[IC] Americhronism [Medieval Post Apocalypse]

[Card]

Tiny taloned feet jumped along the cracked concrete. For hundreds and hundreds of leagues stretching, there were dilapidated and destroyed roads. Small mountains of concrete, brick, and metal rubble lined them. Husks of buildings, empty, dusty, and lifeless, were scattered for miles. Some stretched and grasped at the sky, while others were humble and closer to the ground. The humble buildings, likely the ancient shelters of families, were clustered together into what were likely small communities. Metal poles with lights that no longer worked framed the intersections of these roads, their colored lenses dimmed. If one searched long and hard, passed the concrete graveyards and giant steel corpses, passed the empty, veiny, paved roads, and passed the limp limbs that were once harbors on the shoreline, one could find purple mountain majesties and amber waves of grain tucked away in little pockets of lively greenery.

Behind that tiny taloned sparrow, an old man, hunched and tired, followed. He wore a mesh of baggy, dark grey cloth that covered him like a robe. His sleeves were broad and deep, and a tiny tail of tattered cloth trailed behind him as he walked. He clasped a rugged column of wood, one that could almost be mistaken for a tree branch. It hooked at the top, and from that hooked top hung a black, iron bird cage, just large enough to snuggly hold a sparrow. As the pair, the old man and the bird, walked together, not a single footprint was left in the unyielding concrete. The couple had passed an intersection, and beyond that intersection there was only a single strip of road, serpentine as it ran through the eye of the rising sun.

As the pair continued their trek through that winding road, the old man stopped. Still in the ruins of an ancient city, a metal bench sat on the side of the road. The old man shuffled towards the strip of black metal and took a seat. His trembling right hand, with accentuated, swollen knuckles, reached into the depths of his opposite sleeve. He pulled out a curled sheet of board, the equivalent of paper fashioned from salvaged cardboard boxes, and unfurled it. His wrinkled eyes squinted as the sheet was brought closer and closer to his face. He deftly rolled it up and stashed it in his sleeve again. His tiny bird companion hopped with fluttering wings onto his lap, chirping furiously. The old man extended a calloused and dirty finger towards the bird as he murmured, "Passer, deliciae meae puellae."

The man and his bird continued down the ruin, the morning just behind them, nipping at their heels.

The high noon sun reflected off the old man's bald head, and beads of sweat slid down his long, wiry, graying beard. The old man lurched down the wide concrete pathway, soldiers encased in carapace (a material that combines assorted leather, hard plastics, and thin metal) lining the grassy road to an ornate, ancient building. Rectangular, spires at every corner, the style of the building appears to predate even the dilapidated towers of the Old World. The patchwork army, armed with makeshift spears, marched in formation, hours before the lawn would be covered in ambassadors and merrymakers. The soldiers let the old man take his drawn out steps and struggle up the stairs, beyond the toppled statue (sans a plaque), and to the doors of the building.

As the doors closed behind him, King Dowager Pompey sauntered down the stairs in his royal regalia. A crown glittered atop his head, with a red cape trailing behind him. He shouted to the old man, his arms wide open, "Welcome, Magister! You arrive early for the ceremonies, but my court is happy to accommodate you."

The sparrow jumped in his cage hanging from the old man's staff. The old man replied, "I'm not here for the ceremonies, Pompey."

Pompey stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "Then to what business do we owe this occasion, Magister...?"

The old man, his gaunt face scrunching, continued marching towards Pompey, his staff striking the floor with every stride. "You know my name, Pompey. You also know why I'm here."

Pompey, his round, bald face twisted in a wry grin, began to walk beside the old man up the stairs. "Really? I think I might have heard of you... Cat... Catil..."

"Catullus." The old man dryly interjected. At the top of the stairs, Catullus took a left, marching up another small flight of stairs, Pompey's cape flapping behind him.

"That's quite a Roman name; are you from here, then?" Pompey jogged to Catullus's side enthusiastically.

"I have taken the name of the author whose work it is my duty to memorize and translate." Catullus stomped down the empty halls, covered with outlines where paintings and busts used to rest.

"That's quite interesting, I never knew-"

"I've told it to you every time I've seen you." Catullus interrupted. The sparrow remained quiet and still, rocking back and forth as his cage swung with the staff.

"Really? When did we first meet?" Pompey asked, as he and his visitor's steps echoed in the entirely vacant building.

"I raised you." Catullus commented.

"Really? I'd think I'd know the name of someone to whom I owe so much." Pompey retorted.

Catullus turned to Pompey, while his eyes, wrapped in wrinkled skin, met Pompey's for the first time that day. He exclaimed, "Fuck you." He kept walking.

Pompey sped ahead of him and opened an lavishly carved, if ancient and peeling, wooden door. The two walked in to a round, panoramic room. The room's furniture was clearly never replaced and, miraculously, it didn't need to be. The chairs were shifted to the side to allow a center aisle leading to the luxurious throne, which was the only addition to the room. Looking up, one could see the balcony, where common folk with money could observe the king make his declarations; however, usually blue bloods would be the ones sitting in those benches.

Pompey gingerly closed the door behind him, "Gods damn it, Catullus."

Catullus, walking down the center aisle, shouted, "It's your fault."

Pompey raised his voice, "It's my fault that the people will throw a fit if they think I appointed a Magister?"

Catullus walked into one of the front rows, "For one, they won't throw a fit; they'll grumble and groan and go home. For two, a Magister has always been an advisor."

"The king never had a Magister as an advisor."

Catullus cackled, and his sparrow chirped wildly. "You hold his place no less than three times, he dies in war, you marry his daughter, and you wear his clothes, and you still call him king."

Pompey followed Catullus into the aisle, removing the crown from his head. He stared at himself in the warped, tinted reflection before he tossed it on the chair next to him. He wiped the sweat from his furrowed brow and plunged himself on a seat next to Catullus. He picked up the shimmering crown again, feeling its weight in his sweaty palms. He scratched at the golden chains holding his mantle and cape before unfastening them, letting them slump and furl into the chair. He looked up at the old man staring down at him and asked, "These clothes are hot and itchy, and the crown is heavy. How does anyone wear this?"

Catullus placed his swollen, veiny hand on his shoulder. He sat down in the chair next to him and replied, "He doesn't wear it in an empty building."

