She sat alone with her drink in a tavern at the edge of the world. Back to the wall. Eyes focused half on the lukewarm ale and half on the door. The weight of all the war bearing down upon her shoulders.
Die for your country.
Those were Zarannis’ last orders to her Farstriders, as she lay dying in a field of summer flowers. She watched as they disobeyed, screening Fury Company while they still lived, braving the blood and brine from that accursed tide-caster Ralleigh.
Die for your country damn you.
She had sneered then, as she sneered now at her drink. Remembering as Ellinia’s marines stole her body from the wreckage of fallen banners and bodies. But the remnants of the Kestrels kept disobeying- continuing their vigil over their commander until she was safely off the field.
Die like the finest of us. Vicren Springwhisper. Woods. Darsi. Why should you live when the best of us fall?
It was at that battle, where two companies of her finest Farstriders were torn asunder. Fighting to buy time for the Northern Vanguard to retreat. Encircled by the Alliance and dying to a man- except her.
‘Die for your country.’ She had ordered the last captain of the Kestrels. But he had refused. Saving her life and the lives of her comrades.
-
Zarannis laid still, curled into herself, staring at the canvas walls of the field hospital. She had not moved since she had penned her report to the Archon. Of retreat. Of defeat. Hundreds of lives lost, including their Nightborne allies from across the North Sea.
“You have a visitor,” announced the Oathsworn Dawnmender on duty who ushered in a blood covered Farstrider, bearing the insignia of the Kestrel Lodge on his lapel.
“Kestrel, Ranger Summersong reporting” he saluted his commander who hadn’t bothered to face him. “The casualties have been tallied. Two hundred and fifty nine dead. Hundred and ninety eight wounded. Thirty missing.” There was no response from Zarannis, it was unclear if she was even listening. But that did not seem to bother the company captain in the slightest. He continued counting off their numbers for her benefit. “Fifty three Farstriders remain combat ready. The wounded can be mended and be back in action in a matter of days- Light willing. We await your orders, Kestrel.”
“Stop calling me that,” Zarannis croaked, her throat dry as dust. “The Kestrel lays in an unmarked grave outside Tor’Watha. All real successors lay in pieces under the burnt husk of our Lodge. It’s nothing more than a dead title for a dead man.”
The captain paused, then pulled to him a field chair. Sitting by his commander’s bedside, he spoke softly. “Do you know why The Kestrel lays in that unmarked grave? Because you gathered us up to go after him. Do you know why the rest of us haven’t joined him in the ground? Because you stole us from the Amani. I don’t call you Kestrel because the title fell to you. I do so because we followed your lead. You earned our command.”
“And I commanded you to die,” Zarannis snapped, the disdain made plain in her voice. But the fight soon left her and she curled once more into herself, as if she was in agony.
“And I respectfully disobeyed,” Summersong responded. “Sometimes you need to act against orders in the best interest of your men.”
The words had cut her deeper than she had expected and she lay still once more. “What’s your name Ranger?”
“Keres Summersong.”
“What do you want from me Keres?” Zarannis asked the man, to which the Ranger obliged.
“The final battle at the Sunwell is at hand. It might even already be over. We need our commander. Not just for the Kestrels but the entire Northern Vanguard. Whatever the outcome of the battle, we need to be ready for it.”
Zarannis coughed, the dryness in her throat causing her voice to crack. “And if I refuse?”
“Then you’re a bigger coward than I thought possible.”
“Cowardice?” Zarannis stirred again, fire returning to her. “You think it is cowardice that would make me refuse? Is it cowardice that I won’t throw hundreds of lives away a second time, all for nothing?!” She broke down in a fit of coughing.
“Would you have preferred to throw thousands away? The last battle would have been a slaughter had you not sounded the retreat. Many did not make it out, but I think you fail to realize that you still saved enough of the Vanguard that it still needs leadership.” Keres handed her his waterskin, which she took with a measure of desperation. “Don’t you dare push that responsibility on the rest of us.”
-
“You look nothing like the General of the Northern Vanguard,” Beathyn jested, pulling out a seat for himself before her. “Took longer than I care to admit to track you down.”
Zarannis was pulled back to the present, and the ever warming mug of ale that had long lost its foam top. She gazed at him in her time-lost state, measuring her friend’s features and a cheek-to-cheek smile. She hated him for it. Had he not also led men to their deaths? Had he not also ended the lives of hundreds?
“That,” she sneered. “That was a title I neither asked for or wanted.”
He raised her eyebrow at her. “Then why did you volunteer for it?”
More memories flashed in her mind’s eye, dredging up old promises that she could not keep and people she could not save.
“Someone had to.” Zarannis looked him in the eyes. “You lost men during the campaign didn’t you?”
The smile on his face faded. “I did.”
“I lost everything that I held dear. The Lodge, the Farstriders, the Tal’dorei who followed me, the Oathsworn of the Northern Vanguard, and the order for which they died for. I lost them all. So I detest the title. It’s tainted with their blood.”
Beathyn held her gaze and matched it with an intensity of his own. A rare sight for those that knew the light-hearted man. “You were among the Waywatcher Assassins. A Farstrider that held the border of the Amani for centuries. Blood is your profession, Zarannis. As it was theirs.”
“Not anymore.” Zarannis turned away, focusing on her drink. “Not a Farstrider, not a General, and not a pawn of Solendis’ schemes. Just a girl.”
“Fair enough,” Beathyn nodded, sliding over an envelope in front of her. “So you can attend this as just-a-girl then.”
Zarannis spied the Emberheart's wax seal. “What is this? A bribe?”
“It’s an invitation,” he replied. “A funeral of a friend.” Beathyn rose to his feet, dusted himself off and rose to his feet.
