Old soldier habits, it seems. Something that is being matched by the Greatswords accompanying the two of you.
"Oh, certainly," Ortrud nods rapidly with her arms clasped behind her back as she keeps up, "But elves are a prickly and sometimes treacherous sort. All I'm saying is…is be careful."
You cannot help the squint you give her.
"Are you sure you haven't been spending too much time with dwarfs?"
"That? Coming from
you? Hilarious," she says in a flat voice.
"Listen, I don't
intend to bring ruination upon all things with just a simple meeting. I'll do my best to ensure it doesn't go in that direction, at least."
You pretend not to hear the faint whisper of what
might be a prayer to Ranald for luck on your behalf coming from her lips.
==========================================
"I am Litania of Avelorn, Handmaiden of the Everqueen, and
you…are not Frederick von Hohenzollern."
Once upon a time, Natasha had seen the garb of a Handmaiden placed with as delicate care as could possibly be managed upon a funeral bier. But to watch it born in the flesh was another thing entirely, this she knew now. She did not know whether or not this one had been one of those who had accompanied the Everqueen herself, but she wouldn't be surprised. It had been near impossible for her to focus on anything else, and so even her normally very sharp memory had become largely blurred regarding the encounter. Being before such a being had been a staggering experience, a searing maelstrom of energies under impossible control visible through one who could see the winds of magic. Not even her sister could possibly come close, for the Everqueen had not only possessed such power as that but also the distinct and unmistakable presence that came with those favored by the gods. The Grand Theogonist, the Ar-Ulric and the Flame of Ulric, those sorts of things. But something still utterly distinct.
"I am not, this is true," Natasha answered with a bow. "I am Frederick von Hohenzollern's
wife, however, and he has sent me to both meet with you and guide you to the meeting place."
Litania of Avelorn did not quite compare to the Everqueen herself. There was a modicum of the power and presence of the Everqueen in her, to be sure, but nothing close to the sheer potency of the one who'd brought life back to long-dead wood upon the docks of Nordland. Yet this time,
this Handmaiden of the Everqueen was not dressed in the bodyguard panoply that Natasha remembered those from before bearing. Instead, her garb was at once far more…regal. But there was a distinct earthiness to it as well which oddly reminded her of the garb that the Wood Elves themselves used. Shimmering summer greens mixed with delicate silver and gold highlights in her clothing, which was itself not a dress, no, but something that was at once an outfit fit for court but also for hunting, going by the boots and pants.
(Diplomatic Fashion: 73+Diplomacy(12)=85/100)
Well. Of course it was. An attempt at reconciliation or at the very least an attempt to enforce some image of commonality? Natasha had no idea how the Wood Elves would take it, though. And despite the ridiculousness of the situation, she technically had more experience with the Asrai than the High Elves did! Would they see it as an insult? Or as a compliment. But it would certainly be something to see. Given that Aurelion called them colonists, and the response from that, for certain. The Everqueen had called them 'The Lost', but Lady Dawnstone didn't seem very 'lost' in any fashion by Natasha's reckoning.
"Would you do me the honor of following me to the meeting place? The Asrai shall be there as well," she tacked on at the end, carefully watching the likely deliberately expressionless face of the handmaiden.
Of course, Litania had not come alone. She had a cadre of twelve bodyguards and three attendants with her, numbering an even fifteen, with the handmaiden herself up as the sixteenth of her party. Every single one were dressed similarly as their mistress, all of them bearing what Natasha now knew was the emblem of Avelorn itself. She'd done some research on her own and also now knew that the flag of Lothern, of the Phoenix King, was not present at
all. So, a concerted effort solely on the part of the Everqueen? The attendants were carrying various satchels and packs, and one of them outright had a harp. A harp, of all things! It was a gorgeous example of its kind, and the elf hefting it did so with remarkable strength despite its size, but it seemed greatly out of sync with the rest of the party. Or perhaps musical instruments were just part of an Avelorn diplomatic party as a matter of course.
"Very well then, Natasha von Hohenzollern," the elf's tongue curled slightly on her name, but made it through without any noticeable issue. "We shall follow you."
Natasha had to give the elf credit. She'd almost missed the twitch of the elf's lips, so minute was the expression.
Amusement?
…or approval?
=========================================
"You…are not Frederick von Hohenzollern."
"You are correct," Magnus nodded his head, keeping his arms at his sides. "However, I
am his son and heir, Magnus von Hohenzollern. Unfortunately, I do not know
your name?"
