I'm mostly talking about Ostland's other noble families.
The Lower and Middle classes probably saw great benefit, but what about the Upper crust?
Warhammer Fantasy: A Dynasty of Dynamic Alcoholism
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The Lower and Middle classes probably saw great benefit, but what about the Upper crust?
- Location
- United States
I imagine 4K a year isn't a small sum, even to an Asur family, but direct access and sole control over an Arcane Fulcrum (which is extremely powerful/useful and presumably very rare) is entirely worth the cost.
I image the equivalent would be like if we (theoretically) found a mine of gromril in the middle mountains and rented it out to the dwarves or something.
Massgamer
Advance toward the Future
- Location
- The Future
The uppercrust always benefit the most. I assume many of them have trade and business connections for lots of Ostland's rising industries or at least more farmland.
Ostlanders are pretty pragmatic as a rule so I don't think most nobles in Ostland look down on merchant work to get more coin and rely only on taxes to get by. It helps that Freddy has shown the success of such a mindset, along with other highly ranked noble families who followed his example.
Approach The Jade College: It's been offered, or rather not offered but opined, that the Jade College might be able to do something for Magnus' son. His shrunken and somewhat twisted son. You've no idea on what his mental ability might be either. It is a horrifying thing to consider, yet one that you are in the smallest way experienced with. Those monstrous things, by description at least, that once nearly slew Natasha from within. But this boy is, at least, free of discernable taint from beyond. Sometimes these things just happen. Noble families give birth to disadvantaged children just as commoners do, they just have more money and the ability to hide it. You do not have to do it, and technically you should not have been told at all. But you know. So you can ask. It may not go over well, but if there is a chance…it may be a chance. On the other hand, perhaps it should not be done. He may grow up well enough, his mind whole and hale, but his body a bit off. But if…but if. Or they might refuse, angry that you would try to ply their secrets. Cost: 500. Time: 1 Year. Reward: Jade College ???? Aid Chance of Success: 50%
I have been reading the quest... and well I wonder if the Everqueen might be willing to assist, or for that matter if a Spell Singer from Laurelorn . Since this option was available for this turn it shouldn't be too late to go for it.
I have been reading the quest... and well I wonder if the Everqueen might be willing to assist, or for that matter if a Spell Singer from Laurelorn . Since this option was available for this turn it shouldn't be too late to go for it.
Ostlanders are pretty pragmatic as a rule, true. There's no reason to assume the nobles weren't running some merchant work or other industries on the side before Freddy came along.
Thing is, those businesses need employees. Taking into consideration the post-Zacharias manpower shortage, the doubling of state troop wages, the expansion of the state troops' numbers and the large amount of civilian jobs in newfound Hohenzollern enterprises, this means pre-existing business owners would logically see a spike in employee costs alongside increased competition from new startups(be they Hohenzollern, Halfling, some Estalian expat or just somebody who managed to save up enough money by working for the aforementioned).
The new money does not necessarily benefit the old money.
Massgamer
Advance toward the Future
- Location
- The Future
I think it was decided to let things be and let little Wolfia grow normally. The odds are good that with love, good halfling meals, regular check ups by priests and wizards, good excise, etc that he won't be a runt forever. It just means he has to work a little harder.
I don't think anyone wants to risk mutating him or something from the attempt.
True, I like to think its a mixed bag. Some noble families' fortunes have grown, some have lost wealth, and others have simply reminded static.
On another note.
This is awesome! It might be old but I don't recall it at all so it makes me happy.
I hope that even when Bugman one day leaves Bolgan decides to run Brewery in his stead.
On another note I wonder if rangers are still searching for Skeggi Threkkson and Durzak Dragonback since they tried to defend the original brewery, their fates were unknown, and they were Bugman's friends also.
- Location
- Norway
On the point of how wealthy Ostland is there is also the social projects Fredrick has gone through with. Large temples to Shaylla and Esmeralda aren't exactly universal healthcare and a guarantee that nobody will go hungry, but Wulfenburg might be one of the best capital cities in the empire to be a beggar in. Don't know if there are any significant equals among other capitals, though I guess temples of Shaylla aren't exactly rare. Healthier, hardier people also work longer and harder, so it is a kindness that pays for itself. Don't know how much this impacts conditions in the rest of the province though.
On that point I wonder what the food security of Wulfenburg looks like. They probably have had a pretty large growth in population lately but there haven't been any projects to expand granries as far as I remember. Might be that Wulfenburg is still beneath the size it was when Zach the everliving came around, but that won't be the case forever.
On that point I wonder what the food security of Wulfenburg looks like. They probably have had a pretty large growth in population lately but there haven't been any projects to expand granries as far as I remember. Might be that Wulfenburg is still beneath the size it was when Zach the everliving came around, but that won't be the case forever.
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- Location
- United States
I imagine that most of Ostland is still (relative) backwater beyond Wulfenburg and Saltalken.
Wulfenburg because that is where 85% of our wealth has gone into improving, and Saltalken because it's essentially a dwarf made fortress now.
... So, you feel the Everqueen is likely to cause mutations if she was to try and help our son? Like it or not she, and for that matter the spell singers, are far more competent than the jade college.
I bring this up as there is the potential boons might be offered and this is a big enough change to make it worth debating again.
- Location
- Somewhere
Stahp! Okay, yes. There should be no reason High Elf healing magic couldn't "fix" Wolfila, Freddy's Grandson.
There is no reason the High elves would be aware of Wolfila's physical inferiority, that might not be an actual problem.
All magic takes a price, even magic the elves use. The LoS takes from Freddy, without his knowledge. Whatever cost that Wolfila will have to pay, unless that cost is revealed, using magic to fix something that does not actually demand to be fixed is for a different discussion. A different discussion you know, if magic healing for Wolfila that somehow the elves know about got suggested, and is actually something the wood elves have put forward to reward Freddy. If the elves will reward Freddy at all.
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Fine... If I realised that people would give such a hostile response to bringing a topic up I would't have bothered to post.
No, don't worry Bear Templar, it seems like an interesting possibility or idea. After all, certainly the Everqueen's magic would be of a far different and more potent sort than that of the Jade College alone. After all, if Wolfila had been born before Frederick first met the Everqueen, we might have decided to go for healing him then and there to begin with.
Not sure how the topic would come up between Freddy and Everqueen Alarielle right now though. I'm not sure Freddy would bring it up on his own, so.
Not sure how the topic would come up between Freddy and Everqueen Alarielle right now though. I'm not sure Freddy would bring it up on his own, so.
NCRTrooper
Wishing For A Nuclear Winter
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- New York
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- He/Him
It seems like at least a good portion of the nobility has benefited from the enriched economy thanks to Frederick's rule, especially since taxes are very low on them at the moment.
To be fair, Ostland's increasing wealth isn't just reflected in Wulfenburg and Salkalten, they're just the most obvious examples.
A lot of Ostland's settlements have seen growth since the start of Frederick's rule. Jegow, Ferlangen, Roezfels, and Wurzen have all seen notable growth since the start of Frederick's reign. From Jegow growing to a podunk village to a major settlement, Roezfels being a large town where it was previously only an outpost, to Wurzen now being a "nexus for traders from all over the Empire who take the river paths" where previously it mostly traded with Talabeclanders. Not to mention the Middle Mountains being settled for the first time in, well, ever.
Overall, Ostland in general is significantly more developed than it was before Frederick's rule, not just Wulfenburg and Salkalten, which is reflected by the province's growing wealth and economy.
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Lovely Laurelorn Epilogue 1
GM NOTE: Figured this was as good as any for a stopping point. Hopefully won't take so long for the next bits until we're back to regular. I normally don't usually pay much attention to 'the character took over this bit while I was writing' things, but sometimes it does happen. Not quite where I was expecting this to go, but here is where it went.
Lovely Laurelorn Epilogue 1
The wind is made of screams.
The hail is made of blades.
The rain is but droplets of lit pitch, singing and burning all it touches.
The maelstrom rages on, as it ever has, and ever will.
It ravages the land and air alike.
Here, look, a place where bodies beyond counting swarm. Why do they fight? There is nothing that changes this place from another. In the distance lie shadowed mountains crushed and pulled into eldritch shapes, impossibly beyond the edges of the infinite storm, never to be approached. It is a wasteland, stretching ever onwards, without structures or roads. No veins of gold line the ground, no treasures are held up high upon an altar. There are no banners here, no lines of territory, nothing at all to protect. Yet despite it all, or in spite, perhaps, they are here. They fight here, in this nothing.
With fingernail and fist they cut and beat, tearing skin and flesh, cracking bones and leaving the fallen where they lay. Small and large, they fought and killed. Man and woman, they fought and killed. Young and old, they fought and killed. All of these, those between, and those beyond, they fought and killed. The rocks stained crimson, the dirt turned to red sludge that slopped noisily around the ankles and knees. Those that fell and yet lived were quick to drown, be trampled, or both. An axe of stone, a sword of amber glass, spears of splintering red-stained wood. Some come with them locked in death grips. Others are pulled from the muck. Others are plucked from the air itself, for the hail that falls is as fatal as any of those fighters, knives and worse of caustic metal. These…and more. Everything. Nothing.
Where do they come from?
They bleed into this place, pouring from the wounds within the sky and ground both. Weeping tears torn into the fabric of this place, one layer within the spanning tapestry. Some of the wounds are as lines, perfect horizontal cuts to disembowel and sever. Others curve and loop, carved into reality with all the glee of an eager murder. Some are deep pits, the result of piercing strikes that shattered the land and the bedrock beneath and further still. These wounds, they bleed. They always have. They always will. Forever. What they bleed, fights. Because they must.
Those that topple down from the skies often are torn asunder by the force of the impact. Others are left as mangled half-dead masses that die soon after. Some few shamble upright just enough that another can cut them back down.
Others drag themselves up out of the wounds in the land, slick with blood from the bleeding of the earth itself, there is no hesitation before they join in on the slaughter. Killing and killers, born anew.
Look at them, what do you see?
Faces torn, chest cavities split open, on broken legs and with broken arms they fight and die. They are as dead as they are alive, as alive as they are dead. Nothing is equal. Most are naked before the storm, ready-made victims who must hide behind the bodies of others or be cut to pieces by it. Most, but not all. Some are as shrieking children, wearing but peasant's cloth, murder and fear warring in their eyes as they cut and stab and bleed and die. Some, but not all.
Peer into the maelstrom.
This one, garbed in shattered panoply, the sigil of a Goddess slashed and disfigured as much as he is, flesh melted and blackened from the burning rain.
This one, howling as she kills, shield abandoned so that the spear might kill all the better. Her armor of mail and leather is gone, shredded to pieces as she slowly begins to succumb to the attacks of everyone and everything.
This one, with axes of jagged steel, he kills and laughs as he is brought low again and again, only to rise once more.
Hark.
Another rises, cast out of a pit with spine breaking force into a mass of dead and dying, all beginning to submerge into the bloodied mud that continues to churn.
With body soaked in blood, his own and others, without a weapon of any kind save for his own body. There are so many scars…and whether fresh or old they are as red as blood in their anger. So red they almost glow beneath the coating of blood. Witness the tarnished talismans that jangle across his body, a horrid new note that is introduced to the unending sanguine symphony. Bodies turn, loose red dribbling spittle suddenly splattering outwards through the air as they scream and charge. But this one, this one screams back with burning eyes, clawing his way towards them in as much fury as they.
No.
With more.
You startle awake, wakefulness banishing the last confusing dregs of some unhappy dream or another, with even those last ephemeral fragments disappearing entirely as you fully awaken.
The world is about the same as when you left it, with the Greatswords still standing and the Dawnstone Pinnacle still brimming with power. It was not too difficult a feat to fall asleep beforehand, as exhausted as you were, but you doubt you could do so again given the unsettling buzzing in your ears and warmth upon your skin. It is not the same as the way the Oak of Ages seemed to affect you, not exactly. It's certainly weaker than that ageless monolith of a tree, whose very age seemed to weigh upon you, let alone the quite literal magic in the air of the glade. The Dawnstone Pinnacle, by contrast, seems at once smaller and more focused, though you suppose that it would be obvious for such a thing to be true when one compares the two. Furthermore, the Oak of Ages seemed to radiate magic, and while the five connected waystones do the same, it is more bleed off as they channel up into the air and presumably elsewhere to Ulthuan. The weather is seemingly unchanged, but by the positioning of the sun you know that you've slept at least through the night into the morning. But in truth, your fascination with any of that is a fleeting thing, as there is someone far more important right in front of you.
Natasha still slumbers where she rests, and though you are no physician you think you can see some minor improvement in her condition. You hope.
The first thing your eyes alight upon is the scar. It has been reduced to a thin white line along her throat, so small that you could almost miss it entirely, which speaks well to Sunweaver's abilities considering the actual damage itself at the time. Of course, even seeing it causes a familiar rumble of anger to threaten to rise up before your mind reasserts itself and beats the emotion down with the satisfaction of Drycha's decapitated head lying a short way away, face to the stone. Even now, seeing it brings a smile to your lips, though that smile just as quickly disappears as you look back down at your wife as she rests. By now, the rest of the Greatswords have definitely noticed your awakening, but they have years of experience in letting their charges to their private moments.
Where you were touching her as you slept upon the stone and she upon the bedroll, your skin is reddened and threatening to peel, but there is an intensely odd coloration to it. As if it has healed more than once, on top of itself. You can only reasonably assume that the Light of Summer has something to do with that. Her entire body radiates a chill now, far in excess of the past. Before it was a case of being slightly cooler than average, now it is genuinely cold. Not clammy, but still. Only a short bit above point of what you would consider fatal in a normal person. Going by your own skin, enough to cause a faint bit of harm. But you don't particularly care at the moment, and instead reach out to tuck some hairs behind her ear that have come loose in her sleep. It is, of course, impossible to miss the white streaks that are blown throughout her otherwise golden blonde. While her normal hair is as lustrous and thick as ever, the streaks are different. When you run your hand across some of them, you find that even the streaks are not wholly uniform, for all that they start at the temple and shoot backwards across her head and then down, following the entire length of her hair with disturbing uniformity. Some are, texturally, exactly the same as the rest of her – cold to the touch. Some are fragile and almost straw-like, for all that they are in coloration exactly like the others streaks.
Too much like that of the Ice Hags for your tastes.
She does not stir as you stroke her face, and for that you are grateful. She clearly needs as much rest as possible, considering that she didn't even react as you began to extricate yourself from where the two of you had unconsciously entangled. But you cannot help but remember the look of her left eye. It did not appear that her vision has been impaired, but you can't know for certain, not just yet. In truth, what troubles you more than any of it is the fact that you'd been in such a rush afterwards that you have no proper frame of reference for when exactly it is these changes took place, nor what they mean. The only one you could properly trust to go to with this is Natasha's sister, but given the state of Kislev you are more than a little leery of sending your wife off into that viper's nest of a powder keg. You could seek out one of Natasha's old teachers or peers, perhaps? Thoughts for later, at least. Once you're back home. For now, she is okay. And that will have to be enough.
"So," you grunt as you stand up, cracking your neck to the side as you glance between your Greatswords, who are now turning about to face you.
"Count Hohenzollern," they greet you in unison.
"First," you start before Luthor hands you a sloshing wineskin before you could finish, "Thanks," you nod to him before drinking the entire thing down and giving a single quiet burp. "What happened while I was gone?"
They share looks before Hans Lohr steps to the fore. He was, after all, the one given command of their detachment by Captain Elric Hass. The man is only a few years younger than you, and unlike your own choice in facial hair has elected to focus wholly upon his enormous looping grey mustache and a clean-shaven chin. Just like the rest of your Greatswords, his armor has been rather savaged by the fighting, but none of them are as bad as yours. In that they have functional pieces here and there, many of them still with greaves or gauntlets or the like. You don't even have that much, only a pair of rough linen pants that are considerably split and far airier than they were before Sadrina dumped them out on the ground in front of you. Considering the inhuman transformation that you can even now only hazily remember, that they are functional at all is impressive. You seriously need to find the tailor that was commissioned for these, or if they weren't, whatever bulk seller had access to them as products.
"Well, things went pretty quick once you left, Count," Hans says before pausing to drink from one of his own flasks, the acrid smell of ostka filling the air briefly before he swallows it all down. "The elven Queen, she went ballistic when you…you uh…,"
"Got pulled into the tree, yes," you grunt, "Continue."
"Right. Well, she turned right around and started shouting at the treeman with the sword-,"
"They called him Durthu." Volgar speaks up without looking away from his chosen point of middle distance.
The man you had to literally cut out of his armor as the unnatural infection had begun swelling his body to fatal levels has largely recovered, but you can see more than one loose flaps of skin on him. He will need to see the Jade Wizards, but then just about everyone else here does.
"Durthu, right," Hans snaps his fingers before he bows his head to you, "My entire head was covered by boils and sores bigger than a fist, sort of missed some things after I went down up until one of the elves got me back up again. Apologies, Count."
"I'm just pleased that you're alive, Hans," you inform him calmly.
"Nevertheless."
"Just keep going," you roll your wrist at him.
"Right, well, this info comes by way of the rest of these drunken louts," he jerks a thumb at the other Greatswords. "Between the two of them, the Queen and the big treeman…they pretty much slaughtered the enemy. Now, I don't speak tree, sir, but I trust that any one of us can understand begging for mercy."
At your flat expression, he shrugs.
"And they didn't. It was…eerie," he shudders slightly. "Like undead, without a necromancer keeping them bound."
"He's right," Karl Thorpes huffs, running a hand through his hair as he looks at you, just on the edge of haunted. "They just kept fighting, even as they got ground down. Fought harder, even. I think they knew they weren't getting out of there."
Karl Thorpes is the soberest of the Greatswords you have, verging onto a teetotaler by the standards of Ostland. To see him so affected must mean it really was quite serious.
"Right, well, I think all of you might be due a talk with Arthur's bunch," you tilt your head as you look at him.
"Agh," Luthor groans, slapping a hand to his head. "I hate talking to them."
"You dislike talking to my son and the priests of Morr, Herr?" You raise an eyebrow imperiously.
A dire look of panic comes across the veteran's face in a manner must unbecoming of a man halfway through his forth decade, all the while the other Greatswords either attempt to cover their toothy grins with their hands or turn their faces away entirely so you can't see them.
"I…that's not…that's not what I meant," he says hurriedly, "It's just, I don't ever remember my dreams, and they use a lot of that when they talk to us. I usually just go to the Temple of Ulric for confession, and-,"
"Enough," you raise a hand, his mouth shutting with a click of teeth. "I get it. As long as you get a priest to look at you, I'm satisfied. Doesn't have to be one of Morr, Luthor. Anyhow," you look back towards Hans. "You were saying?"
"Right," he coughs into his fist and then plants it on his hip. "Asrai were all busy talking to one another, for a good long while. Durthu…he just came over and stared at the big one," he gestures towards where Coeddil once stood. "For a long while."
"I was wondering about where he'd gone," you admit with pursed lips. "A rather conspicuous absence to see when I came back, I'll admit."
You do not enjoy the exchange of looks amongst your Greatswords that come next.
"…Hans?" You push.
"Well…," he shifts his weight before looking down at where Natasha rests. "You remember the frost and ice that was…sort of everywhere?"
"I remember it not melting even a little," you answer, arms crossing over your chest. "And I also notice that it's all gone away."
"Well, it did go away," he nods nervously, "It sort of…," he flaps a hand towards Natasha.
"You may not have ever attended a scholarly institution, but I know you can use your words, Hans," you growl.
"It dissolved. Into magic…I think," he adds as you remain silent. "Durthu sort of just waved his hand and it went, or at least the stuff mostly around Coeddil."
"Except for the big block the Lady put him in," Volgar adds with a rough chuckle and sniff. "Then he just sort of…stuck his hand on it, right near the head."
"Right," Hans nods, "Over time, the rest of it started to go away, but we could see bits of it going back into the Lady," he tilts his head towards Natasha. "And the more of it she…took back in, the better she seemed. That Highweaver elf, Taira?"
You cannot help but remember her anguished screams as her sister died as her own dark magic turned against her. Nor as she sacrificed her treasured acorn as a power source to restore you with the Light of Summer.
"Aye, her," you grunt.
"She said that Lady Natasha had put so much of herself into…," he trails off, swallowing uncomfortably as he, and everyone else yourself included, remember that startling level of power that Natasha had temporarily commanded, "Into it," he continues lamely, "That what little of it she got back was her own. At least, that's how she put it. And as it went away…back into her…she…changed."
Again, your inability to properly understand magic frustrates you. It is a perception that will forever elude you, but that doesn't stop you from getting mad about it on occasion.
"Did Highweaver Taira give anything better in terms of explanation?"
Hans scratches at his chin.
"She seemed a bit distracted, Count, when the Queen was rallying up her Handmaidens so they could go back through the Worldroots," he shakes his head. "But she did say something about putting 'the very soul into the weaving and having it be altered in turn'."
