RP:A Diplomatic Encounter

Part of the Global Purge Arc

Eboric sits astride his horse, a pale white stallion with an unearthly gaze, surrounded by the elite of his nation, the noble families of the united tribes under his control. Chosen especially for this mission, the escort is led by the Murum Mors, a mercenary force originally from Gualon, raised by the former gladiator Hadrian, a deliberate show of honor for the expected guests. Eboric's flag of a crowned bear flies from long pikes, marking his presence.

A trip to Venturil was far past long due. Tristram's last diplomatic venture there had ended with a wild pig terrorizing the pub, and the wife of the King cursing some shadowy draconian she'd discovered slinking around the bar. Granted, he hadn't come announced, nor had he introduced himself, and the visit was informal, but the experience deserved some kind of rectification, one way or the other. Thus, after handling a few affairs in Gualon, he took to the skies, flying a linear course toward the plains of Venturil. He landed outside the city proper, and even its surrounding territories, to make his way on foot down the causeway toward the city rising in the distance. He'd just taken his cigarette case out, intending to have a smoke before his arrival while he straightened his tie, when he happened upon the welcoming party. He scanned those assembled before his gaze settled on Eboric. He pocketed his case and squinted at the reception before grinning at the war lord. "I hope all this isn't for me."

Eboric smiles slightly, and dismounts, the action copied swiftly by the others in the group. The warlord approaches Tristram, clad as ever, in his gleaming mithril hauberk, but instead of the rest of his armor he is dressed relatively simply, with white trews and leather boots. A simple band of gold encircles his head, matched by the more ornate rings that cluster on his arms. Stopping before the dragon, Eboric inclines his head in greeting, and gestures to a servant, who hurries out of the group of retainers to offer Tristram a horn, filled with a dark brown ale. "You are welcome in my land," Eboric says, formally. "It is good that you have come," he says without further preamble. "We have much to discuss."

Tristram stepped forward to meet Eboric, dipping his head in more of a formal greeting, keeping to the formalities that appear to have been established for this meeting. He accepted the offered drink, holding it up to the servant briefly in gratitude before turning to Eboric again. It was only a moment's hesitation before he drank from the horn, a flicker of learned wariness. There were many strong poisons in the land, but perhaps it was his ego that appeased him that none of them could possibly fell a dragon in one dosage. "Thank you, King Eboric. Thank you all." He nodded to the rest of the welcoming party, glancing briefly at the band of mercenaries raised during one of his absences before returning his full attention to the were-bear. "I, too, bear a gift. But unfortunately, it travels more slowly than myself." He glanced upward to imply his preferred mode of travel. "Where is your wife? I was hoping to pay my respects to the Queen as well."

Eboric gives a slight frown at Tristram's question. "I have not seen either of them in some time. Raidh is in the west, with her father, and Jerica is visiting Cenril. I had hoped for them to be here for this evening, but..." He shrugs, and smiles. "Not all things go as planned. I have learned that lesson well enough." He gestures to the west, where the mists shroud the barrows. Dark figures can be seen there, the foggy outlines of large troops of warriors, falling into formation. "You have come on a holy day, and you are welcome to the ceremony."

"I have never know a woman to be anything but flighty, King. It doesn't suit their nature to be anything but. I will have to make her formal acquaintance another day. Er, their, I mean." Tristram cleared his throat and took another sip of the dark ale. "If I had known it was a holy day, perhaps I would not have been so hasty in my visit. My own propensity for sin might not be welcomed among so venerable a crowd. I was actually unaware your people were especially religious. Tell me, what kind of holy day are you celebrating? What is this ceremony you speak of?"

Eboric smiles, and points eastward, to where the hills of the land are covered in farm fields, most of them already harvested. "We are celebrating the harvest. With the Blight gone, the land's fecundity is restored, and the first of the crops are gathered, We are blessed with a fertile land, and we have enough food to last through the winter, and more besides." A spark of something seems to kindle in his eyes as he continues. "But there is to be a sacrifice, a gift to bring the eyes of the gods upon us for an upcoming war, a purge."

