[center][u] Ylleria, Capital of the Yllendyr Imperium[/u][/center]

Standing at the heart of Ylleria well within sight of the Vermilion Citadel, the very seat of Elven Imperial power, and nestled up against its counterparts was the embassy of the Old Forest. It had stood in that place for nearly eighty years, though few would recognize it now had they only seen it upon its establishment all those years ago. It wasn't that the building had been rebuilt, or even renovated; no, the reality was that it had grown. Great living vines and branches formed the uneven walls of the three story building, the immense product of a single seed that now stood as both an embassy and a reminder: that the past was not yet, that myth and legend lived on.

Within a creature from the nightmares of children the world over crept through the halls.  Its dull black carapace, mottled with shiny brown hairs, seemed to disguise it in the dull light of the embassy.  Every step the creature took, its many legs propelling it at a surprising if still leisurely pace, was silent enough that none but the most attentive listeners could have identified its approach.

Nevertheless, before it had even moved to push aside the leaf that served as a door to the room it had stopped outside a soft feminine voice sounded from within, “Curh?  A pleasant surprise, please, enter.”

The dark spider, Curh, obliged and entered the room slowly, reverently.  The Dryad within sat cross legged on a mat of moss growing out of the wooden floor, a small platform of raised and interwoven branches before her imitating a desk.  The room itself was spartan by the standards of Elves, Humans, or even the Weaver that had just entered it, though doubtless some personal items were in the small Yllendyr made chest tucked into a far corner.  Curh had on occasion wondered if all Dryads were so fastidious as the ambassador, she was the only one he’d ever known after all.  

The woman with wooden skin and fine green vines for hair stared into Curh’s many eyes expectantly and he delivered the news he’d heard only moments ago, “It seems the Elf is dead, Amaena.”

The Dryad actually cocked a brow, her statuesque wooden face moving as fluidly as any being of flesh and bloods would, “So soon?  I hadn’t expected...  Ah, no matter.  I presume I am to offer the Forest’s condolences to the family and congratulate the boy, what was his name?  Vomur? Congratulate Vomur on his ascension?”

If spiders could cringe.  Curh waggled a pointed leg to indicate there was more, his echoing and unearthly voice filling the room, “Vom[i]lur[/i], and it appears that will be unnecessary Amaena.  By all accounts the Crown Prince was struck dead by assassins moments after his father passed, the surviving princes have turned on each other and word is one of the four has perished already.”

Amaena stood slowly, what parts of her body weren’t obscured by a rich yellow dress bending and stretching as if they weren’t made of wood.  Her face twisted into an expression of concern as she adjusted the clothing, Curh was thankful Yllendyr modesty didn’t apply to his species.  The Dryad eventually shook her head and focused on Curh once more, “Have you informed the other ambassadors?”

The spider scratched the floor to indicate he hadn’t and she continued, “Ah, very well, leave that me.  Inform your fellows and have them contact the Forest at once.  This changes much.”

“I will do so Amaena.” With that said Cruh bowed and fled the room, a proper farewell was unnecessary, wasted time in the face of urgency.  His people were humble compared to such beings as Dryads and Shadows, but they were not fools, least of all Cruh.  He understood the gravity of the knowledge he carried as he made his way to the embassy’s radio room, and as he told the operators he could see the other Weavers did as well.

This was a disaster, and an opportunity.  At last.

[center][u] Heartwood, Capital of the Old Forest[/u][/center]

“We have not prepared for this, it is too soon.”  

There was a susurration in the room at the words, they all knew it was true.  The old Dryad, Shaetarae, was only giving voice to a collective sentiment, as unsettling a sentiment as it was.  For all the forest had grown in new and unexpected ways in recent times, they hadn’t considered that the Elves, those who’d demonstrated previously unheard of power eighty years ago and gone on to subjugate the world, would allow their empire to crumble.  Or at least, not quite so soon.

It was Ooash who spoke next, and the indistinct silhouette’s speech was incongruously smooth for all it seemed to resonate in the room, “The Dragons and their thralls will come again, then.”

Several assembled in the great hall cursed and glanced at the vast skull mounted at the end of the room, held up by vines that grew through its empty eyes and over its surface, a Dragon’s.  It’s presence did nothing to reassure them.  Shaetarae looked at Ooash, her gaze far more precise than those who struggled to distinguish the Shadow from its glamour, “Of course they will, belligerent children they are.  We will not be surprised by them, at least.”

The Weavers and Ursine pounded the uneven floor of roots in agreement.  Before they had stopped Gerum, a great Weaver far and away larger than even the other females in the room, spoke above the commotion in the hissing and echoing manner of the Weavers, “We have managed to recreate many of the Elves weapons in the shadow of the Old Mountain, this is true.  However, as it stands we lack the stockpile needed to arm even the Harpy warriors that have volunteered to learn the [i]rifles[/i], let alone my fellows who have trained on the [i]machine guns[/i] and [i]artillery[/i].  We have nowhere near enough to equip an... Army, as the Elves call it.”

The Dryads in the room, all of them, grimaced.  It was they who had insisted on caution, their twisted perception of time no doubt influencing their decision making.  Well, the situation was not unrecoverable.  Gerum went on, “That said, we Weavers have many many workshops throughout the Forest.  If the Great Beings in attendance sanction it, we shall begin to produce as many arms as quickly as we are able.  The Grand Ursine’s mines in the caves will have to be expanded, though.  As will their smelting facilities.”

The argument that erupted was a long one.  The Dryads were wary of damaging the forest, but the Ursine mollified their concerns by insisting the rock they cut into was dead, far below the Forests roots.  The Shadows objected to waiting, asserting that to do so was foolish and parties should be led into the lands of the Dragon Thralls to thin their numbers.  That motion was defeated by the Harpies, they knew well there was no way to eliminate enough of the spineless pests fast enough to make a difference when they marched on the forest.

By the time the debate was done all had agreed to expand the production of weaponry and to train as many were willing as quickly as possible.  The Dryads were still afraid of the consequences of expanding the industry on and below the Old Mountain, but they feared and loathed the Dragons and their Thralls all the more.  The very thought that the enemy could be slaughtered to the point the forest could retake the land they had stolen from it was enough to turn the normally placid women to bloodshed.

Beyond that the Harpies and Ursine had agreed to fortify the borders of the Forest, a measure supported by all.  Earthen walls, as Dryads in the Elven army had reported, would be erected and trenches to fight from dug behind them.  The Forest would never again be victim to the wretched creatures that lived outside its loving embrace. It’s children would never again allow it to be harmed.