Meeting of The Tyrants (scenario)

“I’m starting to think you don’t like me anymore,” the small wisp of a woman complained as she kicked her bare feet against the crumbling column she had turned into her perch. “You let that stupid half-elf-dwarf thing muck about in the sewers and get his grimy little hands all over my profits.” Her companion slowly opened one eye and looked up at the pouting Changeling, his lapis earrings glinting in the sunlight as he turned to regard her. “That hurts,” he said softly, warmly, as he pushed off the tree he had been leaning against and started padding across the grass to stand beneath her. “You know that I will do whatever it takes to support my King. It is nothing against you, dear heart.”

“It’s still annoying, Linea. He is annoying. Bards always think they can do whatever they want, well, let’s see how well he does after a Blackleaf Breakfast… self-righteous fucking cockholster.”

“Who’s a cockholster now?” a tired looking human materialized out of the shadows of the glade, the cloth-of-silver edging on his cloak whispering against the grass as he walked. “You’re always such a poet, Ares, it’s good to see you again. You too, Nick.”

Nikolai nodded politely at Philomos’ intrusion – he hadn’t expected the Crowned Wyrm to be one of the first to arrive. He was, after all, habitually late. It further convinced him that something was going on that he hadn’t picked up on yet, something both Arethusa and Philomos knew.

“That idiot bard who’s working with the Duergar! The one who thinks he’s hot stuff and spits on my merchants!”

A vitriolic smile crinkled the corners of Philomos’ mouth as he rested one hand on his pommel, affecting an air of laziness as he looked up at the woman. “So I heard. Your embarrassment made it even to the Criers of the Flame.” Before Nikolai even had a chance to blink, Arethusa was off the pillar and on the ground behind the middle-aged paladin, twin blades crossed like scissors over his unprotected throat. She exhaled a long, sharp breath through her front teeth in an animal-like warning, holding her pose for what felt like an eternity before finally sliding away.

Arethusa, unlike the rest of her people but much like her forebears, was psionic.

They had likely settled whatever grudge they had in a way Nikolai wouldn’t be able to hear.

Philomos shrugged and sat down on a crumbling stone pony-wall, mumbling under his breath about how he should have worn a gorget. After a moment he looked up at the two others and ran a hand through his grey-streaked hair before offering a more genuine smile. “What have you heard about the others? Remiel was the one who asked me to this meeting, in the usual way, so I’m unsure of the specifics. Is this a proper convention?”

“That’s what I heard,” Arethusa said in her usual tone, all animosity tucked away as artfully as the steel of her blades in the sheath of her casual demeanor. “I had to go all the way up the coast to find Imri because Remiel needed to go the opposite way to get you and Telemachus, since Medea couldn’t be arsed to leave Whitesun and actually, gods forbid, help for once.”

Nikolai stayed silent as usual, letting his reputation for stoicism camouflage his desire to stay a dozen leagues away from the topic at hand; Medea was a bit of a sore spot for him, as the two held very similar political positions and two very different attitudes about how they should approach things. Not that her way isn’t valid, Nikolai admitted to himself, especially with a monster like Flint as sovereign.

“We may be waiting a while,” Philomos said as he looked up at the sky. “The closest is Fen, and she’s racing the storm four hours out; we should play the gracious hosts and have something to warm her fragile bones.” Arethusa shrugged and began to make her way through the crumbling remains of pillars and overgrown garden toward the keep proper – regardless of what she thought of the human paladin personally, his divine connection to an otherwise-absent deity was not to be questioned. Nikolai hung back and walked in step with the Crowned Wyrm, who, for his part, kept his eyes forward and made no indication that he was even aware of the other’s presence.

Once inside, the fireplace was swept out and a roaring blaze soon sparked, water gathered from the well, the stewpot rinsed and filled with chopped vegetables and cured meat, and chairs set out around a large oaken table that had been retrieved from storage. Sleeping quarters were only able to be opened by their respective owner, who held keys and sigils to pair with the wards and locks, on the off-chance that someone or something might manage to get past the multiple layers of traps that ringed and were scattered throughout the property. Fen and Medea had done some of their best work here, a masterpiece of potential horror that was carefully memorized by everyone in the organization. Philomos removed his cumbersome plate mail and sat by the fire in simple trousers and a plainly embroidered tunic, quietly polishing his boots while Nikolai read and Arethusa sharpened her blades to pass the time.

Three and a half hours later, the first drops of rain started to spatter on the cracked roof.

Half an hour past then, Fen arrived, soaking wet.

