In the shadows of ancient ruins of skyscraping cities, masses of wooden huts littered the forest expanses. Farmers and craftsmen shed their sweat working in the day and shivering with their families at night. With every village was a graveyard of those taken by the torturous winters of Canada, and with every passing winter, they grew, ready to engulf every village in a garden of white headstones. 

Outside the glamour, glamour meaning safety, of the Gaulish cities, villagers toiled to bring dues to their brutish king, housed in the crude, wooden rotunda with the local druid. A man swiped at his crops one at a time with a sickle, filling two barrels: one for his family and one for his king. Parts of his wool rags were soaked with sweat, and his limbs scream for rest. He walked up and down every row of his field, taking one after the other, preparing for the winter. 

Another stood atop his house, repairing his roof. His hammer smacked nail after nail, bringing board after board into place, but as the sun set in the West, he dropped his hammer down the gaping hole in his roof; he wrapped his arms around himself, knowing that he had to freeze another night. 

A woman stirred stew in a poorly made pot over a dying fire with an agonizing rhythm. Every back and forth with her spoon stretched the sinew in her frail arms as beads of sweat drop into the cauldron. An infant began to wail in the corner of the room, trapped in a round nest of twigs and cloth. The woman hurried to the child to silence his cries; he rocked him to and fro to the steady rhythm of the child's cries.

In the house of the ill, which was just as lopsided and loose as the houses of the healthy, an old man lied heaving on a mat, which is to say he lied heaving on the stone floor. From sun up to sun down he felt every beat of his heart, rattling his body with the same, agonizing rhythm. Every bump was pain, and between each bump was dread. In time, he'd know peace, but it would only be for a time, for illness moved with the same up and down, back and forth: pain and dreading pain. The whole village played to the tune of misery besides the king, and the druid whispering in his ear. 

A horse clopped into the village, accompanied by dozens of marching men and the beat of a drum. The people of the village halted. In the open, grassy cove, in the center of the village, a man in red robes and golden trim sat upon a horse with an ornate garland on his head. The people circled round him, following the drum beat. On his back was his symbol: a red staff with a gold sun at its head. Farmers and woodworkers, sick and healthy, men and women, young and old halted to observe. The rider and his men marched by the stares of on looking peasants and into the great, shapely rotunda. 
---

Red torches lit up the grassy cove, as the village gathered around the swiftly made stage in a half circle. The night had cast its darkness all around, but the torches lit the village in a blaze of red. A biting chill filled the air, except in the village, where the torches spread warmth. Behind the stage, a wicker man loomed over the congregation, golden and thirty feet tall, given an eerie glow by the torches on the stage. 

The rabble began to chatter as the king and druid waited patiently on the stage, fidgeting on the stools, frequently looking over their shoulders. The stage and people were surrounded in darkness on all sides, and the king and druid muttered between themselves in a hushed tone. 

The chattering and muttering was made silent by a beating drum. It seemed to come from nowhere when the drummer and his sizable drum marched out of the rotunda. He took his place at the far end of the stage as another man arrived behind him. He bore a megaphone, and he solemnly took his place at the center of the stage. The crowd and even the king and druid were instantly silent as he shouted, "Surrender your ears, comrades, as the leader approaches. All recognize Vercingetorix, King of Great Warriors, True Leader of the Gauls, and Herald of the Dawn."

The man's stomps on the wooden stage were heard by everyone on the crowd. His gaunt face was illuminated by the glow of firelight, and he seemed to stand taller than the wicker man. His herald offered his megaphone, a simple wooden horn, and Vercingetorix denied it. He smacked the bottom of his staff against the planks of the stage, and all were attentive, if they weren't already. 

"You toil in the dirt for your families and your tribe," he proclaimed, "and you surrender yourselves for everything that you love. I look into all of your eyes, and I do not see your suffering; I feel it. It fills my heart with more sorrow than blood, blood that we share, comrades." 

The people's eyes widened, their arms at their sides, as they heard him shout to the them and to the sky. Vercingetorix's motioned to the surrounding village, "I see the work that you do, and I know you feel that it isn't enough, not enough to keep you safe, to keep you warm, or to keep your beloved. Nay, I do not see it; I [i]feel[/i] it." 

Tears filled the eyes of many as they listened. Vercingetorix continued, "But every winter, nay, every day, it seems that all is taken away! All that you work for, all that you were given, slips between sweaty fingers, and in that moment, one knows the emptiness of misery." Vercingetorix grew louder as he went on, pacing from end to end, looking everyone on in the eyes as he spoke. With every moment he spoke, the people stood straighter, their jaws hanging loose and eyes wide. 

Vercingetorix beat his chest as he continued, "And I work too, comrades. I work for [i]you[/i], for you have all worked for me." He looked down, motioning to his robes and staff, "I did not make these; [i]you[/i] made these. You have made what is mine, so I seek to make what is yours. But what is yours cannot be made, for what is yours has been taken from you."