“And that’s all?”
He nodded. “I’ve got to deliver more of these now.” Beathyn turned to leave. “You can head over early. It’s not for another few weeks but I’m sure they won’t mind. They’ve got enough guest beds to put up a garrison.”
It was said that she would be found in the furthest reaches of the South. Far beyond where the long arms of Imperial law could reach. In the lands of Warlords, squabbling over what blighted land they could call theirs if they spilled enough blood on it.
It was said it was a living nightmare, over there. Where the Phoenix Wars did not end, but continued in miniature. Banners still marched against each other leaving in their wake wastelands of an already wounded land. Where remnants of the Black Bloods drifted out at night like specters over the battlefields, feasting upon the dead.
It was said. That she had gone there to punish herself.
For the South had become a war scarred hellscape. A fitting purgatory of her own design. The perfect place to bring to an end a life devoted to war.
Beathyn stalked the trenches of an old battlefield that bore no name. It did once, but as the battles here overlapped over and over, it had become a desolate space. Stripped of its meaning by endless earthworks and the bodies of those who built them.
He asked the soldiers around him where he might find her and was met with shrugs. To them, she was just another face in a sea of strangers that came and went from this place as they pleased- when their Lord had paid or failed to pay them.
The agent of the Emberhearts, hugged his shotgun close to his chest, cradling it underneath a water-treated cloak to keep out the damp. He hoped he didn’t have to use it. Crossing paths with a contingent of pikemen, destined to some distant flank, he managed to catch wind of a woman of her description. A Lady of War.
She sat lazily upon the side of a battered barricade, smashed long ago by cannon fire. It gave her a commanding view of the unearthed no-man’s land before her. A cigar between her lips, and elbows resting on the ground. Beathyn approached from incline behind her, looking out at the trenches opposite to theirs.
“Strange choice for retirement,” he said, shotgun still clutched to his chest. “Highdawn.”
“The North despises me and my People reject me,” is the honest answer that rumbles out over the expanse - still managing to project like the same ghosts of artillery fire around them, even when she is so low and her lungs constrained by her own weight.
“This is the closest I can settle Home while keeping peace.” How odd, that the bloodmonger still prizes such a thing. Then she pauses, a long flick of her ear swishing out like some annoyed beast, “It gives those that still follow something to feed on.” Is that irritation chilling the femininity of her voice towards the need of conflict, or that even after all of this, there are dozens with feveret loyalty to her?
“If someone Northern was going to find me, I was thinking it would be Flamethorn or Islesun.” Objective and punitive, but somehow lacking in genuine hostility, the words march out from her lips, “You have no bond to me.”
The unspoken followup of ‘So why are you here?’ pulses out in a breath of smoke that dissipates into already acrid air.
Beathyn is almost transfixed by the image of her. Comfortable. In her element. Like a living spirit of the wardead. He then settles into a crouch next to her, letting the wisps of smoke dance round him before he made his reply.
“The Emberhearts send their regards,” he said, as if it explained everything. He reached into his vest pocket and produced a folded envelope marked with the wax seal of her friend’s house. It almost seemed too official for the whiskey loving, food gorging man that she was familiar with.
When opened, it bore the words of Solendis Emberheart. Words of thanks. An invitation for a funeral, in honor of Sederis’ memory.
“I guess you could say I’m their mailman of sorts,” Beathyn pulled his cloak over his shoulder and tucked his shotgun underneath his arm as he relaxed. “A really heavily armed mailman who’s been tracking down Quel’thalas’ most dangerous killers- Because apparently that’s the sort that’s drawn to Sederis-” he looked at Thanidiel and gauged her reaction, glancing at her eye patch and her dour expression. “No offense of course.”
“He was deathseeking and I am bloodseeking, maybe he was hoping I’d turn around and kill him at some point for being too slow or too philosophical.” Is that a joke? It is difficult to interpret such things from her through the lenses of an almost-stranger; everything she verbalises is strained like teeth brandished behind a muzzle. She reaches out after that, plucking the letter out of his hand between two fingers and seamlessly breaking the seal.
“Who else have you played courier for? I will assume many - you approach Eastweald at this rate, there would be no others of the Sunguard aside from Emberfall and Novastorms.” Then her ear flicks again as she pulls her fingers around the strap of that eyepatch and pulls it down to unveil the magicked and blue eye; just a shiver slower in its rotation to the one alight of felfire.
“Why am I going to a funeral? Emberheart’s blood succeeded there, between that and me assuring the survival of Goldenshade, my honor to him is resolved.” She looks over the blackened battlefield - as though able to see cadres of men miles beyond that he could not.
“You can take the Crows back to Lirelle if you wish.”
“Well,” Beathyn shrugged, “it’s an invitation. Accept it, reject it, go- don’t go- I leave that up to you.” The courier didn’t seem too bothered by her mannerisms. The agent seemed used to the abuses- either that or he wasn’t too invested in who came to the funeral.
He pauses for a moment before rattling off the names of the attendees, ones by one, most of them delivered to an address or left with a house servant. Apart from a few superiors, the rest were familiar names from the Guard. Leaving out all but one.
“As for the Crows,” he says at last. Rising to his feet and shouldering his weapon. “You should take them yourself. Lirelle will be there.”
Beathyn waited patiently aboard the rowboat, staring as the silhouette of the Dawnbrook Manor grew upon the distant shore. He had tried his best to locate Lirelle, following rumors of something great and terrible leaving death in its wake, but the trail had gone cold. The killings stopped, as resettlers took up residence in the ruins that the phantom had cleared for them. Why would she just, stop? Dawnmender ‘Stabs’ had no love for bandits, warlords, or any of the other nonsense going on in the South, beyond the reach of Thalassian law.