Pompey shook his head, and the two shared a moment of silence. Catullus spoke up again, asking, "Now, where are my quarters? My bird needs to breathe." Catullus wiggled his fat finger between the bars of the bird cage; the bird grew to attention as he gently pet its underside.

---

Everyone BUT Holmi

In that same room, revelry and music filled the air. The sun had yielded to the mystery of the moon and stars; the Fates are known to work at night.

The new king of Albany, King Pompey II, sat on the dais around his throne, with his new wife, Queen Julia, beside him. Pompey drank, welcomed powerful friends and ambassadors to approach and talk, lingered around to chat, and sang to the tunes of the band playing on the balcony with everyone else, the praetor always standing by his side. Queen Julia the First sat on the dais.

Visitors of note came from across the continent to view the spectacle, the crowning of a new king after the glorious but fearsome reign of the Wandering King. Any Albanian noble worth his or her garb would make the trek to see a new king being crowned, whether it took hours or weeks to arrive. Many Midlanders, those from the Land of a Thousand Kings, had made their way; more than anyone expected, anyway. They remained largely in their huddles in the corners of the room, but the bigger names among them sought audience with the King. They didn't understand that coming to a wedding only for business is rude... unless they were invited to. For such a long journey, it was peculiar to see so many of them arrive. The native born speculated their business in whispers, and the conjectures became more outrageous as they lingered around the room.

No souls from the South showed their faces, and few beyond the Mississippi bothered to arrive. Freelanders had little stake in the East, though a few from the Westernelles could be seen, sucking the room dry of drink. Her lack of status both revealing and concealing, a renowned medicine woman had attended the ceremonies; she was invited for the tournament which would take place the next day. The wounds inflicted in that tournament could not be healed by the Fates let alone medicine, but that's for another time.

At the height of the evening, King Pompey II disappeared to a backroom, leaving his new wife behind. Whatever he was engaged in, it was not love making tonight. The party continued under the new king's nose.

It was a wedding, and from the outside in, one could find little amiss with it. Instruments of the Fates lurked in the crowd that night, however, and the Fates are unmatched in sleight of hand.

Eli Wayne

Wayne had been invited to participate in the tournament the next day, as the final event. To anyone who didn't know his opponent, it was an exciting honor to display one's talent at the most closely watched tournament in the East. To the few that did, mostly King Pompey, his guard, and the queen, it was anything but.

No one else from the Kingdom of Wayne had arrived in Albany; rumors of the affairs to be negotiated between Albany and the Midlands floated freely around the Midlands, and many left the talking to the selected ambassadors. Either way, it was not his business to pry, but he could try if he liked. Other Midlanders, to whom the event was a private meeting of foreign affairs, would likely be disinclined to give information to another city state. He was free to walk around as he pleased and attempt to find someone to chat up, but unraveling is often difficult with the itching feeling that one is being watched... and followed. That feeling nipped at Eli no matter where he went that night.

Queen Julia, with her round cheeks and button nose, fidgeted in her seat as if she were bound. She could do naught but stare into the crowd, as few would be inclined to approach the king's wife on their wedding night. If Eli kept a keen eye, he might see on occasion Queen Julia, in her youthful beauty, her loose, forest green dress, her plump eyes, alabaster skin, and pursed lips, looking directly at him before averting her gaze back to her lap.

Alejandra Vanderbuilt

Columbia's representation at the Albanian wedding consisted of a few lightly armed men and the prestigious ambassador Gregor Conrad. Conrad was from Chicago and a popular figure among most of the city states of the Midlands and was considered the most suitable representation of the region. He was aging and rugged, with a scar across his cheek from a crossbow bolt. The St. Louis area does not look upon him favorably, and so they advocated to have another group arrive separately to make their own arrangements. This group was led by High Councilor Ells of Blackwater.

A couple other ambassador groups from the Midlands had arrived, representing fledgling states that preferred tighter control of their representation, but the most widely known and highly regarded were the representatives from Blackwater and the ones backing Thrall Conrad from Chicago.

Stumbling through the crowds was a miserly old man with a bird cage hanging from a staff; he was easily recognizable as a Magister by his robes and as an official in Albany by his liberal use of his staff. He was not a sociable man. He appeared to be handling all of the behind-the-scenes affairs at the wedding, and if one sought to ask questions, he might be the best one to ask. Or the worst.

Alejandra was largely subject to the whim of Thrall Conrad for the evening, as was the rest of the party. He was not intent on releasing information to his armed guards, especially not in public. He did not permit his armed guards to drink, socialize, or partake in other forms of revelry; they represented the entirety of the Midlands, and the negotiations would hinge upon their behavior. Conrad walked swiftly and quickly, with the tail of his animal pelt robe flowing quickly behind him. Conrad eventually found himself a seat at a table and reviewed his notes, his armed guards left to their boredom.

As the king disappeared for the evening, the old Magister with the staff approached the group of representatives. One young, oblivious young guard was whacked with the old man's staff, as he was standing in his way. He fumbled into view of Conrad, blocking casting a shadow over him and his notes. His beard hanging from his craned neck, he declared, "The king is prepared to see you, old fart."

Conrad quickly stood straight up, towering over the tiny old man, and rolled up his notes. He raised his firm, muscled hand, almost to strike, and placed it on the old man's shoulder. "Thank you, older fart." he replied, and began marching towards the back of the room. One of his armed guards, the same who was hit with the staff, gave the Thrall a quizzical look, to which Conrad replied, "You'll understand when you're old."

Pykes

Blackwater's representation came in the form of High Councilor Ells, a representative selected by St. Louis, who was unsatisfied with the selection of Gregor Conrad. Thrall Conrad was from Chicago and known for a battle which he led against St. Louis; consequently, St. Louis elected to request another representative who also came from along the Mississippi.

A couple other ambassador groups from the Midlands had arrived, representing fledgling states that preferred tighter control of their representation, but the most widely known and highly regarded were the representatives from Blackwater and the ones backing Thrall Conrad from Chicago.

Stumbling through the crowds was a miserly old man with a bird cage hanging from a staff; he was easily recognizable as a Magister by his robes and as an official in Albany by his liberal use of his staff. He was not a sociable man. He appeared to be handling all of the behind-the-scenes affairs at the wedding, and if one sought to ask questions, he might be the best one to ask. Or the worst.