Vercingetorix swiped his staff pointing it accusingly to the south, "In the South, they do not make or earn; they take. In the South, there are no winters, no masses of white gravestones. The South steals, and from you and each other they have stolen all that they have." As Vercingetorix spoke, the crowd began to stir. "While you toil, my comrades, my beloved, scraping together what you little you can find with sweat slicked hands, the pigs of the South dig into their wealth with hands oiled with grease!" 
The crowd grew louder, many of them starting to shout, though none of them could overpower the voice of Vercingetorix. The king began to rise, but the druid held him back. Vercingetorix motioned behind him towards the wicker man, "And for the crimes of the South, I hereby sentence the South for thievery!" The lit torch was brought almost instantly not by the king, the druid, or any of Vercingetorix's men, but by a woman in the crowd. She reached up to him with her thin hands, and Vercingetorix took the torch and her hand in his hands. After thanking the woman, he tossed the torch into the wicker man, setting it alight with a reddish glow. 

"Their sentence will not be death, comrades." He cried, as the crowd jeered and booed. He continued, "Instead, their sentence shall be loss! When their gold and food slip through their greasy fingers, when they shiver in the winter nights with not a scrap to warm them, and when they weep over the plots of their loved ones, they will have paid their penance!" The wicker man was now almost instantly covered in red fire, tinting the crowd and the surrounding village with a red glow. 

"And all of you, my comrades, will be compensated! You, my beloveds, shall carry out the sentence!" He declared, his staff swiping at the crowd, his booming voice filling the air. Vercingetorix's men tossed the people's tools to the crowd, and as the wicker man burned, the drummer began to drum again. The people clanged their hammers and sickles together with the beat of the drum. 

"You shall dig into the wealth of the South, holding it in your hands! You shall feel the warmth of their hearths! War shall be waged against the South, and you shall wield your tools against them, and they will fall!" Vercingetorix's voice climbed higher and higher, still overpowering the beat of the drum and the clanging of metal. 

Vercingetorix virtually danced along the edge of the stage. Some have been reputed to rouse fire or wind with their staves; Vercingetorix roused people. With every swing of his stick, people reached for him, throwing their souls to him, and Vercingetorix looked them in the eye and brought them into his heart. "Everything shall belong to you, my beloveds! When the Red Sun rises, nothing shall be taken or lost anymore! Just as you have given everything for your families, your tribes, and for me, to you everything shall return when the Red Sun rises, and with it so will all those you have lost!" 

As he said this, the crowd lit up. With all of their cheers, still none of them could match Vercingetorix's voice. "The dead shall be brought to life! The cold shall turn to warmth! The sick will dance and the shivering will step into the sunlight! The worker shall wear a crown, and the North shall take the South, while everything they have slips through their greasy fingers!" 

The wicker man crackled in its blaze, the drum beat was lost to the euphoric rhythm of clanging hammers and sickles, and the darkness was lost in the heart of the red fire. Vercingetorix was now conducting an orchestra, controlling the music of adoration with every word and swipe of his staff. He raised his arms to the sky in his thunderous crescendo, "Brandish your tools, my comrades! You will have all that you have longed for, for I [i]love[/i] you, comrades! In this cold and awful world, where thieves are kings and kings must thieve, I [i]love[/i] you! Oh, please, won't you sing for me, my nightingales! Sing until the Red Dawn rises!"

The crowd began to chant what sounded like "wicker man" into the sky. The embers danced as the tiny village of only a few hundred became the brightest, reddest star in the night sky, filling it with the clanging of hammers and sickles until the sun rose. 
---

[hider=Holmi]
The head of the tiny village collectively ached after Vercingetorix's performance. The wicker man, burned for the South, now lay in ashes, many spitting in it as they walked by. Where the day would usually be filled with the beating of hammers, instead everyone gathered around the rotunda where Vercingetorix answered questions about his upcoming plans. 

The house of the ill, where Remix worked tending to wounded, was left largely unattended except by a few, including him and an old village elder, Lugurix, well versed in medicine. Most of the village had abandoned their duties today to observe see Vercingetorix even closer; while a house may cease to be broken, a person rarely ceases to be ill until they are dead, no matter how hard the medicine men and women work. 

Remix had worked all day in the house of the ill, and it had been an especially long day after the rally. It was now well into the night, and he knew that he was supposed to be working for a few more hours, but if he were to, he would miss Vercingetorix speak. 

Remix, if he was to do his duty, would have to stay in the house of the ill, unless he left to see the mighty Vercingetorix. No one would stop him if he tried, but he had a job to do.[/hider]

[hider=Augustus]
Catullus limped achingly slow through the crowd, ignoring everyone else. Few people were willing to complain to the old man, not that he would have heard them. They shoved their way beyond the crowd, left the large, round room, and left the last few people behind them. They walked beyond the noise of the reception, and until they came upon a room that looked very similar to the one they'd seen before; desks arranged in a semicircle around a larger desk. A balcony of benches hung above them. 
Catullus closed the door behind them, sealing their privacy. Catullus finally spoke, "You are a well regarded, well educated noble of repute. You are also a Rhode islander. 

The old king was from Rhode island, and with his now permanent absence we lack their representation here in Albany. I've personally selected you to be here, and you shall sit on the Senate of Albany. You have a choice in the matter, but you'd be stupid or mad to reject; I know you're not stupid, but if you're like anyone else in the Senate, you may very well be mad." 

