With little fanfare, the delegates of the House Anselm rode through the alabaster streets of Skyhaven to the base of the grand Phoenix Tower - the nexus of all things in Elyden. The crowds - who had pressed into one another on these very streets to witness the splendor of House Sovanid and Marrow, the grand parade of Khitani horses, or the fantastic Odeshian elephants - had dispersed at least a candlemark before. There was no celebration to witness the arrival of the representatives of House Anselm. Of all the noble houses of Elyden, none were more overlooked than that of the sons of Yorick Anselm. Of those serfs and burghers who could even recall House Anselm, fewer still knew for what Anselm was known. They could not ascribe to it the glory and majesty of the greater houses. Sovanid and Paragon conjured images of fabulous wealth; Marrow and Ashtoken were exotic and regal. Lord James Conrad commanded the formidable fleet of Sharktooth Isle, and Lord Roman Benedikt had piety that all other lords envied. What, then, did Anselm have?

The Weald: an inarable wilderness inhabited by a tribe of recalcitrant savages. Nary a day went by that Valerien Paragon's name went uncursed for gifting to Yorick the most depauperate of all the realms.

The delegation of House Anselm could scarcely compare to those of the earlier houses. They were two: Lord Barad Anselm and Heldan - part soothsayer, part adviser to the Anselm Court. They rode upon Northern Painteds, a stocky, hardier breed from the north of Elyden more accustomed to plowing stoney fields than long riding or campaigning. To the monied men of Skyhaven, Alabastis, and Talonspire, they were a pauper's horse. Amongst elephants and Khitani warsteeds, Lord Anselm and Heldan may as well have rode to Skyhaven on asses. The pair were met by stablehands and squires who accepted their steeds all the same, taking the reigns from the horses as the two dismounted and made their way up the steps up to the atrium of the Phoenix Tower.

Striding in the cool, long shadow of the Skyhaven's immaculate citadel, Heldan withdrew the gray cloak from his face and set it about his neck and revealed a positively ancient visage. His scalp was entirely bald and speckled here and there with liverspots. Crows feet crisscrossed about his face, joining into thick webs of wrinkles that hung from the corners of his mouth and under his eyes while a long, pointed nose drooped down over his mouth. Most commanding about the cloaked elder was his eyes - there were no pupils to be seen. One might think Heldan blind had they not seen him walk without difficulty up the steps - without so much as the aid of a staff in spite of his age. Milky white eyes peered forever forward, perhaps unsettling the guards who allowed he and Lord Barad Anselm through the vestibule without delay.

Barad was far younger than his adviser. He was a small chinned man who seemed to scowl constantly. He sported a beard and a thin goatee of the same scraggly brown hair cut short upon his head. While his beard and mustache worked well to conceal his weak chin, it did nothing to hide the bitter frown. A navy wool tabard draped over a leather tunic bore the wolverine sigil of House Anselm, identifying him to the guards who could not readily recognize the Anselm Lord by his face like most could for the Lords of the greater houses. With no celebration or recognition, Barad and Heldan were allowed beyond the phoenix portcullis into the main parlor where the other lords and their entourages had gathered.

Barad made no attempt to engage in small talk with the other lords, painfully envious of the numerous guests they had all brought with them. They had arrived with knights and honor guards clad in the finest armor; beautiful, bronze-skinned maidens of the southeast; merchants whose personal wealth dwarfed the coffers of lesser houses many times over. Barad's entourage consisted of a single decrepit Eldfolk seer. Even so, in spite of Barad's disdain for the Eldfolk and the wealth they had sapped from his house, the bitter lord recognized Heldan's talents and typically heeded whatever wise counsel he could provide. The ancient adviser's wisdom notwithstanding, Barad wanted nothing more than to hide from the scrutiny of the other houses. With Heldan in tow, he slipped through the crowd and came across the parlor's grand mural. There were a few others here, orbiting beyond the main congregation and inspecting the painting. A large swathe of the wall had been devoted to a fresco commemorating a battle against the fell wyrms and the heroes that slew them. Displayed prominently near the center, Barad found the progenitor of his house. Yorick Anselm, the young woodcutter-turned-wyrmslayer, lunged across the battlefield amidst sweeping brushstrokes of red fire. A bluish-grey blade held into his hand was buried into the chest of a collapsed wyrm. His fanged, toadlike head gasped one last ember-choked breath as Yorick's blade let loose a swirling river of thick, black wyrmblood.

Barad's hand reached for his hilt and he drew the blade out halfway of its sheath, admiring the lower half of a bastard sword comprised of a shimmering bluish-gray metal of the same color as the sword in the mural.

"Imagine," Heldan rasped, "that very blade pierced the heart of a wyrm." Indeed, two halves of giant wyrm scale had been embedded into the hilt wrappings of the sword. Two halves of a single wyrmscale - an armor that could withstand the blow of any mortal weapon - that had been sundered by the very sword that the had now been incorporated into. Not even a chest scale from the terrible Golborag could withstand the Starsteel point of Perdition.

"What of it?" Barad huffed, stuffing the blade back into it's sheath. "What did he - what did we get of it? See how we are rewarded."

Barad gestured to lavish lords and their great entourages. "They were the ones that were compensated. Yorick and his sons saw none of the spoils. We have been had."

Heldan sighed. "Perhaps we have. But fret not: there is a great change coming. The Long Winter draws near, as does a great shifting of the equilibrium. Here we shall see the other houses prepare to tighten their belts. Opportunities shall be made at this council and in the coming days."

"Anselm will feast whilst all others starve."

Kenten Cragmore

"It's a shame, if you ask me. Damn shame, boy-king and all " Lord Kenten gruffly muttered, barely aware that no one had asked him. He had been traveling for three days, and was nearing the city of Skyhaven. He traveled with a small entourage, all on horseback, while he rode a diregoat. Not his diregoat, but a diregoat. Cragmores of the past had bonded with theirs since infancy, minding to train them from a young age. Not having been permitted ownership of one in his youth as a bastard, Kenten's goat was unnamed and untrained, occasionally trying to buck or veer to the side. Each time he would try, Kenten would dig his heels into his side, and each time he would dig in his heels, the goat would let out a loud bleat. Needless to say, the journey was far from silent.

In the front of the entourage, there was Kenten. He felt it only appropriate that the Head of House lead, and wanted his face to be the first the Skyhaven peasants would see. He wore his finest clothes, which had been slowly tarnished by the three-day travel through Stormgully and the mountains above. He wore a leather tunic, stained by splashes of grease and wine, and wrapped himself in a long goat's pelt cape that dragged behind him while he rode. Most everything he wore had been chewed on by moths, furthering his tawdry appearance, while his beard had been trimmed but was still full enough to hide most of his yellowed teeth and receding gums from sight when he spoke. His hair, usually oily and matted, had been combed and pulled back. He wore a silver circlet around his slowly heightened hairline -- He usually wore gold, but he was not so foolish as to wear a crown to the meeting of the sort. Finally, every piece of jewelry, every necklace, bracelet, and ring available at Stonereach, he wore. To say that his appearance was genuine to himself was true, but it was not a compliment, as he had managed to be gaudily overdressed and ill-prepared, all at the same time.

The rest of his entourage, while not as needlessly bawdy, was just as weather-beaten. Three men rode behind him, one carrying the Cragmore banner, two carrying maces. They hadn't run into bandits along the way, nor did they originally plan to, although Kenten's insistence on dressing as loudly as possible brought their concern to the matter, and so they had been on-edge and prepared for an ambush for the trip's entirety. They wore simple brown leather armor, riding simple brown horses, and carried simple provisions.To an observer, they would've appeared more in-tune to what a proper Westerner should've looked like -- Simple.

With Lord Kenten being occupied with talking, they reached the city in no time at all. Judging by the crowds, he was late, but not last. As he and his entourage trotted through the city to Phoenix Palace, there was a distinct difference in his arrival to the others, and it was their welcomed applause. Some clapped for their arrival, a few even cheered. The rest, even the majority, did not. While most chose to respond with indifference, there were a select few who jeered at the Cragmore's arrival.
"There he is, the Bandit King!" One boy shouted. "Make way, for the Lord of Whores! Make way, for the Lord of Smugglers!"

Kenten held his anger, and held his silence. "They are fools," He thought to himself. "Jealous farmers and merchants."
The taunts gradually subsided the closer he was to the gate of The Phoenix Palace, and by the time he had entered, they were gone altogether. As a stablehand gawked at his diregoat, Kenten dismounted. "See to it that he's kept alone." He patted one of the large horns, causing the goat to bleat once more. "Wouldn't want any of those fancy Eastern horses getting gored in the stables." He chuckled darkly to himself, advancing towards the main chamber doors. "Tell my men to wait in the goat's stable too, actually. It's my only one. Don't want him catching cold." With another bout of spittle-flecking laughter, he nodded briskly to the servants opening the chamber doors, and stepped inside.

And the bickering of the lords had come. A war of words in which a few choice phrases could mean the difference between friendship or swords searing through one another's flesh, and he was caught in the midst of it all. A human's palace was no place for a Kreshvi, they were much better suited with a blade in hand. Ikvar and Sheshen both told him this when he had announced his plans to take old Shamgar Paragon up on his offer. Still, he had almost stayed in Alek'ark when sweet Serrina had appeared inside his bedchambers under the cover of the night as naked as the day she had been born. During that soft exchange that they had during that night, she had begged him not to go to Skyhaven. No human bore much love for the Kreshvi beyond paying for their services as mercenaries. Unfortunately, he had to reduce his poor sister to tears once he reaffirmed his intentions. Rollo was never like the other Kreshvi, he possessed an insatiable desire unlike any Ak-Sheh before him had ever had, save for Kreshin'ak himself. He intended to take what he was promised by Shamgar. The human would keep his end of the bargain. After all, trying to trick a Kreshvi is a good way of dying an early death; that much was known.

At the words “Kreshvi scum” uttered by the Khitani Khan, any self-respecting Kreshvi would have skewered the poor horse-lord before he even managed to finish his sentence. Rollo actually found some enjoyment at imagining blood sputtering out of the khan's mouth and his eyes rolling to the back of his head as he died a few feet in front of him. Sadly, it seemed that it would be very poor manners to start killing the lords of the great realms when they were supposed to soon negotiate about the future of all the realm. Despite resisting the urge of gutting all the Khitani where they stood, Rollo still had a feeling that he would kill that man later, and he'd make sure it was slow and satisfying. Instead, he let Shamgar rectify the situation with the one skill he was actually good at. When it came to the part about tying the ribbons around the Khitani weapons, he couldn't help but to burst out in laughter.

“No no, please continue, dawnbringer.” He made a signal with his hand showing that it was okay for Shamgar to continue. “Just that bit about the ribbons. . . well, whatever lies you humans wish to tell each other. It's hardly any of my business.” He took this as one more opportunity to speak with the dawnbringer in a whisper. “We'll have need of your silver tongue in the near the future. Even if it does amuse me when I purposely make your job harder for you.” With a sincere smile, he turned back to face the Khitani Khan.

“It's a pity that you find the Kreshvi to be untrustworthy, horse lord, but I think that all you have to do is take a look around you to find that not a single man in this hall can actually be trusted. Not even your own men.” He gave the human a quick bow. “Do forgive me for attempting to make you conform to the same rules as everyone else. The Khitani are a special case it seems. Even so, I believe the dawnbringer has the right of it- bickering over such small details foreshadows how things will turn out tomorrow.” As Rollo was making his leave from the Khitani, he turned his head and spoke again. “Also, one more thing: staring down a Kreshvi is an easy way to find yourself dead. Not a threat, only the truth.” With that, he rested his hand at the hilt of his sword, and actually began to make his way from the stubborn Khitani. He figured that there would be plenty of time to have fun with them all later. At the present moment, he wished to discuss a few things with his brother Ikvar, who was currently leaned against the wall, cleaning his nails with an over-sized knife.

Ikvar was many times taller than Rollo, and had long braided hair that fell down his back. Beyond that, their facial features were similar enough for them to be recognized as brothers, but there was definitely a sort of distance between the two. “I could hear all of you squawking like damned crows, I hope that you didn't offend all the humans already?” Ikvar had never been as charismatic, charming, or subtle as Rollo, but Rollo had always found him to be remarkably useful in a battle and one to talk to, as the vast ways in which the brothers were different was rather useful when he wanted a contrasting view on important matters. Rollo simply shrugged. “Only the Khitani at the moment, but I'm sure they're just the first of many.” Ikvar simply ignored his brother's snarky wit.

