Dark Jack

The Prophecy

Duchy of Pelgaid, secluded pond

If Jillian had not continued immediately onto a subject he was interested in hearing more about, she had easily earned herself a furious tirade for that absolutely horrendous assumption that he had gotten off easy because he was a Remdal. There was so much wrong with that statement that it was infuriating to him, enough so to make his lips draw back momentarily to reveal his teeth in a murderous scowl. Firstly, the fact that she called him a Remdal was borderline unforgivable; he was not and had never truly been a Remdal, no matter how much various Zerulics might claim otherwise. Certainly, to an onlooker it might have seemed like the house of Remdal was a wonderful thing to be included in for a mere commoner, and the story of Count Remdal himself falling in love with and marrying the hired maid, single mother that she was, seemed like something out of a fairy tale. And indeed, Gerald had enjoyed the game while it lasted, living as the stepson of a wealthy nobleman, getting to study at the academy... he might even have felt affection for Dennis for a time, until the masks fell away and the rug was pulled under his feet.
Secondly, it was a gross mistake to think that his exile had been a mercy. Mages were a valuable commodity, especially ones as skilled as Gerald; it was not unusual for magi, especially young ones, to look into the forbidden arts at some point of their lives and being discovered, only to get away with little more than a slap on the wrist and some harsh words. Even full-fledged necromancers, witches and summoners had at times been pardoned in order to not lose precious sorcerers, receiving little more punishment than an admonition against ever using the forbidden arts again and a demand that all of their research materials be destroyed. That Dennis Remdal had recommended the duke to exile Gerald for practicing necromancy was not a show of mercy, but of vengeful desire to get rid of him and save himself from the embarrassment of having a member of his family as a practitioner of outlawed magic. Whatever fondness there had once been between Gerald and Dennis had evaporated on that day, when Gerald’s crimes had been discovered. If it would not have been an even greater spectacle that would have disgraced his house even further, Gerald had no doubt that his stepfather would have made an effort to have him executed.
Dennis Remdal... Gerald had learned much of the man that he had called “father” since being banished from Zerul, some of which were mere suspicions but others that he had managed to confirm. He was a man driven by ambition and greed, not unlike himself, but more indulgent, more reckless. He was a powerful wizard, and both Gerald’s mother and half-brother loved him... but someday, eventually, Gerald was going to make that man face the consequences of his sins.
Power demands sacrifice; it was high time that Dennis Remdal did some of the sacrificing.

Hearing about the Voice of Reason was what ultimately calmed the necromancer’s ire, and he listened to her description of the group and the events that lead to her current situation with great interest. The extreme measures taken against the group was... not unusual, to be honest. A single magus could get away with practicing the forbidden arts with hardly any consequences besides being watched more carefully in the future, sure, but an entire group of them? A coven? That kind of thing called for a much harsher reaction from not only the ones deciding punishment, but also from the force sent to capture them. And if the members of the group were indeed influential and determined to peacefully legalize the forbidden arts... well, there was one person in particular who would see such a group as an immense threat to be destroyed at any cost, who hated the forbidden arts deeply and who had no qualms bending the law to his own purposes and even had the influence to do as much.
Dennis Remdal.
It was more than just a suspicion, too; the series of events she described was simply not possible without some kind of foul play at work. The cells in the dungeon of Zerul used for holding criminal mages were warded against magic to prevent escape attempts to be made like this. Someone had sabotaged the entire thing somehow – either someone had tampered with the wards to allow at least one prisoner to use magic or, more likely, someone outside the group had started the fire and the prison break – to have an excuse to use deadly force to stop them. Legally the Voice of Reason would probably not have been subject to death penalty and some of them, depending on just how influential they were, might even evade banishment and suffer little more than some harsh fines, so doing things like this was the only way for them to lawfully murder the group.
How many of them, he wondered, had realized just how dangerous their group was? It was one thing to seek to change ancient laws, but to furthermore try to change something that so many powerful people felt passionately about? And in a manner that could, eventually, potentially succeed? What they had experienced was a legal political assassination, the consequences of which could all be blamed on the dead and a faulty ward in a destroyed cell.

