Our Crimson Iterations of Purpose

By H.G. Sansostri

Blood-soaked soil. Crumbled walls. Thousands of slain rabbits. The Third Rabbit-Lupine War’s appetite for death would only be satiated by the complete collapse of the Land of the Sun and Moon.

Opulus’ tightening stranglehold of the realm cannot come to pass.

With Ragnar Sedrid rescued and the Tseontaeg slavers slain, House Vigilance seeks out new frontiers to spread both their virtuous name and potent hatred of tyrannical Opulus alike. War summons opportunity to venerate the house and thwart the evil of their opponent. Corsair Sedrid’s allies – both old and new – follow the wandering troupe of feline warriors in their quest to return to their rightful home.

Such an expedition is not ought to be taken lightly. In their quest to right the wrongs of their usurpers, the wolves venture towards a realm of legislated murder - of centuries of horrid violence that shape war’s convention - in which the grotesque face of the civilised world’s innovations makes it grand debut.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jun 27, 2024

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The North Padamendastine Plains sported a natural splendour that dazzled the eyes of many who happened upon them along their travels. For miles around all that one would see were sprawling expanses of grass and rolling hills interceded by the occasional sparse placement of trees. Herds of gerbeast, no more than dots in the distance, would rest upon the soft open pastures and take generous bites of sward to satiate their hunger. Flocks of bright-coloured birds would seek refuge in any nearby trees, forming galleries of vivid reds and blues. All manner of flora, purple and pink and yellow and white, stood tall amidst the grass and bathed in the resplendent glory of the sun’s eternal and loving gaze. The tranquil landscape had been host to numerous religious miracles, many marked in holy books as the cornerstones of organised faith, and such a history only seemed to bolster the ethereal peace of the region. For those cut from religious cloth, who saw spirituality in nature unburdened by any trifling mortal manners, it made sense as to why the plains had been classified as a sacred spiritual site for pilgrimage.

Yet, no matter how rich its history of religious chronicles, nor how much the laypeople adored it, it was nothing more than another blood-spattered locale to cleave armour and rend flesh.

The wolf stood at the epicentre of where the carnage had broken out. Both blade and plate had been splashed in crimson and viscera, record of war’s permanent expense that would soon only be a temporary blight upon steel. The fallen lay strewn across the serene pastures beside abandoned weapons, broken armour, severed limbs and decapitated heads. The sizeable bulks of war mounts lay beside their riders, fighting fang and claw until the end.

A single glance was all it took to notice the overwhelming number of rabbits, broken bodies laid to rest in bloodied yellow surcoats.

The wolf looked down. Beneath him, skewered upon his blade, lay a brown rabbit. The defeated warrior was no older than his mid-twenties, the once bright vitality of youth that had resided within his green eyes vanquished forever. Terror was etched into his gormless face. One limp paw still clutched the blade above where it had punctured his stomach, as if some dregs of his soul still fought against fate.

The wolf yanked the blade out, flicking blood off.

Another republic army conscript.

Clan soldiers, clad in chainmail shirts and sturdy cuirasses, marched through the aftermath of the bloody battle. Krosguard warriors followed behind them, exhausted ictharrs trudging after the infantry yet still marching with a semblance of pride. Cheers of victory moved forward with the advancing survivors, clan banners flying high.

A growl to his left.

The wolf turned his head. There, stooped over the mauled remains of an adeun, loomed a hulking black ictharr. Blood matted the fur around its fearsome maw, no doubt a mixture sourced from numerous victims both beast and person.

Here, the wolf called.

The ictharr’s growling ceased. It padded over to his side and sat, panting. The wolf pet the side of its head.

Well done.

The ictharr turned its gaze back to the fallen adeun, snarling. The wolf rested his gaze on the dead beast. There he saw but another foolish conscript. A beast with little clue of bloodshed driven headlong into pikes, swords, and all manner of weaponry sharpened to hack apart fools such as it.