The Wood Elves numbered only twenty, but that was quite a large amount for them to be away from their forest. His father had seen many more, many years ago. But even that was on the mainland. Magnus could perfectly understand why it would be a bit of consternation to Count Kessel that they'd appeared somehow. Ten of what he knew were likely their equivalent of Greatswords – Eternal Guard – assembled at precisely the right distance for their spears to defend their master, while not being outright touching him. Eight more Wood Elves were what he figured were Glade Guard, their bows strung along their back. But there was another, the nineteenth, that Magnus knew not at all. She wore a helmet of almost golden shimmering metal, shaped like that of a hawk's head, the beak itself coming forward to cover much of her face. Unlike the other elves, she stood languidly to the side, a thick mantle of brown and white feathers obscuring most of her body from where it fell down her shoulders. An absolutely enormous bow made of pure white wood was strung along her back, a thick quiver of arrows strapped to her thigh.
"I am Kyrian Dawnstone," the elf answered stiffly, "Prince, son, and heir to the Lady of Laurelorn."
Once upon a time, Magnus had heard his father say that the Lady of Laurelorn had ridden atop an enormous stag as her mount, a legendary Great Stag by his reckoning. But it seemed that Kyrian Dawnstone was at least somewhat attempting to copy the stature of such a beast, for his helm's antlers were rather significantly enlarged and elaborate compared to what Magnus would have thought reasonable. A likely very fine blade indeed hung at his hip, while he bore a shimmering green cloak on his back. His face was extremely gaunt, his lips thinned to the point of being near bloodless. Even with that, it was impossible to tell his age. All of them looked somewhat like the very rare number of High Elves that Magnus had seen from time to time, passing through Salkalten and Wulfenburg. A bit sharper, perhaps, but still elves. Ageless and beautiful, despite the fact that many of them could be many centuries old. Although there were small differences between the two. The elves of Laurelorn had a leaner aspect to them. There was just a bit more musculature to their frames, enough on average to make a difference.
"But we
explicitly sent our message to Frederick von Hohenzollern," Kyrian continued, looking him up and down. "And you are
not him."
Magnus tilted his head to the side.
"I am aware, and apologize, but we were not told who we were expecting, and so my father sent the best representative he could. If you would follow me, I assure you that you will meet with my father."
(Diplomatic Effort: 53+On Orders(10)-Pride(5)+Diplomacy(9)=67/100)
Very, very faintly, Magnus could hear the sound of grinding teeth. Then Kyrian turned his head slightly to glance at the woman who stood apart from the rest of the group. Her face was shadowed by the shaping of her helm, probably deliberately and possibly enhanced with magical aid, but for some reason Magnus was sure she could see just fine. The two simply looked at each other before the woman gave a nod. It was very shallow indeed, but it was one nonetheless. Kyrian turned his head back around and gave looked back at Magnus, his expression now slightly more strained and dour than it was before. It was that moment that Magnus was extremely happy that he'd left his hammer behind. Though they were from Laurelorn, for some reason he doubted that they'd take the presence of a dwarf runed hammer very well. For now he'd chosen a simple arming sword.
"Very well then,
Magnus von Hohenzollern," Kyrian grimaced, "We will…follow you."
Internally, there was a sigh of relief. Not that Magnus showed any of it on his face. Yet when he turned to leave, somewhat expectantly, he found instead that Kyrian was looking again towards the woman. She did not make a single move as the rest of the Wood Elves proceeded forward, waiting until the entire formation was ahead of her before advancing. For a moment, he could feel her gaze on him. But then that was broken as she began to shuffle behind the rest of the elves. The greatest contrast, he felt, was as they began to walk back towards the gate. Because while all of his Greatswords clanked and rattled with their plate armor and swords, there was absolutely no sound at all from the elves despite them being clad in metal themselves.
===========================================================
The colors of Nordland were yellow and blue, and thus, so was the pavilion. It was a very large setup, better used as a festival pavilion of sorts. Or perhaps a very large commanding tent for an army. In any case, the emblems of the Nordlander Sea Eagle were emblazoned across it, with only smaller pennants of the Ostland black, white, and red strung amongst it. More than two dozen men had worked at a blistering pace to put it up, it was enough. The earliness of the day ensured that there was no need for a line of torches of any sort leading towards the structure, and so both parties simply ascended the hill at their own pace and direction. One set of elves coming out of the city gates and another set emerging from the woods, Natasha and Magnus could see exactly when each group saw the other. It was a study in rather noticeable contrasts.
Magnus watched as the High Elves ever so slightly slowed in their graceful ascent, eyes locking onto the Wood Elves without ceasing in their movement. He felt himself looked over, analyzed, and then summarily dismissed in favor of examination of those who followed behind him. If he had to guess, there would be something melancholy in the expressions of the High Elves, but then he wouldn't guarantee his success on such a matter. Natasha, for her part, got a perfect view of how the Wood Elves stiffened their backs, heads curtly turning away after the initial sighting. Some kept their eyes on the High Elves, while their leader resolutely looked completely away.