"That's…," you trail off, your mind grinding against itself as hard as it ever has before you realize you still cannot come up with something to say.
You know, very well by now, how magic can alter people the longer and more strongly they use it. When you visited the campus of the Amethyst College to visit your youngest daughters, you saw more than a few who had suffered such effects. Emanating stenches like the grave, withered frames, voices transformed, and worse. Your close relationship with Stephan and Odelia means that you've been able to watch the steady transformation of the Lady Flamestar as time passed. Where once her hair was only a slightly smoking brown, and slight portions of her outer wear carried flames that she showed no fear for, she has changed considerably. Now the edges of her bright crimson hair appear to smolder constantly, while her appearance is forever flushed and body burning with a feverish heat. Strange glowing tattoo-like marks have appeared along her left arm, rotating and changing even as you watch. There is even a smell like a just-quenched forge fire about her at all times. On the other hand, you have seen some of the effects that your daughters have sustained, some worse than others.
But neither Anna nor Alexandra, nor even Kattarin, appear to have suffered something precisely like what your wife has. Pushing her very being, her very soul, into the magic cast into the ice, only for said ice to dissolve and melt back into her? Is this the result of her soul altering the magic, or the magic altering her soul? Or both? Knowing your luck, it is probably both.
"Right, well," you eventually push past it, resolving to discuss it once you are both back home and out of this forest and focus instead on the positives, "What happened with Coeddil?"
"It was the strangest thing," the balding Ubel Manndrof answers, shifting the flat of his sword from one shoulder to the other. "He just…stood there, hand against the ice. For hours. And then just let out this noise that…,"
"…yes?" You say expectantly.
"I can't really describe it," he frowns before looking over at Hans. "Can you?"
"Sad," is the answer, though it is slow in coming.
"Sad," you repeat before looking at the rest of them. "Anyone else have anything to add?"
"Really sad," Oskar Lohr adds in unhelpfully. "It got me weeping, and I ain't done that in ten years since my wife passed."
"Sorry Count," Hans shrugs at you again, "None of us are, uh, poets or what have you. Especially my brother," he jerks his chin at Oskar as he says it.
A tired sigh escapes your lips as the Lohr brothers start squabbling once more.
"You know what? Fine. What happened next," you glare at the two which gets them to separate quick enough.
"'e stuck 'is sword through 'em," grunts out the normally quiet Albert.
You squint at the native of the Middle Mountains, trying to see something through the absolute bush of hair he's got for a face. You're reasonably proud of the beard and mustache you can grow, but honestly you're pretty sure that Albert's ancestry involves a bear or three. No one should have eyebrows, nose hair, mustache, and beard that are all so thick. Honestly, most days you can barely even see his dirt-brown eyes.
"Right," Hans leaps upon the words like a drowning man. "And then Coeddil sort of melted, except it was into Durthu's feet. And the rest of the ice that was on him went back…well," he flicks his eyes again at Natasha.
"Because of course."
"Well, don't forget that there was a bunch left over after that daemon-warped hunk of kindling went," Oskar speaks up, rolling his shoulders. "They had to burn that stuff. The Highweaver had to do it, and it was still burning for a while before they took it away. Might still be burning."
"Big ol' 'splosion of light, made my head hurt," Albert adds. "Big'un got gone after."
"You know," you interrupt before they can go on any further, "When I woke up, I was feeling all right. Good, in fact!"
And it was even true! Despite the roughness of where you'd chosen to fall asleep, the reaction of your body to Natasha's own, and the events of what was apparently nothing more than a single day, you felt remarkably refreshed, at least physically. Despite everything that happened, you can't remember your body feeling this good in years. Despite the odd darkness of your unremembered dream, you'd felt vaguely optimistic for some reason. Clearly, that was an oversight on the part of your subconscious, one that the waking world had eagerly moved to correct. Still, you do not select your Greatswords for being especially erudite, you choose them for loyalty and martial skill after proving themselves amongst the swordsmen and halberdiers.
"Whatever," you grouse, "I don't care. Status report on yourselves then, gentlemen?"
Hans straightens to attention, despite the general ruin of his equipment causing quite a clattering.
"Sir," he subconsciously switches to form as when he was but a regular soldier, "General equipment is mostly beyond salvaging, save for our blades," he lifts his shoulder against which said blade rests, an act that the rest of the Greatswords mirror in silence. "Physically…we got seen to by the elves before the Queen went tearing off, which was when the Lady woke up for a bit, managed to shout that one Handmaiden – Sadrina – over here and got her the backup satchel from the horses."
"No lingering effects?"
"No, sir," he shakes his head, glancing around at the other Greatswords who do the same. "They got a bit worried over Volgar and them what had to get cut out of their armor, but they're as fine as wine now. The Lady Dawnstone even sent over some others to check us over in the night while you were asleep."
You blink at him, shifting your weight.
"Naraiel is up and about then?"
"She is," he confirms with a nod. "She and her son weren't recovered enough to go with their Queen into the trees, but she's been organizing everything else ever since. As much as she can, anyhow, the two treemen by the big tree are apparently somehow here from Avelorn. No authority over them, near as we could tell."
Fair enough.
"Speaking of which," he says casually while pointing behind you.
At the very top of the steps which lead to the base of the Pinnacle is none other than Naraiel Dawnstone, who appears to be doing much better than when you saw her last. Given the magical healing available to her as befitting a Glade Lord, that isn't actually that surprising. Still, the difference is remarkable. Her head wound has been healed so completely that there is not even a scar to show that her skull was exposed to open air, and the missing chunks of meat that were most of her torso and pelvis have been regenerated. Her son does not seem to be present, and neither are any guards or advisors. Unlike before, she wears no armor, though given the state of it when you were pulled out of Laurelorn that is no surprise. You are no master smith of elven artifice, but your own knowledge is sufficient enough to know that it was almost beyond repair. Now, Naraiel wears what you can only assume is casual clothing, though obviously for an elven noble of the woods that is quite different indeed than human standards. A flowing skirt that looks patterned almost like a sheet of pressed dark oak leaves swishes back and forth with the gentle breeze round her legs, showing that her feet are in fact bare. A diagonal crossing of more vibrant green fabrics with silver highlighting protects her modesty while revealing most of her midriff and back to the open sunlight of the glade. A golden circlet rests on her head, with clearly excellent craftsmanship without being overly ostentatious with gems or such things. She bears no helm, no gauntlets, no bow or sword, though, of course, there is a belt that is slung along her hips with a knife sheathed there with some pouches of some sort. All told, it is a wildly different look to any other time that you've seen her, even including the garb she'd chosen for the diplomatic meeting.
"Frederick," she greets you with a shallow nod as she descends the stairs with her arms clasped behind her back, "How are you feeling?"
Though she pauses a good ten feet away from you, or more likely Natasha, she seems entirely sincere in her concern. In fact, she seems remarkably serene in general given recent events. While she never made it down to Athel Loren, the fact of the matter is that for her the sudden visitation of two different Queens likely were a nightmare of their own to deal with, let alone her own near death and that of her son. But here, now? She practically radiates a curious sort of calm. Behind her, the Asrai guards that are still vigilantly guarding the Pinnacle have turned back to watching for outside threats, apparently confident enough that they can let Naraiel be without escort or watchers. That you can see, at least.
"Fine enough, I suppose, all things considered," you shrug.
"That is good to hear. Could I speak with you in private?" She half-turns, gesturing towards an alcove off to the side beneath one of the upper walkways.
You look at your Greatswords, then down at Natasha, then at your own state of dress, and then back at her. When you do so, you find that she has somehow acquired a large bottle of elven wine in one hand, presumably what she had been holding behind her back. The other hand holds two crystal glasses, tucked securely in place against her palm with two fingers each.
"Sure, why not."
She simply nods again and then begins walking towards the alcove. Within, you find a small rectangular stone table of immaculate construction and condition, with what is absolutely real gold inlaid along its sides in various shapes of wildlife, as well as two long benches at its sides. On the walls are wrought silver sconces that are lit with fires that burn with no discernable physical fuel. You've no idea what it was meant for in the past, nor whether it was mundane or otherwise. For now, it proves a satisfactory enough place for you and Naraiel to sit after she prompts you, the two of you sliding along the cool stone until you are both about midway on each of your claimed seats and facing one another. In silence, she uncorks the wine and places both of the glasses down. The instant the cork is pulled off, a powerful bouquet of wildflowers and berries escapes it and fills the entire alcove. Along with, rather surprisingly, a significantly powerful scent of alcohol, more akin to rotgut than fine wine. Or at least, the closest thing you think the elves could create to rotgut. She pours not just a small pull into each glass, but instead fills them both to the brim.
"So is there a…traditional elven toast here or-," you begin to say before she takes the glass and downs it in one go and not-quite slams it down onto the table to begin refilling it. "Oh. All right then."
Following her example, you down the glass.
It hits you less like a hammer to the gut and more like a spear to the throat, punching right through you as liquid fire burns its way down your gullet and into the rest of you. It is insanely powerful, not even just for a wine, yet somehow manages to carry through on the promises of flavor offered by its bouquet all the while.
"Okay," you cough out, thumping your chest for a moment as your eyes water. "That's…actually pretty strong."
"It should be," she notes calmly as she lowers her third glass. "This is a very special vintage of wine, meant for either terrible mourning or raucous celebration."
Sure, it caught you off guard, but you're an Ostlander and quick to adapt to new drinks. Downing the second causes the exact same effects of before, but this time it fails to incapacitate you as badly.
"Well," you pause with your third glass raised towards your lips, "Which is this, then?"
Naraiel sighs and puts down her fourth glass after only getting through half of it.
"I haven't decided yet," she grunts before swallowing the rest and begins pouring a fifth.
The two of you work your way through the rest of the bottle in silence, at the end of which you can comfortably say that you've achieved full drunkenness. Naraiel, for her part, somehow manages to straighten and firm her posture further as time goes on, which you only realize towards the end is her exercising increasing levels of focus and energy on not toppling over or lolling back and forth. There is a distinct glassiness to her eyes now, and that she cannot disguise. Well, perhaps it is possible with a bit of magic, but if she is capable of doing so she isn't making use of it to do so. You do have to restrain a belch as the two of you stew in silence, but it doesn't take her long to start talking again.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to think of you."
You blink fuzzily as you puzzle over the words.
"…not exactly what I was expecting, but okay," you say back. "What do you mean?"
"You…are too much," she struggles to get out, her fists opening and closing repeatedly before she lays them flat against the table. "I fought alongside my father when your kind tried to invade our home, many times. You know this, correct? I have killed Imperials before, when they sought to enforce their 'claims' on a land that was ours before your Empire even existed."
"A lot of people know that," you point out, "Middenland, Westerland, Nordland, Drakwald, all of them have tried their luck more than once. So have Dwarfs, Norscans, and if I don't miss my guess, Druchii," you pause there to watch as she gives a slight nod, "Possibly even skaven," which gets a firmer nod and disgusted twist of the lips that quickly smooth out. "Sort of hard to miss."
Everyone remembers 'The Unlucky Count' of the Drakwald. History doesn't even record his name, such was the chaos of the time and the brutality of his defeat, but it is impossible to miss twenty thousand soldiers with thousands more of attendant mercenaries and auxiliaries being torn to shreds. The savaging was so thorough, the total combined military forces of the Drakwald so overwhelmingly crushed, that many historical scholars claim that the event set the foundations for the Drakwald's eventual dissolution. Those more interested in the exact military details, yourself included, were hard pressed to find them, given that there were only a handful of survivors out of so many that marched into Laurelorn. Of those survivors, most were gibbering wrecks who fled to Middenheim to be as far away from trees and wood in general as possible. The defeat was so complete that it was the most notable event of not only the year 891 IC, but the entire decade of which that year was a part. Frankly, it was a miracle that the Runefang was recovered at all.
"Speaking of Skaven, there are also journals of soldiers accompanying Mandred Skavenslayer making claims of being able to pass through Laurelorn, managing a journey that should have taken him more than half a week in a handful of hours."
Naraiel blinks at that before looking off into the middle distance as she searches her memories.
"Ah, yes. Him," she nods before pursing her lips. "I remember arguing with father to not allow them passage."
If there were any alcohol left you would have spat it out at her words.
"What?!"
Again, for just a second, you forgot about how old elves can be.
"Obviously I lost the argument, Frederick," she rolls her eyes. "I had an arrow trained on his head the whole way through our borders, but I never took the shot. As it turned out, my father was right. He proved himself well enough in removing the skaven as a threat, for if he had not Laurelorn would not be spared their ravenous hunger for long."
For just a moment you try to imagine an Empire where the Skavenslayer somehow failed to complete his campaigning as he did historically. Specifically, without the shaved off time of passing through Laurelorn. Your mind whirls about as it examines the changes that would make to supply lines, battle times, and battlefield conditions. You find that you truly do not like what you envision there. On the other hand, Naraiel has just admitted that without Mandred, even Laurelorn would be under severe threat. So there was that, at the absolute least. On a third slice of your drunken thoughts, you are trying to imagine what it might have been like to see one of the greatest Emperors in the Empire's history in the living flesh. Of course, then you remember what happened after his assassination, which is enough to sour the mood of any right-minded citizen of the Empire.
"But putting that aside, I have led Laurelorn in our battles against the Empire before, and yet you are willing to aid us. Again and again. There is no doubt that an Ostlander has died beneath our boughs. More than one, certainly, as mercenaries or attempted settlers of illegal settlements. So why?"
That, you know, is likely true. The nature of the Empire has folk of all the provinces going one way or another, especially after two thousand years.
"Well," you lean back slightly while folding your arms, "Us Hohenzollerns, Ostlanders in general, really, are a naturally stubborn kind."
"This, I can believe."
"But some lessons can, and must, be learned," you continue drolly. "As my family did, trying to hold on to things we quite simply couldn't in Kislev, and elsewhere. Whole lot of blood spilt, for generations, without any gain at all. Losses, instead. How many armies of the Empire, or mercenaries hired by folk in the Empire, has Laurelorn faced and repulsed?"
It says something that Naraiel has to actively think about it, mind searching backwards over more than two thousand years of history.
"Usually at least one per every other human generation," she eventually admits. "Since before your Sigmar walked the world, and afterwards. A generation to forget or change the histories in their minds, to convince themselves to try again."
"And it's never accomplished much," you point out. "Other than dead men who should have been fighting greenskins or beastmen or such. As far as I know, there have been exactly zero human settlements that lasted more than a year without the permissions of Laurelorn's true rulers."
Naraiel just shrugs, propping up her chin with a fist.
"Look," you tilt your head back towards Natasha. "You know what makes a lot more sense, to me at least? Being allies with Kislev, as much of a bitter creature as Kattarin can be, and the people there working with the Empire. Building ties so we can face actual problems, actual enemies."
"You say that as if your province has not gone to war with others before, especially Hochland in the past."
You blink rapidly before refocusing on her.
"It's not Ostland's fault that Hochland are a bunch of cheating lowlifes who smile at you while they steal your purse," you fire back with only a low and old heat. "Also, how the hell do you know anything about that?"
She just gives you a wan look.
"It pays to know one's foes."
"But we aren't anymore."
"We aren't right now," she notes. "Agreements between elves and men are tricky, Frederick. For us, we watch as a dozen Electors live and die, and it only takes one to decide he knows better than his predecessors to upend everything."
She uses her free hand to point an index finger at herself.
"I watched, and participated in, the negotiations with Stephan von Kessel's grandfather to renew the agreements between Laurelorn and Nordland. Then we watched as they were cast down, and Gruber rose up in the meantime. Then Gruber, who swore to us up and down before your Empire's Gods, ruled as he wished before betraying us all to the Dark Gods."
Damn that Otto. It is a never-ending insult, a brand that will stick in Stephan's hide as long as he lives, a wound that he cannot heal unlike the mark that was forced upon his face.
"You cannot fathom what it is like to watch your kind form agreements in wax and ink and blood, then die, and then have their children or grandchildren as 'adults' march up with an army and spit on what their fathers and grandfathers agreed upon," she continues quietly. "Or to slay these oathbreakers and overly ambitious fools and their army down to the last, roll the bodies out with warnings in Reikspiel, only for fifty years later end up with a 'strong and bold' noble to come with another army while fighting back tears as they swear holy vengeance for our people daring to defend ourselves from invasion!" Her words twist themselves into angry hisses towards the end. "Again…and again…and again," she hangs her head, rubbing at her temples.
You let her seethe for a moment before speaking up again.
"You're right. I can't," you admit, getting a surprised slow blink from her. "I suppose Ostland's disagreements with Hochland must seem…petty, to you. Any of the Empire's internal disagreements, really."
She huffs and shakes her head.
"On certain matters? Yes. But our kind are not so aloof as to never disagree or argue over matters of payment, of obligation, and agreements amongst families," she quickly points out. "And anyone who says that elves are somehow above civil conflict is either a fool or a liar. I have killed enough Druchii corsairs to know that."
"I suppose some might argue about the reasons being more important, one way or another."
The ruling Lady of Laurelorn snorts and shakes her head.
"For all that we protect the waystones within our borders, none save the eldest of us have ever felt the soil of Ulthuan under our feet. We were but colonists abandoned to the Dwarfs. The raids we have faced from the Witch King's ilk have never been for any reason other than sadism and murderous joy," she sneers. "There is nothing that sells better in the slave markets of Naggaroth than an elven slave, Asur or otherwise," she spits to the side. "This we know, not from interrogations, but because they have admitted it to us, proudly even, when they come to chain and cage us."
Sick twisted bastards.
"But we digress," she realizes, her words finally beginning to slur as the wine continues to work its way through her system. "Our subject is supposed to be you."
"Very well then," you shrug. "Me."
"By all rights, you are supposed to be nothing more than a mayfly, like the rest of your kind. Living and dying, accomplishing little."
"Little insulting there, don't you think?"
"I'm drunk," she responds instantly.
Ah. A popular excuse in Ostland, and one that often has the benefit of being true.
"Well, go on then," you roll your wrist at her.
"But instead, you have humbled me. Thrice," she emphasizes the word so much you worry for a moment her lungs might blow out of her mouth, one hand going up in a fist at the same time. "First was Slugtongue and Gruber."
"Your people helped out plenty there," you point out, "You were there, fighting the whole while at the end."
"But we could not have done it without you," she shakes her head. "Our people were crippled by the plagues of Slugtongue and Gruber, forcing us to focus almost all of our efforts on keeping the afflicted alive."
"I…did not know that," you admit. "But honestly, I've never gotten a proper judging of Laurelorn's military forces."
Naraiel sighs.
"It was one of the Plague God's opening moves, those few years ago, ensuring that we could not stop Gruber until it was too late. His servants, Slugtongue especially, poisoned the rivers and infected wildlife with diseases with long incubation periods. By the time we realized what was happening, it was too late," she says with calcified frustration, long-picked at memories clearly rising to the surface once more. "It was…disturbingly subtle, for their kind."
You yourself have never faced a plague as bad as the old days, at least within your rule. Your significant donations to the Shallyans helps with that. You receive a report, every now and then, of them swarming a village or hamlet the moment a report is heard of particularly dangerous sickness. On estimation alone you can think of at least ten different epidemics and outbreaks that they've contained before it could stretch beyond a single settlement at a time. But you have read the texts. Red Pox. Black Plague. The devastation such things could cause is immense.
"How bad?" You ask softly.
"Ironically, very few died. Instead, it was…calculated, just enough to tie us up with keeping each other alive. Our own healing talents worked both for and against us. Success was possible, but it required tying down manpower in the extreme across my entire realm," she growls at the thought. "And then you came along. Swore an oath and willingly formed a blood bond."
"You know, that's come up before," you note idly, "That blood bond…thing. But I've never gotten an explanation on it. Though it does seem to bother and disgust a lot of people."
Naraiel…well, it is a bit hard to tell, given the flush of her cheeks from the wine, but you think that there is a faint brightening on her face. Rather than answering immediately, she reaches into one of the pouches along her belt and pulls out a small roll of some sort of paper that she places along the table. From another pouch she withdraws a clump of pungent greenery. Carefully, she unrolls the paper, pressing it flat before placing the clump directly in the center and forming it into a line. When you open your mouth to speak, she raises a finger to silence you before she rolls the paper back up into vaguely tubular form and licks along its length to seal it. Then she leans back slightly so that she can light it with the aid of one of the sconces. Immediately a purple and green smoke begins to emit from it before she places it into her mouth and inhales deeply, turning her head to the side to puff outwards into the open air outside the alcove.
"Yes. That," she finally says after coughing a small cloud of colored smoke out of her mouth. "Blood bond is a misnomer. It's a temporary linking of souls that-,"
"It is a what-,"
"That in its original incarnation was a method to enforce control between one end of the bond over the other. Old, dark magic without being actual Dark Magic," she finishes in a rush.