He was starting to think the Land of the Sun and Moon hadn’t fought a war before.

Sir, sir!

He turned left. A clan soldier hurried to his side, quiver slung over her shoulder and bow in paw. She stopped and spoke.

Report from the left flank, sir. The rabbits are in full retreat.

How many?

Not many, sir. Can’t be more than a couple hundred troops still standing.

Losses?

We’re starting to take count, sir, but initial estimations are pretty good in our favour. Looks like they’ve tripled our casualties.

The wolf smiled. It was small, no more than the slight upturn of the corner of his mouth, but the satisfaction bled in ever so slowly.

Another group of fools bested.

You know what to do, the wolf said, climbing into his ictharr’s saddle. I want you to take stock of our dead and wounded, get the scavengers in here to collect weapons.

What about their wounded, sir?

The ictharr growled. The wolf’s blade glinted as he slid it into its scabbard. Let’s not ask stupid questions. Run along.

The archer stood there, stung by his dismissal of the death around him, but saw to her orders. As she rushed to relay his instruction to the troops, the wolf cast his gaze east. He looked past the bodies, past the humiliating defeat of his enemies, past the routing survivors, and past the ground still to cover.

In the distance, no more than a glimpse of a towering silhouette, he spied the Saint Gaspard Wall.

The small smile upon Lieutenant Maximus Verschelden’s face boldened. Thornfang glared ahead.

Beyond that wall, beyond that flimsy barrier of brick and stone, lay everything he starved for.

It won’t be too long now, he muttered.

CHAPTER ONE

Thornvallis Attronieux had never seen the Land of the Sun and Moon’s capital thrown into such disarray before.

As the carriage trundled along the paved streets, the world beyond raged and screamed. Crowds of protestors, mostly peasants and humble merchant peddlers, waved signs and banners sporting statements dissenting the war written in bright red paint. They yelled and chanted in front of the doors to parlours, they packed themselves inside the cramped entrance halls of banks, and they occupied many establishments in the hopes of spreading their message far and wide. People climbed the street’s lantern posts, dangling their banners from the necks of the illuminating spires. The pavements were packed with protestors on either side, fenced in by the tens of Saint Luxzancque Guard who fought to keep the carriageway clear. Their gleaming white armour and shields had been covered in dirt, dented in by bricks, and splashed in red paint. Some cheers interceded the manic anger as the carriage passed but it was hardly noticeable; a mere flash of hope in the hearts of a people who had been betrayed far too often to let it linger.

Well then, a voice mused. The crowds are still fond of someone, First Minister.

Thornvallis turned their attention back to the interior of the carriage. They sat close to the single swinging door at the back, having to stoop down somewhat to avoid their head bumping the ceiling. Inside there were no screaming protestors and no crowds of angered peasants. Instead, there were two rows of cherry leather benches pressed into the walls facing one another, plenty of room for six yet only seating three. Beside them sat Dashim Jintao. The ram, despite their smaller stature, possessed the lean physique of a nimble warrior. A flowing white gown rested against their frame, a body they had endlessly bragged about bearing many a scar. A white woollen plume rose from beneath the high collar of the green-accented garment, the top combed back to keep their fringe from covering their hazel eyes.

Across them, one leg crossed over the other with a ledger open on her thigh, sat a grey rabbit. First Minister Isabella Bromchaurd’s eyes perused the page’s contents with great care, shifting her thin-framed spectacles on her small nose. Her purple parliamentary blouse, devoid of frill and plume, was an immediate sign of her allegiance. Upon her left shoulder, she bore the insignia of the First Minister, a four-pointed yellow star sitting within the circular white border of the moon that denoted the party’s leader. Stern-faced and resolute, she sat focused on her work yet could not help to frown at the cacophony beyond.

It is a shame it came to this, she sighed, flipping the page. "In such a short amount of time, our most vulnerable feel abandoned and unheard. The Avantiers didn’t listen to us when we spoke about conscription."