He did raise an eyebrow when Jillian concluded her tale, though, by telling him that her fellow escapee, Vince, was killed by witch-hunters, and with the silver sword she had been dragging around all this time, no less. What puzzled him was that he strongly suspected that her “Vince” was the Vincent that the Grand Master had mentioned, her teacher, and that the demon had claimed that it was not witch-hunters that had killed him, but rather her own magic. Granted, she had protested at the time, but even now Gerald could not imagine why the Grand Master would have lied about it, considering that what he had told them about him had been completely true.
Not that he was about to call her out on a lie, of course; she seemed much too upset for that to be appropriate. Did she expect him to feel sorry for her, he wondered? To show compassion, to comfort her and assure her that she was not so bad or some such gibberish? To mourn this Vince with her? Or maybe even to be shocked at the revelation of her past?
“I see,” was all he could spare in that regard, sipping his tea. “And then you came to the Anaxim Forest, looking for me.” He frowned. “That’s a pretty big leap, going from peacefully trying to change the country to fighting armies of cultists and demon lords to save the world. I realize that you just wanted to learn necromancy at first, but even then...”
He shook his head. “What about your family?”

The Prophecy

The Duchy of Zerul, by a road in southwest

Although Jaelnec understood and agreed with much of what Aemoten was saying, though not necessarily the way it was meant to be understood, he struggled to figure out why the warrior was giving this particular lecture under these circumstances. He was not a Sekalyn warrior nor was he even trained as a soldier; he had no family left and, while he was technically supposed to serve Rodoria, felt no particular fondness or loyalty towards the kingless kingdom, so for all intents and purposes he had no home, had no one somewhere waiting for him... but he could certainly agree that it was about those next to him, his only friends, and those in need of saving right in front of him. The part about not killing monsters for fame struck him as particularly puzzling, although it did remind him of the days when dragonslaying had been the object of so much admiration, with people hunting dragons for glory and wealth until their species had been nearly exterminated. It was because of those days that dragons were so rare today. Beyond that, however, he was confused.
The one thing he could not misunderstand was when the subject shifted to anger, which related all too strongly to his own outburst just minutes prior and the shameful apology he had just uttered. Willpower was one of the core values of the Knighthood of the Will, and for a moment he was afraid that Aemoten was going to accuse him of not having enough of it, but instead the Sekalyn just continued his lecture in a manner that almost seemed as though it was completely unrelated to anything that had happened recently, just another lecture. The only time he seemed like he spoke to Jaelnec rather than simply speaking his thoughts out loud was at the mention of the anger he – Aemoten – carried within himself, which was spoken in such a heavy tone that it could not be taken as anything but important.
All of them were tired, angry and frustrated, he said... perhaps that was true. Thaler had certainly demonstrated that she had reached her limit with the way she had attacked Angora, and even Olan had seemed a bit different back there, neglecting his usual speaking-habit and such and generally just being uncharacteristically somber and serious. Aemoten had to be in possession of almost inhuman willpower to just keep going without letting his frustration show.
Thinking of Thaler in context with Aemoten’s lecture ironically helped a little, as the squire realized that he, despite everything, had not failed completely. He had been angry – murderously so – and had let this show, but he had not acted upon that anger. He had wanted to kill Angora so desperately, yet he had stayed his blade when he could easily have slaughtered her. It seemed a small victory, but it was better than total defeat.

There was a lot to be said about Roct, naturally, but very little of which Jaelnec could comment on since he had no way of knowing the consequences of the entity’s actions, be those future or present, without asking Roct and asking her about it. The fact that Freagon had almost certainly never been possessed and most likely had simply shut Roct out entirely seemed likely, but more importantly came with the shocking realization that Roct had been in the sword the entire time Freagon had used it, too; that she had likely been in contact with him at some point, at least once. Considering that Freagon had supposedly had the sword since his childhood, there was a fair chance that Roct knew much more of his late master than Jaelnec did himself. He made a mental note to ask her about this later, no matter what... if nothing else, it would give him another person to share the reminisce with.
“I can calm myself,” he assured Aemoten when it was mentioned that he would have to learn to do as much. “Freagon made a point of teaching me that much, and I didn’t have Roct back then. I...” He shook his head. “Reaching out to her for comfort is just a bad habit at this point. I’ll try -” he stopped himself and grinned, “- no, I will stop.”
Even now he desperately wanted to reach for the hilt of the sword to feel its comforting warmth flowing into him, but he kept his hands firmly at a distance. From now on he had to be in complete control, or he would have to learn to shut her out permanently like Freagon might have...

