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Post by Mirielle Merlon on Jan 24, 2017 2:29:54 GMT
King Adalric VI of Ashdell had the kind of ceremonial role that many kings despise. The administration and policy of his kingdom rested almost wholly on the Sovereign Guilds, who ruled the place in all but name. His was a carefully circumscribed list of regnal duties, leaving him a good deal of time to read. The palace in Coalhurst barely merited the name, but His Majesty and all three royal children had crammed the sitting rooms with bookshelves over the years. Only certain State functions and a few matters official were ever handled here. Still, the place was impressive enough, especially from outside. Foreigners often introduced themselves at the palace, only to be greeted and redirected to the Guildhalls by a dumpy middle-aged human with ink-stained fingers. Only later, for the most part, did they recognize his face in a parade or on a silver coin. Today His Majesty sat on the balcony. From here he could overlook the snowy street, wrapped in a thick blanket as he read a book alone. Breenhin Mhaoilan
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Post by Breenhin Mhaoilan on Jan 24, 2017 2:45:19 GMT
Today, the snow heralded peculiarity, as a pair of silver armored knights with twin swords marched diligently behind a scarlet and white knight with obscured face. The leader, the one in scarlet, seemed far less comfortable than the other two.
But that wasn't saying too much - all three looked like mature oaks, so stiff was their posture. All kept their hands near their weapons, though in casual fashion more than aggressive.
Still, there was no mistaking foreigners, especially in forested kingdoms. It was evident in their constant scanning of the environment, and muttered words as they puzzled things out.
Breen hefted his gaze to the palace and paused, noting a figure on the balcony. His shadows stopped too, though they didn't follow his gaze. And then they moved on, making their way to the nearest entrance.
Their first stop had proven to be a 'brothel,' but Breen knew a palace when he saw one - perhaps the Guilds were here. He'd heard talk of them from the citizenry.
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Post by Mirielle Merlon on Jan 24, 2017 2:52:13 GMT
Breenhin MhaoilanHis Majesty, though not what you'd call rigorously guarded, had a handful of household men-at-arms at his disposal. Weathered woodsmen in leather armour, axes at their belts and bows on their backs: no real match for the metal-clad knights, at least not at short range. One, the sergeant at arms, had a bristling moustache and skin like oak. He met the knights just inside the door, with two woodsmen at his back. "Welcome to the Palace," he said neutrally. "Do you have business with His Majesty?" One had to be accommodating with foreigners. The Guilds had been hammering out trade connections of late, even with faraway places like Mystmarch. Best not to accidentally sabotage import/export deals worth tens of thousands in good silver. That unimpressive man from the balcony entered the front hall from a staircase, two more woodsmen flanking him. "Well met," he called down the length of the modest gallery, approaching. "I saw you come in. From where do you hail, friends, and how long have you walked?" His Majesty had recently finished a book and was bored.
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Post by Breenhin Mhaoilan on Jan 24, 2017 3:01:57 GMT
At close range, the leader was clearly wearing chain covered in what was either thick cloth or light leather. Breathing holes punched into his face guard allowed his breath to mist visibly for a few moments before the warmth of the interior asserted itself.
Dark eyes, haggard and sharp, sized up the guards before the King himself made himself known. "A few days." He says gruffly, bass voice muffled but stern.
It was clear this was an unforgiving man. "I am told your people have a child's story, of a 'Lore-Axe' who speaks for the trees." He begins, apparently not possessed of a sense of humor just then. "I don't know what a Lore Axe is, but your story is partially correct. Someone does speak for the trees, and that's why I'm here, from the Spiritwood."
There's a pause, and he seems to remember something. "I believe your traders call it the Fickle Forest these days."
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Post by Mirielle Merlon on Jan 24, 2017 13:58:48 GMT
His Majesty Adalric VI scratched at his short beard in contemplation of two factors. For one thing, Ashdell had never maintained the most positive relationship with all things and persons arboreal, and hostility had been known to erupt. For another, this seemed like diplomacy, and the Sovereign Guilds took a dim view of His Majesty doing anything diplomatic without consulting them at every step. And normally he was fine with that: they usually had experts who could give him the necessary context without condescension. But audibly sending one of the men to fetch a speaker for the Woodcutters' Guild probably wouldn't go over too well.
"And I know nothing substantial of the Spiritwood, friend, but I think I can shed some light on the other matter.”
Among the various bookshelves and display cases that lined the walls, even here in the entry gallery, sat numerous weapons behind glass. One was a bearded axe, intricately carved and set with lapis lazuli. Its blade was dulled and notched. Curious runes ran up and down the haft.
“This is the Axe of Lore,” he said. “Or so it was called by the druid who sought to use it against my father.”
