"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
He has heard much about the Valley. Enough to know that the man who rules there may have caused the disaster that befell the Chamber. Enough to know that the king of the Valley is a magician. Enough to know that when he approaches, he should approach with caution. There are other mythical kingdoms, and perhaps, kingdoms stronger (the two magicians of the Deserts come to mind) but there are few that have this kind of concentrated power. He can feel it almost like a physical entity as he reaches the border.
With idle curiosity, he wonders where Shaytan is. They're meant to travel here together, to visit as a pair, but so far he is alone. Perhaps she's off somewhere rolling around in grass, he thinks, but with amusement rather than unkindness.
He reaches the edges of the kingdom easily enough. It is desolate here, feeling much like the Chamber itself, really, although there isn't the ash that seems omnipresent everywhere within his home. He can see the choppy ground, evidence of an earthquake, but he can also see that it is starting to heal. Interesting, he notes, that the land itself has not been fully healed. If he had magic, that would've been the first thing he would have done.
And with that, he halts on the border and calls for anyone who might come. He knows that they are allies, but still he will not set foot inside the border without being invited. With a magician at the helm, they should know soon enough, and they should come.
Hey now. It’s not Shaytan’s fault that Erebor left the Dale without her. She said she’d be right back - and yes, her little deviation may have taken a tad bit longer than planned. But the child was a child, after all, and even though he was a Prince (it meant nothing to her, really), he should still mind his elders. Shaytan was his only line of defense on these excursions. How many Beqannians would love to kidnap a Princeling and hold him for ransom?
On second though...there’s been something else tentatively prodding at the back of her mind. Something that could not be sated with the bloodbath of innocents. Something that makes her want to do more. And more and moremoremore.So perhaps that kidnapping is something to put on her to-do list, so that she may slowly creep up the ranks of the devilish and deceptive minions.
Her forelegs are spotted with blood, her hooves would have been stained a dirty red-brown if the Dale’s sweetgrass hadn’t mopped it all up. Somewhere behind her lay a group of tiny corpses, their heads crushed in, or their hind legs broken and their front legs ripped off. She does not know that she is an echo of the wolves that prowled the Dale’s hills after her own kind, hunting the defenseless and innocent. If she did, she might wish for sharper teeth and claws - begging for an easier way to hunt. As it is, her tongue is happy and she will find her lips taste delicious for a day or so. Until the water washes everything off and the vicious cycle must begin again.
She appears to be much more of a Chamberling (and by association, or perhaps even personality, Valleyian) than ever before. The feel of the Valley, the smells, the air… it just feels so right, much like the Chamber does, but with vegetation. She quickly finds the black colt and draws up next to him, never giving an explanation to her brief absence or blood-stained appearance.
Some things aren’t to be talked about right now.
Shaytan
and every time she knocks I can't help but let her in
Of course – the disasters. Eight forgets these even happened, really. They are just a drop in the proverbial pool of his life. It was a whisper on the horizon for him now – the charred and smoking remains, the melt drips of the Tundra, the lumbering wolves looking for a feast. They were all faded now, and the kingdoms were rebuilding- new life forming and the ripples of the devastation were diminishing away. Of course, the memories would always remain. There would be no erasing the great destruction of the kingdoms, the blatant wielding of the power that was Eight. The lands still wept with the memories of destruction – ash, melting glaciers, cragged gaps striking through the quaked terrain. With time, not magic, the lands would fully heal.
Eight is quiet, watching from the slinking, noon day shadows. He knew of Erebor – of course he did. Warship belonged to Eight. Both Warship and Straia, actually. They were chits in his pocket, prizes for a rainy day, aces up the sleeve. Straia owed a portion of her crown to Eight, the man who stepped forth and declared the woman now-Queen. And well, Warship- his life and death hung on the delicate balance of Eight’s wishes. Did little Erebor know that? Was he aware that the entire position he was in, he owed to the magician king? Of course not – the little prince was not old enough to dabble in such diplomatic ties just yet. Besides, best not frighten the progeny with the fact that his future clung so tightly to the dark magicians desires.
Still, Eight stays silent, watching the young prince approach. He knows another is coming, though. He can smell her in the air, the acrid snap of metallic blood, and hear her languid thoughts drifting through the air. Once she arrives, the spotted emissary (or glorified babysitter? Who’s to say), he prepares to approach. He appears with no valor or might, no dark brooding clouds or atmosphere – he simply walks out of thin air, his body slowly slipping through the portal of visible, and invisible. “Erebor, Shaytan.” He approaches them at the border, his eyes flicking down to where their hooves toe the line between ‘neutral’ and the Valley. “Come on in. We don’t bite.” He half smiles, as the thrumming magical barrier surround the Valley materializes into a miniature, translucent electric blue wolf snout, teeth snapping harmlessly at their hocks. Eight steps to the side, turning his neck back towards the Valley in a “follow me” beckon. “A diplomatic visit, I assume? The ties that bind, and all that – holding alliances to stay true and making sure there’s no tricks up our sleeves over here?”