Philomos, who had been standing at the entrance patiently, handed the bedraggled elf a blanket and a fresh cloak without a word before going back to his seat by the fire. Fen, like Nikolai, didn’t like to offer more words than necessary but gave a quick nod of thanks before leaving wet footprints across the stone tiles that led to her bedchamber. After what seemed far fewer minutes than necessary Fen emerged in immaculate white robes with Philomos’ silver cloak wrapped around her shoulders, her hair already perfectly dried and pin-straight. She leisurely crossed the floor to an open chair by the fire as her slate-grey eyes swept the room to take in every tiny detail; her meticulous and careful nature sometimes lead people to think her as lethargic, but weak was not an adjective used to describe the woman known as the Iron Lotus - her perfect posture and assured, slow movements lent to the illusion that she could crush stone with a graceful finger. “We are early.” She said matter-of-factly as she tucked her robes around her legs, her voice low and slightly husky, as if she was unaccustomed to speaking. “This was intentional.”

“Were we supposed to discuss something?” Nikolai inquired, wondering if he would finally find out what had been nagging at him since receiving Arethusa’s letter three months ago. Fen regarded him from under snow white lashes for a long hard moment before turning her icy gaze to Philomos, who was putting reinforcing stitches on his jacket sleeves and diligently ignoring everything else. “How do you expect the Tyrant to move if the Heart is not invested, paladin?”

Philomos sighed and rested his work down on his lap. “Because I don’t agree. Remiel is having us discuss our next course of action as if we will have a say, which only ever means he wants us to come to the same conclusions that he has and nothing more.”

“It was not your choice to make. Nikolai.” She turned back to the confused young man. “The Spymaster has returned, alive.”

Nikolai took a moment to process what she had said before narrowing his eyes incredulously. “You don’t honestly mean-“

“I have never spoken truer words, do not err now and doubt me in this. Remiel has seen him with his own eyes. We will likely be asked to mobilize.”

The timing was abysmal. They had just taken control of two additional states of Balic; Nikolai’s resources were stretched thin trying to tie forces together and prove his worth to the new queen, and Arethusa’s trading monopoly had been disrupted by interference from the northern Stormheart clan. He couldn’t possibly rally for a war this soon after the peace conference.

The Changeling woman sighed. “Well, we can’t… Philomos and I already discussed it. At least, Nikolai can’t, not without destroying everything he's worked for.”

Philomos nodded in agreement. “Either his credibility will be lost, or the states he has a hand in will wither and drag neighbours down with him. The Traveler also does not approve of tampering with Balic at this time… I’m sure Yuriel has informed his brother of this, whether he neglected to mention that to Arethusa or not.”

“I do not believe I specified in what way we would be asked to mobilize,” Fen’s gaze turned flinty as she neatly crossed one leg over the other, looking at the other three in turn. “The Spymaster is not bloodthirsty enough to tumble the world into chaos simply to escape Kyphon’s trap. No. I believe there will be tasks set to us, yes. War, however, for Balic at least… remains unlikely.”

“Then what are we supposed to be discussing?” Arethusa slumped her shoulders, exasperated. “Because, you know, that’s normally what “mobilizing” means.”

“What we can accomplish with both the Unblinking Eye of the Cabinet and the Grasping Hand of the Tyrants now free to leave Greybank. Our greatest weapons are unbound.”

Arethusa’s eyes darted back and forth as she furrowed her brow, thinking furiously. “Why us, though? Imri and Medea would be the most important ones now, wouldn’t they?”

“I can answer to that,” Nikolai offered slowly, the pieces Remiel had seen coming into view. “While Imri polices the Elven Lands, they can easily be walled away from Greybank by inciting the war between Thay and the Warforged. The war would pull in Peraith, which effectively functions as a Thayan proxy, giving The Core and Faervio time to regroup and combine their strengths while Melitass trade can be defended and bolstered by Greybank, who made a public show of their losses incurred by Gar…” he began to speak faster as things clicked together, staring at the impassive Fen. “… So they have an easily understood excuse of wanting to protect their interests. Mazhar can put pressure on Creston to sit still and Fireway to try to annex Peraith while the Silver Flame erupts into civil war, stopping Thayan retreat and bolstering their resolve, and the wholesale slaughter of the Warforged will finally cause Darynos to declare a position one way or another. The Spymaster intends to carve off the northern states, doesn’t he?”

A humorless smile touched Philomos’ lips and he gave a curt nod to Nikolai. “This does sound like something the Grasping Hand would come up with. I can believe it.”