Their premier hasn’t exactly dealt with matters well, have they? Dash said.

Not at all. One issue after the other in this damnable age of idiots.

They’ll be baying for blood in the amphitheatre.

"If it was only the Avantiers party that would have to suffer for the world to fix itself, I’d be rather shocked."

Thornvallis said nothing. Navigating the labyrinthian mess of social appearances, rhetoric, facades and fickle public favour was an endeavour of gargantuan undertaking. At least those they had faced down in combat had the decency to not sheathe their intention to kill them in empty platitudes and brazen lies.

So, the plan, the First Minister said, shutting her ledger. I deliver my speech in front of the Guild Union this evening. Afterwards, you go to your rendezvous and you speak your piece.

You seem confident you’ll land the votes, Dash said.

"Because I know I’ll land them. My whips have made sure the representatives of the Macheillons party remember their dedication to the working people of the parabular republic. The houses comprising the Nedatic League shall get their say. You have my guarantee on that."

A team of guards waved the carriage through. It took a sharp left, followed a bend, and came to a stop in front of the towering political arena. Teams of weary guards stood ready on the steps, some filing groups of protestors into the backs of constabulary wagons. One guard rushed to the First Minister’s carriage and opened the back door.

First Minister, they said in Eposian, almost relieved. The Guild Union is waiting.They disembarked from the carriage. The front of the crowds cheered at the sight of the First Minister. She waved, offered a smile of acknowledgement, before she made her way towards the steps. Thornvallis and Dash followed.

You seem nonchalant about stepping out your carriage with two wanted revolutionaries, Dash said.

You two prove to be better company than all of the sly cowards that frequent these halls, she said. At least you believe in what you say.

Dash shot Thornvallis a look accompanied by a small grin. Thornvallis knew that expression. Confidence nearing complacence. A signal that told them all was looking great, packaged with Dash’s characteristic slick manner.

The group walked past the front of the carriage. Thornvallis stopped beside the adeuns. The four-legged beasts of streaked purple and blue muscle heaved and huffed from the stress of the commotion. Red flashed across their manes that bristled with unease. Their four long ears twitched and flicked, two on each side of their head. They scratched the stone ground with their three-pointed feet, two claws forward while one pointed backwards. Thornvallis felt for them, beasts of no allegiance to anything other than desire for contented life, and patted one of their flanks as they passed. Their manes displayed a steady green for only a moment.

First Minister Bromchaurd led the duo up the steps, past the lingering glares of the Saint Luxzancque Guard, and through the large doors into the gilded halls of the House of Sun. Thornvallis hated how it dazzled them, how they felt like a wide-eyed naïve lamb, yet they could not ignore the splendour of it all. Chiselled white stone slabs formed the floor, perfect to the most minute of measurements, and bright yellow covered the areas of the wall that were not adorned in political regalia and trophies. More steps led to more examples of gratuitous decoration, confined to chambers and rooms Thornvallis peered into as they walked by. Bromchaurd rolled her eyes at the whole charade. Gaggles of politicians, snakes and bulls and sheep and rabbits, gathered like schoolyard cliques to consult one another. The Avantiers ministers shot the First Minister wary glances as she passed, clad in golden doublets of brocades depicting religious murals. Upon their left shoulder sat their hallowed insignia; a white sun, its circumference lined with evenly spaced triangles, that carried a purple star at its centre.

Thornvallis met their glare with a hardened gaze of their own.

The trio split ways. Bromchaurd was waved through a pair of doors under guard by a team of four Saint Luxzancque Guard who warded off the pair with stern expressions. Dash led Thornvallis up a set of stairs to the right, following a congregation of sheep parliamentarians into an upper gallery. Thornvallis and Dash waved, recognising familiar faces of supporters amidst their ranks, before filing in after them.