You stare at her, a faint tingle of anger beginning to push its way through the alcohol in your body.
"That…is an incredible violation of…of sanctity of the soul, of…of-,"
"I did not know you, at the time," she professes honestly, hiccupping slightly. "How could I have possibly fully trusted you? I knew nothing of you, save that you were Imperial. And Laurelorn has had agreements be betrayed far too many times. My son," she half-stands up from the bench, "My only child was dying of the plague. I needed certainty, not trust!"
You feel an angry tremble run its way through your body as she slowly settles back down onto the bench, puffing almost frantically on her whatever it is.
"Why…in Sigmar's name…are you telling me this now," you grind out past gritted teeth.
"Because…you deserved to know," she replies with a helpless shrug. "You can't…I can't…you…," she coughs again, waving away some of the smoke that escapes her lungs, but you think the tears in her eyes are not from the coughing. "Slugtongue. Gruber. Ghorros," she slams a fist onto the table.
A gesture from you under the table has the Greatswords who had immediately turned and begun to move over at the sound pause.
"The killer of my father," she chokes out. "The killer of the Prince of Unicorns," she sounds just on the edge beneath hysteria. "A Bloodthirster outside of Nuln, which was before even that. A victory against the Blooded Wanderer, beneath the world! And then…," she pauses slightly, rolling a knuckle against her temple. "And then I hear what you did in Athel Loren. The whole of my court did, as did the Handmaidens of the Everqueen and her precious guard. Eldyra of Tiranoc and Yhanna Sunweaver, my most trusted advisor, telling a tale that even now I quite frankly struggle to believe."
The sheer bewilderment in her voice is astonishing. This is not the continually eroding composure of Sunweaver or the young and sometimes wobbly stability of Eldyra. It is a blatant confusion that does away with, if only just now, all of the agelessness and aura of detachment and indifference that so many elves seem to possess.
"You aren't a mayfly," she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. "Your life is not a candle's flame, quick to be snuffed out and illuminating little. By deeds alone, you unmake the thought as it tries to form."
She shakes her head again and then looks back up at you, and it is then that you notice that the glassy look in her eyes has only grown further. And now there are some strange green and purple colorations going on in there as well, colors that match exactly with whatever she's smoking.
"I remember almost putting an arrow in your head," she says dreamily, "And instead hitting your flask."
"I remember liking that flask," you grunt, "And…," you sigh, "I also remember thinking that Athel Loren was called Athel Logan."
A very undignified noise escapes Naraiel, but it surely could not be a giggle. Right?
"Ignorance. Ignorance on both sides," she waggles her head back and forth. "You knew nothing of us, and we knew nothing of you. We thought we did."
"But I learned," you tap a finger against your head. "I scoured what books I could to make up for the wasted years in Jegow, to learn more about the histories of Nordland and Laurelorn, of Bretonnia and Athel Loren. Only took me a year or so to tear through my father's old library, a little bit longer to get more books loaned by the Myrmidian and Verenan temples."
"And I learned," she replies, looking at you…sort of in the eyes, though her gaze seems a bit more slippery than at the start. "I listened. And then you came when we asked for aid because Athel Loren would not. Twice it was then, that you came after centuries of fighting and killing, when Athel Loren would not."
She gestures at your sharply through the smoke she's been creating, brushing futilely to get it out of the alcove. Every time it gets near you, you make sure to hold your breath until you can be sure you won't inhale even a bit of it.
"They did not come against Gruber and Slugtongue, as we apparently were victorious too quickly for them to come," she spits to the side. "Then they called for us, and we went as we always did, but Ghorros came. And then…," she gestures vaguely towards you. "Then you came to help. And I realized…I could not speak to you earnestly and honestly without telling you what was done in Nordland. By now, the bond is decayed and severed, useless. But you still deserved to know, and to know that I…am sorry."
It was, to you, literally three decades ago. For some in the Empire, that's a lifetime. But to Naraiel, it might as well have been yesterday.
"I am sorry," she repeats, "But I didn't know what you would…who you were."
At this point, the anger finally just gutters out.
"Are you all right?"
She pauses and then stares at you incredulously, roll hanging precariously out of her mouth.
"…no, I am not okay, Frederick von Hohenzollern. Because yesterday, an Avatar of Isha showed up from Ulthuan offering naught but kindness," she raises up first one fist, and then the other, "And then another from Athel Loren came spitting vengeance and fury."
Both fists come together, tapping knuckles, before she unfurls them with palms facing the sky and bobbing up and down as if weighing something in each.
"I do not know how humanity regards divine attentions, but I knew, I knew," she shakes her hands at you almost pleadingly, "I could feel it. From both of them. The Goddess Isha, herself, had eyes upon that meeting by way of both of them, and yet they were opposed. Then…the two last of the eldest Ancients, the truest Elders?!" The last word terminates in a strangled shout, one so forcefully held back at the last second that her roll falls out of her mouth and forces her to snatch it before it can hit the table. "One, I witness caged by what felt like Winter given malice and form," she inhales deeply with the roll kept in her lips, blowing out another multi-colored cloud and waving it away. "The other, I witness take upon himself all the power of his last brother and then disappear into the Worldroots, leaving what could not be reclaimed behind to be burned."
This has clearly been boiling in her for a while, or perhaps just now crystallized.
"And then…," she taps the table insistently with one hand, the other tugging the roll from her mouth to hang between her fingers. "Then I hear of Athel Loren. Of the Savage Hunt. Of Orion, and the Savage Huntress herself. And both of them. Falling. To. You," she stabs at you with one hand.
"To be fair," you clear your throat, "I'm reasonably sure, based on what everyone has told me, that the Sisters of Twilight were mostly finishing the job enough on that one. I just happened to…get the final blow in."
Naraiel just blinks at you slowly, the whites of her eyes now completely colored by purple and green, which frames the searing hazel irises quite oddly. Especially with how the pupils seem a hair past too-wide.
"Did you, or did you not, pick up the Spear of Kurnous and use it to kill an Avatar of Anath Raema?"
You genuinely do not remember that part, if you are being honest. At least, not very clearly. When you try to force your memories, you find that you remember largely only incredible amounts of pain that seemed to radiate from every single inch of your body, inside and out. And mind-bending levels of rage. Your mind seemed to have receded or at least hyper-focused to the point that clear memory storage within it was something that was relegated to not being as important. But through that murk you do remember bronze and amber lightning pouring into an arm and shoulder, as well a throw. But more than that is like trying to discern something from a shadow. Luckily you came back to yourself afterwards, arm still outstretched and body angled, enough to infer that the gigantic spear sticking out of whoever the Avatar of Anath Raema was likely because of you.
"…yes."
She nods, probably a good number of times more than is strictly necessary.
"In your lifetime, you have done things that…," she trails off. "My entire life's experiences demand that I either kill you as a threat, eject you from Laurelorn, or try to end your family line before they can prove a threat to us."
This smoke she's been blowing around better not have been poisonous.
"But my life's experiences and my instincts also say that you are, by this point, too much of an asset, an ally, to treat unkindly. No Count of Nordland has ever done for us what you have, for me personally, despite the pile of ignored or lost documents and agreements signed between them and us."
Finally, she goes silent for a bit, head hanging slightly with a hand against her forehead keeping it from cracking into the table.
"You've got a lot of duality going on in your life recently then," you say, causing her to glance up at you in vague agreement. "Allarielle and Ariel, Durthu and Coeddil, that wine," you tap a finger against the glass of it.
"Yesterday, I woke up, intending to commit myself to possibly making an agreement with Avelorn without the express permissions or knowledge of Athel Loren," she replies. "Today, I woke up knowing that the Queen I have dealt with for the past number of years has been stuck in a limbo between life and death, sustained by her own power. I have felt the gentle touch of Isha from the hand of the Everqueen. And learned that a human killed Orion, who has never fallen to such, not once. And Anath Raema…my mind struggles to wrap itself around even that much. It is…too much," she finishes helplessly.
Another bit of silence stretches between the two of you, punctuated by extremely hard inhales on the roll which by now is more than halfway burnt down, the ashes seeming to glitter where they fall on the table. When she sees that ash, Naraiel presses a hand down against it and rubs her fingers together, casting the ash to the wind of the breeze which seems ever present in the basin of the Pinnacle structure. She also snorts at it and rolls her eyes.
"This is supposed to be one of the most calming of the…," she says, staring at the half-smoked roll of paper and green in her hand and shakes her head. "Never mind," she squeezes her eyes shut before looking over at you again. "Earlier, I said you had humbled me."
"Thrice," you repeat her word from before, "I think you said."
"Correct," she coughs. "I had to get help against Gruber and Slugtongue. I needed to get help against Ghorros, and while I may have ended up able to rally the forest against the Bone Gate, I know in my heart that Warhoof would have escaped before I could have caught him," she wipes a single tear away as she thinks upon her father, "And the fact of the matter is that I was right to trust you over Ariel, given the corruption of Cyanathair. Then you saved my life against Drycha's horde. Personally."
"While I did grab you, I got there with aid from the Sisters of the Thorn."
"Semantics, you could have remained at the Pinnacle, but you didn't," she waves your words, and a bit more smoke, away. "I am not accustomed to being humbled, but neither am I willing to be an idiot about it, not at this point."
You can see how she has to almost force the words out of her throat, even after lowering her inhibitions with a combination of drink and smoke. Truly, the pride of the elves is an incredible thing, that she has to literally fight against it chemically even now. On the other hand, you can't help but feel an odd warmth in your chest that she is making the effort to force her own pride down. For a Glade Lord, even, not an elven commoner or lesser noble. It's weirdly touching to watch her throttle her own instincts and nature down.
"I owe you too much. You were rewarded once," she lifts her eyes to where the Light of Summer rests on your chest, "And yet…," she pauses, blinking slowly and muttering so quietly that even this close you can't hear it. After a while she looks up again, clearing her throat. "You are fighting against all of what your people have done to mine since before the time of Sigmar. But the Pale Queen may have me if you haven't been making a remarkable go of it," she chuckles darkly.
A thought strikes you there, amidst your own haze brought on by the powerful elven wine.
"Has Laurelorn…ever attacked the Empire outwardly in the manner of Athel Loren against Bretonnia? As far as the scholars of the Empire know, the Wild Hunt has rarely if ever gone beyond the borders of Bretonnia and the Grey Mountains."
Naraiel hums, looking upwards and to the right in thought before centering her gaze back on you with a slight shake of her head.
"Outside of setting up ambushes on incoming armies who have loudly announced their intent to conquer our lands and eject or kill us? No. The few elves of Laurelorn who have ever participated in the Wild Hunt happened to be in Athel Loren at the time and were swept up in the call of the horn."
"But I do recall meeting you outside the exact confines of Laurelorn before," you point out.
"Obviously," she rolls her eyes. "We hunt what beastmen we can before they pass beyond the outer perimeter, as well as forest goblins."
"In the lands claimed by the Empire."
"The 'lands claimed by the Empire' extend into the wastelands of Kislev, the Border Princes, Bretonnia, and, of course," she gestures vaguely around her, "My home."
"…fair."
"Besides which, I have found that the vast majority of the time, we are able to complete our hunts without the Empire ever knowing we were there."
"I'm sure that brought great comfort to the hearts of Elector Counts of Nordland past."
At that, she sneers.
"No, it usually gave them an excuse to claim we were attempting to 'expand our reach unfairly' and provided casus belli," her accent briefly thickens significantly as she speaks the Classical phrase in Reikspiel.
Which is also probably true. But you've a thought that's been digging at you since this whole conversation started.
"…not that I don't enjoy hearing about the sordid ways of the Empire past, but what precisely did you come down here for?"
Naraiel blinks at you and then stares at the table for a moment before her mouth opening and forming a small 'o' before it snaps closed.
"The Everqueen remains incapacitated after healing Queen Ariel, and Sir Tyrion of Cothique has demanded that she be returned home so that she may recover on the Isle of Rebirth," she says that last words with awe, "A place of great power to Isha, one that even our histories cannot miss or lessen. The ancients of Avelorn have promised to take them through the Worldroots to safety. Our talks are being put to an abrupt halt, but on the promises of the Everqueen's Chief Handmaiden they can continue when she has recovered enough."
"Well…that seems a bit anticlimactic," you murmur.
"I am…just finished with this day, this month, this entire year, I think," she replies, staring just past your face into the wall with the same sort of stare you've seen on especially worn down soldiers. "I am exhausted. On every level. It is Spring, and our kind should be waxing with it, but I cannot seem to draw as much strength from the season as I should."
You know the feeling.
"I came down to let you know that we will be offering free passage to where you entered, that the meeting we called you for has concluded, and will be restarted at a later time once the Everqueen has more fully recovered. When we enquired as to just sending a diplomat next time…," she chuckles. "Well, apparently she prefers a hands on approach, much to the consternation of her guardians."
"Well, I suppose that's good to know. Confessions of potential mind-control aside," you add at the end while pursing your lips.
She gives a half-hearted shrug.
"Knowing you now? I doubt it would have worked anyway. You have proven yourself of remarkable will…or at least stubbornness. Either way, you deserved to know. I could not countenance holding that knowledge back any longer."
"…thanks?"
"I understand if you are angry about it," she says earnestly, "Though I…," she slows again, marshalling some internal fortitude for her next words, "I will understand if you do not wish to forgive me for it and to instead leave here and communicate with us no longer."
Then she goes silent, not even puffing any further on her calming…whatever it is. She just watches you in silence.
"…I'll have to think about it," you eventually say, watching as a bit of tension ratchets itself into her shoulders. "Now, was there anything else? Actually, hold on," you consider what you've heard and seen since returning to Laurelorn. "Where is Mena von Kessel?"
Naraiel grimaces, but before your alarm can grow any further she answers.
"In a different glade. They wished to…celebrate victory and toast to the fallen. And they began doing so shortly after the Queen left. Based on the latest reports, they have continued to do so throughout the night."
That sounds exactly like Mena von Kessel. Or Ulricans in general, now that you think about it.
"So they're all right," you breathe a sigh of relief. "That is good to hear."
"Well…," she half-frowns. "Yes, for the most part."
"I know that they took some losses," you look at her with narrowed eyes. "But something tells me it is more than that."
She doesn't look entirely nervous, but there is a bit more concern there than you'd like.
"Sir Tyrion announced that the Everqueen's condition could not be spilled to the outside world. Von Kessel…objected, saying that it was an important part of the 'tale' and that the start of the story wouldn't make sense anymore when she told it to others."
"Oh shit," you blurt out before stopping and thinking. "Wait, you said they were celebrating. So she's alive."
"Yes. Physically, she is well, the Handmaidens saw to her."
You go a bit still.
"That…implies they were needed. And you wouldn't have specified physically-,"
"She challenged the knight to combat for the right to tell the tale to whom she pleased," she confirms. "She then lost. Badly."
Despite yourself, you wince.
"How bad is 'badly'?"
"Mena von Kessel is very lucky the Handmaidens of the Everqueen were on hand," is the disheartening answer, one that gets worse as Naraiel continues. "After which point she got up and demanded another go. In the time it took her to do so, others in her…kindred…had attempted to challenge him in the name of their leader."
This time it is you who slowly places your head in your hands.
"Bloody Ulricans," you mutter. "None of them are dead, right? No maimings?"
"Oh, no, there were plenty of those," she answers, getting a groan out of you. "All healed now, but most of them made requests that they not be healed so much they lose the scars."
"…of course they did. Why did Sir Tyrion accede to…any of that?"
"If I may be honest?" She cocks an eyebrow at you.
"I wish you to be so at all times, if possible," you interject, causing her to briefly dip her head in shame before she nods at you.
"That is fair. As for Sir Tyrion, he did not draw his blade once throughout the entire battle. He remained at the Everqueen's side at all times. Admirable, for a guardian, but it clearly burned at him that he could contribute little. Sending out his squire to fight vicariously for him could only do so much," she posits. "Frankly, it is impressive that he only cut out Mena's eyes-"
"He what!?"
"-And," Naraiel continues smoothly, "Did not kill her for how she insulted him."
Your jaw drops.
"How…," you stutter to a halt and have to try again. "How, exactly, did she…what happened?!"
"Mena implied that Tyrion's blade would have been of better use on the battlefield, rather than…," she clearly hesitates before shrugging, "Rather than, in her words, 'cowering behind a hundred magical bows'. That she'd done actual fighting, so she got to tell who she wanted about it. Unlike him."
You have heard Eldyra speak of Tyrion before, and by now there is no doubt in your mind about how skilled he just might be, based on her own training and skills. And that's just an estimate. Given who he is, and his position, you've no doubt he's likely even better.
"Sigmar's balls, Morr's withered rose, Shallya's tears, and fucking shit," you hiss out, squeezing at your temples even further. "That…bloody…," you sputter to a halt, strangled by just how many curses you're trying to get out at once. "And she is alive?!"
"Thankfully, the Handmaidens spoke to him most vigorously before the duel began," she says calmly. "His strike was…incredibly calculated," she sounds almost awed, "It passed just forward enough to cut across each eye, then withdrew a fractional distance to not score the bridge of the nose with anything but the blackening heat of the blade, only to push forward that exact distance to destroy the second eye."
Again, you wince.
"I…am not sure if this is to her credit or not, but she attempted to keep fighting afterwards, requiring a second strike to put her down," she adds with a shrug. "Afterwards, the Handmaidens saw to her…and then others of her kindred."
You raise a hand, palm forward, causing her mouth to snap shut with a click of teeth.
"Enough. How many of the Blue Wolves did he take down?"
Naraiel pauses to think. Which is probably not a good sign.
"Queen Ariel marshalled her forces, negotiated with the Chief Handmaiden, and left a little less than half an hour after you left towards the Oak of Ages. The aftermath was largely dealt with over the course of another half hour, given that the vast majority of the dead were fey and wood spirits," she taps a finger against her lips. "Von Kessel's daughter began boasting to her men during that cleanup, but it was not until another quarter of an hour had passed before Sir Tyrion made his decision to tell her to be silent about the matters of the day."
"Now, on the one hand, I suppose I can understand where he is coming from. There are no doubt forces in the world that would highly enjoy learning that the Everqueen is out of sorts for who knows how long."
"True enough," she nods. "But all she knew of him was of that moment, and nothing else besides," she points out. "She had arrived and fought, yet was only now seeing him."
You probably need to talk to Stephan about getting his daughter some more courtly training. She has clearly spent too long running around in the wild where the only important thing was the next fight in the name of Ulric.
"Overall…each duel took less than a few heartbeats," she tells you simply. "A single stroke, for the most part. Only Mena managed to make him take two, and I think that might have been because of sheer surprise alone, the next few times she tried it was only one. Then they just kept going, one after another. For a long, long time. They finished only about an hour before you returned."
"Gods," you moan.
"I will say, though, that Sir Tyrion seemed to almost…be enjoying himself by the end of it," she says, mystified.
You stare at her.
"Are you serious?"
"As was Von Kessel. She invited him to drink with her kindred once the dueling was finally over with, to tell tales of his own victories. After he cut his way through so many of them. And he laughed and declined, but politely."
She sounds about as mystified as you are right now.
"Well, that sounds absurd. No one nearly kills someone and…," you trail off, remembering exactly who almost shot an arrow into your head many years ago. "Ah, fuck me."
Is this what it is like for others when they hear about you? Just going off and managing to violently muddle one's way through what could have instead become a disaster? It is a horrible experience, sending your heart beating and stomach dropping. Surely not.
"No," is Naraiel's response, the word so flatly delivered that you nearly choke. "Regardless…after all of this…we owe you. We owe you a lot. Not just for Gruber and Slugtongue, or just yesterday. What was done for you after Ghorros was payment, yes, but I cannot help but feel that it pales slightly before the act of ensuring that the very soul of all Asrai were not corrupted into the Savage Hunt."
"You think Orion would have come here next, then?"
"I do," she nods firmly, naked fear on her face. "Anath Raema cares only for total dominion of 'her' hunting grounds. Laurelorn would be too much of an insult for her," she shudders. "Of all of our kind throughout the world, almost nine tenths of them live either here or in Athel Loren, with scattered individual kindreds and single-family homes spread throughout the deep forests."
You pause there, and tilt your head.
"Wait…really?"
Naraiel raises an eyebrow at you.
"Yes? Is that so surprising?"
"Well it's just…comparing the two forests…,"
"Laurelorn is not quite as old as Athel Loren, Frederick," she chides, sucking some air through her teeth next. "She is not as aware, much less as powerful. She cannot call upon the forest dragons in the Dream Depths as Loren can to those that slumber in the Pine Crags. Laurelocraobh is old, but a sapling compared to the Oak of Ages. Our spellweavers and spellsingers are skilled and strong and well-learned…but we are not Argwylon or Modryn. We do not have the plains of Cavaroc, for all that we have glades large enough for our knights to ride and train. The wood spirits are strong, but not so vibrant and numerous as Arranoc."