Ikvar motioned to the guard armor that he wore. “How much longer will I be subjected to this ridiculous outfit?" Rollo flashed his brother one of his smiles. “Take it off once you get to your chambers if you wish, but I think it fits you well. The finalization of the Kreshvi Guard is something I need to speak to Shamgar about, if it actually happens at all. This little stunt might have made him scrap the entire idea.” Rollo laughed at that notion. That was when he noticed that he was being approached by James Conrad and his entourage. The seaman offered him a gift, which turned to be a sword of exquisite design, at least by human standards.

Offering a sword to a Kreshvi? How foolish. . . and amusing, Rollo thought to himself. It truly made him wonder if the human wished to curry favor with him, and if he did, it was a rather futile attempt at one. Still, the Conrad was bold, so he had to give the man at least some credit. He lifted the sword from its case and it was exactly what he expected. The fine jewels embedded in its hilt, the way that the blade itself reflected the light, it was clearly a sword meant for display or for a wealthy man to wear at his hip without ever the intention of actually using it to fight. Giving a Kreshvi a sword was foolish, and giving him a toy sword was even more so. He pointed the sword at Conrad's face until the tip of the sword was barely an inch from Conrad's eye. At the slightest movement, Rollo knew he could potentially kill the man where he was. With a flick of his wrist, he offered the hilt of the sword to his brother.

Ikvar accepted it and immediately frowned. He slashed it at the open air a few times and his expression remained unchanged. He offered the sword back to Rollo. “I would kill the human for giving you such a poor sword. It just looks pretty.” Rollo looked directly into Conrad's eyes. “I don't suppose you speak Kreshvi human, but my brother just told me to kill you.” There was a few seconds of nearly unbearable silence before Rollo continued. “But I'd like to think of myself as being more forgiving than Ikvar, and it wouldn't prove well if we all started killing each other, now would it? Say what you want of me, human. I know that one does not give a gift to another without an ulterior motive.” Rollo smiled.

As the sword was lifted from his arms, James rose up. He stood there blinking and waited for Rollo to speak. While Rollo and his men spoke among themselves, James stood there showing no emotion. When Rollo said that his men wanted to kill James he was somewhat suprised- it isn't common for a Kreshvi to be merciful. "You are correct Lord Rollo. I would like to ask for your support in the vote for Lord Regent." James looked at the Ak-Sheh waiting to see what may happen next.

Rollo glanced back at his brother, whilst having a clearly amused look plastered on his face. The human was definitely bold, as Rollo had previously thought, so at least some credit was due. Still, it seemed that Conrad had the audacity to ask him to support him as Lord Regent in exchange for this poor excuse of a sword? No, it was clearly much more than that, not even the humans were that stupid. There was more to this offer, and Rollo would exploit this human for all his worth. Perhaps the human would be slightly useful in some odd way, it definitely couldn't hurt to probe the man further. The corners of Rollo's mouth once again curled into a subdued smile.

"So you wish to have my support to become the Lord Regent? Interesting... surely that's an ambition shared by many others in this room?" He looked once again at the blade that Ikvar had returned to him. The welling desire to impale it through Conrad's chest was a welling desire deep inside of him. Luckily for the man that was standing before him, he could keep such desires at bay, at least for the present moment. "And yet this sword... surely there is more to offer all of the Kreshvi than this flimsy piece of of steel?" With that, he dropped the sword and it skidded to a halt before Conrad's feet. Ikvar simply blinked, and Rollo retained a sincere smile.

James nodded he could care little for the sword perhaps he could give it to another house. He had his guard pick it up and return it to the box. He also sent his men away. "Well, Ak-Sheh Rollo. With your houses history of natural combat I was thinking of making you Lord Marshall and First Sword." James thought for a moment while seeing Rollo's facial expretions he then continued. "As for your people perhaps some freedom from the kingdom when things are said and done." James then looked directly into Rollo's eye and winked. He then continued to look around the room while listening to what the Ak-Sheh had to say.

"Well and good, and I suppose such an arrangement would surely please most, but, well, I tend to quite cynical, I'm afraid to say." He crossed his arms as he looked at the human on eye level. "You make such extraordinary promises, but actions are much more meaningful than words, as they say. I know little of you, and that doesn't bode well for me putting any amount of trust into you."

Afterall, Kreshva'ik'va had been under the Phoenix Throne's iron boot for nearly 700 years, and he doubted that the any human would willingly give away a rather substantial chunk of the realm for very little gain. It was true that indepenence was something that every Kreshvi wished for secretly, but oddly enough, it had never been much of a concern for Rollo himself. He had always been one to have larger ambitions.

"Is that all? Only my support, and you're willing to give me so much? I find that hard to believe." Rollo no longer wore a smile at the moment, but was now seemed indifferent. Ikvar's nose started to twitch, and even though he couldn't understand a word of the common tongue, his instincts told him that this man was better of killing than watching his brother waste his time negotiating with. He gripped the pommel of his sword. Even if he were to go against the wishes of his brother, it'd be over within an instant.

James turned his head back after a quick survey of the room. While some of the houses here are important this matter had to be attended to. "So you wish to know about myself? Very well, my family had been born raiders of the coast. It was until a small mainland lanvy came to attack. My family then turned on our masters along with other lords and slughtered his family. In thanks the Paragons award my family in running the Isles of men. While we may not have the most religious thanks or the largest army our men are fair warriors and even better sailors." James held off for a moment to see what Else the Ak-Sheh wanted.

"For now that would be it though I'd hope your people would bea great ally of our house and would prosper as the years went on never forgetting this pact So in turn your become free and in return I hope my house and your land's would ally." He then turned to Rollo's Brother seeing his hand on the swords hilt James quickly moved to the front of the brother whilst sliding out a knife from his pocket and pointed it against the man's heart. He slide around the man and looked at Rollo and said "He had his hand ready to attack in my experiences best not to leave things to chance." James waited to see how Rollo would react.

Human were certainly more dull-witted than he originally, it made him chuckle. He supposed that stupid and brave were two sides of the same coin when it came to James Conrad, and it truly took a man with a large set of balls to stare down Ikvar who was nearly 7 feet tall and 400 pounds of pure muscle, compared to Rollo who wasn't even six feet tall. "You must forgive Ikvar, Lord Conrad, he's easily excitable." The words he spoke was more for Conrad's sake. He had personally witnessed Ikvar rip men apart with his bare hands, and the damage he was capable of doing with his massive sword, well, it's sometimes better to not go into such grisly details. As for Ikvar himself, he wasn't the least bit fazed by the dagger that was now pointed towards his heart. He simply looked over to Rollo, waiting for him to give him the final order to kill the man. Rollo knew that his brother would leave nothing recognizable behind once he was finished with Conrad.

"But... I wonder if Dawnbringer Shamgar Paragon will leave anything to chance once you attack a member of the Kreshvi delegation? From what I can see, my brother is simply resting his hand on his sword." With that, he gave Ikvar a look. It was a look that they both knew quite well, for it meant that there would be no killing. Ikvar lifted his hand from his sword in response. "Also, I suggest you put that dagger away. Elsewise, my brother might feel the urge it take it from you... and Ikvar is hardly delicate. He might even take a few fingers with it." Rollo laughed a little at his own joke.

While holding the knife of the tall and musclar man he looked at the facial exprssions and any moments he could notice and maybe catch on for future reference. James gave a small chuckle at Rollo's joke then sheathed his dagger. "Apoligies Ak-Sheh, Just as I had said Better to be careful then dead." He then moved around the brother infront of Rollo and stuck out his hand "So is it a deal or would you like something else?" James stood there keeping an eye on Rollo's tall brother.

"It's certainly a prospect to ponder upon. Should you become Lord Regent, we can iron out much more of the details in private. Ikvar is just so protective of his younger brother, is all." If Rollo wasn't Ak-Sheh, and if Ikvar could understand the gibberish that was the common tongue, Rollo did not doubt that he would have attempted to kill him after that comment. "But, I suppose that is all for now. Thank you for bringing your candidacy to my attention." He gave Lord Conrad a Kreshvi salute and proceeded to grin at his brother Ikvar, who was obviously confused at what exactly transpired.

James nodded and walked away hoping he had gained Ak-Sheh Rollo's support he moved on to the next house. After taking a good look around he went to his old friend Lord Flint Whiteshorn. He waved his hand and a guard came with a wooden crate. He walked up to Flint and said "Hello, old friend I bring you a gift." He turned and opened the wooden crate and inside were letters and notes from his daughter. He then said "She asked me to give them to you I didn't read any so do not fear. I did however come to talk." Jame stood there looking into Flint's eyes waiting for a response

“Ah yes hello, it has been far to long friend” Flint said smiling through the large silver beard that covered most of his face. “I find it odd these letters could not have been sent to me in the traditional sense, but no matter, I always enjoy reading how well you are treating my daughter” Flint smiled once again, his jolly exterior the opposite of that of the last men James was talking to.

“What topic do you wish to speak to me about?” Flint asked cracking his knuckles as he held the ivory cane in his right hand

"Well old friend it just so happens I wish to become Lord Regent. I'd be honoured to have your support." James smiled "If I could count on your support it'd make me feel better with our long history." James stood there almost somewhat at ease after dealing with the interesting Keshniv

“You? Lord regent? I thought you preferred to stay out of Main land affairs.” Flint asked questioningly.

"Aye us islanders did prefer it however as my father and grandfather failed to see I'd like to leave a legacy. So that at least one Conrad can be recalled in the history books. But also with us mostly being left to our selves we are truly the most neutral of all possible Lord Regents." James gave a look into Flint's eyes to see if he was thinking of something..

Doubt could be seen in Flints eyes as he looked to his diplomatic ally “I understand what you are saying, but I believe what we need in this time of crisis is someone who knows how to run the main land, not a new system by someone who hardly sets foot onto our beaches. If it was any other time, I would gladly be with you on this matter, but as is the current situation I can not tell you that I will vote for you.”

"That is a shame however weather I become Lord Regent or not I'm sure your daughter will go visit you along with my son Luke." He then signed softly and walked back to his table and sat down to order some food and a drink. He disliked all this intrigue and such however it is needed for his family.

"I will wait eagerly for her return" Flint smiled as the man soon left him.

A most peculiar exchange. Heldan mused silently as he slipped back down the corridor to the main parlor. In all his many years in the court, the adviser to Lord Barad Anselm had yet to witness a more unusual round of diplomacy.

James Conrad seemed very much intent on pursuing the Regency of Elyden. So much so, in fact, that he had either the gall or the naivete to ask the abrasive Kreshvi for their support in his gambit. From behind one of the moulded pillars holding up the citadel's upper floors, Heldan watched as James Conrad had drawn a knife on the bodyguard of the very Kreshvi dignitary he was trying to curry favor with. And even then, it seemed that the two parties had reached an agreement, however awkward the process was to reach it.

Heldan could not help but to be curious after so unusual a negotiation. Surreptitiously, the ancient man shadowed Lord Conrad, and listened in briefly from behind a corner as he met with Lord Whiteshorn. A pattern was becoming quite apparent, and so Heldan made haste to find his own lord to share with him these findings.
But it was James Conrad, of all people, who had beaten Heldan in seeking out Barad Anselm. The he-crone watched from a distance as Lord Conrad presented himself to the Lord of the Weald.

James had approached Lord Anselm with only one guard and another wooden crate. He put his hand out to shake and said "Greeting's Lord Anselm of the Weald, I am James Conrad Sea Born of the isles of men." James turned grabbing something out of the wooden chest another three potions. James turned to hand them to Barad and said "The purple one will make anything smell appealing,the green is a posion and the blue can make anyone seem happy for at least a day." Jame smiled and waited to see what Lord Heldan may think of his gifts.

"And... Hail to you, Lord Conrad." Barad acknowledged, his left eyebrow raised. "Thank you for these most - ahem - thoughtful poultices. I must ask, though, what prompts this gifting of such fine elixirs?"

"Well aside from island hospitality I'd like to ask for your vote for the Lord Regent's election." James sent his guard away and sat down next to his new hopefully good friend. But no sooner than Lord Conrad had concluded, Heldan intercepted Barad Anselm and whisked him aside.

