eat sh*t and die } LUPEI

[Lagertha]

I am iron and I forge myself

“I do. Join me one on one, without traits, and see.” Lagertha bites back the urge to roll her eyes - as if she were doing this for herself. No, her women simply aren’t as up for it as she is, and she doesn’t want bloodstains following her around for the rest of her life. She snorts and shakes her head, nullifying her next statement. “The Gates doesn’t get a say in this anymore,” Lagertha shoots back, painfully aware that somewhere along the way, Mast went AWOL and thus far, she’s only seen Amazonians, Daleans, and Desert folk fighting for their side. Ok, there might have been a few Gates’ members, but they were few and far between, and the two she’d really hoped to rely on, never showed their faces. The Jungle would never stand with them again. Let them fight their own battles.

If you want a job done well, do it yourself. Delegation only goes so far, and even allies are unreliable. “The Daleans have far more of a stake in this than they do. Send a raven for Ramiel, if you want a third opinion.” After all - they have bled and died for a war that was what she ultimately wanted. And while she knew that the Gates’ members were mostly useless, she would at least have expected some minor show of force; alas, there is none. Lagertha will never play the savior again. Not for those who do not help themselves.

She can feel her heart palpitate, tripping over itself every so briefly at Straia’s whim. She laughs, knowing that either her death would more than likely incite a frenzy that would be difficult to contain, and ultimately bad news for the Chamber. Neither Queen is going to die here, today. They both know it. And yet, she must say something, because the gray mare can never keep her mouth shut. She laughs, though it is small and hard and pointed. “Go ahead, Straia. Kill me. See what happens.” It is neither threat, nor goading, simply a promise. The Jungle is more than the leadership that she provides. It is a family, and the death of the matriarch would not go unanswered, she imagines. They are women, they know how to hold a grudge.

Killdare conveniently arrives, and it takes a moment for Lagertha to process that the stallion whom they once held captive would be the next King. She remembers his infatuation with Joscelin, his observance of their diplomacy. Straia is right - he is someone that he finds agreeable. A less competent individual would be more to her liking, but she knows that will never happen. Could he inspire the same type of devotion? She looks him up and down, but says nothing. Her silence is her agreement.

Vanquish comes thundering up, a veritable thunderstorm, all raging and rumbley. How very manly of him. She has nothing to calm him down, and even if she did, she wouldn’t want to - it isn’t her job. So the Warrior Queen says simply, “we are ending this. Straia steps down, Killdare takes her place, and we all go home. Someone tells the troops below that we've reached an agreement. Yes?” She looks between the three of them, waiting for either assent or dissent. It is a bare bones plan and says nothing of the future, but that is what ‘diplomacy’ is for, is it not? Or at least, the passage of time.

Lagertha

warrior queen of the amazons

[@Ramiel]
[@Mirage] if you want? Idk. Don't feel like you have to.

[Straia]

i am the violence in the pouring rain

i am a hurricane

She could keep bickering. She could take Lagertha up on her offer. They could fight it out, like she once did long before she had her traits. Yes, even the Raven Queen knew how to fight, knew what to do when it was just two horses. She wasn’t as well trained a Lagertha was, certainly, but she could probably hold her own.

But in the end, that isn’t why they are here. It doesn’t take long for Vanquish to come, and Mast, unsurprisingly, doesn’t show. Not that she’d seen the cowards face once during this war, and it seems, neither had his allies. Well, no longer allied, perhaps. Certainly in the case of Vanquish, who’s fuming with enough anger that Straia almost laughs. Almost. Instead, it’s just a quirk of her mouth in the black king’s direction, and nothing more.

“The Dale will hardly stand here without the Amazons and the Desert. In truth, I only care that your two kingdoms agree. But we can invite Ramiel, if you wish.” A raven materializes, and then disappears to try and find the Dalean King. They turn to the topic of their agreement though, and Lagertha agrees, letting Vanquish know the plan at the same time. Straia simply nods in agreement, silently letting them know she’s committed.

It is high time for her to hand over the throne. It has been, in truth, for a while now. But the war dragged on and on, and she couldn’t hand over her kingdom with the threat of war looming. Instead, she would be handing over the aftermath. But Killdare knew how to pick up the pieces. “If we are agreed,” she pauses, waiting for Vanquish to answer before continuing, “then Killdare, the Chamber is yours. Long live the King.”

The ravens in the air stop, flapping their wings to hover wherever they are as best they can, cawing loud enough for the entire Chamber to hear despite the battle raging around them. “LONG LIVE THE KING.” They sing, their voices raw and distorted, but the words clear enough. And the message is clearer still, for as soon as their speech is done, every raven disappears from the Chamber.

