• Closed • So It Begins

[Hans]

115 Ashan 717 - Ne'haer

The weather was frustratingly pleasant that trial. Hans scowled up at the sky, where the sun beat down upon the city with fervour. Hans felt exposed in his white blouse and black pants, without the coat to allow him to merge into the crowd, but still, he moved through the streets on his long legs, side-stepping chatting and laughing commoners heading the same way as Hans.

The tradition was barbaric. The city was posted with pamphlets advertising the death of one Ree Dornae, a Lysorian woman accused of arcanic associations. She was a friend of his. Friend, perhaps the wrong word, but Ree was known to Hans' colleagues back in Lysoria. He had tried his best to use any and all contacts to reach Ree, and find out how she had been found out - for of course, Hans knew she was a mage - but the bureaucracy of Ne'haer remained tight-lipped about the affair. All Hans knew was she was to be hanged in front of a large crowd that morning.

He had spent the night pacing his room in the inn, trying all he could to find anything he could use to save Ree. They were not close, but she was a fellow mage, a fellow Lysorian, and deserved life as much as he did. Yes, she was a necromancer, but how could they have known that? Ree was far too careful and sharp to risk exposing that here in Ne'haer. She was simply here to investigate sailors she could use for her next merchant trip; why would she have used magic in this city where they were known for being so intolerant? Hans clenched his fists as he walked, the knuckles aching from where he had punched the wall last night in frustration. There was nothing he could do. Nothing. All he could do was honour her by going and make sure Ree knew he had not abandoned her.

The ball of tension in his chest would not dissipate once she had passed, he knew. He knew the Ne'haerian council, he knew what they were like. They would use this, twist her death as propaganda, call all mages aberrations, horrors. corruptions. Not that they needed a reason. They lied to the people every day.

Hans made it to the square where Ree would be hanged. The scaffolding was set up; the noose swayed ominously in the breeze. No sign of Ree yet, just the Blades guarding the scaffolding, looking silently at the amassing crowd. Children were here, running and laughing. Parents had brought snacks. Some rowdy men were already cheering, drunk. Hans stood to the side, alone, in sight of the scaffold. He wanted to make sure Ree knew he was here. That she had at least one person who respected her.

Hans waited in silence, his chest tight.

[Alistair]

To kill a mage for being what they were -- it was an act that had led him astray, once, when he was far younger. The mage's eyes flickered over the scene, irises passing over the noose, the wooden scaffolding, the men of official rank preparing the woman her punitive measures. It was symbolic; the rope meant treachery, crime, inhumanity. This spectacle was to remind the children looking on to never be as this woman was: free to pursue her darkly desires as she willed.

Yet for some children, some children so morbid as he was, seeing her hang for her gift would only embolden them in their future: they would realize the power that Necromancy held, and for those children, the taboo would excite them. It was a story he'd written before, in narration of his own life, and the beginning of the dark obsessions he carried now. Ree's death was, for some of the onlookers, an initiation.

Vincent stood at his side, offering the woman a quiet gaze before she passed into the dream realm. He had promised the Coven's failures to flay them before death took them naturally, but with the public nature of this event, he could only relent. Alistair looked to him, and in whispering voices, inquired.

"Was she one of us?" he asked, being sure to let his voice not carry past the Sae'a'fei's ear. "Lysorian, magi, likely Necromancer - she is one of us, yes?" The answer, it appeared, was obvious. Vincent said nothing, he merely pulled away his ear and continued to look on. Yes, the hesitation implied. Yes, she must have been - and as the leader of the compound in the region, Vincent likely felt personally responsible. Not that it mattered. Their people were martyred for their 'sick' obsessions on the daily. Necromancers were loathed among all the world, with not a single place for them to call home. Only the Coven accepted their gift, becoming something of a family between the margins. Yet within every family was a mother, and for the Coven that was Ellasin: intolerably authoritarian, and recklessly ambitious.

A Lich, who would throw them all away, one by one, for but the slightest advantage in her game.

It was a cruel life for a practitioner of the cold, macabre art. Civilization only wished to destroy you, and your family use you. The Coven was not kind. Ree's fate was not kind, and surely it would have been crueler if her failures had been discovered first by her own people, rather than the institution of the city, which tried as it did to play at being humane. Necromancers on the other hand were typically not humane, and judging by his own experiences, she was likely no different than most. Ne'haer's mages were markedly insane, and incredibly ambitious. They were, essentially, actively at war with the establishment. This hanging was more than just a punitive measure, but a political statement, standing in solidarity against those who would defy Immortals and linger in aversion for the society that bred them.