Admitting all that appears to take something out of her enough that she sags slightly, just one more self-inflicted bite out of her pride.
"We have a stronger connection to the forest than ice-locked Atylwyth…but that is not a difficult comparison. We must rely on our own battle-skill far more, much like them, however."
She looks a bit forlorn at that statement.
"Well, numbers can still count for something," you note, rubbing at your chin. "You said that between Laurelorn and Athel Loren, it was less than ninety, more than eighty, if we were going by percentages, right?"
Naraiel shrugs sluggishly. By now, the alcohol is really digging into her, slowing her reaction speeds considerably.
"We do not have a precise census as you would know it, but yes."
"Do you have a better idea of the split between the two of you?"
She thinks for a moment, fingers twitching as she calculates some numbers in her head.
"If I had to estimate, outside of the smaller villages and kindreds elsewhere, Athel Loren has anywhere between forty-four and forty-seven percent of all Asrai, and Laurelorn has the other thirty-seven to forty-two percent. Which leaves…," she waggles a hand, "The rest."
By now, whatever she was smoking has been burnt out completely, the butt of it crushing into her palm and then being tossed away out of the alcove. The air rather quickly clears, the breeze aiding in such, which is frankly a relief. You really weren't looking forward to getting any sort of second-hand effects from whatever that was supposed to be. But more importantly, you stare at Naraiel, this time being the incredulous one.
"You mean to tell me…that Laurelorn is of near equal population to all of Athel Loren?"
"Numbers are not all, Frederick," she is quick to say, "You should know that plenty well yourself."
"But still," you insist. "That's…," you stop at the look she gives you. "Fine."
"We do not have Ariel, nor Orion. Our shrines to Vaul are nothing before Vaul's Anvil in Torgovann, and we have no smiths as grand as Daith. Our eldest treeman is…was," she bites her lip in anger, "But a child to Durthu. Make no mistake, Frederick. Laurelorn is stronger than, perhaps, the Witherhold or Cythral. But we have never had a fraction of the support they receive by being within the confines of Athel Loren."
The conversation dies off after that as the two of you contemplate the present and future alike. For a time, the two of you just sit there, Naraiel not even taking out another roll to begin smoking again. Over by your Greatswords, they have thankfully remained in position, for the most part. Only a blind idiot would miss how they've shifted themselves closer while maintaining a tight guard around Natasha. Naraiel appears to be glancing out of the alcove herself, though her gaze is locked upon the Dawnstone Pinnacle rather than the one who slumbers near it. Given just how valuable the Pinnacle is, you were a bit surprised that they'd let your people so close, but you suppose given the guards present around the lip of the nexus that they're confident that they can keep it safe. Of course, you also would like to hope that they respect that your people fought and bled in its defense. Even if it might just as likely be fear of Natasha.
"You referred to your eldest treeman in the past tense," you eventually say.
"Yes," Naraiel sighs sadly "Guldul was one of the first to fall to the Proctor of Pestilence. Again, the servants of the Plague God weakening us before their true assault begins. The next eldest is Lendrilin," she sighs again. "Lendrilin is born of Laurelorn, but Guldul was of Athel Loren, of Talsyn, and is just one more tie left withered."
"I'm…sorry for your loss."
"Guldul was an even-tempered sort, more bemused than spiteful. I think you would have liked him, and he you," she replies sadly before perking up ever so slightly. "At the least, we did not lose Craobhin."
You wait for her to expand on that for a moment before prompting her.
"…who?"
She starts a bit before realizing.
"Ah, of course. Her more casually spoken name is Bloodglade, but in times of utmost seriousness, her true name is Craobhin. Many wood spirits are similar. Durthu is known also as Oakheart, for instance."
Interesting to know.
"So Bloodglade is alive then? Or…should I call her Craobhin?"
"The latter is a bit more familiar, so if you wish to imply-,"
"Bloodglade it is, then," you interrupt, getting a chuckle out of Naraiel. "And when I saw her last, I was reasonably sure she was dead."
"Ah, well," her humor bleeds out. "Yes. She was grievously wounded, and it will take some time for her to recover. For now, she rests within Laurelocraobh."
"I see."
The silence grows once more, but this time it is Naraiel who breaks it.
"Laurelorn is too weak," she pronounces gravely, elbows on the table and hands clasping together to prop up her chin, her eyes flinty. "Our coast is vulnerable to the ships of Norsca, of the Druchii, of raiders from the Chaos Wastes even further north. The Fimir in the west, greenskins and beastmen on the south and west. Skaven sometimes beneath. We don't have the sheer strength of Athel Loren to just…ignore the rest of the world as we choose. We are not Ulthuan or Naggaroth, able to project our strength across the world."
Slowly, her eyes turn to you.
"Athel Loren is oft-always so distant, even when Ariel was…sane," she practically spits the word out, as if the touch of it was harmful to her tongue. "They granted us the acorn that became Laurelocraobh, but we lived here long before it was gifted. My father, and through him myself, have no direct blood ties to any of the noble houses of any of the other High Realms. We elves can live for so many thousands of years, but…," she grits her teeth, "I can deny it no longer. We are dying. It is a slow death, but a death nonetheless."
"…you know, you are a lot more verbose when drunk and presumably intoxicated by other substances."
"That is rather the point, yes," she grunts. "Besides, I'm not here in my capacity as Glade Lord. That is my son's job at the moment."
You sputter slightly.
"Are…are you abdicating!?"
A sharp bark of laughter escapes her before she settles herself.
"Of course not, he's a thousand years too young for me to even consider that," she says firmly, her words clipped. "No, I am just taking a temporary leave of absence, just for a month or so, to contemplate things. The equivalent of a break of a few minutes for a human I suppose," she then tilts her head at you. "Why, are you considering doing so?"
"Not really," you shrug. "It's a rare thing for Elector Counts to ever do so."
"Our reports say that dukes and barons and the like are not unknown to do so."
"Ah," you waggle a finger at her, "But those dukes and barons and the like are not Elector Counts. It is another magnitude in position, of importance and of duty. Not to say that there haven't been shit Elector Counts, mind you," you huff, thoughts on Ludenhof and a few other choice examples throughout the Empire's history. "But for the most part the position is meant to be held by fully matured adults with a good amount of seasoning on them, not inherited by children or even general youths."
"I suppose that must be so, though it is somewhat hard for me to judge."
"It is not a perfect system, I admit," you shrug one shoulder. "There have been exceptions before, accidents, early inheritances brought on by death of some kind or another. Those at the bottom of the bloodline rising to the top due to the loss of all of the rest. And so on. But generally," you insist, "It is the duty of the Elector Count to aid and support their successor as they grow, getting them used to authority and command."
"Sensible. We do the same."
"Right," you nod. "For instance, Magnus is regularly leading the soldiers of the Army of the Forest and the Army of Ostland and the Army of the Mountains, while I've relaxed my own departures from the capital. More recently, with the aid of his wife and lessons with my wife, he is getting a further grounding in courtly dealings. Occasionally, I've let him take my seat at court with my authority behind him without directly interfering. A little bit more every year."
"Letting him test the chains of command without being crushed by them," she nods approvingly.
"Exactly."
"Mmm…but you are not abdicating, for all that you weigh him down with more and more responsibility. And neither am I," she inhales deeply. "But at the same time, I simply cannot allow Laurelorn to remain as weak as it has been any longer. And as the animals do, as the plants do, we must change and adapt. We must accept that the world is different."
"Bit of a jump from a wolf changing where it hunts because the area's gone lean, or the root digging elsewhere," you find yourself saying.
"But the principal remains the same, does it not?"
You are definitely still drunk, but the sheer seriousness on Naraiel's face, in the set of her shoulders, nearly sobers you up completely.
"So what, precisely, does that mean exactly?"
"We need to start building better ties with the outside world, because that divide doesn't exist anymore, if it ever did," she announces to you. "We must change ourselves as well. My son disagrees, he is closer to how those of Loren thinks, though he would deny it vigorously if it were ever brought up."
It is incredibly rare for you to regret being drunk. This is quickly becoming one of those times.
"I have a terrible feeling that I'm a bit too intoxicated for something this serious-sounding."
"Perhaps," she acknowledges. "But here we are."
"Why me?" You gesture towards yourself. "Why now?"
"Why only now, you mean?" she exhales sharply through her nose, looking out of the alcove to where your battered Greatswords still stand. "I don't know. Because of you. Of Stephan von Kessel. Because of the Everqueen…and Queen Ariel?" She slowly shakes her head, exhaling sharply again in a tired sigh before looking back at you. "Thirty-one years ago, I thought we were doomed to die of plague and be overrun by the servants of Nurgle. That the Empire had once again turned on us." Her eyes drop to the Light of Summer. "Thirteen years ago, I thought that I was doomed to fail in exacting vengeance on Ghorros. I found myself trusting more in the promises of a human than I ever have in the past, than in the distant aloofness of Loren…and being proven right. Enough to call upon you again as a third party between us and Avelorn."
"Is that why, then?" You ask calmly. "Because you trust me now?"
"Isha help me, but I do. It could be some sort of plot on the part of the Dark Gods, I suppose, but I do not wish to imagine so," she taps the fingers of one hand slowly against the table. "Kyrian might disagree, but I have watched as your kind have grown and been transformed over time, just as we were by the forests. I watched as Sigmar pulled your tribes together and forged an Empire."
"You…you witnessed Sigmar in person?"
"Not personally," she shakes her head, and a child's wail of disappointment echoes from somewhere deep in your heart. "But my father did. He left me behind to run the realm as he observed Sigmar traveling the lands that would become the Empire. He watched as bonds were so closely forged with the Dwarfs," her lips twist at that, "And so he returned, saying that the Empire would turn against us both out of greed and out of friendship with the short folk."
"And, unfortunately," you sigh, "Lord Dawnstone would be proven right by history."
"Correct," she slumps slightly where she sits. "Technically, we once roamed all of what constitutes Nordland's nominal borders. But my father had us pull behind the river of the east, then further still out of what you call the Silver Hills."
"What about the northwestern settlements? The ones between Salz and Demst…or, well, I'm sure you know the rivers."
"An attempt to keep the peace," she replies tiredly, shaking her head yet again at the past. "Permissions given to create settlements there, as we restricted kindreds and kin-bands south of the hills."
Then she fixes you with a stare with a shade of well-calcified anger, back hunching slightly.
"It was never enough for the Empire, and eventually my father accepted that. We kept making agreements, watching them be broken a century or two later, and then did it again, if only to gain the short blooms of peace they could bring."
You watch as she straightens, breathing slowly, swallowing old grudges with clear effort. When she speaks again, her voice is filled with a forced calm.
"The Empire grew, and we did not. Not truly. We…existed. That is not enough for me anymore. It is time to accept that we cannot treat the Empire as some sort of inferior animal to be ignored. It burns my very soul to say it, but to do otherwise would be to continue leading my people as they decline ever more. Few will admit it, but we rely on the Empire even as we fight off their attempts at invasion."
There a distinct tone of sincerity which manages to cut the rest of the way through your slowly fading buzz, casting you unfailingly towards the unenviable state of sobering up.
"So…what does that mean?"
"It means that it is time to start treating the Empire as an actual peer, and stop burying our heads in the mists about it."
You almost feel as if the world should be falling out from under you, hearing an elf say such words.
"I…have no rightly idea how I'm supposed to react to that."
"Frederick von Hohenzollern without an acerbic word to say? Truly, we have moved beyond the sight of even the Crone," she chuckles.
"Do you…wait, no, I'm not even certain what you're asking for here. If you are at all. What are you after here? Are you going forward with an attempt to sign something with Avelorn, or…,"
"Even if we do, Avelorn is on Ulthuan, and the Asur stretch themselves across the entire world. The Empire is here," she taps a finger against the table again. "And I am not looking for some sort of entrenched…I don't even know exactly what I want. But it needs to be more than what there is now."
The next few words damn near force themselves out of your mouth, despite how much you wish they hadn't.
"What if it goes wrong? If we get some sort of new treaty or at least bare agreement going, only for it to fall apart later, some new asshole gets it in his head to disregard it? Or tricked by vampires or daemons or something?"
"Then I am sure Kyrian will tell me that he told me so as he buries my corpse beneath the roots of the trees," Naraiel responds with grave poise. "But until that day, I choose, just this once, to make a leap of faith. After witnessing Isha's own favor upon our world, so close, how can I not?"
After that, she lets you stew in silence over her words for a good long while. Your mind grapples with the revelations and implications that they have left you with.
"Are we talking about some kind of treaty, here? Between the Empire and Laurelorn?"
"I know you and Stephan. It is you two I feel I can – Isha forgive me – trust," she makes a cutting motion with one hand. "I do not know your Emperor, or the other Electors. Marienburg has none, and those of the west have often coveted our woods."
Well, Marienburg covets just about anything in the world that it doesn't have.
"Magnus the Pious is the best Emperor we've had since Sigmar," you tell her earnestly. "I don't know anyone who could possibly have managed the support of the Gods and the people across all of the provinces, nor who could have matched Asavar Kul without Ghal Maraz."
She frowns at you.
"Perhaps. I shall reserve judgement, but for now…no. It is with Nordland and Ostland that I would deal with. Your 'Westerland' has never made any pretenses about their desires, and Middenland holds to their inherited claims from your Drakwald Emperors. Are they inclined to give up such things on your word?"
Would Gunthar give up on any lands claimed by Middenland without a fight? He seemed perfectly happy to get into it over the Middle Mountains, but this could be different. You think. Maybe. If he's recently gotten a blow to the head that left him with permanent brain damage. Or ten. Or maybe just died.
"Absolutely not. If anything, it would only incense Gunthar and intrigue Marienburg, which is the opposite of what we should want to happen. But if the Emperor said it…it might be different."
She actually looks a bit surprised about that. She really must not know Magnus at all. Though, based on all you've learned, you think that Laurelorn's ability to know the outside world must have been steadily shrinking all the while the Empire grew stronger.
"I will think on it," is all she says on that before moving on. "For now…I will focus on those I know."
"Fine then. What are we looking at here, then? I'm guessing we're not going to be binding ourselves together with some all-encompassing treaty."
"That would be quite a step too far, yes," she nods, "I'll be facing enough arguments from my council already. No, something smaller. Simpler, for now. Official pacts of nonaggression, between yours and mine. I've another proposal I'd like to deliver to Stephan, but I know not if he will agree to it."
"What is it?" You ask curiously.
"Something that, if he agrees, will help convince my kindred and others that he truly is different. Then, if all goes well…," she pauses there, looking almost furtive before blinking and straightening. "Ariel is indisposed, and Orion is fallen. This is my domain," she says a bit louder, seemingly as much to herself as to you. "One of the most important principles behind Laurelorn's continued existence is scouting our foes out as they approach and either striking pre-emptively or being able to prepare ambushes and defenses. It has occurred to me that…," she slows again.
"That…," you repeat with a questioning lilt added in.
It takes yet another few seconds before she shakes off the hesitance. It practically seems like a damn near compulsion that she's trying to fight off here.
"That working…together…," she grinds out, "Would be more efficient."
It's like she's punched you directly in the stomach. Opposite you, Naraiel looks each and every one of her last few words are akin to a tooth being pulled.
"Are you…are you suggesting that we fight together? Elves and humans, against the darkness which has plagued the forests for so long? On a more organized basis, rather than opportunistically?" You whisper breathlessly. "What would Athel Loren think?"
"I am trying not to think about that," she whispers back. "It is just a thought," she adds hurriedly. "Something that may end up being nothing at all than an idle thought brought by exhaustion and alcohol and the smoke of particularly potent herbs. But the treaties of nonaggression…which…I will have to accept you refusing if it is your desire based on my past indiscretion," she sounds both regretful and fearful when she admits that.
Sighing, you rub a bit at your temples.
"Is that something you could reactivate or otherwise affect me through?"
"I doubt it," she shakes her head. "You are more bound to Laurelorn through what you wear around your neck than my paltry magical abilities."
"Bound?!"
"Where do you think its power comes from?" She responds with slow blinks, head tilting to the side in confusion. "Magic is not something that can simply be plucked from nothing. Sunweaver crafted it for you at her ritual site in her home within Eldryl Cadaharathi, where the Dawnstone Pinnacle's most powerful sibling resides."
Obviously, you knew that magic has to be crafted out of the Winds of Magic, sure, this has been explained to you many times. But you still never knew the exact specifics.
"What…precisely…would happen with the Light of Summer if this Eldryl Cadaharathi was to be, say, razed to the ground by beastmen?"
"It would likely cease to function, or at least be reduced to a fraction of its former power," she confirms your fears, eyes wide. "But if that glade were to fall, it would be either shortly before or shortly after the Dawnstone Pinnacle did, given their relative importance. So, effectively Laurelorn itself would be destroyed or dying already."
Well shit.
"Then I should probably work to make sure that doesn't happen, huh?" You scoff. "One more loop around the bull's neck to make it go where you want to go."
"All magic comes with a price, Frederick. You should know this. Also, not necessarily a leash, not something that Sunweaver or anyone else could use to affect you, only the talisman itself." she gives a faint shake of the head. "Sunweaver would never admit it, but I suspect you could seek out your 'Jade Wizards'," she makes quotes in the air, "And while they would not be able to replicate it or restore it fully, they could help somewhat."
Groaning, you sigh again.
"It might be a bit hard to trust your people if they kept doing things like that. Honesty goes a long way."
"Which is why I'm telling you now," she insists. "Besides which, did you think that Sunweaver could simply craft what you wear on a whim, ensure its function like she has, in such a short timeframe? Simply drawing ambient Winds into itself to…," she stops to make sure your eyes are not glazing over, "It wouldn't be enough to charge as it does, nor heal the extent of injuries you take on. It required a great deal of rare materials, the metal itself had to be cooled in begged-for forest dragon's blood to aid in its connection. She had to travel through the farthest reaches that Laurelorn could manage so that she could give it to you, chronologically, at the time she did, after the time she spent working on it."
"Right," you grunt, fingers coming up to trace against the deceptively strong material. "Fine. Probably should have asked for more details about how it was made before slapping it on. How…how about these agreements you were talking about?"
"Right," she accepts your desire to switch topics with ease. "Agreed upon nonaggression, with specified incidents as examples as well as a broader unspecified category subject to interpretation and communication between the polities if uncovered incidents occur. Tripled in generations," she speaks quickly but clearly, carefully enunciating her way past her thick accent.
"What does that mean?"
"In the past, as I said, it was often the children or grandchildren seeking to press their parent's 'rights'," she rolls her eyes. "Which caused conflict. It would be you, your heir, and his or her child that would sign, with notaries that could be trusted within your realm to ensure copies are known. To be continued upon…," and here she stutters to a halt slightly. "Upon your last journey-,"
"-when I die, meaning Magnus's heir's heir would be a new signatory. Got it."
She winces but nods.
"Correct."
"And then whatever else it is you want to bring up with Stephan, which you won't tell me about."
"I am sure he will speak to you about it," she replies dryly. "You are hosting the Trident meeting year, are you not?"
"…and you know about that because…,"
"Because people talk," she waves off your suspicious tone. "The trade we have with Stephan's merchants is more than enough. Everyone in the 'Northern Trident' is aware of the rotating gathering that its leaders participate in. It is not as if you have ever made much of a secret of it."
She is, of course, completely right. But it is still a bit disconcerting to hear her talk about it so casually, for some reason.
"Yes, well…hmm."
It is with sour realization that you note the slight twitching of her lips.
"I assume he will discuss the proposal with you, besides which, I haven't even finished writing them. The leaders of the Trident meet towards the end of the year, when winter grows strong," she continues casually. "I figured then would be a good time to send them to you."
"By what method? I don't want an elf just popping through the window, they're as likely to get shot or stabbed trying to do that."
"I suspect they might be able to get in regardless, but no, not like that," she frowns. "Beside which I don't even know if you would accept them being offered at all, just yet."
"Why do you think that?" You asked quizzically.
Naraiel just sighs and looks at you.
"…because you haven't told me if you've decided on what whether or not my past actions are forgivable or not."
Ah.
Right.
An act of desperation. An absolute lack of trust, with uncomfortably verifiable historical precedent. Certainly, she feels bad about it now, enough to apologize. Enough to bring it up at all, at a time like this, because she felt you deserved to know. Years and years ago. It was a violation, or at least…it could have been. A threat and promise made without the potential victim even knowing about it, one not followed through on. Fighting, killing, that was easy. That came as simply to you as breathing. This? This felt like something altogether.
"You know…I was thinking to myself," you start slowly, "Right when I was deciding on whether we should charge out from the Pinnacle, that 'boy, Naraiel dying here would let Chaos squeeze out a victory here.'"
She goes to respond before you raise a single finger, silencing her.
"Not done, please. Now, yes, I thought that. Strategically, it would be a loss. Tactically, it was dangerous. And I remembered that all you'd done was try to get some help for your people from an unlikely source. I once did the same, asking after the halflings of the Moot. And it almost turned out disastrous, though on a far smaller scale than…well, what we both know what happened."
