First off, I'm sorry it took a week for me to update. I finished my exams, went to the beach a little, visited the neighbouring island for a day, met family, helped my mother move some things for her exhibition, etc. It's been busy. But I finally sat myself down and got around to doing it. I was finished by page 11 of Microsoft Word. This time I wanted to give everyone a large and fair update, rather than uneven text here and there. I hope I gave everyone an interesting scenario to work with. Sure is difficult to come up with a completely unique set of ideas for seven different people every turn. Hope I'm doing alright.
Skirvar and Urel shift uncertainly under the shadow of the imposing elf. Kariel Winthalus' mouth twists as he hums and ponders.
"Not a bad answer, not bad at all." he muses. "But regardless, you are now under my power. If I wanted, I could have you all killed. You could try to run, but you wouldn't get far. Southern Quel'Thalas belongs to me."
Urel is taken aback by the elf's bold rudeness.
"How dare ye treat your guests so? If you were in Ironforge we'd have put ye up in our finest inn, with the best ale! What we'd expect in return? Some godamn respect, long ears."
"We are not in Ironforge, shortbeard." Kariel hisses back, his words dripping with venom. "I will be clear with you. I am not a friend of King Anasterian and his Lightist servants. Your friend is a priest. A priest of the Holy Light."
"What's wrong with that?" Urel asks threateningly.
"Must I repeat myself? I am Kariel Winthalus. Not Anasterian Sunstrider. This is my domain. All who follow the Holy Light are my enemies. Give me a reason not to slaughter you like animals."
Skirvar finds the opportunity to insert himself into the heated debate. He has no interest in ending the encounter with pointless bloodshed. Although, after looking over the elf, he believes that he might stand a chance in magical combat, it would be an unfortunate turn of events.
"Calm down, Urel." Skirvar says, gripping his friend's shoulder comfortingly. Then he turns his attention to Kariel Winthalus. "Jaril's beliefs are his own, but I am my own man, as is Urel. We want no part in your religious war."
"Be that as it may." Kariel begins, his voice powerful and confident. "It seems that you want something that I have to offer. Safe passage, first of all. And a magical cure for your Highthane, perhaps?"
"Aye, elf. Both of those would be pleasant." Skirvar answers eagerly.
"Then tell me. What have you to offer the Benefactors of Quel'Thalas? Why should I, Kariel Winthalus, give you the safe passage you seek, your friend, or a cure for your Highthane? Make me an offer, dwarf."
Thaumas Proudmoore and Phorcys continue their discussion as their flagship sails across the channel.
"Your earlier question." Phorcys grumbles, as the pair stare out at the dark seas around them. Night conceals them, save for the light of lanterns hung across the vessel. "You wanted to know if war would come to Kul Tiras?"
"That was a part of my inquiry, father, yes." Thaumas responds, hands on the rails of the ship as he gazes for signs of land in the pitch black.
"Then hear what I have to say!" Phorcys responds with a brief laugh. "Mnesthes has granted me hints of what is to come, nothing more. Sometimes I feel things; indications. Nudges in a certain direction. It was what made me suspicious of your Vizier. Mnesthes, our great master, has also provided me with a greater warning. In a dream, I saw the continent drowning in blood. The storm threatens to engulf Kul Tiras as well. Whether it does or does not is entirely up to you, Thaumas."
"That's a weight of responsibility." Thaumas sighs.
"It always is, though, isn't it?" Phorcys says with a smile. "Remember that I was once Grand Admiral as well. I know the burdens of leadership just as well as you do. You are lucky that you have me to advise you, Thaumas. During my reign, I had no one. Your grandfather passed on a long time ago."
Thaumas nods, squinting as if to recollect somethings.
"Grandfather. How did he die? I don't remember him."
Phorcys shrugs, his bushy, grey eyebrows knotted.
"He set sail for the west, my boy. He said that there was a land, vast and free, somewhere beyond the horizon. His fleet never returned."
