The most important men in the city of Tolos were gathered around a single table, in the heart of the Camerenae, the largest and most magnificent structure perhaps in the entire world, a marvel of archetecture from which was ruled the city, the Etruscan lands beyond, and even the entire League. The table was a semi-circle in shape, with the venerable Prophet Aedus II at the apex, flanked on both sides by the administrators, generals, and political power brokers who ran the League. In this manner, they could all see and interrogate the ragged man before them as equals.

"Speak, then, messenger," the Prophet said slowly, "deliver your message in full for all these lords to hear."

The messenger looked pale, his face devoid of color, crippled with fear at delivering news- bad news- to the most powerful men he knew existed, including His Holiness himself. "Y-yes, your Wisdom," he managed. "It's the, ah, impostor claiming to be the Holy Oromis. He's landed in Laon."

"And how did he manage that?" asked Fadric, Duke of Lafferand, raising his thick eyebrow. "He would need to have quite the force indeed to seize Laon so quickly." Others nodded in agreement. Laon was one of the most important ports of the Gap's coast, certainly the most important in Grandell. Its defenses should have been more than sufficient to hold off an attacker's force long enough for them to send a host to relieve the siege, unless they'd badly underestimated the Pretender's strength.

"He didn't need to," the messenger said, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "Count Leoric surrendered the port without a fight, and swore to serve the Pretender." Seeing the darkening faces of the men in front of him, he added: "Of course, I, being loyal to the True Oromis, and his Prophet, rode for here as fast as I could."

[i]Hoping for a reward[/i], Lafferand thought, unimpressed. "You did well," he said instead, "thanks to you, we know exactly where the Pretender is. We must set out at once and throw him back to the sea."

"Is that truly wise?" the Prophet Aedus asked, and the others hushed in an awkward silence. The Prophet's word was divine law, of course; but Aedus was no longer in his prime, and his wits had dulled with age. It was a common belief that Lafferand was the one holding the League, his competence as Chief Minister unmatched. But tensions had grown high between the two in recent  years, Lafferand's favoritism and use of his position to increase his personal fortune causing Aedus to increasingly attempt to rein him in.

Attempt to rein him in; the Prophet was simply not very good at political maneuvering, and proved to be more of an irritation than anything else. Still, all the good lords around the table were sworn to serve His Holiness, so Lafferand only nodded somberly, replying: "It's the only wise course. As this traitor Count has shown, the longer the Pretender remains on our soil, the stronger he will become. We must ride out and crush him now, before his army grows greater still."

The Prophet still looked doubtful. "Battle carries its risks. Either side can carry the day."

"Only one side can win this battle," Lafferand answered. He smiled pleasantly. "With knights as valiant as ours, there is no doubt of the outcome."

"Hear hear!" some fools shouted, deaf to irony. 

"He set sail with thousands, by all reports," Aedus continued, refusing to let go. "With Leoric's defection, he might have as many as ten thousand."

"We have nearly that number gathered here already," Lafferand countered, unimpressed. "Another ten thousand marches north as well, courtesy of the King of Rozarria. And we'll no doubt rally many more on our march west. We're likely to double his number, at the very least. We were planning on marching south to push back the orcs in any case; we might as well pass through the Pretender first."

"The Mardochians are rabble, your Wisdom," the grizzled commander of the garrison spoke up. "They have no true knights, nor warriors. We'll make mincemeat out of them in pitched battle."

"Perhaps," the prophet said, dithering as he always did. "Who would lead this army?"

"Your Wisdom, you should lead it yourself," the young Duke of Tridatera said boldly. "Under your direct command, the men will be inspired to fight with righteous fury!"

Aedus looked as if he'd just swallowed something unpleasant. "It would not be seemly for a man of my position to lead men into battle. Surely-"

"You speak foolishness, Tridatera," Lafferand cut in briskly, feigning outrage. "It is not the place of a man of faith to lead men into battle. There are many capable and battle-tested generals here who could crush the Pretender with ease. For His Wisdom to risk battle himself, where he could be hurt or, Oromis forbid, killed..."

Aedus shot him a look he no doubt thought was venemous. "I believe I can speak for myself, Rozarrian," the Prophet said icily. "The young duke's suggestion has merit."

