Empire of Lynn-Naraksh
The Throne, the Imperial Demesnecollaboration with
@OraculumThe Emerald diplomatic expedition raced across the ashen landscape born by the ponding footfalls of two bestial ents. One shaped like a dire wolf carried two passengers clad in ironbark mail, while the the other grown in the likeness of a Fryper, a long thin beast whose feathers the ent had mimicked using leaves and petals, bore a lone passenger whose human esque appearance was absurdly detailed, so much so that it managed to break out of the uncanny valley that the Dryad’s often lingered in. He looked almost normal, where it not for his green complection. While at first glance it might be assumed this dryad was a diplomat in profession due to his civilian attire and immaculate mimicry he was in fact more akin to a combination of gardener and mouthpiece. The person who had actually come to speak with the emperor was cradled in his arms, a small clay pot holding a freshly cut twig from the Great Tree Yaval that had been magically grown so that it sprouted roots. Through this conduit the de facto leader of the Emerald Empire would be able to speak with the master of Lynn-Naraksh almost directly, Emperor to Emperor.
They carried with them gifts, a tradition adopted from the Shenra nobles they had replaced, to present to the emperor as thanks for receiving them. An amulet that when activated would form a protective barrier of wind around the wearer, a number of scrolls writen by Selzona The Cold on the topic of the ice witch school of magic and finally a sword made of polished bronze that was inlaid with amber runes along its length that made the blade incredibly aerodynamic, sliding effortlessly through air, water and flesh alike, while also reinforcing the corrosion proof metal. This blade had a twin that had been dropped into the ocean, along with a stone tablet, as the ship carrying the party across the bay of lights, in order to inform and appease the elusive merfolk that lived beneath about increased amount of naval traffic their waters were about to experience.
The ash had not subsided. Since they had left the icy hills behind, the landscape around them had grown akin to a vast, charred wound upon the earth, here and there bleeding through in scalding pools of molten rock. Aside from the occasional clutch of huddled shacks, rare crowds of indistinct, lanky figures pointing at them as they passed and the distant rumbling of some great burrowing beast, the dark plains had been barren of life. The only motion over them was that of billowing clouds of ash. It was not content with stifling the soil, but rose up as grasping, amorphous hands to choke the already grim, steely sky, sometimes without so much as a breath of wind to stir it. Nor were there any other shapes to break the monotony of the waste, save for gnarled crags and ridges, and mounds that inexplicably called to mind the thought of barrow tombs.
Of late, signs had begun to appear that they were nearing their goal. Though the land remained ever as desolate, and the ash as ubiquitous, the villages crouching in gulches and vales had been growing larger and more numerous, and the silhouettes of turreted fortresses could now and then be glimpsed over the horizon. There were more of the vague figures here, even in places apparently far from any settlement; while many were just as lean and ragged as those they had seen before, others were noticeably bulkier - some robed, others glinting with the sheen of armour in the feeble rays of the pale sun. Once, they thought they saw an imposing shape with eyes that were points of red flame, but it had vanished as soon as they knew it was not a jutting rock.
Yet the sparse towns did not seem to be giving way to larger cities, and the strongholds remained ever as distant. It was thus a surprise when, seemingly out of nowhere, the outlines of a vast wall, surmounted by pointed towers wove itself from the dusk far ahead. It was immense, appearing to rival some of the isles of the Evergreen archipelago; its grey stone walls, still stading manifestly robust despite their age being evident, met the gaze as an even circle stretching to the sides of the coarsely paved road to the point that the wastes behind them could not be seen, even from hundreds of paces away. Sturdy six-sided turrets rose from them at even stretches, crowned with pyres whose smoke coiled up to join the ash in the heavens. Beyond it, higher yet spires stood to match the wraithly, winding black pillars, casting their creeping shadow like rapacious fingers stretching towards the travellers as they approached.
The darkened road led to a wide gate awning in the otherwise featureless colossal work of masonry. By the fancy of a long-deceased architect, it had been carved to resemble the hungry maw of some titanic monstrosity. Stone spikes hung from its archway like rows of bestial teeth, and its hinges were laboured to resemble tusks with sharp, twisting ends.
In the shade of this petrified mouth stood a loose troop of figures leaning on staves, or else against the wall itself. Upon seeing the Emerald envoys drawing near, they stood upright and grasped their staves, which could then be seen to be spears. The figures themselves were clad in steel and black cloth, their faces covered by helms and their chests emblazoned with the sign of the Three Eyes. The foremost, whose trappings were somewhat more ornate than the rest, called out in a hoarse, worn voice tinged by metal: "Halt! Who goes?"
