Empire 6: Mamut Round 8 Event - The Final Hours of Thunspeaker Ulun

[Silent_Interim]

There are some who say that Thun runs on tradition. That it is the well-worn patterns, the grooves in the earth carved by many years of repitition, that allows the Scrim to co-operate and function together in harmony.
Thunspeaker Ulun was not such a traditionalist. While never as radical as some of the Scrimspeakers might have liked, they took to the task of overturning many old conceptions with vigour. With one hand, they led sorties and expeditions into the mysterious lands surrounding Thun, casting back the reach of the unknown. With the other, they raised armies to defend Thun, and elevated the Warspeaker to a position of power, casting off the notion that Scrim were not a fighting people. They oversaw an unprecedented period of commerce and expansion, bringing both land and wealth to Thun, ignoring calls to isolate Thun from the affairs of the rest of Mamut. Perhaps most radically of all, they openly embraced the traditions of the Celestial Cult, now calling itself the Trinity of Light, telling Thun that if it did not wish to be washed away by the River, it had to look to the Skies.
So it is perhaps unsurprising that Ulun defied one more tradition in their death, choosing to die on the surface and not in the deep caverns of the earth.
The Thunspeaker’s home has been thrown open for a day, and preparations made for many guests to attend. Chefs have been employed, to ensure that guests are served food that is not merely edible but also delicious. Whole swathes of the interior have been remodeled and refitted for the comfort of guests. The attention to detail is almost out of character for the Scrim, although no effort has been made to decorate. Still, at this point the Scrim have almost made an art form of austerity, and some might find a certain charm in the bare walls and utilitarian structures employed.
The one place where the Scrim have made at least a passing concession to any kind of style is in the Great Hall, but even this is more of an attempt to substitute grandeur for taste, with a high ceiling and imposing columns. The hall is smoky, having few windows but many braziers and torches for lighting. At one end of the hall, the passing Thunspeaker sits on a throne atop a dais overlooking the rest. The throne is plain, and so is the message it sends- the one sitting here is in charge. The Warspeaker lurks with a few guards at the foot of the dais, maintaining order among the small crowd waiting for a private audience with the Thunspeaker.
At the other end of the hall, by the entrance, Scrimspeaker Lejah greets the incoming guests. They are a well-known figure to many, being intimately involved with a great deal of Thun’s trade apparatus, but completely unknown to others.
Oddly, very few Scrim are in attendance, mostly those few officials and dignitaries who would have insulted the Thunspeaker by their absence. The bulk of the servants, too, have been replaced with humans, a mix of the darker-skinned Tel’kolsans of Thun’s Southern holdings and a few of the slightly paler Arkusans. All wear plain grey uniforms, and they are in near constant motion through the halls of the grand building, carrying food, refreshments, and whatever else is needed to wherever it is required. Scrimspeaker Nithor is seemingly everywhere at once, directing servants as needed to ensure that no guest’s needs or desires go unmet. It is an open secret that Nithor is slated to replace Ulun, but they do not seem pleased, but rather distant and a little vague.

[Gengy]

The Uzii Arrive

Clan Fartrek takes it as a great honor to travel with the Battle Mother. Pain-Drop Redmoon is a vast figure for an Uzii, and it is uncommon for a Female Uzii to leave Swampum. But not even the Homage can order Pain-Drop to go or not go somewhere. Only honor and her own conscience will guide her. Standing over two meters tall, and clad in the finest of Bloat Toad armor over her grey furred body, other races might describe the Battle Mother as fat or wide; the Uzii see her as perfect. A body of a previous age. Her supposed 'fat' is doing little to hide her muscle, as it is quite clear that she has trained her body to make her into a powerful fighter. Large and in charge, the Fartrek Uzii are amazingly well behaved as they "guard" Pain-Drop. Hardly any of them are using the shaft of their spears to try and trip their brothers as they walk. No one has their eyes closed, trying to smell where the food is. Every Uzii is even fully dressed, and silent; almost respectful of their hosts.

Of course, this likely won't last. For the moment, though, Pain-Drop Redmoon's entrance is practically regal compared to other visits by Uzii delegates.

This may be because she has a hammer hanging from her belt, handle grasped in one hand, while the other is holding Lost-way Fartrek by the snout. The older Uzii Scout is unable to speak at the moment, because the Battle Mother has his jaw held closed with her thumb, while the rest of her hand lifts him bodily from the ground, hanging away from her, like unwanted moldy cheese.

Clan Fartrek keeps eyeing their lead Scout with both fear and awe, but it is a blessed moment of quiet that allows the Uzii to arrive in a august manner. Seeing the Warspeaker nearby, the Battle Mother drops the Uzii in her hand, and leans down to glare at Lost-way. The male Uzii as he adjusts his jaw, Pain-drop halts any comment from him just by uttering one word, "Behave."

Lost-way nods, a trickle of sweat on his brow.

Standing back up straight, Pain-Drop's smaller-than-average tusks raise a little as she breaks into a smile at the sight of the Scrim nearby. Particularly Tior, the Warspeaker. In fact, she just ignores the rest of the hosts and walks right up to the Warspeaker, grunting, "Tior."

[mystic1110]

It is a long journey from Kursaal, but the Goliaths have journeyed far to pay their respects to the Scrim. The Scrim are regularly seen in the streets of Kursaal and what is more, the merchants of the city recognize the commercial power of Thun. Not as a great as the wine-soaked walls of their own home but wealth is an absolute judge and measuring stick so the Goliaths walk into the stone city with a great deal of respect. They are wearing the traditional flower crowns of peace and hospitality of the Targiz and their retinue carried their usual gift of clay pots of wine –even knowing that the Scrim do not and cannot indulge.

Inquisitor Ogra, has aged much in the last couple of years. Rebuilding after the Hunt and the failure of the inquisition have made her tired and bitter. The flower crown is poorly braided in her hair and her expression is grim as she rides a battle toad to Thun. Next to her is Ces Arnif, the fallen Sentinel. He wears a half mask on his head to hide his scarred face – the mask is one of beaten copper; it covers the left side of his head and is tied with silk around his skull. There is an opening on the mask for his left eye, which burns bright with hatred, for gone, is the half-defeated man scavenging for wine in the mud, this is now a man consumed by his thoughts of vengeance. Wine tastes bitter on his lips now and it burns his ruined cheek. Behind the solemn duo rides Rose. Rose has, like her chosen name implies, bloomed into a woman. No longer a slight skinny girl of twelve she is twenty now and is a rare beauty. Still a goliath, she stretches towards six and half feet, but unlike most of her kind, her skin is alabaster and smooth, and her features are delicate and fragile instead of the rugged robustness that others, like Ogra, saw as their birthright. She rides her toad, like everything else she does, with poise, and she carries a pleasant smile on her face in contrast to the thin lines that Ogra’s and Ces’s mouths make on their faces. In addition to the flowers of greeting, she is garlanded with pink sweet smelling roses.

Entering the Great Hall the three move forward while the rest of the Golaiths stay put, extending their hands sideways in greeting and then going towards their peers to distribute wine as needed. The three main figures of the party continue onwards to the dais guarded by the Warspeaker. They each extend their arms sideways palm up in the tradition of Targiz, including Ces, to pay their respects to the leader and then withdraw, for each of them is here with ulterior motives than just to say goodbye to a foreign diplomat.

Ogra for example looks towards the goliath shaped Scrimspeaker Nithor, who once greeted her during the Feast of Nakarat more than twenty years ago as well as Scrimspeaker Lejah whom, as the person in charge of Thun’s trades is a figure intimately recognizable to a member of Kursaal’s council. Ogra approaches the two when they are together and once against extends both hands to her side palms up in the traditional Targiz greeting of peace, but goes further and grabs her hands together and started cracking knuckles and stomping her foot in her best imitation of the Scrim word of "Hello" that she was once taught and used when conversing with Nithor.

Greetings from Kursaal, I do not know what one wishes during an event such as this. Condolences for a life soon to be lost or congratulations for a life well-lived. Perhaps both.

Ces, initially shadowing Ogra, withdraws to the shadows where the masked man strikes an imposing and brooding figure that is somewhat broken by the fact that he continually turns to each of his shoulders to whisper something under his breath. He is waiting for Pain-Drop Redmoon to free up from her conversation with Tior

Why don’t you interrupt?
Shut up! Just you saying that tells me that is a bad idea.
I agree patience is a virtue.
Enough of your virtues.

Ces has heard much of the prowess of the Scrim-Tosser, and looking at the stone creatures, if one could take one of them down then one could certainly take down the Huntmaster. Ces whispers to himself

For the king.
You know you are going crazy.
What?
Seeing us and whispering his words to yourself. HAHAH, you’re already mad!
I’m worried about you Ces.
Enough!

His ruined sword hand itches with three fingers missing. He wanted revenge, but needed more training to hope to fight against the Hunt. He thought about returning to the Sentinels but could not bear the shame – moreover, he doubted the Sentinels with their focus on monsters and blightspawn could help with a very human abomination. He hoped that the renowned Redmoon would be able to show him the way to fight anew.