"My lord, I must inform you that Lord Conrad has spent the better part of this summit mustering support for his bid for Regency in the election tomorrow." Heldan whispered, his blank eyes peering over Barad's shoulder toward a bewildered James as they pressed in to huddle.

"So I've seen..."

"You have not promised a vote to him?"

"I have absolutely no intention of passing any ballot for this man." Barad whispered sharply.

"We will consider it. Strongly."

"Heldan..." Said Lord Anselm in a hushed tone. "Have you at last lost your mind?"

"It may be in our favor. Make it clear that we will consider. But it will take more than a handful of potions to sway us. Remember what we discussed - the equilibrium is shifting..."

Barad nodded in agreement and broke from his huddle with the wizened old man.

"So you seek the Regency, my esteemed Lord?" Barad said at last, turning back to James.

"Aye I'm not suprised at all that you know this. I've been told that those from the Weald are always well informed. Anyways Yes what is it you seek so that we can have a strong relationship and I get your vote." James looked at Lord Heldan interestingly. waiting for a reply. Before Barad even had the opportunity to open his mouth, it was Heldan who had made Anselm's counteroffer.

"The fleet of the Sharktooth Isle is rich in plunder. This much you so graciously demonstrated for the delegation earlier with your magic display. It is no secret that House Conrad is awash in wealth - the same wealth for which Anselm strives. In return for the vote of my liege, you are to provide a sampling of the finest gemstones of the Isles to the court of my lord in Riddom." At first perplexed by Heldan's counteroffer, Barad was quickly tantalized by the prospect of foreign wealth. For something as intangible and simple as a vote. He approved of Heldan's shrewd offer with a tacit nod.

James nodded to the demands after having to deal with the Kreshvi and there strength and his somewhat sarrow from Flint it was nice to have an easy measure to go to. "I think that is agreeable. However I will only give up said gems if I am made Lord Regent so should I not become it the deal is off. Other then that it has been a pleasure working with you." James put his hand out to shake so they may accept the deal before he would go back to his table to finish supper and perhaps head to bed.

"I think not." Barad interrupted. "You ask of me a vote. A single vote I can provide. Your Regency I alone have but a miniscule share of control over. Is it just to deny me my rightful compensation for a failure on your end rather than mine? I understand your trepidation, my good Lord, but my vote is a valuable thing indeed. Do you not think other Lords value my ballot? Perhaps - say- Lord Sovanid seeks the Regency. I doubt that a monied man such as he would waste his time haggling with such a lowly lord as I.

There is no room for stinginess in this game, Lord Conrad. A vote is a valuable thing. It must be compensated, and compensated well."

"Very well however should you vote for someone else then this deal is off. Also I know that The Sovanids don't want the regency but I understand your point. Also perhaps I could throw in some extra gems should I win. As for you Lords could also rally votes. Anyways as this matter is finished I have some dinner to eat." With that James shook hands with the lords and head back to his table happy he could count on two if not three votes.

Octavius

Octavius’ fingers fell on the hilt of his scimitar as the Ashtoken soldiers formed swiftly around their liege. Any of them that strayed within striking distance of King Osmodeus would soon find their lifeblood spilling from their guts. He raised his guard in the subtlest way possible, so as to not unnerve the First Star in the event the movement of his guard wasn’t an act of aggression. His eyes darted from one guard to another, to their eyes then their weapons.

He soon saw there was no cause for alarm. It appeared the men were encircling the Voice as a sort of protective wall. Octavius couldn’t help feeling a sense of admiration for the discipline and efficiency of these warriors. Kammeth have mercy on those who face them in battle.

Nevertheless, the captain kept his sword hand poised and ready. The Ashishians had induced a feeling of disquiet in Octavius and his fellow guard who scattered around their king watching the city, palace and Gori Lamillur’s men. Who knew who could be watching them in this foreign city, waiting to pounce as soon as their breaches were down.

It was then Captain Octavius detected the onlooker behind one of the palace windows. He was careful not to look directly at the figure as he studied them in his peripheral vision.

The enhanced visual acuity of the Nomadii came in handy in situations such as this. With his yellow gaze, Octavius could discern the mystery spectator held no weapon to assassinate either of the two lords with. He was a young man and seemed to be chewing on his fingernails. From this distance, it was all the captain could make out. He would continue to covertly observe the young man until they entered the palace.

The words of Gori Lamillur piqued his interest. I too have felt it. Sinister tides stir in the wake of winter. The Alabasti were an overly sensitive people to all matters involving the Black Continent. Histories often spoke of times when ungodly beings trespassed on Elyden soil, slaughtering men like pigs as they carved a warpath through the land. Oracles in the capital often preached of the coming of a great army from the Black Continent sweeping across the sea and wreaking havoc upon mankind. The part they left unsaid was Alabast would likely be their first port of call.

The question was, how would his king respond to the First Star’s grave tidings? King Osmodeus was a realist, Octavius knew, far more concerned with fact and current affairs than fantasy and speculation. This was not to say he did not consider the many paths of the future, however; his value of Nana Obara’s counsel was testament to that, but the sands of days to come shifted often; were not fixed. King Osmodeus had little patience for untruth, as much divination turned out to be. He would likely be sceptical of the Voice of Ashtoken, but quietly. Everything was quiet with King Osmodeus Marrow.

To Octavius’ surprise, his king leaned into the First Star and whispered something in his ear. He then stepped back and held up his index and middle finger together and pressed them to his heart, a sign of kinship. Delivering a curt nod, the king proceeded to the entrance to the palace, followed closely by the Skeleton Guard. Octavius kept the corner of his eye fixed on the window which now seemed to be vacant.

They entered the palace.

Lord Kenten stood alone, on the outskirts of the congregation of lords. He knew he wasn't necessarily a long-awaited guest, and was at least smart enough to keep it that way. After all, most questions directed to him weren't ever regarding his children's studies, or gifts, or other sundry bits of small-talk made by the proud lords.

No, they would be about the son that he had lost in a bet, or the innumerable bandit camps in his lands, or his vassal houses that were losing faith in his rule. They would criticize him. And there was nothing he hated more than to be criticized by lesser men, men who hadn't known the scorn of bastardy, or of stinging winds, or of the threat of usurpation. It wasn't a secret, what he thought of them. Lesser men, who knew nothing of the world outside of their supercilious ivory towers.

As luck would have it, he saw the least of these lesser men out of the corner of his eye, and one he wanted to speak to at that. Lord James Conrad of The Isle of Men, leader of the Sea-Born. Kenten scoffed under his breath.

"Bloody Sea-Born", he silently repeated to himself. "Pompous sailors and raiders, more like." He continued to mutter to himself, a safe enough distance away. "Wouldn't know a thing about the mainland if it jumped up and bit 'em on the arse." His disdain for House Conrad, and near every other house, had little limit. Unlike every other house, however, he wanted something from Conrad. He needed something.

"Lord James," He said, walking up to the younger lord. It was an odd juxtaposition. Lord Conrad, who was thin and tall, wearing his most regal garb and carrying boxes of gifts, next to the short, stocky Cragmore, wearing a stained leather tunic that had a small spot of unnoticed caked-on bird guano.

"Pleasure t'see you again," He said, lies already pouring from his crooked teeth.
"It's been many a great turns." And, truthfully, it was. The last time he had seen Lord Conrad, it was nearly sixteen years ago, and he had drunkenly made and lost a bet to him, handing over his priceless family sword, Tempest, and his infant son, Harper. One of his greater defeats, and without even unsheathing a sword.

James who had been talking with his men about what he had abtained when he heard a familier voice. He turned to see it none other then Lord Kenten a man who thought would be his worst enemy at this meeing and is yet the second man to greet himself before James. "What a surprise." Jame said standing up with his hand out to shake. "Though we may not be friends I still once again offer apoligies for what had happened. Along with you being a bastards most Lords dislike you but you prove them wrong. A bastard could become a Lord even a head of house." Jame Smiled and knew his old pal wanted something but wasn't sure about what.

"Please take a seat we can discuss this like men can we not?" James grabbed his glass of wine and took a sip waiting to hear what the man had to say.

Kenten shook his hand, nodding eagerly. In the grand scheme of things, the two were opposites, and it showed. Lord Conrad's biggest fault was his honesty -- He wasn't known to lie, cheat, or steal, and when he spoke, he had the habit of saying a lot. At this time, 'A lot' was to only bring up Kenten's lineage. His hated lineage. The reason he was known as "The Bastard King" before he was called "The Smuggler King".

Kenten's greatest fault was hard to find, being a man with far too many, but it was arguably his ability to lie. He would lie to get himself into conflict, and lie to get himself out of it. He would lie to appease men under his rule and to appease those who weren't. He would lie only more often than he breathed, and only less often than he was awake. He had lied since he was born, and when he died, he would likely lie to death himself.

He was dishonest, in other words.

"I'll be blunt with you Conrad. You're a man who's wont to speak plainly, so I'll be doing the same -- None of this complex foreign desert negotiatin' business." He said, nodding his head towards the Kreshvi with a perplexed look on his face. "I have something you want, you have something I want. What's there keeping us from 'em?"

James gave a nice hardy laugh. It was true James was rather honest and but things bluntly."I guess you are right you have a vote I have a sword. You also have metals my allies land's need metals. I assume that should be a sutiable arrangement?" James took a bite of some of his chicken and another small drink of wine waiting to hear Kenten.

"Aye." He said, twisting his face into a smile. "In exchange for you returning the Cragmore Makitherin Sword, Tempest," he said, slowly and carefully, sure to not muddle anything up, "My vote for your Regency is guaranteed." He hawked up a great deal of phlegm, and spat it into his palm. "Agreed?"

James thought for a for a few seconds he began to slowly nod "Aye but only if I win. I won't give up a valued sword should I lose. Also should I win you'll have to wait in Skyhaven for a month or two till my son can arrive and bring it."

Kenten's spit-covered palm balled up into a fist a moment before James could shake it. "Listen, mate. I can vote for you, and that I can promise. I can even promise that I'll stand and speak, and talk about why you should be Lord Regent instead of that big'un Kreshvi, or the high-and-mighty Sovanids, or even the Paragon boy himself." He hid his anger, only because he felt the situation was salvageable.

"But no matter how hard I try, no matter what I say, I cannot actually promise your Regency, and I'm an honest man, y'see, who'll only shake on what he can promise." He leaned back into his chair, gesticulating with his hands. "Whereas, you can promise a sword being given to me either way. And a sword that's said to be cursed, mind you." He raised an eyebrow toward James. "I hear word that men don't like taking it on ships, and you and I both know why." He cleared his throat, leaning forward, for one final word.

"I can promise you a vote and a speech, but I can't promise you that it'll be enough. I'm only one man, Conrad. You can promise a sword either way, especially one your men don't even like touching."

James nodded and began "At least you sir are somewhat truthful. I can agree to these terms and should I win you'll get your sword within a month or 2 and should I lose my guards and I can accompany you to your lands till my son arrives at House Whiteshorn to visit Flint's house and his wife's homeland. It was a pleasure talking to you and seeing you again" James shook Kenten's hand and waited to see if he had anything else to say.

Kenten shook his hand. "Aye. That'll do."

As Kenten walked off, he continued to think to himself, slinking along the walls where he had started. He needed the sword just as much as James needed regency, and for the same reason -- Glory. James wanted to be Lord Regent to give his family a place in history. He wanted it as a symbol. Kenten wanted Tempest returned in the hopes that it would prove his capability as Lord of Stonereach. He too, wanted it as a symbol.

Gori Lamillur nodded understandingly at Osmodeus' hushed words. The two then exhanged polite and respectful gestures, alien to this part of the world, before the Marrow king headed off with his company into the grand Palace.

The Voice of Ashtoken now stood all alone in the shady courtyard, save for the ever present Ashtoken guard.

Today was a pleasant day weather wise, and not one that reflected the true turmoil that festered throughout the lands. With all that was going on however, one might miss the cool clean air and gentle winds that ride in the near cloudless blue skies, peppered with delightful song birds.

Gori took in a long breath of the calm fresh air. The air was colder then he was used to and tickled his lungs with a chill but otherwise satisfied his body. His eyes closed gently at the slow exhale and his colorful thoughts quietly blew by his minds eye with grace and ease, organized like that of a Stoic philosopher.