Finally, the matter of Aemoten and Thaler going ahead alone... As much as Jaelnec loathed leaving Aemoten and Thaler somewhere he could not help them if anything happened, the warrior’s logic could not be dismissed: leaving Olan with two people they barely knew, even if the Nightwalker instinctively liked one of them, and a third that had actually attacked them and tried to kill them was not an option.
“I’ll go back to the others, then, and get them to Zerul City as soon as possible,” he said, half-turning to head back to where they had left the others. “It should be safe between here and there, but I’ve been wrong before... be careful.”

Duchy of Pelgaid, secluded pond

Though he was not about to admit it to her Gerald actually had been about to protest against Jillian seating herself so close to him and even leaning on him, feeling at once surprised at how casually she got this close to him and unnervingly conscious of her half-dressed state. Phrasing the announcement of her temperature the way she did certainly did not make him any less uncomfortable, and he soon found at least part of his anatomy in denial of his indifference toward her.
Her being cold was an issue, though, but it was not something he could figure out how to solve just now. He could give her his robe to wear, but he was not wearing much under it and would probably end up freezing himself if he did, and with his constitution chances were that he would get debilitatingly ill as a result. He could find a spell in his book to warm her with, but he very much doubted that he had anything that would serve that purpose better than the fire in front of them. Then there was the wind, but as far as he knew the only magic he knew that could possibly shelter her from wind would take significantly more magical energy than it was worth... and it would prevent her from being warmed by the fire. Nothing to do but accept her leaning on him, it seemed...

And then, inevitably, the topic turned to them. Jillian wanted them to get to trust one another, to get to know one another better, to bond; all things Gerald wanted to avoid like the plague, though he supposed he had already failed at that. Still, with the monumental tasks that lay ahead of the two of them it was hard to argue against the necessity of trust.
He closed his eyes and took another sip of his tea, feeling its soothing effect on his throat and the disproportionate fullness in his stomach as it did its work. With his digestive system as crippled as it was the tea was his primary source of nutrition, so it was quite literally keeping him alive. That aside it helped him breathe easier and speak more audibly, so when he spoke it was with a voice noticeably less hoarse than before, sounding almost as strong and healthy as it had before he had been taken by the Withering. He opened his eyes.
“You’ve probably heard of me, though I doubt you would see a connection between the rumors and me, especially since back when I lived in Zerul City I wasn’t ‘Glass’, but rather Gerald Remdal. Even if you haven’t heard of me you’ve probably heard of my stepfather, Dennis Remdal, the previous dean of the Zerulic Academy of Magic and the current personal advisor of the duke. He’s pretty much running the duchy by now, from what I hear...”
He shook his head tiredly. “I was an instructor at the academy for a year, eight years ago. Six years ago there was a fire there that destroyed part of the academy and several blocks of the city near there; the next day Dennis resigned as dean and I was exiled, on his recommendation. What you haven’t heard is that the reason for the fire was that Dennis discovered that I was experimenting with necromancy, and that the spell he tried to cast to burn my research materials failed and went out of control. Nearly killed both of us, too...”
He sipped his tea, grimacing. “Now that I think about it, how were you discovered? Were you exiled too, or...” He remembered the silver sword she had been lugging with her; the weapon of a witch-hunter. “What happened?”

The Prophecy

I'm aware, and the location of the Sekalyn area is why I specifically said that negroid humans are native to the deep Balazth and Malith. As a sidenote, Balazth and Malith are both significantly larger areas than they appear on the map, as they continue far beyond the borders of it. Just Malith alone probably has a combined area as large or larger than the entire northern Kirirak. The Desert of Desperation, for that matter, is many times bigger than both of those combined.

Now, I was thinking about The Prophecy the other day, and it occurred to me that there was a pretty important entry in the Deo'iel Guide to Survival that I had yet to write... so I wrote it.