You look away for a moment before snapping your fingers twice, then pausing, then snapping again. Your arm whips out to catch the requested flask from Volgar, the Greatsword nodding to you as he returns to scanning the perimeter. You then uncork the flask and pour some of Bugman's Best into your glass and down it.
"It was entirely possible that your son would get there in time, your own troops would pull you out of it. Elven superiority, right? But you know what I was also thinking at the time? The tipping thought?" You pause, earnestly looking at her for an answer that she can't come up with, instead only shaking her head. "I thought that 'Naraiel is sort of even a friend'. And that's when I decided to come riding over. Then. Not before. So my question is this. Are we friends? Is that even possible for a human and an elf, one less than a hundred and the other maturing as an adult more than two thousand and three hundred years ago?"
Naraiel bows her head slightly, sighing, before looking back up at you.
"I hope so," she answers haltingly. "For my people's sake, I hope so."
"So are we?"
She takes a deep breath.
"…I would like us to be, yes."
This time, it is you who leans back slightly. The alcove is nice, breezy, well-lit by the sconces, the glowing of the Dawnstone Pinnacle, the natural sunlight. It also seems far too small for the words being spoken here. Thoughts whirl this way and that in your mind. Naraiel. Mena. Natasha. Allarielle. Ariel. Sunweaver, though you are not sure yet if you are familiar enough to call her Yhanna. Politics and intrigue, nations and off-shoots of elven-kind. With you bumbling around in the middle of it all because decades ago you decided that Nordland shouldn't be left to become some sort of Nurglish hellhole, only a few years after getting told that your entire family had been killed. Sometimes you wonder if your life, with the good and the bad, is some sort of fever dream that you'll wake up from in Jegow.
"So? Have you decided?"
You feel the words begin to form.
Choose One (1):
Moratorium 1 Hour, trying to get a slightly quicker turn-around.
[] Forgive: She did not have to tell you. She chose to anyway, in an effort to reach out. She has the entire history of the Empire as proof that it is possible for humans to be treacherous or fatally forgetful of prior agreements. You've done a lot for her kind, and it has broken through, enough that she is actively trying on a level you didn't think was possible. The future possibilities are enticing as well, you cannot deny that.
[] Do Not: The sanctity of the mind, the soul, of your will. Deceit by omission. No. Allies of convenience you were, and that is all you will be. Let her make her words with Stephan, but you're done here. You've done a lot for this damn forest, and it is enough. Stephan can continue to deal with them, but you've had your fill.
Lovely Laurelorn Epilogue 1
The wind is made of screams.
The hail is made of blades.
The rain is but droplets of lit pitch, singing and burning all it touches.
The maelstrom rages on, as it ever has, and ever will.
It ravages the land and air alike.
Here, look, a place where bodies beyond counting swarm. Why do they fight? There is nothing that changes this place from another. In the distance lie shadowed mountains crushed and pulled into eldritch shapes, impossibly beyond the edges of the infinite storm, never to be approached. It is a wasteland, stretching ever onwards, without structures or roads. No veins of gold line the ground, no treasures are held up high upon an altar. There are no banners here, no lines of territory, nothing at all to protect. Yet despite it all, or in spite, perhaps, they are here. They fight here, in this nothing.
With fingernail and fist they cut and beat, tearing skin and flesh, cracking bones and leaving the fallen where they lay. Small and large, they fought and killed. Man and woman, they fought and killed. Young and old, they fought and killed. All of these, those between, and those beyond, they fought and killed. The rocks stained crimson, the dirt turned to red sludge that slopped noisily around the ankles and knees. Those that fell and yet lived were quick to drown, be trampled, or both. An axe of stone, a sword of amber glass, spears of splintering red-stained wood. Some come with them locked in death grips. Others are pulled from the muck. Others are plucked from the air itself, for the hail that falls is as fatal as any of those fighters, knives and worse of caustic metal. These…and more. Everything. Nothing.
Where do they come from?
They bleed into this place, pouring from the wounds within the sky and ground both. Weeping tears torn into the fabric of this place, one layer within the spanning tapestry. Some of the wounds are as lines, perfect horizontal cuts to disembowel and sever. Others curve and loop, carved into reality with all the glee of an eager murder. Some are deep pits, the result of piercing strikes that shattered the land and the bedrock beneath and further still. These wounds, they bleed. They always have. They always will. Forever. What they bleed, fights. Because they must.
Those that topple down from the skies often are torn asunder by the force of the impact. Others are left as mangled half-dead masses that die soon after. Some few shamble upright just enough that another can cut them back down.
UNWORTHY
Others drag themselves up out of the wounds in the land, slick with blood from the bleeding of the earth itself, there is no hesitation before they join in on the slaughter. Killing and killers, born anew.
Look at them, what do you see?
Faces torn, chest cavities split open, on broken legs and with broken arms they fight and die. They are as dead as they are alive, as alive as they are dead. Nothing is equal. Most are naked before the storm, ready-made victims who must hide behind the bodies of others or be cut to pieces by it. Most, but not all. Some are as shrieking children, wearing but peasant's cloth, murder and fear warring in their eyes as they cut and stab and bleed and die. Some, but not all.
Peer into the maelstrom.
This one, garbed in shattered panoply, the sigil of a Goddess slashed and disfigured as much as he is, flesh melted and blackened from the burning rain.
This one, howling as she kills, shield abandoned so that the spear might kill all the better. Her armor of mail and leather is gone, shredded to pieces as she slowly begins to succumb to the attacks of everyone and everything.
This one, with axes of jagged steel, he kills and laughs as he is brought low again and again, only to rise once more.
Hark.
Another rises, cast out of a pit with spine breaking force into a mass of dead and dying, all beginning to submerge into the bloodied mud that continues to churn.
With body soaked in blood, his own and others, without a weapon of any kind save for his own body. There are so many scars…and whether fresh or old they are as red as blood in their anger. So red they almost glow beneath the coating of blood. Witness the tarnished talismans that jangle across his body, a horrid new note that is introduced to the unending sanguine symphony. Bodies turn, loose red dribbling spittle suddenly splattering outwards through the air as they scream and charge. But this one, this one screams back with burning eyes, clawing his way towards them in as much fury as they.
No.
With more.
=====================================================
You startle awake, wakefulness banishing the last confusing dregs of some unhappy dream or another, with even those last ephemeral fragments disappearing entirely as you fully awaken.
The world is about the same as when you left it, with the Greatswords still standing and the Dawnstone Pinnacle still brimming with power. It was not too difficult a feat to fall asleep beforehand, as exhausted as you were, but you doubt you could do so again given the unsettling buzzing in your ears and warmth upon your skin. It is not the same as the way the Oak of Ages seemed to affect you, not exactly. It's certainly weaker than that ageless monolith of a tree, whose very age seemed to weigh upon you, let alone the quite literal magic in the air of the glade. The Dawnstone Pinnacle, by contrast, seems at once smaller and more focused, though you suppose that it would be obvious for such a thing to be true when one compares the two. Furthermore, the Oak of Ages seemed to radiate magic, and while the five connected waystones do the same, it is more bleed off as they channel up into the air and presumably elsewhere to Ulthuan. The weather is seemingly unchanged, but by the positioning of the sun you know that you've slept at least through the night into the morning. But in truth, your fascination with any of that is a fleeting thing, as there is someone far more important right in front of you.
Natasha still slumbers where she rests, and though you are no physician you think you can see some minor improvement in her condition. You hope.
The first thing your eyes alight upon is the scar. It has been reduced to a thin white line along her throat, so small that you could almost miss it entirely, which speaks well to Sunweaver's abilities considering the actual damage itself at the time. Of course, even seeing it causes a familiar rumble of anger to threaten to rise up before your mind reasserts itself and beats the emotion down with the satisfaction of Drycha's decapitated head lying a short way away, face to the stone. Even now, seeing it brings a smile to your lips, though that smile just as quickly disappears as you look back down at your wife as she rests. By now, the rest of the Greatswords have definitely noticed your awakening, but they have years of experience in letting their charges to their private moments.
Where you were touching her as you slept upon the stone and she upon the bedroll, your skin is reddened and threatening to peel, but there is an intensely odd coloration to it. As if it has healed more than once, on top of itself. You can only reasonably assume that the Light of Summer has something to do with that. Her entire body radiates a chill now, far in excess of the past. Before it was a case of being slightly cooler than average, now it is genuinely cold. Not clammy, but still. Only a short bit above point of what you would consider fatal in a normal person. Going by your own skin, enough to cause a faint bit of harm. But you don't particularly care at the moment, and instead reach out to tuck some hairs behind her ear that have come loose in her sleep. It is, of course, impossible to miss the white streaks that are blown throughout her otherwise golden blonde. While her normal hair is as lustrous and thick as ever, the streaks are different. When you run your hand across some of them, you find that even the streaks are not wholly uniform, for all that they start at the temple and shoot backwards across her head and then down, following the entire length of her hair with disturbing uniformity. Some are, texturally, exactly the same as the rest of her – cold to the touch. Some are fragile and almost straw-like, for all that they are in coloration exactly like the others streaks.
Too much like that of the Ice Hags for your tastes.
She does not stir as you stroke her face, and for that you are grateful. She clearly needs as much rest as possible, considering that she didn't even react as you began to extricate yourself from where the two of you had unconsciously entangled. But you cannot help but remember the look of her left eye. It did not appear that her vision has been impaired, but you can't know for certain, not just yet. In truth, what troubles you more than any of it is the fact that you'd been in such a rush afterwards that you have no proper frame of reference for when exactly it is these changes took place, nor what they mean. The only one you could properly trust to go to with this is Natasha's sister, but given the state of Kislev you are more than a little leery of sending your wife off into that viper's nest of a powder keg. You could seek out one of Natasha's old teachers or peers, perhaps? Thoughts for later, at least. Once you're back home. For now, she is okay. And that will have to be enough.
"So," you grunt as you stand up, cracking your neck to the side as you glance between your Greatswords, who are now turning about to face you.
"Count Hohenzollern," they greet you in unison.
"First," you start before Luthor hands you a sloshing wineskin before you could finish, "Thanks," you nod to him before drinking the entire thing down and giving a single quiet burp. "What happened while I was gone?"
They share looks before Hans Lohr steps to the fore. He was, after all, the one given command of their detachment by Captain Elric Hass. The man is only a few years younger than you, and unlike your own choice in facial hair has elected to focus wholly upon his enormous looping grey mustache and a clean-shaven chin. Just like the rest of your Greatswords, his armor has been rather savaged by the fighting, but none of them are as bad as yours. In that they have functional pieces here and there, many of them still with greaves or gauntlets or the like. You don't even have that much, only a pair of rough linen pants that are considerably split and far airier than they were before Sadrina dumped them out on the ground in front of you. Considering the inhuman transformation that you can even now only hazily remember, that they are functional at all is impressive. You seriously need to find the tailor that was commissioned for these, or if they weren't, whatever bulk seller had access to them as products.
"Well, things went pretty quick once you left, Count," Hans says before pausing to drink from one of his own flasks, the acrid smell of ostka filling the air briefly before he swallows it all down. "The elven Queen, she went ballistic when you…you uh…,"
"Got pulled into the tree, yes," you grunt, "Continue."
"Right. Well, she turned right around and started shouting at the treeman with the sword-,"
"They called him Durthu." Volgar speaks up without looking away from his chosen point of middle distance.
The man you had to literally cut out of his armor as the unnatural infection had begun swelling his body to fatal levels has largely recovered, but you can see more than one loose flaps of skin on him. He will need to see the Jade Wizards, but then just about everyone else here does.
"Durthu, right," Hans snaps his fingers before he bows his head to you, "My entire head was covered by boils and sores bigger than a fist, sort of missed some things after I went down up until one of the elves got me back up again. Apologies, Count."
"I'm just pleased that you're alive, Hans," you inform him calmly.
"Nevertheless."
"Just keep going," you roll your wrist at him.
"Right, well, this info comes by way of the rest of these drunken louts," he jerks a thumb at the other Greatswords. "Between the two of them, the Queen and the big treeman…they pretty much slaughtered the enemy. Now, I don't speak tree, sir, but I trust that any one of us can understand begging for mercy."
At your flat expression, he shrugs.
"And they didn't. It was…eerie," he shudders slightly. "Like undead, without a necromancer keeping them bound."
"He's right," Karl Thorpes huffs, running a hand through his hair as he looks at you, just on the edge of haunted. "They just kept fighting, even as they got ground down. Fought harder, even. I think they knew they weren't getting out of there."
Karl Thorpes is the soberest of the Greatswords you have, verging onto a teetotaler by the standards of Ostland. To see him so affected must mean it really was quite serious.
"Right, well, I think all of you might be due a talk with Arthur's bunch," you tilt your head as you look at him.
"Agh," Luthor groans, slapping a hand to his head. "I hate talking to them."
"You dislike talking to my son and the priests of Morr, Herr?" You raise an eyebrow imperiously.
A dire look of panic comes across the veteran's face in a manner must unbecoming of a man halfway through his forth decade, all the while the other Greatswords either attempt to cover their toothy grins with their hands or turn their faces away entirely so you can't see them.
"I…that's not…that's not what I meant," he says hurriedly, "It's just, I don't ever remember my dreams, and they use a lot of that when they talk to us. I usually just go to the Temple of Ulric for confession, and-,"
"Enough," you raise a hand, his mouth shutting with a click of teeth. "I get it. As long as you get a priest to look at you, I'm satisfied. Doesn't have to be one of Morr, Luthor. Anyhow," you look back towards Hans. "You were saying?"
"Right," he coughs into his fist and then plants it on his hip. "Asrai were all busy talking to one another, for a good long while. Durthu…he just came over and stared at the big one," he gestures towards where Coeddil once stood. "For a long while."
"I was wondering about where he'd gone," you admit with pursed lips. "A rather conspicuous absence to see when I came back, I'll admit."
You do not enjoy the exchange of looks amongst your Greatswords that come next.
"…Hans?" You push.
"Well…," he shifts his weight before looking down at where Natasha rests. "You remember the frost and ice that was…sort of everywhere?"
"I remember it not melting even a little," you answer, arms crossing over your chest. "And I also notice that it's all gone away."
"Well, it did go away," he nods nervously, "It sort of…," he flaps a hand towards Natasha.
"You may not have ever attended a scholarly institution, but I know you can use your words, Hans," you growl.
"It dissolved. Into magic…I think," he adds as you remain silent. "Durthu sort of just waved his hand and it went, or at least the stuff mostly around Coeddil."
"Except for the big block the Lady put him in," Volgar adds with a rough chuckle and sniff. "Then he just sort of…stuck his hand on it, right near the head."
"Right," Hans nods, "Over time, the rest of it started to go away, but we could see bits of it going back into the Lady," he tilts his head towards Natasha. "And the more of it she…took back in, the better she seemed. That Highweaver elf, Taira?"
You cannot help but remember her anguished screams as her sister died as her own dark magic turned against her. Nor as she sacrificed her treasured acorn as a power source to restore you with the Light of Summer.
"Aye, her," you grunt.
"She said that Lady Natasha had put so much of herself into…," he trails off, swallowing uncomfortably as he, and everyone else yourself included, remember that startling level of power that Natasha had temporarily commanded, "Into it," he continues lamely, "That what little of it she got back was her own. At least, that's how she put it. And as it went away…back into her…she…changed."
Again, your inability to properly understand magic frustrates you. It is a perception that will forever elude you, but that doesn't stop you from getting mad about it on occasion.
"Did Highweaver Taira give anything better in terms of explanation?"
Hans scratches at his chin.
"She seemed a bit distracted, Count, when the Queen was rallying up her Handmaidens so they could go back through the Worldroots," he shakes his head. "But she did say something about putting 'the very soul into the weaving and having it be altered in turn'."
"That's…," you trail off, your mind grinding against itself as hard as it ever has before you realize you still cannot come up with something to say.
You know, very well by now, how magic can alter people the longer and more strongly they use it. When you visited the campus of the Amethyst College to visit your youngest daughters, you saw more than a few who had suffered such effects. Emanating stenches like the grave, withered frames, voices transformed, and worse. Your close relationship with Stephan and Odelia means that you've been able to watch the steady transformation of the Lady Flamestar as time passed. Where once her hair was only a slightly smoking brown, and slight portions of her outer wear carried flames that she showed no fear for, she has changed considerably. Now the edges of her bright crimson hair appear to smolder constantly, while her appearance is forever flushed and body burning with a feverish heat. Strange glowing tattoo-like marks have appeared along her left arm, rotating and changing even as you watch. There is even a smell like a just-quenched forge fire about her at all times. On the other hand, you have seen some of the effects that your daughters have sustained, some worse than others.
But neither Anna nor Alexandra, nor even Kattarin, appear to have suffered something precisely like what your wife has. Pushing her very being, her very soul, into the magic cast into the ice, only for said ice to dissolve and melt back into her? Is this the result of her soul altering the magic, or the magic altering her soul? Or both? Knowing your luck, it is probably both.
"Right, well," you eventually push past it, resolving to discuss it once you are both back home and out of this forest and focus instead on the positives, "What happened with Coeddil?"
"It was the strangest thing," the balding Ubel Manndrof answers, shifting the flat of his sword from one shoulder to the other. "He just…stood there, hand against the ice. For hours. And then just let out this noise that…,"
"…yes?" You say expectantly.
"I can't really describe it," he frowns before looking over at Hans. "Can you?"
"Sad," is the answer, though it is slow in coming.
"Sad," you repeat before looking at the rest of them. "Anyone else have anything to add?"
"Really sad," Oskar Lohr adds in unhelpfully. "It got me weeping, and I ain't done that in ten years since my wife passed."
"Sorry Count," Hans shrugs at you again, "None of us are, uh, poets or what have you. Especially my brother," he jerks his chin at Oskar as he says it.
A tired sigh escapes your lips as the Lohr brothers start squabbling once more.
"You know what? Fine. What happened next," you glare at the two which gets them to separate quick enough.
"'e stuck 'is sword through 'em," grunts out the normally quiet Albert.
You squint at the native of the Middle Mountains, trying to see something through the absolute bush of hair he's got for a face. You're reasonably proud of the beard and mustache you can grow, but honestly you're pretty sure that Albert's ancestry involves a bear or three. No one should have eyebrows, nose hair, mustache, and beard that are all so thick. Honestly, most days you can barely even see his dirt-brown eyes.
"Right," Hans leaps upon the words like a drowning man. "And then Coeddil sort of melted, except it was into Durthu's feet. And the rest of the ice that was on him went back…well," he flicks his eyes again at Natasha.
"Because of course."
"Well, don't forget that there was a bunch left over after that daemon-warped hunk of kindling went," Oskar speaks up, rolling his shoulders. "They had to burn that stuff. The Highweaver had to do it, and it was still burning for a while before they took it away. Might still be burning."
"Big ol' 'splosion of light, made my head hurt," Albert adds. "Big'un got gone after."
"You know," you interrupt before they can go on any further, "When I woke up, I was feeling all right. Good, in fact!"
And it was even true! Despite the roughness of where you'd chosen to fall asleep, the reaction of your body to Natasha's own, and the events of what was apparently nothing more than a single day, you felt remarkably refreshed, at least physically. Despite everything that happened, you can't remember your body feeling this good in years. Despite the odd darkness of your unremembered dream, you'd felt vaguely optimistic for some reason. Clearly, that was an oversight on the part of your subconscious, one that the waking world had eagerly moved to correct. Still, you do not select your Greatswords for being especially erudite, you choose them for loyalty and martial skill after proving themselves amongst the swordsmen and halberdiers.
"Whatever," you grouse, "I don't care. Status report on yourselves then, gentlemen?"
Hans straightens to attention, despite the general ruin of his equipment causing quite a clattering.
"Sir," he subconsciously switches to form as when he was but a regular soldier, "General equipment is mostly beyond salvaging, save for our blades," he lifts his shoulder against which said blade rests, an act that the rest of the Greatswords mirror in silence. "Physically…we got seen to by the elves before the Queen went tearing off, which was when the Lady woke up for a bit, managed to shout that one Handmaiden – Sadrina – over here and got her the backup satchel from the horses."
"No lingering effects?"
"No, sir," he shakes his head, glancing around at the other Greatswords who do the same. "They got a bit worried over Volgar and them what had to get cut out of their armor, but they're as fine as wine now. The Lady Dawnstone even sent over some others to check us over in the night while you were asleep."
You blink at him, shifting your weight.
"Naraiel is up and about then?"
"She is," he confirms with a nod. "She and her son weren't recovered enough to go with their Queen into the trees, but she's been organizing everything else ever since. As much as she can, anyhow, the two treemen by the big tree are apparently somehow here from Avelorn. No authority over them, near as we could tell."
Fair enough.
"Speaking of which," he says casually while pointing behind you.
