As the sun gave way to the moon, most of the immediate matter requiring Oromis's attention had been dealt with, and he sat in on a chair in the luxurious visitor's chamber afforded to him, courtesy of the good Count. There was still a slight spring chill in the air, carried into the port from the sea, but...

"It's still more pleasant than the isles," he mused. 

He'd just seen off a very annoyed Lord Etcher, who'd been very disapointed in not being put in charge of the vanguard of the army for the coming march. Let him pout, then, I have better things to do.

Or did he? Try as he might, he could not think of what to do. The plans were drawn up, the preperations were out of his hands, the books on offer here were meagre in quantity and quality, and he had no more interest in the... private amusements of mortals, of either sex, than he ever had. It was quite bewildering, in fact: Here he was, leading an army in war, and he was bored. More than that, though. He could begin to hear the shrill screech of silence once more, and was growing increasingly restless. 

Eventually, he had had enough. He summoned Neranden, one of the younger sons of Perinhold who was acting as his squire. But Oromis had yet to need armor, and Reingunger did not stain the way other blades did, so the boy was left acting as a messager. "Go find the Colonel Gordon, of the Grey Winds," Oromis instructed. "Bring him here; I'd dine with him."

He couldn't see the Colonel refusing; with all the work being done, the detatchement from the Winds hadn't eaten since morning. As Naranden was leaving Oromis added: "Oh, and get the Samni, Voldemaras. And food for him as well, I suppose."

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Jorge had too many things to do. Such a long detachment put unique pressures on a commander, above and beyond the usual duties. Not least of which was logistics [which Jorge noticed he pronounced in the same way as 'tapeworm' or 'leprosy'. He was thankful he had Agallon along; the man worked harder than anyone else in the Winds, and he doubted the army would survive long without someone of his talents. Even with the logstician's capable help, Jorge still had overall command, which meant on top of his own duties he had to assume those that the General would usually handle. He had to talk to village elders, conference with scouts, read reports from allied units and generally figure out not only where and when to be but exactly how to do it.

And now, he had to go have dinner with someone who at least claimed divinity. The bizarreness of the situation at least helped his frustration. Jorge Gordon, former farmhand and middling sellsword being invited to dinner by a man who was among the most powerful and influential people in the whole of the world. He had never spoken to his god: the General had done the lion's share of the talking during their pledge of fealty and service. He wondered what the man would be like. From his commanding officer Jorge knew full well how similar and different the public and private faces of public figures could be. The deity was certainly frightening in front of a crowd, but some part of Jorge [the same part that likes to dive from cliffs and break horses, no doubt] wanted to see how much of the pantomime was present within his ruler.

The guards at the lavish door eyed him warily. Oddly, their skepticism put him at ease. It would feel strange following a leader who did not take proper precautions, and if there was one thing the General had acclimated him to was high security and innumerable failsafe measures. He would have been more nervous if there [i]weren't[/i] guards at the door, and while their whithering stares would have likely made an average man's legs quiver, they simply put a smile on Jorge's face.

He entered without knocking, not wanting to waste a God's time. He entered, but as soon as he stepped over the threshhold, he realized he had no idea what the precedent would be. A salute seemed wrong, especially since the Winds still used a salute from an enemy nation. Doing nothing at all seemed unthinkable, but he didn't know if he should kneel or incline his head or just try to double over from the waist. He did the latter, thinking it the most likely to please, but as soon as he overcame one stumble he hit another. He hadn't the faintest idea what to call a deity. He tried to think back to what the General had said when she pledged them to his service, but the fogs of time and the sea sickness he was cursed with at the time made it impossible. He trusted his gut one more time.

"Your Majesty, you summoned me?". He did not raise his head.

"Indeed I did," the God-King said amiably. He waved over the table he was currently sitting behind, which had more food on it than what most mercenaries saw in a week. "I confess that I know little of your illustrious company, a situation which needs to be rectified. Would you be willing to satisfy my curiosities, and enjoy the good cook's food as well?" 

Not even waiting for the obvious answer, Oromis waved towards a third chair. "The Samni warlord, Voldemaras, will also be arriving shortly. We might as well all get to know each other before charging into the meat grinder. You can sit down, you know. As a  policy, I do not converse with those above or beneath me. I'm not going  to light you on fire for not following court protocol; another of my policies, as it happens."