Rose, in the meantime, goes to help the goliaths distributing their wine to the guests. She has a slight spring her step and in all her general demeanor is one of innocent usefulness. She wears a white dress that almost matches the tone of her skin and she is friendly to all the she interacts with. There is a warm glow emanating from her smile and the only hint that she is anything but composed is that she continually glances at the entrance as if she is waiting for a particular guest to arrive - which she is. It has been eight years since she has seen Haurun and she is eager to see her Brother in Blood again. She recalls now, with a slight pink flush to her face, as they stood over the cannibal speckled with blood after bludgeoning the man to death, and Haurun held her hand and named her with her real name. She wonders if he thought of her during the years as much as she sometimes thought of him.

[Aventine]

Sọ́gẹ Tšrãák strolls into the Great Hall with a cocky confidence. Tattooed, muscular and shirtless (to show off a couple impressive scars), he is accompanied by fellow Sọ́kǎu (tall, wiry, tan and similarly tattooed) as well as a number of Ẹtúniú (shorter and stocky, but heavily muscled). The young king enjoyed the voyage up the eastern river, the chance to sail new waters always being appealing, but found the later, overland portion of the trip tiresome and was very pleased to have finally arrived at his destination. Most of his companions are clearly warriors and are dressed in simple and practical attire. The only concession to the fact that it might be useful to bring someone other than a fighter to a peaceful, diplomatic event is a single priest of the Cult of the Sky. Visibly exhausted by the long trip with traveling companions that would not have been his first choice, he is nevertheless ready to make the best of the situation.

Responding to Scrimspeaker Lejah's greeting, Tšrãák booms out in a somewhat overly loud voice and heavily accented Arrakhi, "Well meet, my friend! I, Sọ́gẹ Yúkró khùw Tšrãák, Son of the Sky, King of Héokalón, who have braved the unknown eastern waters, am pleased to accept your generous invitation!"

[Torv]

Being sent beyond Na’karats borders for the second time in as many years Haurun wonders what will become of his homeland, the last time he was this far from the Celestial Spire was nearly a decade ago. Standing just above five feet tall the sinewy 21 year old could still be mistaken for thirteen, if it weren’t for the hardened look in his green eyes and the barely visible scars under his clothing.
At his side is Hutchai, a tall and scrawny wanderer of the Celestial Flock. Supposed to serve as a guide for the group and Haurun the two of them have gotten into more trouble than either of them can remember over the years in Na’karat. As they walk side by side the prince glances at Hutchai and smiles, at least someone here gets him.
Behind the pair Anemit sighs for herself, by far the oldest in their entourage the sturdy darkhaired woman is responsible for the trade in Na’karat. Sent here just as much to keep an eye on Haurun as to offer deals with their neighbours she can already feel the former task falling apart. Hopefully the trade goes better.

Leaving the group behind the three of them enters the grand hall, Anemit now leads the trio and greets Scrimspeaker Lejah as they enter. Coming to the realization that she, despite being responsible for trade never has left Na’karat before to facilitate such her steps begin to falter. Even though Anemit knows very few of those in attendance she decides to take an active approach and begin mingling, in search of someone willing to listen to her offers.

[Offer to support Copper Buyouts in region 29 in exchange for support to buyout some variety of labor]

Slowing down and straightening his back Hutchai graciously takes a few steps towards the throne before quickly turning around with a mischievous grin and mouthing ‘Find Flower-Girl’ at Haurun. Hutchai bows deeply upon reaching Thunspeaker Ulun and speaks with a somewhat more dignified voice
Thalaz’ir Haraman wishes to praise a life led with conviction and hopes to meet once more in the next. May your echo become one with the stone.
Having concluded the official part of the trip Hutchai continues strolling around, talking with anyone who seems interested.

Haurun slouches a bit as he is left alone but there is a glimmer in his eyes when Hutchai playfully spins around. It’s not as if he has forgotten Rose, far from it, but when he returned home nothing interesting happened, no journeys, no fighting, only studying. If it wasn’t for Hutchai, his alleged guide in the Celstial Flock, which took a rather peculiar approach to how faith should be discovered he would most likely still be in his home. However, his father had suddenly begun to send him away from home in the last couple of years, not that he is complaining.
Jolted awake by someone bumping into him he recognizes Ogra across the hall and slowly walks towards her, as he thinks of the little girl he shared his first real expedition with.

[mystic1110]

Sometime after her conversation with Scrimspeakers Nithor and Lejah, Ogra is left alone and is sipping wine along with other dignitaries, nodding along to questions of taxation and tariff in regards to exports and imports from Targiz. Usually matters of the state such as this invigorated her - after all, it was her duty for almost twenty years before the Inquisition to attend to Targiz's international ventures and reputation. However, now a decade after being saddled with, and failing at, the task of rooting out the Bouquet of the Corpse Flower, such conversations were tiring and only seemed to reinforce her foul mood. She briefly looked around for Ces, who had been acting as her right hand man for a while at this point, and sees him sulking by the wall. He had asked her for a favor previously and she knew he was now waiting on the Uzii delegate to free up so that he could broach his question. She was not looking forward to him getting himself killed chasing the Huntmaster, but she too felt the urge (she cleches her fist and veins pop from her skin) so she understood.

As she discusses the finer points of Kursaal’s vast investments, she spies a short young man approaching her. From her experience with humans, they usually reached up to a goliath’s shoulders but this young man was far beneath her. Moreover, she does not immediately recognize the young man, it has, after all, been almost a decade, but as he approached she connected him to the young boy she traveled with up north with Merine. This was Merine’s son.

Ogra’s heart started hammering in her chest as the green-eyed youth approached; she had mixed feelings when she thought of this boy. On one hand, he was a reminder of Merine’s second life, another family, a happy marriage, of arguments and disagreements between Ogra and her lover that now stretched almost thirty years. On the other hand, he was Merine’s son; Ogra was not maternal, but even she could not help but feel some sort of possessive attachment to Merine’s children; however nominal. Besides, he availed himself well during the journey long ago and helped protect her ward, Ank’Anske Ogra, or Rose as she called herself nowadays. Ogra, Ells Ogra that is, rolled her eyes to herself – she was the girls tutor for her entire life and yet sometimes it was as if she did not even know her. Rose was a fine name, but it was not her name. One should be who one was.

As Haurun approaches, Ogra looks at him trying to find traces of his mother. Gone was the wondrous opal skin that drew Ogra to her, gone too were the playful snakes on her head – Ogra wistfully remembers their youth and the many bites she earned through the years – all that remained were green eyes. It was disappointing.

Nonetheless summoning her best smile, or what can be called a smile for her these days, a thin line as if drawn with a razor on her face but slightly upturned, she greets Haurun with her palms up and her hands outstretched to her side. Offering the youth a bowl of wine she says:

Greetings young Prince. You have grown well and strong for your kind. I hope your father (the word spoken flatly) is healthy and that your mother (the word spoken with some hope) will be joining us as well. She looks at Thunspeaker Ulun Saying goodbye to a peer is not easy I find and we could all use her support during times such as these.

The thought that Haurun only came to her first because he did not first see Rose with the Goliaths pouring out wine on the other end of the room did not occur to Ogra. Although being fair to Haurun, Ogra was the more recognizable presence – the powerfully built and towering Goliath drew the eyes of everyone in the entire room who knew of the wealth of Kursaal. There were always mercenaries and merchants buzzing around her like flies. Rose, while training for leadership, had a much friendlier presence – a certain warmth that made one dismiss her. As such, it is not a surprise that Haurun’s green eyes landed on his mother’s paramour first; although, one wondered if the boy, young as he was during that journey, even knew of the nature of his mother’s relationship with the Inquisitor.

[Miltonian]

Later than the others to the party, but still early enough to be fashionably late, a semi-upright figure lurches towards the door. Covered in bark, shrouded in leaves, with arm-wings made from a net of vines sprouting from a frame of wooden branches, Thorn approaches. Still maintaining the basic shape of a Ko, the former Ko-dzu zombie enters into the middle of the Scrim's gathering and approaches the Scrimspeaker. He ignores the others, for the moment, and inclines his head.

"Hail!" he cries, "Hail, just and rightful ruler of the Scrim! May your reign end happier than the traitors and deceivers that sit on other thrones."

He raises his head, tall enough to tower over even a Goliath, and smiles, revealing row upon row of white teeth carved from living wood. Green sap covers them, the faint scent of acrid poison wafting from between them. Yet mixed with it is the foul scent of Amaryllis. "I am honored to be in your presence."