Tristram followed Eboric's gesture to the east, gaze roaming across the abundant fields. This was not the same land he'd flown over in years past, the barren, hostile land that appeared unable to bring forth anything but more nothingness. Eboric's next words sobered him, however, and he looked sidelong at the war lord, his brows inexplicably furrowing. He slowed his slow walk eastward and asked casually, "I see. A celebration is always welcomed in the eyes of one's people, I'm sure. But I am curious, Lord Eboric, about this sacrifice. I doubt it is the first fruits of your land. And I'm curious about your war. What enemy does Venturil have?"

The werebear's next smile is not entirely pleasant. "A man like me collects enemies everywhere. The dribbling morons in Chartsend fancy themselves my enemy, I think, but they are almost beneath mentioning. No, the enemy I mean to attack is more sinister, more serious. When I arrived here with my men, the lands around my city were dangerous, filled with raiding parties of a creature that does not belong here, a beast that profanes the very earth by its presence." He points to the southwest, where a new column approaches from the city, escorting rank after rank of bound preklek soldiers. "Unless I'm mistaken, your land has a similar problem, and the infection pollutes the land the entire stretch between our nations. I will undertake to purge them once and for all from this world."

Tristram might have breathed a sigh of relief at the end of that, but he still carried tension in his grim expression. The Prekleks. They were a problem. "Yes," he answered, his tone rife with distraction as he looked on at the procession of prisoners. "No. I mean, rather ..." He continued walking again, hoping to put a bit of distance between himself and the King's receiving party so that he might speak with Eboric more privately. "I do have a Preklek problem. But the problem is ... contained ... delicately ... diplomatically." He gestured to the rows of prisoners being led out. "We have an understanding. They do not raid my city or harm my citizens, and I do not war against them. I admit, when they first came, and the portal opened, I was unprepared, as were we all, I think. But my city has defenses now. Measures have been taken to ensure that should such an event happen again, we are prepared. I'm not ... Do you mean to execute all these prisoners as a sacrifice to the gods?"

Eboric grins his feral grin once more, gesturing to the shuffling ranks of Prekleks. "I rounded them up some months ago. My men swept the land, from the Once-Dead Forest in the north to the jungles in the south, from mountain to sea, and systematically brought them in. They have been kept safely, well fed, since then. Now they can serve as a proper gift to bring the luck of the gods to us in our hunt. My soldiers will march out, through the mountains, and sweep these beasts from our world. They are not from here, they do not belong here, and I will not suffer their presence any longer. I tell you this because it is my understanding that it is in your realm that their means of intruding upon our soil lies. I will need to access it, to destroy it."

Tristram was faced with a dilemma. He rarely encountered truly perplexing dilemmas, and this one irked him because it lacked a simple solution. He sought to appease Eboric, first. "A mighty feat, King. They are not easy to capture, or kill. Their armor is especially troublesome. But if you execute all these men, it could mean retaliation from those within the portal. They may see it as a breach of our agreement and attack my people. However, we cannot release them, nor do I believe we can send them back to their own, and increase their own ranks. Do you understand my problem? I used to be much like you, King. You will find that if you love this city, as I love mine, it may change you. I do think the portal needs to be destroyed once and for all. We are in agreement on that matter. However, it has been attempted before. Are you aware of the properties of my arena, Eboric, where the portal is located?"

Eboric's eyes narrow as Tristram speaks, but he keeps silent throughout. "I am aware, yes. Useful properties, to a man like me." He pauses for a moment, brow furrowed in thought. "Perhaps I can direct some of my troops to shore up yours in Gualon, so that any attempt at reprisal will be easily turned back. We've scoured our lands for them, and the dwarves have kept them out of Craughmoyle. They will have no word of this for weeks, at the least. Months, more likely."

