Diplomacy Shadows and Starlight; the Darkholme-Eirelunn Accord

[Farah A. Mousavi]

@Harrul Ulfbitenn​

The journey from Darkholme to Eirelunn was long and arduous, marked by a constant shift in landscapes, climates, and cultures. Farah A. Mousavi, Queen of Surnaara and the chosen diplomatic envoy of the Abyssal faction, embarked with a retinue of her most trusted advisors, warriors, and attendants. This journey was not merely a crossing of seas but an odyssey across realms, each leg testing the endurance and spirit of Farah and her people.

The voyage began under the blazing sun of Surnaara, where the horizon shimmered in waves of heat, and the sands seemed to stretch endlessly toward the edges of the world. The caravan that escorted Farah to the coast was made up of loyal Surnaaran soldiers and halfblood demon riders who wore the emblems of their provinces proudly. It was a powerful procession, a display of the strength and unity of Surnaara, with banners of green and gold fluttering in the wind as they made their way to the port city of Zephyrion. The air was filled with the rhythmic sound of hooves beating against hardened sand, a familiar cadence that kept her steady as she prepared for the journey ahead.

Once at the port, the scent of salt and sea mingled with the arid heat, a hint of the vast ocean that awaited them. Her flagship, the Ethereal Scorpion, was a majestic vessel built of dark wood, reinforced with metal salvaged from ancient Surnaaran ruins. Gilded carvings of scorpions and dunes adorned its sides, while on the prow, a bronze figurehead shaped like a scorpion with tail outstretched gleamed in the sunlight—a proud symbol of House Mousavi. The crew consisted of hardened sailors and warriors accustomed to long voyages, each carefully selected for their loyalty to the Abyssal faction and skill in the face of the unknown.

As the ship set sail, the heat of the desert began to fade, replaced by the cooler, salty winds of the open sea. Days turned into weeks as they journeyed further and further from the familiar sands of Surnaara. Each morning, Farah would stand at the prow, watching as the sun rose over the endless ocean, casting the waves in hues of rose and amber. Her thoughts often wandered to her father, King Damian, and the complex lineage that connected her to the Abyss. This journey was a testament to his faith in her, and she bore the weight of her responsibility with pride, knowing that she was paving the way for an alliance that could alter the course of history.

The crew encountered fierce storms as they passed through the Kraken Sea, where black clouds rolled across the skies, and waves towered over the deck, crashing against the hull with unrelenting force. Farah, though tested by the brutal wind and rain, stood firm, refusing to show weakness. Her presence became a source of strength for the crew, as she would offer words of encouragement, her voice steady even when the ship was tossed like a leaf upon the water. When the tempest finally subsided, a calm followed, and the stars were visible in the clear night sky, their light reflected on the calm waves—a welcome reprieve after the fury of the storm.

Finally, after months at sea, a new coastline appeared on the horizon. The lush, green hills and mist-covered cliffs of Eirelunn rose from the sea like the realm of another world, foreign yet alluring. As they neared the province of Meathyn, Farah’s heart stirred with a mix of anticipation and solemnity. Here, she would represent her father, her realm, and the Abyssal faction, each step a balance between diplomacy and the subtle assertion of Surnaara’s strength.

The Ethereal Scorpion sailed into the predetermined harbor, where ships of all sizes and colors swayed with the tides. Farah’s arrival had been anticipated, and a delegation of Eirelunn officials awaited her at the docks. The scent of foreign spices and flowers filled the air, mingling with the ever-present smell of saltwater. The city’s architecture was a blend of towering stone structures and intricate carvings, crowned by archways of ivy and moss.

As the ship’s gangplank was lowered, Farah took a deep breath, adjusting her golden sash emblazoned with her house sigil. With a final nod to her attendants, she descended onto the docks, the eyes of both her retinue and the Eirelunn onlookers upon her. Each step she took was deliberate, her posture regal, embodying the pride and resilience of Surnaara. The Queen of the Dunes had arrived on foreign soil, ready to fulfill her role as the emissary of Darkholme.

 

[Dreadheart]

The city of Dunwyn was a large settlement built atop and below a high cliff, remnants of an ancient height that was cut vertically by either water flow or divine wrath, in aeons long forgotten. The curtain walls were whitewashed stone structures as high as five or even six meters, half as much in depth, with blinded machiculations and simplistic battlements that hinted to the restrained sophistication of the Eirish culture.

The port was busy, beneath the high cliff, with numerous merchants, cutthroats and opportunists alike swarming the market that spanned inbetween the high buildings that formed the interior maze of the large city. There were walls behind the buildings, indicating to the old limits of the settlement that gradually expanded, perhaps in synchrony with its masters' expansion across Eirelunn. It had been, after all, barely few years since the Ulfbitenn House was one of the many in Eastern Eirelunn, having just emerged from a civil war that brought them at the verge of extinction. Ever since, under the guide of King Harrul, the Ulfbitten power spiked. Through alliances with Alblish factions, or wars with the Nordur and Eirish alike, the Ulfbitenn eventually outlived their rivals and established their bloodline as royalty.