Archangels

Archangels
Occurrence: Rarely venture into Reniam for other reasons than being summoned, or to act as a representative of the god they serve. Conversing with archangels has revealed a surprising amount of information regarding the process of how immortals come to be, and which specific circumstances result in the creation of a new archangel. Supposedly, when a spirit of the dead desires to be reincarnated as an immortal with no memory of its former self it must address a deity and receive the aid of one such in the ascendance. The transformation is then achieved through the deity forcing the spirit’s seeds of good and evil together and combining them, causing the two opposing karmic energies to intermingle and unleash an immense amount of immortal energy, the exact nature of which depends on which seed has been nourished the most, with surviving seeds of evil resulting in infernal energy and superior seeds of good causing the energy to attune to the divine. The size of the surviving seed – with its capacity having been decreased through the process by an amount equal to the capacity of the annihilated seed – is what determines how much of this energy the newly formed immortal retains, whereas the rest of the energy is obtained by the deity. Gods in particular then have a tradition of equalizing the power of their angels by bestowing new angels with the power they lack to be equal to their peers, explaining the much smaller difference in power between angels compared to among demons.
Archangels are a special case among angels in that they have so much of their seeds of good left after the fusing of the seeds that their innate power after ascendance is even greater than that of other angels, making them the only divine beings fitting in the category of “greater immortals”, second only to the gods themselves.
Appearance: Unlike other “breeds” of angels that all appear to assume a form befitting of the way they lived their lives, archangels are unique in that they largely retain their appearance from when they were mortal, causing their forms to range across all mortal species capable of extreme goodness by some standard or another, and while they typically appear as sapient humanoid beings – most frequently as human, given that humans are the most numerous among these – there are records of archangels with the appearance of “inferior” species, like beasts and animals. The one deviance that occurs from their appearance as mortals and which is a common feature across all specimens of archangels is the growth of three pairs of birdlike wings, typically attached to the upper back below the shoulders, with feathers of a color that matches that of the archangels hair, feathers or scales, as applicable. The size of these wings are somewhat dependent on the size of the archangel, but studies have shown that each wing is generally about one and a half times the combined length of its torso and head. Archangels are capable of manifesting these wings at will, however, and can choose to appear entirely as mortals if they so desire.
Danger: Whereas lesser angels are bound by rules and driven by desires based on their breed, archangels appear to retain almost complete freedom and personalities as unique as those of mortals; indeed, extremely rare cases of archangels being recognized by people they knew as mortals suggest that archangels actually remain the person they were when alive, only with no memory of their mortal lives. This means that an archangel not controlled by a summoner can be just as unpredictable as any mortal and should be treated with caution until their exact nature is known, though they will typically choose to either abstain from getting involved in mortal affairs or fight on the side of those they appraise as the ones on the side of good. Of particular note is that archangels rank among the most difficult of all non-deities to control and typically require the concerted effort of at least several summoners to render obedient and that they, upon being released from the control of those who enslaved them, will often turn against their summoners and seek vengeance for themselves.
Their atypical behavior aside, archangels are potentially extremely dangerous opponents and incredibly valuable allies, not only being among the best fliers in the planes with surprisingly dexterous wings, regenerative abilities on par with those of any other immortal and in possession of physical abilities often many times that of their mortal selves, but possessing a variety of great powers. While some of their abilities appear to differ from one specimen to another with a possible reliance on the aspect of the god that facilitated their ascendance, three powers in particular seem to occur in all archangels: powers of healing on par with those of an Angel of Mercy, powers of remote manipulation and the power to, as they describe it, “seize a second soul”. Their ability to move things without physically touching them is one that varies in potency and proficiency from one archangel to the next, with the most dexterous being able to pick out the needle from a haystack and the most powerful possessing the brute force to reduce entire structures to rubble, but which appears to have certain limits that confirm the archangels’ own explanation of the power: that it is an “extra” invisible hand of theirs, capable of growing or shrinking at will and moving practically anywhere within an indeterminate distance of them. This “divine hand”, as they call it, is extremely durable and quick and can be used as a steadfast shield just as easily as a tool of destruction. It can be dismissed and and conjured forth as they desire, and is thus far most easily detected through the displacement of the air occupying the space it exists in.
Most interesting in the archangels’ arsenal is the ability to “seize a second soul”, however, as this may very well be the single most fearsome power possessed by any immortal short of the raw power of a deity. While the full details and potential utility of the ability is still uncertain, it has been confirmed that archangels are able to grab any unbound magical energy – including energy molded into spells or otherwise invoked near them – and store it temporarily in a “second soul” contained within their wings, only for them to be able to use it for their own purposes. This means that any magical attack directed towards an archangel – even if carried out by a demon – can technically be completely absorbed and sent back where it came from. Absorbing extreme quantities of magical energy has been observed to put significant strain on archangels, but thus far no true limit to this ability has been confirmed.
Conclusion: It is naturally best to not face angels entirely but instead aim to end their summoners, but in case a confrontation cannot be avoided, one should exercise the highest caution possible against an archangel and ideally never fight one alone. One should never use magical attacks against an archangel as they can potentially fuel the angel’s retaliation, and trying to land a blow with a physical weapon against an archangel can be incredibly dangerous due to the numerous dangers they are capable of manifesting, from their own physical prowess and divine hand to their surprisingly strong, quick and flexible wings and whatever powers particular to their divine benefactor they may possess; and even if one manages to inflict a wound, it will likely regenerate in seconds. The sheer diversity of their abilities make them one of the most formidable opponents one can face, and it is recommended that none below the fifth circle even attempt to face an archangel, lest lives be lost needlessly.