Catullus turned away from him, running his hands along one of the desks. His eyes gloss over.[/hider]

[hider=Alejandra]
Conrad and his guard were brought back to a room behind the dais, where King Pompey lie in wait. If he were not wearing the same clothes, one might think that he was a different person; he stood somberly over a dark wood table, staring down at a map with his hands on the table. Guards flanked him on either side, and they were looked incredibly intimidating. Armored from head to toe, firm and unwavering, with a quality spear in each hand, anyone would be unwise to engage them of their own will. 

Conrad marched into the room, his guard behind him. "Congratulations, Your Highness." he greeted, bowing slightly. 

Pompey replied, not looking up, "This will be quick, Ambassador." Conrad was taken aback by the sudden informality and by Pompey's sobriety, especially considering his almost overly jovial behavior in front of the crowd. "This matter concerns both the Midlands and Albany, and it needs to be taken care of quickly. I hope you expected to leave as quickly as possible after this meeting, perhaps the day after. Word must travel as quickly as possible. I wish your people could have settled on one ambassador." 

Conrad shrugged his shoulders, "You would have to speak to St. Louis, Your Highness." 

Pompey ignored the comment. He quickly pointed to a point in the north on the map, just to the northwest of Wisconsin. "This is where Vercingetorix is now. He will be here..." 

Pompey pointed just north of New York will still quite into Canada, "...when your party will arrive, as will Vercingetorix. The Gauls have a tribal tradition of presenting champions from two belligerents to see who is likely to win in a potential war. If your champion wins, the tribes are likely to lose faith in the cause, and their support will splinter, even halve. If you arrive late, not only will the Gauls be declared winners, but the entire South will be seen as weak." Pompey looked into Conrad's eyes, "Don't fail."

"What say, then, if we go to war? What will we receive for conquering the Gauls?" Conrad replied. 

"As much of the North as the Midlands desires. Albany won't take any of it." 
Conrad shook his head, "What was the point of this meeting, then? Why did we splinter ourselves for this message? What is all of this about?"

Pompey turned from Conrad, looking at a bookshelf behind him. He paused, before replying somberly, "You must understand the importance of defeating the Gauls. For all we know, they spread infinitely North. Their numbers could be endless, countless tribes that Vercingetorix can simply through at us." Pompey turned back to him, motioning outside and replying snarkily, "If you want to know why you had to bring two ambassadors, ask St. Louis." 

Conrad put his hand to his mouth, absorbing all of this in. Conrad continued to ask questions about the Gauls, and Pompey had only dire answers.[/hider]

[hider=Eli]
The princess, now queen, became bright red, almost incandescent. She looked down at her lap with a beauteous innocence, her hands folded. The smile seemed to be pinned to her face as she tried to hold it down. She looked up to him with wide, sparkling eyes and chirped, "I'm sorry, you're fine I just... I've heard of you, and of what you're doing tomorrow and... I'm hoping you'll be alright, but..."

Julia suddenly turned paler than normal, averting her eyes. She held her hand to her mouth as grave thoughts entered her head, and she could hold them in now longer. She mumbled, "It's cruel what they're doing... when -- or if-- you fight tomorrow, you'll be killed." [/hider] 

[hider=Dietrich]
Dietrich stepped out into the hallway, where a few people chatted outside the main reception. There were stairs up to the balcony, where the band played, conducted by the Purple Piper, Trade of all Jacks. If he truly meant to talk to him, he may have gone there. He could keep going, however, down the empty hallways, into the empty, quiet foyer, to search for the shadowy man. If he had gone that far, he had likely stolen something from him. [/hider]

[hider=Pykes]
The party continued to buzz around the pocket of representatives from Blackwater, a party which all of them were excluded from in everything but technicality. Councilor Ells then approached Pykes from behind, having finished speaking with the old man with the bird cage staff. 

Ells spoke almost with leisure, "It seems quite clear why we're being summoned, though it might not be for the other party. We'll likely hear about dealing with the Gauls to the North, as they're unifying and preparing to attack Albany, and likely the rest of us as well." 
Ells took a more serious tone, his eyes glossing over, "You and I are more familiar with the Gauls, but they've transformed recently. They are no longer trifling tribes, and the stories of Vercingetorix are.. disconcerting." [/hider]

[hider=Morgan]
The Purple Piper, Trade of all Jacks, Master of Merriness, turned to her with the wryest of grins. "Ah, hello! I believe I've heard of you! You'll be here to "heal" for the tournament, yes? I'm afraid you won't get to do much healing, though..." The Piper chuckled. 

Adorned in high quality purple linen, one would almost call him regal looking. A glittering silver flute was bound to his waist, and his hand were always hidden, either behind his back or in his sleeves. His head was bald, and his eyebrows were also eerily nonexistent. Many people would be troubled to see such a person. 
Despite his role as a court jester, many speculated his involvement in the powers-that-be in Albany, even under the old king. He's quite a mysterious figure, and this would be one's chance to ask whatever they like. A truly rare opportunity. [/hider]