“So do the Dawnbrooks get visitors often or is this just a… Side duty?” The agent for the Emberhearts asked the ferryman.
The old man shrugged, eyeing the both of them briefly. “Not usually by sea. Solendis and them always come by carriage.”
“Aye, I came from Kearn. Had to put in a few official reports before heading this way. The trip through Shalemarch always gives me bum-ache anyway.” Beathyn laughed.
He steered them closer to shore, his hands burned near the same colour of the wood from centuries spent outdoors, still full of wiry strength despite his age. “So what business you up to with them?”
“To settle some affairs of Stenden. Renewing old trade deals and speak about greater ties in this chaotic time- Can never be too safe, even if the Isle has been mostly peaceful since the end of the war.”
--
Beathyn arrived at the Dawnbrook manor’s sea entrance, a marble pier that led to a sidegate, then a path up towards the house proper. He had been expected, so the caretaker, Drevain was already waiting for him.
“Hello old friend,” Beathyn greeted him. “Is Drenden ready to receive me?”
“He’s in his study, would you like an escort up or do you remember the way?” As the young man offered a hand to the duo disembarking, he dipped his head down to exchange a few words with a boatman, the familial resemblance between the two even starker when they were next to each other.
Nodding them off, Beathyn made his way up the marble stairs, shuffling the letters in his hands. He hadn’t mentioned an invitation to the ferryman. An invitation to a funeral.
--
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Beathyn said, knocking on the door to Drenden’s study. The Lord of Dawnveil was not a slave to the courtly mannerisms as other Lords. “I’ve got a few affairs that I need settled, and I should be on my way within the hour.”
“No no, of course not. Please, come in.” Drenden picked up a hseaf of papers from the desk in front of him, moving them to a pile beside him, a very tiny part of the desk cleared for Beathyn to put down anything he needed to. He had always been a large man, but something about his stature seemed smaller than it used to, clearly the conflict and his daughter’s passing had exacted a toll on him.
Beathyn went through the motions, presenting issues of current affairs over his desk. He tried to ignore that weight that now rested on Drenden’s shoulders. He had seen him at his usual best, when Lirelle and Sederis had invited him to cook for them. But as he went through Stenden’s new plans for economic reform and relaxing of taxation laws in the Emberglades, Beathyn observed the dour expression with a hint of sadness. It made what he had to do next more difficult.
“There was one more thing Drenden,” Beathyn said, rising to his feet. “Sorry to ask, but you wouldn’t have any idea where Lirelle is, would you?”
The man across the table fell silent, the scratching of his pen stilling as he lifted it from the pages he was signing, his administrative instincts saving it even as he bristled. “My daughter is dead,” he eventually growled out, “If we knew where her body was we would have buried her here at home.”
No one had told them. No one had told them.
Beathyn swallowed hard and began to panic. “Yes… About that,” Beathyn turned around to face Drenden square. “There wasn’t really a body to return… It’s still… Walking about, you see.” He attempted to ease the news to Drenden, but completely botched it. The agent cringed for the after effects.
“Who?” A fist slams on the table, “Who desecrated my daughter’s corpse to raise her?” He stares at Beathyn, something burning deep in his eyes.
“Ah- Uh- She- She, kind of, sort of, came back by herself.” Beathyn blinked at the father’s rage. It had only been moments ago that he had lost a daughter to war. “She was at the last battles of the Phoenix Wars, I saw her there. But I haven’t seen her since.”
“She what?” After all of that, Drenden just looks deflated. “Tell me everything you know. Don’t leave anything out, anything.”
[Backdated to after A Girl of Wind and Winter, before Warplanning 2]
[Event Start]
The party approached the Wintergale Manor, prompted by a message from Zarannis. She had spent the last few days speaking with her family, convincing her father to grant an audience with the representatives from Emberheart. It was time she spent fighting a battle of another sort. One that she cared about. But as Beathyn led the way, the good agent of the Emberhearts swallowed hard.
Beathyn looked to the others to his left and to his right. He'd have preferred to come with some muscle in case things went south- But between Mr. Bladeborn who had lived up to his rambunctious name, and the scary lady that he had to convince not to turn him into a bloody pulp when he had first sought her out on the onset of the war... He felt more concerned about the Wintergales if negotiations DID go south. "So, both of you up to speed? Stenden wants to make it clear that while neutrality suits our purposes now- He is still the Lord of the Emberglades and the Cloudrends are part of that whether Lord Wintergale likes it or not."
Vissehn nods, straightening his very Fine Formal Hawk Jacket. Someone had bathed him. Someone had -dressed- him, and despite his off-colored eyes and the stubbiness of his ears, he almost looked respectable. Until, he opened his mouth. "Oi we're onnit, make this feller understand the whats and whos of what's happenin' aint outside their walls, not really. It's all the Glades, an' can't be sitting out."
Renalays:"The Law is the Law," is her cool response as the Lady Bloodhallow adjusts the stark-white mask covering the lower half of her features. "WIntergale makes it less a matter of the Emberglades and more the matter of the State, and we would not see those under us further fractured."
Beathyn makes a wry smile. "Excellent. Loyalties must be paid. So I think I don't have to mention this- But with the sorts of people I mixed with in the Sunguard, I think I better mention this: Please don't challenge people to duels to the death to get your point across- Don't hurl insults at our hosts- and for the love of the Light do not attempt to seduce Lord Mediea." With that out of the way, he huffed, and headed towards the manor.
Renalays:"I am no parlour person.... whether your castaway is, is another question." Someone's been talking to this wicked witch.
Beathyn glances at Vissehn.
Vissehn lifted a brow, and in very Eliza Doolittle manner, sheds about % of his terrible way of speaking. "I have no idea what you mean, marm."