Yet so too could Natasha see, however, at the very back of the party an elf who was
swathed in magical energies. The winds – or rather, one specific wind in this case – bounced and stretched around her, acting in a very familiar manner. To those watching, Natasha's eyes merely glazed over for an instant from one blink to the next. But that was enough. The amber blurs that whipped about were quite noticeable indeed. It did not pool about her feet, but rather leapt about. Almost like an animal with snapping teeth. Then the moment was over as Natasha continued walking, but she still knew that she was being examined just as closely. The sensation of being looked over like a hawk towards its prey was rather unfortunately being enhanced by the helmet that the elf was wearing.
The elves, mother and son concluded independently, were both an odd flavor of expectant. Whether it was fully positive or not remained to be seen.
Finally, however, both groups reached the hilltop, where the pavilion waited. The elves themselves were no further than ten feet from one another. Neither groups were gawking openly at one another, but they both likely had centuries of experience at doing so with extreme subtlety.
Just then, the tent flapped open and Frederick von Hohenzollern stepped out, a frothing mug of beer in one hand. As the smell of the drink wafted forth the noses of the elves, from both Avelorn and Laurelorn, wrinkled in the exact same way at the exact same time. Almost all, save for the helmeted one, reared back minutely.
"Good, you're all here," he said, pausing to take a drink of the beer, leaving some foam behind on his beard. "You both requested me, and now you've got me. Come in, if it pleases you."
=======================================================
Stephan's men had dragged the largest table they could find out into the pavilion, and it's a good thing that they did. The width, especially. It had only taken a moment for the various elves to get into the room, at which point they had rather quickly divided between themselves. You could only watch in bemusement as the elves took up positions on opposite sides of the table, with yourself placed at about the center. Both Magnus and Natasha had come to you, whispering in what information they could before all of this came to a head. Naraiel Dawnstone's son? Even you knew that was a pretty big statement. Was it as big of a statement for one of the Everqueen's precious Handmaidens? That was hard to say.
Still, you'd gone through the effort of seeing what elven wines you could bring up from the stock that traveled with you. Which, admittedly, was not the smallest amount. Stephan, thankfully, was able to bring up a rather large amount of wines from Laurelorn itself. The benefits of so many years of trade it seems. One of the few things that the elves were willing to export were their wines, mostly because they were proud enough of them that they felt it only right that they shame all other alcohols in the world. To be honest, they were damned good. If one was very into wine at least. You knew for a fact that none of them would partake of the beer, the looks on their faces was clue enough to that.
But the wine?
"I'm sorry that we don't have much better to host you with," Stephan said as he directed some of his best servants forward with various bottles and glasses, "But this
was quite…sudden, after all."
Ortrud had decided to stay out of it, to watch over the various gaggles of children and grandchildren, leaving you and Stephan to run things. And, frankly, at this point you weren't about to simply remove Stephan from the proceedings. It was
his province, he deserved to be here, no matter what the elves thought.
"All right," you stand, placing your hands on the table, "Both of you sent messages, wanting to speak with
me, so let's hear it."
Prince Kyrian and the Handmaiden Litania just look at each other for a moment. Then, with a calm smile on her face, Litania gestures towards Kyrian and then towards you. A babble of the elven language comes out of her mouth, but you don't understand a word of it. Kyrian, on the other hand, seems to. And, contrary to what Litania may have hoped, he does not seem to take it well. Instead, at her words, his face flushes and he stands suddenly out of his chair. The words that fall out of
his mouth are similar to the musical language that you've heard before, but there are a few odd notes, specific differences. The differences are clearly noted by Litania, as her smile flickers slightly at it. Kyrian does not appear to be done, however, and continues with an incredulous look on his face as he waves not just towards himself, but at you, and then at Litania herself. Based on where he's pointing, you
think he is talking about her outfit verses his own. In response to
that, Litania calmly faces him palms forward, shaking her head slightly and begins speaking herself. Again. Entirely in elvish.
Stephan looks at you with a questioning look on his face, to which you can only shrug. Unfortunately, you do not possess an innate understanding of whatever it is the elves call their language, much unlike Khazalid or Reikspiel. So the two of you simply grab another drink and begin to partake yourselves. The elven wines, waiting in bottles to be poured, have thus far gone entirely untapped in favor of the elves arguing. Or rather, Kyrian is arguing while Litania is trying to de-escalate the situation. At least that's what you think is happening. Hard to be absolutely sure. But you can watch the elves behind their representatives.
On Litania's side, it is odd but you can't help think of some sort of put-upon tolerance. The vaguest memories of elder siblings sighing exasperatedly and acting superior to their younger brother bubbles up in your mind. As if all they had to do was wait it out and the temper tantrum would end, because they were right, and older, and knew what was best if only you would just listen and let them tell you what to do. It's in the way they hold themselves, chins tilted up, soft and vaguely compassionate looks on their faces, hands held plaintively in front or at their sides if weaponless. Those that do wield their weapons are still clearly on duty, but even then…hmm.