"This is a rash idea, Your Wisdom. You simply cannot-"

"I am Prophet! The voice of the immortal Oromis, father of mankind, and it is not your place to tell me what I can and cannot do, Duke!" Aedus looked about as angry as Lafferand had ever seen him in his six years in Tolos; good. "I will lead the army in person, and crush this Pretender like the blasphemous vermin he is!"

"As you say, your Wisdom," Lafferand said, trying to keep his expression blank.

"If I may," the messenger asked hesitantly, still there, "my travel here was long and arduous. Will I be recompensed for my expenses?"
"The Duke Lafferand will see to your reward," the Prophet said, waving his hand in Lafferand's direction. "Speak to him later. For now, you are dismissed."

"There is also the matter of the other foreign invasion," Aedus continued once the messenger had left. "News has been trickling north from Merida, slowly but surely. By all reports, King Pelicar intends to give battle to the Orcs."

"Will the nobility follow him?" a nobleman asked. King Pelicar was infamous for his feud with the nobility of Merida: His decade long reign had seen nearly incessent rebellions and civil wars.

"Perhaps, perhaps not. I intend to make sure they do." He beckoned to one of his servants. "Boy! Bring me paper and a quill!" He turned his gaze to the lords on either side of him in turn. "I will write every single one of them if I have to, and promise them the wrath of Oromis if their feuding gives the orcs victory. Where's that damn quill?"

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Hours after the meeting, Duke Lafferand rested on the parapets of the Holy Quarter, admiring the view of the polluted Tears, and the smell of shit and decay emanating from the pile of rubles they called a city. Truly, the cultural brilliance of the northerners was unmatched.

"Well, that could have gone better," Tridatera said as he came to join him. 

"Could it?" Lafferand asked, cocking his head.

"You were just publicly chastised by the most holy man in the League. I don't envy your position."

Lafferand smiled mischievously. "You should. Appearances are deceiving." For half a second, he considered elaborating on that point. The young duke of Tridatera was a useful tool in the politics of the holy court, and despite his age, he showed a great deal of acumen in the game they played. He reminded Lafferand of himself when he was that age, over a decade ago. But then, that was precisely what kept him wary of the young nobleman. 

"What news?" he asked instead. 

"There are reports of bandits up the Tears. Nerwainese, maybe. You know how the clans are."

"No doubt they're taking advantage of the chaos for their own gain," Lafferand said, unperturbed. "Any word from the forces of the coast?" A dozen minor barons were on the march east from their castles on the coast, he knew.
 
"None. I doubt the bandits would be bold as to attack armed men, but..."

He nodded. "Yes, we can't rely on their aid. Even if they're left alone, with the chaos the ruffians are making, they'll be slowed, at the very least, and will arrive to late to leave with His Wisdom." How tragic. Though the reinforcements were not numerous enough to truly make a difference- perhaps two hundred altogether, and raw recruits at that- Aedus would need every sword he could get. Not that Lafferand really cared what His Wisdom needed. "It is what it is. The bandits, whoever they are, should steer clear of here, so it's not really our concern for the moment." Prodded by his paranoia, he amended: "Still, it pays to be vigilant. Tell the Commander to double the watch. I'll fund the hiring of more guardsmen if that's required. Anything else?"

"Not really. A half-blood Tolosi by the name of Dehli vanished from the dungeon, to the stupification of the guards. No sign of forced exit. They're at a loss for an explanation."

Now that was curious. "Have the guards search the cell for a hidden passageway. But discreetly." The city might very well come under siege soon: in fact, he was counting on it. If it did, the existence of such a tunnel would be all they needed to wake up one morning with their throats slit.  

He was interrupted in his thought by the creaking sound of the gate opening, and the thunder of hundreds of riders departing. They would group with the main body of the host in the city, he knew, camping out in the uninhabited ruins. Then they'd make for the dockside, and cross the Tears, and no longer be his problem. 

The column of knights winding its way through the gates of the Holy Quarter was awesome: emblazoned with the golden sun of Oromis, mounted atop great warhorses, they rode on, the cream of the Etruscan nobility. It was a scene taken from the songs, even down to the setting sun, the dying glow of which making the golden cloaks of the knights seem to shimmer. 

Tridatera had the same thought. "They ride to glory," he said, breathless.

Lafferand snorted. "They ride to death. Dusk, not dawn." He looked back at the Camerenae. "I have to deal with the mess they're leaving behind. Stay and watch if you want."