[Torv]

Haurun - Ells Ogra

Haurun mimics Ells Ogra’s movements and slightly bows his head, before lifting his hands and accepting the wine. ‘Greetings Ells Ogra of Targiz’ His freckles sparkle in the light, as he cranes his neck to better see Ogra. Sipping on the wine a moment goes by before he continues his response:

All our bodies will wither away eventually, being able to choose when it does so seem like a blessing to me. Instead of sadness for that which could be but won’t, we might find joy in what have already passed (spoken like a mantra). Our priests may be famous for seeing the future but even they cannot speak with certainty, so cherish those moments that have been and tackle tomorrow as it comes.

I’m afraid one of my sisters would be able to offer more clarity to whether Merine will come or not. After our journey together she and I begun to see less of each other, these days we rarely talk (said in an apologetic tone). If she does show it will not be as a representative of Na’karat, that much I at least know for certain.

My father is well.

If the memories of a twelve year old boy are to be trusted you don’t seem to have aged at all since we last met, if anything you have become even taller . Have time smiled upon your ward in the same manner as well?

[Silent_Interim]

Spoiler: The Uzii Arrive

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The Uzii Arrive

Clan Fartrek takes it as a great honor to travel with the Battle Mother. Pain-Drop Redmoon is a vast figure for an Uzii, and it is uncommon for a Female Uzii to leave Swampum. But not even the Homage can order Pain-Drop to go or not go somewhere. Only honor and her own conscience will guide her. Standing over two meters tall, and clad in the finest of Bloat Toad armor over her grey furred body, other races might describe the Battle Mother as fat or wide; the Uzii see her as perfect. A body of a previous age. Her supposed 'fat' is doing little to hide her muscle, as it is quite clear that she has trained her body to make her into a powerful fighter. Large and in charge, the Fartrek Uzii are amazingly well behaved as they "guard" Pain-Drop. Hardly any of them are using the shaft of their spears to try and trip their brothers as they walk. No one has their eyes closed, trying to smell where the food is. Every Uzii is even fully dressed, and silent; almost respectful of their hosts.

Of course, this likely won't last. For the moment, though, Pain-Drop Redmoon's entrance is practically regal compared to other visits by Uzii delegates.

This may be because she has a hammer hanging from her belt, handle grasped in one hand, while the other is holding Lost-way Fartrek by the snout. The older Uzii Scout is unable to speak at the moment, because the Battle Mother has his jaw held closed with her thumb, while the rest of her hand lifts him bodily from the ground, hanging away from her, like unwanted moldy cheese.

Clan Fartrek keeps eyeing their lead Scout with both fear and awe, but it is a blessed moment of quiet that allows the Uzii to arrive in a august manner. Seeing the Warspeaker nearby, the Battle Mother drops the Uzii in her hand, and leans down to glare at Lost-way. The male Uzii as he adjusts his jaw, Pain-drop halts any comment from him just by uttering one word, "Behave."

Lost-way nods, a trickle of sweat on his brow.

Standing back up straight, Pain-Drop's smaller-than-average tusks raise a little as she breaks into a smile at the sight of the Scrim nearby. Particularly Tior, the Warspeaker. In fact, she just ignores the rest of the hosts and walks right up to the Warspeaker, grunting, "Tior."

The Scrim regard the calm Uzii delegation with wariness. Quietly, a squadron of servants sets to following them at a safe distance, ready to clean up whatever mess may happen in their wake.

Upon hearing their name, Tior turns their head to face Pain-Drop. After turning back and issuing a few grinding words in Thun-tongue to one of the other guards, they come around to face her. "Pain-Drop." Tior's grasp of the Uzii tongue is still a little rough, but better than when the two last met. "Want rematch? Not now. Busy. Maybe after." They shift into a stance that looks slightly less like they're ready to grab an axe and murder anyone who makes a wrong move.

---

Spoiler: The Targiz Delegation

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It is a long journey from Kursaal, but the Goliaths have journeyed far to pay their respects to the Scrim. The Scrim are regularly seen in the streets of Kursaal and what is more, the merchants of the city recognize the commercial power of Thun. Not as a great as the wine-soaked walls of their own home but wealth is an absolute judge and measuring stick so the Goliaths walk into the stone city with a great deal of respect. They are wearing the traditional flower crowns of peace and hospitality of the Targiz and their retinue carried their usual gift of clay pots of wine –even knowing that the Scrim do not and cannot indulge.

Inquisitor Ogra, has aged much in the last couple of years. Rebuilding after the Hunt and the failure of the inquisition have made her tired and bitter. The flower crown is poorly braided in her hair and her expression is grim as she rides a battle toad to Thun. Next to her is Ces Arnif, the fallen Sentinel. He wears a half mask on his head to hide his scarred face – the mask is one of beaten copper; it covers the left side of his head and is tied with silk around his skull. There is an opening on the mask for his left eye, which burns bright with hatred, for gone, is the half-defeated man scavenging for wine in the mud, this is now a man consumed by his thoughts of vengeance. Wine tastes bitter on his lips now and it burns his ruined cheek. Behind the solemn duo rides Rose. Rose has, like her chosen name implies, bloomed into a woman. No longer a slight skinny girl of twelve she is twenty now and is a rare beauty. Still a goliath, she stretches towards six and half feet, but unlike most of her kind, her skin is alabaster and smooth, and her features are delicate and fragile instead of the rugged robustness that others, like Ogra, saw as their birthright. She rides her toad, like everything else she does, with poise, and she carries a pleasant smile on her face in contrast to the thin lines that Ogra’s and Ces’s mouths make on their faces. In addition to the flowers of greeting, she is garlanded with pink sweet smelling roses.

Entering the Great Hall the three move forward while the rest of the Golaiths stay put, extending their hands sideways in greeting and then going towards their peers to distribute wine as needed. The three main figures of the party continue onwards to the dais guarded by the Warspeaker. They each extend their arms sideways palm up in the tradition of Targiz, including Ces, to pay their respects to the leader and then withdraw, for each of them is here with ulterior motives than just to say goodbye to a foreign diplomat.

A number of servants move to help those goliaths carrying wine, helping to distribute it through the hall so that any who wish may partake of it.

Spoiler: Ogra, Nithor and Lejah

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[QUOTE=mystic1110;24761036]Ogra for example looks towards the goliath shaped Scrimspeaker Nithor, who once greeted her during the Feast of Nakarat more than twenty years ago as well as Scrimspeaker Lejah whom, as the person in charge of Thun’s trades is a figure intimately recognizable to a member of Kursaal’s council. Ogra approaches the two when they are together and once against extends both hands to her side palms up in the traditional Targiz greeting of peace, but goes further and grabs her hands together and started cracking knuckles and stomping her foot in her best imitation of the Scrim word of "Hello" that she was once taught and used when conversing with Nithor.

Greetings from Kursaal, I do not know what one wishes during an event such as this. Condolences for a life soon to be lost or congratulations for a life well-lived. Perhaps both.

"Perhaps neither," Nithor mutters.

"I think what my colleague means to say is that there has not been an event such as this in all Thun's history, Inquisitor, so we could not possibly say what is appropriate." Lejah makes a sound like crunching gravel, which Ogra would recognize as akin to a chuckle. "Please forgive Nithor's state of distraction. This comes at a bad time for them." They lean in and give a conspiratorial stage-whisper. "Romantic troubles."

After turning to stare at Lejah for a moment, Nithor turns back to Ogra and bows briefly. "I apologize for my rudeness, Inquisitor, but I have much to be taking care of, and I must leave you in the company of the esteemed Lejah. I'm sure you will have much to talk about." With that, they stomp off in no particular direction.

Lejah shakes their head solemnly. "A sad thing, really. I always say that Scrim should stay away from romance. We aren't built for it. Bad enough for those of us poor fools who married one person in the name of alliance with the Tel'kolsans, but Nithor has to deal with the customs of the Arkusans, and, even worse, with actually loving them. It's all so complicated, and Nithor would much rather things just be simple."

"But enough about Nithor. Please, have something to eat, your journey must have been tiring. I am assured that the Tel'kolsan chefs make dishes as magical as anything the Trinity can do, and they swear up and down that the truffles are a taste of divinity. And tell me, how are affairs down in Targiz? I trust that the recovery is going smoothly?"

---

Spoiler: Ces Observes

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Ces, initially shadowing Ogra, withdraws to the shadows where the masked man strikes an imposing and brooding figure that is somewhat broken by the fact that he continually turns to each of his shoulders to whisper something under his breath. He is waiting for Pain-Drop Redmoon to free up from her conversation with Tior

Why don’t you interrupt?
Shut up! Just you saying that tells me that is a bad idea.
I agree patience is a virtue.
Enough of your virtues.

Ces has heard much of the prowess of the Scrim-Tosser, and looking at the stone creatures, if one could take one of them down then one could certainly take down the Huntmaster. Ces whispers to himself

For the king.
You know you are going crazy.
What?
Seeing us and whispering his words to yourself. HAHAH, you’re already mad!
I’m worried about you Ces.
Enough!