Jorge straightened himself, slightly surprised at the casual tone of the deity. He appreciated the straightforward approach and the obvious accomodation of his less-than-courtly manners. His feelings towards the content of the God's speech were not along these lines. Oddly, the first thing he thought about, before addressing his more sensible worries, was 'Can this man read minds?'. He certainly hoped not, but his limited interactions with magic had left him more wary than most thought he should be. Regardless, he wondered if he should try to counteract it. He then realized that if his ruler could in fact read minds then he would know that Jorge suspected, and would no doubt just make things worse. Pushing unanswerable, disturbing lines of inquiry out of his mind, he silently made his way to the offered chair.

He sat down, and feared what was coming. Oromis had good reason to want to understand the Winds, but such lines of inquiry would make him walk a knife edge between loyalty and confidentiality to his General and fealty and honesty to his new God King. Not that there was anything particularly incriminating to hide, but his time as a provost made him very aware that everyone did something punishable at some point, and he knew he and his comrades would be no exception.

He smiled lightly, and spoke as politely as he could manage, trying to wrestle his still-prevalent eastern accent into submission. "I would be happy to, Your Holiness. I admit it has been a long time since I had the pleasure of a meal fit for royalty.". The last time had been at Lexicadria, and he doubted his new king would be happy to hear that particular story.

"Though, I certainly hope there will be no meat grinder. I am sure we'll triumph without significant bloodshed."

He awaited a response patiently, still not daring to meet the man's eyes.

Oromis smiled. "Idealism... From a sellsword. How refreshing." Pausing for a moment, he went on: "But back to your company. Oh, I've heard stories of the Grey Winds, most no doubt exagerated. Hundreds of battles won, entire nations toppled... Your company has been the most prestigious of its kind of what, a century?"

"I wouldn't call it idealism. I think we have good reason to be optimistic, though.". 'Well shit', a part of Jorge thought. 'He can read minds'. He wondered briefly what the General would do, and decided to try and keep his mind as blank as possible while still being honest with the God-King. Not that it would work: he was pretty sure such measures would only last a few moments before he dropped his guard. Regardless, he tried it.

"I wouldn't say that, my King. We've certainly had a hand in those things, but I wouldn't even claim major responsibility. There is only so much a few thousand horsemen can do. Though, the General is doing well by us, and we're certainly not hurting for wealth or glory, especially now that we serve you, my King."

He tried to hold the image of wrestling kittens in his mind firmly, but after a few moments of the mid-speech silence gave up the task as pointless. He wasn't cut out for this sort of thing.

"There will be wealth and glory aplenty to go around, true enough," Oromis conceded. "But in this world, those aren't hard to find for men with swords and hearts of iron. I wonder; why did your company cross half the world to serve me?"


Jorge had seen this question coming a mile away, and was in the know enough to answer it confidently, or so he thought.

" General Asta decides where the Winds go, as long as she pays us. We're being paid here, better than ever, which, in addition to the hundreds of us who see you as the one true God, explains why we have continued to serve. As for why the General decided to swear our fealty to you, I expect she thought that you would win, and wanted the Company to be on the winning side. I don't know the General all that well, your Majesty, but I would expect her motivations to be the same as most. She is not a particularly religious woman, but titles, riches, status and power have motivated decisions for millennia."

He hoped the being opposite would find the answer satisfactory.

He was wrong. "No doubt I can pay better than the elven lords of Tolos," Oromis answered drily, unconvinced. He took a bite out of a piece of bread. "What do men want?" he mused, more to himself than to his guest. He blinked, and turned his attention to Gordon once again. "Do you know what I want Colonel?"

Seeing Gordon struggle for an answer, Oromis contnued: "Peace." He examined the Colonel for a second. "I wonder if your General Astra can say the same."

"I can't speak for the General, your Majesty, but I doubt she would be adverse to peace, if she helps build it. Though, if you will forgive me, I have to say that a desire for peace may be unrealistic. Obviously, I'm not a scholar, but there has not been a lasting peace yet, no matter how much people want there to be. People will always disagree, I reckon, and disagreements will lead to conflict. Of course, the Winds will follow you until the end, as we have sworn, but I would beware a rule that stops violence with more violence: I could not call it peace."

