Diplomacy War in the North: Loyalty and Betrayal

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

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The lightning struck against the sea, causing the increasingly violent waves of the tide to blaze in eldritch shades. The water made its way inbetween the shingles, clearing the rooftops of the many buildings in the city. The dirt piled along the gutters, being dragged down to the lower levels by the riverettes forming by the gathering rainwater, as the streets filled with mud over the paved tiles. Winter was coming. Heralded to be rough and unforgiving, befitting perfectly the feral Eirelunn, in her dark majesty. The complex Goidelic designs formed by the multiple colours of the multipart glass window shined, as yet another lightning struck against the land. Regardless the light produced, Harrul Ulfbitenn did not flinch, nor did he move his black gaze from the distant view, of which image was corrupted by the glass. His eyes wandered still, barely gates to his mind, frozen in time as his vision gave way for the mind to form its own imagery, enhanced by the power of the coming storm.

Was it the elements battling over sea and sky, in which fight the land barely happened to find itself inbetween? Or was it truly, as the legends claimed, the Beast's angels casting their magicks in their everlasting attempts of breaking back into the world? The Beast within him was strangely serene, as if it knew answers to many of Harrul's questions and yet rested in silence, to satisfy its sadistic nature as Harrul could do but guess.

In the chamber, the table was covered with numerous parchments, files and boxes. Much work had been done already, and yet it was dwarfed by what was yet unattended. Kingship, Harrul reasoned, did not come with a small responsibility. And yet, the reports and notes from nobles and Judges regarding tithes, garrison expenses, provisioning of the Southern Banners, Royal requisitions and others had no place, at that point, in Harrul's mind.

His cold gaze remained locked in the view, as he anticipated the arrival of the Red Mage, the agent latched upon him by King Marcus' decree, which Harrul had now summoned. The work of such agents remained distant, from Harrul. Although an advisor, believed to be close one at that, Harrul had maintained a distance from any of their kind, ever since the incident in Espada. Now, however, certain events were put in motion. To further his distance from the Night Court, would be an unspoken declaration of war. Something he had long now avoided, and dreaded, at the same time.

But this was now the game Harrul played; Instigated by himself, he now played a dangerous and most volatile role in the happenings of the Night, which Marcus would not necessarily appreciate. It was Harrul's belief that his place within the Court had to be established. And, to do that, he employed the political mess that defined the Night, performed in the savage, and yet elegant ways of the Eirish. An aggressive stance, which he sooner or later would have to explain. Instead of being called, or worse, Harrul chose to be the one to take the matter to the King of Night...

He had ceased the initiative before. Now, he would do it again...

 

[The Night Court]

Gregory, the Red Mage, strode purposefully through the grand corridors of the Eirelunn palace, his crimson robes swirling around him like storm clouds as he approached King Harrul’s throne room. He had been the Vampire King Marcus Aumont’s envoy in Eirelunn for as long as he could remember, a steadfast figure representing his liege’s interests in these lands. Yet, recent events had left him somewhat estranged, adrift in a sea of court intrigue he was just now beginning to navigate again.

After the debacle at the vampire ball—a night still whispered of in darkened hallways and shadowed corners—King Harrul had grown distant, cloistering himself in his palace. Sylvia, now the former War Master of the Night Court, had cast a cloud over Marcus’s court with her audacious disrespect, and her subsequent rebuke by Marcus had sent shockwaves through both the Night Court and Eirelunn. Gregory himself had been left in a difficult position, his authority diminished by association. But now, the time had come to reestablish his presence and to make clear Marcus’s will.

As he neared the throne room, Gregory straightened his shoulders and let his aura fill the space. Guards flanked the entrance, exchanging uneasy glances as the mage paused before them. With a brief nod, they opened the grand doors, allowing him entry. The throne room was as grand and austere as he remembered, every inch a testament to King Harrul’s power.

“King Harrul,” Gregory greeted, bowing low in the ancient manner. “I bring greetings and renewed goodwill from King Marcus Aumont.”

Gregory met Harrul’s gaze, his tone respectful yet steady. “I regret the silence. Much has shifted in the wake of recent… conflicts. But know that my loyalty to you and to King Marcus has not wavered.”

Gregory took a careful breath, each word crafted to rebuild the bridge that had been singed yet not severed. “The Vampire King wishes to assure you that his will remains steadfast and that Sylvia’s actions in no way reflect his intent. Her role as War Master of the Night Court was taken, but it does not diminish his respect for you. My king desires no distance between The Night Court and Eirelunn but rather a strengthened bond. He values your wisdom, King Harrul, and would see the discord of the past mended.”