The world seemed to fade away, as his thoughts delved deeper, and flew higher. His grip on the Spear of Ashtoken tightened as if he was taking it with him on an incredible journey. In the distant clouds of his mind he found that he indeed was. That what was to unfold was going to be quite the journey, and possibly in need of a spear. The Spear of Ashtoken, no less. However deep his thoughts dove and how high they flew, he knew where he was, and what he was doing. His mind was his disciple, as was his thoughts.

The exotic dreamscape that canvased his stream of consciousness was forced to a sudden close and soft light flooded back into focus as he opened his eyes and envisioned the world. He could feel everything, every particle of dust tickled his skin, every breeze slithered through his fingers and every laugh so distant was as if it was in his very ear. He could see the world, the darkness around it, and a small lantern that sat so lonely and swathed in a dust as grey and thick as his own ash. How it tried to fight the overpowering darkness, the oils running low. His ancestors whisper softy in his ear. He could hear the advice of the old ones, and feel the caution of their words make way through his mind with a march of importance. His gaze grew ever intensified as he saw the world around him, but more so what the world was.

The First Star nodded in a simple gesture brimmed with otherworldly understanding and calmed the sensations, and as if this all took mere seconds, and perhaps it did, such like a dream, Gori turned his thoughts onto what was currently happening at the very second; His guards had indicated he was being watched by a harmless onlooker and although he felt the trespass was unimportant, he also felt it was time to move on.

He turned to his guard, and at the sound of his soft sandals spinning against the gritty stairs, the guards turned to face him, at full attention. His still eyes pierced through them as he studied their uniform, stoic faces. They looked back, all with the same look of respect for their First Star, and war hero of the great Gnoll war.

Gori gave them a silent nod of approval and they formed a small triangle, Gori at it's point. Their steps synchronized perfectly, and made a uniform slap against the ground as they made their way back into the palace with a heavy swing of the large door.

Alistair Suttbray

The sound which was given off by the great southron train of mounted men and iron-wheeled wagons was something akin that that of a great thunderstorm, and had roared in this fashion for days on end. The road from Lochbridge Port to Skyhaven was a long and oftentimes decrepit affair, made of cobbles here, brick there, and dirt everywhere. The Smiling Fox and his significant tale had rode the whole way there, hauling their gifts for the fabled city and its small-folk dutifully. They threw up dust everywhere they went, and had to stop frequently to rest their horses or mend their wagons. If it wasn't too hot, it was too cold, and if the air wasn't filled with hoof-born dust it was thick with miserable showers. Alistair had ridden near the front of the column astride a great destrier the color of pitch, and while the horse was a truly formidable sight to behold, he now found himself longing for the smooth gait of a palfry more than anything else. Still, while the ride from Lochbridge Port to Skyhaven was tough, it was still better than the voyage from Cyrene to Lochbridge.

Their journey had started out pleasant enough, with Alistair and his party, along with no small amount of north-bound gifts, traveling down the Roanwater. The river meandered pleasantly as it always had, sending one of Suttbray's grand royal barges from Confluence towards Cyrene without hazard and affording those aboard a great deal of comfort and luxury. When they reached the Wilharnese city of Cyrene though, with its spice-laden breezes and thin wooden buildings, they were received by a small fleet of cogs, and here the trip truly became a nightmare in Alistair's eyes. The Smiling Fox was a Suthi through-and-through, a good earth-loving man, and the sea was not for him. His stomach had tossed all around during the voyage, and seemed to want to remain empty despite all attempts made to fill it. To make matters worse, a great storm had harried them all the way up the coast, and great waves the size of ships themselves had spent the entire time competing with rainstorms to see who could soak the men on board to the bone more quickly. During the voyage Alistair's chest had begun to act up again, and the man had coughed up blood till he was made pale due it's loss and bedridden for the remainder of the voyage.

By now, all these days later, the southron King was still in sore shape, though one could not tell just by viewing him. His legs and rear were sore and stiff from the ride, his complexion paler than usually, though hidden under a fine skin-colored powder so none would notice. His cough had been worse than usual ever since their voyage though, and by now his fine kerchief was slathered with blood and his breathing troubled him. Alistair had been born and raised a Suttbray though, and as such had learned to hide his own troubles well, instead putting up a cheerful and polite facade and adorning his face with his omnipresent smile. At least a bit of this smile was genuine though, as the King and his tale neared the northern city, where he could receive some much needed succor and settle the grave business which was laid before him. The realm was crumbling, with no High King other than a boy who was still in the midst of learning his letters and, more importantly, no crown to ward away the icy jaws of winter. If ever there was a time to put aside differences and work together it was now, though Alistair knew the minds of men well enough to understand that there would be many looking to take what they could from this dying empire and run into the hills with it.

These were Alistair Suttbray's thoughts as he closed the distance between himself and the gates of fabled Skyhaven, and they sat heavy in his head. Still though, he kept this head aloft as he and his train of gift-laden carriages and steel-coated riders rode through the great gates and into Skyhaven. It was evident that the small-folk who called this cliff-clinging city their home had already seen many other Kings and their entourages come and go through their neatly cobbled streets, as they stood shoulder-to-shoulder all around and leaned out of their windows in anticipation. If they could not identify the southron party as being that of House Suttbray from their dress and skin-tone, they could still tell the party's allegiance plainly from the eight giant fox-clad standards which were hoisted by riders on each side of the lengthy column. Many looked at the party in awe, as it was more richly adorned than most, and seemingly unnecessary and even burdensome in size. Lances bristled all around, and sun reflected off of vigorously shined plate to a nearly blinding degree.

The column stopped a good way down the street as it reorganized itself to prepare for it's march through the city towards the Phoenix Palace. The men and women of the city shuffled closer to get a better look at the southron King and his knights, though the crowd was oddly hushed. When the rear of the column caught up and the entire length of the party formed up more tightly, a great man of Wilharnese descent who sat astride a powerful destrier thundered out an announcement, his voice flavoured with the calm, slow drawl of the folk who lived on and around the great Roanwater.

"Open your hands and keep orderly, fine folk of Skyhaven, and taste of the wealth of Everfield and Wilharne. All shall consume our gifts, great or small, rich or lacking, so step forward and receive your morsels."

It was and always had been customary for Suttbray Kings to feed the lesser folk in a manner similar to this. No man should starve while others had plenty, as far as tradition was concerned. And so the Kings of Everfield, and more recently of Wilharne too, would feed the people wherever they went with fine southron fare. The cities they graced were fed well, and country folk could guarantee themselves a good bit of nourishment if they approached a Suttbray procession with hands open and bellies growling. There was a more practical side of this practice of selfless charity of course, for words were wind, but a bit of food could fill a man's belly and earn his heart, as well as his trust.

Suttbray servants stood beside the wagons, eight or so for each, and went in and amongst the crowd with sacks of flour and grain upon their shoulders, or oranges and salt beef in their baskets. Thick, dark loaves of bread hardened by the voyage were distributed alongside small sacks of the rarely seen and extremely opulent coffee bean. Good, filling fare was handed out alongside exotic luxury goods, with both being deemed important. Bags of salt and bottles of spices were distributed, odd hard fruits passed out alongside woven baskets of mundane potatoes. The small-folk scrambled to get their share, though they stayed more or less civil under the watchful eyes of the steel-clad soldiers, and those which caused too much of a ruckus were shooed off as if they were dogs, rather than men. All the while the column moved forward at a snail's pace, with more people pouring out of the alleys and exiting their pretty marble homes to see the Southerners and eat their fare.

Above all of it rode Alistair, appearing to be the definition of a great lord. He wore a fine silk jerken the color of pitch and devoid of stuffing of any sort, with stylish swirls and meaningless designs sewn onto the fabric in cloth-of-gold. Beneath this he wore a simple full-sleeved garment of white linen, meant to be more comfortable than lord-like. Over all of this he wore a summer cloak of double-sided red fox-fur, and though it was made of many skins they were so well blended than one could not notice unless they stood a nose-length from it. For leg-wear, he had donned a pair of southron trousers made from fine, durable lambswool and dyed midnight black, with a fit which allowed a bit of give as far as movement was concerned but did not near the loose fit of Wilharnese pantaloons. His feet were clad in boots which were made of a supple leather within and black fieldsnake skin on the outside. His head was uncrowned, as House Suttbray had lost it's crown nearly two hundred years ago to the sea, when King Haldrin had flung himself off of the cliffs of Rushbluff to end his own rule. Instead, his symbol of authority was Lamentation, one of those famed makitherin blades granted to the founders of the Great Houses by the Star Maiden herself all those years ago. The sword sat in a fine sheath of black leather and white diamonds on Alistair's left hip, accompanied by a more mundane sword of similar make sitting just below it in its own sheath.

The trip through the city took a full three turns of the glass plus another candlemark to boot, much longer than it would have taken had the Suttbray column refrained from divying out foodstuffs. But tradition and charity prevailed over time in the eyes of the Suthi and Wilharnese, and so they made it to the Phoenix Palace later than most, if not all. The whole way, Alistair walked his horse over the cobbles and admired the white marble towers and elegant architecture of Skyhaven. Confluence, his home, had it's own charm to it, and was certainly beautiful with its smooth grey stone structures, long canals, and poleboats, but Skyhaven was a wonderful variation from the norm. Where Confluence was alive with water and flat as a field, Skyhaven was vertical in build and nestled high up in the dry mountains. He had been here before, having frequently visited the city when he had been one of the lords sitting on the High King's Council. He had even had his own apartments in the Phoenix Palace, though they were cold and uninhabited more times than not, as the High King had usually allowed him to conduct his business back at Confluence.

Finally, after what seemed to be a full day, the column reached the Phoenix Palace, wagons now unburdened of most of the gifts. Alistair sat astride his midnight destrier for a moment, staring up at the walls of the Royal Palace of the Phoenix. He had not laid eyes upon the palace for nearly two turns of the wheel, though it certainly hadn't changed in that period of time. Various Kings' men from all across the Realm were hurrying hither and tither to perform the many tasks associated with arrival- unloading supplies, parking wagons, and stabling horses to give them some much needed rest. Alistair ordered his men to do the same, and the column broke into a crowd, with armored riders making their way towards the stables alongside lowly servants and wagon drivers. The Smiling Fox watched the organized chaos for a few moments before dismounting as well and beckoning over Big Mord, his barrel-chested Wilharnese squire, one of the few men he trusted with Lamentation, and handed him his dagger, two swords, and horse's reigns.

He then turned towards the castle's foremost portal, a large, though not inoperable, door and moved towards it, a small group of three unarmed guardsmen, most notably Thaddeus Field, accompanying him. The door was opened before him by one of the castle's many servants, and Alistair stepped into the reception chamber with his entourage of three men just behind him. The circular chamber which they stepped into was just as finely adorned as he remembered it, with tapestries and murals covering the fine granite walls and ornaments and baubles of gold and silver sitting as decoration either here or there. As the southron party moved forward towards the main audience chamber where they were to be received, Alistair took a deep breath a smiled even larger than before. He had missed the Royal Palace of the Phoenix, and while he could not say it had been worth the journey, getting to walk it's halls once more was a true treat. While his own palace in Confluence was certainly luxurious and opulent, it lacked the feeling of pure preserved history which permeated in the air of the Phoenix Palace, being only 80 turns old, rather than a millennia old.

As he always had when walking by it, Alistair took a moment to stop and admire the masterfully painted work which featured one of his most distant ancestors, Faustus Suttbray, the first Head of House Suttbray and the original King of Everfield. The scene depicted Faustus Suttbray, a relatively average-looking Suthi farmer, clad in work clothing and out on his field, sword in hand. He held the blade, Lamentation, aloft, not truly fighting with it but holding it almost as if it were a torch. The blade gleamed fiercely in the sun, and the painter had depicted barely visible waves of what was seemingly visible sound in the air, to try to properly illustrate how the farmer was using the weapon. Meanwhile, on the other side of the painting, a great emerald Wyrm appeared to be thrashing against a cliff in agony, despite the fact that no force was harrying him. The Wyrm was Sirrij, bringer of flame and famine, an infamous figure in the history of Everfield who had singlehandedly burned down nearly all of trees in the region, making it flat and shorn forevermore, and turned good folks' fields to ash, if the tale was to be believed.