Hours later, as the sun begins to rise in the distance, a call rings out.
Thaumas is awoken from a nightmare. In his dreams, he envisioned his grandfather sailing blindly into a gigantic whirlpool, which consumed him. Rubbing the burning sweat from his eyes, Thaumas dresses and goes to meet his crew aboard the deck of the ship. Phorcys is waiting for him.
"Father, have we arrived?"
"Seashire is an hour away. You can see it; look."
Surely enough, the first signs of land are swimming into view. Towers, huts and villas emerge from the morning haze, perched within a small bay.
Captain Redpath begins leading preparations to drop anchor and negotiate with the town's authorities.
"Admiral." Redpath grunts with a salute. "We will need to leave our ship docked here while we travel to Fenris Isle. I will leave a small detachment of soldiers here to watch over the craft."
"Excellent." Thaumas affirms offhandedly. His attention is focused on Seashire.
The town proves to be a small heart of trade and activity. When Thaumas was young, and Phorcys was Admiral, Kul Tiras had blockaded Seashire after a diplomatic disaster.
"My lord, we have a problem." Redpath suddenly reports, after returning from a meeting with the dockyard superviser. The Tirasian ship is nestled along the docks. "Apparently, the mayor of the town is saying that he refuses our request to leave the ship here. He says that Seashire is bound by a treaty with Dalaran to refuse you such a liberty. If you like, Seashire is poorly garrisoned. We could insist on keeping a safe route open for you, using force of arms. Or we could send the ship back... but that would mean that we are stranded in Hesperia."
Phorcys interrupts them.
Thaumas covers his face with the palm of his hand, and manages to silence a groan.
"What is it now?"
"I feel that we are in danger. Either the natives of this land are ready to resist our passage... or else it might be the rogue Admiral Janus. We don't know where he is sheltering... it might even be in this very city." Phorcys explains.
"What are your orders sire?" Redpath asks.
Witch Doctor Gruc'jen takes on the task of personally leading Jin'thek to meet with his visitor. It is not long before they are at the outskirts of Ula-Tek. A delapidated old hut shows signs of habitation, because smoke rises from an opening in its centre.
"This be it." Gruc'jen whispers. "The stranger be in there, mon."
"Come with me, Gruc'jen." Jin'thek commands. "Maybe you be sensin' if anythin' be wrong with this fellow. Keep a hex ready."
They set foot inside the hut, which is stifling and hot. The air is thick with herbs and spices being brewed in a cauldron in the centre of the room. A lone figure is crouched over his concoction, shrouded in filthy rags and robes, his face covered by a huge mask resembling some kind of insect. Jin'thek wrinkles his nose in disgust at the stench. The visitor's skin is barely visible under his clothing, but it is clearly purple. Indeed, it seems that this stranger is possibly a dark troll of legend, one of Jin'thek's cousins from across the Great Sea.
"You be tellin' me now, mon, what be a dark troll doing in Zul'Aman? They say it be near impossible to cross the Great Sea; a think of legend. What you doin' here?"
Jin'thek is answered only be silence.
He waits for a reply.
There is only more silence.
Gruc'jen steps forward, raising his cane.
"The High Warlord be talkin' to you!"
Finally, a response is shaken from the dark troll. His voice is free of any accent. In fact, it is smooth and his mastery of the dialect of the forest trolls is utterly perfect. If not for his purple skin, Jin'thek would have guessed that he was from a local tribe.
"I do not answer to the High Warlord." he replies.
"You be in my land, mon. You answer to me when you in my land." Jin'thek responds firmly. "But aside from hostilities; you are welcome to join us in our feasting."
The dark troll raises his heavy mask, finally facing Jin'thek. Two luminous yellow eyes shine through twin openings in the mask. Those clear eyes blink twice.
"Feasting? That is not why I came. I am here because times are changing." the dark troll explains. "Because the Master is moving the pieces on the board; he is arranging the puzzle to suit his design. That is why I am here. You, Jin'thek, are a piece of this puzzle. I am here to move you into the right place; to complete the picture. Perfectly. Do you understand?"