As the ship berthed by the main port, next to the Cogs and the longships, a group of mounted knights, dressed in plate armour and decorated with feathers an fabrics of black red and gold shade approached, soon after the stevedore gang secured the ship's mooring. They all carried the sigils of the Ulfbitenn family and most renown of household troops; The Black Guard.

Due to the strange traditions adopted by the House, the family name was hard to perish before adversity or attrition of time and bloodletting, leading to hundreds of relatives that were otherwise distant to the main Ulfbitenn Royal bloodline. Alas, it was the custom that any males of the Ulfbitenn Lesser Branches join one of the three sixty-six man knightly regiments of the Black Guard, creating a ruthless force of near-legendary status, with their preservation of their numbers so consistent, many viewed the Black Guard as immortals.

What contrasted with the knights was the individual that they escorted. Her crimson hair almost the shame shade with the leather and fabrics of the dress worn. The dress itself decorated with golden thread and silver jewelry, marking her out as a royal. Her head tall, with black ink tracing around her green eyes in Goidel fashion, while her gaze quick to fixate on the newcommer ship. Her piercing glare enhanced by the dark arcane aura embracing her pale body in an invisible shroud.

One of the knights upon arriving by the berth, stepped forth to speak, yet was halted by a simple gesture of the woman's hand held aloft. He bowed, stepping back as she approached the rampart.

"I am Uallach Ulfbitenn, of House Cigoerne." she spoke in a voice of authority, tracking with the woman's royal posture. "You are expected in the Red Court."

The cold wind blowing from the North took form in the Eirish culture, manifesting in the unforgiving, cold nature of the inhabitants of Eirelunn. Uallach was a perfect example of this fact, seemingly unwilling, or even incapable of offering any warmth to her surroundings.

 

[Farah A. Mousavi]

Farah A. Mousavi stood at the head of the Ethereal Scorpion’s gangplank, her sharp eyes taking in the city of Dunwyn with a practiced gaze. The towering cliff that divided the settlement between its heights and depths seemed like a monument to the ancient forces that had shaped this land, and its whitewashed walls gleamed faintly in the pale sunlight. The bustling port below was alive with movement, a chaotic web of commerce, intrigue, and desperation that she recognized as the heartbeat of any thriving city. Yet here, in this foreign land, there was an edge to it—a sense of survival that felt as cold as the wind that whipped through the air.

Her focus shifted to the approaching retinue of knights. Their polished plate armor caught the light as they moved in disciplined formation, a spectacle of martial might. The black, red, and gold sigils of House Ulfbitenn caught her eye, as did the distinctive feathers and fabrics adorning their armor. The reputation of the Black Guard had preceded them, and Farah couldn’t help but admire the precision with which they carried themselves. These were not mere knights but warriors honed for conquest and survival, the embodiment of their house’s resilience.

What truly drew her attention, however, was the woman who walked among them. Crimson hair framed a pale face adorned with the striking black ink of Goidel tradition, her green eyes as sharp as blades. The golden threads and silver adornments of her dress shimmered with an air of regality, but it was the aura around her—the palpable arcane energy—that caught Farah’s breath. This was no ordinary noblewoman; this was someone who wielded power, not just authority.

As the ship’s moorings were secured and the gangplank lowered, Farah adjusted her golden sash, her fingers briefly brushing the scorpion emblem stitched onto its fabric. Her own retinue stood ready behind her, their polished armor and disciplined bearing offering a mirror to the Black Guard. Though clearly not to the same extent. Surnaara’s strength would not be underestimated here, even in the face of Eirelunn’s renowned coldness.

She descended the gangplank with deliberate grace, her steps measured and unhurried. Her sandals touched the stone of the berth as the crimson-haired woman dismissed the knight who stepped forward, her voice cutting through the noise of the port like a blade.

“I am Uallach Ulfbitenn, of House Cigoerne,” the woman announced, her tone cold and unyielding. “You are expected in the Red Court.”

Farah met Uallach’s piercing gaze without flinching, her dark eyes steady, revealing no trace of discomfort beneath the weight of the arcane aura. The Queen of the Dunes had stood before demons far more formidable than this, and she would not waver now. Yet she understood the unspoken challenge in Uallach’s words and posture. Here in Eirelunn, warmth was not a currency, and respect would be hard-earned.

“I am Farah Amelia Mousavi, Queen of Surnaara, Princess of Darkholme,” she replied, her voice even, yet carrying the weight of her own authority. “I come as an envoy of the Abyssal faction, to serve as a bridge between our peoples and our powers.”

The cold northern wind tugged at her cloak, but she stood firm, her gaze unwavering. “Lead the way to the Red Court. I am eager to witness the strength and wisdom of the Ulfbitenn.”

Her words were carefully chosen—a subtle acknowledgment of Eirelunn’s resilience while placing herself as an equal in this exchange. As Uallach turned to lead, Farah followed, her retinue falling in step behind her. Each step she took on this foreign soil was deliberate, a statement of her presence and purpose. Whatever challenges lay ahead in the Red Court, she was prepared to meet them head-on, as the Queen of the Dunes, daughter of the Abyss, and bearer of her father’s trust.