The Prophecy

Duchy of Pelgaid, secluded pond

Don’t let you catch me peeping? Gerald thought amusedly, smiling to himself as he glanced in Jillian’s direction as she went before averting his gaze and turning his attention back to his business with the campfire. As if you even could catch me, if I really wanted to look. Though he was far from skilled at moving stealthily and was furthermore currently located right by the only major light-source in the area, the warlock knew that it would be a fairly simple matter for him to spy on her with a Shadow Image if he really wanted to, either creating it below the surface of the water or in the air above her so that she would be unlikely to notice its black contour. Neither location would be ideal for the purpose of looking at her, of course, but for the purpose of avoiding detection that was just a sacrifice that had to be made.
Not that he was going to, of course... though it was tempting. It was sometimes hard to remember even for himself that he, despite his body being like this, was only twenty-eight years old and surprisingly close to being the same age as her, which also made her about the same age as his wife would have been by now. Jillian’s built was admittedly scrawnier than hers had been, and shorter, but he would be lying if he claimed that her appearance did not appeal to him or that he was certain that he would never amuse himself with fantasies of her. It was not even out of some sense of loyalty to his late wife that he opted not to spy on the witch – as far as he was concerned his wife, as much as he still loved her and had spent years plotting the her resurrection, had no business trying to control his actions while she was dead – but, surprisingly, rather as a favor to Jillian herself. He did not want to give her reason to distrust him, even less hate him, more than she was naturally liable to do with everything she knew of him, let alone his treatment of her thus far. It was a thin line to walk, keeping her at a distance without making her leave, but it was better that way.

Sighing to himself and making sure to keep his face turned away from the pond, lest she catch a glimpse of the fire playing in his naturally bright amber eyes and presume that he was really peeping, Gerald produced a pewter cup from his robe as he decided to make himself some tea after all... only to subsequently realize that he would have to go to the pond to fetch water, which would definitely be viewed with suspicion by his red-haired companion.
Cursing under his breath and pondering the wasteful nature of what he was about to do, particularly since there was a perfectly fine source of water practically right next to him, the emaciated magus held out the cup in front of himself in one hand while he gestured over it with the other, quietly muttering the word maaez while his fingers weaved the associated pattern. It was a simple single-word incantation the kind of which were often employed by rune-mages, but it worked well enough; with the spell invoked a gentle tickle of water appeared in the middle of the air, pouring into Gerald’s cup until he was satisfied with the amount and stopped feeding the spell energy. At least this way he was certain that the water was clean, but using magic for such a mundane purpose still seemed so very wasteful and unworthy...
Conjuring the water – or condensing it from the air, as was what he had actually done – had brought something rather interesting to his attention, however, namely that the spell had not required quite as much magical energy as it would normally have. Turning his attention inward as he set his cup aside he realized that he had nourished the spell primarily through the energy he had taken from the soul of Anaxim, which made sense since his own energy was attuned to shadow and would have been less cost-effective in needing to be converted to another element first, but it raised other questions that had not occurred to him yet: why was Anaxim’s energy still distinct from his own? Normally when someone acquired new energy, either through sleep, piaan or, he had discovered, by draining it from other people, one’s soul would convert the new energy to match the natural affinity of the soul pretty quickly and make it indistinguishable from what was previously the soul. Anaim’s energy should logically have been very easy for his soul to adopt and change considering that it would just be raw ambient magical energy constituting the flow through the plants of the forest, yet somehow it appeared as though it was downright resistant to conversion. The implications of that were... puzzling. Did that mean that Anaxim – and presumably other Living Woods as well – actually did have actual souls as opposed to a simple network of energy flowing among the plants? And the fact that it behaved differently than magical energy normally did, accelerating natural healing and decreasing the potency of spells... was it possible that this soul was not even entirely mortal?
Gerald shook his head regretfully, wishing that he had the time and means by which to investigate this further but knowing that time was a very limited resource for them, that the Anaxim Forest was probably destroyed by now and that the energy from the forest he already had would probably be cleansed from his soul after he had gotten some sleep. It did raise another question, though: if Anaxim had had magical energy distinct from other ambient energy resistant to reverting to raw energy, creating a semblance of a soul, what happened to that energy when it died?