Ells' entire armed guard was from Blackwater, and he felt welcome to confide in his men the secrets of their meeting as a result. According to the terms given to him from St. Louis, his men were not allowed to drink or partake in any revelry which might reflect poorly on St. Louis and the other city states represented by Ells; a look across the room to Conrad's guard confirmed that they were also under the same constraints.

The Fates had their hands in every affair that took place that night, and as a result, Pykes' foresight was quite hazy, an effect only worsened by the sound of chatter and music. The sensation was comparable to stuffed sinuses, and it gave Pykes a crippling feeling of grogginess.

The sound of rattling metal could be heard behind him as the old man with the staff stumbled past him to see Councilor Ells. Across the room, Conrad's group had walked into a room behind the dais. The old man declared to Ells, "You will see the king shortly after he is finished with Conrad. He'll be swift, I'm sure."

The two men chatted briefly outside of Pykes' ears, though the conversation sounded trifling. Shortly after, the old man moved on to speak with others in the crowd, and little was seen of him since. Pykes and Ells would have to wait to see the king.

Dietrich Bern

Bern was recognized among the nobles for the night. He was allowed to mingle with the other high born of Albany for a time, though he was sent a special invitation to this wedding, implying that there were other reasons that his presence was requested.

Despite his recognized status as a high born in his native land again, the melancholy was inescapable. It had been so long since he'd been here, and, though it was his home to him, it was not where he was raised. He could not put names to faces or faces to names, and no one could do so for him. It was where he belonged now, though, and he would have to make home out of it somehow.

Something tapped his shoulder. It could not be mistaken for a brush or a bump; someone wanted his attention. In the shuffling of the crowd, no one seemed to be responsible. The door to the room was quickly slammed behind him. The chattering of the crowd seemed farther and farther away as the door slamming rang in his ears. He was compelled to follow. He could hear footsteps on the balcony above.

Morgan Warner

The contrast was conspicuous. A simple medicine woman in the buzzing hive of nobles and ambassadors was both hidden and on display. She attracted many quizzical looks, though little conversation. Some decided to speak with her, bringing their speech to what they thought would be the commoner's level. The less patient and compassionate would find it insulting.

She was requested to attend tournament and heal the injured, if necessary. Her presence would not be necessary, but to the simple people who would be participating, it would be comforting knowing that there would be a medicine woman present; unbeknownst to them, medicine men and women can do little for missing heads.

The only one that seemed as lonely and secluded as her was Queen Julia. The bride, the one to whom the wedding night belongs, was alone on the dais, while her husband took care of other affairs. She sat alone, fidgeting in her seat with a filled cup of wine far out of her reach. Never was there a more sorry queen.

Her time was open, though medicine women can also do little to mend broken hearts; there were others of note to speak to. Up on the balcony was the Purple Piper, the Trade of all Jacks, the Tricker of Tricksters. As the king's long time court jester and herald, it was his duty to provide entertainment, and he was busy conducting the band in all its glory. The music halted for a break, and the most famed prankster East of the Mississippi proudly loomed over the reception.

Augustus Wolff

Augustus was quite busy the entire night; he spent much of the night speaking with other high born, discussing the affairs of their respective lands. He had met a particularly interesting man from Maine who had found a shipwrecked boat full of soldiers that appeared to be sailing for Nova Scotia. There were many people to see and appreciate at the party, and Augustus was open to all of them.

The emptiness that pervades all of these events sunk in, eventually. After a while, the drink looked less refreshing and the people less interesting. Augustus remembered the letter in his pocket, sealed with a Magister's seal, reminding him of his greater purpose.

Stumbling through the crowds was a miserly old man with a bird cage hanging from a staff; he was easily recognizable as a Magister by his robes and as an official in Albany by his liberal use of his staff. He was not a sociable man. He appeared to be handling all of the behind-the-scenes affairs at the wedding, and if one sought to ask questions, he might be the best one to ask. Or the worst.

Eventually, the old man had his eyes set on Augustus, and he began limping towards him as quickly as his staff would carry him. The bird cage rattling on the end of his staff became louder and louder as he approached before he was right in front of his face.

The old man looked up at Augustus as if he was in his way, and his quivering hands looked ready to smack him with his stick. He muttered and grumbled to himself right in front of him, as if he weren't there. It became more and more awkward as the old Magister clearly confronted Augustus but said more to himself than he did to him. After much agonizing silence, he demanded, "Alright, give me the letter and follow me. I know who you are because I know who I sent for. Don't bother asking questions here, I can't hear for shit."

He turned and walked away as swiftly as he could, which is very slowly. For whatever reason, the Magister had confidence that Augustus would be behind him.

[AeronFarron]

How a man like Conrad got elected as the representation to her area she'd never know. Disrespecting the city's magister, wearing cloth akin to animal skins, and not a gift in sight of his own when he went to-no doubt-demand something outrageous of the king. Yes, the buffoon did an excellent job of representing her people...as barbarians. She barely kept her sigh to herself, seeing as she was stuck on a wall to keep an eye out for "anything suspicious" and to "represent the Land of A Thousand Kings" well. Her parents had told her to learn about the East, not stand out like a sore thumb.

To that end, she still wore her ceremonial dress. She didn't care how the rest of the city-states chose to represent themselves, but she wouldn't let Columbus be lumped in with the others. No matter how united a lie The Thrall wanted to put up, The Land of A Thousand Kings was diverse. She was proud of her people, just as they were proud of her. She was sure that had they believed she'd only be a GUARD, her parents would have sent some GUARDS.

With that in mind, the rebellious young woman left her wall-sitting duty to peruse over the offering of food. It seemed the revelry was in full swing as people danced and socialized all around her. While being much much bigger than she was used to, Alejandra reminded herself that she was accustomed to the festivals of her city-state; this was no different than that. Nonetheless, she'd skip the drink for basic water. She'd rather not tempt the Fates.

A fellow guard tapped her on her shoulder as she was finishing off a small loaf of bread. She discreetly nodded and made to follow the guard. And to her happiness and absolute joy...she was ushered right back to the moron's side. Most would probably be happy to be upgraded to the personal guard of a very important person. But Alejandra was not most people and she certainly wasn't looking forward to whatever was in store.

