RP:Strange Bedfellows

Part of the Thy Kingdom Come Arc

Summary: Tristram and Hildegarde decide on the battle plan to retake Frostmaw. Deception, danger and drama to come.

Governor's Estate

Hildegarde and Tristram had postponed this talk for long enough. It was time for the knight to decide what she intended to with his backing. Would they go along with Josleen’s suggestion and pretend that Tristram was invading the city? Or would they consider something else? Caedan’s ominous warning of treachery echoed in her mind, but the knight was quick to disregard it: Tristram had been nothing but honourable and a gracious host during her time in Gualon! But things had changed. Hilde was not taking back Frostmaw just to reclaim her spot as Steward, she was taking it back to claim the crown now too. Returning to Gualon, the Silver had asked a local orphan for the Governor’s whereabouts but the young boy said he didn’t know where he was. He changed his tune, however, when a gold coin was offered to help refresh his memory. With the information on hand, the knight had made her way to Tristram’s estate; gaining admittance by the seemingly ever-silent Jacobo. She would discuss the war plan with Tristram. Today, she would decide.

Tristram had war plans of his own drawn up, blueprints scattered across his desk — seeming to suggest something to do with Enchantment of all places, but when Hildegarde was led to his study, he rolled some of them up, moved others aside, casually, unhurriedly. “Silver.” He greeted her with a welcome smile and he crossed to his bar to prepare them each a small drink to better lubricate the war plans he presumed she was here to make. Jacobo shut the doors behind Hildegarde, but he remained on hand this time, a silent, unimposing presence in the corner, armed with a pad of paper and a direct line to Tristram’s ever-growing army.

Hildegarde greeted Tristram with an equally friendly smile, “Tristram,” she had only caught a glimpse of those plans before they were rolled up and some put aside. It was not her business to pry and even if Tristram had plans on Enchantment, the knight had her own city to worry about. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she obviously means all those plans and blueprints, “but I would like to steal a little of your time to discuss the plan for retaking Frostmaw. There’s been a, er, a slight change since we last spoke.”

Tristram glanced at the plans before back at the Silver again. He returned to his desk, carrying a light sherry for Hildegarde — alcoholic, but barely so, and as sweet as a handful of Frostmaw’s winterberries. He sat down with his own scotch — neat — and leaned back in his chair. “Dare I ask the change? Changes that require commentary, I’ve found, are rarely slight.” He curbed the dragon a rather boyish grin.

Hildegarde accepted the light sherry and gave it a cautionary sniff. Not out of suspicion, but more out of curiosity. It was, after all, an alcoholic beverage but from what her nose could detect it seemed very weak. Tristram knew her preference. “Thank you,” she said gratefully and even took a little sip. It was sweet. Almost like a berry she knew. Be it the boyish grin or the words themselves, the knight is chortling, “You may ask,” she retorted before delving into any detail. “A giant tried to take my life in Larket. He was unsuccessful, of course, but he riled me. Riled me to the point that I declared myself Queen of Frostmaw, rather than Steward.”

Tristram was in the process of taking another sip of his scotch, but Hildegarde’s revelation, this slight change, found him lowering his glass back to the table. “Queen? My, my.” He swilled his glass without lifting it to his lips. “And what has been the response of your people to this declaration-in-exile?”

Hildegarde could feel warmth flood to her cheeks with Tristram’s reply, but she prayed that they did not turn red with embarrassment. After all, she would need to be strong and poised if she were to stick to her declaration. “I have two new giants in my party and a few elves who had stayed in Frostmaw,” she replied, “but as for the general reaction in Frostmaw… I have no way of knowing,” she said the latter in a murmur. It meant she could be returning only to be rejected properly. Or to become a tyrant.

Tristram brought his glass to his lips and had another swig. “There’s ways to find out,” he answered, his tone low to reflect Hildegarde’s. His … his fiancee’s cat jumped on his desk, knocking a few papers off and then made her way onto the arm of the Silver’s chair. “So. Queen.” He stressed the title, teasing. “Does your new title change your course of action, or the role you’d like me to play in it?”

