[center]Summit of the Phoenix Tower[/center]

The lords sat quietly, all upholding an unspoken agreement that none of them [i]truly[/i] 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.