Diplomacy War in the North: Loyalty and Betrayal

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

​

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

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

The skies shook as lightning challenged the weight of the clouds battling each other over the soaking rain. The King's black eyes wandered into the distance, taking in the inexplicable tranquility gained from such a sight. In such cold a night, staring into the grim stormy sky allowed Harrul a moment of peace, as if the very view calmed the Beast Within.

Alas, the foulness of Gregory's words did little to preserve that state, quickly reminding the King of the thin blade over which he was now balancing the Night Court's fury and the Demonic wrath, all kept in uncertainty over the Isles Cabal... Over him. Over the Ulfbitenn...

"Your King will be happy to know that the Isles Cabal shall break no oaths given, unless forced to by his hand." The King was precise. He knew any sign of weakness now would jeopardize the entirety of his plans, that had already been set in motion. "Make sure to let your King know, my goals are parallel to his' so long he does not place himself against the Night. If he doubts my methods, he is welcomed to come as a guest in my court, to address it in person."

The King's voice gradually degraded into harsh, demanding tone, clearly letting little to no room for contraddiction.

"I shall argue with no servants on matters of Kings."

 

[The Night Court]

Gregory bowed deeply, absorbing the weight of Harrul’s words like a nail driven into steel. The king’s stance was clear—unyielding, sharp-edged, and dangerous to any who dared press too hard. The Red Mage did not flinch, nor did he rise to the bait. He knew his place, and he knew that in this moment, the best move was one of deference.

“As you command, King Harrul,” Gregory replied, voice steady despite the growing storm outside. “I will ensure my King hears your words exactly as you have spoken them. The Night Court does not seek to test the oaths given, nor does it desire discord with the Isles Cabal. Marcus Aumont is not one to shy from matters of kings—should he deem it necessary, he may well take you up on your offer.”

The storm raged on beyond the palace walls, the heavens locked in battle as Gregory took his leave. The weight of his mission bore down on him as he stepped into the rain-soaked streets of Dunwyn, his crimson robes growing heavy with water as he made his way toward the docks.

The Long Journey to Sparnia

The ship bound for Sparnia was a sturdy vessel, built to weather the fierce tempers of the sea. As Gregory boarded, the scent of salt and damp wood filled his senses, a reminder of the trials ahead. The waters between Eirelunn and Sparnia were treacherous, even in fair weather, but the storm showed no signs of relenting.

For days, the ship rocked violently under the assault of the wind and waves. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the jagged peaks of distant, uncharted islands before vanishing into darkness once more. The sailors moved like specters in the rain, their faces hardened by a life at sea, their voices barely audible over the howling winds.

Gregory spent much of his time below deck, studying his notes by flickering candlelight. The damp air made the parchment curl at the edges, but he did not waver. Every word Harrul had spoken needed to be conveyed with precision—no embellishment, no error. The balance between the Isles Cabal and the Night Court was delicate, and a single misstep could send it crumbling.

Nights on the ship were restless. The creaking of the hull, the ceaseless roar of the ocean, and the weight of his task gnawed at him. He found himself pacing the cramped quarters, running through every possible way Marcus might interpret Harrul’s words. Would the Vampire King see the offer as a challenge? An insult? Or an opportunity?

On calmer days, Gregory took to the deck, watching the endless expanse of the sea stretch before him. The horizon seemed impossibly far, an echo of the distance between the kings he served and the wars yet to come. The wind tugged at his robes, whispering of fate, of power, of unseen forces at work beneath the surface of their world.

The journey stretched into weeks. Supplies ran thin, tempers flared among the crew, and the constant, unrelenting motion of the ship left even the seasoned sailors weary. Gregory, however, endured. He was no warrior, no king, but he had long since learned that battles were not always fought with swords.

Finally, as the mists of morning lifted, the jagged coast of Sparnia emerged from the gloom. The sight brought a rare sense of relief to the Red Mage. Soon, he would stand before Marcus Aumont, delivering Harrul’s message and bearing witness to whatever move the Vampire King would make next.

The storm behind him had passed, but Gregory knew the true storm—the one between empires, between kings—was only beginning.

 

[Marcus Aumont]

Gregory had traveled the breadth of Sparnia, crossing its vast landscapes with unwavering purpose. The journey south had been long and grueling, but he pressed on, driven by duty and the weight of the message he bore. When he finally reached Ali, the newly claimed seat of Marcus Aumont’s rule, he beheld a city transformed.

The palace loomed over the desert city like a dark sun, its spires wrapped in shadows cast by the ever-burning torches lining its walls. The presence of the Night Court was suffocating—vampires, ghouls, and warlocks moved like wraiths through the grand halls, their whispered conversations a constant hum beneath the eerie silence. The Ashirra, once rulers of this land, were now folded into the folds of Marcus’ dominion, their presence thick among his court. They watched Gregory with unreadable expressions as he made his way through the labyrinthine corridors toward the throne room.