Gruc'jen grips Jin'thek and pulls him back for a private word. In a low voice, he warns;
"I don' like this mon. He speaks in riddles'. Maybe he's here on behalf of one of his foreign Loa?"
Jin'thek shrugs Gruc'jen aside and returns to speak with the dark troll directly.
"What shall I be callin' you, stranger?"
The dark troll cocks his mask, peering curiously at Jin'thek.
"You may call me the Prophet. The Viridian Prophet perhaps; but that is not entirely accurate. I am a child of all of the Four Gods, not merely one of them. But I am not here to debate religion. I am here to make you an offer. Jin'thek, you command a massive legion of trolls who are now, more or less, Amani. I know that your next goal is to retake Quel'Thalas."
"Perhaps, perhaps not. What business be it of a dark troll and his 'Four Gods', mon?" Jin'thek asks.
The Prophet sifts a finger through the liquid in the cauldron.
"I'm not guessing, Jin'thek. I know. But hear me. I can help you take Quel'Thalas. But these are my conditions. You will scratch my back just as I scratch yours. Southern Quel'Thalas serves my interests. While the north bickers to the whims of the 'Holy Light', the south is under the control of pagans. Pagans, Jin'thek; servants of the Four. They are my tools."
"All elves be the same to me, mon." Jin'thek grunts. "What are ya askin' for?"
"I am asking that you accept the help of my Benefactors. They will help you take Quel'Thalas; under one condition."
"What condition, then?" Jin'thek presses.
The Prophet seems pleased that he is being heard out this far.
"There is an island, far to the south. It is called Caer Darrow. On that island is a runestone, one unlike the rest. It shelters a powerful artefact called the Heart of Aether. The druids of Caer Darrow protect it. Slay them, and bring it to me. Then our bond will be sealed eternally. In exchange, the Benefactors will deliver Quel'Thalas into your hands. Or do you think, Jin'thek, that you will have the power to overwhelm the kingdom's ancient defenses alone? No, you need me, just as I need you."
Gruc'jen laughs loudly.
"You think you be makin' deals with Jin'thek, mon? Every forest troll in Zul'Aman calls him master. He don' need your slimey elf friends."
"Perhaps the time has come for the Amani to accept that they have the option of living with other races. You can rule this land, Jin'thek, just so long as you do it... correctly."
Everything is going according to plan. Excitement wells up in Javali. It is not often that such a thing happens. Having studied every section of history with intense detail, Javali has found that the modern world has offered little in the ways of excitement. Deposing the Council of Six had not been nearly as thrilling as he had hoped. His actions paled in comparison to the achievements of the likes of Thoradin. That is why he had to try harder, to work harder, to fight harder. Javali swore to himself that he would make history. No, he would remake it, and he would remake it in his image.
Zinizar walks by his side as they ascend the steps of the Grand Archive. He looks to her fondly, his beautiful and deadly protege in reforging Hesperia. This was her hour just as much as it was his. Today, history would bow to them. The Archive would be theirs.
Behind them, the thundering chorus of marching steps thunders in unison. Franek leads the fanatics crashing behind their dictator. These men are the very best. They will be the first Zaramim, when the time comes.
Javali decides to make an entrance. There will be no turning of keys to open the massive wooden doors of the Archive.
Inside, a gathering of blind old men drifts amongst the bookshelves which rise up to the ceiling. They are unaware of what is coming. They are alerted to the sound of a colossal smash. Blind, they do not see its cause, but they know it nonetheless. The doors of the Archive have been splintered. One of the Archivists is thrown to the ground. He gropes around him to gain his bearings, and his hands feel along the robe of a fellow Archivist. His hands come away wet. He does not doubt that it is blood on his hands. Suddenly, a heavy boot lands on his chest. Somehow, he does not even have to ask who it is. He knows.