Many brave warriors had stood up to the great Wyrm to no avail, as he incinerated any who came within an arrow's reach of him in seconds. The beast was supposedly untouchable, and so no mundane weapon could slay him, for how was one supposed to kill something he could not touch or loose an arrow at? Faustus held the answer within his hands, the screaming blade of the Star Maiden, Lamentation. With it, he had sent a great wave of anguish and sound towards the Wyrm, and the beast had apparently writhed and thrashed until the his oily black blood ran out of his ears, eyes, and mouth, and he died due to his exposure to the holy scream sword. Afterwards, the Suthi had bent their knees to Faustus, the simple farmer blessed with steel from the heavens, and he accepted the great burden of leadership. The man had turned a countless fields of ash into one of the most prosperous and fertile corners of the realm to date, and created the values which all good Suthi abide by today- be a simple, decent man, work hard, and love you neighbor as you would love your son.

Alistair could only admire the painting for so long though, and eventually had to move on to the audience chamber. As he approached, he realized that most, if not all of the other Kings of the Realm had already arrived. They seemed to be participating in their usual antics, making deals and threats, trading insults and praise, hatching plots and boasting of various feats. The Summit which they had all showed for was seemingly a ways away, and at this time the Kings seemed to be milling about and exchanging pleasantries and hollow words. Alistair made a motion with his hand and one member of the southron party, the same giant Wilharnese individual who had spoken to the small-folk in the streets just within the gates of Skyhaven, stepped forward to stand to Alistair Suttbray's right. The giant took a deep breath before he spoke in the same deep drawl he had used earlier, marking him clearly as a man of the Roanwater.

"All welcome His Perfection Alistair of House Suttbray, King of Everfield and Wilharne."

The big man stepped aside, and moved a beefy arm towards Alistair with a flourish, presenting him to the other assembled lords. The man was known as the Smiling Fox by small-folk and petty lords alike for obvious reasons, namely the man's omnipresent smile. The King's wide, white smile seemed genuine enough, though one would soon learn to doubt that if they spent enough time around Alistair, as this smile never left his face. It had a vulpine cast to it, which was appropriate, all things considered, and seemed to hint at a sly demeanor, as if the King knew something omnipotent and would let no-one in on it. His hair, which was a dark golden tone common amongst the Suttbrays, fell to his shoulders, brushing them with golden waves. His eyes were a warm, honest brown-gold color though they too had a sly, vulpine cast to them. His face was all angles, again not dissimilar to that of a fox, and his high cheekbones, arching eyebrows, and pointed chin gave off a distinctly aristocratic impression.

The man was built to be a warrior, that much was plain, though he was more bone than muscle now due to his inability to exercise for extended periods of time without being wracked by his dreaded cough. He stood taller than most, though not as tall as some, at an even six feet, and he was long-limbed and broad of shoulder as a southron knight should be. His aforementioned apparel was certainly regal, with his summer cloak of red fox skin remaining astride his shoulders despite the inside environment. After being addressed, the King of the Twin Kingdoms drew himself up tall and took a deep breath... only to have it expelled sharply due to the pain in his chest. His old jousting injury was acting up again, and his terrible cough troubled him even now. The Smiling Fox deftly found and extracted his kerchief from his breast-pocket, a plainly practiced motion, and proceeded to cough bloody phlegm into it. The southron lord continued to cough for a good few moments before he was finally able to regain composure and don his facade of surety and strength once more, speaking softly and politely in his cultured Roanwater drawl.

"Excuse me, my lords, my apologies."

Octavius

The Marrow entourage stood by a pillar in the audience chamber. Their entrance had been quiet and without disturbance. King Osmodeus had greeted Shamgar Paragon with an open-armed gesture, which appeared to be appreciated. Captain Octavius studied the Dawnbringer with interest. He exuded a sage charisma that came with age and experience. If it weren’t for his robe and sceptre, the captain would have classified Shamgar as a lord.

From their uninterrupted position, Octavius observed the many lords, officials and soldiers congregated in the hall. They varied greatly in dress and features, from the modest leather tunic of the Cragmore head to the finery of many of the western houses, the red skin of the Khitani to the pallor of the Sea Born. And that wasn’t even mentioning the Kreshvi. Captain Octavius recognised a few of those gathered from meetings he’d accompanied King Osmodeus to but none from beyond Alabast’s socioeconomic sphere. He had the sudden realisation he was but a small grain of sand in the desert of Elyden.

“All welcome His Perfection Alistair of House Suttbray, King of Everfield and Wilharne.” Octavius turned his head.

'His Perfection’? Does he fashion himself a god? The captain watched as the announcer stepped aside for his king of such high esteem. He had a face Octavius mistrusted, a smile and a twinkle in his eye that spoke of deception and mischief. This one plays the game of thrones.

Octavius’ eyes swivelled to his king to see how he reacted. Osmodeus looked ahead, looking at no one.

Onyx

The creature was the most grotesque thing Onyx had ever seen in his seventeen turns. It was skin and bones, its spine jutting from its back like a crocodile’s teeth. Its skin clung to its ribs and its arms and legs looked like to snap off. Yet this was not the most horrible feature. Where there should have been hands there were hooves and from its elongated skull protruded small horns. Its eyes were large and doelike, portraying a melancholia the likes of which Onyx had never seen. It seemed to be whimpering like a sick dog.

His uncle approached cautiously, a curved dagger in his hand. The abomination’s whimpering grew louder.

“Wait! It’s… it’s saying something,” Prince Onyx exclaimed. He crept in closer to hear better.

“Kill… kill… me…” Ostifer obliged, drawing his knife across its feeble neck.

* * * * *
The journey back was much longer than it had been there. The wind was silent. All to fill the minds of the three Alabasti were rocks, dust and their thoughts. After what seemed like a century, the city of Lith dawned on the horizon as the sun began to fall.

Lith was more fortress than city. A great stone wall encircled its perimeter studded with crenels and merlons and barbicans by the gates that watched the wastes night and day. Inside, buildings were regimented in a linear grid pattern with the looming walls an ever-present reminder that the citizens were isolated and in potential danger.

As the three drew nearer and the gates began to rise, Prince Onyx pulled up alongside his uncle. Kar’tul remained behind, a ghostly whiteness to his face and eyes devoid of feeling.

“Uncle, what was that back there?” he asked in hushed tones. The question had been weighing on his mind and he feared voicing it.

Prince Ostifer maintained a stoic visage and sighed. “That creature was a mongrel’s plaything.” He turned to his nephew, a darkness in his stare. “This is what they do to us. This is the reason why we have this,” he waved his hand to gesticulate the city walls. “It is the reason, Onyx, why you and I are here.”

Prince Onyx sat numbly in his saddle. The weight of the world crashed down on him. That thing could soon be him.

Odegai watched how Rollo walked away as Shamgar Paragon had just corrected his captain. It was clear that the Khitani lord and the Ak Sheh would not get allong very well even though both men had probably more in common then they both realized. Their pride and arrogance had them clash over details that others would find of little significance. Luckily the dawnbringer managed to clear the situation before things would explode. With the weapon matter settled and the Kreshvi backing away lord Khyriin did not find a reason the respond to Rollo's little word of advice. He did not feel the need to stirr up the conflict once more. The summit would see their own fair share of clashing so he preferred to keep this evening as friendly as possible.

Lord Odegai turned toward Shamgar Paragon. He bowed lightly as sign of respect. "I apologize for the commotion we caused. I hope you do not see my refusal as an act of disrespect. Our warrior culture and traditions are very strict and unforgiving. We Khitani gratefully accept your offer." As the lord finished his sentence he lifted his sword and presented it to the servants of the Dawnbringer. "We Khitani come in peace. Make sure you apply the bands as tightly as possible." The servant made haste and tied Odegai's sword to its scabbard. The Khitani warriors followed their Khan and presented their swords to Shamgar's servants without further delay or objections.

The Khan turned towards Shamgar Paragon again. The Dawnbringer was right, Odegai had only visited the capital once since the previous Khan, his father had passed away 7 years ago. "You're right. I've only been once in the capital. Six turns of the wheel ago it was. It was on invitation of king Taramyth Paragon. He wanted to congratulate me in person for becoming the next Khan." Odegai paused for a bit as he did not want to engage in a long conversation about the past king. His house and the Khitani have served the crown faithfully for the past 200 years. House Khyriin and the Khitani had pledged their loyalty to house Paragon and the Phoenix crown. Over those 200 years the Khitani had rode into battle every time the Paragon kings had asked for their service. Lord Khyriin wondered if he could serve the crown just as faithfully knowing that the real man in charge would not bear the name of Paragon.

The horse lord sighed as he secretly wished that there was an adult, competent Paragon to take the throne. One that would understand the troubles, worries and needs of the many different cultures of the empire. Odegai could not help to wonder why all the royal guard where Kreshvi. Of course they where formidable fighters but the fact that the entire honor guard was made up out of members of one house could be interpreted as how Shamgar Paragon thinks about the other houses and about mankind in general. It was a troubling thought to realize that the crown preferred to surround themselves with Kreshvi who look down on humans in general and have no respect for them. Not to mention that the Paragons overlooked all other houses which was a sign of a clear lack of faith in the lords and their sons. "The wheel has made many turns and things have changed in the capital since my last visit. There seems to be less of ..... diversity among the royal guards. I hope the summit will be fruitful and we'll have strong and just leadership that can face the challenges of the coming future."

Before the Dawnbringer could respond to the horse lords concerns a new lord made his grand entrance. It was lord Alistair of house Suttbray. Alistair let himself get introduced by a giant as his perfection. It takes a lot of arrogance and a giant lack of self-knowledge to consider yourself perfect. Even though Odegai hardly knew the man he already disliked him. With people like Lord Suttbray and Ak-sheh Rollo va Herik Kreshimira the summit would be a long and painful process. As the entrance of lord Suttbray had drawn the Khan's attention it was then that he spotted King Osmodeus Marrow. It reminded the horse lord that he still needed to talk to the king of Alabast to finilize the preperations for the wedding of prince Oswyn Marrow and Rika Khyriin, daughter of the Khan. Odegai hoped he could soon talk to the king of Alabast about the matter and the upcomming summit

As James finished shaking Lord Kenton's hand he quickly washed his hand aftter Kenton was out of sight. He then looked around for Dawnbringer Shamgar. After awhile he was able to find shamgar in his office looking over notes and messages from other priests from around the land. James knocked and came in closing the door behind him and left 2 guards outside. James then moved forward and said "Dawnbringer Shamgar, I would like to convert myself to Kammeth." James disliked this idea however he knew it'd be for the better in the long run.

Shamgar reviewed the most recent reports after retreating to the inner sanctum of the Palace, a area of the Palace that served as the royal temple of worship of sorts. Shamgar had always found the addition of a small place of worship within the palace hardly seemed necessary, given the proximity of the Keep of Flames. He supposed the High Kings and High Queens of the Throne had wanted a more private and interment setting for communion with Kammeth. There came a knock on the door and James was soon ushered in. Shamgar did not immediately give his full attention aside from a firm nod of greeting before returning to the last of his work. He would be quite happy when the future Lord Regent was appointed, if only to decrease his own work load of late.

Before Shamgar could properly welcome James into what had practically become his own private study, but James then uttered something that caused Shamgar to immediately stop what he was doing. Slowly he lowered his quill and looked up at James and studied him with light grey but piercing eyes, a gaze that seemed to barrow into Jame's very being. There was a period of almost uncomfortable silence before Shamgar responded.

“Well..this is quite unprecedented,”He said before placing his quill back into its ink pot. “Surprising, though, perhaps, it should not unforeseeable.” He pushed back his chair as he retrieved his sceptre of office, which also doubled as his walking cane. “While it is not my place to question your sincerity, that is something for the gods to decide, I will ask- are you certain? Such a devotion is not to be taken lightly, or used as a mere political tool to further your own goals.”

As James stood there thinking for a few moments. He finally surrendered the will and said "While it is somewhat a tool for political gains. I do think that converting myself and eventually my lands to kammeth will be more welcoming with the rest of the mainland. My lands will still hold no judgement of religion or force it upon our friends in the south. Though I've thought about it and my family being High Lords of this kingdom should join it's sister houses under the flame." James then came closer and said "So shall we do this tonight or another time?" James then took a seat waiting for a response.

