Kunt Tower: Lossan
“It’s not ready, my lord.”
“I am tired of your excuses!”
With a crash, an old urn shatters against stone wall. The crash echoes throughout the hollow antechamber.
A Mind Flayer in an ill-fitting and tattered, once-elegant robe stands with fists clenched and angry impatience flaring in his eyes. His underling, a small, quivering halfling, cowers against the wall, shielding himself with trembling hands in an attempt at defense from the Mind Flayer looming above him.
“We must leave the worm in the brine for another day, sir. If we remove it any sooner, it will be too frail for transfer.”
“It’s supposed to be so powerful that it all but consumes its host!” the Mind Flayer snaps. “How can it be too frail?”
“One can be both frail and powerful, sir,” the halfling insists. “We do not want it to be so weak that it will not have its chance to unleash its power.” He was recruited specifically for his knowledge of the forbidden corners of underdark arcana and physiology, and it was clear that Ambassador Huzhi Suliazhi, despite his prowess in other areas, was in over his head on the current subject matter. He does not like telling Suliazhi something he doesn’t want to hear right now, but the fallout from another botched transfer would be much worse than anything he’s enduring now.
Luckily, he is saved by the hasty arrival of one of his colleagues. Another halfling runs into the room, almost out of breath, then prostrates himself in front of Suliazhi on the cold, damp stone floor. He is seemingly catching his breath before speaking, but the first halfling knows that pause all too well; he has done something similar, buying time before having to deliver less than ideal news to Suliazhi.
“The Magistrate is coming, my lord,” the second halfling quavers once he finds his voice.
“He is early,” Suliazhi growls, displeasure dripping from every word.
“He heard we have taken her prisoner,” the second halfling says, still at Suliazhi’s feet, “and said a meeting was necessary to clarify terms.” He glances up briefly at another two of his dwarven colleagues who have been standing silently nearby in the antechamber. At their feet lies a small humanoid, about their size, covered in stained cloth and bound at the wrists and ankles.
“I don’t understand what he could possibly need clarified,” Suliazhi snaps. “The Orange Guard takes the city. We use the containment to find a suitable host. I have found a suitable host.”
“He says she is not a suitable host,” the second halfling reports, wincing and ready for punishment at the message he is delivering.
“Nonsense, he doesn’t know a damn thing about how ANY of this works,” Suliazhi snorts derisively.
Luckily, the sound of approaching footsteps and the distraction it provides allows the first halfling a chance to exchange an eye roll with his colleagues at the thought of Suliazhi accusing someone of their ignorance.
//
Jonathan Robertson is a composed human man, even one that would be considered handsome by many. He enters the antechamber in such a manner, retaining a serious and impassive expression as he strides into the dark, foreboding room as if it were nothing different from the well-lit, cushy dens, libraries, and municipal halls he is accustomed to occupying.
This composure was largely the reason why he was chosen for this job, as Chief Magistrate of Falschegal’s highest court. He had convinced the regional governors and the members of the Councils of both the Many and the Small that he would be the most impartial of arbiters at this post. Like the neutral overseer of a non-lethal duel, he had insisted, he would be ruling on matters of justice as if doing little more than judging which fighter struck first and where.
He had risen to prominence in hopes that he would issue his decisions in the heritage of the more human-leaning politicians. For the most part, he toed that line, and predictably decided cases before him in that regard. But his manner of doing so was constrained, calm, and consistent with the niceties expected of his station. He maintained the composure characteristic of the Cliffsides of society, the old respectable culture of proper noble politicians, and did not lower himself to acting in or displaying a manner of zealotry that was far beneath him. No, he left that to Kunt adherents.
The calm and evenness of his disposition rarely ever left him. Though this demeanor was consistent with the dryer, more technical decisions to be made (those regarding the minutiae and tax and trade disputes, for example), nobody would have been surprised if he showed any sort of remorse or smug satisfaction for some of the more controversial rulings he had to issue. Those were the rulings that could reach near and far across the country’s population in tangible ways, ripping entitlements and access to food, healing, and shelter to the most vulnerable populations. And yet despite the known impact of these decisions, Robertson approached them with the requisite solemnity required of his post and did so unflinchingly, for better or for worse. It was unclear if he was simply insensitive or cruelly indifferent to the impact of his decisions; all anyone knew was that his unyielding professionalism prevented him from showing any inclination or emotion one way or another.