His ruined sword hand itches with three fingers missing. He wanted revenge, but needed more training to hope to fight against the Hunt. He thought about returning to the Sentinels but could not bear the shame – moreover, he doubted the Sentinels with their focus on monsters and blightspawn could help with a very human abomination. He hoped that the renowned Redmoon would be able to show him the way to fight anew.

Tior pauses in the conversation with Pain-drop and glances over to the shadowed corner where Ces is lurking, making a gesture towards him with a hand. "You know this man? Came in with Targiz. He is watching us."

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Spoiler: The Sokau Delegation

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Sọ́gẹ Tšrãák strolls into the Great Hall with a cocky confidence. Tattooed, muscular and shirtless (to show off a couple impressive scars), he is accompanied by fellow Sọ́kǎu (tall, wiry, tan and similarly tattooed) as well as a number of Ẹtúniú (shorter and stocky, but heavily muscled). The young king enjoyed the voyage up the eastern river, the chance to sail new waters always being appealing, but found the later, overland portion of the trip tiresome and was very pleased to have finally arrived at his destination. Most of his companions are clearly warriors and are dressed in simple and practical attire. The only concession to the fact that it might be useful to bring someone other than a fighter to a peaceful, diplomatic event is a single priest of the Cult of the Sky. Visibly exhausted by the long trip with traveling companions that would not have been his first choice, he is nevertheless ready to make the best of the situation.

Responding to Scrimspeaker Lejah's greeting, Tšrãák booms out in a somewhat overly loud voice and heavily accented Arrakhi, "Well meet, my friend! I, Sọ́gẹ Yúkró khùw Tšrãák, Son of the Sky, King of Héokalón, who have braved the unknown eastern waters, am pleased to accept your generous invitation!"

Lejah bows deeply, and replies in flawless Arrakhi of their own. "Honored Sky-son, the pleasure is ours for your attendance. The Thunspeaker will, I am sure, be equally honored by your presence, should you wish to speak to them before their passing comes."

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Spoiler: Thorn Crashes The Party

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Later than the others to the party, but still early enough to be fashionably late, a semi-upright figure lurches towards the door. Covered in bark, shrouded in leaves, with arm-wings made from a net of vines sprouting from a frame of wooden branches, Thorn approaches. Still maintaining the basic shape of a Ko, the former Ko-dzu zombie enters into the middle of the Scrim's gathering and approaches the Scrimspeaker. He ignores the others, for the moment, and inclines his head.

"Hail!" he cries, "Hail, just and rightful ruler of the Scrim! May your reign end happier than the traitors and deceivers that sit on other thrones."

He raises his head, tall enough to tower over even a Goliath, and smiles, revealing row upon row of white teeth carved from living wood. Green sap covers them, the faint scent of acrid poison wafting from between them. Yet mixed with it is the foul scent of Amaryllis. "I am honored to be in your presence."

The crowd splits smoothly before the giant walking in, flowing around him like water. As he approaches the dais, Tior reacts quickly, stepping forward to bar the strange figure's way, axe in hand. At a sharp word from the Thunspeaker they melt back to one side, glaring at the unknown interloper. Ulun murmurs something to the human they were speaking with, a light-skinned and lightly dressed human, who scurries away from the throne. "You may approach the throne," Tior all but growls, hand never straying far from their axe.

[Miltonian]

Thorn nods to the human and steps forward. "I thank you," he says, voice rumbling like oncoming thunder through a forest. At the foot of the dais, he bows low. His eyes search the room, the only parts made of flesh in his entire body. He rises once again. His head hunches low as he reduces his profile, trying to appear less threatening.

"I have...hmm, a question," he says, "For you and everyone here." He pauses. "What...what does it take to be a, hmm, good ruler?"

[mystic1110]

Ogra, Nithor and Lejah

Ogra understands a bit about forlorn love so she does not attempt to make conversation with Nithor. In situations such as these, she would have preferred to be left alone and perhaps the stone man did too. She turns her attention to Lejah:

Kursaal is as busy as it ever was. Busier perhaps. The Hunt had gouged a deep scar in our land and in our hearts and minds, but our purse seems to have been made of stone. Nothing dissuades the merchants, they are all gamblers at heart and they are even planning commercial ventures in the lands of the Horned King. The madmen! But, I must admit, a part of me hopes it wakes the Hunt from its slumber. (Ogra unconsciously straightens when talking of the potential vengeance) There are scores to even, and the velum-books of Kursaal must be made whole for her losses. (relaxing and retreating back into the slight stoop borne of age, she motions to her companion) But enough about the south, how goes your own trade here in the north? We hear whispers that you are preparing to brave the winter wall and see what lies beyond – another mystery I am sure our merchants would be happy to exploit together in the future.

Ogra, Haurun and soon to be Rose

Ogra smiled sardonically, impressed and annoyed at the same time. His silver tongue surely came from his mother. Haurun’s flattery was welcome, she knew that her back was no longer as straight and her hair was turning grey, but there was a slight flicker of worry in the corner of her heart when Haurun so clearly said that Merine would not be there on behalf of Na’karat – why would the state not recognize its own Queen? The worry passed – Merine made no pretense at royalty, something that Ogra regularly chided her; if she choose to become a brood mare she might as well get something in exchange – after all she choose to leave Ogra with this half-love, this half-life; ah, these were always the same old concerns and gripes. Ogra shook her head sadly; she should let all these worries and grudges pass along with her youth. The few times she sees Merine were the best of times after all.

As the boy kept, talking Ogra came back to attention and heard the question about her ward. She did recall that the boy and Rose bonded somewhat during their flight from the Hunt; and, she thought, it would not hurt for Rose to start building on foreign alliances.

She has grown tall if not strong but she is fair and I admit a good student. She is over there (Ogra points towards the Goliaths pouring wine from the clay jugs to other attendees, Rose clearly visible, not due to her height – six and a half feet was about average for her race, but for her pale skin and her impressive and fragile beauty, something that Goliaths were never known for) and I am sure she will be happy to see you.

Granted Ogra said this all calculatedly if not a bit coldly, but if Haurun looked over at Rose at those words he would see that she in turn was looking at him. Rose did not see him walk in, too busy helping, but when he started talking to Ogra she looked up from her tasks and spied him. Her face was taken over by a grin, a flush spread to her alabaster cheeks; the usual calming aura that poured off her like perfume was dispelled as she excitedly raised her hand and waived Haurun over.

Ces, Tior and Pain-Drop

Tior motions to Ces who was busy telling the angel on his shoulder to stop telling him that perhaps wearing a copper mask was more off-putting than some scars. What did she know about being off-putting? She wasn’t real! Done telling her to vanish he looks up and sees Pain-Drop’s and Tior’s attention focused on himself. Ah, well this is going to be awkward, but came here for this purpose. He walks towards them, his copper mask catching and reflecting the warm glow of torches throughout the hall, his gait a mix of madness, unwelcome sobriety, and long long years of sentinel training beaten into him. It is more than half-competent and a bit more than half-confident. In an unfortunate way, this gathering of three would be the greatest gathering of Heroes in Mamut, which says something about the quality of Heroes in Mamut.

Ah, sorry to intrude. I am Ces Arnif, a . . . hmm, you could call me a Sheriff of Kursaal. Pleased to meet you both. I had a proposition for the, I believe the correct term is War Mother? I would be happy to speak more about it in private, no need to stop your conversation.

Thorn’s Question

Ogra watches the strange creature with its strange question. She does not answer but thinks to herself the word Duty.

Rose watches the beautiful creature with its beautiful question. She does not speak but reflects to herself the word Faith.

Ces is horrified. This thing is clearly a blightspawn! He looks around to see if anyone else is wondering what the hell it’s doing here and why aren’t they screaming? Why wasn’t he screaming? His ruined sword hand instinctively goes for his sword and he wishes not for the last time that he didn’t sell his Black Iron. He goes to pull it but his hand doesn’t have the grip anymore. Ah . . . that’s right. He was useless. That’s why he was here in the first place, he looks towards the . . . um, Combat Mother? and wonders what she will do, and if she would agree to help him.

[Aventine]

Lejah bows deeply, and replies in flawless Arrakhi of their own. "Honored Sky-son, the pleasure is ours for your attendance. The Thunspeaker will, I am sure, be equally honored by your presence, should you wish to speak to them before their passing comes."

"Of course, I should go and pay my respects at once."

With that, he immediately turn and leaves Lejah behind to approach the Thunspeaker. With a voice that is still as loud as it is heavily accented, he greets Ulun, "May the winds and currents favor you, great Thunspeaker! I, Sọ́gẹ Yúkró khùw Tšrãák, Son of the Sky, King of Héokalón, who have braved the unknown eastern waters, thank you for your generosity!"

"Now, I have heard rumors that you are preparing for an expedition east into the unknown lands. Coming by land to the far east that we saw from the sea. Where we turned back, content for the moment, the coast had turned north (and rather northwest, really), so I do think you are likely to find the ocean sooner than you might expect (or want). I must say I am very interested in what you might find. The witches were quite dramatic in their warnings. But of course, just because they cannot be lied to doesn't mean they cannot lie, eh? Anyway, I am very interested."