The House of Sun’s Guild Union chamber was a relic of a far-bygone era that brought the Land of the Sun and Moon into existence. Evidence of extensive renovation and modernisation was obvious: new upholstery, more contemporary paintings, load-supporting beams and integral structures reinforced and replaced; yet, Thornvallis could still see the lingering presence of its original iteration. Sections of the white stone were somewhat faded down in the centre of the political arena, in the aisle dividing the congregating parties. Some of the decorative statues predated the Attronieux bloodline itself. Most noteworthy, however, was the preserved black leatherbound book sitting atop a stone podium in the aisle. A glass case, not a trace of dirt or print upon it, guarded the artefact with unrelenting dedication.

The Tome of Celestial Truth, a few-thousand-page scripture written by the three founding parabular saints.

The first established religion of Vos Draemar.

Thornvallis turned his attention to the Guild Union chamber once more. It had been split into two galleries, upper and lower. Political parties and entities, ones considered too peripheral or small to be granted prominent positions, arranged themselves in the grey cushioned benches that formed the U-shaped balcony. The lower gallery was longer and split into two distinct sides separated by the central aisle. On the left side, shifting along purple cushions, sat the Macheillons parliamentarians. First Minister Bromchaurd sat at the front bench, conferring with her closest subordinates.

I actually feel confident with her, Dash said as they both sat down, taking a seat at the back of the upper gallery. There’s a venom to how she regards everything about this place. Shows she’s sane.

Maybe we should invite her to the tavern afterwards, Thornvallis said, shifting in the bench section that was too small for them. A couple of glasses of carrot wine and she’d be advocating for us to burn this all to the ground.

Let’s not push our luck, Dash chuckled. This arena is foreign to us both.

Thornvallis turned their attention back to the lower gallery. More and more parliamentarians packed themselves in, cramming into the aisle steps. Elderly rabbits, dressed in white gowns and cassocks with golden trimmings, shuffled up onto the stage at the end of the aisle and took seats behind their raised wooden desks. The one in the middle, swathed in enough religious paraphernalia to double as a trinkets merchant, rang a small bell. The murmurs ceased, the tumult ended, and First Minister Bromchaurd took to her side of the aisle podium.

So did the figure opposite.

Sporting the egregious fanciful uniform of the Avantiers party – a political coalition of greedy racists, duplicitous morons and parasitic entrepreneurial types all wrapped up in the ignorant warmth of religious fundamentalism – was Guild Premier Benjamin Le Ferantidunnuf. The grey hare, coat splotched with the occasional white and brown, almost glided over to the podium with how his gown hid his hind paws. His face was slim and expressionless, animation reserved only for gleeful delight in the misery he inflicted on others. Thornvallis struggled to decipher where his poisoned ideals and beliefs originated from – idiocy conflated with enlightenment or malice masquerading as rationality – but regarded the figure with contempt either way. An individual of such a nature, of such a history, made even something as innocuous as the way they walked seem like a calculated political stunt. Thornvallis felt compelled to dive for the snivelling coward from all the way at the top of the chamber.

In session! the elderly speaker called, ringing the bell.

First Minister Bromchaurd took a moment before commencing. People of the House of Sun – venerable ministers hailing from all guilds – it has become worryingly apparent that we face a time of national crisis. It can be described as no lesser and, in the coming days, it certainly will only be described in more severe terms. As I speak, western military elements hailing from the Kingdom of Loxworth, the Allied Procyoni States, the Clan of the Great Lupine, the United Hound Dominions and the Kingdom of Opulus pillage our holy lands and slaughter our future generations. The fighting forces of the Parabular Republic’s Grand Army are failing. War is a turbulence of morality, a perversion of good will, and it has cost us dearly.

She turned to face her side. But I am not here to simply observe what you all fear already. I did not arrive here to waste your time. Instead, I have been summoned to this podium – in front of all those who claim to love our fellow people – to condemn the idiotic misguidance of the fool across the aisle who claims to know better.

The left side of the gallery murmured in agreement. The right donned expressions even more unapproving than they had been already.