At the very top of the steps which lead to the base of the Pinnacle is none other than Naraiel Dawnstone, who appears to be doing much better than when you saw her last. Given the magical healing available to her as befitting a Glade Lord, that isn't actually that surprising. Still, the difference is remarkable. Her head wound has been healed so completely that there is not even a scar to show that her skull was exposed to open air, and the missing chunks of meat that were most of her torso and pelvis have been regenerated. Her son does not seem to be present, and neither are any guards or advisors. Unlike before, she wears no armor, though given the state of it when you were pulled out of Laurelorn that is no surprise. You are no master smith of elven artifice, but your own knowledge is sufficient enough to know that it was almost beyond repair. Now, Naraiel wears what you can only assume is casual clothing, though obviously for an elven noble of the woods that is quite different indeed than human standards. A flowing skirt that looks patterned almost like a sheet of pressed dark oak leaves swishes back and forth with the gentle breeze round her legs, showing that her feet are in fact bare. A diagonal crossing of more vibrant green fabrics with silver highlighting protects her modesty while revealing most of her midriff and back to the open sunlight of the glade. A golden circlet rests on her head, with clearly excellent craftsmanship without being overly ostentatious with gems or such things. She bears no helm, no gauntlets, no bow or sword, though, of course, there is a belt that is slung along her hips with a knife sheathed there with some pouches of some sort. All told, it is a wildly different look to any other time that you've seen her, even including the garb she'd chosen for the diplomatic meeting.
"Frederick," she greets you with a shallow nod as she descends the stairs with her arms clasped behind her back, "How are you feeling?"
Though she pauses a good ten feet away from you, or more likely Natasha, she seems entirely sincere in her concern. In fact, she seems remarkably serene in general given recent events. While she never made it down to Athel Loren, the fact of the matter is that for her the sudden visitation of two different Queens likely were a nightmare of their own to deal with, let alone her own near death and that of her son. But here, now? She practically radiates a curious sort of calm. Behind her, the Asrai guards that are still vigilantly guarding the Pinnacle have turned back to watching for outside threats, apparently confident enough that they can let Naraiel be without escort or watchers. That you can see, at least.
"Fine enough, I suppose, all things considered," you shrug.
"That is good to hear. Could I speak with you in private?" She half-turns, gesturing towards an alcove off to the side beneath one of the upper walkways.
You look at your Greatswords, then down at Natasha, then at your own state of dress, and then back at her. When you do so, you find that she has somehow acquired a large bottle of elven wine in one hand, presumably what she had been holding behind her back. The other hand holds two crystal glasses, tucked securely in place against her palm with two fingers each.
"Sure, why not."
She simply nods again and then begins walking towards the alcove. Within, you find a small rectangular stone table of immaculate construction and condition, with what is absolutely real gold inlaid along its sides in various shapes of wildlife, as well as two long benches at its sides. On the walls are wrought silver sconces that are lit with fires that burn with no discernable physical fuel. You've no idea what it was meant for in the past, nor whether it was mundane or otherwise. For now, it proves a satisfactory enough place for you and Naraiel to sit after she prompts you, the two of you sliding along the cool stone until you are both about midway on each of your claimed seats and facing one another. In silence, she uncorks the wine and places both of the glasses down. The instant the cork is pulled off, a powerful bouquet of wildflowers and berries escapes it and fills the entire alcove. Along with, rather surprisingly, a significantly powerful scent of alcohol, more akin to rotgut than fine wine. Or at least, the closest thing you think the elves could create to rotgut. She pours not just a small pull into each glass, but instead fills them both to the brim.
"So is there a…traditional elven toast here or-," you begin to say before she takes the glass and downs it in one go and not-quite slams it down onto the table to begin refilling it. "Oh. All right then."
Following her example, you down the glass.
It hits you less like a hammer to the gut and more like a spear to the throat, punching right through you as liquid fire burns its way down your gullet and into the rest of you. It is insanely powerful, not even just for a wine, yet somehow manages to carry through on the promises of flavor offered by its bouquet all the while.
"Okay," you cough out, thumping your chest for a moment as your eyes water. "That's…actually pretty strong."
"It should be," she notes calmly as she lowers her third glass. "This is a very special vintage of wine, meant for either terrible mourning or raucous celebration."
Sure, it caught you off guard, but you're an Ostlander and quick to adapt to new drinks. Downing the second causes the exact same effects of before, but this time it fails to incapacitate you as badly.
"Well," you pause with your third glass raised towards your lips, "Which is this, then?"
Naraiel sighs and puts down her fourth glass after only getting through half of it.
"I haven't decided yet," she grunts before swallowing the rest and begins pouring a fifth.
The two of you work your way through the rest of the bottle in silence, at the end of which you can comfortably say that you've achieved full drunkenness. Naraiel, for her part, somehow manages to straighten and firm her posture further as time goes on, which you only realize towards the end is her exercising increasing levels of focus and energy on not toppling over or lolling back and forth. There is a distinct glassiness to her eyes now, and that she cannot disguise. Well, perhaps it is possible with a bit of magic, but if she is capable of doing so she isn't making use of it to do so. You do have to restrain a belch as the two of you stew in silence, but it doesn't take her long to start talking again.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to think of you."
You blink fuzzily as you puzzle over the words.
"…not exactly what I was expecting, but okay," you say back. "What do you mean?"
"You…are too much," she struggles to get out, her fists opening and closing repeatedly before she lays them flat against the table. "I fought alongside my father when your kind tried to invade our home, many times. You know this, correct? I have killed Imperials before, when they sought to enforce their 'claims' on a land that was ours before your Empire even existed."
"A lot of people know that," you point out, "Middenland, Westerland, Nordland, Drakwald, all of them have tried their luck more than once. So have Dwarfs, Norscans, and if I don't miss my guess, Druchii," you pause there to watch as she gives a slight nod, "Possibly even skaven," which gets a firmer nod and disgusted twist of the lips that quickly smooth out. "Sort of hard to miss."
Everyone remembers 'The Unlucky Count' of the Drakwald. History doesn't even record his name, such was the chaos of the time and the brutality of his defeat, but it is impossible to miss twenty thousand soldiers with thousands more of attendant mercenaries and auxiliaries being torn to shreds. The savaging was so thorough, the total combined military forces of the Drakwald so overwhelmingly crushed, that many historical scholars claim that the event set the foundations for the Drakwald's eventual dissolution. Those more interested in the exact military details, yourself included, were hard pressed to find them, given that there were only a handful of survivors out of so many that marched into Laurelorn. Of those survivors, most were gibbering wrecks who fled to Middenheim to be as far away from trees and wood in general as possible. The defeat was so complete that it was the most notable event of not only the year 891 IC, but the entire decade of which that year was a part. Frankly, it was a miracle that the Runefang was recovered at all.
"Speaking of Skaven, there are also journals of soldiers accompanying Mandred Skavenslayer making claims of being able to pass through Laurelorn, managing a journey that should have taken him more than half a week in a handful of hours."
Naraiel blinks at that before looking off into the middle distance as she searches her memories.
"Ah, yes. Him," she nods before pursing her lips. "I remember arguing with father to not allow them passage."
If there were any alcohol left you would have spat it out at her words.
"What?!"
Again, for just a second, you forgot about how old elves can be.
"Obviously I lost the argument, Frederick," she rolls her eyes. "I had an arrow trained on his head the whole way through our borders, but I never took the shot. As it turned out, my father was right. He proved himself well enough in removing the skaven as a threat, for if he had not Laurelorn would not be spared their ravenous hunger for long."
For just a moment you try to imagine an Empire where the Skavenslayer somehow failed to complete his campaigning as he did historically. Specifically, without the shaved off time of passing through Laurelorn. Your mind whirls about as it examines the changes that would make to supply lines, battle times, and battlefield conditions. You find that you truly do not like what you envision there. On the other hand, Naraiel has just admitted that without Mandred, even Laurelorn would be under severe threat. So there was that, at the absolute least. On a third slice of your drunken thoughts, you are trying to imagine what it might have been like to see one of the greatest Emperors in the Empire's history in the living flesh. Of course, then you remember what happened after his assassination, which is enough to sour the mood of any right-minded citizen of the Empire.
"But putting that aside, I have led Laurelorn in our battles against the Empire before, and yet you are willing to aid us. Again and again. There is no doubt that an Ostlander has died beneath our boughs. More than one, certainly, as mercenaries or attempted settlers of illegal settlements. So why?"
That, you know, is likely true. The nature of the Empire has folk of all the provinces going one way or another, especially after two thousand years.
"Well," you lean back slightly while folding your arms, "Us Hohenzollerns, Ostlanders in general, really, are a naturally stubborn kind."
"This, I can believe."
"But some lessons can, and must, be learned," you continue drolly. "As my family did, trying to hold on to things we quite simply couldn't in Kislev, and elsewhere. Whole lot of blood spilt, for generations, without any gain at all. Losses, instead. How many armies of the Empire, or mercenaries hired by folk in the Empire, has Laurelorn faced and repulsed?"
It says something that Naraiel has to actively think about it, mind searching backwards over more than two thousand years of history.
"Usually at least one per every other human generation," she eventually admits. "Since before your Sigmar walked the world, and afterwards. A generation to forget or change the histories in their minds, to convince themselves to try again."
"And it's never accomplished much," you point out. "Other than dead men who should have been fighting greenskins or beastmen or such. As far as I know, there have been exactly zero human settlements that lasted more than a year without the permissions of Laurelorn's true rulers."
Naraiel just shrugs, propping up her chin with a fist.
"Look," you tilt your head back towards Natasha. "You know what makes a lot more sense, to me at least? Being allies with Kislev, as much of a bitter creature as Kattarin can be, and the people there working with the Empire. Building ties so we can face actual problems, actual enemies."
"You say that as if your province has not gone to war with others before, especially Hochland in the past."
You blink rapidly before refocusing on her.
"It's not Ostland's fault that Hochland are a bunch of cheating lowlifes who smile at you while they steal your purse," you fire back with only a low and old heat. "Also, how the hell do you know anything about that?"
She just gives you a wan look.
"It pays to know one's foes."
"But we aren't anymore."
"We aren't right now," she notes. "Agreements between elves and men are tricky, Frederick. For us, we watch as a dozen Electors live and die, and it only takes one to decide he knows better than his predecessors to upend everything."
She uses her free hand to point an index finger at herself.
"I watched, and participated in, the negotiations with Stephan von Kessel's grandfather to renew the agreements between Laurelorn and Nordland. Then we watched as they were cast down, and Gruber rose up in the meantime. Then Gruber, who swore to us up and down before your Empire's Gods, ruled as he wished before betraying us all to the Dark Gods."
Damn that Otto. It is a never-ending insult, a brand that will stick in Stephan's hide as long as he lives, a wound that he cannot heal unlike the mark that was forced upon his face.
"You cannot fathom what it is like to watch your kind form agreements in wax and ink and blood, then die, and then have their children or grandchildren as 'adults' march up with an army and spit on what their fathers and grandfathers agreed upon," she continues quietly. "Or to slay these oathbreakers and overly ambitious fools and their army down to the last, roll the bodies out with warnings in Reikspiel, only for fifty years later end up with a 'strong and bold' noble to come with another army while fighting back tears as they swear holy vengeance for our people daring to defend ourselves from invasion!" Her words twist themselves into angry hisses towards the end. "Again…and again…and again," she hangs her head, rubbing at her temples.
You let her seethe for a moment before speaking up again.
"You're right. I can't," you admit, getting a surprised slow blink from her. "I suppose Ostland's disagreements with Hochland must seem…petty, to you. Any of the Empire's internal disagreements, really."
She huffs and shakes her head.
"On certain matters? Yes. But our kind are not so aloof as to never disagree or argue over matters of payment, of obligation, and agreements amongst families," she quickly points out. "And anyone who says that elves are somehow above civil conflict is either a fool or a liar. I have killed enough Druchii corsairs to know that."
"I suppose some might argue about the reasons being more important, one way or another."
The ruling Lady of Laurelorn snorts and shakes her head.
"For all that we protect the waystones within our borders, none save the eldest of us have ever felt the soil of Ulthuan under our feet. We were but colonists abandoned to the Dwarfs. The raids we have faced from the Witch King's ilk have never been for any reason other than sadism and murderous joy," she sneers. "There is nothing that sells better in the slave markets of Naggaroth than an elven slave, Asur or otherwise," she spits to the side. "This we know, not from interrogations, but because they have admitted it to us, proudly even, when they come to chain and cage us."
Sick twisted bastards.
"But we digress," she realizes, her words finally beginning to slur as the wine continues to work its way through her system. "Our subject is supposed to be you."
"Very well then," you shrug. "Me."
"By all rights, you are supposed to be nothing more than a mayfly, like the rest of your kind. Living and dying, accomplishing little."
"Little insulting there, don't you think?"
"I'm drunk," she responds instantly.
Ah. A popular excuse in Ostland, and one that often has the benefit of being true.
"Well, go on then," you roll your wrist at her.
"But instead, you have humbled me. Thrice," she emphasizes the word so much you worry for a moment her lungs might blow out of her mouth, one hand going up in a fist at the same time. "First was Slugtongue and Gruber."
"Your people helped out plenty there," you point out, "You were there, fighting the whole while at the end."
"But we could not have done it without you," she shakes her head. "Our people were crippled by the plagues of Slugtongue and Gruber, forcing us to focus almost all of our efforts on keeping the afflicted alive."
"I…did not know that," you admit. "But honestly, I've never gotten a proper judging of Laurelorn's military forces."
Naraiel sighs.
"It was one of the Plague God's opening moves, those few years ago, ensuring that we could not stop Gruber until it was too late. His servants, Slugtongue especially, poisoned the rivers and infected wildlife with diseases with long incubation periods. By the time we realized what was happening, it was too late," she says with calcified frustration, long-picked at memories clearly rising to the surface once more. "It was…disturbingly subtle, for their kind."
You yourself have never faced a plague as bad as the old days, at least within your rule. Your significant donations to the Shallyans helps with that. You receive a report, every now and then, of them swarming a village or hamlet the moment a report is heard of particularly dangerous sickness. On estimation alone you can think of at least ten different epidemics and outbreaks that they've contained before it could stretch beyond a single settlement at a time. But you have read the texts. Red Pox. Black Plague. The devastation such things could cause is immense.
"How bad?" You ask softly.
"Ironically, very few died. Instead, it was…calculated, just enough to tie us up with keeping each other alive. Our own healing talents worked both for and against us. Success was possible, but it required tying down manpower in the extreme across my entire realm," she growls at the thought. "And then you came along. Swore an oath and willingly formed a blood bond."
"You know, that's come up before," you note idly, "That blood bond…thing. But I've never gotten an explanation on it. Though it does seem to bother and disgust a lot of people."
Naraiel…well, it is a bit hard to tell, given the flush of her cheeks from the wine, but you think that there is a faint brightening on her face. Rather than answering immediately, she reaches into one of the pouches along her belt and pulls out a small roll of some sort of paper that she places along the table. From another pouch she withdraws a clump of pungent greenery. Carefully, she unrolls the paper, pressing it flat before placing the clump directly in the center and forming it into a line. When you open your mouth to speak, she raises a finger to silence you before she rolls the paper back up into vaguely tubular form and licks along its length to seal it. Then she leans back slightly so that she can light it with the aid of one of the sconces. Immediately a purple and green smoke begins to emit from it before she places it into her mouth and inhales deeply, turning her head to the side to puff outwards into the open air outside the alcove.
"Yes. That," she finally says after coughing a small cloud of colored smoke out of her mouth. "Blood bond is a misnomer. It's a temporary linking of souls that-,"
"It is a what-,"
"That in its original incarnation was a method to enforce control between one end of the bond over the other. Old, dark magic without being actual Dark Magic," she finishes in a rush.
You stare at her, a faint tingle of anger beginning to push its way through the alcohol in your body.
"That…is an incredible violation of…of sanctity of the soul, of…of-,"
"I did not know you, at the time," she professes honestly, hiccupping slightly. "How could I have possibly fully trusted you? I knew nothing of you, save that you were Imperial. And Laurelorn has had agreements be betrayed far too many times. My son," she half-stands up from the bench, "My only child was dying of the plague. I needed certainty, not trust!"
You feel an angry tremble run its way through your body as she slowly settles back down onto the bench, puffing almost frantically on her whatever it is.
"Why…in Sigmar's name…are you telling me this now," you grind out past gritted teeth.
"Because…you deserved to know," she replies with a helpless shrug. "You can't…I can't…you…," she coughs again, waving away some of the smoke that escapes her lungs, but you think the tears in her eyes are not from the coughing. "Slugtongue. Gruber. Ghorros," she slams a fist onto the table.
A gesture from you under the table has the Greatswords who had immediately turned and begun to move over at the sound pause.
"The killer of my father," she chokes out. "The killer of the Prince of Unicorns," she sounds just on the edge beneath hysteria. "A Bloodthirster outside of Nuln, which was before even that. A victory against the Blooded Wanderer, beneath the world! And then…," she pauses slightly, rolling a knuckle against her temple. "And then I hear what you did in Athel Loren. The whole of my court did, as did the Handmaidens of the Everqueen and her precious guard. Eldyra of Tiranoc and Yhanna Sunweaver, my most trusted advisor, telling a tale that even now I quite frankly struggle to believe."
The sheer bewilderment in her voice is astonishing. This is not the continually eroding composure of Sunweaver or the young and sometimes wobbly stability of Eldyra. It is a blatant confusion that does away with, if only just now, all of the agelessness and aura of detachment and indifference that so many elves seem to possess.
"You aren't a mayfly," she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. "Your life is not a candle's flame, quick to be snuffed out and illuminating little. By deeds alone, you unmake the thought as it tries to form."
She shakes her head again and then looks back up at you, and it is then that you notice that the glassy look in her eyes has only grown further. And now there are some strange green and purple colorations going on in there as well, colors that match exactly with whatever she's smoking.
"I remember almost putting an arrow in your head," she says dreamily, "And instead hitting your flask."
"I remember liking that flask," you grunt, "And…," you sigh, "I also remember thinking that Athel Loren was called Athel Logan."
A very undignified noise escapes Naraiel, but it surely could not be a giggle. Right?
"Ignorance. Ignorance on both sides," she waggles her head back and forth. "You knew nothing of us, and we knew nothing of you. We thought we did."
"But I learned," you tap a finger against your head. "I scoured what books I could to make up for the wasted years in Jegow, to learn more about the histories of Nordland and Laurelorn, of Bretonnia and Athel Loren. Only took me a year or so to tear through my father's old library, a little bit longer to get more books loaned by the Myrmidian and Verenan temples."
"And I learned," she replies, looking at you…sort of in the eyes, though her gaze seems a bit more slippery than at the start. "I listened. And then you came when we asked for aid because Athel Loren would not. Twice it was then, that you came after centuries of fighting and killing, when Athel Loren would not."
She gestures at your sharply through the smoke she's been creating, brushing futilely to get it out of the alcove. Every time it gets near you, you make sure to hold your breath until you can be sure you won't inhale even a bit of it.
"They did not come against Gruber and Slugtongue, as we apparently were victorious too quickly for them to come," she spits to the side. "Then they called for us, and we went as we always did, but Ghorros came. And then…," she gestures vaguely towards you. "Then you came to help. And I realized…I could not speak to you earnestly and honestly without telling you what was done in Nordland. By now, the bond is decayed and severed, useless. But you still deserved to know, and to know that I…am sorry."
It was, to you, literally three decades ago. For some in the Empire, that's a lifetime. But to Naraiel, it might as well have been yesterday.
"I am sorry," she repeats, "But I didn't know what you would…who you were."
At this point, the anger finally just gutters out.
"Are you all right?"
She pauses and then stares at you incredulously, roll hanging precariously out of her mouth.
"…no, I am not okay, Frederick von Hohenzollern. Because yesterday, an Avatar of Isha showed up from Ulthuan offering naught but kindness," she raises up first one fist, and then the other, "And then another from Athel Loren came spitting vengeance and fury."
Both fists come together, tapping knuckles, before she unfurls them with palms facing the sky and bobbing up and down as if weighing something in each.
"I do not know how humanity regards divine attentions, but I knew, I knew," she shakes her hands at you almost pleadingly, "I could feel it. From both of them. The Goddess Isha, herself, had eyes upon that meeting by way of both of them, and yet they were opposed. Then…the two last of the eldest Ancients, the truest Elders?!" The last word terminates in a strangled shout, one so forcefully held back at the last second that her roll falls out of her mouth and forces her to snatch it before it can hit the table. "One, I witness caged by what felt like Winter given malice and form," she inhales deeply with the roll kept in her lips, blowing out another multi-colored cloud and waving it away. "The other, I witness take upon himself all the power of his last brother and then disappear into the Worldroots, leaving what could not be reclaimed behind to be burned."
This has clearly been boiling in her for a while, or perhaps just now crystallized.