Shamgar sighed before responding. “At the very least you are honest. Very well, you seem sure of you decision, and regardless of my personal feelings on such a move, I will not turn away one seeking the light. If you wish to be baptized in the faith, then a ceremony will be in order, but it will have to wait until after the summit. Preparations for the council aside, it is to late in the day. I shall speak to the Dawnbringers of the Flame Keep by the morrow, Kammeth willing, you shall have what you seek.” He sat back down in his seat. “Now, if that is all, I have other things that need attending to, so if you would please see yourself out.”

James nodded "Ah thank you Dawnbring Shamgar I shall look forward to it. Also that is not all. You see with you being the adoptive father of the young King Agrippa I was hoping to make a marriage arrangment between him and my daughter Mena Conrad. She is in need of a husband and with him being young age now it'd be best to have the relationship start early." James had hoped he'd agree as this would greatly align both houses

Shamgar leaned back in his chair as he studied James, pondering his offer. House Paragon had few arranged marriage alliances with the other High Houses, though of course many made offers. Taramyth's perspective had always been one of remain mostly neutral in the scheming of the other houses. They had eventually seen feet to leave him to it. As the ruling House of Elyden and the Greater Realm, there was much prestige to be earned, and no little political power of a sort. However no alliance could truly be created from such ties. House Paragon could not and would not partake in the minor wars among the Houses. To have Agrippa betrothed Mena Conrad would grant some influence in the Royal navy, but that was already quite present with Carixus Rientrius Paragon as High Admiral and Lord of Lochbridge Port.

“A most...interesting proposition, however, I would wonder what gain we would accomplish in such a coupling. The Conrads, if I may be so bold, do not possess the greatest of standings with the general public. I fear this would do more harm to his position then good.”

James noted shamgar's pondering and had already a quick reply to the Dawnbringer's words "Well you say that yet my family has married to 3 of the houses on the mainland. My heir is married to House Whiteshorn. My sister Carmine is married to Augustus of House Suttbary and my 2nd son has recently joined in bondage with House Sovanid. I also bring in the majority of the fleet for the Royal Navy who does the real fighting against the Kua-Toa. Also let's not forget about my mysterious allies to the south. Which will bring in a great many deals of trade should I convince the Current Merchant King of these lands and all they have to offer." James then took a second to look in Shamgar eyes

"Let's not forgot who raided the coastlines for years and years or that it was my house that put the raids to an end. I even have ties with House Cragmore seeing as how I own his sword. So what do you think could this be a deal worth considering or will you turn my daughter down?" James then sat silently looking into Shamgars eyes.

Shamgar merely shrugged. “While I do not diminish your investments in the Royal Navy, vague promises from far away heathens have little sway here. It is these very off continent contacts that make me hesitant to enter into such an agreement, the church has little interest in allowing the influence of foreign cultures and religions to spread throughout Elyden. Almost every Beastling that hunts our wilds has come off continent, never mind tracks across such large bodies of water have proven to be near suicidal for all but those gods accursed Stygians in the east. I fear I still see little gain Lord James.” He added almost apologetically.

"Shamgar it's a shame you can't see all the good this can bring. However if I can't force your hand on this matter then so be. I'll look forward to the summit in marrow and see who the new Lord Regent is along with meeting this young king." With that James stood up and began to exit before turning to see if shamgar had anything else to say. With nothing more he left.

Summit of the Phoenix Tower

As the Kings and High Lords filtered into the Palace of the Phoenix, the day slowly faded away into an uneventful night. The next morning was a rush of activity throughout most of the Palace. The Summit was to be held in the heart of the great ivory spire that was the Phoenix tower. The round main chamber owed as much to the talents of tilrinic artist and sculptures as did the main entrance chamber, as large statues of the various House heroes were erected in the hall’s indented outer ring: The Kammeth-chosen, who led the races of men into the wars against the Wyrm's of old at the end of the Third age; the chamber was arranged in such a manner as each house sat in a high back chair directly behind his ancient ancestor., their frozen visage cast out as if in silent vigil, a content reminder of their founding House Members who they represented. All held planks of their deeds and all seemed to gaze at the large round table in the center of the room: a stone slab with comfortable seats set aside for each representative, and a bench behind that could hold five Royal guards- each a true Royallander as their short stature revealed, their seats positioned behind the statues. In the center of the stone slab, a small pool of water was fed water from a fountain in the head of a Phoenix, only to be drained away by stone dragons, each with a blade impaling their skull.

At the head of the table sat the small yet imposing figure of Dawnbringer of the FlameKeep Shamgar Paragon. He was taller than most tilrinics, even when sat, with a red cloth hat that adorned his balding head. His skin seemed to have had some of it's glow resorted to a healthier shade of dark gold then the day previously. Of the great statues that adorned the hall, the most eye catching was that of Valarien Paragon Lightbringer herself. The wings of a great hawk or eagle extending behind her to almost seemingly encompass Shamgar in its folds. If anything it amplified his position. He was adorned in the long white robes as before, with tongues of flames about it, only now sporting a red shoulder cape behind him. Shamgar watched as the delegates were filed in, they came along bereft of their guards, but not their arms or armor. The ancestral weapons given by Kammeth seen more as badges of office.

“Greetings, Heads and representatives of the Great High Houses; It is a pleasure to host you all in what is an unprecedented event among my people, though the time comes in days of sorrow. Rarely as you know have we had reason to call all the Houses together in such a manner,” He rose from his seat, set before him was a goblet of wine, and in front of each representatives assigned seat: several bottles of premium alcohol were stored in bottles: Tilrin Brandy, Black-apple mead, even bottles of rarer wines such as Agilbloom. Each uncorked and ready to be poured.

"We approach now nearly seven hundred turns of the wheel since the unification of Elyden. As you know, the recent events have forced use to act quickly in assigning a new Lord Regent, with the passing of Phoenix King Taramyth Paragon, and his beloved son Antrio Paragon. Now we must give thought to the present, as we mourn the king and his heir. Elyden, is without an active leader. The treasury is distress, a pretender to the throne has risen up, and strife and unrest, born from an uncertain future, are prevalent in all corners of the kingdom and the Greater Realm. One of you, Lords of Elyden, must be named worthy by your peers, to help lead this kingdom to glory. Let wisdom take hold, and speak a name that will set darkness in flight from our hearts. You may stand now and speak before us, the beloved mother and the lord of light, and give us reason to trust you in acting as the right hand of the future High king. So speak, who among you will stand as the Realm's Protector and ad visor to his Future High king?”

(Note: This post is a collaboration between LordZell and Katabasis)
(Note #2: This post takes place on the previous day, before the start of the Summit)

As James left the office of Shamgar he noticed the arrival of Alister Suttbary. While he may not like Alister all that well his younger brother definently left an impression on James and his sister being part of both house now sealed there alliance. He waved a guard over with a wooden create and headed towards Alister. "Greeting Lord Alister, I do hope Augustus is Treating Carmine well and I do hope you had a good ride here."

Alistair Suttbray remained in close proximity to the chamber's entry for a few moments, recieving a few polite nods and dishing them out in return. The lords of the Realm which were arrayed before him continued to go about their business, milling about and engaging in polite conversation. Meanwhile, the Smiling Fox scanned the room in it's entirety, looking for an appropriate lord to exchange greetings and perhaps even engage in more serious conversation with. Before too long, one such man presented himself, James Conrad, King of the Sea Born- those who sat astride the island across the so-called 'Sharktooth Bay' from the wide, soft coast of WIlharne. The King was a pleasant enough man, though he seemed to be a bit too blunt for Alistair's liking, and oftentimes abandoned pleasantries in favour of getting to the heart of a subject. Still though, he greeted the man with a wide white smile which reached even his eyes, a skill which was hard to master, and took a step back to accomodate for him. His response, as always, was delivered in drawl which brought to mind a slowly meandering river or something akin to it.

"Ah, greetings to you as well, Lord Conrad, it has been much too long since we have last met. Your sister is doing wonderful, and seems to be in good health, and Augustus is treating her as he always has, with no small amount of love and affection. As for the ride, I must admit that it wasn't the most pleasant which I have embarked on, but nonetheless I have made it here safely, and that is all which truly matters in the end, I suppose. I hope your trip was enjoyable as well, and pray to the sun and stars alike that you were not harried by the same storm which followed us all the way up the coast, a dreaded afair indeed. Tell me, most honorable peer, what do you think of the grave business which has called us to this fabled city today?"

James smiled and nodded hearing Augustus had been treating her well like he thought he would be then said "It is in deed sad a mere boy losing his father at such an age much be horrifing. However I can't say it is a surprise while his father may not have been the worst king he was very absent and let his council lead." He then turned and pulled out another jewel incrusted sword along with some jewels of the southern land. James turned and hand them to Alistair. "Some gifts for you my friend the swords were made in the lands of the south and the jewels were added in at the isles. As for these jewels and diamond rings I was told they have some sort of magical properties while they wouldn't tell me what exactly, I did think of you or at least perhaps a gift for young will when you return." James then sent his guard away and said "Well as you know this Kingdom is in need of a new Lord Regent. I was hoping to get your vote to become the new Lord Regent." James stood there taking a sip from a glass with wine while waiting for a reply.

As James spoke, Alistair reached into one of his trouser pockets to retrieve a small wooden object, a pipe of fine Wilharnese wood which was black as pitch and etched on with fashionable swirls and similar designs. He then went about preparing his pipe, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on James in a polite manner, nodding and smiling when necessary. From a pouch of supple leather which he had produced from the breat-pocket of his black silk jerkin he retrived two generous pinches of southron tobacco, gently stuffing it into the bowl of the wooden pipe. Still listening to James Conrad intently, he reached into another trouser pocket and withrew from it an expensive fire-stick tipped with a dry, foul-smelling sulfur compound from the Black Continent, scraping it on his belt of fine black leather and setting it afire. With this done, he stuck the match into the wooden bowl of his pipe, finally lighting it and nursing it to life with his very own lips and breath, shallowly inhaling the calming, soft smoke. By this time, James had completed his bout of speech, and Alistair seperated from his pipe to speak.

"Yes, it is certainly a grim affair, and both the boy and the greater Realm are surely still mourning High King Taramyth of House Paragon. I know that I myself miss him sorely, as he was a good man with a high heart. While he may have left many of his tasks to the Council of Lords, he was a fair ruler nonetheless, and was also kind to me whilst I took succor in the Phoenix Palace."

The Smiling Fox changed his smile slightly to express a solemn sort of mourning, and lowered his head towards the earth in respect for their late High King. After a moment, he looked back up, donned his overtly cheerful smile once more, and took two small puffs of his pipe, seemingly over the grim issue in the space of a few heartbeats. At this point, James paused in his speach for a time and gestured a gift-bearing guard forward, first taking the gifts into his own hands and then handing them to Alistair himself. They were fine item, without a doubt, among them many jewels of fine make which shone on rings of silver and gold, or on chains of similar material. The most notable gift which the Conrad lord present was a sword whose make and style suggested birthplace somewhere among the glimmering isles of the far south. The blade was exquisite for a certainty, and was encrusted in shiny, multicolored jewels. The Smiling Fox took them in hand, nodding in approval politely, and widening his smile before responding to the words which had accompanied the gifts.

"What exquisite gifts these are, James. I thank you dearly, and will make sure to give young Will the sword, which he will surely be greatful for. In exchange, I have a much more mundane gift to bestow upon you, though it is a historied object, I assure you." With these words, Alistair reached out a hand towards one of his attendent guards, Thaddeus to be specific, and the guard produced and item which shone brightly in the room's light. It was a smoking pipe of southron make, carved of brilliant jade and laced with odd ribbons the color of onyx. All respectable men in the South smoked fine pipes, a tradition which was lost on the Northerners and Sea Born alike, though he hoped to introduce the cultured pastime to James with this gift. He handed it to the man, speaking as he did so. "This pipe is carved of fine jade, and supposedly soaked through with the blood of the great Wyrm Sirrij, who shorn Everfield of it's trees with many an inferno up until the great Wyrm Wars. The pipe has been in Suttbray possession for centuries, if not millennia, and has been used by many great men of yore. You seem to be one such man James, and so I urged you to accept this humble gift."