[Sukisho]

As the music died down, Morgan looked up towards the balcony where the band was being conducted by the Purple Piper, and luckily seemed to catch his eye as he turned to view the party down below. She gave him a quick nod, so that he was aware she would be coming to meet with him and then set her attention back on the crowd before her. It didn't take long to weave her way through the crowd of attendants, most seemed to barely even notice she was there, to the staircase that lead to where the band was set up. Morgan didn't bother to see if anyone was following her, as she knew many of the people gathered were much more interested in their own business, than that of a medicine woman, even if most of them recognized her at least by name.

There was no rush to reach the top landing of the staircase, so Morgan took her time on each step, slowly rising to the top. As she reached the landing, she looked around, observing the beauty of the architecture, and then her eyes landed on him. His almost smug face was glancing across the balcony at her, having not moved from his spot at the front. Another nod from Morgan was all it took for the Purple Piper shift his weight and return to standing upright, before carefully walking across the area towards her. She moved to meet him part way, and as they met, she was the first to speak.

"Good evening Purple Piper, the Trade of all Jacks. I hope I find you well this fine evening." Morgan gave a slight bow of her head in his direction as she greeted him, showing a sign of respect to the man.

[Jorick]

The wedding was a tiresome affair for Eli, though that was nothing new. He could often be found sitting quietly by himself among crowds and revelry, and that was how he preferred it, but that had been hard to achieve at this royal wedding. Eli was not one for expressive jubilation, or expressive anything for that matter, so he tended to drift toward the edges of activity to claim a relatively calm and quiet space for himself. Normally he might have succeeded and found a refuge among his fellow Midlanders, but being something like a guest of honor, invited to fight in the final event of the tournament, brought plenty of attention his way. Eli supposed he should get used to this sort of thing, since regardless of winning or losing on the morrow the name Eli the Fearsome would probably spread throughout the people of Albany. Unless he died, of course, in which case he would have no need to fret about dealing with the attentions of admirers or detractors.

Both types of attention came his way that night, mainly the latter. Nobody knew who Eli would be fighting, but the lords of Albany made many snide remarks about how he was sure to lose against the king's chosen champion. They apparently viewed it as some show to prove the might of their homeland against foreigners, wherein the champion of Albany would defeat the champion of the Land of a Thousand Kings and prove once and for all which was the greater land. Eli was very amused by those implications. Judging from the indifference or outright coldness he received from most of the other Midland visitors, they did not view him as their representative in any way. A couple had implied that he was some kind of traitor since he fought for various lords of Albany, never mind the fact that he'd never turned his sword against his homeland. It was all very tedious and draining, but he responded to all of them with courtesy nonetheless.

Eli sat at the edge of the largest pocket of Midlanders, at the side of the room bur near to the dais as befit the higher stature of those making up this clump, and felt the position was very suiting. He was on the border between his homeland and Albany, a presence in both but truly part of neither. He was left alone for the moment, all those who wanted to wish him ill for tomorrow's fight apparently having already done so, and he looked round the room without any goal in mind, just seeing what was happening and keeping an eye on the goings on. Amidst this aimless watching, Eli saw a particular set of eyes turn his way a few times, seemingly directly and only at him before looking away. That struck him as passing strange. He had made his courtesies to the king earlier, thanking him for the honor of the invitation, and he had extended that to the queen as well. Why in the world would she be looking at him? Did she think his earlier address had been rude since he did not speak to her directly, only as a secondary inclusion in what he said to King Pompey? Did she view him as some kind of foreign threat that needed to be watched? There was really only one way to find out.

After making his way through the various tables and standing people, Eli stood at the base of the dais. He was not nearly so presumptuous as to climb the steps without leave, so he bowed to her from where he was. His left hand naturally went to his hip to grasp his sword hilt, the traditional warrior's bow, but it closed on empty air; he had left his sword behind and went to the wedding unarmed, as doing otherwise would have been seen as an insult or perhaps a threat. As he stood straight he put on the slight smile he used for diplomatic endeavors, squinting his eyes just a bit to make the pleasure look genuine. He'd already decided to act as if he was here of his own volition, rather than coming to see why the queen kept looking at him, and appearing pleased to be in her presence would help with his chosen excuse.

"Queen Julia, it is an honor to stand before you. I fear I may have been impolite earlier, when I spoke to the king and gracelessly ignored your presence. Your radiance was so captivating that I found myself tongue-tied, and so I fled without paying proper respects. I am a simple wandering knight, and a foreigner at that, but if there is anything I can do to make up for my earlier impertinence I am at your service." Eli bowed once more, this time holding his left hand out slightly to the side in proper courtly fashion rather than reaching for a missing sword. He hoped he'd gotten his guess right about the reason for her glances, and that the queen did not view him as a threatening presence, otherwise this foolish gesture might be taken in very much the wrong way.

[Herzinth]

Deitrich Bern

---

For sixteen years he had remained isolated on his own lands, convincing himself that it was necessary to consolidate his right to lordship. But now, with a sea of unrecognized noble faces surrounding him, he realized that his own people were only half the battle. He called himself a lord proper, but these strangers probably saw him as nothing more than the Sellsword Lord. An irksome name the Lord Eric had given him when grudgingly declaring his claim legitimate.

There were crests Deitrich could give name to among the crowd; the sword and dove of the Felix's, the seashell of the Crane's, and the red ferret of the Ferguson's. But the faces were strangers, his own supposed peers unknown to him. He should have mingled these past years, visited himself upon his neighbours. But he hadn't, and found himself alone among the royal swarm.

A hand tapped him on the shoulder, but when he turned to look there was no one to see. A door leading to the hall was slammed shut shortly after, however, and Deitrich felt that that was caused by whoever wanted his attention. Pushing through the crowd he made his way towards the door, wondering who wished to talk to him. More importantly, why they wished to do so behind closed doors. His hand flexed, the scarred skin taught beneath his glove. He wished for his sword, but he hadn't brought it into the hall in order to avoid appearing threatening or dangerous.

Upon reaching the door, Deitrich opened it and slipped through, closing it behind him without glancing back into the hall.

[Doivid]

It was something he'd been anticipating for weeks. Augustus viewed the wedding as an invaluable opportunity to earn more political capital, to develop relationships and build new ones. He had planned for many different scenarios and potential challenges. His preparations didn't include a relatively uneventful event. The chatter of his peers didn't belie the kind of transformational moment he had idealized. It was more like everyone was settling into a new complacency, taking for granted a new paradigm of leadership. As it turned out, the initial instability from the old King's disappearance seemed to be an isolated event. That meant Pompey had handled the situation skillfully.