Renalays:"'Madame' is the acceptable variant in these parts of the Kingdom," is her ONLY acknowledgement.
The party is directed inside by the Wintergale Guards. Their count, higher than usual but given the circumstances were understandable precautions. Inside sat Lord Mediea, who stood as his 'guests' entered the dining room. Zarannis got up from her seat, nodded at the three of the representatives and stood off to the side of the room.
Zarannis:"No armed posse, no tricks, just agents come to speak." She looked at her father-by-blood but not by name.
Renalays lofts one of those blood-red brows at Zarannis' brusque sentiment, turning to Mediea and offering a more courtly, "Well met, Lord Wintergale."
Mediea is an elderly elf. Most certainly already approaching the end of his life. But though grey hair covered his scalp, he still carried the platemail of his station on his back with ease.
Vissehn doffed his cap, offering a low and perfectly executed Hawk-bow to the lord, but said nothing as yet.
Mediea gives a long measured nod at Renalays. The courtly mannerisms of one of his three 'guests' was appreciated. "Well met indeed." He looks at Beathyn who stood at the head of the group. "So, you come with requests and I make none."
Beathyn mentally cancels the long-winded flattery he was about to make when he took the measure of the man before him. Clearing his throat, he makes a half-bow. "Lord Wintergale. I am Beathyn Val'cinder, this is Vissehn Bladeborn, and Renalays Bloodhollow. We come on behalf of House Emberheart. We've come to speak of Peace- Lasting peace- Long after this Civil War is over. Because the sentiment back in the Heartlands is troubled that one of their vassals won't answer their call for aid during these times- of all times."
Mediea remains expressionless. No doubt a result of centuries of political plays, backstabbing, and plying in the Emberglades. "I don't care for the sentiments of the boy in the Heartlands. The Emberglades hasn't had a real leader for close to a twenty years now- I'd rather have my loyalties lie with the Crown directly rather than... Middlemen." Lord Wintergale ends with his dismissive remark.
Vissehn glances to Renalays. She's the voice of the State here; he won't trod on those toes.
Zarannis keeps her eyes on the Lord, giving him a knife-like gaze into his back. Whatever she had spoken to her family about, it was clear that while she had made Mediea agree to having an audience, neither of them saw eye-to-eye on the situation.
Renalays:"That is not your whim to make, unfortunately, Lord Wintergale. Meredred Emberheart and the bargains he struck is what structures the hierarchy and jurisdictions of your lands according to greater Law as it stands. To withdraw your assistance in the matter of the rebel Illithia is one thing, to place yourself 'independent' as far as that goes, is another. You know yourself that such freedom amongst the aristocracy has never been the way of the Sin'dorei, before or after the Reclamation. Perhaps you have independence as far as this rebellion lasts - but the Emberglades will have a State-backed casus belli to pursue upon your heirs, if Zarannis Wintergale's own claim is not revived and pursued."
"There are ways to pursue your goals of a Cloudrend Glades free of the Emberheart's control - but this is an -elementary- way of performing it."
Mediea does not give away his thoughts from his expressions, but speaks once she is done. "Perhaps you are right. But you fail to understand that I am the will of my people. If it was up to me, I'd spend the rest of my days kissing up to the Emberhearts and let my children reap the benefits. But alas my people are tired of dying for someone else's wars. If we're going to have to die, we'll die for ourselves- Rather than some Lord sitting in gilded halls- or worse, a Horde Queen who is off her rocker."
Zarannis eyes narrow, tension rising in her brow as he speaks. But she stays silent.
Vissehn:"If I may sir-- they're tired of dying, period. And let me tell you, and I mean this as no threat, the forces they would face should this nonagression be considered a threat in itself are not something to be trifled with. Whether they die for Sederis or Stenden or you? Doesn't mean a fuckin' lot. And die they will, in a short battle or the political fallout of refusing to support your liege."
Renalays 's long swooping brows -twitch- at the idea of even considering something so... insignificant as the common people in this equation. The rest of her expression is unreadable underneath that mask. There is no physical glance towards Vissehn, but the slithering pull of her invisible Shadow upon the Tel'dorei is almost like a 'push' forward-- and there he goes!
Mediea tsked. "The people of the Cloudrends aren't tired of dying. Just don't for the wrong people and the wrong causes. True there are consequences to our actions but I will not send my people to die in some stupid civil spat." He sighs, his first show of emotion of the day. "I will remain neutral in this- Perhaps I will negotiate with the Lord that comes out on top of this Civil War- Perhaps I will not."
Beathyn changes tact, lowering his voice. "To paraphrase one of the main members of our coalition we have gathered. 'When we are done with Arenias, we will come for you.' Now- Personally, I do not wish for things to come to that- Which is why we are here, speaking, and trying to avoid... Catastrophe for you," he nodded at the second floor of the manor above him. "And your family."
Vissehn visibly swallows something back and looks to Renalays.
Renalays 's almond eyes squint....
Vissehn sings softly. "Crows and Hawk went flying down, tryin’ to catch a bastard..." His brow lifts.
Mediea narrows his eyes. "Hm." He turns towards Renalays, who spoke more of the stately language he was accustomed to. "So. What are your demands then? Support my rightful Lord? Send my people to die for yet another cause they don't believe it?"
Renalays:"Do not send your swords nor your people," is her sickly-sweet response, those same feline eyes tightening to hint towards the cheshire cat's grin underneath her mask. "Do nothing at all aside from what is -easiest- for you, removes all of the opposition you currently face. Support Emberheart by word, deny Illthia travel through your border. Reassert your obedience to the State - who has no interest in your want to kneel to us but in the maintenance of proper -Order- and -hierarchy.-"
"...then perhaps we will talk, me and you, about the raise of status for your heirs. -Lawful- independence that does not see you burned by Emberheart nor Phoenix Guard."