The southron King then deemed it appropriate to finally speak to King James of his vote for Lord Regent. The Sea Born man had addressed the matter bluntly, even rudely if Alistair was to be honest, but his smile did not falter nonetheless, and he responded with his signature way of speach. "Ah, I see. You know that I am a man of honesty and moral fortitude James, so know that I am telling you true when I say that I will pick only the most capable man to serve as the High King's Lord Regent. Tell me, Sir James of the sea, do you believe that you can lead the Realm with a clear mind, a firm hand and a stalwart heart?"

James apprectiated the beauty of the pipe and nodded at what Alister has said of it "I will accept this fine craftmanship pipe. While I may not be able to use it that often the very token of this shall pass on to my son." Then after listening to Alister's concerns James smiled and began to answer the Lord's question. "Why of course I could King Alister. I've ran the royal navy for most of my kingship. I have always been a man to look at both sides of the story before making a final judgement and try to look into the kindness of men and women alike whenever possible." James then moved closer and spoke softer "Should I be made the Lord Regent a man must fill his council and with you view and vast knowledge of the realm I would think makes and excellent Seeker of Secrets wouldn't you agree?" James then stepped back and smiled. "So what say you King Alister can I count on your vote?" James stood somewhat tired at the days events. Hoping to go to bed after this talk.

Alistair smiled politely at James as he spoke of his personal merits, and why he would be a man capable of managing the Realm in it's entirety as the boy King matured and grew into his Throne. He kept the talk of himself brief, a respectable action, and spoke only of the feats and abilities which qualified him the most. He knew of Jame's merits and feats well enough, as the man had been allied to his House for years now, but it was always good to hear a man speak of himself, providing the perfect opportunity for someone to judge another's character justly. James certainly wouldn't be a terrible choice for Lord Regent, and on the contrary would likely manage the Realm better than many of the past Paragons, but still, there were others in the room who held the same qualities. None were as close to House Suttbray in terms of a current relationship though, and it was certainly a tempting prospect to raise James up to be Lord Regent simply because they had an alliance sealed by marriage. He thought on it for a moment long, taking a puff from his pipe, which subsequently lead to a bout of violent coughing. The Smiling Fox was quick to hide the blood which resulted with his kerchief of fine black silk, but it was still readily apparant that the man was hurting. After he regained his composure and stowed away the bloody kerchief, he then spoke to James, his voice now slightly damaged from the episode.

"I will take all which you have spoken of into consideration, peer of mine, and think deeply on your words, for a certainty. You are a capable man, no doubt, and your feats are known well enough in the South. I cannot assure you a southron Vote, but I can assure you that your words have made me consider very seriously as a candidate." The King of brine and sharks then leaned closer, as if to tell Alistair something confidential and exclusive to the two of them, going on to suggest that if he were made Lord Regent, a certain Smiling Fox would seem to be a perfect fit to him for the position of Seeker of Secrets. It sounded too much like bribery to Alistair's ears, delivered in a none-too-subtle package and wrapped up hastily. He did not fancy bribes, nor did he fancy the men who dealt them, so he simply smiled at the man and spoke in a more level fashion than he had spoke in before. "I would hope a capable minister of the Realm would choose only the most deserving and appropriate men to sit upon his Council, and if I am one of those men then so be it, lord James. I would hope that I would attain the seat through merit rather than... other means, however. Still, I will serious consider your words"

James looked shocked at Alister claiming that it was a bribe and simply waved it away "While of course you are the most fit men envoy you and I'm sure they tell things to your men if not you. That is the only reason I would offer you it just as the sovanid would make the best Master of Coin and the Kreshvi as the First Sword and Lord Marshall. Now I'm glad to at least put the though in your head. Now if there is nothing more I am rather tired I've talked to a lot of Lords today and it was a long ride." James put his hand out to shake before he left, and Alistair accepted it, shaking it firmly in return and smilling all the while. The Smiling Fox then spoke his goodbye.

"I am glad that you would consider me for the office nonetheless. Now, I will let you retire to your chambers or wherever else you are wont to go to rest you weary self. Farewell for the moment, James Conrad, I am glad we had the opportunity to speak before the Summit, as it was certainly a pleasure."

Summit of the Phoenix Tower

The lords sat quietly, all upholding an unspoken agreement that none of them truly wanted to start. The first person to speak, after all, would deal with the most criticism, the most interruptions, and have to answer the most questions. As the lords fidgeted silently in their seats, pouring themselves wine and waiting for a noise to break the silence, one stood up from his seat. Unexpectedly, it was Lord Kenten Cragmore of Stonereach. Some of the lords barely knew him, only knowing his name for the image of giant goats it conjured. Others knew him quite well as “The Bastard Lord”, or “The Smuggler Lord”, famous for driving his house into a slow downward spiral. In either event, he was a small lord from a small land, with a small fortune to speak of. Not exactly a man likely to speak first at such a formal event.

“Friends,” He said, in his gravelly aging voice, “Fellow High Lords,” He began to pace to the middle of the room, so that all could see him, “And James Conrad.” He gathered a few laughs, mostly from Roman Benedikt, using the opportunity to ridicule his rival lord.
“We all know why we’re here, why I’m standing before you all,” He cleared his throat loudly, pausing for a moment. “So I’ll skip the formalities, and present my argument to you.” He stretched an arm forward, pointing to James with an open hand.

“What we have here… Is a man willing to take risks,” Kenten said. “Dawnbringer Paragon,” he said, turning to look at the aging man, “When he stormed into your office, demanding the blessing of Kammeth, was he not taking risks?” The Dawnbringer raised an eyebrow, but nodded lightly.

“Lord Suttbray,” he continued, turning to the lord next to him, “When he offered you a decorated sword in the hopes of swaying you to vote for his Regency, was he not taking a risk?

Before being addressed, Alistair Suttbray, King of Everfield and Wilharne, had been lounging in the hard seat which lay beneath him, painstakingly maintaining his perfect posture and gazing attentively at Lord Kenten Cragmore as he spoke of Lord James Conrad’s supposed merits. Up until this point, he had been puffing softly and thoughtfully on his ebon pipe, a wide smile adorning his face as always, accompanied by a partially feigned look of concentration and interest. When Kenten spoke to him however, he was momentarily caught off guard, taking his pipe from his mouth to make a brief reply, for he did not want to be noticed as of yet. However, as he took a deep breath to sound out an appropriately volumed response, a wretched cough came out instead, and the King had to reach into his pocket for his black-as-pitch kerchief instead. The cough sounded out through the chamber for a few good few moments, with most others either politely pretending not to notice or instead doing quite the opposite and only staring at the distressed Lord. After the episode had run its course, the Smiling Fox contented himself with a brief, shallow nod, letting Kenten resume his speech.

“And when he chose me, the poorest lord of the lot, to a land known for pissing rain and goats, was he not taking a risk?”

Flint Whiteshown soon spoke up. “I would like to object to this grovelling, and may add that a lord regent should not take risks, but should think through every plan and find what is best for the crown.”

Roman Benedikt leaned forward, pointing an accusatory finger towards the head of House Conrad. “Lord Flint is correct. The Conrads’ penchant for risks is the last thing Elyden needs at the moment! The kingdom’s history should not be left to a gamble!”

“Gentlemen, please, if I may.” Lord Kenten cleared his throat, and continued. “Your reply, Whiteshorn, is astute. Truth be told, you are correct. The successful Lord Regents of the past have not been known for risk-taking.” His tone changed immediately. “But these are different times, and I am not here to speak to you of Conrad’s penchant for risk-taking.”

“The reason I bring up Conrad’s risk-taking is not to show you how well he can make decisions quickly. The reason for it is that it shows something about him none of us possess.” He as the room’s bickering grew quiet.

“James Conrad was willing to spend a fortune in gems to gift to a lesser lord. He was willing, in fact, to hold a knife to a seven foot Kreshvi’s chest. He was willing to give me a priceless artifact, whether he won the election or not, all in the name of being made Lord Regent. My argument to you, my lords, is simple. If James Conrad is willing to do so much to become Lord Regent, to take such risks, to try things most of us wouldn’t dare even think of, who’s to say that he won’t carry that determination into his regency?” He placed his hands behind his back, confident he had at least swayed one person. He raised his voice, delivering a thesis statement of sorts. “James Conrad’s determination is his one redeemable quality. If he is so determined to become Lord Regent, we can only be sure that he will carry this determination through his ruling.” He nodded, pacing back and forth. “Furthermore, aside from this quality, there is one glaring truth none of us wish to speak of.” He cleared his throat, raising his hands to the audience.

“James Conrad arrived at the Phoenix Palace, and made it known that he wished to become Lord Regent. How many of you who are running can say the same of your tenacity?” He waited for a response, knowing that he would receive none, and took his seat.

Suddenly, a goat bleated in the distance, and the sound pricked up Gori’s sensitive ears through the immense discussion and he thought to himself, “That’s the smartest thing I’ve heard all morning.”

With a shake of his head The Voice gently put his ashen palms flat against the cold table and looked around the ornate room. His icy eyes scanned the others as they talked, debated, and disagreed, much to Gori’s lamentation. With a swift sigh and one more second of careful observation, he spoke, and his alien like swooping accent boomed and swooshed through the air with elegance and a melodic undertone, “May I speak as well?”

James stood then he looked to The Voice and said, “Give me a second.”

Kenten bit down on his fist, silently grimacing. His spectacle was a combination of Kenten’s skill for twisting situations and his showmanship, and all rested on James’ compliance. If he spoke too much, or out of turn, it may undo his entire speech.

Gori Lamillur pursed his lips as if to catch the thoughtful words he had prepared for the council and he looked at James, clearly interrupted by the sea lord. With an acknowledging wave of his hand, he reserved himself once more to listen to another’s words in a pondering silence.

James had a slow turn around looking at all the lords. He then began to speak. “Now lords, I may not be your first choice when you think of Lord Regent. However, I am more than right for the job. I used to lead the royal navy into combat missions against the Kuo-Toa as hard as that was. Hell, my ships make up most of the royal navy.” He paused for a moment then continued. “I come from a man who put an end to these coastline raids and allowed those of you who live there to fish and build trade ports. Last night I made a very hard decision and am converting to Kammeth and will perhaps make my family do the same. Churches will be made and the people converted. Now, no matter what you all vote just know that I will hold no grudges and will still maintain the fleet and protect the west.” James then turned to the Voice once again and said, “Thank you Voice Gori; pardon my intrusion. Forgive me if you please.” James gave a slight bow and returned to his seat.

A sharp exhale shot from Gori’s nose as if he was to snicker at the title of “Voice Gori” but he digressed and nodded in understanding to James’ apology, sincere or otherwise. However before he could make mention to some dire situations that needed to be brought to hand, he was interrupted once more, but by Benedikt this time.

At James Conrad’s mention of conversion, Roman clenched the arms of his seat, almost launching himself upright. Who did this man think he was; to fling gifts and pleasant words around to secure himself votes was one thing. But to refuse Kammeth all those turns of the wheel, until now, when it offered him a chance in court? The gesture was naught but insulting. “Outrageous!” Roman bellowed. “Lord James, you have followed your pagan gods since the founding of your house, and only now you convert when it is convenient for securing your place? What sincerity is there in that? You have done nothing but solicit favors and spit on the Faith since you’ve arrived!”

Kenten silently buried his head in his hands. Lord Benedikt had put the final nail in the coffin of his argument -- The lords had likely forgotten all that Kenten had said. Without Conrad’s win, Kenten would not receive his sword. “Damn it all,” he muttered to himself.

Shamgar eyed the lords around the meeting table, with a sigh he cleared his throat before speaking. "Well Lords, it seems only James Conrad places his name for Regency, however opposition seems fierce against him. As for my part, I ask who else than among you would place their name for Regency? Do no others believe themselves up to the task?"

When it came to presenting himself for Lord Regent. Flint Whiteshorn stood up slowly, he looked to the other lords and began to speak briefly.
"I am not here to persuade you to vote for me, you all know of my history, my neutrality in affairs and traditionalist nature. If you believe I should be voted in as Lord Regent, so be it. If not I will look forward to whoever the new Lord Regent is and will work with them as I have done so with the throne for many turns." Flint sat back down, coughing into a silk handkerchief he had in his pocket.