But it also meant hours of inanity with other noble born subjects. A lot of it consisted of the typical barbs and boasts that one would expect. They never tired of subtly reminding him of his family's own misfortunes, to which Augustus had largely grown inured. A few times, his lack of interest and general aloofness caused insult without him intending any, which didn't hurt his standing (given the relative obscurity of those he encountered) so much as it saved him time.

So when he saw the elderly man lurching toward him, Augustus had mixed emotions. He obviously felt apprehensive about the letter he'd been given, and about what Catullus had in store for him in general, but if it would deliver him from the disappointment of the wedding party and engage his mind in something more rousing, he would be grateful. His relief didn't last long when Catullus seemed to almost lurch into him, and the cage caused him to reflexively take a step backward, nearly spilling wine from the goblet he'd been grasping a little too carelessly for sudden movement. Politely, he attempted to speak: "Good evening Mage-" but was cut off by the barrage of abuse that seemed to come from nowhere. The first issue, he attempted to address by saying, "I'm terribly so-" but was cut off again. After two more attempts, he gave up and kept his mouth shut, nodding furiously at each subsequent volley. His ears burned with embarrassment when he was finally notified that it was because of poor hearing that his attempts were in vain--he might as well have been talking to himself.
Then Catullus began to walk off with very little warning, leaving Augustus with the task of rushing after him. It proved to be an overreaction, given Catullus' painfully slow gait. Without the natural graces his upbringing had instilled in him, his sudden move might have sent him crashing into the man ahead of him. But of course it didn't and, to his credit, he still didn't spill his wine either.

[Card]

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 feel 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 you, for you have all worked for me." He looked down, motioning to his robes and staff, "I did not make these; you 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 love you, comrades! In this cold and awful world, where thieves are kings and kings must thieve, I love 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.

---

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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."

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.

[AeronFarron]

The inquisitive young noble took in the information with wide eyes. A war? With the Gauls? What sort of madness was Conrad getting them into? A Champion of the Midlands? Now she really knew Conrad was nuts.

The Land of a Thousand Kings was just that: a land of a thousand kings. For them to actually pick a champion to represent the whole of the Midlands would require no less than a week's worth of tournament. Hell, to find a champion just for Columbus' Harvest Feasts and Celebrations took over a week. Mostly due to pride, for being known as a champion was important to a house and city-state.

If their timing was correct, that would leave no time to draw a vote for a champion, nor to hold a tournament. Was the King going to send a personal champion with them? Did they expect Conrad to fight? If they did, might as well let the Gauls invade tomorrow.

Alejandra listened intently to the conversation, and barely managed to keep a facade of boredom about her. Conrad was still an idiot in her eyes and mind, but the King was proving to be sensible. She just hoped he didn't leave it to Conrad to choose a champion, there was going to be backlash, but if the champion lost...she wouldn't want to be Conrad.

[Card]

Alejandra

Pompey and Conrad continued to go back and forth with their questions and answers. Conrad eventually asked, "Why must we provide the champion, Pompey? The implied belligerents are you and the Gauls. If it appears truly dire, we'll come to your aid, but we won't be fighting your wars for you."

Pompey stroked his chin, staring at the map. "Alright," he relented, "I'll handle the champion. Just provide the guard, third party witnesses, and pledge your aid in the war. In return, we'll allow you to take whatever land from the North you like."

Conrad squinted. "And you'll be promising the same to the other party?"

Pompey pulled out a piece of board from the drawer of the table, writing already on it. "Yes," he replied, "for I had intended that the Midlands represent themselves as a whole. This problem was made by you, not I."

Pompey began to make edits, scribbling and striking at precise points in the document, when Conrad spoke up again, "And another thing: don't go selecting that monster as your champion."

Pompey took his eyes from the paper, glaring at Conrad. He tossed his quill in the inkwell and bitterly replied, "What do you mean?"

Conrad rose his voice just enough to avoid being heard outside. "I mean that beast that'll be slaughtering that poor Midlander boy tomorrow, that's what." Conrad shouted while pointing out the door. "We know his whole story. He may be able to chop a bear to bits, but I don't want his traitorous blood in our mix. Besides, if the Gauls find out that he's a Southerner, and that you broke their sacred ritual by bringing a mercenary to their bout, they'll all swarm Albany, whether they win or not. And not even an ogre like that's going to save you when every one of those Gauls comes storming across the border."

Pompey turned again to the bookshelf. After a few moments, he turned around and conceded, "Fine; you're right. I'll find someone else." Pompey made a final edit before looking up to Conrad, waiting for any further objections. With no further debate, Pompey turned the board to Conrad, who signed his name while quickly listing next to his signature the many, many independent parties that he represented, as was requested of him. Pompey then signed it himself and gave the contract to Conrad. "There's a separate contract for St. Louis and Blackwater," Pompey remarked, "but I assure you that they will receive no advantages that the rest of the Midlands will not also receive."

"Good. Then I believe we're done here." Conrad proclaimed, straightening his clothing.

Pompey smiled for the first time since he walked into the room, if halfheartedly, "I hope my adviser's demeanor was not upsetting."

Conrad chuckled, "Oh, no. Old men like he and I understand each other very well."

The two men fared each other well and parted, with Conrad's party close behind him. Conrad's guard was now free to enjoy the party somewhat, now that the formalities were finished. Drinking in excess and conspicuous behavior was still explicitly prohibited, but they could mingle among other guests if they desired. They could also stay close to their ambassador and potentially have him shed some light. Most of them dispersed to the party, and should Alejandra choose to stay with Conrad, she would have him all to himself for questioning.

[AeronFarron]

Alejandra watched the entire meeting take place, her face darkening more and more with every negotiation. By the time to boards were signed, her fists were clenched tighter than a baby's around a finger. She was seething now.

She understood the King's stance, and was quite happy that Conrad wouldn't be choosing the champion. But rather than ask for time to discuss with the separate delegation, Conrad just...gave it up?! She kept her head high, but nearly anyone could see the rage in her eyes should they deem her important enough to look at. When she saw the fellow guards disperse she immediately went to Conrad for answers.