Mediea contemplates this for a moment. "And if I decide to do so, and the people do not?" He looks to Vissehn, who seemed to speak for the common man.
Vissehn tossed his mane of shorter hair. "Aye, well as I see it, you're not risking them none by closing your borders. They don't got any reason to take up with the soldiers, an' scurryin' with you won't make Illithia the firm force they'll wanna be-- they won't risk spreading thin to break your defense, and your people will only have to guard a strip of borderlands." He shrugged again. "Seems to me like they'd be well pleased to keep their lives, livelihoods, and indistinct notions of their honor, which matters. Keeps lords heads on their shoulders, when the people feel like they've been good and honorable at once."
Vissehn:"However, if you send a message by not participating at all-- by standing against none, and all at once-- well, when there's any little problem, famine, flood, armies at the borders-- suddenly they'll remember a certain stand and position."
Beathyn clears his throat. "And if you could allow Emberheart's forces through your lands to start a second front on Westhearth's... Western border." The last bit didn't roll off his tongue as well as he liked. "Then the war will be done with twice as quick with even less doubts of supporting- in word of course- the losing side."
Mediea places a hand on his chin, mulling over the solution presented to him by the party. "I won't make any promises at the moment. But this talk as been... Fruitful." He looks to Zarannis. Then back at the agents of Emberheart. "We will support Stenden in word. That I say. More than that," he gives Beathyn a look. "I will send word with Zarannis."
Snow had begun to fall, coating the courtyard of Emberheart Manor in white save for Sederis’ altar in its center. There, his corpse lay under the protection of a spell, keeping the bed of thorns and ochre flowers pristine even in the harshness of true winter.
“Thank you for coming,” came a voice from behind him. But Beathyn did not turn. He was fixated on the altar amongst the snow. “I hope your journey here was uneventful.”
“I’m a procurement specialist,” he replied. “What good would I be if I can’t slip through a blockade?”
Solendis stepped forward next to him, gazing at his brother’s corpse. “We tried to bring him back. Dame Everliegh knew as much when she returned him to us. That light-willing, he’d be brought back.”
“Yet here he lies. Sleeping in the cold.”
Solendis frowned. “We couldn’t bring him back.”
“Knowing Sederis, he wouldn’t want to,” Beathyn muttered, then turned to the Steward of the Emberglades. “So why have you called me here?”
“I need something delivered.”
“To the Sunguard?”
Solendis shook his head. “To Zarannis Wintergale.”
“Zarannis? What business would you have with one of our Pathfinders?”
“Ms. Wintergale is the daughter of Lord Wintergale. Bannerlord of the Cloudrend Glades. Largest and most bountiful province of the Emberglades,’ Solendis explained at length. It was clear that despite his relationship with Sederis, Beathyn had clearly no knowledge of his friend’s homeland, or the state it was in.
Beathyn raised an eyebrow in surprise, recalling the tribal tattoos that marked Zarannis’ face and trying to picture her in a noblewoman’s dress. “She doesn’t… Look the part.”
“She was disowned by her family centuries ago,” said Solendis.
“And now you’re seeking to bring her back into the fold?”
“Not exactly.” Solendis stepped towards double doors that led into the manor’s dining room, inviting Beathyn inside.
He took the invitation, stepping out of the cold and into the spartan manor. “What am I delivering exactly?” He asked, and as if to answer his question, Solendis presented to him a war banner that laid across the long dining table. “That was carried by Sederis’ standard bearers.”
Solendis nodded. “It is the Banner of the Broken Bulwark. He used it to rally his men to join the Sunguard and its causes as Oathsworn. It also belonged to the soldiers of its namesake who died to a man defending the Broken Bulwark against Dame Everleigh.” The Steward of the Emberglades ran his finger along the tattered length of black canvas. “I want you to give this to Ms. Wintergale along with the following message: Return to the Emberglades at your earliest convenience. The Bulwark needs a Bannerlord.”
Beathyn gave him an incredulous look. “You’re trying to bribe her back into the fold by offering a wasteland?”
“The Bulwark isn’t a gift,” Solendis snapped. “It’s a responsibility. Much like how Lord Tarsaren before her inherited it after The Fall. Her duty will not be to rule, but to rebuild a broken land.”
Beathyn paused, looking at the banner that represented so much to the hundreds that had died in its name. “And what happens if she refuses?”
“Then you return it at your earliest convenience.”
“No,” Beathyn looked Solendis in the eyes. “What happens to the Emberglades if she refuses?”
“Since when did you care about our domestic problems?”
“I don’t. But the Glades were important to him.”
Solendis took a moment to consider the man before him. The Spymaster knew that before Beathyn had become a smuggler turned quartermaster, he had once been part of the Blood Knights during the Burning Crusade. He was no stranger to politics and power. Perhaps he could prove useful in the days to come. “You’ve helped keep tabs on Sederis for a long time-“
“Because I cared about him,” Beathyn snapped.
“Yes, that you did. But it also means that you wouldn’t betray his family in their time of need. Especially now, by repeating the things I’m about to tell you,” Solendis gestured to Beathyn to take a seat at the Emberheart’s table.
The party of diplomats approach the appointed village where the Shalemarchers had gathered. Judereth had considered bringing soldiers with her as a show of force, but decided against it. For a greater show of force was showing that they did not need them. For they had Lirelle.
Beathyn looks to the others present. Vissehn, Judereth, and Lirelle. “Stenden prefers a peaceful solution to this, and so do we,." he states, trying to set the tone right for the talks about to come.