"Ooh, she goes right in for it," Dash said.

First Minister Bromchaurd, the elderly speaker said. Let us remind you of where you stand before you issue any more inflammatory statements.

I remember where I stand quite rightly, speaker of the union, she spoke, voice firm. "I issue no disrespect to those who uphold the sanctity of the little democracy we have. I issue it only to the moron charlatan who commenced a veritably unsanctioned war against a foreign power for ulterior reasons he shall not share with those who ought to know, a war that our nation was left vastly unprepared for in favour of his own persisting and obnoxious ignorance."

Cries of opposition from the right gallery. Shouts of support emanating from the left and above audiences. It was not yet a frenzy, but even the politically uninitiated could sense the direction it was taking.

You claim to value the democratic processes of our great republic, First Minister, yet speaking with such a hostile tone seeks to insult the integrity of the political articles you love so dearly, the Guild Premier remarked, smug expression upon his face.

The fact you can only issue a vague whataboutism in the face of condemning failure speaks to your inability to lead, you bumbling halfwit.

That got the Guild Union riled up. The Guild Premier scoffed and shook his head. There were yells of protest from the right, cheers of support from the left, all interceded by retaliatory cries from either side. In the span of a few seconds, the tense silence had risen into a cacophony of vitriol.

First Minister, remember your place! the speaker yelled.

There is an unyielding double standard to these civility politics you all remain so ardent on, Bromchaurd said, volume raised. "A few naughty words, no matter the reality they convey, cannot be entertained by the fragile minds of the Avantiers. Yet we have conceded a third of our land to the enemy, we have lost the south and now the North Padamendastine Plains, all our once actually experienced military commanders that graduated the Grand de Timot Academy have been replaced by Ferantidunnuf’s inbred cousins⁠—"

This is out of order, Bromchaurd! the Guild Premier bellowed.

"—all supplemented by the internal failures of a looming financial crisis caused by your personally-appointed Guild of Commerce ministers, failing relations with the Nedatic League, Kingdom of Serpents and Tabahos Islands after repeated instances of racist conduct from your personally appointed Guild of Foreign Affairs ministers, and the monstrous folly that is the recent heartless introduction of conscription laws by your personally-appointed Guild of Defence ministers that have only sought to have our next generations halved! Halved, you fool! And this is less pressing than the utterance of a few mean words?"

Get off your high adeun, Brommy! a voice from the stands cried.

"You don’t know the first thing about leading, Bromfraud!" another yelled.

"Bromfraud? Dash scoffed. Is calling someone else a bastard too scandalous?"

Cursing is as sacrilegious as the truth here, Thornvallis said.

The speaker of the house quelled the outrage. Voices died, anger relented, and all it left was murmurs of animosity. The First Minister continued.

Your incompetence for governance in peacetime is as immeasurable as it is impressive, Guild Premier, but your inability to lead in wartime is a horrid reality the most downtrodden of our society are having to suffer. For the sake of our country, for the sake of our nation’s sanctity, we must divert our course from the imminent doom your leadership is bringing. If you truly value the few aspects of fair political ruling we have left in this theocratic nightmare touting itself as democracy manifest, you must push aside your ego and lend an ear to my proposal.

You could have spared us all the wasted time and gotten there, the Guild Premier said.

First Minister Bromchaurd gestured to an aide nearby. The young rabbit hurried over, almost tripping in the process, and passed her a parchment. She unravelled it and spoke.

"This is why the Macheillons party, in cooperation with the representative parties hailing from the venerable houses of the Nedatic League and the Kingdom of Serpents, propose the immediate formation of a coalition guild government with the ruling Avantiers party⁠—"

The booing on the right was immediate. The speaker yelled for silence, yet it did not come. The supporters of Bromchaurd’s attack resumed their applause and cheers.

Shut up, Brommy! the Avantiers cried. "Get off the podium, Bromfraud!"

—to best ascertain the path forward to success and our people’s survival! she yelled over the bellowing voices.