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Post by Breenhin Mhaoilan on Jan 24, 2017 16:57:15 GMT
Breenhin eyed the man before him, as he seemed to contemplate something - perhaps it was his abrupt manner, or maybe he'd said something worth mulling over, or perhaps... he simply wasn't sure how to respond just then. The last one was proven wrong as he spoke, and as the King stopped before an axe, he stared at it from his position.
He'd not been invited in further, and he wasn't going to try and force his way past the guards.
"That does not look like it would speak for any trees."
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Post by Mirielle Merlon on Jan 24, 2017 19:19:18 GMT
Breenhin Mhaoilan"Exactly," said His Majesty, tension easing from his shoulders. "Understand, friend, that Ashdell has been struggling for centuries. We need firewood and farmland to warm and feed our people, especially since the fall of the Empire. We attempt to live in harmony with the surrounding countryside, the forest, but a certain amount of expansion is necessary. Various forces have opposed that, from the tenacious forest to occasional bands of elvish druids - fanatics, you might say. Hence the axe. "Understand, too, that while you're far from the first to claim to speak for the trees, you may well be the first one who's come in peace. None of the groups I've mentioned have come from the Fickle Forest region, so far as I'm aware, which is another convincing point. And, of course, if you'd come to assassinate me, I would be dead by now. "So tell me, friend. What do the trees want us to know? And are we speaking of the trees that encroach on my kingdom, break my roads, tear up my farms, or are we talking about the greater trees of your land?"
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Post by Breenhin Mhaoilan on Jan 24, 2017 19:33:48 GMT
"I've never known a Druid as long as I've lived, though I believe a Knight-Captain from some generations ago may have - it seems to ring a bell." He looks to his companions, then back to the king.
His hand drums fingertips carefully along his weapons hilt, a clearly pensive gesture. "We have been fighting the undead and vampirically corrupt for thousands of years.
Ours is a defensive war. The trees causing you problems still speak with the Fathertree, though he doesn't reign them in. Why would he? You attack them.
They wouldn't listen even if he did speak. You may think of them as cousins to our Spiritwood. They have only the most tenuous of relationships - a war years ago split the wood asunder, and you're dealing with the survivors."
His lips purse beneath his mask, and he sighs, dark eyes sharply appraising the axe. "Have you tried planting two seedlings for every tree you fell?"
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Post by Mirielle Merlon on Jan 24, 2017 20:00:21 GMT
His Majesty scratched at his beard and plucked a notebook off a nearby shelf. He pulled out a writing stick -- a lead core surrounded by layers of hardened paper. Deftly, he scribbled some notes in shorthand, capturing the essence of Breenhin's comments and questions.
"It's never come up, no. I should examine it. I had no idea the forest...cared, you might say. The trees grow aggressively, but I've never seen that as an indication of agency or will or a sense of proportion. Then again, others have thought that way; I just haven't taken them seriously. If you believe it might work, I'll see to it that it's tried." He grimaced. "Admittedly, the idea that the trees might have some measure of sentience doesn't sit well with me.
"Anyways. We've explored various options for obstructing, identifying, and countering the dead and the vampires. We have expeditions, messengers, proclamations -- and we've managed to secure some useful assets. Would you be interested in an exchange of best practices, in the interests of mutual safety?"
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Post by Breenhin Mhaoilan on Jan 24, 2017 20:15:03 GMT
"All sentient life has agency of purpose, whether we can communicate with it or not." He looked to the notebook, "And they grow aggressively because they feel they're under attack, not in a dissimilar manner to when a human nation drafts up a militia when invaded."
His eyes, nearly unblinking, continued to regard that notebook. "Mutual cooperation is good. At the very least I can attempt to parlay with the trees for you.
I stand the best chance of making it to their grove safely."
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Post by Mirielle Merlon on Jan 26, 2017 1:24:46 GMT
"Could it really be that simple? Do we only need a mediator who can speak both languages? I find myself hoping you're right. I don't like to believe that we've been killing thinking creatures. They need to live; so do we. How much room is there for true compromise? And the Guilds... Every one of them will want to be represented, the woodworkers most of all."
He stopped writing and tucked the notebook under his armpit. "But I doubt you would come here if you saw no hope for a reasonable resolution. Tell me how you see this playing out."
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Post by Breenhin Mhaoilan on Jan 26, 2017 1:52:48 GMT
"There is plenty of room for compromise. But I suppose these guilds must be involved, and they seem to not be here just now." He remarks, scanning the apparent library.
"But we will find out soon enough if it is really so simple. I'm surprised they haven't tried communicating yet, but perhaps they have a reason.
Will you escort us to these 'Guilds.' I imagine they would like to know the plan."
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Post by Mirielle Merlon on Jan 26, 2017 2:13:12 GMT
"They're not here, as yet, because until you gave me a better idea of what it meant to speak for the trees, I wasn't about to audibly send a messenger to the Honorable Guild of Woodcutters and Woodworkers. If you'll come with me, we can probably catch several guildmasters at the close of their weekly meeting." His Majesty nodded decisively and shrugged into a fur coat provided by one of the men-at-arms. They fell into step around him as he led Breenhin and company outside.