Perhaps that society deserved it, perhaps its scorn was arbitrary. He was no longer as sure as he once was; the lines had begun to blur.

The truth was, though, he wasn't here to see Ree die or to satisfy the public nature of this execution. Another Necromancer dying didn't really bother him anymore. He was here because she was Lysorian, and he wished to learn about her place of origin, and the geopolitical relations between her realm and that of Ne'haer's. Alistair had a particular goal in mind, and as was whenever he possessed these goals, he'd become incredibly invested. Whilst he nudged Vincent to help afford him some assistance, seeking to learn of her political or magical connections who may have been present, he found that the Sae'a'fei was staring fixated on a man about his age, of notable musculature, stature and refined posture. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and broad shoulders. He was... attractive, the mage could only admit.

"Him," he whispered, his lips barely moving as he continued to stare on, without so much as a blink. Alistair nearly laughed at the man's perpetual staring -- Vincent was a creep. "Him," he said again. "He is one of us, too. Would you like to know him?"

[Hans]

Hans watched silently as they led Ree out onto the scaffold. She was ragged, her hair tangled, her face strewn with dirt from the nights she had spent in the dungeons. Anger pulsed through Hans, hot and heady. He had been unable to do anything - unable to save her. For all his influence, for all his money, he could not do anything. As she walked, she must have felt his gaze, for she turned her head and her beautiful eyes made contact with his.

What could he do? Making eye contact, he nodded his head slowly once, before diving into her Tangle. It was dark, gloomy, colours tinged with defeat and death. But Hans knew of only one thing he could do. There, in the Tangle, was one overwhelming colour, one thread which tied everything together. Hans knew that sickly green and yellow - fear. Fear of death, of the crowd. It overwhelmed Ree. Quickly, Hans reached for that thread, tying it seamlessly into a knot. He knotted it down, down beneath her tapestry, quickly smothering the emotion. Of course - mortality was terrifying. He could not remove the fear completely, but he could bury it. He did so, and slowly, he felt the threads of Ree's Tangle loosen. She was afraid, but as he pulled from her Tangle, he could see that she walked a little straighter, with her chin held higher. This was all he could do. Perhaps it would be enough.

It was as she stepped up onto the scaffolding, the noose looming above her, that he felt it. It was not a magical tugging, but rather that uneasy feeling that you know someone is watching you. He tried to shake it off. Hans was the Ambassador of Lysoria; it was expected he should be here. But perhaps someone had noticed his gaze lingered too long with Ree, that perhaps he was like her. But he couldn't look around. It would give too much away. Casually, he pushed from the wall he stood against, and began walking through the crowd, even as Ree's crimes were read aloud. The propaganda made him feel sick to his stomach, but he could not focus on that. He could only try to find out who was watching him - and why.

Then he spotted him. Vincent. Relief sagged through him, and casually, he made his way over to his fellow Coven member. As he approached, he noticed a man he did not know. Tall, beautiful, fair. Hans rose his eyebrows as he approached. For him to be with Vincent, he must be a member of the Coven, but Hans had never seen him before. He came to stand beside Vincent, and fixed his eyes again on the scaffold.

"Vincent," he murmured in greeting, not looking over to the man. "I don't believe I know your friend here." Hans made no effort to introduce himself, for it was then they began to tie the knot around Ree's neck. His chest tight, he sought the gaze of his friend, and bit his lip. She watched him in the seconds leading up to the drop. He never looked away.

[Alistair]

In truth, Alistair could have saved her. There were many ways in which he could have done so - he could have splintered the rope on which she hung from, which would have resulted in her dropping clean onto the floor, unharmed. He could have utilized a Nail of rupturing to rip the rope in half, gods, even the scaffold. Even the executioner. He could have created abrogator's folds beneath her feet, keeping her up as if the stool still laid beneath her toes. He could have wreaked havoc among the crowd, and laid waist to the platform on which the propagandists all stood. There were a hundred ways in which he could see himself saving this woman - yet none of them were worth attempting.

Why?