With that Gregory would await Harrul’s reply and what he had really had summoned him for.

Tag: @Harrul Ulfbitenn

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

The King remained still. His gaze lost in the distance, not gracing Gregory with its weight. As the Red Mage spoke, the King's palm rested on the pommel of the sword seathed by his hip, over his fabric red outfit. He listened. What Marcus had to say was a mystery to him. It was Harrul's long exposure to Eirish affairs, having grown so accustomed to the brutal nature of the political ploys between the various noble houses, he oftentimes anticipated similar behavior from foreigners, which he admitted to be a rather wrongful way of thinking...

And then, the words struck him, reverberating in his mind like bell tolls:

My King Destance between the Night Court and Eirelunn

Marcus was a diplomat. He was not foolish enough to give in to wrath or incidental misunderstandings. That gave Harrul time... And time was all he required to see his own plans into fruition.

"Are you familiar with the art of sword forging, Mage?" Harrul intoned. His voice cold, steady, driven by thought intense in his mind enough to not make his addressing any more direct than it truly was.

As the silver blade was stipped bare of the scabbard, Harrul turned to face Gregory. Steps brought him closer, as his black gaze studied the details on the sword. The Ríthetite was a marvel of Eirish swordcraft, with a Goidel styled handle adorned with rich gold and designs that summerized the complexity of the Eirish society. Design simplistic, yet elegant. Small, unlike the typical Erovan long blades, yet thick enough to hint to its destructive power should it was driven through flesh.

Harrul rested the blade on the mage's shoulder, in a calm, precise movement of his wrist. His black gaze finally fixating on Gregory.

"To forge a strong blade, the blacksmith must burn the metal until the tongues make her fiery. Then she goes through hammer and anvil, where the ill-matter is rid off of her, and then, finally, dives into cold water, for the lesson to stick. If there was no flame involved, one could say the Night Court's blade would crack on the first bind... We would not wish for that, now, would we?"

The King, after few breaths, removed the blade from Gregory's shoulder and slowly returned her to the scabbard.

"By now word of the new decree must have reached your ears, Mage." the King stated, turning towards the window again, reestablishing the distance between the two. "Word of a league between the Ulfbitenn and Darkholme. It is true. You may reach out to your master and inform him that soon, the daughter of the Demon King he so much portrayed as our great enemy, will be a hostage of mine, here, in Dunwyn... As of the Empire beyond the Kraken Sea..."

Harrul let few moments to pass, before continuing.

"The Abyss will soon fight for the Isles Cabal, against the Night's foes. The North allows no time for games. I have none to spare. In due, I shall bring the whole of Kraken Sea to heel. By then, I have faith that Marcus shall recognize the one to hold the mastery of war. Until then, The Isles Cabal shall do what must be done."

 

[The Night Court]

Gregory held himself steady as the cold edge of Harrul’s blade rested on his shoulder, feeling the weight of the king’s intent more sharply than the steel itself. Harrul’s words, rich with layered meaning, settled over him like the hiss of molten metal meeting water, testing the mage’s resolve.

When the blade was finally sheathed, Gregory allowed himself a single, measured breath, gathering his thoughts. He straightened, casting his gaze toward the king, respectful but unwavering.

“King Harrul,” Gregory began, his voice clear and measured, “I understand the lesson, and I assure you—Marcus is no stranger to fire or to the trials of the anvil. The Night Court’s blade is forged in blood and tempered by centuries of unbroken struggle. Cracks are inevitable, but they serve as reminders of what has been endured. My king would see them strengthened, made unbreakable, even when they strike against the hardest foes.”

He paused, letting his words settle, aware of the gravity of what the king had shared.

“The news of the Ulfbitenn and Darkholme league has indeed reached my ears. I shall convey to Marcus the… shift in our world’s order, as you have detailed. I trust he will weigh it with the respect and gravity such alliances deserve. And this daughter of the Demon King,” Gregory’s gaze sharpened, “will be no small token in the king’s hand.”

Gregory’s expression remained steady, but there was a flicker of curiosity, of understanding. “As for the Isles Cabal and the Kraken Sea, I have no doubt that they shall come to heel under your command. The North breeds warriors as no other land does, and the Night Court respects that strength.”

With a bow, Gregory finally concluded, “Know that I will convey your words precisely to Marcus. The Night Court and the Isles Cabal may march upon separate paths, but both walk toward mastery, one stride at a time. And I am certain that in time, the true parallel objectives will form into a singular objective around the Night courts goals. Until then, King Harrul, I will serve as the voice and eyes of the Night Court in Eirelunn, to ensure that our alliance holds, as it must.”

Tag: @Harrul Ulfbitenn