Kyrian's elves are angry. They've gone beyond irritation and are, in fact, angry. They clutch their weapons close with hard grips. They glare at Litania and her elves. Some of them are gritting their teeth. The more the two representatives speak, the worse it seems to get. One of Eternal Guard nudges the another with their shoulder and mutters something beneath his breath. Considering the hearing of elves, you don't doubt that the High Elves heard it. No, you're certain when Litania's voice stutters slightly before continuing. In fact, the only elf who you can't see the face of, the one who doesn't appear to be as affected as the rest of the Wood Elves, is the one with the odd hawk helmet and the cloak of feathers.
Still, you make it through another mug of beer, one of ale, one of thunderwater, and another of kvas before you get tired of listening to them continue.
"Okay!"
The slam of your hand on the table causes a great rustling of metal and leather. Your eyes are just good enough to see how the elves point their weapons towards the disturbance, realize what they're doing, and then reversing the course of their actions. In essence, it amounts to little more than a barely disguised twitch. But you've seen it before, at least in your Greatswords once or twice in the past.
"I don't know what the hell either of you were saying, but you've been saying quite a lot."
You look first Kyrian in the eye, to which he does not blink, and then over to Litania, who doesn't either.
"Now,
both of you requested to speak to me first, and yet neither of you have actually
spoken to me!" The last part is not quite a shout, but it's within viewing distance of it. "So, please, tell me,
why would you come to me, if you were just going to be doing something you could be doing anywhere else?"
Both elves begin to speak again, only to stop when they see the other is speaking. Kyrian scowls, while Litania smiles softly.
"Please, my humblest apologies," she turns her face away from Kyrian to look at you, "I merely offered to allow Kyrian to speak first."
"And as
I said, the Asrai do not
require your
allowance to do anything!" Kyrian nearly spits the words out. "We have never needed, not since the
Asur abandoned us to flee back to their homes never to return!"
"Malekith was threatening Ulthuan, Prince Kyrian," Litania answers softly in, you are beginning to realize, the exact same way she did previously. "In
vast numbers, not just of drucchi, but in slaves and beasts as well."
Only now they speak for your benefit, retreading the previous argument so that you can properly understand it.
"And yet it survived. And
so did we," Kyrian points back at the elves behind him. "
We survived – no, we
thrived without the Phoenix Throne!"
"No insult was meant, Prince Kyrian," Litania insists quietly, still with that compassionate look on her face.
"And yet you think we are foolish enough to not realize that you have dressed as you have to, what, make us think of you as our own?!"
So that's why he was pointing at their respective regalia. Interesting. Not interesting enough to keep you from slamming your hand on the table again, palm flat down. It's hard enough to send the entire table shaking, rattling the empty glasses and the full bottles of wine.
"I didn't ask for a replay of what's already been said. I asked for why I'm
here."
Both open their mouths to speak again. You raise your hand, index finger up and the rest curled in somewhat. It is a motion many a parent has performed before, you are sure.
"But clearly I can't trust you to answer that question while together. So. Thankfully, this pavilion was made for more than one meeting at a time."
There is the central area, of course, where either a war table or feasting table could be placed with chairs. But two connectors led off to the sides, one on the left, and one on the right. They could be used as quarters, armories, or any number of other things. In this case, they have been set up as refreshment areas. A few chairs, a few stools. Little else, of course, considering the suddenness of this.
"So. The Wood Elves, please retire to that area, High Elves to that one. We'll try this another way."
(A Human Dares: 59+Diplomacy(5)-Pride(5)+Familial Debt(10)=69/100)
(The Youth Amuses: 37+Diplomacy(5)+Everqueen's Interest(10)=52/100)
You are reasonably sure that these elves have never been told to do things like this before by a human. But, to your mild shock, they actually acquiesce. Or, rather, the High Elves smoothly rise up and begin heading off without another word, while Kyrian puffs up like an angry animal of some sort. Only for the hawk-helmeted elf to place a hand on his shoulder and lean over him, muttering softly. He nearly jerks away from her, but her grip just tightens hard on him. The rest of the Wood Elves appear to be following her lead, in that a snap of her fingers which terminates into a pointing motion has them moving. Kyrian follows soon after, after one more low growl. Then she approaches you without prompting, her head tilted as she examines you while on the way.
Much of her head is covered by the helmet, while most of her face is concealed by some sort of all-concealing black cloth, embroidered slightly with some sort of metallic pattern. Aside from tanned yet flawless skin only her eyes are visible, a shifting amber glow outlining irises that are so dark blue that they're nearly black.
"Kyrian is but three hundred, Count Hohenzollern, and the spirit of Addaioth runs hot within him. He needs time," she rasps out at you before jerking her chin in the other direction. "
They will likely be far more receptive at the moment."