Because he was not here for her. He was here for the Lysorian, a man he didn't even know existed until Vincent looked at him the way he did. His eyes said it all, and so did his words. Him. He was the man that Alistair needed, and the Necromancer hanging from that rope was the woman he did not.

The wood was kicked from beneath her, she plummeted downwards. Her neck snapped; he could hear it. She began to gag viciously in her final moments, a tight, burning sensation sure to fill her throat. Alistair sighed. He cocked his wrists, and casually without looking towards her, an impenetrably thick blow pounded against the back of her head and killed her instantly. She was put out of her misery, by folds of thick mass he'd crafted with a clever application of abrogation.

Vincent looked back to him, and nodded, understanding what he'd done. The crowd didn't seem to notice, the blow was done without fracturing the skull. The bigoted peasants instead raged on, even as her gagging and throaty gasps ceased.

"I don't believe I know my friend here, personally," the Aberrant admitted. "Likely because I don't have a friend here. Nathaniel is far from my friend." He called him by that name - that false name, one he wore to conceal his identity as Lord Venora, painting himself as naught but a wealthy mercantile child who'd managed a business far from Rynmere's crown lands. Alistair - or Nathaniel - bowed his head slightly, addressing the gentleman, though he seemed distracted by the fate of the young mage.

"Nathaniel von Everec," he introduced himself as, lying initially. Then, he leaned forward towards the attractive man, and whispered to him a different name. "Alistair, to you." His breath, his skin - all seemed naturally, incredibly appealing, by the mark he held on his back. Syroa's blessing made him desired by all, particularly those that believed they were desired by him. He would make no mistake; utilizing this gift was important in diplomatic proceedings, and so he would utilize it indeed.

"And you?" he asked, pulling his head back from the leaning whisper and attempting to keep eye contact with the dark haired gentleman. "And why do you attend such a grim thing? Vincent asserted his rank over me to make me come, but not you. Was it a morbid fascination? I saw you staring rather intently." As always, the mage was incredibly pointed, coming off as crass to most. Somehow, though, he had the perception that this man was more than capable of handling his crude line of questioning. He had the... noble air to him, much like Alistair himself. Was he wrong? He would know soon enough.

[Hans]

Hans closed his eyes as the rope dropped. Ree deserved someone to watch her, be with her, in her final moments - but Hans could not give her that. He had killed people before - with his blades. Bandits on the road. He was not squeamish. But the crack of her neck - the neck of a friend - churned his stomach, and he closed his eyes. He did not mutter a prayer for her, but he did wish her well on her journey to the other world. Hans, with his eyes closed, did not see Ree's final breath, but it was over far quicker than he expected. He knew, then, that this - Nathaniel - had magic, too.

Opening his eyes, he took one lingering look at Ree's dangling body, a corpse to be reanimated - Ree would have liked that - before turning to the newcomer. He was attractive, certainly, but it felt wrong to acknowledge that in the presence of death. He resisted, too, the urge to dive into the man's Tangle - out of respect for his fellow mage, though undoubtedly it would have been useful for Hans to do so. Still, he restrained himself.

"Nathaniel," he said, aloud, inclining his head. With his head bowed, he murmured beneath his breath, "Alistair." He could smell the scent of Alistair, heady and attractive, and Hans swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Straightening, he distracted himself - looking again to Ree's body to ground him. "I am the Ambassador for Lysoria. When a Lysorian dies in Ne'haer, I will be there to pay my respects to my countrymen." It went unsaid that he came, too, for his mage friend - but it was not necessary. Knowing Vincent was enough to tell Alistair that Hans, too, was a mage.

A wry smirk twisted on his lips. "I would ask you the same, Nathaniel, but this is no place for a conversation. Shall we go somewhere a little more secluded?" A look to Vincent to see if the Coven member was amenable. If they were, he would begin to lead them towards the small inn in which he was renting a room while in Lysoria.

[Alistair]

Just as Hans had a sense - magically propelled - for others and their Tangle, Alistair had an innate sense for two particular emotions ravaging one's mind: lust, and fury. It was nigh instant that he had begun to feel the attraction centered upon him, drawn by the allure he'd acquired both by blood and divine providence. The swallow that followed was instinctively satisfying, and as a result led the mage to mischievously grin at his colleague. "Alistair indeed," he said singularly, and quietly.

They moved on.