"I mean that's th'whole point, right,” Vissehn says. “Get this stowed to focus on the wars elsewhere."
Judereth shrugs. "I am here to listen, they are this close to being branded as traitors. But for now, if there's a way to make them see sense, I'll take it."
"What happens is up to them,” says Lirelle. “We're wasting time thinking about anything else."
Vissehn seems in fine form, his Hawk Courier garb slightly less shiny and bright than usual. He'd picked up the set he wore during the war, and looked the part of the child-spy he'd been.
Beathyn nods and sighs. "Let's get to it then. Hopefully they aren't reckless enough to shoot the messenger... If not I guess they'll find that isn't exactly our first profession."
"Speak for yerself!” Vissehn pops his Hawk Courier collar.
Lirelle points at the others in turn, starting with Judereth. "Logistics officer, logistics officer, soldier, Hawk. I think you're the odd one out here Vissehn,"
Beathyn waved away the comments as they made their way towards the village, "Shhhh!"
[The Party Approaches the Village]
As the party approaches the village, they see a large number of armed peasantry. Carrying whatever that could be considered a weapon. Though they were poorly organized, the anger in the air was palpable. There was an energy here that ran electric through the Shalemarchers- A mix of Hope, Fear, and the Breaking of bonds.
The peasants part as they approach, directed towards the square.
Leyla Cinderblossom "Well met," says a girl, barely older than Vissehn. "I am you chose to respond to the missives we sent instead of just responding with swords. I am Leyla, Cinderblossom. Voice for the Shalemarchers." The accent betrayed that she had the trainings of a house-servant behind her. The only sort of education provided to the peasantry where both literacy and articulation were valued.
Beathyn smiled. "Well met, I can see why you were picked as the voice." He began introducing his party. "Beathyn Val'cinder. Vissehn Bladeborn. Lady Dawnbrook. And, your liege as of last week, Lady Swiftquiver."
Judereth regards Leyla, "That's Judereth Swiftquiver. Know that I wasn't nobility until I was... Nominated." She shoots a look at Lirelle.
Lirelle simply remains quiet, folding her arms and looming in the background. Her purpose here was evident, but if the others wanted to attempt a civil discussion first, she would let them.
Vissehn offered a short bow, snatching his cap from his pale hair as he nodded. "Wellmet, Miss." He says it with the right inflection-- the inflection of the villages and the caravans, where Miss isn't a dismissive but how you call the ladies who aren't yet wedded but deserving of more than 'oi, cousin!'
Leyla Cinderblossom raises her eyebrows. "Now that's surprising. Lords and Ladies never take part in negotiations personally." She gestures towards Beathyn, who had come on behalf of the Emberglades. "Too much mud and muck fer their liking."
Vissehn nods sagely. "Ruins th'shiny boots."
Leyla Cinderblossom laughs, and it seems to put the rest of the Shalemarchers at ease, somewhat.
"Hard to get the scent of squalor outa velvet, I heard too." Vissehn looks around, his eyes drifting over the homes and his lips twist sidelong. There is more than sympathy in his eyes-- there's anger.
Judereth speaks up. "So, Leyla. What is this about?" She gestures all around her. At the men and women who had armed themselves. The anger- enough to make them risk life and limb because peasantry, of all peoples, knew exactly what their fates were likely to be when they rose up.
Leyla Cinderblossom's ears flattened against her head, and eyes narrowed. "We are tired. Pushed, and pushed. It has gone on so long that people my age have not known of the elusive thing called -peace-.
"Since the Fall, taxes and levies have been taken for one cause or another. First it had been the Prince's Contributions to the Alliance. Then his Expeditions. After that the Horde, and all their Warmongering..." She lists them off, almost exhaustively. "And after the Phoenix Wars, at last, when there was a promise of peace. Our very own Lords throw us into another pointless War and we are sick of it."
Beathyn nods, slowly but deliberately. "So are we," he says. He wants to add an explanation to why the burden they carried was necessary but decided against it. It would not help things.
Lirelle glances at Judereth. She knew the reasons, whether she would try to share was up to her.
Vissehn nods at her frustrations. "It's the fuckin' short stick, aint it? And always on the ones at the bottom of the ladder to carry the heaviest while getting th'littlest." He snorts. "Like you can bleed a stone. Like you can carve water from a desert."
Leyla Cinderblossom looks at Vissehn, with anger in her eyes. "Exactly. Over and above the regular indignities done against us."
He responds. "Like babes born with th'same nose an' jaws of the manor's masters. Like sons that just don't come back home."
Judereth adds. "And nights where we were too hungry to sleep. I know. My family was no exception. Though we were protected by my father's position in Sederis' court, we were only spared the very worst of it."
Lirelle sighs. She tucks her arms back in front of her from where she was about to give Vissehn a warning nudge.
Leyla Cinderblossom bows her head. "I see that you are nothing like Lord Goodemeber. He did not treat us poorly, but he did not care. The injustices done by the lesser Lordlings, and mercenary officers were rarely answered adequately." She looks at Lirelle, as unnatural as the priestess was, and smiled. "Thank you for dealing with them."
Lirelle looks at Leyla. "I did not deal with them only for this to happen, coming from the very people we saved. I'm hoping that this will not have been a waste of my men's time, yes?"
Leyla Cinderblossom:"While we appreciate the gesture, a single action does not make up for decades of injustices... Though, we are grateful nonetheless."