With that same, impassive expression, he had even shown the rare boldness of rendering decisions contrary to the interests of his noble human brethren, sometimes in favor of the nonhumans. His grounds for doing so were narrow and of technical, legal reasoning. Some regarded these rogue decisions as a betrayal, while he considered these decisions to be consistent with the impartiality that he vowed from the outset. Though his brethren eventually came around, they spent many weeks all but spitting in his face. And still, he took all of it, with the steely calm and composure he was known for.
It is fitting, then, that he remains composed even now, as cultist worshippers of Dunghill Kunt hold his colleague, knocked unconscious and bound, right in front of him.
“You have moved too hastily, Suliazhi,” Robertson says, gesturing to his bound and unconscious colleague. “This was not part of the plan. We can’t undo this.”
“It is by Flintstone’s orders that we have taken her.” It was not a lie, but Flintstone did not specify what state she was in as long as she was incapacitated in some form. Suliazhi had taken it upon himself to use the situation to his advantage and dispose of her in a way that would be useful to him.
“Cliffside doesn’t know what we’re doing here,” Robertson says.
“What he knows and allows is none of our concern.”
“He is our Chancellor,” Robertson says coolly.
“Kunt is our Chancellor,” Suliazhi hisses back at him. “And we are continuing his work.”
“Clearly.”
The noble human side of this war had claimed Robertson before he even took his position as Chief Magistrate, he knew. He admits his inclinations fall in step with theirs more often than not. And yet there was something about these past few years, where he watched the human nobility and their followers reach beyond the limits of respectability and decorum with crazed hands to push down the nonhumans.
It was more the lack of respectability than anything that he found to be in poor taste. The means, the rhetoric, the brazen rush to an end that he also sought was a little too much for his liking. Smaller, more subtle steps over a longer period of time was the old way. The new way, the path that Kunt had forged and shown the humans was possible, was quicker but far, far messier.
Suliazhi, Robertson knew, did not seem to be afraid of making a mess.
“Grant me the small,” Suliazhi growled, gesturing to the bound body at his dwarven underlings’ feet. “She is already in our possession after clashing with our forces.”
“No.” Robertson did not know if Suliazhi was lying, if she had actually clashed with the Orange Guard or had simply been taken before she could fight back, but that didn’t matter now.
“Would it not be the ultimate slap in the face to the Resistance?” Suliazhi sneers. “One of their heroes, beloved for her mind, but all of her memories gone and devoured with a servant in our place? One of their heroes, beloved for her strength and tenacity, that very strength turned on its head to serve us instead of them?”
“She is old and frail.”
“She is POWERFUL.”
“That she is.” Robertson agrees. He has worked by her side for many years. She was even at her post at least a decade before he arrived and ascended to his position. He knew all too well the power she held, and they had both both clashed many times. “She is also old and frail,” he continues coolly. “Perhaps if you had taken her in her prime, you would have what you need. But you are many decades too late. Your efforts would kill her. Using her would be a waste.”
Such an argument has merit, which he knows Suliazhi knows grudgingly. But Suliazhi would not give any indication of such an admission. “Would killing her not be satisfying enough?” Suliazhi asks carefully with a sneer.
“Perhaps. It would also be foolish.” The city would doubtlessly rally behind her and go absolutely feral at the news of her being murdered in this war. In life, she was a hero. In martyrdom, she would be nothing short of a god.
They stare at each other for almost twenty seconds, letting Robertson’s last remark hang tensely between them in the otherwise silent room. He need not elaborate any further than what he has already said; Suliazhi knows he is right.
“We keep her here until we can find another in her place,” Suliazhi hisses angrily, finally. He turns to his underlings. “Take her to the Inner Sanctum.”
“But, my lord, the outer chambers—“
Another feral yell from Suliazhi is all it takes to get the four underlings moving again. Though they are small, the body they carry is similarly small and thus not as cumbersome of a load for the group. They scramble away, audibly sighing with relief as the door straight across from the antechamber entrance swings open.
Suliazhi and Robertson are left alone in the antechamber as the four disappear into the Inner Sanctum. They both face the door to the Inner Sanctum but do not lose sight of the other in their respective peripheries.
“You were once the mayor of the great city of Broadison,” Robertson comments dryly. “It’s funny, what the years can do to a man.”
“I am not a man. Not anymore,” Suliazhi says. “No, now, I am something much, much greater.”