"And then…," she taps the table insistently with one hand, the other tugging the roll from her mouth to hang between her fingers. "Then I hear of Athel Loren. Of the Savage Hunt. Of Orion, and the Savage Huntress herself. And both of them. Falling. To. You," she stabs at you with one hand.
"To be fair," you clear your throat, "I'm reasonably sure, based on what everyone has told me, that the Sisters of Twilight were mostly finishing the job enough on that one. I just happened to…get the final blow in."
Naraiel just blinks at you slowly, the whites of her eyes now completely colored by purple and green, which frames the searing hazel irises quite oddly. Especially with how the pupils seem a hair past too-wide.
"Did you, or did you not, pick up the Spear of Kurnous and use it to kill an Avatar of Anath Raema?"
You genuinely do not remember that part, if you are being honest. At least, not very clearly. When you try to force your memories, you find that you remember largely only incredible amounts of pain that seemed to radiate from every single inch of your body, inside and out. And mind-bending levels of rage. Your mind seemed to have receded or at least hyper-focused to the point that clear memory storage within it was something that was relegated to not being as important. But through that murk you do remember bronze and amber lightning pouring into an arm and shoulder, as well a throw. But more than that is like trying to discern something from a shadow. Luckily you came back to yourself afterwards, arm still outstretched and body angled, enough to infer that the gigantic spear sticking out of whoever the Avatar of Anath Raema was likely because of you.
"…yes."
She nods, probably a good number of times more than is strictly necessary.
"In your lifetime, you have done things that…," she trails off. "My entire life's experiences demand that I either kill you as a threat, eject you from Laurelorn, or try to end your family line before they can prove a threat to us."
This smoke she's been blowing around better not have been poisonous.
"But my life's experiences and my instincts also say that you are, by this point, too much of an asset, an ally, to treat unkindly. No Count of Nordland has ever done for us what you have, for me personally, despite the pile of ignored or lost documents and agreements signed between them and us."
Finally, she goes silent for a bit, head hanging slightly with a hand against her forehead keeping it from cracking into the table.
"You've got a lot of duality going on in your life recently then," you say, causing her to glance up at you in vague agreement. "Allarielle and Ariel, Durthu and Coeddil, that wine," you tap a finger against the glass of it.
"Yesterday, I woke up, intending to commit myself to possibly making an agreement with Avelorn without the express permissions or knowledge of Athel Loren," she replies. "Today, I woke up knowing that the Queen I have dealt with for the past number of years has been stuck in a limbo between life and death, sustained by her own power. I have felt the gentle touch of Isha from the hand of the Everqueen. And learned that a human killed Orion, who has never fallen to such, not once. And Anath Raema…my mind struggles to wrap itself around even that much. It is…too much," she finishes helplessly.
Another bit of silence stretches between the two of you, punctuated by extremely hard inhales on the roll which by now is more than halfway burnt down, the ashes seeming to glitter where they fall on the table. When she sees that ash, Naraiel presses a hand down against it and rubs her fingers together, casting the ash to the wind of the breeze which seems ever present in the basin of the Pinnacle structure. She also snorts at it and rolls her eyes.
"This is supposed to be one of the most calming of the…," she says, staring at the half-smoked roll of paper and green in her hand and shakes her head. "Never mind," she squeezes her eyes shut before looking over at you again. "Earlier, I said you had humbled me."
"Thrice," you repeat her word from before, "I think you said."
"Correct," she coughs. "I had to get help against Gruber and Slugtongue. I needed to get help against Ghorros, and while I may have ended up able to rally the forest against the Bone Gate, I know in my heart that Warhoof would have escaped before I could have caught him," she wipes a single tear away as she thinks upon her father, "And the fact of the matter is that I was right to trust you over Ariel, given the corruption of Cyanathair. Then you saved my life against Drycha's horde. Personally."
"While I did grab you, I got there with aid from the Sisters of the Thorn."
"Semantics, you could have remained at the Pinnacle, but you didn't," she waves your words, and a bit more smoke, away. "I am not accustomed to being humbled, but neither am I willing to be an idiot about it, not at this point."
You can see how she has to almost force the words out of her throat, even after lowering her inhibitions with a combination of drink and smoke. Truly, the pride of the elves is an incredible thing, that she has to literally fight against it chemically even now. On the other hand, you can't help but feel an odd warmth in your chest that she is making the effort to force her own pride down. For a Glade Lord, even, not an elven commoner or lesser noble. It's weirdly touching to watch her throttle her own instincts and nature down.
"I owe you too much. You were rewarded once," she lifts her eyes to where the Light of Summer rests on your chest, "And yet…," she pauses, blinking slowly and muttering so quietly that even this close you can't hear it. After a while she looks up again, clearing her throat. "You are fighting against all of what your people have done to mine since before the time of Sigmar. But the Pale Queen may have me if you haven't been making a remarkable go of it," she chuckles darkly.
A thought strikes you there, amidst your own haze brought on by the powerful elven wine.
"Has Laurelorn…ever attacked the Empire outwardly in the manner of Athel Loren against Bretonnia? As far as the scholars of the Empire know, the Wild Hunt has rarely if ever gone beyond the borders of Bretonnia and the Grey Mountains."
Naraiel hums, looking upwards and to the right in thought before centering her gaze back on you with a slight shake of her head.
"Outside of setting up ambushes on incoming armies who have loudly announced their intent to conquer our lands and eject or kill us? No. The few elves of Laurelorn who have ever participated in the Wild Hunt happened to be in Athel Loren at the time and were swept up in the call of the horn."
"But I do recall meeting you outside the exact confines of Laurelorn before," you point out.
"Obviously," she rolls her eyes. "We hunt what beastmen we can before they pass beyond the outer perimeter, as well as forest goblins."
"In the lands claimed by the Empire."
"The 'lands claimed by the Empire' extend into the wastelands of Kislev, the Border Princes, Bretonnia, and, of course," she gestures vaguely around her, "My home."
"…fair."
"Besides which, I have found that the vast majority of the time, we are able to complete our hunts without the Empire ever knowing we were there."
"I'm sure that brought great comfort to the hearts of Elector Counts of Nordland past."
At that, she sneers.
"No, it usually gave them an excuse to claim we were attempting to 'expand our reach unfairly' and provided casus belli," her accent briefly thickens significantly as she speaks the Classical phrase in Reikspiel.
Which is also probably true. But you've a thought that's been digging at you since this whole conversation started.
"…not that I don't enjoy hearing about the sordid ways of the Empire past, but what precisely did you come down here for?"
Naraiel blinks at you and then stares at the table for a moment before her mouth opening and forming a small 'o' before it snaps closed.
"The Everqueen remains incapacitated after healing Queen Ariel, and Sir Tyrion of Cothique has demanded that she be returned home so that she may recover on the Isle of Rebirth," she says that last words with awe, "A place of great power to Isha, one that even our histories cannot miss or lessen. The ancients of Avelorn have promised to take them through the Worldroots to safety. Our talks are being put to an abrupt halt, but on the promises of the Everqueen's Chief Handmaiden they can continue when she has recovered enough."
"Well…that seems a bit anticlimactic," you murmur.
"I am…just finished with this day, this month, this entire year, I think," she replies, staring just past your face into the wall with the same sort of stare you've seen on especially worn down soldiers. "I am exhausted. On every level. It is Spring, and our kind should be waxing with it, but I cannot seem to draw as much strength from the season as I should."
You know the feeling.
"I came down to let you know that we will be offering free passage to where you entered, that the meeting we called you for has concluded, and will be restarted at a later time once the Everqueen has more fully recovered. When we enquired as to just sending a diplomat next time…," she chuckles. "Well, apparently she prefers a hands on approach, much to the consternation of her guardians."
"Well, I suppose that's good to know. Confessions of potential mind-control aside," you add at the end while pursing your lips.
She gives a half-hearted shrug.
"Knowing you now? I doubt it would have worked anyway. You have proven yourself of remarkable will…or at least stubbornness. Either way, you deserved to know. I could not countenance holding that knowledge back any longer."
"…thanks?"
"I understand if you are angry about it," she says earnestly, "Though I…," she slows again, marshalling some internal fortitude for her next words, "I will understand if you do not wish to forgive me for it and to instead leave here and communicate with us no longer."
Then she goes silent, not even puffing any further on her calming…whatever it is. She just watches you in silence.
"…I'll have to think about it," you eventually say, watching as a bit of tension ratchets itself into her shoulders. "Now, was there anything else? Actually, hold on," you consider what you've heard and seen since returning to Laurelorn. "Where is Mena von Kessel?"
Naraiel grimaces, but before your alarm can grow any further she answers.
"In a different glade. They wished to…celebrate victory and toast to the fallen. And they began doing so shortly after the Queen left. Based on the latest reports, they have continued to do so throughout the night."
That sounds exactly like Mena von Kessel. Or Ulricans in general, now that you think about it.
"So they're all right," you breathe a sigh of relief. "That is good to hear."
"Well…," she half-frowns. "Yes, for the most part."
"I know that they took some losses," you look at her with narrowed eyes. "But something tells me it is more than that."
She doesn't look entirely nervous, but there is a bit more concern there than you'd like.
"Sir Tyrion announced that the Everqueen's condition could not be spilled to the outside world. Von Kessel…objected, saying that it was an important part of the 'tale' and that the start of the story wouldn't make sense anymore when she told it to others."
"Oh shit," you blurt out before stopping and thinking. "Wait, you said they were celebrating. So she's alive."
"Yes. Physically, she is well, the Handmaidens saw to her."
You go a bit still.
"That…implies they were needed. And you wouldn't have specified physically-,"
"She challenged the knight to combat for the right to tell the tale to whom she pleased," she confirms. "She then lost. Badly."
Despite yourself, you wince.
"How bad is 'badly'?"
"Mena von Kessel is very lucky the Handmaidens of the Everqueen were on hand," is the disheartening answer, one that gets worse as Naraiel continues. "After which point she got up and demanded another go. In the time it took her to do so, others in her…kindred…had attempted to challenge him in the name of their leader."
This time it is you who slowly places your head in your hands.
"Bloody Ulricans," you mutter. "None of them are dead, right? No maimings?"
"Oh, no, there were plenty of those," she answers, getting a groan out of you. "All healed now, but most of them made requests that they not be healed so much they lose the scars."
"…of course they did. Why did Sir Tyrion accede to…any of that?"
"If I may be honest?" She cocks an eyebrow at you.
"I wish you to be so at all times, if possible," you interject, causing her to briefly dip her head in shame before she nods at you.
"That is fair. As for Sir Tyrion, he did not draw his blade once throughout the entire battle. He remained at the Everqueen's side at all times. Admirable, for a guardian, but it clearly burned at him that he could contribute little. Sending out his squire to fight vicariously for him could only do so much," she posits. "Frankly, it is impressive that he only cut out Mena's eyes-"
"He what!?"
"-And," Naraiel continues smoothly, "Did not kill her for how she insulted him."
Your jaw drops.
"How…," you stutter to a halt and have to try again. "How, exactly, did she…what happened?!"
"Mena implied that Tyrion's blade would have been of better use on the battlefield, rather than…," she clearly hesitates before shrugging, "Rather than, in her words, 'cowering behind a hundred magical bows'. That she'd done actual fighting, so she got to tell who she wanted about it. Unlike him."
You have heard Eldyra speak of Tyrion before, and by now there is no doubt in your mind about how skilled he just might be, based on her own training and skills. And that's just an estimate. Given who he is, and his position, you've no doubt he's likely even better.
"Sigmar's balls, Morr's withered rose, Shallya's tears, and fucking shit," you hiss out, squeezing at your temples even further. "That…bloody…," you sputter to a halt, strangled by just how many curses you're trying to get out at once. "And she is alive?!"
"Thankfully, the Handmaidens spoke to him most vigorously before the duel began," she says calmly. "His strike was…incredibly calculated," she sounds almost awed, "It passed just forward enough to cut across each eye, then withdrew a fractional distance to not score the bridge of the nose with anything but the blackening heat of the blade, only to push forward that exact distance to destroy the second eye."
Again, you wince.
"I…am not sure if this is to her credit or not, but she attempted to keep fighting afterwards, requiring a second strike to put her down," she adds with a shrug. "Afterwards, the Handmaidens saw to her…and then others of her kindred."
You raise a hand, palm forward, causing her mouth to snap shut with a click of teeth.
"Enough. How many of the Blue Wolves did he take down?"
Naraiel pauses to think. Which is probably not a good sign.
"Queen Ariel marshalled her forces, negotiated with the Chief Handmaiden, and left a little less than half an hour after you left towards the Oak of Ages. The aftermath was largely dealt with over the course of another half hour, given that the vast majority of the dead were fey and wood spirits," she taps a finger against her lips. "Von Kessel's daughter began boasting to her men during that cleanup, but it was not until another quarter of an hour had passed before Sir Tyrion made his decision to tell her to be silent about the matters of the day."
"Now, on the one hand, I suppose I can understand where he is coming from. There are no doubt forces in the world that would highly enjoy learning that the Everqueen is out of sorts for who knows how long."
"True enough," she nods. "But all she knew of him was of that moment, and nothing else besides," she points out. "She had arrived and fought, yet was only now seeing him."
You probably need to talk to Stephan about getting his daughter some more courtly training. She has clearly spent too long running around in the wild where the only important thing was the next fight in the name of Ulric.
"Overall…each duel took less than a few heartbeats," she tells you simply. "A single stroke, for the most part. Only Mena managed to make him take two, and I think that might have been because of sheer surprise alone, the next few times she tried it was only one. Then they just kept going, one after another. For a long, long time. They finished only about an hour before you returned."
"Gods," you moan.
"I will say, though, that Sir Tyrion seemed to almost…be enjoying himself by the end of it," she says, mystified.
You stare at her.
"Are you serious?"
"As was Von Kessel. She invited him to drink with her kindred once the dueling was finally over with, to tell tales of his own victories. After he cut his way through so many of them. And he laughed and declined, but politely."
She sounds about as mystified as you are right now.
"Well, that sounds absurd. No one nearly kills someone and…," you trail off, remembering exactly who almost shot an arrow into your head many years ago. "Ah, fuck me."
Is this what it is like for others when they hear about you? Just going off and managing to violently muddle one's way through what could have instead become a disaster? It is a horrible experience, sending your heart beating and stomach dropping. Surely not.
"No," is Naraiel's response, the word so flatly delivered that you nearly choke. "Regardless…after all of this…we owe you. We owe you a lot. Not just for Gruber and Slugtongue, or just yesterday. What was done for you after Ghorros was payment, yes, but I cannot help but feel that it pales slightly before the act of ensuring that the very soul of all Asrai were not corrupted into the Savage Hunt."
"You think Orion would have come here next, then?"
"I do," she nods firmly, naked fear on her face. "Anath Raema cares only for total dominion of 'her' hunting grounds. Laurelorn would be too much of an insult for her," she shudders. "Of all of our kind throughout the world, almost nine tenths of them live either here or in Athel Loren, with scattered individual kindreds and single-family homes spread throughout the deep forests."
You pause there, and tilt your head.
"Wait…really?"
Naraiel raises an eyebrow at you.
"Yes? Is that so surprising?"
"Well it's just…comparing the two forests…,"
"Laurelorn is not quite as old as Athel Loren, Frederick," she chides, sucking some air through her teeth next. "She is not as aware, much less as powerful. She cannot call upon the forest dragons in the Dream Depths as Loren can to those that slumber in the Pine Crags. Laurelocraobh is old, but a sapling compared to the Oak of Ages. Our spellweavers and spellsingers are skilled and strong and well-learned…but we are not Argwylon or Modryn. We do not have the plains of Cavaroc, for all that we have glades large enough for our knights to ride and train. The wood spirits are strong, but not so vibrant and numerous as Arranoc."
Admitting all that appears to take something out of her enough that she sags slightly, just one more self-inflicted bite out of her pride.
"We have a stronger connection to the forest than ice-locked Atylwyth…but that is not a difficult comparison. We must rely on our own battle-skill far more, much like them, however."
She looks a bit forlorn at that statement.
"Well, numbers can still count for something," you note, rubbing at your chin. "You said that between Laurelorn and Athel Loren, it was less than ninety, more than eighty, if we were going by percentages, right?"
Naraiel shrugs sluggishly. By now, the alcohol is really digging into her, slowing her reaction speeds considerably.
"We do not have a precise census as you would know it, but yes."
"Do you have a better idea of the split between the two of you?"
She thinks for a moment, fingers twitching as she calculates some numbers in her head.
"If I had to estimate, outside of the smaller villages and kindreds elsewhere, Athel Loren has anywhere between forty-four and forty-seven percent of all Asrai, and Laurelorn has the other thirty-seven to forty-two percent. Which leaves…," she waggles a hand, "The rest."
By now, whatever she was smoking has been burnt out completely, the butt of it crushing into her palm and then being tossed away out of the alcove. The air rather quickly clears, the breeze aiding in such, which is frankly a relief. You really weren't looking forward to getting any sort of second-hand effects from whatever that was supposed to be. But more importantly, you stare at Naraiel, this time being the incredulous one.
"You mean to tell me…that Laurelorn is of near equal population to all of Athel Loren?"
"Numbers are not all, Frederick," she is quick to say, "You should know that plenty well yourself."
"But still," you insist. "That's…," you stop at the look she gives you. "Fine."
"We do not have Ariel, nor Orion. Our shrines to Vaul are nothing before Vaul's Anvil in Torgovann, and we have no smiths as grand as Daith. Our eldest treeman is…was," she bites her lip in anger, "But a child to Durthu. Make no mistake, Frederick. Laurelorn is stronger than, perhaps, the Witherhold or Cythral. But we have never had a fraction of the support they receive by being within the confines of Athel Loren."
The conversation dies off after that as the two of you contemplate the present and future alike. For a time, the two of you just sit there, Naraiel not even taking out another roll to begin smoking again. Over by your Greatswords, they have thankfully remained in position, for the most part. Only a blind idiot would miss how they've shifted themselves closer while maintaining a tight guard around Natasha. Naraiel appears to be glancing out of the alcove herself, though her gaze is locked upon the Dawnstone Pinnacle rather than the one who slumbers near it. Given just how valuable the Pinnacle is, you were a bit surprised that they'd let your people so close, but you suppose given the guards present around the lip of the nexus that they're confident that they can keep it safe. Of course, you also would like to hope that they respect that your people fought and bled in its defense. Even if it might just as likely be fear of Natasha.
"You referred to your eldest treeman in the past tense," you eventually say.
"Yes," Naraiel sighs sadly "Guldul was one of the first to fall to the Proctor of Pestilence. Again, the servants of the Plague God weakening us before their true assault begins. The next eldest is Lendrilin," she sighs again. "Lendrilin is born of Laurelorn, but Guldul was of Athel Loren, of Talsyn, and is just one more tie left withered."
"I'm…sorry for your loss."
"Guldul was an even-tempered sort, more bemused than spiteful. I think you would have liked him, and he you," she replies sadly before perking up ever so slightly. "At the least, we did not lose Craobhin."
You wait for her to expand on that for a moment before prompting her.
"…who?"
She starts a bit before realizing.
"Ah, of course. Her more casually spoken name is Bloodglade, but in times of utmost seriousness, her true name is Craobhin. Many wood spirits are similar. Durthu is known also as Oakheart, for instance."
Interesting to know.
"So Bloodglade is alive then? Or…should I call her Craobhin?"
"The latter is a bit more familiar, so if you wish to imply-,"
"Bloodglade it is, then," you interrupt, getting a chuckle out of Naraiel. "And when I saw her last, I was reasonably sure she was dead."
"Ah, well," her humor bleeds out. "Yes. She was grievously wounded, and it will take some time for her to recover. For now, she rests within Laurelocraobh."
"I see."
The silence grows once more, but this time it is Naraiel who breaks it.
"Laurelorn is too weak," she pronounces gravely, elbows on the table and hands clasping together to prop up her chin, her eyes flinty. "Our coast is vulnerable to the ships of Norsca, of the Druchii, of raiders from the Chaos Wastes even further north. The Fimir in the west, greenskins and beastmen on the south and west. Skaven sometimes beneath. We don't have the sheer strength of Athel Loren to just…ignore the rest of the world as we choose. We are not Ulthuan or Naggaroth, able to project our strength across the world."
Slowly, her eyes turn to you.
"Athel Loren is oft-always so distant, even when Ariel was…sane," she practically spits the word out, as if the touch of it was harmful to her tongue. "They granted us the acorn that became Laurelocraobh, but we lived here long before it was gifted. My father, and through him myself, have no direct blood ties to any of the noble houses of any of the other High Realms. We elves can live for so many thousands of years, but…," she grits her teeth, "I can deny it no longer. We are dying. It is a slow death, but a death nonetheless."
"…you know, you are a lot more verbose when drunk and presumably intoxicated by other substances."