It was time for the war to end. It was time for a new era to begin.

straia

the raven queen of the chamber

[Ramiel]

He would not go back on his word to the Jungle.

He’d promised to help them, to fight and bleed and die for them if need be. He’d vouched for the warrior-women, would stand alongside them as they battled against the darkness falling across Beqanna. He would uphold their alliance – for better or worse – because he would not go back on his word. But now, in the thick of war, he wonders what he’s gotten himself into.

More importantly, what has he brought his people into?

Because war is hell, as the saying goes, but now he knows it isn’t completely true. Hell isn’t an adequate enough description for the desperate chaos consuming the Chamber. War is not an end. It is not a fiery conclusion to the continued threat of violence that had plagued them for so many years. War is only a beginning, a lit match-combustion that burns evermore, long after the blood has dried on the stems of the wild grass. War is still a giver on the cold, desolate nights that come after the bodies have vacated the fields, when memories and the faces of departed loved ones appear like ghosts in the mind. War gives you scars and terrors and kill counts. War brings anarchy and relishes every spill, splatter, and spray in its name.

War is more than hell; it is merely the first step of misery.

Ramiel exhales sharply as the skin on his left shoulder is vaporized. Demian’s cosmic fire burns him down to the muscle before he can react. Fortunately, its’ small circumference makes it less of a debilitating injury than it otherwise might have been. He still winces on the next step, his metallic gaze following the Valley king’s hasty retreat into the sky in the same moment. He considers taking off on foot after the skybound stallion but thinks better of it. There is more work to be done down here. Let the gods and mages wage their own private wars. Let the cowards run away to their own demises. He still burns with his protective rage and half-used effort as he watches Demian shrink to a speck in the heavens, but eventually he turns away. He turns towards what matters, to the sister he would never hesitate to become ashes for.

“Joscelin,” he says, his voice like the smoke, thick and heavy. Ramiel tries another step towards her and he finds that it is impossible to hide the limp. A ragged, war-torn smile dismisses the injury. Perhaps they’ll fight together now. Gods know he will need a steadying comrade after his first adrenaline-fueled attack. But as soon as he thinks it, a raven flutters down from the inky, stained sky to hover above him and his Amazonian sister. The grey king freezes in preparation for an attack, but the bird merely puts words in his head – words that surprise him almost as much as being spared an avian offensive move.

Over. Can it be already? Can it be this easy? “It’s over,” he tells Joscelin breathlessly, his heart racing despite his disbelief. “I’ll be back.”
Ramiel follows the raven through the fighting, invisible but not completely safe. Every now and then, the elements manage to find him. A burst of fire here or a blast of arctic air there; charred branches fall all around the injured Chamber, further littering the tired ground. And still, the fighters clash. He waits until he sees the small gathering to reveal himself. The wound on his shoulder oozes painfully but he ignores it. If it is the only injury he will suffer in order to keep his word, he will consider it a win. He only hopes the other Daleans have fared as well, wherever they are.

Lagertha’s face reveals little when he first arrives at the meeting. It is as stony and strong as he’s always seen it, and the grey isn’t sure if it means they have won or lost. Only the dragon king’s reckless bravado seems to say that they haven’t given in, that they haven’t rolled over to end the bloodshed. Straia and one of her men stand alone against the others. Two against two. Ramiel moves alongside Lagertha and Vanquish to tip the scale in their favor.

What the raven queen says is true, so Ramiel doesn’t deny it. The Dale would certainly not have gotten involved if it hadn’t been for their ties to the Jungle. But whereas he wouldn’t force his kingdom into a situation that wasn’t almost fully guaranteed, he was not the same. His reasoning for aiding in this war was as personal as it was political. Straia knew where his nephew Khalis was (whether he was being held or had been buried as bones). What she didn’t know was that Tiberios was aware of the kidnapping at her order. What she didn’t know was that the Dalean king was here fighting to uphold an alliance but also a promise to his brother.

This war had been a convenience as much as a necessity.

The iron woman says that it will all end with Straia’s removal from the throne. Ramiel exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding in. "The Dale agrees to these terms." He looks to the heir then, scrutinizing the man who would be king. Over. It’s over. Even the land seems to sigh with relief when the once-Chamber queen declares Killdare its newest sovereign. Maybe this will be the balm to the burn. Maybe Beqanna will quiet its strained nerves and heal its fractured mind. Maybe the only way out of hell is through it.

The ravens take up the call, but it’s not the heavenly chorus of victory he imagines it might have been.

R A M I E L

this is a man pulling on his iron chains