"I don't know who that is," you tell her, eyebrow quirking as you glance at the prince of Laurelorn once more.
To your surprise, the response you get is a dry chuckle.
"He is the god of wrath, and fire," she says with a tint of awe and reverence in her voice before her tone turns quite wry indeed. "Which – for those who fall under his influence more than the other gods – translates to a total lack of subtlety and a fondness for force as the main solution for any problem."
Blinking, you glance over at the still fuming Kyrian as his bodyguards escort him away. Wood Elves worship a god of fire? Doesn't that seem like a potential, quite literal, fire hazard?
"And what about you?"
You get the rather certain sense that she is smiling at you despite the cloth. Perhaps it is the faintest crinkling around the eyes. You also don't get an answer as she turns about and walks off. Elves. They just love being mysterious. Admittedly, if one reaches an age where three hundred is considered quite young, then maybe that's one of the few ways to amuse yourself. But it's honestly no skin off your nose if this all falls apart, considering the very real irritation you're feeling right now. Because of course they can't come out and just talk about the issue. No one can. Such is the curse of politics.
==================================================
"Ah, Count Hohenzollern," Litania rises up to greet you, inclining her head with her hands folding onto themselves over her front. "I wish to communicate my sincere regret that matters were so…chaotic, in reaching this point."
The rest of the High Elves have drifted back, you realize. The bodyguard are still present, obviously, but they keep their distance as well. A sign of respect or disregard of the threat you could potentially pose?
"Sure," you shrug, looking her up and down.
Honestly, you can see a bit of where Kyrian was coming from. Her outfit carries a good amount of distinct design choices that skew towards the Wood Elves. Which is quite the change from what you've seen High Elves wear before. Also, you can't help but stare at the gigantic harp that one of them is currently plucking at ever so lightly.
"Here's the thing," you cough into your hand, "I was told by Teclis that the Everqueen was going to be asking me a favor. I promised to help.
Is this related?"
Litania just smiles at you with that same soft, almost maternal look on her face. It bothers you. Only one person has ever looked at you like that before, and your mother Litania most certainly is
not.
"You assume correctly, Count Hohenzollern."
For a moment, you wait, just looking at her.
"Are you going to
elaborate or…?"
"Ah, of course, forgive me," she titters softly behind a raised hand over her mouth.
A dainty little cough escapes her as she straightens in her seat.
"Tell me, Count Hohenzollern, how much do you know about the history of the elves, of the Asrai and the Asur?
A quick glance back at the Wood Elves shows you that Kyrian is being counseled by the elf woman who spoke to you. Or at least that's what it looks like. Stephan glances at you from where he still sits at the table, while Natasha just wiggles her hands at you to make you turn back around. As for Magnus, he seems uncertain what exactly he should do, and has reverted to Ostlander basics. For the moment, he's just drinking a few light beers. Good on him. When you look back to Litania, she just quirks her lips at you again.
"Very little," you inform her rather flatly.
"Understandable," she nods her head before gesturing towards an open chair for you to sit in. "Would you care to sit?"
Grunting, you put your hands on your hips and curl your toes within your shoes for a moment.
"I would not."
Her face is unreadable past the pleasant mask. Or maybe it isn't a mask. Who knows.
"Very well," she continues as if you hadn't rebuffed her, "Long ago, when the Witch King – a powerful druchii-,"
"I'm plenty aware of druchii," you interrupt. "Skip ahead to where your people split up, and why Kyrian is so angry about it."
She does so without skipping a beat. Ulthuan was under some sort of massive threat, and the Phoenix King at the time demanded that every elf possible return. The direness of the situation is stressed repeatedly by Litania, though you note that she carefully avoids any specific locations or casualty numbers. However, a good number of elves refused to leave. These, eventually, became the Wood Elves. She tries to pretty it up, paints a story that would have many gasp and weep and yell about, but that's about the gist of it. The only thing that changes physically is that the Handmaiden takes up a bottle of elf wine and pours herself a glass of it. A few sips to wet her throat, and she continues speaking. And speaking. And speaking.
When she comes to a halt, you're struck by the realization that her overly exhaustive answer could have been summarized in few sentences at most. The High Elves were recalled by order of their King, some of their people refused, and thus the Wood Elves resulted. The Wood Elves feel angry and abandoned, but proud of surviving as they have.
"So, again, we come to my question which remains unanswered," you note, rubbing at your temples slightly. "
What is the favor that the Everqueen is asking of me?"
You have to admit, her composure when dealing with you puts many an Ostlander noble to shame.
"I promise, only a short more must be said before I can answer your question, Count Hohenzollern."
It takes a tremendous effort to not groan. She's danced around your questions endlessly with unflappable diplomatic demeanor for long enough already.