"That is rather the point, yes," she grunts. "Besides, I'm not here in my capacity as Glade Lord. That is my son's job at the moment."
You sputter slightly.
"Are…are you abdicating!?"
A sharp bark of laughter escapes her before she settles herself.
"Of course not, he's a thousand years too young for me to even consider that," she says firmly, her words clipped. "No, I am just taking a temporary leave of absence, just for a month or so, to contemplate things. The equivalent of a break of a few minutes for a human I suppose," she then tilts her head at you. "Why, are you considering doing so?"
"Not really," you shrug. "It's a rare thing for Elector Counts to ever do so."
"Our reports say that dukes and barons and the like are not unknown to do so."
"Ah," you waggle a finger at her, "But those dukes and barons and the like are not Elector Counts. It is another magnitude in position, of importance and of duty. Not to say that there haven't been shit Elector Counts, mind you," you huff, thoughts on Ludenhof and a few other choice examples throughout the Empire's history. "But for the most part the position is meant to be held by fully matured adults with a good amount of seasoning on them, not inherited by children or even general youths."
"I suppose that must be so, though it is somewhat hard for me to judge."
"It is not a perfect system, I admit," you shrug one shoulder. "There have been exceptions before, accidents, early inheritances brought on by death of some kind or another. Those at the bottom of the bloodline rising to the top due to the loss of all of the rest. And so on. But generally," you insist, "It is the duty of the Elector Count to aid and support their successor as they grow, getting them used to authority and command."
"Sensible. We do the same."
"Right," you nod. "For instance, Magnus is regularly leading the soldiers of the Army of the Forest and the Army of Ostland and the Army of the Mountains, while I've relaxed my own departures from the capital. More recently, with the aid of his wife and lessons with my wife, he is getting a further grounding in courtly dealings. Occasionally, I've let him take my seat at court with my authority behind him without directly interfering. A little bit more every year."
"Letting him test the chains of command without being crushed by them," she nods approvingly.
"Exactly."
"Mmm…but you are not abdicating, for all that you weigh him down with more and more responsibility. And neither am I," she inhales deeply. "But at the same time, I simply cannot allow Laurelorn to remain as weak as it has been any longer. And as the animals do, as the plants do, we must change and adapt. We must accept that the world is different."
"Bit of a jump from a wolf changing where it hunts because the area's gone lean, or the root digging elsewhere," you find yourself saying.
"But the principal remains the same, does it not?"
You are definitely still drunk, but the sheer seriousness on Naraiel's face, in the set of her shoulders, nearly sobers you up completely.
"So what, precisely, does that mean exactly?"
"We need to start building better ties with the outside world, because that divide doesn't exist anymore, if it ever did," she announces to you. "We must change ourselves as well. My son disagrees, he is closer to how those of Loren thinks, though he would deny it vigorously if it were ever brought up."
It is incredibly rare for you to regret being drunk. This is quickly becoming one of those times.
"I have a terrible feeling that I'm a bit too intoxicated for something this serious-sounding."
"Perhaps," she acknowledges. "But here we are."
"Why me?" You gesture towards yourself. "Why now?"
"Why only now, you mean?" she exhales sharply through her nose, looking out of the alcove to where your battered Greatswords still stand. "I don't know. Because of you. Of Stephan von Kessel. Because of the Everqueen…and Queen Ariel?" She slowly shakes her head, exhaling sharply again in a tired sigh before looking back at you. "Thirty-one years ago, I thought we were doomed to die of plague and be overrun by the servants of Nurgle. That the Empire had once again turned on us." Her eyes drop to the Light of Summer. "Thirteen years ago, I thought that I was doomed to fail in exacting vengeance on Ghorros. I found myself trusting more in the promises of a human than I ever have in the past, than in the distant aloofness of Loren…and being proven right. Enough to call upon you again as a third party between us and Avelorn."
"Is that why, then?" You ask calmly. "Because you trust me now?"
"Isha help me, but I do. It could be some sort of plot on the part of the Dark Gods, I suppose, but I do not wish to imagine so," she taps the fingers of one hand slowly against the table. "Kyrian might disagree, but I have watched as your kind have grown and been transformed over time, just as we were by the forests. I watched as Sigmar pulled your tribes together and forged an Empire."
"You…you witnessed Sigmar in person?"
"Not personally," she shakes her head, and a child's wail of disappointment echoes from somewhere deep in your heart. "But my father did. He left me behind to run the realm as he observed Sigmar traveling the lands that would become the Empire. He watched as bonds were so closely forged with the Dwarfs," her lips twist at that, "And so he returned, saying that the Empire would turn against us both out of greed and out of friendship with the short folk."
"And, unfortunately," you sigh, "Lord Dawnstone would be proven right by history."
"Correct," she slumps slightly where she sits. "Technically, we once roamed all of what constitutes Nordland's nominal borders. But my father had us pull behind the river of the east, then further still out of what you call the Silver Hills."
"What about the northwestern settlements? The ones between Salz and Demst…or, well, I'm sure you know the rivers."
"An attempt to keep the peace," she replies tiredly, shaking her head yet again at the past. "Permissions given to create settlements there, as we restricted kindreds and kin-bands south of the hills."
Then she fixes you with a stare with a shade of well-calcified anger, back hunching slightly.
"It was never enough for the Empire, and eventually my father accepted that. We kept making agreements, watching them be broken a century or two later, and then did it again, if only to gain the short blooms of peace they could bring."
You watch as she straightens, breathing slowly, swallowing old grudges with clear effort. When she speaks again, her voice is filled with a forced calm.
"The Empire grew, and we did not. Not truly. We…existed. That is not enough for me anymore. It is time to accept that we cannot treat the Empire as some sort of inferior animal to be ignored. It burns my very soul to say it, but to do otherwise would be to continue leading my people as they decline ever more. Few will admit it, but we rely on the Empire even as we fight off their attempts at invasion."
There a distinct tone of sincerity which manages to cut the rest of the way through your slowly fading buzz, casting you unfailingly towards the unenviable state of sobering up.
"So…what does that mean?"
"It means that it is time to start treating the Empire as an actual peer, and stop burying our heads in the mists about it."
You almost feel as if the world should be falling out from under you, hearing an elf say such words.
"I…have no rightly idea how I'm supposed to react to that."
"Frederick von Hohenzollern without an acerbic word to say? Truly, we have moved beyond the sight of even the Crone," she chuckles.
"Do you…wait, no, I'm not even certain what you're asking for here. If you are at all. What are you after here? Are you going forward with an attempt to sign something with Avelorn, or…,"
"Even if we do, Avelorn is on Ulthuan, and the Asur stretch themselves across the entire world. The Empire is here," she taps a finger against the table again. "And I am not looking for some sort of entrenched…I don't even know exactly what I want. But it needs to be more than what there is now."
The next few words damn near force themselves out of your mouth, despite how much you wish they hadn't.
"What if it goes wrong? If we get some sort of new treaty or at least bare agreement going, only for it to fall apart later, some new asshole gets it in his head to disregard it? Or tricked by vampires or daemons or something?"
"Then I am sure Kyrian will tell me that he told me so as he buries my corpse beneath the roots of the trees," Naraiel responds with grave poise. "But until that day, I choose, just this once, to make a leap of faith. After witnessing Isha's own favor upon our world, so close, how can I not?"
After that, she lets you stew in silence over her words for a good long while. Your mind grapples with the revelations and implications that they have left you with.
"Are we talking about some kind of treaty, here? Between the Empire and Laurelorn?"
"I know you and Stephan. It is you two I feel I can – Isha forgive me – trust," she makes a cutting motion with one hand. "I do not know your Emperor, or the other Electors. Marienburg has none, and those of the west have often coveted our woods."
Well, Marienburg covets just about anything in the world that it doesn't have.
"Magnus the Pious is the best Emperor we've had since Sigmar," you tell her earnestly. "I don't know anyone who could possibly have managed the support of the Gods and the people across all of the provinces, nor who could have matched Asavar Kul without Ghal Maraz."
She frowns at you.
"Perhaps. I shall reserve judgement, but for now…no. It is with Nordland and Ostland that I would deal with. Your 'Westerland' has never made any pretenses about their desires, and Middenland holds to their inherited claims from your Drakwald Emperors. Are they inclined to give up such things on your word?"
Would Gunthar give up on any lands claimed by Middenland without a fight? He seemed perfectly happy to get into it over the Middle Mountains, but this could be different. You think. Maybe. If he's recently gotten a blow to the head that left him with permanent brain damage. Or ten. Or maybe just died.
"Absolutely not. If anything, it would only incense Gunthar and intrigue Marienburg, which is the opposite of what we should want to happen. But if the Emperor said it…it might be different."
She actually looks a bit surprised about that. She really must not know Magnus at all. Though, based on all you've learned, you think that Laurelorn's ability to know the outside world must have been steadily shrinking all the while the Empire grew stronger.
"I will think on it," is all she says on that before moving on. "For now…I will focus on those I know."
"Fine then. What are we looking at here, then? I'm guessing we're not going to be binding ourselves together with some all-encompassing treaty."
"That would be quite a step too far, yes," she nods, "I'll be facing enough arguments from my council already. No, something smaller. Simpler, for now. Official pacts of nonaggression, between yours and mine. I've another proposal I'd like to deliver to Stephan, but I know not if he will agree to it."
"What is it?" You ask curiously.
"Something that, if he agrees, will help convince my kindred and others that he truly is different. Then, if all goes well…," she pauses there, looking almost furtive before blinking and straightening. "Ariel is indisposed, and Orion is fallen. This is my domain," she says a bit louder, seemingly as much to herself as to you. "One of the most important principles behind Laurelorn's continued existence is scouting our foes out as they approach and either striking pre-emptively or being able to prepare ambushes and defenses. It has occurred to me that…," she slows again.
"That…," you repeat with a questioning lilt added in.
It takes yet another few seconds before she shakes off the hesitance. It practically seems like a damn near compulsion that she's trying to fight off here.
"That working…together…," she grinds out, "Would be more efficient."
It's like she's punched you directly in the stomach. Opposite you, Naraiel looks each and every one of her last few words are akin to a tooth being pulled.
"Are you…are you suggesting that we fight together? Elves and humans, against the darkness which has plagued the forests for so long? On a more organized basis, rather than opportunistically?" You whisper breathlessly. "What would Athel Loren think?"
"I am trying not to think about that," she whispers back. "It is just a thought," she adds hurriedly. "Something that may end up being nothing at all than an idle thought brought by exhaustion and alcohol and the smoke of particularly potent herbs. But the treaties of nonaggression…which…I will have to accept you refusing if it is your desire based on my past indiscretion," she sounds both regretful and fearful when she admits that.
Sighing, you rub a bit at your temples.
"Is that something you could reactivate or otherwise affect me through?"
"I doubt it," she shakes her head. "You are more bound to Laurelorn through what you wear around your neck than my paltry magical abilities."
"Bound?!"
"Where do you think its power comes from?" She responds with slow blinks, head tilting to the side in confusion. "Magic is not something that can simply be plucked from nothing. Sunweaver crafted it for you at her ritual site in her home within Eldryl Cadaharathi, where the Dawnstone Pinnacle's most powerful sibling resides."
Obviously, you knew that magic has to be crafted out of the Winds of Magic, sure, this has been explained to you many times. But you still never knew the exact specifics.
"What…precisely…would happen with the Light of Summer if this Eldryl Cadaharathi was to be, say, razed to the ground by beastmen?"
"It would likely cease to function, or at least be reduced to a fraction of its former power," she confirms your fears, eyes wide. "But if that glade were to fall, it would be either shortly before or shortly after the Dawnstone Pinnacle did, given their relative importance. So, effectively Laurelorn itself would be destroyed or dying already."
Well shit.
"Then I should probably work to make sure that doesn't happen, huh?" You scoff. "One more loop around the bull's neck to make it go where you want to go."
"All magic comes with a price, Frederick. You should know this. Also, not necessarily a leash, not something that Sunweaver or anyone else could use to affect you, only the talisman itself." she gives a faint shake of the head. "Sunweaver would never admit it, but I suspect you could seek out your 'Jade Wizards'," she makes quotes in the air, "And while they would not be able to replicate it or restore it fully, they could help somewhat."
Groaning, you sigh again.
"It might be a bit hard to trust your people if they kept doing things like that. Honesty goes a long way."
"Which is why I'm telling you now," she insists. "Besides which, did you think that Sunweaver could simply craft what you wear on a whim, ensure its function like she has, in such a short timeframe? Simply drawing ambient Winds into itself to…," she stops to make sure your eyes are not glazing over, "It wouldn't be enough to charge as it does, nor heal the extent of injuries you take on. It required a great deal of rare materials, the metal itself had to be cooled in begged-for forest dragon's blood to aid in its connection. She had to travel through the farthest reaches that Laurelorn could manage so that she could give it to you, chronologically, at the time she did, after the time she spent working on it."
"Right," you grunt, fingers coming up to trace against the deceptively strong material. "Fine. Probably should have asked for more details about how it was made before slapping it on. How…how about these agreements you were talking about?"
"Right," she accepts your desire to switch topics with ease. "Agreed upon nonaggression, with specified incidents as examples as well as a broader unspecified category subject to interpretation and communication between the polities if uncovered incidents occur. Tripled in generations," she speaks quickly but clearly, carefully enunciating her way past her thick accent.
"What does that mean?"
"In the past, as I said, it was often the children or grandchildren seeking to press their parent's 'rights'," she rolls her eyes. "Which caused conflict. It would be you, your heir, and his or her child that would sign, with notaries that could be trusted within your realm to ensure copies are known. To be continued upon…," and here she stutters to a halt slightly. "Upon your last journey-,"
"-when I die, meaning Magnus's heir's heir would be a new signatory. Got it."
She winces but nods.
"Correct."
"And then whatever else it is you want to bring up with Stephan, which you won't tell me about."
"I am sure he will speak to you about it," she replies dryly. "You are hosting the Trident meeting year, are you not?"
"…and you know about that because…,"
"Because people talk," she waves off your suspicious tone. "The trade we have with Stephan's merchants is more than enough. Everyone in the 'Northern Trident' is aware of the rotating gathering that its leaders participate in. It is not as if you have ever made much of a secret of it."
She is, of course, completely right. But it is still a bit disconcerting to hear her talk about it so casually, for some reason.
"Yes, well…hmm."
It is with sour realization that you note the slight twitching of her lips.
"I assume he will discuss the proposal with you, besides which, I haven't even finished writing them. The leaders of the Trident meet towards the end of the year, when winter grows strong," she continues casually. "I figured then would be a good time to send them to you."
"By what method? I don't want an elf just popping through the window, they're as likely to get shot or stabbed trying to do that."
"I suspect they might be able to get in regardless, but no, not like that," she frowns. "Beside which I don't even know if you would accept them being offered at all, just yet."
"Why do you think that?" You asked quizzically.
Naraiel just sighs and looks at you.
"…because you haven't told me if you've decided on what whether or not my past actions are forgivable or not."
Ah.
Right.
An act of desperation. An absolute lack of trust, with uncomfortably verifiable historical precedent. Certainly, she feels bad about it now, enough to apologize. Enough to bring it up at all, at a time like this, because she felt you deserved to know. Years and years ago. It was a violation, or at least…it could have been. A threat and promise made without the potential victim even knowing about it, one not followed through on. Fighting, killing, that was easy. That came as simply to you as breathing. This? This felt like something altogether.
"You know…I was thinking to myself," you start slowly, "Right when I was deciding on whether we should charge out from the Pinnacle, that 'boy, Naraiel dying here would let Chaos squeeze out a victory here.'"
She goes to respond before you raise a single finger, silencing her.
"Not done, please. Now, yes, I thought that. Strategically, it would be a loss. Tactically, it was dangerous. And I remembered that all you'd done was try to get some help for your people from an unlikely source. I once did the same, asking after the halflings of the Moot. And it almost turned out disastrous, though on a far smaller scale than…well, what we both know what happened."
You look away for a moment before snapping your fingers twice, then pausing, then snapping again. Your arm whips out to catch the requested flask from Volgar, the Greatsword nodding to you as he returns to scanning the perimeter. You then uncork the flask and pour some of Bugman's Best into your glass and down it.
"It was entirely possible that your son would get there in time, your own troops would pull you out of it. Elven superiority, right? But you know what I was also thinking at the time? The tipping thought?" You pause, earnestly looking at her for an answer that she can't come up with, instead only shaking her head. "I thought that 'Naraiel is sort of even a friend'. And that's when I decided to come riding over. Then. Not before. So my question is this. Are we friends? Is that even possible for a human and an elf, one less than a hundred and the other maturing as an adult more than two thousand and three hundred years ago?"
Naraiel bows her head slightly, sighing, before looking back up at you.
"I hope so," she answers haltingly. "For my people's sake, I hope so."
"So are we?"
She takes a deep breath.
"…I would like us to be, yes."
This time, it is you who leans back slightly. The alcove is nice, breezy, well-lit by the sconces, the glowing of the Dawnstone Pinnacle, the natural sunlight. It also seems far too small for the words being spoken here. Thoughts whirl this way and that in your mind. Naraiel. Mena. Natasha. Allarielle. Ariel. Sunweaver, though you are not sure yet if you are familiar enough to call her Yhanna. Politics and intrigue, nations and off-shoots of elven-kind. With you bumbling around in the middle of it all because decades ago you decided that Nordland shouldn't be left to become some sort of Nurglish hellhole, only a few years after getting told that your entire family had been killed. Sometimes you wonder if your life, with the good and the bad, is some sort of fever dream that you'll wake up from in Jegow.
"So? Have you decided?"
You feel the words begin to form.
Choose One (1):
Moratorium 1 Hour, trying to get a slightly quicker turn-around.
[] Forgive: She did not have to tell you. She chose to anyway, in an effort to reach out. She has the entire history of the Empire as proof that it is possible for humans to be treacherous or fatally forgetful of prior agreements. You've done a lot for her kind, and it has broken through, enough that she is actively trying on a level you didn't think was possible. The future possibilities are enticing as well, you cannot deny that.
[] Do Not: The sanctity of the mind, the soul, of your will. Deceit by omission. No. Allies of convenience you were, and that is all you will be. Let her make her words with Stephan, but you're done here. You've done a lot for this damn forest, and it is enough. Stephan can continue to deal with them, but you've had your fill.
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- Location
- ferreries
I'm gonna take a guess here and say that this is what Khorne did with the fragment of Freddie's soul he got in Karak Ungor. I hope we get to fight it.
cloudplastic
yeet
- Location
- in my shell
tbh i'm also leaning toward friendship ho
Wow. Freddy hero-worships Big Magnus confirmed. I wonder what would happen if the Empire in general knew about this?
- Pronouns
- He/Him
It was already confirmed. See his disbelief at Magnus not knowing about the scheme against us despite being "Magnus the Pious"
Yeah, I guess. But even so, it's still sweet to know that tough grizzled and awesome Freddy Hohenzollern thinks of Magnus the Pious as the ultimate hero. I wonder what would happen if the Empire in general knew about Freddy's considering Magnus as the best emperor since Sigmar?
Most unfortunate that they fiddled with our soul (even if their first attempt expired and the second helped us stay alive multiple times and it turns out it can't really stop us), but Naraiel swallowed her pride(!), she came clean(!!), and most of all she shared powerful(!!!) elven Wine. If worse comes to worse we can always go back to fighting each other and not fighting but almost fighting.
Also gib dwarf-elf mega trade center Ostland, Marienburg a shit!
Also gib dwarf-elf mega trade center Ostland, Marienburg a shit!
Considering Magus' lasting supreme support ratings among the Empire commoners and nobility and the fact we've supported every pro-Empire effort, replied in more ways to serve the Empire (fleet+gunnery school) when offered booms and personally gave him a gryphon egg and the opportunity for both angry birds to sire offspring Frederick probably isn't alone in rating Magnus 10.5/10 and some people probably think we view him as such.
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- Location
- Belgium
ELVEN FRIENDSHIP CONFIRMED
Goodness gracious what a moment. We're a single vote (which I hope to be extremely one-sided) away from being able to genuinely say we have friends amongst the elves.
Knowing what we now know about the blood/soul bond Naraiel made with us once, I can see why one might be pissed, but I think she explained herself fairly and understandably. So yeah, all aboard for team Forgiveness?
Goodness gracious what a moment. We're a single vote (which I hope to be extremely one-sided) away from being able to genuinely say we have friends amongst the elves.
Knowing what we now know about the blood/soul bond Naraiel made with us once, I can see why one might be pissed, but I think she explained herself fairly and understandably. So yeah, all aboard for team Forgiveness?
Honestly if Ghost Fred has the same dice as normal Fred i'm half expecting Khorne to have bitten off more than he can chew and accidentally turn Freddies soul into the Warhammer equivalent of the Doom Slayer.
But just imagine what someone like Gunthar would think if he found out about Freddy's hero worship.