No sooner than King Osmodeus cast his vote, Lord Barad Anselm of the Weald came to his feet, drawing the eyes of the table.

"James Conrad." Barad declared rather curtly before resuming his seat. He resumed his seat beneath the stone likeness of mighty Yorick: the barrel-chested serf who downed his wood axe during the War of the Wyrms and felled dragons instead. The sculptor had skillfully carved a disheveled yet triumphant champion; muscle rippled under a tattered leather cuirass. Perdition, a blade so sharp and so resilient that it could cleanly rend stone - or dragonscale - in twain, had also been depicted in the sculpture half-buried in the scaly base of the pedestal upon which the victorious Yorick stood. Beneath the grand statue, the same starsteel blade hung idly in the unassuming leather scabbard of her modern owner, having lost much of its magical sharpness to the passing of the cycles.

The sons of Anselm too had been diminished by time. Even now, his descendant gave his vote away for the pocket change of another lord. Barad knew his progenitor would have been ashamed. As the voting continued on, he shot a brief glance behind him, to Heldan.

With a tacit nod, Heldan assured his Lord it would pay off soon enough.