“I cannot presume to know what any of the Freeman Family believe,” Fen replied as she unblinkingly met Nikolai’s accusatory gaze, “but I too think that this is their intent, arranging for us to meet together first. The others would only be providing support in such a situation, and therefore it would not be necessary to have them here for the majority of the planning. Telemachus would likely be tasked with keeping everything from the Silver Flame contained, and Imri to continue throwing blankets over the political fires. If the Elves did mobilize along the coastline, it would fall to you, Arethusa, to drive them home again.”

“I don’t like the thought of going up against the Stormlord’s Armada, but I’m used to picking up after Imri’s messes.” Arethusa put on a sharp smile. “I’m gonna hope it doesn’t come down to that. But, Fen, Phil, you’re both ok with this?” she looked over at Philomos, who seemed a bit drawn. “Phil, I know this was your endgame but it feels like it’s all being taken out of your hands. And Fen, by the Traveler, you love those stupid golem-people and you’re going to let them get marched into the slag pit? You have to know that Thay will eat Sentinal’s armies alive. Our job was to protect our countries and make them world powers but we’re just going to throw that away to stir up some trouble? Doesn’t this compromise our ability to protect Greybank?”

“Dear heart, I don’t thi-“

“No, Nikolai, this is fucked up. We serve Greybank. We work for Remiel, not the old Spymaster. Some shade comes out of the past and suddenly we have to throw away what we’ve been working for our whole lives? Fen has been with the Warforged since they declared themselves an independent nation for gods’ sake, and now she has to toss it aside? She’s their diplomat, there’s no way this won’t be pinned on her!”

“I don’t need you to tell me how to feel, Arethusa. I appreciate your sentiment, however. Keep in mind this is likely what we are here to discuss; how to use this necessary storm to galvanize us.”

“Galvanize us?! Fen, your people will die in the tens of thou-“ Arethusa’s mouth snapped shut and her eyes went wide, her spine arching like a cat as her hair shimmered and went completely white. “He heard.” She spat the words out suddenly as all eyes went to her. “Oh gods, he heard me."

Nikolai’s ears pricked up as he faintly heard the sound of the tall grass outside parting around long strides, though it was barely audible over the crackling of the fire. Arethusa’s body was rigid, her face terrified.

A loud double slam echoed down from the entrance hall as the front door snapped open off the hinges and rebounded off the opposite wall before clattering to the ground.

“Nine Hells,” Philomos sighed, moving his sewing kit and jacket to the floor. “I didn’t even sense him this time.”

The tell-tale clanking sound of plate mail preceded the appearance of a massive hulking figure as it rounded the entrance corridor, a titan of twisted metal and jagged edges that stared down the three fireside travelers from under a full-face helmet crowned with sweeping, rusted horns. The voice that snarled out from the imposing man perfectly matched their appearance as they gestured towards the Changeling woman, now shaking like a leaf, with a massive Warhammer. “Arethusa! Psionics should spend less time talking and more time listening; you’re a spymaster, not a magistrate!”

Arethusa gripped the edge of her chair tightly and looked away from the armored man. “I… I know. But Remiel, was this really your idea?”

“You’ve wasted enough of Fen’s time with this sudden misplaced sentimentality, don’t presume to waste mine.” the Warhammer slammed down in a resting position, cracking the floor with its weight before a gauntleted hand reach up to unclip the helmet and roughly yank it off, tossing it aside carelessly. “You’re not the one doing the deed so why the hell do you care so much all of a sudden?” White dreadlocks fell down the front of the rusted breastplate as he shook his head, framing a tanned elven face with strong features and off-blue eyes that twisted in mirth. “Oh, you think I’m setting a precedent? That sounds more like you. Well don’t worry Ares, it’s all just a step towards a united Balic – something you could stand to gain from, hmm?”

“A-ah,” the woman mumbled in response, some of the straw-blonde colour returning to her hair as she relaxed her grip on the chair, “I get it, I get it…”

Fen looked between the two for a moment before resting her unsettling gaze on Remiel. “I presume you heard the assumptions of Nikolai and myself,” she began as if nothing had happened, “so I wish to know if there are any blanks we need filled in before we begin the planning stages.”

“Eh?” Remiel began removing his gauntlets as he dropped into a spare chair, its wooden frame loudly protesting his weight. “Not especially. You’re a clever bunch. Arethusa just thinks she’s more clever than anyone else.” he shot a venomous glare to the Changeling who kept her eyes on the floor.