"What in the blazes was that?" she hissed through clenched teeth. "You...do you not get what you've just done?" she ran her fingers through her hair in aggravation, "Why the old guys chose you, I don't know...you KNOW that anything that regards the Midlands affects everyone. Why didn't you request a stay to discuss this with the other delegates? Or at the very least, pretend to actually take to time to think of someone you brought as a guard? The king had enough on his plate for you to shove off a consideration that could have meant glory for our region, if not the Midlands as a whole." she growled angrily. She cleared her throat and lowered her voice more, "At least have the courtesy to offer a name before making demands. Is that what you want all of us known as: Ungrateful Barbaric Brutes?"

[Jorick]

Queen Julia's reaction was not at all what Eli had expected, but not in a necessarily bad way. He had apparently embarrassed her with his compliment on her appearance, which was an amusement in and of itself. She likely received such comments regularly from courtiers, yet she blushed nonetheless. Even the lesser nobility of Eli's homeland found themselves inured to petty compliments at a young age. Her actual words, however, put a halt to the knight's amusement at her reaction.

"Your Grace, I am humbly honored that you would deign to worry about my safety." Eli paused, considering how best to proceed past the bland courtesy. He could thank her and leave, but that might be considered rude. He could press her about the cruelty she spoke of, clearly referencing his mystery opponent for the tournament tomorrow, but that would certainly be rude. The middle route, simply continuing the conversation without any pressure, seemed his best option. "Fighting is cruel by nature. I may indeed die tomorrow, but that is part of the risk I take by deciding to live by the sword. I do not know who King Pompey will set me against tomorrow, but I can assure you that he will not find me to be an easy opponent." Eli thought for a moment then smiled, this one a real genuine expression of humor. "I probably shouldn't be bragging of my prowess to the Queen of Albany on the eve of fighting the King's chosen champion. Some might consider it improper. Alas, my tongue runs away from me sometimes."

[Card]

Alejandra

Conrad, loomed over Alejandra as she made her scene. He was as daunting as he could be listening to his guard lecture him about foreign policy. He had just enough patience to wait until she had finished. "By forcing us to select a champion, Pompey wants us to fight his battles." Conrad muttered through his teeth. "By forcing us to choose the champion, that makes us the belligerents, and the subsequent war would be fought between the Gauls and the Midlands. Whether we would win or not is inconsequential; Pompey just doesn't want to fight because he knows he can't fight wars like the Wandering King could. If he were around, there wouldn't /be/ any Gauls, and he knows it. He doesn't want a war to ruin his image. He's all books and no bulwark, is what he is."

Conrad continued walking, taking his place back at the seat in the corner of the room where they resided before. "Councillor Ells would have done the same thing, especially considering that him and everyone else from Blackwater would be the first to have to fight the Gauls if we went to war with them. We want it clear that this Albany's war, and they won't get to toss it over our shoulders." Conrad then reached into his thick clothes to retrieve a set of notes. He waved them in his hand and continued, "And these notes confirm the sentiments of those whom I represent." Conrad then stuffed his thick hands into his clothes once more, putting the notes away. Conrad pointed harshly at Alejandra as he replied, "When you are called upon to represent the near entirety of the Midlands to foreigners, I'll have a wider ear for your opinion. Until then, you guard."

Eli

The young queen turned a little paler, if possible with her alabaster skin. She looked down, seemingly contemplating something. Her chest began to heave nervously in her low cut green dress, and her cascading hair that weaved down her shoulders went up and down with it. her creaseless, seamless fingers fiddled as she faced a difficult decision.

Just as one might be inclined to awkwardly step away from the conversation with perhaps the most sought after young woman for miles, she blurted out, "It's all a trick, sir. What'll happen tomorrow will be no competition; they've invited the biggest, meatiest, ogre-like man to hack through noble warriors as they're tossed at him. No one's a match for him, and everyone who knows about him knows it. He's a known monster, murderer, and traitor to the South; it's all politics."

Her eyes were closed during her outburst. Looking around her, no one else seemed to notice. As her head swiveled, her shining hair flowed back and forth with it, changing its position but never losing its beauty. Her whole body seemed to be trapped in its own personal world of panic as Julia feared that she had said something that she should not have... and someone was listening. Every inch of her twirled and fidgeted in anxiety... but it was ideal for anyone looking to see the king's new prize up close.

She finally looked back up at her acquaintance, forgetting him for a time. "I'm so sorry," she stuttered, "but I wasn't supposed to tell you that. Especially not you. But I couldn't. It's all a big joke. They invited the medicine woman as part of it, but no one can heal what that man does to people. He brutalizes them." Julia shook her head, now lost in her own world of troubles again.

[AeronFarron]

Alejandra didn't back down from Conrad, rather she met his eyes as she listened to formulate her reply.

"You were chosen because old men are getting sick of constantly bitching at each other. You practically represent children with how divided we are. I was called on to represent my home and our related lands to foreigners. I AM you, just on a smaller scale." she put her hands on her hips. "You're here for more than to just bitch like the rest of those old men, Conrad. You're supposed to be representing us as the Midlands, not acting like a child and throwing away valuable opportunities..." she ran her hand through her hair.

"I get that you don't want to fight his war, but do you really think the Gauls would stop there? Any number of champions could give those Gauls pause. What if they try to invade Albany through our lands if Albany's champion beats theirs? They'll think us weaker and ripe for the taking." she rubbed her eyes. "Sure, maybe getting involved in the Champion face-off would make us targets, but either way, we could be involved. Why not be proactive and show them how mighty we are?" she asked in frustration.

"Regardless...being stuck under your thumb all night hasn't given me the chance to present Columbus' gifts to the King and Queen in thanks for their invitation." she looked back at Conrad and closed her opinion: "You make valid points. But I still think you made the wrong decision in not discussing this with the other delegates. What if they do choose a champion, but a demand two as an accurate representation of The Land of A Thousand Kings? They choose their strongest and then one from our represented area? You know St. Louis can be cutthroat. It would weaken us tremendously, if for the sake of them posturing to show their dominance. And you put yourself into a spot since you waived the ability to have any choice in the decision making of our Champion. You'll let the "book King" choose one instead. You had the upper hand, Conrad..." now her fear was apparent.

[Holmishire]

Rémix, Gaulish Barber-Surgeon.
Surgery, first aid, barber, cooking, sentry, scouting, manual labour, literacy, brawling, polearms.

---

Putting a hand to his forehead and arcing his back, Rémix stretched himself out to try and alleviate the typical ache of a long day's work. People just don't know how to keep themselves healthy any more.