"I am Lord Javali of Dalaran, and you, all of you, have been charged with treason."
The Archivist searches within himself for traces of eldtrich power, with which to silence this madman, but the moment he tries to do so, he is set alight, and his burning, screaming form is tossed out of one of the glass windows. He lands in one of the streets below, crashing into an unsuspecting crowd.
Javali looks to Zinizar, delighted at the feeling of power coursing through him.
"Is this what you wanted? Because it is what you are getting. I hope it makes you happy."
"It makes me very, very happy." Zinizar laughs, her voice serpentine. "I'll have to thank you sometime, Javali. In private."
"Be my guest. But first, we have an Archive to reoder."
Within hours, the Archivists are rounded up and led away by Archmage Franek. Immediately, the soldiers begin collecting the prophecies. Javali does not put much stock in them, and he ignores them for the most part. Whatever Zinizar wanted out of this endeavor was her business. He sees her fingering the parchment of one of the scrolls. Her eyes are wide.
"What is it, my dear? You seem distressed in our hour of triumph."
"I found what I was looking for." she mumbles. It is the first time Javali has seen her shaken and without her guise of alluring temptation. For once, she is just a woman; a clearly shocked and afraid one.
"What is it, then? Surely you can tell me."
Zinizar turns to him, her sapphire eyes alight with emotion.
"The words promise a thousand paths, Javali. A thousand possible roads which history might tread."
"And what good are prophecies when they all they do is speculate?" Javali asks, suddenly angry. "What good were these Archivists?"
Zinizar puts a finger to her lips, though her eyes remain on the paper.
"You misunderstand. The Prophecies highlight that things can change; that personal choice may win the day. But they are nonetheless clear. It speaks of a fel fire from beyond, returning to consume all life; while tentacles of madness strangle all that we behold from beneath the earth. It speaks of demons and the very old gods that tried to replace the Four Gods and steal their aspects."
"I remember you speaking of such ancient evils." Javali mutters thoughtfully. "Your Four Gods were at war with monsters from beyond, who tried to steal their thrones. Gods of madness. Old gods from another realm."
Zinizar waves Javali's trail of thought away.
"This world is host to a hundred different gods, Javali. The trolls and their Loa, the madmen and their old gods, the tales of a blood god; Hakkar. Our very Four Gods. All vie against one another. It is clear what I have to do now; what the goddess Zinine inspired me to do. We must prevent the future from happening. History promises us a road of torment, in which the Four Gods are forgotten and erased from history. A bleak, freakish future. We must continue what we are doing now. We must rewrite history."
"Rewrite history." Javali mutters to himself. "Do you mean this literally?"
"No. I know that there are dragons who can travel within the borders of time, but that is not what interests us. I must manifest Zinine's presence on Azeroth. A god has power when it can make itself felt. While we cannot bring the Blue Child to us, we can bring her voice to us."
"Zinizar, let's be clear. I'm not going to meddle with mad magic. There will be no summoning. All conflicts in any wars we fight are to be battles of mortal steel. That is how I want to be remembered. Summoning things never works out."
Zinizar narrows her eyes. "I never needed your permission for anything, my dear. I hope to summon D'vorjakque, the Azure Emperor Sorceror of the ancient Kelani Empire. I am Archareveim of the Hareveim; our order stems from the Kelani. We must restore what was lost. With, or without you."
"Don't forget who is in charge here, my dear." Javali says, raising his voice in concealed anger. "Do not tempt me to break our ties."
"There is no need." Zinizar says gingerly, taking Javali's face in her hands. "Go and rest. You and I; we are one. Go and rest. You have done well. It has been a hard day for all of us. I will join you shortly. Tomorrow, we can see what to do next. Understood?"
Javali wonders whether he should indeed retire.
The weight of the world suddenly seems too heavy, if only for a brief moment. He begins to wonder what he got himself into with these Hareveim. Fenris Isle will await him soon, and the Kirin Mora have yet to be dealt with. Franek pulls him aside quite suddenly, before he can even so much as reply to Zinine.