Hans revealed his position - an ambassadorial dignitary from Lysoria. Alistair knew little of their civilization, though he had traveled to and from it on many occasions whilst he stayed in Sarkanis den Nogg, the Coven's headquarters and base in the region. He was aware of only a few things: that the state had a considerable mage population, that it was overtly opposed to the city of Ne'haer and the other towns and cities beneath its authority, and that it was led by something of a pseudo-nobility. Each of these things, though, offered opportunity. Mages were inclined to elevate their stations, and they were naturally pragmatic. Alistair among them was considerable and powerful, known to be one of the most prominent of their kind.

Such a position inspired envy, but also commanded respect. The mages of Lysoria likely wanted more privileges than they had - and Alistair could give them that, potentially.

Furthermore, he had no interest in protecting a relationship with Ne'haer, and great experience with nobility both in the Imperial, absolutist sense and the loose autonomous sense within the Eastern Settlements. Lysoria was a natural fit for him -- a place to begin his real work, pursuing a dynasty and a legacy far from home.

He jotted down all of this information as notes, guidelines. How to lead Hans to his favor? How to lead House Amielle into his arms? The game began now -- the man's rank had been announced, and his interests piqued. It was time to play.

"Secluded works," the mage replied, nodding his head. "Perhaps for a variety of purposes," Alistair added, coyly smirking, eyes lighting a piercing shade of amber as his face rose, lips slightly parted. He was flirting. And why not? The desire was there, the advantage could be pressed.

"Lead the way, Ser Ambassador. I'm fairly inept when it comes to traversing this city, I'm afraid," he shrugged. "Not that I care to know. I imagine we'll be... reducing its reach, before long."

[Hans]

Hans stilled, taking aback by Alistair's obvious flirting. He looked quickly to Vincent, to see if he had noticed, but it seemed he had not. Shaking his head, Hans swallowed, pushing the attraction down to the pit of his stomach. This was not the time or the place.

But at that last statement, Hans couldn't help but smirk in response, not in attraction but in smug satisfaction. "That is the goal," he murmured softly. He kept his voice soft, so that the Ne'haerians that surrounded them, still fixated on Ree's swinging body would not here. Ostensibly, there was no open animosity between Lysoria and Ne'haer - but they had just murdered one of Hans' people. They could not be so naive as to not expect retaliation. "Come. We will speak more in my room."

Hans took one last lingering look at Ree's body. Hurt clutched at his heart again, but he turned and began to walk from the square. This would galvanise him - he would do better for Ree, and make sure Ne'haer paid.

For a moment, as they walked in silence, Hans regretted that they were not in Lysoria - that Alistair would not see his own stately rooms in Lysoria. He was simply renting a room at the Golden Flask, as he did whenever he came to visit Ne'haer. It was not far from the courtyard, and so Hans walked in silence. He could not resist sending a glance to his companion. He was attractive - Hans couldn't deny that. Everything about the man seemed to draw him in. Again, Hans desperately wanted to dive into his Tangle, but it would be disrespectful. And there was no telling what type of mage Alistair was - if he were too an Empath, then he would sense the intrusion, and all would be ruined.

Quickly, Hans reached the inn. "One moment,"he said to the pair, before going to the innkeeper. He requested a bottle of wine for the trio. Returning with the wine, Hans led the two up the stairs, pulling out his key to his room as he went. He unlocked the door, and welcome them inside.

"I am just renting while I am in Ne'haer," he said by way of explanation. It was not an overly stately room, and there was a degree of embarrassment in his voice. "A glass of wine?" Hans didn't wait for an answer before opening the bottle and pouring each a glass, raising it in a silent toast before taking a sip."Now, Alistair," he said, settling down in an armchair. "We are alone, and we can speak freely. Who are you, and why are you with our mutual friend here in Ne'haer? I have not seen you in these parts before - nor at the Coven." Alone, Hans could acknowledge the truth.

[Alistair]

For some blocks, the streets of the city hollowed out, as a great deal of the citizenry went to witness the death of one they believed to be a treasonous witch. This made the walk all the more serene, with Alistair's eyes following the buildings and their signs and occasionally glancing at his new acquaintance to admire his poise and demeanor. Hans was certainly aristocratic in his air, yet unlike many with such an air, he could stomach the less exalted and embroidered side of life. Perhaps it was far too early to judge -- but it was far too quick that he found himself respecting the characteristics of the one before him.

He knew that this man was one willing to fight with tooth and claw. And good. He would need to.