The two ents slowed their pace before halted some distance from the guards, at which point the mouthpiece responded: “Envoys from the Emerald Empire, we have come seeking an audience with the Emperor of Lynn-Naraksh.”
The guards' leader remained still for a moment, perhaps scrutinising the group from beneath the helm, then stepped aside, motioning for others to do the same. Before the delegation, the road now ran straight forward, flanked by rows of ponderous stone buildings with forbidding square facades, until it disappeared into ashen mist. There, towering over the haze, rose the points and arches of the Throne proper, the fortress among fortresses, resting on the land like the baleful hand of a shade that has lingered there since the ages of myth.
Imperial Throne Room, two hours later
After dealing with the empire's bureaucracy and scheduling for what the rather easily bored dryads felt like was forever they were eventually shown into the throne room. The mouthpiece went in first, plant pot wrapped in one arm, the other hand gently pressed to the bonsai Yaval. He was flanked by the two armored warriors, one male one female, and followed by the two ents who ended up laying down on either side of the dryad congregation whenever they stopped moving.
Though the only stairways they had travelled over had led upwards, the chamber in which they found themselves eerily resembled a crypt, albeit one fit for the corpses of giants. It was as long as a corridor, and its walls rose to a high, vaulted ceiling, decorated with sculptures of gnashing gargoyles and less describable horrors perching overhead as if poised to pounce down at any moment. There was not a single window over all their extension. The only light in the hall came from large three-legged braziers and torches nested in bronze receptacles, whose uneven, flickering light played hideously on the carven monsters above and the scarcely less menacing living occupants.
To both sides of the room, arrayed along the walls in what seemed to be no particular order, stood the finest of all Lynn-Naraksh. Most were figures in heavy suits of plate, adorned to various extents with spines, horns, blades and sinister though arcane etched crests and insignas. Many of the warriors were leaning their hands on a weapon, be it vicious flammards, immense longswords or flanged maces with jagged edges. None had their head uncovered, being crowned with helms as diverse as the rest of their persons; some had spots of crimson light glimmering behind the recesses of their visors where their eyes ought to have been.
Scattered among them were figures wearing the green and black robes of the Order of the Divines, emblazoned with the Three Eyes on their right shoulders. They likewise were faceless, hoods casting their eyes into shadow while masks of dark fabric, blank save for their webbed mouthpieces, clung to their features. This gave their heads an unpleasant similarity to the squamous, long-limbed Kuraxxi that crouched in places in the curious manner of the bog-folk. Their own one-eyed heads were at least bare, though those who saw them often found themselves wishing it were not so. Nor were the distorted snarls of the few hulking Vurogg any more pleasing to the eye, which instinctively slid away to avoid their bloodshot glares.
At the further end of the chamber rose a dais which alone was higher than most of the court's heads, and upon it was a throne of blackened metal which might have been mithril. At its right hand loomed a shape so imposing that, had it even descended to the floor of the hall, the Vurogg themselves would have been dwarfed. It was less of an armoured giant than a statue cast in steel, the flame-like edges of its plates covering most of its joints in such a manner as to create the illusion it truly was no less than a monolith. The mere handle of its sword hung above the throne's back, and its face, spotted with circular holes in an arrangement that suggested a spider-like multitude of eyes, was the highest light in the room, blazing as though the heart of a volcano had been imprisoned behind it.
By contrast, the one that sat upon the throne was little taller than most humans, and indeed likely less so than several of the ironclad courtiers. Its own suit of plate was the plainest in the hall, seeming to be somewhat crudely and haphazardly assembled from asymmetrical and badly matched segments. It was unclear how even it could have stood up, as one of its knees was held in place by a protruding misshapen greave. Yet, when one's gaze came to rest upon it, the mismatched motley that was its body faded from attention into a formless blur at the edge of the eye. All that remained in the focus was the gaping darkness beneath a grated visor that should have revealed a portion of the face below, and the twin cold, red embers that smouldered in it with unfeeling intent, shedding not the least light.
The Emperor, for it could be none other, raised a clawed gauntlet in silence, motioning for the envoys to speak.