"I have a report from General Marius; it just came in. It is urgent." Franek grates. "My lord, the Kirin Mora are receiving assistance from the Church in Lordaeron. They have Witch Hunters assassinating our Hareveim at every turn. We believe they are hiding, disguised amongst the civilian populations of the towns close to Ambermill. We can't route them out."
Eralas and his retinue decide to take the fastest route to Fenris. They ride north, towards the Hesperian legions crossing the roads. They demand to be let through, and are eventually greeted by a company of richly dressed riders. The leader is clearly surprised to see the king of Stromgarde, and he is also clearly humbled. He is a relatively young man, with fair, cream coloured hair and a thin beard and moustache covering his face. His eyes are a light green, and coupled with his expression make him seem like a rather friendly and innocent fellow. At least, that was what one would believe if not for the fact that he was wearing the grand colours and decorations of a leading general.
"Hail, King Eralas Trollbane!" he shouts out, loud enough for all of his riders to hear. "I am General Leo of Dalaran, hand of Lord Javali of Hesperia. What brings you to our lands?"
Eralas inclines his head in a slight demonstration of respect; only what is the general's due.
"We are on our way to Fenris Isle. I trust you have heard of the political meeting there."
"I have indeed." General Leo affirms with a forced smile. "It is a shame that you did not ask for an escort through Hesperia. We are one realm now. This is no longer a country you can just pass through because you feel like. It is no longer your right, I am afraid."
Eralas suddenly feels the direction of the conversation turning sour.
"It is my right, good general. My line once ruled all of this land and more. However, I wish you no disrespect. But tell me, where would such a large army as this be marching? I dare hope you are making no political decisions that would affect Stromgarde without my knowledge."
"It is Hesperian business." Leo answers. "What we do, we do for Hesperia. We are not moving against Stromgarde, if that is what you are asking. No, we are marching to Tarren Mill. The king of Alterac has issues with our realm. We would settle them for him."
Meanwhile, miles away, the Captain arrives back at the city of Stromgarde. He has galloped long and hard to return to the capital, but has finally arrived. Swiftly, he insists on being taken to Dorath Trollbane, brother of the king and acting regent in his absence.
Dorath sits on a silver seat, which is nestled near the golden throne of the king. It is the seat of advisor and heir. Eralas has yet to bear issue, and thus it is Dorath who occupies the seat.
"Captain? You bring word of my brother?" Dorath asks. He is a burly man, larger and more imposing than Eralas, and yet, less refined.
The Captain salutes and bows deeply.
"The King would have you mobilize, for I bring ill news. The time has come."
Alford Menethil issues his orders and allows himself a reprieve, as he sits back in his throne. The situation was developing in a volatile direction. There was potential for so much to go wrong. Canbrad would have to be reined in; and now this Cult of Brux as well. Sherman was already off issuing orders. Whatever forces could be spared would be sent overland and by ship to carry out the grand expedition to retain the east.
Archbishop Marden steps into the imperial hall, and unsteadily approaches the king. He is ill at ease, and that is never a fantastic sign.
"What is wrong now, Marden?" Alford asks with a sigh.
"My lord, since you mentioned the Kirin Mora."
"Yes?" Alford presses.
"Well, I may have forgotten to mention..."
"Go on, Marden. By the Light, say it before my bad day yields nasty results for you." Alford says, beginning to seethe. The Archbishop's mouth works, gaping for a moment.
"I assumed you would approve of my sending a dozen Witch Hunters chapters south. To help the Kirin Mora. And Grigori Dosantos. Who you are asking for help from."
"Are you telling me that you might have provoked aggression from Dalaran, Marden? Is that what you are honestly telling me?"
Marden folds his arms and attempts to retain his demeanor.