When they arrived at the inn, Alistair waited patiently, as Hans asked. The Ambassador returned with wine, and a direction. The three men were led to his room, though at the door, Vincent declined to enter. "Enough," he commanded. "I am the blade, not the tongue. I do as Ellasin asks, and she has not asked of me to engage in your... ambition. That will be enough for me," the Aberrant said, before turning his head and wading down the steps before him. They were really alone, with far too much wine. Alistair barely drank. That would have to change, for a trial.

When Hans made clear his embarrassment at the mediocrity of his lodging, the mage shook his head and smiled faintly. "In my home, we are renowned as the family that bathes in silk robes just as we sleep among the tattered linens of the unheard. While it is well and proper for me to evade sleeping in an inn... I don't really care," Alistair said, laughing lightly and drawing the cup of wine to his lips.

"To being alone," the Baron whispered, raising his glass and taking a considerable sip. The mage laid casually into an armchair, taking a breath to relax and unwind. "There are a lot of reasons I'm here. All very complicated," he explained. "As for who I am, I am Alistair of the House of Venora, First in Line and Baron of Novilane. I am fit to inherit a land of three million, many of those citizens some of the wealthiest and most talented in this world. As you can imagine, I'm really quite a big deal where I'm from," he said playfully. While mostly he was attempting to sound like a cocky ass for the fun of it, he spoke truth as well.

"Only, there's a lot more to me than that," he admitted. "I'm a mage. There's an inquisition against mages as we speak. I'm drawn solely and exclusively to the bodies of men," Alistair admitted, whilst staring Hans up and down nonchalantly, "yet am expected to marry and reproduce with a woman. I'm a slave liberationist, yet dwell in a land thriving on the exploitation of those same people. I'm a meritocrat, surrounded by the decadence of nobles who worship themselves, and themselves alone. By the beliefs of my nation, I am the descendant of a God, and bear her sacred rite to inherit. But I am no god. I am just a man, an ideological one, and a militant one at that... I was not born to rule Rynmere, I was born to sunder the world and all of its archaic traditions. Do you understand?" he asked, eyes intently grasping for a response, staring into Hans' own.

When he received the only answer he would receive, he leaned back once more, and casually continued.

"I'm not often in Sarkanis because I'm bored of Sarkanis. You would've seen me a lot seven years ago. Unfortunately, I've long since surpassed the need to sit in halls and crypts and read upon ancient tomes with a Sotrosei at my back. Ellasin keeps me around because I'm quirky, and provide some excitement to her decaying vulva. Other than that, I serve my ideals alone. I imagine my separation from the Coven won't be too far from now, and it probably won't be pretty." That was probably a folly to admit. If Hans was anything as brainwashed as the rest of the Coven, Ellasin would be hearing those words.

He changed the subject, raising his head once in a nod. "You?" the mage asked, with a smirk.

[Hans]

If Hans had less of a control on his emotions, trained by his mentor, Sylus, he would have blushed. Instead, he sat stoically, but there was an ease in his posture. The presence of the Coven member had made him uneasy, as he always felt around them. Hans raised his glass in response to Alistair's toast, and while there was no blush on his cheeks, there was an easy smile on his lips. "To being alone," he murmured, and drank. If Hans knew the implications of that phrase, he did not make any sign of it.

And then Alistair began to tell all. Hans was both surprised and delighted at the ease at which Alistair began to speak. Hans was too used to having to wrangle the truth out of people. In politics, people rarely gave away their secrets. While he suspected that there were things Alistair wasn't telling him, it was still more than he has expected to know - at least for their first conversation. Hans watched and listened with a cool expression, taking in everything silently. If he was surprised at the presence of the Rynmerian in Ne'haer, he did not say it. While he twitched his lips at Alistair's joke, he did not say anything, simply took sips of the wine as Alistair spoke, his story unravelling.

Alistair, it seemed, was a man of contradictions. Baron and mage. Liberationist and coloniser. Gay. That last one piqued an interest in Hans, alone as he was with the attractive man. There was an allure about Alistair, something pulling him in, making Hans want to sidle up close to him and breathe in that heady, masculine scent. It was not often Hans got to be with a man. As son of Terrance Maskarin, he was expected to be certain things. None of those involved sleeping with a man.