As the necromancer pondered the nature of the energy within him another thought occurred to him, though, that was even darker and more dangerous: that if he was able to drain and use energy from the not-entirely-mortal Anaxim Forest, who was to say that he could not do the same with other non-mortal energy? Immortal energy, for instance, like that held within the pendant hanging from the chain around his neck?
He pulled on the chain and took the red, oblong crystal in his hand, laying it on its palm while he examined it more closely. It was so slight that not even he could detect it normally, even when he focused his senses on the crystal, but with the demon prison on the palm of his hand he could just barely feel a slight, subtle and slow tickle of infernal energy escaping the crystal, slipping through and gradually further eroding the seals that trapped what was presumably about half of Hazzergash’s power and which had originally contained all of it. He idly wondered whether the crystal was special and distinct from other crystal prisons somehow, created especially for the purpose of imprisoning a demon lord, or if it was purely the seals placed on it by the Nomad that had held the Swallower of Worlds in check for what was likely almost four thousand years? It spoke volumes of his how powerful the Nomad must have been, to have been able to make seals to hold something that potent for so long... and brought into question their own ability to renew those same seals, which would be necessary in order to prevent Hazzergash from escaping a second time.
More interestingly, he could tell by examining the gentle flow of demonic taint that the mirgration of energy was anything but passive, and that some force – most likely Hazzergash’s will – was drawing the energy out, even as another force was actively trying to pull it back. Most of the energy that escaped the crystal was quickly reabsorbed by it without Gerald even having to do anything, being sucked right back in by the seals that were meant to hold it. He suspected that the seals were the real reason that Hazzergash currently required a mortal host in order to act; not because he was incapable of creating a vessel for himself, but because he needed an anchor to tether his own soul to so that the crystal prison could not draw him back in on its own accord. It was an interesting thought, implying that any of Hazzergash’s energy that did not manage to form such tethers would inexorably be drawn back into the crystal...
And which meant that the energy within the crystal – half a deity – could be pulled out of there by someone capable of siphoning energy from others’ souls.
Doing so would probably be a bad idea, considering that immortal energy was generally quite toxic to mortals such as himself, but the thought that he could potentially control Hazzergash’s power... to say that it was intriguing would be an understatement.

Smiling grimly to himself Gerald tugged the crystal back inside his robe and retrieved his cup, staring at the water within for a moment before tracing a symbol on the bottom of it with a finger, his lips forming the word dregoth as a red light shone from the inside of the cup, and within seconds the contents were steaming hot. He got out a pouch and threw a few dried herbs from it into the cup, and was almost immediately rewarded with a pungent, acrid smell.
He took a sip and winced, but swallowed nonetheless; this tea was one of the main reasons he was still alive, so he was willing to forgive it for being thoroughly disgusting.
He sighed. Soon... soon it will be over. I will be rid of the Withering so that my body can recover, and I will regain the strength to pursue other goals... and I will have vengeance. Kreshtaat took everything from me with his damned plague, so it only seems fair if I take everything from him. Somehow, someday, I will be the one to destroy him.