"Fine."
For the first time, Litania engages with the other elves in her party. A snap of her fingers makes another bring forth a small wrapped amount of cloth. Within is a beautiful necklace of glimmering metal, numerous expensive gemstones placed within it. Considering the elven craftsmanship, it's probably one of the more valuable pieces of jewelry within the Northern Trident at this very moment. A faint sad sigh comes from many of the elves present, a wave of sudden yet intense emotion that is more than a little noticeable.
"In what you would call 1601 IC, Phoenix King Bel-Hathor sent a group of emissaries to Athel Loren, to attempt rapprochement," she speaks with deep-seated sadness, "Most of our emissaries were treated, up until that point, with indifference at most. But these…were abandoned to the woods. Very few survived back to their ships, and this is all that could be found of one."
Well. If that isn't one hell of a statement, nothing else would be. The stories and myths surrounding Athel Loren could fill a great many books of stories and poems. But for some reason you'd never thought of the denizens of that place doing the same as they have done to so many Bretonnians to other elves. Her point apparently made enough, Litania wraps up the necklace once more and hands it off to another elf.
"It took…time…for many to accept that the Asrai had a Queen and King of their own, and perhaps that shaped early attitudes or the worse," she adds, wiping delicately at one eye as she does so. "Few attempts occurred afterwards."
Ah. Finally, she begins to reach the point.
"So…what changed?"
"You," she smiles again.
It's enough to make you pause, if only for a second.
"In every previous attempt, emissaries were sent to Athel Loren itself, seeking to treat specifically with their highest royalty. But…," she gestures vaguely in a southwesterly direction.
It doesn't take a genius to know what she's referring to.
"Laurelorn is not in Athel Loren, not even near it, even if it is connected through…whatever it is that lets them move about as they do," you finish for her.
"Indeed it is not. And, unlike ever before, someone with a relationship approaching something past neutral in a positive direction towards Laurelorn is known to us," she pauses for a moment and looks over your shoulder at the Wood Elves. "Someone who we, too, are capable of contacting."
In one go, she drinks the entire glass of wine.
"The only reason this meeting was able to take place at all was because of you, Count Hohenzollern. We…mentioned you," she chuckles quietly. "The Lady of Laurelorn was willing to at least hear us out, as a result. And so here we are. And, so too, do we come to the favor the Everqueen would ask of you."
"
Please," you almost plead with her, elbows resting on your thighs.
"To be a neutral party, one not in disfavor with either Ulthuan nor Laurelorn," she reaches forward and with impossibly soft hands takes your own up in a light grip. "All the Everqueen wishes is to reconnect with the Asrai, for our peoples would be far stronger together rather than alone."
Very, very slowly you look down to where her hands rest entwined with yours. Rather quickly they slither back, resting in her lap once more. To the best of your ability her expression is sincere.
"Not to convince them myself? To get them to just welcome you in?"
Not that you
could, of course. Even after killing Ghorros and Gruber they seem to only somewhat tolerate you.
"Of course not," she even laughs somewhat musically, "We could never ask you such a thing. We shall succeed or fail on our own merits. But making it past this meeting is the first, and most important step."
Oh, is
that all?
"Wonderful. So, you just want me to stay here…as a neutral party…to make sure this meeting goes on to completion."
"That is all I can ask of you," she nods.
=================================================
"So, you're Naraiel's son."
Kyrian looks mulishly up at you. He has, thankfully, removed the overly-antlered helmet. Now it rests upon a nearby table. The rest of the Wood Elves bristle even more than they did when you walked over, the first time likely from you being a human, the latter due to you simply using the name of their ruler. Only the one with the hawk helmet seems somewhat relaxed.
"Sorry, should I just say Lady Dawnstone's son? All I get is Count Hohenzollern it seems these days," you sigh.
"I am the son of the Lady of Laurelorn, yes," he sneers from where he sits, outright refusing to stand when you came over. "And you are Frederick von Hohenzollern, the Count of Ostland who did not respond to our missive."
Three hundred years old, huh?
"I responded as I saw fit," is your growled response. "How would the Lady of Laurelorn respond if some human noble showed up, demanded that she come to him, and said nothing of the reason?"
He rocks back slightly in his chair at the vehemence in your voice, his eyes widening. But then he's popped up so fast the chair nearly falls over, shoulders rolling in a fashion you are intimately familiar with, to the point that it nearly makes you bring up your fists in ingrained response. You halt yourself, though, because he comes to a stop before his hands make it past his waist. Instead he unclenches his hands and flattens them against his waist first. The distance between high emotional response to fighting instincts is set rather impressively close in this one. Some of the other Wood Elves present seem to have reacted the same way, only for a raised arm from Kyrian stopping them.
"Prince Kyrian," comes a rasp, the elf in the feather cloak shaking her head ever so slightly.