Hildegarde doesn’t seem to mind the cat who knocks the papers clear off the table and then makes its way to the arm of her chair. The knight gently extends her hand toward the cat, not presuming to touch but leaving her hand there should the cat wish to sniff, bite, claw or nudge. “It doesn’t change my course of action, no,” she replied, smiling ever so slightly at his teasing, “but I want to be sure on our plan of action and what else we might do.”

Tristram swilled his drink and then finished its contents. He stood and went to his bar to pour himself another, surreptitiously eying Hildegarde’s glass as he passed to determine if she needed another. She did not. He wasn’t surprised. The Devon Rex accepted Hildegarde’s offer of petting and stepped down into her lap, stretching there before walking all over to find the most comfortable spot. The Governor returned, his drink refilled, but this time he brought the decanter of scotch with him. “So the last time we spoke, we had a few options. Most of them involved my army.” He swept a hand toward the window in the study, the curtains drawn aside. In the distance, beyond the courtyard and down near the city wall, the start of the swamp began. In a clearing, a squad of his orcish warriors were being put through their paces. “Well, here is my army. Now what are we doing with them?”

Hildegarde’s drink did not need refilling but the surreptitious eyeing of her glass made her take another sip. As the cat stepped down into her lap, she ran her hand along its curly fur briefly before setting her hand back onto the arm of the chair. “Your army, yes,” she repeated gratefully, knowing full well that her desire to retake Frostmaw depended largely on the generosity of Tristram. “Josleen suggested a deception; that you yourself were going to take the City and then I would appear as its defender,” she recalled. It was obvious that the knight was a little uncertain of this plan. “I don’t know if that would work, though. I think we have a better chance of marching there together and demanding to face off a champion. That is honourable and traditional,” she reasoned thoughtfully, “and you and I would serve as a sufficient distraction. I would have two parties split: one to head to the fort and close off the rear of the giants while securing the fort, whilst the other splits towards the Northern Outpost. If they can reach the Outpost safely, they can unleash the beasts of The Eyrie and give us an aerial advantage.”

Tristram leaned back in his seat, listening, and then, as silence momentarily reigned, thinking. After a few seconds, he leaned forward and pulled a cigarette from one of his drawers, which he lit after silently holding it up to ask Hildegarde for permission; he did not offer her one. He took a drag, exhaled it, and then spoke. “There is a fallacy in Josleen’s plan, true, but in your own plan, you expose a weakness. If I show up there with my army, it looks as though you’ve brought me to force the meeting between yourself and your nemesis.” He tapped the ash from his cigarette into a shallow crystal dish. “If I were in your queenly shoes, Hildegarde, I’d march on Frostmaw myself. Bring my supporters. Ask for the match. I have no treaty with this Balgruuf. On your proverbial heels will be the Gualonian army, preparing to take over these untapped lands, rich with resources, hunting. Strife. There’s nothing my orcs love more than strife. If the people see their lives are threatened, it will turn the tide. You hold the key to stopping them.” A beat. “Stopping me. As our treaty stands. It’s integral to your people’s welfare they accept you as leader. Do what you will with your foe, but let me drive the public’s opinion of what is best for them. When you retake your city, my army will help root out the rest of the dissenters and assist in securing key strongholds. And you will have your victory.”

Hildegarde did not deny Tristram permission to light a cigarette. This was his abode, after all, and he the gracious host. She could hardly deny him that. As he takes a drag, she drains the rest of her sweet yet weak drink. “Very true… that wouldn’t be a very strong image at all,” she murmured in agreement. Running to Tristram and having his army fight her battles would certainly look terrible in the eyes of the giants. “So… this would be a sort of deception still. The basic plan Josleen provided, but altered. Say we fight these champions – assuming they go for that trap – and we both emerge victorious. It is only through our alliance that you will not take Frostmaw. I trust in your acting skills to really ham that up,” she offered him a smile. “That sounds like a plan, though. I intend to try and make camp in Xalious soon. Then… well. Then we march.” Although Hildegarde has drained her sweet drink, she holds the glass forward, “To victory,” she toasts.