The Prophecy

There's nothing unusually scandalous about it compared to arranged marriages from medieval Earth, no, though as I mentioned earlier arranged marriages are not something that are usually practiced by people in the spotlight in Rodoria (which, despite having failed in many regards and having occasional relapses, has endeavored to promote gender equality). The reason for the marriage is simply to cement an alliance between Zerul and Pelgaid, (since Pelgaid recognizes that it is not only the easiest target out of the ten duchies, but also that they cannot risk standing alone if the Black Tribunal decided to seize the opportunity to make a concerted effort to break out of the Land of Eternal Darkness while the civil war ensures that Pelgaid has no reinforcements; Zerul, meanwhile, ensures that Etlon can't move through the otherwise passive Pelgaid to attack them) though this does raise a number of new political issues, most notably that with the Blue Duke's only heir being married to the White Duke and living in Pelgaid, succession is going to be a big unknown.
That aside, the main issue with it is that the couple to be wed have had very little interaction with one another and are being married despite not knowing each other very well. There's no unusual difference in age between the two of them (Duke Frederick Pelgaid being twenty-four years old and Selene Zerul being twenty-one), there are no money changing hands (aside from those spent to make a spectacle of the wedding) and neither party is technically being forced to agree to the marriage by anything other than the political conditions surrounding their separate duchies and the related duties and expectations.
The reason most monarchs would have protested would in part be the questions of succession being raised in Zerul, and in part simply that it's an arranged marriage between two people who hardly know each other (and are sufficiently high-profile for them to take notice).

The Prophecy

To be fair most Rodorians would presume that pretty much any human of a distinctively different ethnicity native to the areas between Rodoria and the deep Balazth and Malith (both of which have very distinctively different human inhabitants similar to negroid races from Earth) is Catolohne. To almost anyone that has no particular interest in what lies beyond the borders of their own nation, "south" is pretty much synonymous with "Catolohne".
Also to be fair, most of the monarchs throughout the history of Rodoria would probably also have protested against the Zerulic-Pelgaidian arranged marriage, which is definitely not something one would ordinarily see there... at least not obviously so, and not among highborn nobles bound to make a spectacle out of the event.

The Prophecy

And happy New Year.

The Prophecy

Duchy of Pelgaid, secluded pond

“Not the worst case,” Gerald muttered under his breath when Jillian cited the events at Gariel Downs as such. “We survived, Hazzergash didn’t get the crystal and most of the crusaders with him were killed. Bad, certainly, and a loss on our part, but it could be even worse.”
“I meant worst case in regard to that single isolated thing,” Renold specified, his head drooping sadly at being reminded of the disastrous battle in the Anaxim Forest. “Believe me when I say that what happened today is one of the greatest regrets of my life, and I have lived a long time. Every time I lose myself in old memories and come back, it feels as though I lost my friends from there all over again...” He shook his head slowly from side to side, heaving a sigh so deep that it was accompanied by a small puff of flame. “But there will be time to mourn later, and for my part to keep mourning for the rest of my life. Facing Hazzergash with just the four of us is far from ideal, but it is our best and only chance to stop him before he returns to his lair with an army to aid him. There is nowhere else in Reniam that we can hide the crystal; as long as Hazzergash remains free, given time, he will find it.”

“Dedicating the remainder of today to recuperation seems fair,” Crone agreed, raising her right hand into the air almost as if to signal a show of hands. There was a splash from the pond within but a couple of seconds of her doing so, however, which marked the sigil stone emerging from the water and darting swiftly through the air, making a beeline straight into the palm of the old sorceress’ hand. She casually pocketed the artifact as she turned her back on the rest of them and started walking to the most isolated corner of the area. “It required much of my strength to escape and come here. I shall rest.” She still seemed completely unapologetic as to bringing the Grand Master to them and consequently getting them to make their deal with him.
“Rest does sound good,” Gerald sighed, tiredly rubbing his face with his spindly left hand. “This has been a very long day...”
“Then it’s decided,” the Green nodded his head, standing up and tryingly spreading his wings as if to see if there was enough room for them where he was. “I’m hungry, so I will find something to eat before getting some sleep. I suggest you do the same.” With that and several powerful beats of his great wings, Renold took off and disappeared over the surrounding rocks.
“Maybe some tea...” the necromancer murmured to himself. If Hazzergash did not kill them tomorrow, he would need all the strength he could muster to have a chance at achieving the first of his goals.

The Prophecy

Yeah, (slightly late for those who celebrate Christmas on the 24th, as we do here) merry Christmas!

The Prophecy

Went ahead and added those themes to the list accessible from the link in the OP.