Jackal Among Snakes

Anneliese looked upon the group that was to meet the dwarven envoy. All here were the mortal champions of gods belonging to the Blackgard Union. They were all dressed finely in the black and gold colors of House Vasquer. They looked good, Anneliese thought, but Galamon pulled at his cuffs as though they were uncomfortable just the same as Stain did. Only Artur seemed to revel in the clothes—indeed, he’d donned a cloak bearing Argrave’s personal sunburst sigil repeated time and time again, and had imbued it with enchantments to keep him hovering off the ground.

The plan was to approach the dwarves not as the Kingdom of Vasquer, but rather the Blackgard Union—it would give a more intimidating aspect to the name, and ideally avoid any qualms that the democratic republican dwarven nation might have about working with a monarchy. Still…

Galamon, Vasquer’s knight-commander. Elenore, the king’s sister, and Durran, her husband. Melanie, a countess in Vasquer. The list went on and on, leading any keen observer to one conclusion—this party was comprised of those solely loyal to Argrave, and to Vasquer. Even if they called them divine envoys, the truth was rather obvious. The only saving grace of their composition…

“Ganbaatar. Your friendship in this time is a boon to us all.” Anneliese nodded to him.

The elf from the Bloodwoods dipped his head, his red eyes clear and unburdened. “Nonsense. It was friendship and responsibility both. The Qircassian Coalition is a greater enemy than we alone can handle.”

Anneliese could see the sincerity in his posture, but still added, “I am pleased you see it so. And congratulations on receiving Ghan’s blessing.”

The elf from the woods nodded curtly and looked away. Anneliese observed everyone else. The only one that was less than focused was Artur. As a human born with dwarfism, he was about to meet a race that called themselves ‘dwarves.’ She could imagine why he was uncomfortable.

“Elenore, Melanie, and I shall take the lead,” Anneliese continued, looking at everyone present. “But anyone else can feel free to interject. Argrave tells me the dwarves are a debate-loving people who appreciate the perspective of any dwarf. Mirroring that mentality cannot be a detriment.”

“Any dwarf. You think that means me?” Artur looked at her. Despite his jokes, she could tell he felt uneasy. “What if they take my presence as an insult?”

Anneliese met his gaze. “You are Almazora’s mortal champion. That is why you are here, Artur.”

He grunted under his breath and muttered, “Not what I asked, Your Highness, but…”

Anneliese took on a stern affect and said, “The true insult would be from their side toward ours—taking affront at a valuable member of both Vasquer and this alliance for merely being who he is.”

Artur floated away and turned, perhaps to hide his embarrassment, and said, “The flattery is appreciated, Your Highness.”

“Flattery and truth are not mutually exclusive,” Elenore contributed, then looked to Anneliese for the signal to go ahead. Artur was more at ease, so Anneliese had nothing more to do. She nodded, and Elenore directed them forth. “Let us be on our way. Remember—we dealt with the Ebon Cult. That should give us considerable leverage.”

They exited their room of the parliamentary hall, walking to greet the envoys. Orion led them while other Veidimen royal guards watched the back. The building had become suitably grander, with sizable gardens along its walkways and other buildings meant to accommodate the various diplomatic needs of the parliament and the royal family. It was becoming something of a palace, despite the absence of the king.

When they came to the small conference room, Orion opened up its double doors. Eight heads turned to look at them. The dwarves were short, squat, and brawny all. They stood at the table, the chairs pushed aside, and were surprisingly uniform in appearance. All eight were males, and wore white robes—togas, Argrave had called them—with their right shoulder and arm exposed. They had dark, curly hair, all about down to their ears, and wore wreaths of silver. They were immaculately shaven—face, arms, all of them.

We trust that your journey

our cities well,” the

a few months ago, I think it’s pretty

its streets still bear statues of our heroes, its senate hall still bears the inscriptions of our philosophy, and its design remains privy to us alone,” another envoy returned. “What

we have picked it up and cleaned it, you would call it your own? Is this what the Dwarven Senate would convey to us after freeing you from

Anneliese. “No. We are glad to be rid of Mozzahr and his zealots. But we did not expect, nor ask, for your aid. Our nation maintains a favorable, yet neutral perspective toward your actions. The dwarves

seemed. Elenore

you are allowed to wear indicate your status in society. And from what I know, silver wreaths have no authority in operating independently. You cannot truly speak for the

as envoys, we are given the authority to relay messages from the heart

rephrased. “Why didn’t you

Queen Anneliese, and I

me?” an envoy stepped away from

Anneliese rephrased. “Your kind will perish just as ours if the cycle of judgment completes. You have your part to play in this.” She looked off to the side. “Alongside this message, you will deliver a gift: freshly-forged weapons. They are born of your smithing techniques, using your metals, but they were made in our lands with our knowledge. Let that be sufficient draw to allow someone with genuine diplomatic authority

underground-dwellers had endured for so

sighed. “Not… not how I expected that to go. That bit about the silver wreaths—was

“Argrave and I talked about it ages ago. Trust me—I saved

goes from

question, and Anneliese gave confirmatory nods. “Then, we need to invite Hause

#####

without irreparable harm was not costless, using both its user’s magic and willpower. It was always the Alchemist’s magic that ran out

you even going to do with the Blessing of Supersession?” Argrave asked, sitting on a chair as he ate the food the Alchemist had retrieved. It was an unidentifiable scrap of meat, cooked well-done and given no seasoning whatsoever. The twenty-foot-tall gray giant, cramped into this tight space and hunched

book. “I will make another artifact from

widened.

regrettably,” he said. An eye opened on the side of his head and peered down at him. “Sataistador is no meek foe, nor are the thousand others that you have made. And your Inerrant Cloak will no longer be useful

equal power to that spear that they had used to infiltrate Erlebnis’ realm. It wouldn’t be blessed by several gods, granted, but even

his hand. His mind realized at the wrong time

back in properly. You have no excuse to be asking something so indefensibly moronic.” He rose. “Can an inanimate object hear, or see? This is what you just asked me. You were his conduit

drama queen. It’s a perfectly reasonable question,” Argrave waved him away, but double-took when the Alchemist neared him. “What