For the better part of day he'd been toiling away, inspecting those who came by for whatever ailment they suffered, fixing some, sending others to Lugurix for a more sophisticated treatment. That is to say, one that focused more on biological remedies than the physical cutting, snapping, and bandaging that made up most of Rémix's line of work. There were always more sick to treat, and always less hours in the night than needed to sleep. If it weren't for his already robust and enduring physique—compounded by a what some might call a voracious diet and a few stimulants prescribed by Lugurix himself—he fully expected he himself would be in need of some healing, if not for the body, than for the soul. Heavy bags hung from his eyes, and old grit adorned his calloused skin and his long fingernail, torn at the edges.

But a healer's work never ceased, just a disease continued to reap its crop day in and day out. Unfortunately for him, he was nowhere near as tireless as his constant opposition.

Today was no normal day, however. Though the sick and the frail and the paranoid drifted through as always, outside the meagre walls in which he toiled few others were at work. The fields mostly bare and the homes vacated, a new guest drew the attention of all but the most devoted and the least sociable. Vercingetorix had arrived with his tales of retribution and war.

Rémix had little care for their new "king". He was but another excuse for the people to throw away all their hard work. More young men and women starving and falling to the chill of the canadian winter. Why was he so focused on the South, when problems were bad enough as it was up here?

Lowering his hand again, Rémix turned to Lugurix. Nodding his direction to the door, knowing the elder man was fully aware of Vercingetorix's arrival, he approached his companion. "The king," he grumbled. "What do you think of him. Does he have what it takes?"

He respected his fellow's opinion, for what it was worth. Always better to have two thoughts than one. Rémix also gave a quick cursory glance at the patients the two'd have to be taking care of. Trying as the man's motives may be, Rémix would like to see the man himself, but not if it meant leaving Lugurix to more work than he could handle.

[Sukisho]

Morgan gave the Piper a strange look at his greeting. She wasn't surprised that he knew her, but his comment about the tournament and her role at the whole event was a bit strange. She was one of the most well known medicine women in the country and though she wasn't one to brag, she was probably among the best. To be told she was basically a front to make the fighters feel better about the whole tournament, was a denial of her skills and frankly, quite upsetting. However, Morgan was not one to let her emotions ride on her sleeves, so she quickly let the shocked look on her face vanish, and replace it with a calm respectful air.

"I have heard that, yes, but what strikes me as odd is that you imply that either no one will be injured, or that no one will survive. What does that mean for the winners? I may not be a surgeon but I do have excellent first aid skills that would help someone until a surgeon can be summoned. Are you to imply that even a surgeon won't be needed?" She looked hard at the Purple Piper, watching the smile on his face seem to grow as she spoke to him. He was a dangerous sort of man, and she only hoped that their conversation would not put her in his bad graces. The Purple Piper could be a great ally if he managed to stay on your side, but he was most cetainly, a formidable enemy. Becasue Morgan was not very good at reading the feelings of others, as the moments ticked by, she cautiously waited for the Piper's reply.

[Card]

Alejandra

Conrad squinted. He rose from his chair, his daunting figure much taller than Alejandra. He stood inches from her, looking down at her as if he was looking down at his boots. From this distance, anyone could smell him or count the blonde, prickly facial hairs protruding from his skin. One could look into the wrinkles and scars on his face like one could stare in a hole in the ground. One could stare into his deep blue eyes like one stares into the sunless sea.

He grabbed his right hand and clutched Alejandra's jaw with it like one would a child, squishing her lips and cheeks together. Despite his titan's grip on her, Conrad maintained his still and stern expression; he was always in control. "You'd do well to listen better, whelp. It is my job to protect the interests of the Midlands in negotiation, not you. You have only as much say as I graciously bestow upon you." he snarled. His teeth were slightly cramped and crooked. At this distance, one could see their reflection in his saliva. "You will not undermine my authority, but if you take such an interest in foreign affairs, I'll let you be on the guard protecting Pompey's champion on his journey to the North. We'll see how well you handle it."

Conrad released his grip on her, almost throwing her to the ground. The party around them didn't seem to notice. Conrad quickly weaved through the crowd and slid out the door. Alejandra was left to her own devices; she could either leave or say at the party and find something to do. Whatever it was, she had to be careful; she had tested Conrad's patience once and failed. It would be unwise to test that of the Fates.

Remix

Lugurix sat in his chair at the corner of the room. He was old going on ancient, and it became difficult to even rise from his chair nowadays. He seemed to never be looking at anything; his eyes always looked glossed over. Many speculated he was blind, but his exceptional use of a scalpel testified otherwise. "I cannot say, young one. He is a greater force than I am, both among people and with the gods. It will be people like him who will pass judgment upon me, not I upon him." Lugurix was always cryptic. Many thought him crazy, and the notion isn't unfounded. From his glossed over look to his protruding lower lip that made him look like a fish, he looked much like a lunatic.

About a half dozen Northerners in the room had caught a nasty plague that had been spreading across the North for months; medicine men and women all across the North had tried bloodletting and a dozen different herbs, but it seemed fruitless. These doomed men must be burned now to prevent the spread of the gut-wrenching plague.

"It surprises me that you are unmoved by him, Remix." Lugurix croaked. "His tongue is like a ship's rudder, and his lungs like sails." Not all of Lugurix's similes and metaphors hit their mark. "Do you guard yourself? Only with walls could one prevent such a man from reaching one's heart."

Morgan

The Piper only giggled and grinned while he looked over the balcony. "Oh, you don't know? Tomorrow's tournament isn't a tournament, not only in that it lacks brackets. It's a slaughterhouse. A gorefest. A visceramphitheater."

The Piper adopted his storytelling tone. "Imagine a man so tall he could pluck us both out of this balcony from the party floor!" The Piper began to use his hands to express himself, acting out his impression of the man-beast he described. "Imagine him taking the dullest, rustiest blade akin to a butcher's knife and practically bludgeoning men to death with it, splitting them down their middle with only a single, two handed stroke. Charcoal skin, fiery hair, and piercing, yellow eyes, what frightener he is! I've seen him with my own two eyes, and he's more likely to leave nothing left of his enemy to patch up then he is to be patched up himself."

The Piper calmed down eventually, but one would need be fearless to say that they weren't even slightly chilled by the Piper's performance. "It's all a political gambit, really. He's a traitor from the South, and Pompey wants to show him off."