∞
and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in
As a child you would wait, and watch from far away.
But you always knew you'd be the one to work while they all play.
She's late.
She's always late these days, late to discover their arrival, late to greet them, late late late. Perhaps that was why she'd been so terrible with children in the past, because she knew, on some level, that actually trying to take care of them made her ineffective in her duties. And she is trying this time – for Covet, mostly, because it'd be terribly awkward if they wandered off a cliff and died or something.
She makes it over to the two who come well after Eight has already joined them. She gives him a glance, knowing that he already knows, because he already knows, well, everything. She's almost surprised to see him; she doesn't presume to know where he's been (hasn't Camrynn taught her all she needs to know of the caprice of magicians?) but she's pretty damn glad to see him back. The Valley has been withering without him, and no one wants to see their home wither.
She turns then to the two visitors, dipping her head in respect to them. The scent of the Chamber is clear, unmistakable, and she remembers that the two kingdoms are allied. Sizing them up quickly, she decides that even if they weren't allies, they're also not threats – the one boy is young, not even two years old, and his companion (bedecked with blood though she may be) doesn't have a warrior's bearing. In fact, she notes, the boy is closer to standing like a warrior than the woman.
Go figure.
"Welcome." she says, her tones flat. She knows she's not strictly necessary here, that with Eight in the mix it's more than covered. But perhaps as a point of personal pride, or perhaps just in the spirit of fairness (the Chamber has two, so should the Valley) she's staying.
Never mind the fact that, unless one of those Chamberlings is hiding magic, Eight is worth 10 or 20 of any of them, easily.
Shaytan knows better.
Anyone who says they don’t bite is usually lying.
She can confirm. Shaytan may look harmless and awkward, but there’s a set of vicious, bunny-killing jaws hiding behind those freckled lips.
She blinks a couple of times as the King materializes, looking sideways to Erebor and wondering what he was thinking about it all. They’re weird over here, delighting in the magically absurd. Like the freaking blue wolf snout that snaps at her hocks. it startles her at first, and then kicks at the image, despite the fact that the blue gives it away as being an illusion. Still. She didn’t like it. She should do the snapping, not fake sharp-tooth over there.
As his beckoning, Shaytan crosses over the Valley border and almost runs into the fourth Musketeer, a quiet, flat-toned mare. “Um. Thanks?” Shaytan glances around, but not in an uncomfortable way.
“Yep. Diplomatic mission. I assume we’re good if you are.” She looks to Eight and Erebor, and then to Librette. Were more words needed?
Oh Shaytan… how you suck at this.
Shaytan
and every time she knocks I can't help but let her in
He's heard of Eight, and the Valley's king instantly lives up to his reputation.
He is not surprised by any of it, because he prepared himself for anything and everything possible. He is taut like a bowstring, aware and on edge, and therefore able to slide away from the snapping electric-wolves gracefully, like the trained soldier he's so quickly becoming. He recognizes it for what it is – Eight is toying with them, more playing with then than showing them his dominance. If he wanted to do that, he'd have many more effective tools at his disposal.
They cross the border, and starts to speak of diplomatic ties. The tie between Valley and Chamber is one that seems unbreakable at this point, and all three of them know this. But he also feels in his bones that the Valley almost certainly has tricks up its sleeves, to use the phrase that Eight had used. But much as he doesn't doubt it, he also doesn't mind it – he expects nothing less. He expects the Valley to keep life interesting. He expects Eight to try his darndest to play god, to manipulate Beqanna to his liking. He'd do the same, if he had magic.
Well, that's not true. He'd probably just use it to benefit the Chamber, until it disappeared as all such gifts do in a land that doesn't welcome them.
The cross into the border and are greeted by a winged chestnut mare. Erebor doesn't know her, but he greets her with a respectful nod nonetheless. Shaytan is speaking, and she doesn't waste a moment before launching into what he assumes was meant to be diplomacy. He almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. It might be unexpected, it might be conventional, and yet he doesn't doubt that with this crowd, it's effective.
"Which is to say," he says, just after she finishes, "we're content and happy with the alliance. From your warm welcome, I assume the Valley is content with it as well?" He speaks without irony, although some would define the welcome as less than warm. He trusts that they're still on good terms, still on good footing. If not, well, wouldn't it have simply been more effective for Eight to strike them down where they stand?