A degree of relief spread through Hans at his admittance of displeasure with the Coven. It made it easier for Hans to speak freely, as he too did not belong in the Coven. They were a means to an end, a resource Hans made use of, but his true loyalties remained with the mages of Lysoria. Hans quirked his lips, and took another long draught of wine. "That's quite a story you have there, Alistair. And you expect me to only tell, not ask questions?" Hans leaned forward. "Very well. There will be time for questions later."

Hans thought for a moment, and then began to speak. "I am Hans Maskarin. I do not have titles, or power like you do. But my family is old money, very old. We are amongst the closest to House Amielle, the rulers of Lysoria - though perhaps not the kind of rulers you would be used to. Lysoria is, by comparison to Rynmere, a new land. House Amielle were amongst the first to take advantage of that, and, well, us Maskarins hitched a ride." A quirk of the lips, and a look to see if Alistair was listening and enjoying himself.

"As you know, I'm Ambassador for Lysoria. It used to be about keeping the peace with the other territories, but now, well..." He paused, wondering if he should tell Alistair, but quickly decided that this was an alliance he wanted to pursue - far more productive than his alliance with Ne'haer itself. "With war on the horizon, it's about knowing your enemies and your allies. I, too, am a a mage - an Empath. And do not worry about the Coven. I feel the same way." He smiled wryly, and took another sip of his wine as he thought.

"What else? My family is a family of merchants, but I have never been a part of that business. I always preferred the politics and the intrigue, as baldfaced an answer as that is. Oh," and here he grinned, knowing that this would help lighten up the proceedings, "I too am drawn to the bodies of men, but not exclusively."

[Alistair]

He'd noticed, early on, that somehow he'd managed to make Hans feel what appeared to be comfort. They spoke easily, the man leaned loosely into his armchair without the sort of tension building in his body that one would expect from a political meeting. That was good. The closer they came to comfort, the closer they would come to trust. It was difficult to trust anyone in politics of course, but one always needed at least a singular rope to hold onto. Preferably these individuals would manifest as advisors and members of one's family, but so often, one needed to come to terms with strangers and offer them greatness for greatness.

Hans was, quite assuredly, his foot in the door - and he could have been more than that, too. A friend, someone to speak to, perhaps someone to teach and in exchange learn from. He had an optimistic view of the man, and hoped dearly that his judgments would not prove false.

"It's always quite a story with people like us," he replied, the slightest bit of wine streaming down his lips and onto his chin as he inhaled a swig. The mage licked down to his chin, quite savagely, following the action with a small bout of laughter. It was so against all etiquette to do so, but Gods he didn't care right now. He didn't always have to be a noble, and Hans didn't seem to want him to be.

After wiping his lips and chin with his forearm, the mage fell back, his fingers curling his hair. "I see, I see," he responded. "Old money. That's where real power begins, you know. An old and prestigious family with a great deal of financial influence? Unstoppable. Well, theoretically, at least," he mused. "You know, your story isn't dissimilar to my family's. Over five hundred arcs ago, they came from Cairene Sol - the city they ruled - to escape the great tragedy that had befallen their former Kingdom. At first they merely chased after the coattails of the House of Andaris, but then..."

His face turned, away from the cup of wine and the simple table before them. He looked to Hans, a curious look consuming his expression. "They wanted more. They were so tired of being known as Andaris' pet, alone. And now, we're not," he stated, lips curling into a half-smile as he viewed Hans from the corner of his gaze. It was a message, quiet yet overt. The same can happen to your House. It was a question of Hans' ambition, and perhaps, how that ambition could be served.

Standing up, he made a declaration.

"You want to know your enemies and allies? Consider me the latter," the mage offered. "We've only just been introduced, but I see something inside you that I like - and for the purpose of this meeting, I don't mean in the literal sense," he joked, continuing their flirtatious exchange. A grin beset his lips, repeating the Empath's words in his mind. I too am drawn to the bodies of men.

Good.

"I want to claim the land West of your country, Hans," he finally admitted with full clarity. "I will take it whether or not I have Lysoria's agreement, though for my present fondness of you, I'd much rather we stray from the path of war. Do you think you could influence the proceedings?" he asked, bluntly. "If so, I can only imagine you'd want something in return. I have gold, but that's rather dull. So, what could it be? The death of your enemies? Lands and titles in my new Kingdom? What ever could a Lysorian ambassador want from a meek little warlord?"