And there, seated upon his throne of dark stone, was Marcus.

The Vampire King sat in eerie stillness, his posture regal yet relaxed, as if he were a beast that had momentarily chosen to rest. His golden eyes gleamed like molten fire, their intensity burning through the dim torchlight.

Gregory knelt, his voice even as he spoke. “My King, I bring word from Eirelunn. King Harrul has delivered his message—his alliance with Darkholme and the Ulfbitenn stands. He has taken the daughter of the Demon King as a hostage in Dunwyn and declared that the Abyss shall fight for the Isles Cabal. His aims are conquest, as always, yet he remains steadfast that he will break no oath given unless forced by your hand.”

Marcus did not speak.

Gregory remained kneeling, waiting, allowing his King the silence he needed.

What few understood—what no one truly grasped—was the madness that lurked within Marcus. It was not the erratic lunacy of a lesser vampire driven mad by hunger or bloodlust. No, his madness was something far more ancient, something entwined with the very essence of what he was. The Beast within him whispered in his mind, a constant presence, a hunger that did not simply crave flesh or blood, but power, challenge, and chaos.

For centuries, his enemies had acted in the dark, scheming behind veiled words and hidden blades. They had plotted and betrayed, weaving their games in the shadows where they thought he would not see. The old pure-bloods, before he had purged them, had all thought themselves clever, their deception something to be admired. But Harrul…

Harrul was different.

Time and time again, the King of the Isles had acted with brazen certainty, laying his ambitions bare and making his intent known. There were no veils, no pretenses. It was refreshing. It was exciting.

For the first time in centuries, something stirred within Marcus beyond the whispers of his eternal hunger.

When he finally spoke, there was no emotion in his voice, no trace of anger, surprise, or amusement—only command.

“Return to Eirelunn,” he said smoothly. “Deliver this message and this message alone.”

Gregory inclined his head, listening intently.

“King Harrul is invited to my palace in Ali,” Marcus said, his words deliberate. “Alone.”

Silence fell over the chamber.

Marcus did not elaborate, did not explain, did not hint at any deeper meaning. Yet inside of him, the Beast stirred with rare anticipation. What would Harrul do? Would he accept? Decline? Would he come prepared for battle, or would he meet Marcus in the open, as he always had?

No matter the answer, the game had begun.

 

[The Night Court]

Gregory bowed deeply, absorbing the weight of Marcus’ words. The invitation was unexpected, yet the lack of emotion behind it was even more so. He had expected some flicker of intrigue or satisfaction—some indication of the King’s inner thoughts—but Marcus remained as composed as ever, his directive final, unquestionable.

“As you command, my King,” Gregory said, his voice steady. There was nothing more to say. No further elaboration, no clarification. The message was simple, yet it carried the weight of something far greater.

Rising from his kneel, Gregory turned on his heel and departed from the throne room without hesitation. He had spent years in service to Marcus and knew well enough that when the Vampire King gave a command, there was no lingering, no questioning. His duty was clear.

As he stepped back into the sprawling corridors of the palace, the many eyes of the Night Court followed his movements—curious, wary, always watching. Among them, the Ashirra loomed with silent judgment, their presence thick in the halls of Ali. He paid them no mind. He had no time for courtly whispers or speculation.

By the hour’s turn, he was already mounted and riding north, back toward the coastline where a ship would take him once again across the Kraken Sea.

The Long Journey Back to Eirelunn

The voyage was no easier than the first.

The seas between Sparnia and the Isles were as treacherous as ever, and once more, Gregory found himself at the mercy of storms that raged across the open waters. The ship pitched and groaned beneath the weight of the waves, the crew fighting against the elements with grim determination.

Gregory spent much of the journey in his cabin, pouring over his thoughts as the lanterns flickered weakly against the swaying ship. He was not easily unnerved, but even he found himself questioning the true purpose of Marcus’ summons.

The King’s lack of expression had been unusual—even for him. Marcus had always been controlled, precise in his mannerisms, but there was something about this invitation that felt different. Not calculated in the way one might expect from a ruler making a strategic play, but almost as if… Marcus had been waiting for this.

Was this excitement?

Gregory dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. He had spent too long trying to decipher the mind of his King. It was not his place.

When the ship finally reached the northern shores, he wasted no time.

The journey across Eirelunn was long and arduous, the cold creeping into his bones as he rode through wind-battered roads and frost-covered valleys. It was a stark contrast to the sun-scorched lands he had left behind, yet he did not falter. He pushed forward, the message weighing heavily on him.