"I am no scholar either," Oromis said once Gordon had finished, "but my opinion is hardly based on naivety; I've lived... existed, rather, long enough to see the old Emperors first raise Tolos from the swamp it was." He paused, and for a moment looked confused, before shaking his head and continuing: "In any case, what you say is true, peace in our world is impossible... for mortals. A king may conquer the entire world, but when he dies, everything falls to anarchy once more. But I am not subject to the same scourge of time. Once the world is united, I will be able to keep it so, hopefully in perpetuity."

"As to how I will rule... The fisherman who's been gutted, his wife and daughters raped, his house burned, suffered so because of the weakness of his lords. Violence is not the key to peace; fear is, and so it is by fear that I will keep the peace."

Jorge's mind briefy flashed with scenes of the imposing man in front of him choking on a walnut, or falling down the stairs, or slipping in his bath. It was all he could do to keep the involutary smile off his face. His composure restored, he replied after a moment to gather his thoughts. "But, what if the people don't wan-"

Swinging open the doors in a fairly aggressive manner, Norman entered the hall in which Oromis and Jorge were already engaging in a potentially uncomfortable conversation. The giant of a man was adorned in one of his finer tunics, which sported an eye catching deep purple color, with ornate embroidered patterns lining the collar and sleeves. Upon his shoulders rested the fur of an Arctic Bear, an animal commonly found in the northern tundras in Samnidall. 

After making eye contact with the other two figures that were present, Norman politely lowered his head, shortly before raising it again. “My king. I trust you are in good health?”

"Ah, Voldemaras," Oromis turned. "Yes, though the question is moot, since I can't recall ever not being in good health. Oh, and I believe the rightful title is God-King. Or Emperor?" He smiled knowingly. "I can never make up my mind, and neither can anyone else, it seems."

Norman exhaled softly. "Pardon me, Emperor." he corrected himself, intentionally avoiding the use of the term "God". "It is my pleasure to be in your presence. May I seat myself?"

"Be my guest," the immortal answered, waving towards the seat next to Colonel Gordon. "There's plenty of food for all."

The Samni general promptly took his designated seat beside the Colonel. "I believe we have upcoming conflicts, do we not?" he asked, placing his elbows on the table and softly rubbing his forehead, chasing away a slight headache.

"The war? We've planned that to the smallest detail, and then planned it again," Oromis complained. "If I have to see another map of troop movements, I'm going to rip it to shreds. No, as I was just telling the Colonel, I think it would be best if we actually knew the men we were fighting beside. And, to be frank, I know little of the Samnidall; I've never been there myself, as hard as it is to believe, or even met someone from there before you. I'll admit that you've piqued my interest."

"I understand. My men have grown restless. Many of them seek revenge upon our enemies." Norman explained, casually placing various foods on the plate before him. "However, as for me. My family left with the rest of the Mardochians when they settled on the Hamrock Isles. Not to disappoint you, but I only carry Samni blood, and nothing more. However, knowledge of my origins has led to several Samni volunteers joining our ranks, many of which serve within my own brigade."

"Then it is them that I should have invited to dinner," Oromis quipped. "Ah, what a poor host I am, I haven't introduced you to the Colonel. Colonel, this is General Norman Voldemaras, whose exploits against the Etruscans in the previous wars you've no doubt heard of already."

Norman slightly bowed his head towards the Colonel. "Forgive me, Emperor. Despite not being one with the Samni culture, I still am a loyal general who has on more than one occasion defended our shores as we waited for your return. My men are among the finest in your army. I hope that makes up for my lack of culture."

"Of course," Oromis said, taken aback. "I don't doubt your worth, or that of your men." After an awkward moment's pause, he pressed on: "You arrived at an opportune time. Tell me, good General, what would you say is the key to peace?"

Norman shifted in his chair, pondering the question. "I personally believe that as long as a man disagrees with his neighbor, men will always desire to take up a blade or an arrow against one another. Men like us are not remembered for bringing peace. We are remembered for our victories, and ultimately, our defeats. I do not believe it will ever change. That's a very philosphical quesiton, and I can not say I am a terribly philosophical man."

Oromis smirked. "Very well, evade the question with nihilism. It is a discussion for us, ah, 'philosophical men', I suppose. But enough philosophy." He raised his glass of wine in the air. "A toast, to our coming victories."