"No, lord. I am telling you that the assistance you are asking from Grigori will surely be granted, because he owes the kingdom. My Witch Hunters are acting undercover to route out pagans. They will not incite aggression."
Guard captain de Mon enters the throne room, bearing a report.
"Sorry to interrupt, my lord. But we have news that your nephew, Tileot just arrived from the borderlands. I thought you might wish to know."
Alford is suddenly at attention. Tileot. His son.
Memories flood back. Many, many years ago, before Alford was married to his current wife, Lora Menethil, he had enjoyed a small love affair with a noble. She had secretly borne him a son, Tileot. Alford knew that such illegitimate offspring would dishonour him if brought to public light. Thus, he claimed that Tileot was the child of his late brother, and covered up the affair. He gave Tileot an estate far to the north, in lands by the sea. Meanwhile, Lora had not given him any children. It left a rather thorny position for him to wallow in.
"Yes, yes, captain. Set Tileot up in a comfortable room and tell him I will be with him eventually. I am very, very busy, as he can guess from the rebel uprisings. He will understand." Alford says gruffly. "As for you, Archbishop Marden. You've yet again acted without my permission, and stepped out of line."
The captain did not yet leave.
"My lord? Your wife wishes for an answer on her private request."
Hours earlier, Lora had confronted Alford. She said she wished to visit the guest in the downstairs dungeon. Namely, Maximus Krowl. How she had discovered him was beyond Alford. However, it seemed his wife remained oblivious to his true nature. She was often bored and longed for conversation. That was most likely what she wanted from their guest. She had explained that she felt obligated to be hostess. He had put off the matter.
"By the gods, I must be the unluckiest man in Lordaeron." Alford mutters to himself.
Ravenholdt (Gurtogg Bloodboil; not the guy from the Black Temple. I crack me up.)
"Long ago, the Arathi tribe of humans embarked on a campaign of necessity to conquer and assimilate its rivals through combat and politics. The cause was righteous, as the Arathi offered peace, security, and equality to those they conquered. However, many rival tribes were resistant to the idea of relinquishing their own authority and becoming part of a larger whole.
It was at this time that a guild of assassins arose within the Arathi. Infiltrating rival tribes and removing dissidents and other opposition, this group was very successful and aided in what ultimately became the founding of the united human nation of Arathor. Over time, the guild grew in size and autonomy, and when Arathor dissolved into smaller Kingdoms they established a small, independent settlement in the Alterac Mountains, Northwest of the Hillsbrad Foothills. This community took the name Ravenholdt, after the man who spearheaded its founding.
Too small to contend with larger kingdoms in any head to head confrontation, the mostly self-sustaining Ravenholdt trains its forces to be masters of melee combat and discipline. Stories say they are so skilled that they are â€œinvisibleâ€. The county has remained small, and only invites new residents if they possess extraordinary skill. Ravenholdt at the time of The Great War of Azeroth possessed a standing force of only a few hundred warriors. The country retains independence with impunity from the Kingdom of Alterac through a combination of their own skill (the settlement is well hidden and the mountain is trapped) and the negligence of Alterac itself (Lord Xie doesnâ€™t seem to know whatâ€™s going on).
As part of the family legacy, the Ravenholdt Bloodline runs the day to day, menial tasks of leadership. However, true authority has always lied with the Grand Master since the early days of the guild." -Gurtogg
Issues are recently boiling over in Ravenholdt. Not long has passed since the assassination of the last Grand Master; the practical ruler of the community. Travot Ravenholdt, however, has managed to maintain order by allowing for Warester Van Dam to rise to become the new Grand Master.
Now, in the dawn of his career, Warester Van Dam is faced with a myriad of problems. While Travot wishes to hire out Ravenholdt to any paying party, regardless of justification, Van Dam feels otherwise. It is a bad time for dissent or disagreements. However, the matter is simply thus.