Gori stood up slowly. His off white robes flowed with his movement as his sharp eyes caught a gleaming beam of the morning sun through a decorated window. He looked unamused, but then he always did. His nose twitched as if to purge the negative aroma of the room out of his body. His fingers tightened around the shaft of The Spear of Ashtoken and he leaned it up against him, it glowing as it too caught the sun.

He looked around, making sure he had looked into the eyes of every man who sat around the stone table. He gave a friendly nod to the Marrow king and stamped his spear into the ground with a sharp click as if to announce the coming of his words.

“Lords of the land,” his voice bellowed with a flowing accent of a certain exotic nature, “I have heard quite a bit already, and I’m sure I am not the only one, but there is one thought that screams louder than any aforementioned by all your lovely speeches.”

He gave a nod of respect to the circle, and spoke in his usual calm and collective manner, “I urge you all to consider something before we continue, something of dire importance to my land, as well as yours.”

He inhaled silently, and closed his eyes for a moment. “Do you not see what is to come?” he opened his eyes, every word brimmed with purpose, “What already has come?”

“Lords, councilmen, bide my words, and take heed, for we are in a weakened state, and that is of the most importance. I feel the chill of the black continent on my shores and in the wind blowing through my desert. The good people feel the taint in their hearts, and we are not the only beings to understand that the land is now frail. We now must look after the decaying land as shepherds over sheep,” his stare grew, and his words intensified yet remained enveloped in a soft calmness that eggs the very soul to listen.

“Wolves watch us hungrily, waiting to prey upon our fragile stock, and yet we sit here bickering over such idle fancies that can be resolved with much simpler words and transitions. I wonder what you all will do about these dangers. Who among you will aid in the search for the crown, and who will recognize the dangers of the far East, who will see?” He paused, letting his deep warnings soak in for a brief second.

He looked to Osmodeus, and his colorful words painting the room once more. “The winter comes, and with it an invasion, I feel it gnaw at my bones, hear its whispers tickle in my ear, and now, we our lands falling apart, ripe to be plucked from us.” He tapped his spear butt against the chilly ground twice more, in recognition of the speech.

He followed up quickly, yet with a stable voice laced in a cooling calm, “The Ashtoken will not stand idle, we shall aid in search for the crown to our fullest extent, and watch our shores and borders vigilantly, and I wonder, who shall join us? We must all know in clear conscious each and everyone of our own goals and aspirations, least we be as functional as a headless goat in a sandstorm.”

Gori’s stare pierced the gazes of his fellows as he finished, “We the Ashtoken do not ask for your regency or for power, we ask simply for true Elydens, to protect their homeland to their final breath,” With a final nod at his last word he took his seat quietly, and his usual humble expression washed over his stone set face.

At this time, the cloak-veiled Heldan gathered himself up from the bench behind the seat of Lord Barad Anselm and approached the great stone roundtable. He drew back the gray wool cloak that obscured the upper part of his face, revealing a wizened visage and his unsettling, blank eyes. He shot a glance down to his lord seated beside him, who nodded in tacit approval of his speaking.

“My lieges and majesties, Lord Anselm and I are in full agreement with the esteemed First Star As has been stated, the vile East menaces us all at this dark hour. And our vulnerability will only become more apparent as snow falls upon this world. For the first time in seven cycles, a winter settles down upon us. As the world freezes, the monsters of the East will know that our plight is dire indeed, and they will launch against us yet another Black Armada to subjugate us all. But even if such a thing did not come to pass - if whatever sadistic tyrant that rules that savage world were to have some mercy on fair Elyden - our realm is in great peril yet.”

“Lord Anselm and I are quite convinced that winter itself is as much a mortal danger to our realm as the prospect of an invasion from the East. Consider, my lieges and majesties, that our serfs have been utterly spoiled by seven cycles of summer. For the better part of a millenium, our peasants have been able to extract from their fields as many as three harvests per turn. This bounty has allowed a vast population the likes of which was unimaginable in antiquity. And now, we have a peasantry that has not seen so much as a frost in thirty generations. If we are to be subjected to a long winter, then our people will be all but starved out. The Black Armada might well arrive on our frozen shores and find that there remains no Valerien Empire left to conquer.”

“This cataclysm may be averted yet, but we must all work in concert to find the Phoenix Crown. For the time being, locating the crown is of the utmost concern to every Lord and King of Elyden. As such, I wish to announce my intent to serve as the Seeker of Secrets to whichever Lord is elected as regent - that I might facilitate a unilateral effort to quickly locate the missing crown and help to avert the calamity that threatens us all.” At this revelation, Lord Anselm’s jaw dropped. Seeing the concern on his Lord’s face, Heldan stooped down to Barad’s level and whispered something in his ear.

“I am in accord with my adviser and have nothing more to add.” Said Barad, still rather perplexed but far less so than he was previously.

Roman's earlier outburst at Conrad had been dissipated by the words of Lord Gori and Lord Barad's Eldfolk seer. They were a sobering reminder that the continent of Elyden was not alone in the world, and there were just as many threats within as there were off-land. However, Elyden needed to prioritize the issues presented to it, considering the fractured state of its houses, and the lack of a true leader hindered its capability to act significantly.

“Lord Gori and the seer address principal threats that Elyden must contend with," Roman spoke. He'd pushed himself upright, stooping as he leaned on the table. "With the absence of organized leadership in Skyhaven, a renegade claiming a seat on the throne and assassins loose throughout the continent, we cannot afford to properly contend with the Black Continent issue as of yet." Roman turned towards the lords of Houses Ashtoken and Marrow, a briefly sympathetic expresion cast on his face. "We have too much to be concerned with at home to investigate abroad."

"While I pray the armies of that accursed place are idle, I fear the eastern houses must be prepared to defend themselves until we are less fragmented. Elyden is in no shape to mount a preemptive attack on the Black Continent; not without order restored in the Capital. If an invasion truly is on the horizon, we must make haste and consolidate our strength to defeat it as one. If the beastmen are so bold as to step on our shores, then we must meet them there. This should not be the concern of the east alone."

"That said, House Benedikt willingly lends its cooperation to take back the Crown,” Roman declared. “Naught else can be done until Skyhaven is restored to order.”

During the summit, back in Ashishia…

HENZIL DEPRASH

Deep in the decorative city keep of Dashash The Fifth Star dreamt…

The desert was alive with soul shredding howls that ripped and tore their way violently through the hollow wind. Death forced its crippling way through Henzil Deprash and chilled his spine, but he was not dead, no not yet.

His vision blurred and a loud ringing pounded and ached his sore head as he gained a strained focus. His coarse mouth was wet with blood and the sand stuck to it as he lifted his beaten face out of the burning sands. He shook his traumatized head and a pain jolted across his broad shoulders and he groaned weakly, looking around dizzily. His large reptilian war beast, his fuwma, laid in a heap of pure muscle and scales beside him, its yellow large eyes were as lifeless as its limp body. A crude spear was jutting from its gored side through the leather saddle, and the sand mixed with reptilian blood was thrown everywhere, a clear sign of the great lizards horrifying collapse.

He heard it again, blood curdling howls and deaths soft whisper. On the horizon he could blurrily see a black wave forcing its way closer. This wave howled harshly once again and Henzil remembered where he was and what he was doing. He tried to scramble to his feet in painful vain as the great gnoll army padded closer on sprinting legs. Henzil collapsed back into the loose sand, enveloping himself in a cloud of the sharp grains and a piddle of his own blood. He gasped, swallowing some of the sand and looked down in a horrible cough, and he saw his foot was broken and disfigured. With a frustrated and pained sigh he forced himself back up, snatching his long curved Ashishian blade to lean at the hip with. He groaned in a terrible fit of strenuous injury. He squinted, trying to focus his drifting sight, the horde was close, and the gnolls readied their crude and terrible javelins. Angry snarls drenched his mind in anguish as he noticed that their pale eyes were looking right at him, hungry for his ashen flesh, as they already have sampled the rest of his messengers brigade.

Henzil leaned down, his leg muscle shuttering and shaking in a piercing pain as he struggled to stood back up, with a long iron headed sarissa in hand. Leaning against his bending blade and tucking the long sarissa under his pit, he pointed it weakly at the charging devils.

Ashtoken die on their feet.

The horde was mere leaps from him, and he strained to lift the long pike higher,
Ashtoken do not yield.
Henzil felt a knot in his chest as the gnolls bared their fangs. They were so close it would be impossible to count the time until impact. The Gnolls leapt in the air, yellow teeth shining in the unforgiving suns bright blaze.
Ashtoken shall never falter.

There was a strong force that had grabbed Henzil and swept him off his feet, but it was not the thick flesh of a gnoll meeting the deadly sarissa, or even the crude jaws flashing at the end of a fierce lunge. No, it was a friendly hand that had fetched his limp body from the teeth of death.

Henzil looked up dazed as he now found himself on the back of a charging Fuwma. An Ashtoken sat in front of him swinging a mighty blade against the horde in an attempt to break free from the very horde he had charged into. “Gori,” Henzil muttered in amazement, his face still frozen with a lifeless visage gifted to him by ever present death.

The young general, Gori Lamillur sat proudly on a towering fuwma war lizard. The mighty beasts tail slammed into unfortunate Gnolls, and the sound of their ribs cracking shot through the air, coupled by the mighty singing blade Gori swung so expertly at his inferior foe who futility attempted to throw the pair off from the mount. Gori swung, and gnoll blood was cut so thick that it misted the air in a gory fog, covering the two in a red gleam. Finally, with the aid of greatly placed hacks and violent stabs, the fuwma broke free from the gnoll charge and began a controlled retreat.

One under ash, ‘Til the blessed desert bleeds.

The fuwma shot across the desert sands with tremendous speed, the angry mob right behind,baring their deep biting teeth. Gori looked back blankly at the sickly looking Henzil and nodded at a wet cloth bag that slapped the side of the saddle so precariously with the intense rhythm of the powerful lizards escape. Henzil untied the soaked sack and reached his arm all the way in, as the fuwma found the peak of a sand dune that blistered out of the landscape for all the gnoll to witness what’s to come.

Henzil’s fingers threaded through wet bristly hairs in the dark bag, Finally with another silent nod from Gori, he retrieved the strange feeling object. His arm slithered out from the bag and he promptly tossed it aside, lifting the object to the sun, his eyes wide with astonishment at the trophy.

His fingers were crimson with dripping red blood, and to the horde he held a head, a head of matted hair and a toothy snout, the head of the great gnoll chieftain. Hezil looked at Gori cautiously, whose eyes were suddenly a sea of energy, and an explosion of battle fury. Gori’s throat rippled as a yell erupted from him, and all the gnolls turned their ghastly heads, and their charge halted.

Henzil lifted the mutilated head high into the air and repeated Gori’s yell with a powerful expulsion of dry air. The gnolls quickly grew enraged and yelled back in a limp emotional pain and frenzied their terrifying charge back into a destructive motion that crashed across the burning desert.

Gori kicked the sides of his mighty war lizard, and with an obedient hiss, the heated chase continued.

Hezil shook violently in his throne, jerking his pale blue eyes open to the gilded hall of Dashash. His eyes darted around anxiously, and with a relieved sigh he began to laugh away the stress of his dream. The soft chuckle bounced heartily off the mosaic walls and copper embroidered carpets. He knew his beautiful daughters could hear him in the next room over, through the sandstone walls, but he was sure they were used to these episodes of his by now, and shook away any concern for their comfort-ability with another hissing chuckle.

Soon however his eyelids grew to be a burden once more, and he could feel his memory buzzing once more with a recollection of the Great Gnoll war, he knew then, that his dream was not about to end just yet as sleep once again conquered his mind.

GORI LAMILLUR

Gori chewed on possible words for a moment while listening intently to Roman Benedikt, he filtered his thoughts out with a signature sigh and a blink before softly speaking once more, "Roman, the Ashtoken of course shall aid in any search for the lost crown, however I wonder what you would be like as Lord Regent instead of the seeker."

His flowing accent continued, "While in such curiosities, I wonder what the most respected Lord Flint Whiteshorn too, should do as Regent to secure our safety," He paused and nodded politely, "Excuse my abruptness, but I feel as though such wonders should be duly satisfied with appropriate answers and action."

The Voice slid his spear into the nook of his arm and rubbed his bare chin in thought, "What do you men propose?" He asked smoothly, "We need a Regent, and you two have a reputation for responsibility and leadership among your respected peoples, however, could you lead Elyden during such a crisis?"