The 'young' elf just glares back at her for a second before cutting his eyes back to you.
"You…have a point," he grinds out reluctantly. "I offer humble apologies for the abruptness of our messages to the Slayer of Ghorros Warhoof."
His humbleness sounds a
lot like anger.
"Apologies accepted," you shrug, causing many of the Wood Elves to look at you askance. "Now, let's get down to business. Why am I here?"
Kyrian snorts, his arms rising up to fold over his chest.
"Because you can never be truly certain of Asur intentions," he sneers over your shoulder, "It is like trying to deal with The Trickster himself in all things."
You could swear that you've heard similar sentiments before, only the word 'Asur' was replaced with simply 'elves', and from more than one mouth.
"Great, wonderful. Why did you want to meet with me first?"
"Because I wanted to gain the measure of the human who my mother -," he bites off the sentence before he can finish it and shakes his head. "Because I was ordered to," he grunts. "You're a third party. The High Elves even seem to think something of you, for a wonder."
A groan makes its way out of your lips.
"And what, you couldn't trust each other to meet on neutral ground?" You ask, exasperation clear in your voice. "Oh, and also," you stab a finger at a certain elf woman, "What's your name? I can't keep calling you 'hawk helmet' in my head any longer."
More than one of the Wood Elves look a mixture of enraged and aghast, but none of them act on it as she chuckles.
"You may call me Morai-Wen," she does the barest bow of her head to you. "Sky-Mistress of Laurelorn."
(Eye Catching: 55+Martial(19)=74/100)
If you weren't as experienced as you were, used to weapons blurring in your vision due to their very speed, your eyes as trained as they were? You would have missed it. But you don't. Some of the Wood Elves, at her speaking her name, make small motions with their hands. Whether elf or human, growing up in the Empire has made you well-used to catching people making signs of faith with their hands. It's how the fingers curl in certain ways. The pinched looks on the face that then disappear as some small salve of faith is given over to whatever it is that is troubling them. What, just from her giving her name out?
"Sky-Mistress," Kyrian motions at her, that being enough to make her draw back slightly. "Please."
"Of course, Prince Kyrian," she bows at the waist as she sweeps backwards. "My apologies."
He just waggles his hand at her and then slouches back into his chair, rubbing at his chin with the other hand.
"We will
not go simpering to Ulthuan, but neither will they send their elves into a place where they have lost before. So we needed a neutral ground, and a neutral party to watch over it."
It takes a lot of willpower to not grit your teeth and snap at him.
"And you couldn't have actually said that, those words, in a message to me?" You stare at him. "All of this, all of this you couldn't have said beforehand?"
Kyrian bares his teeth at you and growls lowly.
"That wasn't
my decision. My mother is cautious, her advisors more so. They court disaster simply by being open to these talks. If Queen Ariel were to find out about this…"
His voice trails to a halt as he watches you slowly grind your knuckles into your forehead.
"What, hypothetically, would happen if Queen Ariel
did find out about this?" You speak slowly, each word overly enunciated. "Because she apparently does
not at this moment?"
Visions fill your head of the much feared 'Wild Hunt' of Bretonnia suddenly rampaging throughout the Northern Trident. Of a land on fire, bodies writhing amongst the flames as endless waves of arrows come flying down upon them. The boom of cannons and gunfire. Roaring battle cries of both human and elven origin. It only lasts a moment, but that is already a moment too long.
"Only if she ends up disapproving, there could be issues. Censure, among other things," he snorts.
"But you accepted the missive from the High Elves anyway," you point out, looking over again at the delegation in question. "Despite the potential for…disapproval."
They've actually opened some of the wines you brought them. That's good. When you look back at Kyrian, he's got his fists squeezing together over his thighs, teeth grit again. You swear that you can see a vein pulsing in his forehead before he sucks in a hard breath, forcibly calming himself down. Only once he's able to get a modicum of a handle on his temper, he glares up at you.
"How many of our kin do you think were lost fighting in the name of Athel Loren, human? Hmm?" He practically hisses at you. "How many were lost while most of our forces were there, in turn?"
Slowly he shakes his head, letting it drop slightly.
"We could have kept all of our troops home, and would have crushed Ghorros ourselves," is the angry murmur, "But Athel Loren called, and so they –
I – went, on my mother's orders."
Some of the Eternal Guard make subtle motions towards commiserating with one another as the memories of that battle are recalled. A hand on a friend's shoulder, a whispered word, a shared glance that ends with both looking down at the earth. You only saw the end of the fighting in Laurelorn, but you knew then as you know now that there as a hell of a lot of it before you got there. Both in Athel Loren, apparently, as well as Laurelorn itself. The more of Laurelorn's forces were sent to Athel Loren, the less that were available to help fight off the invasion from Ghorros. Damage from two directions. A shit situation if you've ever heard one. It'd be like pulling all of your professional armed forces to a battle elsewhere in the Empire, only for Ostland to come under major assault with only your militia to defend it. Kyrian, for his part, stares into the middle distance, somewhere past your shoulder. His hands begin to clench and unclench again, as if expecting a weapon to be in them.