Ravenholdt hosts a splendid view in all directions. Hesperia stretches out to the west, and the Arathi Highlands to the east. From one of the highest peaks of the mountainous reaches of the hills, Van Dam is enjoying the sanctity of privacy. He can see both realms to either side of him, and Ravenholdt just below. This place makes him feel in control; up here where only the singing of the birds can disrupt him. Every so often, a gryphon might just fly up from the Hinterlands to the north, and once Van Dam was even lucky enough to get up close enough to feel it gently. Gryphons were proud creatures, but were tame enough when shown proper respect and caution.
"Oi. I'm talking to you."
Van Dam sighs. So much for solitude and sanctuary. He opens his eyes to Master Wallis, a short, hairy man who has always seemed to remain oblivious to rank or station. All that has ever concerned Wallis is fighting prowess and ale.
"What's wrong, Wallis? What can I do for you."
There was not much point in reminding Wallis that he was talking to the Grand Master.
"Travot sent for you. 'Bout two hours ago, actually. He's mighty pissed off you haven't shown up yet. Somehow I knew I'd find you up here. But I let you rest a bit. Travot can fume all he wants."
Van Dam nods and runs a hand through his hair. It was always difficult dealing with Travot. While Travot Ravenholdt had endorsed his rise to Grand Master, there was still the problem of ethics between them. Travot had little regard for the notions of morality. While assassins could seldom afford that luxury, the Ravenholdt community had enjoyed that priviledge for generations. Hard times were demanding changes, however.
"I'll go see what he wants." Van Dam grunts, and hoists himself up. He gathers his equipment and treads down to the manor. Workers greet him as he passes. Ravenholdt's civilian population has dwindled as of late, but enough people remain to tend to the estate's personal crops.
Once inside, the acknowledgement fades. Van Dam knows that the manor is garrisoned only by those whom Travot Ravenholdt trusts most, and those he trusts most are usually those who believe that the Grand Master should answer to the hereditary ruler. It was a balance of power which was difficult to maintain. The old Grand Master had been assassinated, and none knew by who. Van Dam secretly guessed that one of Travot's cronies had acted on his beliefs.
"What in blazes took you so long? Damnit, have you no manners, Warester?" Travot begins, as soon as Van Dam steps towards the small private balcony Travot uses to oversee the estate grounds.
"I was not aware you had a desire to see me until now." Van Dam answers. He makes sure to avoid the notion that it was at Travot's request that he had come. There were, after all, no obligations for the Grand Master to obey the ruling Ravenholdt. It was only a matter of courtesy.
"Doesn't matter, Warester. I'm a patient man." Travot explains.
Seeing Travot now is somewhat disheartening to Warester, who remembers the days when the old Ravenholdt ruled, just as he remembers the days the old Grand Master ruled. They were safer and more calm times.
"What is it you want, Travot?"
"I just received word from some of our field agents. There are urgent matters we need to go over."
"Of course." Van Dam answers routinely.
"A Hesperian army is marching towards Tarren Mill. That brings them incredibly close to our sanctuary here. Other than that, I think it is time we sent somebody to the impending political meeting at Fenris Isle, don't you think? It is something we can't afford to miss."
"I knew all of these things already, Travot. Was there anything else? Or shall we reach some decisions for a change?"
"There was a private matter." Travot begins. He turns away from Van Dam, lacking confidence for a change. "I have no heir."
"Do you want to sire one from me, then? Is that why I'm here?" Van Dam asks, bemused.
"Don't be like that, Warester." Travot says with the wave of a hand. "This estate, however, hosts a tiny amount of inbred women, all of which make my stomach turn. I have no time to flirt away from home either. Do you know what this means? I need to hurry up the affair and get it over with. During one of my routine assignments in Andriano, I saw a young woman. The daughter of the Count Scipio."
"Where are you going with this?" Van Dam inquires, suddenly worried that Travot is up to something.
"I'm going to have her kidnapped and brought to me." Travot explains. "I need a beautiful wife, and an heir. None here can provide me with my needs."
OOC: Man, I'm starting to hate writing in the present.