Working side by side with the likes of you would be an insufferable annoyance! the Guild Premier yelled.

As it would for me, you crass moron, yet I would suffer far worse to save this country! Shed your pride and resign from government, for sun’s sake! Step down and let us elect a new leader before the wolves and hounds take our heads and collapse centuries of our history!

With a swing of her arm, flourishing the parchment as she turned away, she made her way to the door and left. Macheillons party members stormed out along with her, offering both harsh words and crude gesticulations to the booing Avantiers.

Yeesh, quite the dressing down, Dash said. Wish we’d gotten front row.

Wasn’t an execution, but if this is all we’ll get instead, so be it, Thornvallis said.

All those failings exposed, Dash said as they leaned in, grinning with smug glee. More room to get our hoof in the door, eh?

Thornvallis had expected something more fanciful for their late evening rendezvous. Throughout their last forty years of living, they had heard wondrous testimonies of the capital’s taverns. They had heard of the dimly lit clubs draped in crimson velvet, frequented by couples dressed in their finest evening attire, where wandering merchants of hilarity took to the stage and delivered lethal blows sheathed in comedic punchlines to the fools of parliament, all the while carrot wine flowed freely from bottle to glass.

Instead, to Thornvallis’ quiet dismay, a cohort of Saint Luxzancque Guard had whisked them away from the House of Sun and ushered them into the back of a constabulary carriage. They travelled out east to the outskirts of the bustling city, watching as the raucous chaos of protests and persisting revelry of select brightly lit establishments faded into sprawling crops and humble homesteads. Half an hour later they arrived outside a roadside pub made of white wood and a thatched roof of straw. The guards disembarked and stood aside for the two furtive arrivals to make their way inside. Dash exited first and Thornvallis followed them into the tavern, shooting a look at the guards splashed in paint and dirt.

Within the establishment resided an interior that would not have met the near-perfect standards of the average capital city dweller. Uneven wooden floors, rickety tables and stools, and an old bartender in farming overalls who looked fed up with his life choices. Most of the bar was empty, save for the occasional huddle of agricultural workers drinking around dim lanterns on the tables. The murmuring chatter persisted although all eyes glared as the entourage crossed the room. Some even took the liberty to spit at the floor.

Thornvallis noted that only the Saint Luxzancque Guard were the recipients of such frosty reception.

The entourage led them downstairs into a basement, passing the shadowy forms of carrot wine barrels. They filed through an empty doorway and turned a corner, arriving at a small room with an open centre. Barrels, crates of glasses, bottles and all manner of tavern items had been pressed against the walls.

At the centre, upon the large and faded stone slab floor, stood Guild Premier Benjamin Le Ferantidunnuf. There was something oddly wrong with seeing a figure of such lofty heights and supposed accomplishments loitering in the dank and mundane recesses of a wine cellar, although the discomfort visible upon their face proved a satisfying sight. A few political associates stood to the side and mulled over some carrot wine.

Well, Dash said, smiling. Guild Premier Ferantidunnuf. It’s taken a lot of letters but, finally, we’re face-to-face.

"Did you two give that wretched hag the idea to humiliate me at the Guild Union?" he snapped.

Had nothing to do with us.

She made me and my government look like fools.

I think you’ll find you do that well enough on your own.

The Guild Premier scowled. You best watch your tone, rebel. No one who matters knows you’re here. I could have you⁠—

Our people know, Thornvallis said, glaring. And you’d have a lot more trouble on your southern border with the Nedatic League. The kind of trouble we both know you don’t need right now.

The Guild Premier stared. His scowl persisted but his silence betrayed him. With a sigh, he spoke.

Why do you wish to speak with me?

An opportunity for mutual benefit, my dear premier, Dash said, a grin upon their face. You’re facing a pretty bad war. It’s no secret.

What do you low-born rebels know of war? an advisor spat.