---

Thorn

"I have...hmm, a question," he says, "For you and everyone here." He pauses. "What...what does it take to be a, hmm, good ruler?"

"Strength. An iron will. Honor. Generosity. Bring your people glory, victory and riches."

---

Na’karat

At some point, Tšrãák finds his way to Anemit. "Ah, Hello my friend! You are Arrakhi, are you not? I was hoping to meet your people here. Both Scions and Alqar. I am Sọ́gẹ Yúkró khùw Tšrãák, Son of the Sky, King of Héokalón! There is a lot of room to strengthen our ties, I would say. The Great River is the heart of Mamut: a little ocean that should flow with trade!"

[[The simplest and most obvious source for labor would probably be the slaves TP that Zayuz failed to buyout. But if you can get Dark to allow cattle (as draft animals), I'd be happy to make a deal like you're offering]]

[Silent_Interim]

Spoiler: Ogra and Lejah

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Ogra, Nithor and Lejah

Ogra understands a bit about forlorn love so she does not attempt to make conversation with Nithor. In situations such as these, she would have preferred to be left alone and perhaps the stone man did too. She turns her attention to Lejah:

Kursaal is as busy as it ever was. Busier perhaps. The Hunt had gouged a deep scar in our land and in our hearts and minds, but our purse seems to have been made of stone. Nothing dissuades the merchants, they are all gamblers at heart and they are even planning commercial ventures in the lands of the Horned King. The madmen! But, I must admit, a part of me hopes it wakes the Hunt from its slumber. (Ogra unconsciously straightens when talking of the potential vengeance) There are scores to even, and the velum-books of Kursaal must be made whole for her losses. (relaxing and retreating back into the slight stoop borne of age, she motions to her companion) But enough about the south, how goes your own trade here in the north? We hear whispers that you are preparing to brave the winter wall and see what lies beyond – another mystery I am sure our merchants would be happy to exploit together in the future.

"Your rumor-mongers have informed you well. We are not quite yet prepared to send expeditions out to the North, but it will not be long. Our initial tests have been promising. I should show you some of the equipment some time, the things out of our workshops have been most peculiar. I don't pretend to understand the mechanics of it, but I look forward to overseeing the logistics of those first forays. And of course, wealth for Kursaal and wealth for Thun go hand in hand." Lejah taps a symbol on their arm, then straightens slightly. "Ah! This is a much less exciting innovation, but much more useful. Here, look at my arm. It is easy to forget how much Hraban runes have changed things in the past few decades, no? The idea for this actually came from a subordinate of mine." Lejah stretches out their arm, revealing a large area carved into small subsections, each containing a word or phrase for a different emotion or facial expression. "Clever, no? Not as expressive as your face, but it makes things that little bit easier."

---

Spoiler: Three Awful Heroes

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Ces, Tior and Pain-Drop

Tior motions to Ces who was busy telling the angel on his shoulder to stop telling him that perhaps wearing a copper mask was more off-putting than some scars. What did she know about being off-putting? She wasn’t real! Done telling her to vanish he looks up and sees Pain-Drop’s and Tior’s attention focused on himself. Ah, well this is going to be awkward, but came here for this purpose. He walks towards them, his copper mask catching and reflecting the warm glow of torches throughout the hall, his gait a mix of madness, unwelcome sobriety, and long long years of sentinel training beaten into him. It is more than half-competent and a bit more than half-confident. In an unfortunate way, this gathering of three would be the greatest gathering of Heroes in Mamut, which says something about the quality of Heroes in Mamut.

Ah, sorry to intrude. I am Ces Arnif, a . . . hmm, you could call me a Sheriff of Kursaal. Pleased to meet you both. I had a proposition for the, I believe the correct term is War Mother? I would be happy to speak more about it in private, no need to stop your conversation.

"Hm." Tior considers Ces, sizing him up. "I have nothing more to say to Pain-Drop. You-" Tior turns as Thorn arrives, stepping out to bar his way, leaving Ces and Pain-Drop standing together. After being told to stand down, they move to the other side, where they have a clear view of Ces, Pain-Drop, and the interloper.

---

Spoiler: Approaching Ulun

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"Of course, I should go and pay my respects at once."

With that, he immediately turn and leaves Lejah behind to approach the Thunspeaker. With a voice that is still as loud as it is heavily accented, he greets Ulun, "May the winds and currents favor you, great Thunspeaker! I, Sọ́gẹ Yúkró khùw Tšrãák, Son of the Sky, King of Héokalón, who have braved the unknown eastern waters, thank you for your generosity!"

"Now, I have heard rumors that you are preparing for an expedition east into the unknown lands. Coming by land to the far east that we saw from the sea. Where we turned back, content for the moment, the coast had turned north (and rather northwest, really), so I do think you are likely to find the ocean sooner than you might expect (or want). I must say I am very interested in what you might find. The witches were quite dramatic in their warnings. But of course, just because they cannot be lied to doesn't mean they cannot lie, eh? Anyway, I am very interested."

Ulun's voice is barely more than a murmur, scarcely audible, raw with exhaustion. From a distance, it is hard to see, but they sit slouched slightly in the throne, leaning slightly to one side. The overall impression is of someone very tired, staying awake late into the night.
"I, too, am interested in what lies in those mysterious lands. I trust the judgment of the Truthseers, but Lejah's actions have demonstrated to me that they do not share my views regarding that mysterious sisterhood, so I have gifted them the opportunity to witness first-hand the truth or falsity of their claims. I regret few things, but one of them is that I will not personally see the results of this endeavor.
"Indeed, many of my regrets are for things I will not see. Still, I think I have left a legacy Thun may be proud of. Do you agree, Sọ́gẹ Yúkró khùw Tšrãák, Son of the Sky, King of Héokalón? From what you know of my people, do you think I have ruled them well? I do not know any more."

---

Spoiler: Thorn's Question

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Thorn nods to the human and steps forward. "I thank you," he says, voice rumbling like oncoming thunder through a forest. At the foot of the dais, he bows low. His eyes search the room, the only parts made of flesh in his entire body. He rises once again. His head hunches low as he reduces his profile, trying to appear less threatening.

"I have...hmm, a question," he says, "For you and everyone here." He pauses. "What...what does it take to be a, hmm, good ruler?"

Nithor, watching from across the room, considers the question deeply. What does it take to he a good ruler? The question is complex. A good ruler would probably be up to the task of managing a web of romances between a dozen bickering humans who weren't entirely happy- that thought is unworthy. Nithor shakes their head clear, and resumes ordering about the servants, giving special instruction to give the strange new guest a wide berth unless approached.

Lejah considers the question for a moment, then shrugs. Whatever the strange creature before them said, the question wasn't really for them. Idly, they take a truffle from a nearby table and consuming it.

Tior grunts a little, and hefts their axe. Their mind is not on the question, but on potential threats. The pathetic excuse for an ex-sentinel looked like he was ready to stab the newly arrived guest, but wasn't moving yet. Pain-Drop was too hard for them to read, but was unlikely to react positively to this. Whoever moves first, Tior is ready to put an axe in them right after.

Finally, Ulun speaks, a Truthseer hurrying forward to translate and to call the words out, as the Thunspeaker's voice is no longer loud enough to carry through the room. "If I knew what made a good ruler, I would stay and watch over Thun until the wind wore me down such that I could not carry on any further. There is only one secret that I know to being a good ruler, and that is to care for that which you rule. One who does not care for the land and the people is a poison, and the land will wither under them, no matter their strength or their honor. I do not know if it is enough, but it is necessary."

[Gengy]

Spoiler: Three Heroes Chat

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Ces, initially shadowing Ogra, withdraws to the shadows where the masked man strikes an imposing and brooding figure that is somewhat broken by the fact that he continually turns to each of his shoulders to whisper something under his breath. He is waiting for Pain-Drop Redmoon to free up from her conversation with Tior

Why don’t you interrupt?
Shut up! Just you saying that tells me that is a bad idea.
I agree patience is a virtue.
Enough of your virtues.

Ces has heard much of the prowess of the Scrim-Tosser, and looking at the stone creatures, if one could take one of them down then one could certainly take down the Huntmaster. Ces whispers to himself

For the king.
You know you are going crazy.
What?
Seeing us and whispering his words to yourself. HAHAH, you’re already mad!
I’m worried about you Ces.
Enough!

His ruined sword hand itches with three fingers missing. He wanted revenge, but needed more training to hope to fight against the Hunt. He thought about returning to the Sentinels but could not bear the shame – moreover, he doubted the Sentinels with their focus on monsters and blightspawn could help with a very human abomination. He hoped that the renowned Redmoon would be able to show him the way to fight anew.