Nikolai cleared his throat, desperate to change the topic away from Arethusa – Remiel had inherited a deep hatred of mages, but despite the fact that his distaste for psionics was apparently rooted elsewhere, it didn’t make it any less horrifying for the target. To their leader, Medea and Arethusa were necessary evils that were tolerated but not trusted. “Remiel, Fen mentioned that your father is alive? I assume there’s a story there…”

“Clever flower, there isn’t much, but I’ll tell you.” Remiel smiled as he pulled off his breastplate, placing it on the floor next to his travel bag before leaning down to unbuckle his greaves. “He just appeared out of the shadows in the Undercity about three weeks ago; Yuriel sensed something unusual and found a very angry Spymaster wandering around The Shelf.”

“What? He “just appeared” after over thirty years? Did he say what happened?”

A shadow passed over Remiel’s face for the briefest instant before it relaxed again. He crossed his arms behind his head and looked at Nikolai, feigning indifference. “He said he slipped into the Shadowfell – we already knew there are a dozen places in the Undercity that cross over now and then, but we hadn’t heard tell of anyone ever going missing. He had been trying to return the entire time apparently, but at least he got something for his trouble.”

“You clearly want me to ask,” Nikolai said, exasperated by this point. “So?”

“He stole the marker for his soul from the Raven Queen.” Remiel smirked proudly. “And not just his – mine, Null’s, Yuriel’s… he has over half a dozen talismans he took from Letherna. Spat in the face of Destiny itself.”

A momentary silence fell over the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

“What about the Sorrowsworn?” Philomos eventually asked with a waving gesture, as if brushing the quiet aside.

“What about them? They won’t be hunting us down, if that’s what you mean. The Tapestry of Fate has… a bit of a snag now.”

Philomos barked out a sharp laugh before steadying himself and leaning forward to leer at Remiel. “I see why you’re so eager to start this plan of yours then – might as well hit the gods of Order for all we’re worth, yes? Very well, you have my buy-in, Remiel. The Silver Flame shall burn.”

“And Fen?” Remiel shifted to face the stoic grey elf. “What do you think? Now, or no?”

“I will do whatever is necessary to ensure our future; war would have come one way or another. At least this way I can control the time and place, and make the Red Wizards pay a dear price for their greed. The only Grasping Hand I permit near me is you.”

Remiel bared his canines in a fierce grin and clapped. “Excellent! Now, I’ll leave you to your scheming since the others will be here tomorrow. I shouldn’t have to interrupt them like I did here,” he added with a glance at the silent Arethusa before getting up and stretching. “In other words if you need something from me or have a question... Ask tomorrow.” And with that, he strolled out of the common room and down the corridor containing the bedchambers, leaving his armor and warhammer behind.

Nikolai waited until he heard Remiel’s door open and shut before turning to Arethusa and giving her a sympathetic look. There was no need to exchange words – Arethusa was normally more guarded around the others so outbursts like this were a rarity, but still not entirely unexpected. Why Remiel hated psionics was never made explicitly clear to him but he suspected it was just the presence of someone who had an “advantage” over regular humanoids, much like mages. Why Remiel drew the line here and not at Shapechanging, or even simply particularly talented people, well… he supposed it was rooted in a persecution complex of some kind, but since it didn’t bother or affect him outside of Arethusa’s unfortunate victimhood he never bothered to explore or speak up on the subject. Nobody did.

“Philomos?” Arethusa looked up at the paladin, looking a bit annoyed. “If Spymaster Freeman really has destroyed the Tapestry of Fate, what does that mean? Like, what are the implications of that? You’re a godly guy and all, so you know a bit about this stuff right?”

“It depends on how badly it was damaged, since I don't think it can be completely destroyed,” he replied after a moment. “As one would expect it’s magic given form, so it’s especially hard to tamper with, and even harder to tamper with in a way someone would want – each thread represents a life, concept, object, place, and so on, so try and imagine how impossible it would be to find the right threads and weave them without unintended consequences.”

“So when Remiel said that “talismans” were stolen, what did he mean by that?”

“Likely he meant their thread. If the thread has been pulled from the tapestry it cannot be factored into the game of the gods, and your soul will not be accounted for or collected when you die.”

“So… you’re like a lich or something?” Arethusa blanched, but Philomos shook his head. “No, you would have to place your soul in a specially treated vessel for that. You would simply be a free agent, unbound by Fate and an embodiment of Chaos. When you were eventually slain your soul may be stolen but if not you would simply remain in this world, able to be brought back time and time again. Scrying you may also become difficult, but it's hard to say.”

“I think I get it. Remiel is like this now, so he wants to make a move and try to fuck up Kyphon’s plans since he can’t see their movements anymore, right?”

“Well,” Philomos picked up his jacket and sewing kit again before settling into his chair, “that does seem to be the long and short of it, doesn’t it?”