The evening was growing bitter. Fortunately, the king's residence and the central Guildhalls stood in proximity to each other. In short order, they entered a much larger, grander building adorned with workmanlike symbols: hammer, chisel, axe, square and compass, things of that nature. His Majesty exchanged a few words with a much-surprised functionary outside a gilded door, then led the small party inside.
And into the centre of a council chamber, surrounded by half-filled ranks of high-backed gallery seats. One held a man of unusual age.
"The Speaker recognizes our sovereign, His Majesty Adalric the Sixth."
"Thank you, Master Speaker. Gentlemen, these foreign emissaries have come to speak on behalf of a power in the forest to the east. They bring unusual tidings and advice. I would urge you to consider their words, and lend me your counsel."
He took a side chair, his role temporarily over.
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Post by Breenhin Mhaoilan on Jan 26, 2017 4:49:35 GMT
Bowing his head in thanks that the King would take them where they would need to go, Breenhin and the pair of Wardens stepped out in the biting winter chill. Neither of his guards had spoken a word, nor seemed to move since they'd entered the palace, and they said even less now.
Were it not for the breath misting from their helmets, it would have been hard to tell they were actually alive, save the fact they were mobile - not that being mobile counted for much when it came to 'alive.'
Breenhin stepped forward, dark eyes casting judgement upon those assembled from beneath a white cowl with red arrowhead hanging down his brow. "As your king says, I come from the Spiritwood - or as you would call it, the Fickle Forest." He scanned the room again, noting whatever reactions were to be had.
His voice, vaguely muffled, held a rough edge despite the nearly melodic lilt to it, and it was clear years of shouting had worn it into it's abrasive form. "On my journey here, I heard tale of trees exacting vengeance upon lumberworkers, farmers, and all manner of citizen.
To that, I asked your King why you did not think to replace what you took. It's common practice for us to plant two seedlings for every tree we fell - a gesture of respect; respect given to the Fathertrees for allowing us to live in tandem with them." He fell silent for a moment. "My advice, then, because I'm not here to give some diplomatic address, is to speak with the trees; I'm perfectly willing to do so.
I'm sure many of you won't believe me, or think me insane, but I am the Gatekeeper of the Wood, and it's because of me that you often don't see travelers again. I'm sure you're all familiar with house pets sensing coming storms, or floods, or any measure of natural disaster.
And I'm sure you're equally familiar with how well they can see into a man's heart. When you cross the threshold into the Spiritwood, the animals speak to the trees, and the trees take the measure of your heart. If you are there to harm the Wood, it's my blade that will end your journey before it begins. I say this in the interest of honesty, because you should know full well who addresses you.
I am Knight-Captain Breenhin Mhaoilan, Blade of the Grove, and these two behind me are a pair of my Wardens. We commune with the King and Queen of the Forest, and the Fathertree, acting as defender of the human people who have for generations sought shelter beneath a living canopy.
The same living canopy whose cousins you've been chopping down, and who have risen up to defend themselves. My offer is to help establish a peace, so that perhaps you too may live in harmony with the wood, and focus your efforts elsewhere - to stave off those encroaching on both our land."
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Post by Mirielle Merlon on Jan 26, 2017 14:16:55 GMT
An uproar had component parts, audible only as incoherent bits of outrage or impassioned argument, like the tops of jumbled icebergs protruding from the water. That lasted only moments -- not because of the speaker pounding his gavel, but because every eye in the gallery turned to one man as he stood up. Broadly muscled, bald, with a long white beard, he wore good furs and an amulet depicting an axe crossed with a saw.
The equally old Speaker left off the gaveling. "The chair recognizes Guildmaster Harryl."
Harryl's weathered face normally didn't show much in the way of emotion. He'd barely cracked a smile at his youngest daughter's wedding ten years back, if Adalric remembered right. Now some bitter discomfort twisted his features, and knowing the man, Adalric could guess what it might be. The old Guildmaster of Woodcutters and Woodworkers leaned on the broad rail in front of his seat, so as to remain on his feet for a while.
"Lost a lot to the Fickle Forest and the rest of the woods," said Harryl. "Sons, brothers, good men. It's no comfort to know that a thinking man killed some of them. It's no comfort to hear that the trees can think too, past the animal kind of thinking that every woodcutter knows. But if they can, then I am to you what you are to me, so I get a sense of what it mighta cost you to come here. I say we listen, for three reasons. Number one, if you've got a way to keep bloodsuckers out, I'll take that. Number two, if you say we've been killing thinking folk and if you've been killing ours, you're right: you need a mediator. We need a mediator. I've been at war with the forest for sixty years. I'm sick of losing my boys to it. Third reason's this: I'm not about to hear the rest of you run your mouths and stomp on a fix to a problem you don't have, not next to my folk. That's all. We listen."
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