The entire presentation, from the hungering maw of an entrance to the city itself, the rows of gargoyles and faceless statues of former rulers and champions had its intended effect on the treekin, leaving them both unnerved and intimidated. From their island seat far to the north Yaval, safely detached from affairs as always, considered it all a rather overblown show of power. At the Emperor's signal the mouthpiece stepped forwards and, listening carefully to Yaval for instructio, spoke:
“Thank you for agreeing to see us on such short notice Emperor. Through this vessel I, Yaval, once again speak for the Trees.”
There was a brief pause as the mouthpiece gathered Yaval’s thoughts before continuing.
“Our common neighbour and enemy, the empire of Matatharan, has finally launched the invasion of our lands that they have been preparing for for so long. We are hoping that we might gain your assistance in turning their invasion attempt into an unmitigated disaster. Such a blow would benefit us both, a weakened Matathran is ripe for exploitation or counter invasion that can put a stop their incessant meddling in our lands and make us both more powerful in the process. With the rest of the Serene nations distracted by the Lynnfair civil war there has never been a better time to cripple their wayward daughter as she has just given us justification to do so with little diplomatic ramification.”
The Emperor's gaze, which had been fixed upon the herald as it had spoken, wandered briefly over the Trees' delegation, then swept aside to the ranks of the courtiers. The metallic hand rose again, this time pointing sideways and beckoning to someone among the lines. Immediately, one of the masked priests detached themselves from the wall and hurried up the dais and to the throne's left side with long, rustling steps. There, it bent down to the side of the Emperor's helm and whispered something rapid and indistinct. The steel-clad figure nodded, then bored its gaze into the speaker once again, and spoke.
"You honor our court with your plight, Yaval." His voice was exemplarily free of accent, yet still strangely distorted. It was as though boulders ground against one another in some distant subterranean vault, and their echoes reverberated through the interior of an iron chest. "And your speech rings true. Yet I hold a truth that is its better."
While he spoke, the priest had been going through sweeping ritual hand gestures, crimson sparks flaring up now and then at the tips of their fingers. Upon what seemed to be the final, sharp motion, clouds of black smoke suddenly gushed forth from the torches and braziers. They wound their way through the air and up to the dais, where they wove themselves into a crude, yet recognisable ethereal replica of a map of Northern Askor, hovering in front of the conjurer.
"To take Matathran by force of arms would be a long and bloody way. You doubtless know this." The Emperor continued. A wave of bright sparks rose from the wispy mass that represented Lynn-Naraksh and leapt into its northern neighbour, only to be extinguished. More appeared, and more were swallowed. Again. And again.
"To merely weaken her would not be enough. Only the subjugation of every inch of land would quell her danger. And that we can accomplish without striking a single blow. Not through conquest, but through - union. I shall dispatch heralds to bear the
skhä Androma
khe" - he seemed to struggle with the foreign name - "a command to seek lasting peace with your spawn, and a bid of binding covenant. If she accepts, you shall be relieved of her aggression. If not, our swords will be with you."
The warring clouds of smoke extinguished their last flickers and flowed into each other, coalescing into a single body. Three lights reminiscent of eyes briefly flared up in its midst before fading.
This was most certainly not what the great tree had been expecting to hear and they were taken off guard as a result, the mouthpiece looking confused as he received no instruction for how to respond. There were few secrets in the dreaming, and the news of this plan poured out into first the island courts where it was immediately picked up and debated by the Trees. It was clear they had stumbled into something that had been planned long before their arrival, a plan that they were, frankly, lucky to be considered a potential partner in. An alliance between their two most powerful neighbours was a dangerous prospect if not managed carefully. It might guarantee victory today, but in the future either they or the humans’ offspring might change their minds and turn on the Dreaming Forest, now stronger than ever. This method also did not result in any gains for the Emerald Empire, at least not directly. If they had any control over the plan it would one needing years of careful deliberation, but they were not in control and did not have that time. They would either have to join or risk losing a potential ally. Worse, the plan was sure to go ahead without them, and should it succeed the danger Yaval saw in the future would instead be a danger of the present.
“We see the wisdom of your plan, the chance that your envoys might lead her away from her armies or stall her invasion would be a great boon to us, as it would give additional time for us to prepare and gather allies.”
Yaval then briefly paused to attempt to shape their concerns into a more diplomatic format. If her speaker could sweat he would be doing so profusely, the atmosphere and displays of casual power were getting to him. Yavals steady presence was all that was allowing him to speak with complete calm and clarity.