"That you’re bad at it, for one. The last ten years of occupation in the Nedatic League didn’t go swimmingly, did it? Especially when you lost to a bunch of low-born rebels. Dash pivoted back to the Guild Premier. Second, we know a lot about your exact situation. A third of the land is gone yet, either by mercy or by malice, your civilian population hasn’t been pillaged. Thousands of refugees have come pouring in from the west, no?"

The Guild Premier’s eyes widened. How do you⁠—

I also know that, in historically record-breaking time, the Opulusian Legion swarmed along the south-west border and will soon be in the process of sieging Saint Gaspard.

"Did that witch give you confidential military documents?"

Dash’s grin persisted, a subtle yet deniable confirmation. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Guild Premier. All I know is you’re in dire straits with a failing army, a failing country, and a failing government. But not to worry! House Yastillot is willing to help break the siege in Saint Gaspard and buy you time to fix the mess you created, a move blessed by our fellow houses in the league.The Guild Premier’s face softened for a moment, a lapse in his cold guard.

And what do you want in return? he asked.

Why, how gracious of you to ask.

Dash procured a scroll and tossed it to the Guild Premier. He fumbled the parchment but caught it in the end, shooting Dash a look before unravelling it and reading. His eyes perused its contents, continuing from bottom-to-top, and they continued to widen with every passing demand.

Y-you… he said, aghast. You cannot be serious.

Oh, we are extremely serious, Dash said.

"You are asking me for complete separation of the Nedatic League houses from the Land of the Sun and Moon. You’re asking for complete cessation."

Independence seems a difficult concept for you, Thornvallis said.

"Atop financial reparations and a widening political influence in the Guild Union, y-yes! Yes, it damn well is difficult for me! You ask for my ruin!"

You prefer the alternative? The Land of the Sun and Moon gets dismantled for resources by Opulus?That seems far more reasonable than the insulting list you’ve asked me to abide by here!

Is it now?

Yes, it is!

Thornvallis stepped forward. The guards tensed in anticipation. The cohort of cowardly politicians jumped and retreated a step.

Interesting. Three-hundred years ago, when the people of House Yastillot were independently ruled by the fairly-elected Governing Peer Wamkal, the soldiers of the Parabular Republic invaded. You know what they did to the Governing Peer?

I—

They put their head on a spike and marched it around the capital for all to see. Their family was never seen again, likely butchered and buried. In their place came Governing Peer Rambouville, a leader who turned House Yastillot into the puppet state it has been since.

Thornvallis pointed at the Guild Premier first and then swept the gesture across the entire cohort. "When the wolves and the hounds get here, they’re going to do the same to you. They’ll take your heads, they’ll butcher your families, they’ll desecrate your religious lands and replace all of it – all of it – with someone who does as they’re told. Do you want to taste that poisoned medicine we were force-fed?"

The group stared, shocked into silence. Dash took over.

You haven’t exactly got much in the way of options, Guild Premier. Opulus has been willing to recognise us as an independent nation for the last century. We are doing you a big favour.

You have no guarantee they’d respect that, the Guild Premier said.

You have no guarantee they wouldn’t. We have Tabahos, the serpents, and the league at our back. Who’s at yours? Your extended family?

The Guild Premier averted his gaze for a moment. He stood there, a scolded kit, and issued his timid response.

I…I suppose we can take a look at this proposed deal. The logistics may take some time to plan.

Of course, of course, Dash said. We’re reasonable. Work takes time, especially for those who haven’t done much of it before. I’m aware of a ball you’ll be hosting soon? Of course, myself and my compatriot will be there. By then I’m sure you’d have had enough time to deliberate the deal amongst yourselves.The Guild Premier nodded. Thornvallis interjected.

"We’ll also need somewhere to stay in the meantime. I saw a nice-looking place on the way here, what was it…oh, yes, the Chame de Galuge hotel back in Saint Luxzancque? We’ll need a room for the next few days."

You’ll have accommodation organised, the Guild