Tristram caught that brief slip in Eboric's otherwise stoic demeanor. The saurian wondered if his diplomacy was out of practice. "Yes, it is useful to myself as well. Let me reiterate -- I think your plan is a sound one. But I am concerned for my people. As for your troops ... my orcs would take great offense if I accepted your men into my city to help guard it. It would be a great slight against them. I see that you are set on the course you have begun. I will move more of my own troops to the portal to ensure there are no reprisals. I have spies within the Preklek land as well, so I will enlist them to keep their eyes and ears open. I cannot stay while you offer your sacrifice. I hope you understand, King Eboric. But I would very much like to hear the proposal you have on destroying the portal, once and for all. If now is not a good time, you are more than welcome to come to Gualon, where we can investigate the portal together and discuss what is to be done."

Eboric frowns, and tugs once on his beard. "That would make me seem dishonorable, to call down an attack upon you and not lend help. I must assist in some way. Are you in need of supplies? Iron, armor, weapons? I will not leave you to stand alone against them, if by chance they do hear about it before we can purge the mountains." He shakes his head. "But I will join you in Gualon, either with troops or supplies, or indeed whatever is desired, and look upon the portal. I do not yet know how to close it, and I would gladly hear of the first attempts to destroy it."

Tristram understood the matter of honor. He'd never really paid much attention to that school of thought, those strange fellows who favored honor above all else -- at least, not until he'd settled in Gualon and begun his rule there. Gualon had changed him, fundamentally so. "I will not have you be dishonored among your men, nor mine. I think we should proceed with a formal alliance. My orcs understand alliance, be it for battle, or commerce. We recently came from the Frostmawian theater of war. The orcs are eager for their next fight. Perhaps I may have found one for them. In the next few days, come to Gualon. We will study this portal and we will destroy it."

Eboric pauses for a moment, studying the man before him. At last he nods, and stretches out a huge hand. "So be it. I will ally with you, and together we will drive the threat from our lands. I support the idea of commerce as well, and I have merchants ready and willing to find new markets. I give my word that you will not be attacked, in any way, by my forces." He grins again, aware of his reputation. "When I reach Gualon, I will come with the best troops I can muster."

Tristram extended his own hand and pumped Eboric's firmly. "Speaking of commerce.." He turned as a few orphans, accompanied by an armor-wearing orc cautiously approached the area. The orc stopped a fairs way away while the orphans took the chest the orc carried and brought it the rest of the way to Tristram and Eboric's feet. Tristram tousled one of the orphan's hair and swatted at one gawking at Eboric's armor before the trio scampered away to return to the orc, and their homeland. Tristram crouched to open the chest. It contained a bubbling black liquid. "This is pitch, from my swamps. I understand you are in a period of rebuilding here. You'll find none better. You are welcome to it. As for Gualon ... I understand there is a need to work quickly. I need time to speak with my orcs. If you come with your men and I have not adequately prepared them ... Come with a small detachment, not large enough to raid. Together, we will investigate the portal and develop a plan of attack. When it comes time to put that plan into action, bring your men. I'll assemble mine. We'll make sure nothing escapes that portal until it no longer exists."

Eboric's smile slowly spreads as Tristram speaks, and he covers it by looking down to inspect the pitch. "We are indeed in great need of it," he says. "I am clearing away the jungle to the south, and perhaps you might have a need for the exotic lumber." He shrugs his shoulders. "But all of that can be negotiated. My main force will wait at my fort by the gorge." With another grin, he takes a step back and looks west, to where his men are assembling. "But now the moon rises, and the rite must begin. You are still welcome to join."

Tristram mirrored Eboric's grin, but he didn't attempt to conceal his. "I am a man of unique tastes. If it is exotic or rare, I very much have need of it. Rynvalian lumber is so overused these days." He took a step back. "And no, I must take my leave now. This meeting was profitable, for the both of us, I believe. I'll speak with you again soon." He dipped his head to Eboric once more in a respectful gesture in front of his people, before he turned and made his way back over the plains.