Tristram repeated, “It is only through our alliance that I will not take Frostmaw,” as though it had been something he was rehearsing. He reached for his glass and took a swig from it while his cigarette smoldered between his fingers. “There will be men stationed at the main gates. My orphans tell me of another gate into the city, not as largely guarded. In the west. Above the cliffs. It will draw Balgruuf’s forces from the city proper, which will give you a better opportunity to take back what is rightfully yours. Your city will be in a panic. Then you will see to whom they come to save them. Tiny giant or … eh. Semi-competent Silver. I’d bet an injured Silver against a Black before I’d bet an inconsequential speck of overgrown dust against a Black.”

Hildegarde is admittedly surprised that the orphans would have such information, though she does her best to not let it show on her face. Tristram, however, probably caught the little eyebrow raise. “There is a western gate, yes, at the end of the mercantile street and the entry to the hunting lands,” she explained, “but there is no easy way to reach it without already being in Frostmaw. It would be a hard climb for an orc,” she informed him. “You would need to think of how to transport your army up a sheer cliff-face,” which wouldn’t be easy unless he had some sort of pulley or magical means. “It is usually manned by two men, there to only ward people off from entering the hunting grounds when necessary or to make sure certain animals do not wander into the town centre. Very lightly guarded, indeed,” until, of course, Hildegarde can reclaim Frostmaw. Then she would have to tighten the security there. At his bet, however, the knight can barely suppress a smile. “Undermine them from the inside… But I will, and so will my allies, be at risk until you arrive to distract Balgruuf properly.”

Tristram tapped some ash off into the dish. “Then you must prepare your allies, give them the tools they need to survive until my army is in position.” He lifted his glass to his lips and looked at her over the brim. You aren’t going to be able to do this without shedding blood on your side, Hildegarde. It can’t be done. In order to rule your city, innocent blood will have to be shed. It is your mantle as a leader to honor the deaths of your allies, to show strength in the face of their sacrifice. This is how you earn your title.” He finally lifted his glass and touched it to Hildegarde’s empty one. “Long live the Queen.”

Hildegarde was already doing her best to prepare her allies. Armour for Pilar and Laezila, Kasyr and Lionel on hand… Linn, Xzavior, Reginae and others. How could she defend them adequately? “I’d shed my blood for them,” she told him, though he no doubt expected that sort of retort. “But I’ll do everything I can to prepare them,” she said it firmly as his glass tapped against her empty one. “Thank you, Governor,” she smiled at him, “thank you for all your help.”

Tristram poured a bit of scotch into Hildegarde’s glass from the decanter because she couldn’t drink to victory without … well, drinking. He stood, then lifted his glass and swallowed the rest of the contents. “Think nothing of it until the day I might need a favor from you.” He smiled at her, roguish. “But for now, if you’ll excuse me. I have happy news for my orcs. There will be celebration tonight. Soon they will march.”

Hildegarde, not wanting to be rude or to snub Tristram’s gesture, copied his motion and swallowed the contents of the glass. Scotch was not nice for a lightweight like Hildegarde and the little coughing noises she makes is indicative of that. The coughing is distasteful to the Devon Rex, who moves far away from Hildegarde’s vicinity. Coughing is icky. However, in the time that Tristram has said there will be a celebration, a magically imbued owl has reached Hildegarde. It’s a letter from Josleen. “I have to go,” the knight says urgently, setting the empty glass on the desk, “meet me in Xalious nearer the time!” she informs Tristram as she rushes out the door. The giants were in Xalious.

Tristram was left with his Devon Rex, who leaves him to go hunt an owlish interloper.