 

[Dreadheart]

Uallach replied to Farah's statements with a deafening silence. She was not the one to waste words in formalities, or meaningless tugs of words. She simply turned, barely gracing her surroundings with a simplistic gesture of her pale hand, weighted with heavy precious rings. The very existence of the Princess in Dunwyn sent shockwaves across the settlement. As the two retinues made their way from the berth to the large carriage, the surrounding peoples gathered in absolute silence. Whether that behavior was driven by the fear of their masters, or the awe of the unfolding scene, was anyone's guess.

The Ulfbitenn was the first to step in the carriage. Made from delicately crafted planks of wood, laid with soft fabric internally, the cabin had linen curtains that seemed to have been permanantly drawn to deny any sunlight, or preying gazes inside. Uallach sat without saying anything, until Farah joined her inside, after the gesturing of the knights, and a gentle hand offered by one of the Black Guard, in case the Princess required assistance to step onboard. An act which was noted by a piercing black gaze by Uallach, yet she voiced no complaint.

As the carriage started the long climb up the city, Uallach became a porcelain statue filled with black ice. Her head remained tilted, her eyes fixated on Farah, with her gaze studying everything on and about the Abyssal royal.

"Do you wear that skin?" her lips finally bled the words. "The demons here are not Men, in appearance." the explained then. Her voice remained awashed in certainty and authority, even when the very sentances indicated her lack of knowledge. "They tend to detaste Men, actually. Tear the flesh when they enter oneself."

She shook her head slightly.

"Your skin doesn't seem like Faerith hide... It must be yours."

 

[Farah A. Mousavi]

When the Black Guard knight stepped forward and offered his hand to assist her into the waiting carriage, she paused, acknowledging the gesture with a respectful incline of her head.

“Your courtesy is noted and appreciated,” she said, her tone warm yet resolute, “but unnecessary.”

She placed a deliberate hand on the polished wood of the carriage frame and stepped inside unassisted, the strength of her movements a quiet declaration of her independence. Once seated, Farah adjusted the hem of her robes, the gold thread shimmering faintly in the dim interior. The air within the carriage felt colder, though whether it was the northern wind or the icy presence of Uallach, it was difficult to tell.

Uallach followed in silence, settling across from her like a figure carved from marble. Her unflinching gaze, sharpened by years of command, roved over Farah with cold curiosity, assessing every detail of the warrior queen’s form. The sway of the carriage as it began its ascent up the cliff seemed almost inconsequential beneath the weight of the silence that filled the space.

Finally, Uallach broke the stillness, her voice steady and imperious.

“Do you wear that skin?” she asked bluntly, her green eyes narrowing slightly. “The demons here are not Men, in appearance. They tend to detest Men, actually. Tear the flesh when they enter oneself.”

She paused briefly, her head tilting ever so slightly as she added, “Your skin doesn’t seem like Faerith hide… it must be yours.”

Farah allowed the corners of her lips to curve into the faintest smile, a gesture not quite warm but devoid of offense. The question, direct and probing as it was, had its place in such a meeting of powerful figures.

“It is mine,” she replied calmly, her voice steady and laced with quiet authority. “I wear no mask, nor do I cloak myself in false skin. What you see is the truth of my lineage.”

Leaning back slightly, she continued, her tone becoming measured and precise. “My bloodline is unlike most among demonkind. My father, King Damian, was not born a demon. He began his life as a man—human, like the mortals who walk these lands. Through means known only to him, he ascended—or perhaps descended—into the ranks of the Abyss. His transformation reshaped him entirely, yet it left the mark of his humanity upon his blood.”

She gestured briefly to herself, the golden sash across her chest glinting faintly in the carriage’s dim light. “As his daughter, I am a halfblood—half demon, half human. My appearance reflects this duality. While my form may seem familiar to mortal eyes, the power within me is wholly Abyssal.”

Farah’s dark eyes locked onto Uallach’s with unwavering intensity, her expression calm but firm. “I do not shy from this truth, nor do I hide it. My form has served me well, as both my inheritance and my weapon. Those who see only my humanity often learn the cost of underestimating me.”

The carriage jolted slightly as it climbed higher, but Farah remained composed, her voice softening slightly as she acknowledged Uallach’s curiosity.

“Your question is an honest one, and I understand it. In my father’s domain, demons take many forms—some monstrous, others deceptive in their elegance. Yet in all cases, it is not the form that defines them, but the strength of their will. That, I suspect, is a truth shared between our peoples.”

She allowed a brief pause, the creak of the carriage wheels filling the silence. Then, her voice turned inquisitive, her dark eyes meeting Uallach’s with sharp intrigue.

“Tell me, Uallach of House Cigoerne. Do the demons of your land tear the flesh of all men—or only those who enter unwelcome?”

Her tone carried no malice, only the weight of a genuine question veiled in careful words. It was a test, a measured probing of Uallach’s perspective, one queen to another.

Tag; @Dreadheart