"I saw the Omen and the Shadowgave myself," his voice gets even lower, his gaze towards something terrible in the distance. "Watched as youth and elder alike were torn apart by foul magic or simply…twisted, just by getting too close."
Silence follows, his lips moving but no sound coming out, until he rapidly blinks and refocuses on you. In a moment the despair disappears, quickly smothered by anger.
"What was our reward for sending almost the entirety of our forces to Athel Loren, for letting Laurelorn burn so that the Oak of Ages did not?"
Chin jutting forward, he looks you straight in the eyes, his own slightly bloodshot.
"
Nothing. The feasts and celebrations began throughout the realms of Athel Loren, while the scions of Laurelorn got to travel back home and…pick through the ashes," his voice holds the faintest quaver in it at the very end.
Morai-Wen speaks up, then, her rasp gentle as she reaches forward and places a leather-covered hand onto Kyrian's shoulder.
"Queen Ariel gave thanks to all, Prince Kyrian, she spoke through the forest itself."
The princeling violently shrugs her hand off of him, his eyes narrowing to slits.
"She then went on a pilgrimage throughout all of Athel Loren, Sky-Mistress, to heal the damage done by the fighting," he answers in a growl before looking up at her with an angry glare. "When last did the Queen come to Laurelorn?"
For the first time since you've seen her, the bemused calm of the Sky-Mistress is ruffled.
"Because I happen to know it has never occurred in
my lifetime," Kyrian snaps at her before turning back to you. "Laurelorn doesn't need
anyone else, human. But that is my opinion, not my mother's. So here we are. I will do as the ruler of
Laurelorn demands of me, no matter what."
Well. All right then.
"I see. I'm here to just be a neutral party, on neutral ground, for you all to talk in person?"
"Essentially," Morai-Wen interjects, having once more collected herself. "We couldn't simply meet up on some random island in the middle of nowhere, after all."
Isn't it already some sort of political concession for the High Elves to have come to Nordland at all? Then again, they were perfectly happy sending in people to Athel Loren proper. The Everqueen must truly care – and yet the sarcasm in your thoughts withers away when you realize that even with your brief exposure to her…she probably actually
does truly care enough to give this a try. While on the other hand apparently the situation in Laurelorn is such that they're willing to at least let them make the attempt.
"I still don't know why you couldn't have just said what you wanted outright," you mutter.
Barring when they found out that you were cutting your way through the forests of Nordland to get to Gruber, this is the most offended you've ever seen the Wood Elves look, you think.
"Okay, fine," you stand with a sigh. "Can we try this again?" You gesture towards the central table once more.
You also signal towards the High Elves, who begin making their way back over as well. With a bit of time to cool down, Kyrian appears to be somewhat less prepared to leap across the table than he started. Though you think that he's likely simmering just beneath the surface. Also luckily, Stephan and Natasha had apparently not been idle while you were busy talking to both groups. The wines have, finally, been uncorked and poured into glasses for both sides, the bottles now clustered in the center. If Kyrian wants to jump over the table at Litania, he'll have to do it through a number of fine glass containers. Plus, the wines have had time to breathe. Now, hopefully, the elves will be somewhat constrained by propriety now. Hopefully.
"Handmaiden Litania. Prince Kyrian. Let us try this again, shall we?"
Choose One:
[] True Neutral: Due to the lack of trust of the Wood Elves towards the High Elves as well as the need of the High Elves to find a way for the Wood Elves to agree to talks, they required a neutral yet known party. Trusted would be a bit of a stretch. In either case, remain as such. Keep the talks from disintegrating outright, but don't intervene otherwise. It's their talk, let them talk. Remain a neutral party. Let them get through their talks. Then they'll leave, and you can go back home.
[] Lean High: The High Elves seem to be genuinely making an effort here. You know how powerful the Everqueen is, maybe the Wood Elves really could use the help. It's just their damn pride keeping them from outright asking. If you can, see if you can support the High Elves in this meeting. Not that they're necessarily agreeing on anything as a result of this meeting, but still.
[] Leaf On The Wind: The Wood Elves seem to have some grievances towards the High Elves. The High Elves seem willing to make some considerable effort towards reconnection in the name of the Everqueen. They are also much closer to Ostland than Avelorn is. If you show some more visible support to the Wood Elves, they may be more amiable regarding you and Stephan in the future.
GM NOTE REPOST: It's a long update, so just a reminder from the top of the post = 3 hour moratorium from the posting of this update.
