Taking the port of Laon had been as easy as Oromis had thought it would be.

It was because of the good Count's defection, of course. That had simplified things greatly. Of course, he would have been able to take the city anyway, his fleet already in position to assault the dockside when the messenger returned with news of the Count's capitulation. But this way, he had been spared a great deal of hardship. 

Some of his commanders, Wolong chief among them, had been incredulous, to say the least, when he insisted on parlaying with Count Leoric. They insisted that the man was unlikely to yield the city, that every minute they waited worsened their situation, that the gamble risked the success of the entire war. Oromis had had to split the table in half to quiet them, and remind them that he was a God-King in the room. They had gone along with it afterwards, though with grave misgivings.

He knew the Count would surrender the city, however. How, he couldn't rightly say, and that disturbed him slightly. For all his magical might, he could not foretell the future. Since setting sail, though, things were... different. Silence's screams had dwindled to almost nothing, much to his relief. But all of that was unimportant compared to the reality of his war, so he swept those thoughts aside.

In any event, there was still resistance in taking Laon, generally the more fanatically-minded nobles making a nuisance of themselves. Within a few hours, though, they were safely locked away in the pits beneath the keep, and his force had swelled to some six thousand. 

So it was with some satisfaction that Oromis himself stepped through the gate of the town's keep, where the Count Laon made his residence. Now, though, the nobleman was on his knee, along with what Oromis assumed was the rest of his retinue.

"Up, up, I'll be having none of that," Oromis commanded, clapping twice, "Not from the man of the hour. Yielding the city has earned you the right to stand tall and proud." He threw a glance at the entourage around them; several dozen armed men sworn to either of them, far too many for his taste. "I wish we had the time to throw a feast in your honor, but we are at war. Is there anywhere more discreet where we can discuss matters of state?"

Count Leoric caught on quickly. "There is the audience hall, Your Grace," he said as he rose to his feet.

"Good. I don't need to tell you to bring only those whom you trust implicitly, as I will likewise do." He glanced back towards the men tailing him."Wolong, Lords Etcher and Dezco, you'll accompany me to observe and advise. Voldemaras, you should come as well." 

They all bowed at the implied compliment. Soon, after some more dreary formalities, Oromis found himself in the rather unimpressive audience chamber with them, as well as Count Leoric, and two of the latter's relatives. Privately, Oromis had his doubts about their place there- in his experience, nepotism bred incompetence. But Etruscans were very insistent on their dynasties, and he supposed that if Leoric insisted that they were trustworthy, he would have to as well.

Together, they all planned their next course of action. Word was no doubt spreading fast across the land of what had occurred there. They'd made their gamble; it was time for the enemy to show his hand.

The main problem in making any kind of plan was the number of variables in play. The main question was, what would the King of Grandell do? Oromis did not know the character of King Theobald, only his reputation, that of patience and cunning. His forefathers had been among the prime supporters of Oromis's cause, and they'd paid dearly, having a quarter of their realm ripped away. But was King Theobald the kind of man who'd remember that, and take a gamble? Or one who'd take the safest path, and try to curry favor with the Prophet? Oromis could not say.

At least Theobald had so far stayed out of the conflict. He'd even barred passage to King Rozzaria's massive army, it was said, forcing the southern king to take the long way around Grandell, to the northeast. Perhaps King Theobald intended to wait and see, joining with the victor only after the contest had been decided. If so, Oromis certainly intended to put up a good show.

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They spent a few hours arguing over the fine details of strategy. The Samni general, Voldemaras, argued that they should leave the city and fortify in the hills of Creac on the road to Tolos, and Oromis was inclined to agree. Though the three Grandish nobles were reluctant to vacate their dynastic seat, in the end they had to relent. After that came the endless business of logistics, namely that of moving an army not a day after it had stopped.

"We talk in circles," Oromis finally said. "The plans are drawn up, and there's no point fretting over them any more than we have. Fill the chamber with the nobles, courtiers, and the other riff-raff. I intend to remind them of a few things they've forgotten."

A bit of waiting later, and the noblemen of the Count's court were assembled on either side of the hall. First, he made a great show of commending Count Leoric, declaring him the most valiant and honorable lord west of the Nerwains. Then, he elevated Count Leoric to Duke Leoric, naming Laon an independent duchy, sworn directly to the crown. King Theobald would no doubt not appreciate losing one of his vassals in such a way, but Oromis intended to grant him his former lands, and then some, after attaining victory, as long as he behaved. It was better than anything the Prophet could promise him. Then came the time to make a public show of dealing with the prisoners who'd refused to acknowledge his divinity.

"Bring them in," Count Leoric barked to his men. The door of the audience hall opened, and in marched their dishevelled herd of prisoners, those regional nobles who had refused to accept him as their king and god. They assembled in a line before Oromis, siting on an elaborate seat from which the Counts of Laon ruled their fiefdom for centuries. Their time in the dungeon hadn't improved their health, Oromis saw; the nobles looked miserable and ragged. Yet in their eyes he could still see the glint of defiance, as they remained standing in front of him, their heads raised high. 

Oromis leaned forward. "It's customary to kneel before a King, you know. Let alone a god."

"You're no god- merely an over-ambitious impostor of blasphemous arrogance," one of the lords, a minor baron, interjected defiantly. "The true Oromis will judge you harshly."

"Will he, now?" Oromis asked, amused. "Between us, a lot of the things they say of me in those oversized temples are just wrong. No, I'm afraid I don't control the rain, and I can't make cure your crops of blight. I can do this, however." 

He waved his hand dramatically, and suddenly they were all forced on their knees. A chorus of snapping sounds, followed by howls of pain, told him that he had used perhaps a bit too much force. Oh well. "There you go, aren't you the nice little lords, on your knees as is proper." 

He looked at them, locked into place on their knees, faces distorted with agony, and he flashed an amused smile. "An impostor, you say? Maybe; there are worse things to be called. Mayhaps you will think of some of them while you rot in the dungeons. I'll send healers to see to your, ah, wounds at a later date." 

"First, though, I'll give you some time to reflect on the pain you currently feel. With any luck, it will help you remember, gratitude being a virtue I feel mortal men such as you seem to decidedly lack. Let there be no doubt in the minds of any: I have returned, and I will sweep away the decadence of the old Order." He motioned for the guards. "Toss this lot back into their cells. Tonight, we prepare. Tomorrow, we go to Creac!"

Some of the nobles in the audience edged away, he saw from the corner of his eye, no doubt rushing to send word to their master, exactly as Oromis had planned. [i]Good[/i].