Vissehn nods. "It's a shit system." He looks to Lirelle and opens his hands. "I known some good nobles in the Sunguard, I known some elsewhere too. Don't change the fact all of this system is out to drain people of their lives to prop up others, whose blood is the same color, whose right is the same." He looks to Leyla. "I ain't sayin' your wrong to want change. Not at all. I'm sayin' that there's power in voices as much as bloodshed, an' I'm hoping if we all scream the same words, we can do as much good without losin life." He presses a hand to his chest. "I'm a bastard born, an' I only got anywhere by signing to fight and die. Now, I'd like to see if I can keep my kith from graves. Keep your lot from familiar graves. Let's talk it to the table, an' see what changes can be made afore we go dyin' and killin."
Leyla Cinderblossom looks at Vissehn, eyes softening as he spoke. "That's selfless of you. Though the men and women around me are the ones deemed unworthy to fight and die- Tis' why we're here and not the militia who're now marching off to fight Illithia in a turn of events. But regardless... What are we to do then? We can't change the system, and we can't bear it either!"
"We can change the system. Sederis tried, an' went barmy there at the end but it was a start. Lord Stenden's already got commonborn folks at the table, speaking for you. Let's see if we can't move forward an' give you more voice." Vissehn speaks with an authority no one gave him, just because he's here and no one's stopped him yet!
[Negotiations Begin Proper]
Beathyn speaks softly to start with. "Then trust that the Lords that are coming into power from this mess of a war will bring the change you want." Riffing off Vissehn's response, pointing at Judereth. Lady Swiftquiver is right here, listening to you. "Yet more evidence that Lord Emberheart is trying to put more voices of the people in power."
Judereth sighs. "I don't expect you to trust me or my decisions right away. But I hope that you can give me a chance- and time to prove that I am worthy. I've been picked by the Lord of the Emberglades yes, but I have yet to be picked by my people-" she looks around her, not only addressing Leyla, but the others around her as well.
Leyla Cinderblossom gives Judereth a look. "Then swear you will do better. Better than the ones who came before you. Witnessed by everyone here today."
Judereth bows her head. "I swear it."
Lirelle unfolds her arms, the tips of the claws beginning to push themselves out of the bark, elongating and spreading in almost a parody of wings. "You would be wise to listen to the words of the others. Judereth might well be the first liege that you have who would listen and care. Best that you negotiate with her rather than with me."
Leyla Cinderblossom receives the threat well, all things considered. "I have no doubt that we will be facing you and yours on the field should the worse come to pass. We do not wish for it, but our choices are limited."
Vissehn steps forward. "On my honor, I ain't lettin a place I call home, or swaer oaths to, take and hurt the people of the land." He clicks tongue to teeth, considering... but then the idea slips off. Instead, he pats his blade. "Pick some folks you think have good heads-- make a coalition of the villages. Magistrates oughta be from merchants or farmers anyroad. See if you can send your own to get educated, an' then they can manage the affairs. I'll put a word in with my merchant friends, too-- they can perhaps see bout new traderoutes, once th'current kerfuffle is finished. Get new money in here-- I know your taxes take much, but of whats left-- this is a breadbasket, yeah? Make that bread. Sell it for more'n its worth to the far North."
Leyla Cinderblossom looks back at the building that housed the representatives of the Shalemarchers next to her. "That sounds like something we can work with. Good heads, not powerful heads, we had to weed out the powerhungry early on in this to make sure we had the best people for the job." She pointed at herself in a brief moment of levity.
Beathyn raises his hand, "AND- And I am sure that Lord Emberheart will be most happy with such an arrangement. He'd rather be loved than feared. I hope his conduct in the war has already shown as much."
Judereth clears her throat to remind Beathyn that it was not infact, up to Stenden. But her. "As Lady of Shalemarch, I will be -your- Lady. I promise you that I will guarantee that if you give me your trust, and your time, you will see this come to pass."
Vissehn speaks up. "She's got the means, an' ain't so far removed from bein' poor herself. It's no farmers daughter on th'throne, but it's a sight better than a fat bastard who keeps his pockets well lined an' cares little for the bastards his solders get on his people."
Leyla Cinderblossom shakes her head, "We will see you uphold what you've sworn first before making any more promises"
Vissehn opens his hands. Fair enough.
“And I would suggest you make your decision quickly,” Lirelle levels her crimson gaze at her. “There is a war going on, whether you asked for it or not. Do not think that what is happening here is a priority for us. We will be winning that, with our without you."
"So we're nothing more than driftwood in the tides of war then." Leyla looks at the men and women around her, looking to her to make the right decision, and that- was not death- not a death that did not matter as was it was quickly shaping up to be.
Vissehn looks her over with sympathy, and calls Beathyn closer. "Look-- I know you're fuckin' tired. I'm fuckin' tired. I watched my mother slave, my cousins die, an' for what. I'm still nothin'. I coulda been a lord-- got offered enough boons for killin' the right people for others, but I didn't take it cause there's no honor in it. I'm born in dirt, an' I'll be buried in it same as everyone else. This war is for the soul of this place; either an old man with no heirs, no plan, nothing but the Old Ways and greed wins... or someone with a lil more sense, a few more ideals, an' a willingness to learn wins. That's the choice; you throw in with Arenias if you stand with weapons now. You stand with him, against the changes to come. Do you wanna die for him, for this?"
Beathyn gestures to Vissehn. "The boy is absolutely right. If you rebel now, regardless of your ideals and what you are trying to martyr yourselves for- You will be seen as doing so on Arenias' behalf. I can almost guarantee that Solendis Emberheart will twist the tale into such. If you want change, this is not the way to do it.
"If you want change- Lasting change- You need to work together. Lord and People. Listening. Compromising. That is the only true way forward. Dying here, in fear and anger in the hopes that your voices and deaths will be statements to something greater will only be washed away in a tide of blood- And victors... Well Victors write the histories don't they?"