By the time he neared Dunwyn, the towering fortress of the Isles Cabal rising before him, he could already hear the howls of the Ulfbitenn in the distance, their presence ever near.

At last, he had returned.

He did not know how King Harrul would receive this invitation, nor did he know what would come of the meeting between these two rulers—two men who stood as masters of war, each powerful in their own right, yet bound by different codes.

But soon, he would find out.

Gregory’s Arrival at the Palace of Dunwyn

The cold air of Eirelunn bit at Gregory’s skin as he passed through the towering gates of Dunwyn, the seat of King Harrul. His journey had been relentless—through storm-tossed seas and frozen roads—but he had not slowed, not once. He had delivered many messages in his time, but none quite like this.

His horse’s breath came in heavy clouds as he pulled the reins, the beast slowing as they approached the grand palace entrance. The ever-watchful eyes of the Ulfbitenn followed his every move, their presence an ever-looming reminder of the strength that Harrul commanded. Gregory was not afraid. He had walked among monsters all his life—he served the greatest of them all.

As he dismounted, the doors of the palace were already opening, as if they had been expecting him. With purpose, he strode inside, his boots clicking against the stone floors, his crimson robes trailing behind him like the dying embers of a fire.

He was led through the familiar halls, through chambers filled with warriors and advisors murmuring amongst themselves. Some turned to watch as he passed, but none dared to halt his advance. He was the Vampire King’s envoy, and his presence alone carried weight.

At last, he entered the chamber where King Harrul stood, his presence as imposing as ever. Gregory inclined his head in greeting, his expression unreadable.

Then, with measured calm, he spoke the only words Marcus had given him to deliver.

“My King extends an invitation,” he said, his voice steady despite the cold tension in the air. “He requests your presence at his palace in Ali. Alone.”

Nothing more. No elaboration. No explanation.

Gregory let the words settle, standing in silence as he awaited the King’s response.

 

[Harrul Ulfbitenn]

The King dined on raw meat, seasoned with a number of spices and herbs; The typical meal the King was served, with whispers within the Red Court of the origins of the meat itself, and whether it originated from the pens... or the dungeons...

As Gregory was led in, the King paid no heed to his arrival. His eyes remained on the bloody plate. He reached out to the metal cup, from which he supped, before speaking. Though it was evident to whom the King addressed, he preserved the same defiant behavior, in a clear statement towards the will of the Night King and Gregory himself.

The King did not react when Gregory revealed the news brought by Espada. He continued feasting, seemingly ignorant, perhaps too obviously intentionally so. The two guards by the chamber's entrance, both Ulfbitenn, members of the Black Guard, stepped forth, reaching to their weapon handles, ready to slide off the scabbards, if given the reason. Time warped, as the air grew heavy by the tension.

Finally, the King cleared his lips of blood with a handkerchief, before standing up. As soon as he did, the Black Guards moved forth, placing their armoured hands on Gregory's shoulders, in synchrony with King Harrul's approach.

"Your King seem to have ignored my invitation. Another insult to me and mine, I presume." Harrul's tone turned grim. The Beast growling beneath his chest, craving for the ecstasy of violence, should the King's wrath was unleashed then and there... Alas... The cold pale gaze offered no insight, save for the black eyes that sparked as if caught aflame.

"No matter." he spat the words, as he pushed the bloodied handkerchief against Gregory's chest. "I have no more use for you."

One of the Black Guards drew a silvered dagger which he then aimed at Gregory's side.

"Servants are not worthy to speak words of Kings. But your fate will be bound to mine..." the venomous glooming reassurance of the King was followed by a nod, and so the Black Guards pushed Gregory back, to drag him to the dungeons below.

From through the shadows, a figure emerged. Red hair washing down the thickly bound fabric of the dress, while eyes glared the world with contempt and ignorance. Her hands clasped before her abdomen, her pacing so deliberate and silent she gave the impression of a phantasm rather than a creature bound in flesh.

"If I do not return. You know what to do." Harrul instructed. His black eyes following Gregory's path.

The woman offered no response, as if replying would be redundunt enough, her words would be a waste of effort. She spared no time to what she considered obvious, or unworthy of addressing. The steadfast nature of the Cigoerne rooted within her, yet without losing the ruthless determination or the predatory instincts that defined the Ulfbitenn.

"What of his spawn?" she questioned.

"She is of no threat now."

"She is of no threat yet."

"Then do what you must, Uallach. There will only be one of his bloodline left, if blood is to be shed. Only one, Uallach. If you see purpose in finding the Witch. Then do it."

She did not respond. Her mind was already made on that regard. Though Harrul would not yield to her reason, he at least knew that she was harder to change minds than a stone to remain afloat.