Rose, in the meantime, goes to help the goliaths distributing their wine to the guests. She has a slight spring her step and in all her general demeanor is one of innocent usefulness. She wears a white dress that almost matches the tone of her skin and she is friendly to all the she interacts with. There is a warm glow emanating from her smile and the only hint that she is anything but composed is that she continually glances at the entrance as if she is waiting for a particular guest to arrive - which she is. It has been eight years since she has seen Haurun and she is eager to see her Brother in Blood again. She recalls now, with a slight pink flush to her face, as they stood over the cannibal speckled with blood after bludgeoning the man to death, and Haurun held her hand and named her with her real name. She wonders if he thought of her during the years as much as she sometimes thought of him.

The Scrim regard the calm Uzii delegation with wariness. Quietly, a squadron of servants sets to following them at a safe distance, ready to clean up whatever mess may happen in their wake.

Upon hearing their name, Tior turns their head to face Pain-Drop. After turning back and issuing a few grinding words in Thun-tongue to one of the other guards, they come around to face her. "Pain-Drop." Tior's grasp of the Uzii tongue is still a little rough, but better than when the two last met. "Want rematch? Not now. Busy. Maybe after." They shift into a stance that looks slightly less like they're ready to grab an axe and murder anyone who makes a wrong move.

Ces, Tior and Pain-Drop

Tior motions to Ces who was busy telling the angel on his shoulder to stop telling him that perhaps wearing a copper mask was more off-putting than some scars. What did she know about being off-putting? She wasn’t real! Done telling her to vanish he looks up and sees Pain-Drop’s and Tior’s attention focused on himself. Ah, well this is going to be awkward, but came here for this purpose. He walks towards them, his copper mask catching and reflecting the warm glow of torches throughout the hall, his gait a mix of madness, unwelcome sobriety, and long long years of sentinel training beaten into him. It is more than half-competent and a bit more than half-confident. In an unfortunate way, this gathering of three would be the greatest gathering of Heroes in Mamut, which says something about the quality of Heroes in Mamut.

Ah, sorry to intrude. I am Ces Arnif, a . . . hmm, you could call me a Sheriff of Kursaal. Pleased to meet you both. I had a proposition for the, I believe the correct term is War Mother? I would be happy to speak more about it in private, no need to stop your conversation.

"Hm." Tior considers Ces, sizing him up. "I have nothing more to say to Pain-Drop. You-" Tior turns as Thorn arrives, stepping out to bar his way, leaving Ces and Pain-Drop standing together. After being told to stand down, they move to the other side, where they have a clear view of Ces, Pain-Drop, and the interloper.

Spoiler: An Unexpected Thorn in Our Sides

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Thorn nods to the human and steps forward. "I thank you," he says, voice rumbling like oncoming thunder through a forest. At the foot of the dais, he bows low. His eyes search the room, the only parts made of flesh in his entire body. He rises once again. His head hunches low as he reduces his profile, trying to appear less threatening.

"I have...hmm, a question," he says, "For you and everyone here." He pauses. "What...what does it take to be a, hmm, good ruler?"

"Rematch?" Pain-drop grunts, a bit confused. Here she was coming to say hello to a worthy fighter, but... yes, a rematch would have been what she wanted eventually. Certainly not right now, though. He was clearly working. Performing one's duty was more important than sparring.

Shaking her head, the large Uzii female tries to get over her reluctance towards speaking. She chooses to use fewer words when possible. Even four at a time feels to be too many, "No. Not now. Later?"

Pain-drop had lots to say to her friend, and had thought about it a lot the whole trip from Swampum. She'd been anticipating this conversation for weeks. And was just about to say more, when... the so called Sheriff of Kursaal interrupted. Which led to Tior saying that the conversation was done before it really got started.

And now this... creature... was posing questions of leadership to the whole party. Pain-drop snorted disapprovingly. And as one does after expelling air, the Battle Mother inhaled. The smell. The smell of this creature...

"Amaryllis flowers!" Pain-drop gasped. Thinking quickly, she realized that this was some sort of creature from somewhere that shared the smell for some reason.

Of course, the Battle Mother was not the only Uzii. Though he was getting up in years, the Senior Scout Lost-way Fartrek was no coward. He too could smell the unholy flowers, and screamed out, "Protect Mamut!"

This brings the whole honor guard of Uzii warriors to be at the ready, each stepping between Thorn and another guest, their spears low for an attack; for some hammers drawn and over their shoulders, easily able to make a swing if given word.

"No, wait-" Pain-Drop starts, but Lost-way is already charging towards the creature. Not exactly fast enough, though. Before Thorn has a chance to react to the Uzii's aggression, the Senior Scout's movement is suddenly halted. Redmoon has the smaller Uzii by the tail, one hand pulling Lost-way backwards, the other covering her eye and forehead in obvious aggravation. No matter how fast Lost-way moved, the Battle Mother was easily much faster, and was almost a blur as she crossed the room.

Lost-way's spear clatters to the floor as he's once again picked up bodily, this time by his tail. Upside down now, Lost-way watches as Pain-Drop lets her other hand drop from her face and glares at the Senior Scout. "I said. BEHAVE."

Turning to Thorn, Pain-drop raises her voice, "Tior. This thing. What is it?"

"Thing. Good leaders know when to forgive. But the idiot here -" Pain-drop shakes Lost-way in her other hand, "-will apologize."

"If we no kill it, then... yes. We is sorry." The Senior Scout spins slowly in the Battle Mother's grasp.

"Tior! Kill it, or no?"

Spoiler: OOC

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In case it isn't clear, Pain-drop can speak well when she chooses, unlike Lost-way who is trying his best but isn't a great communicater, no matter how much he might think so.

[Silent_Interim]

Spoiler: Uzii Unleashed

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"Rematch?" Pain-drop grunts, a bit confused. Here she was coming to say hello to a worthy fighter, but... yes, a rematch would have been what she wanted eventually. Certainly not right now, though. He was clearly working. Performing one's duty was more important than sparring.

Shaking her head, the large Uzii female tries to get over her reluctance towards speaking. She chooses to use fewer words when possible. Even four at a time feels to be too many, "No. Not now. Later?"

Pain-drop had lots to say to her friend, and had thought about it a lot the whole trip from Swampum. She'd been anticipating this conversation for weeks. And was just about to say more, when... the so called Sheriff of Kursaal interrupted. Which led to Tior saying that the conversation was done before it really got started.

And now this... creature... was posing questions of leadership to the whole party. Pain-drop snorted disapprovingly. And as one does after expelling air, the Battle Mother inhaled. The smell. The smell of this creature...

"Amaryllis flowers!" Pain-drop gasped. Thinking quickly, she realized that this was some sort of creature from somewhere that shared the smell for some reason.

Of course, the Battle Mother was not the only Uzii. Though he was getting up in years, the Senior Scout Lost-way Fartrek was no coward. He too could smell the unholy flowers, and screamed out, "Protect Mamut!"

This brings the whole honor guard of Uzii warriors to be at the ready, each stepping between Thorn and another guest, their spears low for an attack; for some hammers drawn and over their shoulders, easily able to make a swing if given word.

"No, wait-" Pain-Drop starts, but Lost-way is already charging towards the creature. Not exactly fast enough, though. Before Thorn has a chance to react to the Uzii's aggression, the Senior Scout's movement is suddenly halted. Redmoon has the smaller Uzii by the tail, one hand pulling Lost-way backwards, the other covering her eye and forehead in obvious aggravation. No matter how fast Lost-way moved, the Battle Mother was easily much faster, and was almost a blur as she crossed the room.

Lost-way's spear clatters to the floor as he's once again picked up bodily, this time by his tail. Upside down now, Lost-way watches as Pain-Drop lets her other hand drop from her face and glares at the Senior Scout. "I said. BEHAVE."

Turning to Thorn, Pain-drop raises her voice, "Tior. This thing. What is it?"

"Thing. Good leaders know when to forgive. But the idiot here -" Pain-drop shakes Lost-way in her other hand, "-will apologize."

"If we no kill it, then... yes. We is sorry." The Senior Scout spins slowly in the Battle Mother's grasp.

"Tior! Kill it, or no?"

Spoiler: OOC

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In case it isn't clear, Pain-drop can speak well when she chooses, unlike Lost-way who is trying his best but isn't a great communicater, no matter how much he might think so.

Tior slams the haft of their axe into the stone floor with a loud CRACK audible through the entire hall.

When they speak, it is not in a loud roar, but in a calm, even tone. Still, it is loud enough to carry through much of the hall, and Truthseers scurry forward to translate for any not familiar with the language of the Uzii. "This thing, Pain-Drop, is guest of Thun. Same as you. You honor this, or the Uzii are not guests any more. Then, we have rematch, but I use this." They heft the axe meaningfully. "Thunspeaker want no blood spilled today."

[Gengy]

Spoiler: Just Guesting

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Tior slams the haft of their axe into the stone floor with a loud CRACK audible through the entire hall.