“But we are unsure, due to our lack of insight, of the likelihood of her considering this, let alone accepting. We would be most grateful if you could tell us what you believe the odds of such a union coming to pass so that we could factor it into our continued efforts. As would the time frame of your messengers journey so that we can let them through any blocades we set up to deprive the Matathrans of logistical support from their home cities”
Despite being largely hidden from sight by the fragmented nimbus of smoke, the priest standing near the throne had evidently heard the ambassador's words clearly enough, for once again they leaned near to the Emperor's helm and began to whisper, without waiting for a signal from him. Having waited for the adjunct to finish speaking, the armoured figure nodded again before replying.
"The heralds shall depart in but a few days' time, and their arrival to the war-front should not be long delayed. You will, beyond a doubt, recognise them when they arrive."
There followed a pause, during which the lights of the Emperor's eyes seemed to grow slightly narrower, as if in thought.
"The success of our proposal is uncertain, I admit. Andromakhe is known for being temperamental, and many here doubt her advisors could sway her any." There was a rustling of hoods and scraping of plates as multiple courtiers around the hall nodded their assent. "Yet we have the might of our armies and the greatness of our demesnes to speak for us. Denying to consider this would be an error no one who has ever ruled more than a patch of dirt could make. Hard though Matathran's heads might be, they should be clear enough to know that making enemies of us both at once would be fatal."
Just then, a bright blue spark crackled in the spot on the swirling map corresponding to the Frozen Cliffs.
"What concerns me more is your old foe. Shenra. Matathran seems to be sworn to aid them. Even if the boldest of our attempts succeeded, we could not risk pushing them to abandon this pact. I hear they are fond of damning oathbreakers. Our heralds will reach the Summit, in time, but without the fear of our blades behind them their words will be worth little. If you will take my advice, use the reprieve we win you to stoke your own terror in that wretched motley. Show yourselves stronger than you are. Poison their resolve. Perhaps this will mollify them enough to listen."
Again the Dreaming forest took a few moments to consider. A union based primarily on threat is not stable, this much was believed to be clear by the Forest. The question is what the emperor believed they could acquire from the union while it lasted. By this time what was being discussed had reached the Treekin, and the children of the forest, bred for war, were generally outraged that should this peace persist, that they would be denied vengeance. Some attempts to placate or suppress this sentiment were made, but for the most part it was tolerated, many of the Trees sharing a less bloodthirsty rendition of their sentiment, that the deaths of their kin could not go unrepaid. Both for both sentimental and because it made them look weak if it looked like they had to sue for peace immediately.
“They would indeed be fools to stand against us with only a single insignificant ally. As for the rump of the Kingdom of Shenra, we shall divert some incoming forces up into the mountains to begin raiding to see if we can lure the Queen back to her now under defended homeland. This does of course reduce the number of forces capable of slowing the Matathran advance, but that is a price worth paying if it guarantees your support."
While they were all not entirely happy about the prospects of the potential union of their two most powerful neighbours, it was better to play a part of it that be left out of the dance. Thus the Forest moved forwards to seal the deal.
“As a token of our appreciation of your willingness to work with us and in celebration of our mutual pledges of support we would like to present you with these gifts.”
The blade, amulet and scrolls were presented for the Emperor's appraisal by the two warriors. They were not bribes, as while they represented significant value individually the three alone nowhere near enough to sway an empire, but were instead a symbolic addition of weight to the agreement, to represent that all that had been said here were not simply words that could be forgotten or ignored.
At a wave of the Emperor's hand, the smoke simulacrum dispersed into fading shreds, and the priest who had conjured it descended, in the same hurried paces as before, from the dais and crossed the chamber, disappearing behind the heavy panels of its doors. Moments later, a group of figures clad in loose mail and thick black fabric covering the entirety of their bodies emerged from them. Like the guards who had stood sentinel at the gates of the city, and of whom the treekin had met numerous more on their way to the palace, they bore the imperial device of Lynn-Naraksh on their chests, and donned masks similar to those of the clerics, albeit less elaborate in design.
The servants, if such they were, approached the dryads holding out their offerings and relieved them of the latter with quiet bows, after which they distributed the objects after an order unknown to the ambassadors. The scrolls and amulet were given to two of the cloaked prelates who stood closest to the throne and disappeared into the folds of their vestments, while the sword was reverentially handed to the Emperor himself.