[AeronFarron]

Alejandra had always been impulsive as a child. She'd often been reprimanded by her father, but no one had dared to grab her face. In that moment, she didn't care whom he was or why he was there. Before she could act on such blatant disrespect, the coward had tucked his tail and ran away. He was definitely here on a power trip, she was convinced.

Nonetheless, she'd gotten herself on the guard duty for Pompey's champion personally. And she couldn't have been more excited. The young woman could barely keep herself from doing a little jig, for she wouldn't be behind Conrad, but rather at the Champion's side. With a great view of the match, if she might add. As guard she should be relatively close in case someone tried to get involved right? Oh the possibilities of what she could learn and see!

She thanked the gods for the opportunity, for even as she failed in making Conrad see the issues with his idiotic rationale, he had-in a weird vindictive twist she guesses-gave her a much better job then she'd rode up with.

Alejandra weaved through the crowd, for she looked for the advisor from earlier or for anyone that could direct her to the line to give the wedding gifts. Her parents drilled it into her that these gifts were meant for the King and Queen. Her father was a shrewd man, and always seemed to have a second plan. With his aspirations to help Columbus increase trade, she could only do as directed and make sure the gifts were seen and-hopefully-received.

[Herzinth]

Bern

Deitrich Bern

---

Deitrich looked to the stairs leading to the balcony, but his feet continued down the hall.The balcony offered the privacy of noise, but there were those who only needed eyes to listen in on your words. If someone was trying to talk to him, they'd take to the purer shelter of isolation. He briefly wondered if something had been stolen, but decided a thief doesn't tap their victim on the shoulder as a helpful tip.

[Holmishire]

Rémix

Rémix, Gaulish Barber-Surgeon.
Surgery, first aid, barber, cooking, sentry, scouting, manual labour, literacy, brawling, polearms.

---

Do I guard myself? Am I truly blinded by my own past? Rémix thought back to his earlier years, under the service of his brothers. Both trained and natural-born leaders. Fighters, too. They were the kind of men young boys would look up to and envy. They were the models that left so many volunteers dead on the fields of a tribe's tribulation. War comes from warmongerers.

And as far as Rémix could tell, Vercingetorix was a warmongerer.

But Lugurix's word did carry within them a ring of truth. As a healer who'd seen many battles, a son who'd seen many dead, he had reason to be particularly antagonistic to the tradition of war. And yet, it had its uses. Perhaps war could bring food to the masses and cure the Gaulish people of their suffering?

I highly doubt that.

"I guard myself for it is necessary. Too many follow, with neither care nor caution, the words of others." Rémix looked towards the opening of their healing-place, thinking of the king. "I know not that I am fit to judge him. But nevertheless, he must be judged."

In this time of new turmoil, he considered once more his loyalties. Born and raised by the Gaulish tribes, he felt some connection to their people and their ways. And yet, he had been betrayed by his brothers, both of blood and of heart. Were these people really worth sacrificing himself for? Was he destined to be ever their servant?

Looking down at the dirt beneath his feet, Rémix allowed a hint of a smile to touch his face. "If this man is as good a leader as you say—" he turns to face his partner "—do you think that I might be better swayed, were I to meet him myself?"

[Card]

Alejandra

Unbeknownst to Alejandra, the gift giving process at the wedding of a to be crowned king was particularly disorderly. Gifts were likely taken at the door, divided into many subcategories, such as living and nonliving, and properly stored and taken care for until the king could address them after the guests had left, not before the careful sweeping and searching of all of them for poisons, weapons, or other slyly hidden assassination attempts. Afterwards, the king would send a handwritten letter expressing his gratitude and, if the gift was particularly noteworthy, return the favor. Whether that would happen at Albany's most widely watched, anticipated, and populated wedding and crowning in its regal succession history, one couldn't tell. She received another worthwhile opportunity in the meantime. Considering Conrad's spite, one might wonder if there's something else in store for Alejandra that a seasoned diplomat knows about that she would not, and that challenging him was a poor decision. Unfortunately, nothing can be undone. Whatever comes of it must be salvaged.

Alejandra still had many options; she could mingle among the party, and attempt to draw something out of the snooty nobles. She could head up to the balcony and see the Purple Piper, the Famous and Infamous, who was directing the band. At the moment he appeared to be chatting with the not-quite-as-famed mysterious medicine woman. She could visit the party from Blackwater, return with Conrad to their quarters in another part of the city, or wander dark, empty halls of the building.

Remix

"He he he he he..." the old man cackled, his toothy, yellow grin on display. "How about you stay here? I doubt you'll be more moved than you already are. After all, he's only a man, isn't he? One that we medicine men must pass judgment upon?" Lugurix continued his mocking laughter, every biting word tickling him further.

"Or have you made your verdict already?" Lugurix asked, looking into Remix's eyes deliberately. He held it for a moment, his practiced gaze. His mind took a stroll through Remix like a woodsman in a forest, if his eyes were to be believed. No more communication was needed. Meeting someone with that gaze is rare enough, let alone have them absorb one wholesale like that. Lugurix lifted his eyebrows questioningly, waiting for an answer. How could one answer a question when their answers have all been said? More than that, how is one supposed to answer a question when one's answers have already been anticipated?

Lugurix laughed again and broke his spell. His eyes glossed over again, staring at the corner of the wall. Or outside. No one can tell where he's looking. He must be blind. "What can one man do after all?"

Silence followed. Lugurix pointed to a man in the back, dark corner of the room, somehow. "Speak to this man. He shows early symptoms of the plague. Find out where he's been. Maybe we can steer everyone clear of whatever he's been doing."

Bern

Dietrich continued into the dark halls of the building. He took many unfortunate turns down the empty hallways. Light began to fade as he entered the parts of the building no one expected him to wander. Rectangular outlines began to line the floor and walls, indicating something had been there for centuries, but was no longer. He continued walking as the hallways became dimmer and dimmer. He could look behind him and still see light, but it was so far away, one would wonder if that light could see him anymore.

He took on last turn into what he thought was a doorway, but was actually a closed, locked door. Dietrich smacked himself loudly on the door, the sound of his frame meeting another frame resonating through the darkness. He stammered back bumping into something else. That something was a someone.

"You are still drawn to it, darkling. But you are not attuned to it anymore." It hissed like a rattlesnake in the grass. Dietrich could turn to speak to him, if he liked, but one wonders if he could even see him.