When they speak, it is not in a loud roar, but in a calm, even tone. Still, it is loud enough to carry through much of the hall, and Truthseers scurry forward to translate for any not familiar with the language of the Uzii. "This thing, Pain-Drop, is guest of Thun. Same as you. You honor this, or the Uzii are not guests any more. Then, we have rematch, but I use this." They heft the axe meaningfully. "Thunspeaker want no blood spilled today."

Pain-drop nods at Tior's pronouncement, and then turns the full fury of her glare at Senior Scout Far-trek. The male Uzii, still upside down, loudly - but contritely - says, "We is sorry."

The other Uzii in the room slowly put their weapons away, looks of confusion on their faces, but clearly not wanting the honor of Swampum to be called into question again.

The Battle Mother sets the male Uzii down on the ground, still glaring at him. Far-trek wisely shuts up, goes over to grab his spear, and stops when he hears Pain-drop clear her throat. "Leave it. You get that back if Tior says you do. Otherwise, you get a new one back in Swampum. From the Homage. After you explain why you lost this one."

"So I'd behave if I were you."

Far-trek pauses, his hand outstretched. Gulping, he nods his head in agreement with Pain-Drop, and leaves his spear where it lays, before backing away slowly from Thorn, and finding a nice quiet corner he can hopefully fade from memory in.

"Thing," Battle Mother Pain-Drop says, "I also apologize. You smell strongly of the cursed flower of an ancient foe, but that is no reason to attack you in another's Den. It is a reason to have an explanation though. So again. Explain."

Glancing up briefly at Tior and his axe, Redmoon gives the Warspeaker the respect due him by also adding to Thorn, "Please."

[Aventine]

Of course, the Battle Mother was not the only Uzii. Though he was getting up in years, the Senior Scout Lost-way Fartrek was no coward. He too could smell the unholy flowers, and screamed out, "Protect Mamut!"

This brings the whole honor guard of Uzii warriors to be at the ready, each stepping between Thorn and another guest, their spears low for an attack; for some hammers drawn and over their shoulders, easily able to make a swing if given word.

With a look of disgust on his face, Tšrãák yells out a couple words in the Ẹtúniú language and sucker punches the poor Uzii who made the mistake of being the closest to him in the back of the head. None of the Sọ́kǎu or Ẹtútniú who came with him brought spears into the hall, but they do have a variety of knives, axes and small clubs, and at Tšrãák's yell they rush the Uzii standing between them and Thorn, aiming to tackle them from behind and disarm and grapple them before they can realize they had turned their backs to the actual threat.

Tior slams the haft of their axe into the stone floor with a loud CRACK audible through the entire hall.

At the sound of Tior's slam, any of Tšrãák's party that don't have a secure grappling hold of an Uzii back off defensively while any that do maintain their hold.

Tšrãák himself, with an absolutely furious expression, watches Pain-drop, Lost-way and Tior intently. Waiting to give the Scrim the chance to handle things.

[mystic1110]

If he was still a proper sentinel Ces supposed that he would be honor bound to still attack the creature. You should not really be able to grant guest right to a monster. But he was far away from being a sentinel let alone a proper one. There was also the fact that he could not do anything. It was true that he was nominally Ogra's bodyguard, but forgetting that his sword hand was less than half what it once was, it is not as if she kept him around because she needed protection. He had seen what she could do in her various cage matches and what she did to the few cultists that she was able to find. No, instead - he was a charity case.

An angry charity case.

Not that he did not try to pay off his debt. He ran the guards in Kursaal, rooting out the criminals that grew in its shadows like so many mushrooms, and it was dark work. He now knew exactly how kneecaps sounded like when you break them. It was not a crack like you would expect. They popped. Which did not really change the situation here.

His goal was to . . . what exactly? He knew that the Uzii owned the Targiz a debt and he had Ogra’s permission to call in that chip for some training. Pain-Drop was the greatest Hero of her generation in Mamut and he desperately needed to learn how to fight with his left hand and how to fight like she did if he hoped to beat the Huntmaster next time they met. He needed her to not only agree to help him, but want to help him. And if she was staying her hand, who was he, useless as he was, to do otherwise. However, this thing was clearly an eldritch abomination – you could feel the chill of blight seeping off it. He was very afraid – he was no stranger to blightspawn – they were what sent him to drinking in the first place. He had never heard of one that could talk, or reason, before. It was like watching a centipede converse with a learned man. Unnatural and unsettling.

He remained silent, tense like a toothless snake ready to strike at a predator that did not know of its lack of fangs, waiting on how the situation unfolded – racking his formerly wine-brined brain on how to impress the Uzii.

[Miltonian]

Thorn, for his part, listens carefully to the answer and nods. "I think I...understand," he says. He is about to speak more when the Uzii make their move. He rears up from his subservient and respectful posture up to his full height, towering over (I think) everyone in the room and letting out a bone-shaking hiss-roar. His psuedo-wings flair out and he seems ready to strike down at least two of his attackers before being overwhelmed. But then, the situation is contained and he shrinks back down, seeming to collapse back into himself and adopting the more passive posture that he had upon entering.

"Explain, yes," he says, "Yes, I will explain. Do not worry." A grin splits his wooden face in half and a hissing laugh escapes from between his lips.

"My name is Thorn. Once, I was a normal Ko called Coaldust, son of the great Lord of the East-Marches, Fissure. My family ruled the land from the Towerhome to the outer, eastern edge of our domain. The Towermaster accepted my father into his council and consulted him on many matters." An angry hiss escapes his mouth. "But Thicket...oh, he is slippery. A great lord of the Ko, but I despise him all the more for it."

He inclines his head towards the Uzii. "I am afraid you are deceived. Zinnia, you see, is not the leader of the Ko, though that may soon change. Thicket keeps her to make his bed warm. Her scales are considered very pretty, and even now she still looks young by our standards." His eyes burn with hatred. "Thicket, you see, killed the old 'Worldmaster' through trickery. He snuck in upon her when she was asleep and strangled her before she could cry for her guards. She trusted him too, and so we considered it a most impressive act. To make someone trust you before betraying them is the height of skill and deception, the two things the Ko value above all." He laughs bitterly. "But everyone who trusts Thicket suffers for it."

"When the cursed flowers were discovered and first made into wine, Thicket gave it liberally to friend and foe alike. He knew, he must have known, what danger it brought. I drank of it, I consumed it, I needed it. The last days of Coaldust's, my, life were a dull stupor of drunkenness. I could think of nothing but the wine and when I would drink it next. Then, there were no thoughts at all, just the call to come...to serve, and to kill in the name of the great beast who gave birth to the flowers."

"I, however, stumbled into one of the pits scattered throughout the Towerhome, along with ten others like me. And there I was trapped, until the beast was slain and we began to wither and fade. Then, and only then, did I feel my will returning. I was hungry. So...very...hungry." A single drop of acidic venom falls from his mouth and strikes the floor. It hisses and bubbles angrily, scouring all dirt and imperfections from the stone before turning to smoke. "And so, I fell upon and consumed the other ten in the pit with me. The strength remaining inside them fed mine, and I grew strong enough to be self-sustaining. But I did not return to normal. I did not become Coaldust once more. Instead, I grew..."

He rises up and holds up his arms, with the almost-wings of vines hanging down from under them. "I changed! I...warped. I became something more and less than a Ko. The voices of the others, I hear them. We decided to call ourselves 'Thorn'. A female name, in our culture, even though Coaldust is the leader. The others do not say much. Only he had the will to assert himself. Since then, I have consumed more and more of the children of the flower, eradicating what remained of the threat for good and adding more voices to the chorus in my head. Yet Coaldust is still dominant. I am more Coaldust than anyone."

His claws curl and flex, fury seizing his form. "Ten years," he says, "When I left the Towerhome, I told Thicket I would return in ten years. It has been seven now. In three, I shall return, with everything I have learned in my wanderings. And then, he shall finally have his reckoning. All the Ko he deceived. All the Ko that he gave that cursed wine to shall have their revenge when I take his own scepter and jam it so far up his rear that it comes out his mouth in a shower of blood and his own, miserable guts!"

He turns slowly towards Pain-Drop and meets her gaze unblinking. "Does that," he says, "Answer your question?"

[mystic1110]

Ces has some experience in hearing voices. He doesn't trust them.

I like this guy!

Ces tried to ignore the flaming succubus on his left shoulder.

I pity them, the poor creatures.

Ces also tried to ignore the angel. Hearing voices was not a good sign about this abomination's stability, and an expert on tragedy, Ces wasn't sure if that outweighed this thing's extremely cursed existence. He couldn't help but ask out loud.

So then why are you here?

His pointless two fingered hand on his hilt, his foot forward as if he could possibly attack.

[Miltonian]

Thorn notices Ces for the first time and turns the entire weight of his attention on the man. In response, however, he says, "To learn."

A moment later, he sighs and says, "I'll explain. I want to learn to be better. To be...not Thicket. Thicket is the most admirable of Ko. I hate Thicket. Therefore, I have to be different. Admirable in another, strange way." He gestures to the crowd. "And so I came here. I am asking questions."