Dismissing the masked figures with a curt motion of the head, the construct of discordant plates raised the blade to his eyes, held it briefly up, admiring its engravings, then lowered it to the side of the throne, without, however, releasing his hold of it. His faintly distorted voice rang out once more, this time, it seemed, ever so slightly louder.
"You have the gratitude of Lynn-Naraksh. Let it be known that you have also not found its generosity lacking."
As if on cue, the doors, which had just closed after the last of the servitors, swung open again, ushering in four of the black adjutants. They carried between them a large, evidently heavy iron-studded chest, which they set down before the Emerald Empire's delegation. One of the bearers pulled up its lid, revealing it to be full of a fine grey dust, and explained in a muffled voice: "What best alchemy can make of our all."
"We hope this will be of use in softening the blow you were dealt by Matathran." Though the Emperor could not possibly have heard the shrouded figure's words, his rejoinder was nothing if not timely. "Narakshi ash is a boon on the fields. The strength in this may suffice for a grove."
Meanwhile, another group was approaching from the door. Three Kuraxxi loped towards the dryads, one carrying a vial full of a murky fluid and the other two a strange translucent sack, containing several large round forms, whose gelatinous consistency made it uncomfortably resemble some unearthly creature's stomach. Those were deposited on top of the chest, and one of the nearby clerics leaned in to describe them better than the bog-folk's inarticulate hissing would have. "Mire-deep poison. Be careful with it. Deadly, but easy to concoct with this sample. Eggs of-" one of the Kuraxxi spluttered something - "marsh-stone-tooth-beast. Deadly, also, and even easier to breed."
The chest and the bads on top were carefully accepted and then even more carefully given to the ent to cary, vine and root wrapping securely around the items to secure them, binding them in a cushioned cocoon for safe transport.
“You honor us with your generosity Emperor. We shall find great use for them I assure you”
While the warbeasts where a boon that would mature at a later date, the ash and poison could be used now. The mysterious staff that had been delivered to them in the north had been transported to the Crinwaley grove, and there the Dreaming Forest had restarted the experiments in ernest. To fight a new enemy, new weapons of war needed to be grown. This poison could well provide the basis for one line of exploration, joining several others ether inspired by the recent battle or pulled out of the mental archives. But for what the Trees truly desired, what they truly required, they would need to take from the Matathrans themselves.
"Finally we would like to suggest that some of these Treekin stay within your capital, in order to facilitate future coordination between our empires."
The unaccountably dark demi-visored helm reclined, without, however, letting the gaze of the burning eyes drop from the ambassadors.
"They are welcome to put roots by the Throne should they wish. Light is scarce in these lands, but they will not lack for anything it is within my power to provide. Be it in its own domain or beyond the sea, Lynn-Naraksh will never abandon the blood of Yaval."
The mandates of its errand exhausted, it was not long before the delegation from the Emerald Empire retired, having exchanged the perfunctory words of parting. For some moments after their steps had faded beyond the doors, the assembled courtiers remained in their places, exchanging low remarks with each other; then, they began to drift about the hall. The hooded priests gathered in small clutches, calling to each other in muffled whispers and heading out of the chamber together; the monstrous people of the West followed suit. The armoured warriors, sheathing their weapons, either began to file towards the throne or assembled in a circle around the cleric who had received the scrolls, seemingly engaged in discussion concerning who would study them first.
Upon the dais, the Emperor, who was still holding the runed sword gifted by the treekin, raised it again and handed it to a Lord whose armour was marked by an axe-like insigna on the shoulder, pointing at the blade. As the new bearer of the weapon strode away, the mountain of fire and metal at the seat's right, who had not shown any sign of being alive at all during the entire colloquy, finally spoke in what was less of a voice than the coarsely modulated roar of a blaze.
"Will they bleed Shenra dry?"
"That would be for the best." The Emperor did not turn towards the giant as he replied, instead gazing with narrowed eyes at the flames in a brazier across the room. "But they could not even if they put all their strength to it, not with Matathran, and Andromakhe, there. The last blow will be ours."
"Send Nugrark there, Lord. No one will know."
"They will. You think too highly of that beast, I told you. But you are right in this, we will need it soon, and another..."
A blade-tipped, metallic finger beckoned to the assembled warriors.
"Send word to Khvoral to leave on the morrow, and summons to Nugrark, wherever it is. And convoke-"
Only those who knew the Emperor well distinctly heard the note of distaste creeping into his voice as he spoke the words that followed. But, though there was no answer, the surprise in the eyes of all as they heard them would have been clear to anyone.
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