Leyla Cinderblossom looks around to the Shalemarchers around her. It appeared that Beathyn's words seemed to be aimed at them rather than just solely her and they were moved, she could see it in their eyes. "Aye," she says. "Then, on behalf of the men and women around me. We have struck an accord. We will go back to our homes- and await the promises you have made to us this day."
Judereth speaks. "All I ask for is a chance, and time to make this a reality."
Numbers. The only languages Beathyn enjoyed- truly enjoyed- were the ones that were spoken in numbers. They had no cursing or swearing. No words for hate, or ego, or lies. Everything was pure, functional, or an abstraction of life condensed to its simplest form.
Which was why it upset him to no end that The Sunguard’s books didn’t tally.
Unsung and unseen, just like the superior form and functions of their Elven latrines, Duskward Beathyn was the The Sunguard’s longsuffering Supply Officer. Who, under the command of Quartermaster Vulthaen Voidsunder, had become a self-appointed general of sorts. But instead of battle hardened warriors, or sharp eyed rangers, he led an army of clerks, cooks teamers, dockworkers, and the occasional courtesan. Together, they kept the gears of Sunguard moving, even if those gears occasionally needed to be greased with gold and the ‘appreciation’ of a professional lady of the night.
Delivery & acquisitions was Beathyn’s holy duty. For the Forgemaster Voidsunder was a busy man, ensuring their grain stores and coffers were filled, and working the Dawnforge to create weapons for the greatest heroes of the Sunguard. The nitty gritty had been delegated to the Duskward, and despite his best efforts, no one seemed to wonder where their payrolls came from or where the sausages in their mess halls were made. If he had to be honest with himself, no one actually cared, so long as they were waiting for them like plump wives when they were back from war. But the logistical corps of the Dawnspire did. Beathyn did. So being the overqualified paper pusher he was, he ensured that the complexities of handling the salaries of over a hundred heroes with different pay scales were sound, adjusted by rank and long-service awards. He ensured that their warmounts were fed and watered, and that their diets were balanced so did not look like fattened livestock the next time they were required. He ensured that the much loved combat pets in their local stable were kept happy and positively glowing- well, as much as warpstalkers and kunchong grubs could glow that is. Not only because these things needed to be done, but because, on some level, he enjoyed it. So Beathyn was a weird one for sure, but a weird one that kept everything running. One copper at a time.
But despite all that. The Sunguard’s books still did not tally.
While Vulthaen kept abreast of the coming and goings of the Dawnspire, Beathyn often travelled with the army. He needed to. Because more than once, his absence meant that their camps lacked drainage channels and competent cooks who did not reduce everything they were provided into a uniform grey stew. For the average Oathsworn who followed the Emberwards into battle, only ever did what they were told. They tended to be well-meaning but absolutely useless when it came to taking care of themselves. It was one of his core beliefs that you couldn’t leave them alone for too long unless you wanted a miniature apocalypse of lice to befall them.
But apart from preventing several varying kinds outbreaks, fresh water needed to be charted, scouted, and extracted from local aquifers. More than that, it needed to be transported by bladder wreathed donkeys, ensuring their mages did not suffer the indignity of becoming overqualified water fountains. Grain needed to be delivered, fresh vegetables foraged, berries crushed and mustard leaves grinded. It was one thing to be provided for, and it was another thing entirely to actually live.
But though he did all those things and more, the books weren’t tallied.
That for all he did, war and its machines had their own plans. They consumed. Indiscriminately, they consumed. People, gold, resources, lives, morals, and innocence. War ate them all. Taking them into itself and spitting out waste upon waste and ruin upon ruin.
So, the supply lines weren’t safe. Bandits stalked the roads. Holdings and farmsteads were burned, and had their livestock stolen or slaughtered. Winter was falling. The land was dying. So was it’s people. Families of the fallen needed to be written to. Their last will and testament recorded and followed through. Standard issued armor needed to be recovered and repurposed. Blood needed to be washed. New bodies found for them.
They did not tally.
Because sometimes, numbers alone were not enough. Love needed to be fought for. Supply trains needed to be protected, as did the ones who provided for them.
Sometimes, when streets ran red with blood and the land was torn asunder, he needed to speak in the only language that was universally understood.
Sometimes, Beathyn needed to speak with lead, and he had plenty of that in supply.
He whispered her name in the darkness, like a prayer upon his lips.
Let me keep her.
Beathyn opened his eyes to the freezing blackness that were the Winterspine mountains. He was here to do his duty. Building upon his successes planting mines and disrupting enemy movements in his small guerilla assignment given to him after Warplanning, he was sent a couple of days ahead of the main force of Felthier’s army. His mission, mine the passes. Cut off Frost-Lord Rabaanaaster from receiving reinforcements from the countless numbers of undead that waited beyond the mountains. After which was to regroup with the main force, and his lover, before their assault. Which was slated to start later today.
One more pass.
Gathering his things in the darkness of his survival, he peeked into the icy wasteland that bore no life. Scanning the twisted forms of trees that rose from the snow, he chewed on a tuber root that he had scrounged up the day before. His field pack was crammed so full of the components of seaforium that he had no space for rations. But he made do. The blight couldn’t taint everything. The fact that he still lived despite what happened to him in Icecrown was proof enough.
Moving like a shadow, the ex-paladin emerged from his camouflaged hideout. An arcane silenced hunting rifle cradled in his arms, ears twitching at every noise that was made. After moments of tense silence, he froze as shades flitted between the warped branches of the forsaken forest. He recognized the dark shapes in the forms of men from the unnatural way they jittered as they moved. Servants of a greater host.
Joceline.
He did not have had his connection to the light anymore, so he prayed to love instead. His assignment was going to take longer than expected. But though he feared he might miss the chance to fight by his lover’s side, Beathyn did not rush.
No me without you. They had repeated to each other like promises.