[mystic1110]

Bearing the brunt of Thorn's gaze was overwhelming - the perfumed stench of flowers and the invisible cacophony of other trapped souls bore into Sherriff. And, yet he did not step back or waver. Mostly it was knowing that he was trying to make an impression on Pain-Drop, but also - he stared into the face of the Huntmaster. This monster also seemed to know - there are worse monsters out there. Ces whispered to himself his mantra of vengeance with his chin lowered, under his breath.

For the king.

And then raised his head and audibly asked the question on everyone's mind.

Who in the hells is Thicket?

[Miltonian]

For the first time, though he has been respectful and, if not subservient, at least submissive before, a look of confusion crosses Thorn's face. "Towermaster Thicket," he says, "The leader of the Ko? How can you not..." He breaks off suddenly and takes a deep breath. "I see," he says, "I suppose you all must think us very small. Beneath your notice, even?" He chuckles wryly.

[mystic1110]

Ces was about to reply when he felt something more solid on his shoulder than a figment of his own imagination. He looked backwards and saw that it was Ogra. Ogra wasn't looking at him, but instead was looking towards Thorn. She looked tired, but spoke with the self-assurance of years of command.

Excuse the Sherriff. His purview is entirely domestic. None who know the ways of the world at this, she looks towards Ces who winces as she tightens her grip on his shoulder are unaware of the situation at Towerhome. I know Thicket well and as he grows increasingly isolated, trade from your land has become to dry up - which is concerning Ogra looks towards Scrimspeaker Lejah to most of us.

Letting go of Ces's shoulder, which he rubs and shrugs as soon as he is free, Ogra extends both of her hands to her sides palms up in the traditional greeting of the Goliaths and asks.

So you've come and asked your question. What have you learned?

[Miltonian]

Thorn nods slowly to Ogra. "I...remember you," he says, "The...speaker, if I recall the term correctly, is known to me of course, but you were present when the nations first came together at the Towerhome. You may not remember me, but I remember you."

He gives her a toothy grin. "What else? More questions. What does it mean to care? Can you care for everyone, or only part? If only part, which?"

[mystic1110]

Ogra barely remembered visiting Towerhome - it was more than thirty years ago. She was young then still worried about Truthseers and that old crone - Witch-Mother Ociete Lareneg. It had been a long time since she thought of Lareneg and perhaps she had, with the exhaustion that came with age, had come to understand the other woman better. Yet, it was long ago and time to move on. She flatly said

More Questions.

She exhaled annoyed.

Questions have a cost. Answers a Profit. You are wasting our time.

Ces looked toward Ogra, he wasn't used to her being so blunt. She was a mercantile diplomat and usually weaved conversations skillfully enough to walk away with a favorable contract to the Targiz even when the conversation was initially about something else entirely. Perhaps for the first time he noticed the lines around her eyes. Her crown was only made of flowers but perhaps the head underneath still felt the weight of the entirety of Targiz. The thought that perhaps others suffered from the Hunt as much as he crossed through his mind for the first time.

Of course you idiot.
Empathy is the first step in redemption.

This time he placed a hand on her shoulder and she looked down surprised and then gave the barest of smiles

[Torv]

Haurun, Ogra and Rose

Haurun turns and look where Ogra is pointing. Remembering the lanky and slight girl from their journey he is stunned when he sees the woman that must be Rose, as no other goliath in sight have the same alabaster skin. Stupid of him to think she would look the same, everyone else has grown as well, why would she be any different? Why does it have to be just his body that remains locked in eternal childhood? Blighted kraken.
When she smiles and waives at him there’s no longer any doubt as to who she is.

Addressing Ogra once more Haurun speaks quicker than before.
Time does seem to have smiled upon you both, even if it has blessed you in different ways. If you’ll allow it, I’ll be taking my leave to relive past adventures. I thank you for the kind words of my growth, seeing Ank’Anske Ogra again the words might ring even truer for her.

With that said he finds Rose in the crowd again and practically skips towards her, while trying to maintain the expected grace and dignity of a Na’karat diplomat, which he soon abandons, as some (most) things often are more important than the Thalaz’irs praise to the young man.
Reaching Rose he settles into a more normal walk, greeting her with his palms up, in the same manner Ogra welcomed him. Beaming like Numa on a clear day Haurun is briefly out of words. Composing himself he excitedly utters ‘You’re alive!’ , soon thereafter feeling his cheeks become warm, before continuing in a meek voice.
Greetings Ank’Anske Ogra it has been eight years since we last saw each other and words escape me to describe the joy it brings me to see that you have grown and prospered in those years.


Anemit and Tšrãák

Giving the muscular man an inquisitive look Anemit fervently tries to process all the strange words, avoiding as many of them as she can while speaking.
Well met king of Héokalón, you assume correctly, as I am Anemit of Na’karat. Seeing the Great River Shar-Rakza sate more than just our thirst would indeed bring me great joy. The Thalaz’ir recently initiated the mining of Copper to our west, we would gladly share it if you could provide the animals needed to transport it to the riverbanks.

[[Slaves are the backup plan. I’m currently waiting for a response from Dark about the cattle. I’ll update this when I get it]]


Thorn’s Question

Hearing the beast’s, no not beast, hearing the question from this amalgam of Ko and nature Haurun finds it easier to think of what not to be; closeminded, overzealous, mistrusting, power hungry. Not entirely sure of what to expect from a good ruler he chooses to stay silent on the matter.

[mystic1110]

Haurun and Rose

Haurun might think of himself as a child, but as he walks towards the elfin Goliath she sees not only her friend from long ago, their destinies tied together and sealed with blood, but also one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. Rose’s face is rose colored and the flush refuses to leave, she sees herself reflected in his emerald eyes and she cannot look away as she smiles. Ogra, thirty some years ago, was struck much the same way when she spied Merine, but where she was experienced with the ways of the world, lovers and what happens between them and among them, Rose was innocent of all that. She followed a different path than the witch-sisters and was more modest than a Goliath would ever have imagined being. There was a pure air around her, almost cool and refreshing, one would not think it odd if a unicorn would suddenly appear besides her anointing her as one of its own.

Almost as soon as Haurun starts talking Rose felt tears of happiness well up in her eyes and she hopped over to him, leaned down and wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him on the cheek. She excitingly says without any hint of diplomatic decorum

I am so happy to see you again! I’ve missed you so much and have been dreaming of seeing you again. Wait! Wait right here. I brought something for you!

She leaned back up to her full height and hurriedly ran towards the other Golaiths and spoke to them in Targizian asking for what she had one of them hold. Coming back with her hands coltishly behind her back she leaned down again and placed a purple Crocus flower behind his ear, moving his hair out of the way with her long and delicate fingers. Still leaning down so that they are face to face she smiles

Hope you like it.

[Silent_Interim]

With there no longer being an immediate risk of Pain-Drop and Ces murdering the thing- Thorn, rather- Tior begins scanning the crowd. Upon seeing the numerous humans and Uzii locked together, they turn to the guards around the dais and begin barking orders in Thun-tongue, a sound like gravel tumbling down a hillside. The guards begin to circulate through the crowds, armed but not wielding their weapons, breaking up the points of conflict and corralling the Uzii and Sokau away from each other.

With one eye on the guards working their way through the crowd, Tior half-listens to Thorn's second question, and then shakes their head derisively. Caring is weakness. It is the weakness that brought my sibling low, and it is the weakness that is bringing my Thunspeaker to self-destruction, and it is the inevitable ruin that will bring Nithor low.

On the throne, Ulun makes a small, weak gesture. Almost immediately, a Truthseer attendant comes forward, then calls for a servant, who is sent running to fetch Nithor. When they do, Nithor rushes to the side of the throne, where they kneel to speak privately to Ulun. After a few moments, Nithor straightens, and calls out to the hall. "I am afraid the Thunspeaker's passing is coming on faster than expected. If anyone wishes to have a private audience, then there is not long left. Thorn, I believe the Thunspeaker would like a few words. Would you do us the courtesy of approaching the throne?"

[Torv]

Rose and Haurun

Breaking into an outright smile as Rose overwhelms him, Haurun exhales deeply and relaxes his shoulders, as he tries to embrace Rose in turn before she runs away. Touching his cheek in disbelief, he can feel his heart racing, meeting Rose or flower girl as Hutchai jokingly called her again was a stroke of luck. That she remembered him, seemingly fondly was more than he had dared hope for.

Haurun can’t recall the last time a woman touched him with such fondness when he feels Rose’s fingers brush through his hair. Stealing a glance at the flower before it leaves his vision, he feels a sting of panic, rummaging through his pockets his eyes glimmer when they find Rose’s
It’s wonderful! I’m afraid I have nothing of the sort to offer. But tell me how have you been, what have you done, what flowers are you wearing, what flower am I wearing, are Ogra a good teacher, is everything well in Targiz.
Haurun takes a breath before continuing more coherently
I have missed you as well, and been longing to travel with you again.