Dawn of a New Day: Eve of Peace

It has been a full two weeks since the fall of Punchskull's Barbarian Empire. Not just the massive army he led: Not just his greatest of minions. Every last ork encampment was found and put to the sword. There could be no other option: They would not yield defeat, for they knew not how to admit subjugation to a non-ork. Nor would the fragile remnants of the Orc military give them any respite: Their men killed, and their Warchief maimed, Honor dictated that no Foul Abomination leave those swamps alive. Those not felled by Novan swords were felled by sickness, by their own risen dead, or by their own hands as they squabbled amongst themselves.

In the plains beneath the swamp, a city of tents was quickly erected: Those who did not brave the swamps stood ready by the Southern rivers banks to offer relief, rest, and transportation to the departing troops. After their total but costly victory, the troops came here, tired but in high spirits. Although never spoken, the feeling in the air was clear: This would be known as the war for the right to live here. They were no longer squatters, vagrants feeding off a dead wizard's grave. They had fought, and won, for their right to live here, and those who would go after them would remember this day.

It is within one of these massive tents that we set our scene: None other than the Sultan himself has erected a tent, filled with the trimmings of great celebration, to commemorate all the leaders whose armies have returned victorious this day.

Sultan Kierkos paced around the open room, his somewhat lessened bulk lacking the sway it once possessed. He was bored, Oh, so bored! He should have known better, but he hadn't even really been thinking about it; This was a more private celebration. Of course they weren't going to show up until near the time set. Punctuality was important. Still, though, he did feel quite glad: He was in spirits that he hadn't been in for a while. His lingering illness now finally rid of, he was eager to begin reclaiming his noble form. Of course, his appetite wasn't what it was before... more the pity, with the banquet he had planned.
It had taken quite some work to get floor appropriate for a feasting table on these damp grasses. In not too long, his cooks would fill the table to brimming with culinary delights and choice, not-too-expensive but still potent wines. He hoped his guests would be appreciative: schlepping them here was no easy feat.

Alcuin stood still, preparing himself. He wasn't completely sure that the customs of the other Novans would consider a banquet an appropriate cap to a war, but he had to admit that it was a fairly novel way of bringing all the higher-ups together again. There were plans that needed discussing, issues that needed addressing... But, most importantly, it was critical to capitalize on the feeling of success and well-being that accompanied a hard-won war.

Malsoth, having long been discharged from the healer's tents, stood stock still. He was bereft of his war gear, of his sword and armor. His common robes and cloak could not mask fully the loss of his arm, and a large eyepatch covered his shredded eye cavity. To any other, his expression is the same as it always was. However, the sultan had known Malsoth since the orc was a young man. The sultan looked at his bodyguard, and breathed a sigh.
"Malsoth, please. I apologize! They were words spoken not from hatred, but from shock... like a father to a wayward son. I know that you will not lapse in your duties. Malsoth, really. I did not mean it in that way. I am simply concerned for the well-being of you and yours, as a goatherd cares for his flock. Will you forgive my frankness?"

Malsoth's face is unchanged, but he turned his head to look at the Sultan. He spoke softly, his voice robbed of much of its strength. "Of course I forgive you, Master Kierekos."

The Sultan smiled. "Good, good. Now, no outbursts this time... we don't want you straining yourself too much, do we? You may take the well deserved rest this time. Now shshsh... I hear someone approaching."

And, once again, first to arrive on scene is the Primarch, followed closely by Hel, wearing a haggard frown on her downcast face and significantly cleaner armor on her torso. She visibly brightened upon spotting Malsoth, sending the Orc leader a deep nod and a toothy grin.

Primarch, however, had his eyefires set on the Sultan. "Greetings, your majesty," he rumbled, as he trundled his way over to Kierkos. "It is a pleasure to encounter you again--and looking strikingly healthy, as well--even considering recent... unpleasant events, which we are here to conclude. I trust Warchief Malsoth has already reported to you of the bravery of the soldiers he led?"

Valdyr strides into the tent, looking somehow taller than usual. He appears to have been left completely unruffled by his repeated frontline battles, save one small bandage (Which he refused to have magically healed.) His black and red cloak still follows him, completely undamaged, and his breastplate still shines. He has a casual smirk as he and Grar approach the tent. The battle had gone well, and both Lycan ferocity and fairness were undisputed.

Grar, on the other hand, looks a bit more haggard. His armor is dented in a place or two, and his grey cloak has a tear or two. Grar looks to Valdyr, unsure about his leader's pride. Surely, they had given the Orks every fair chance to surrender. Valdyr himself had even personally restrained some of the Orc troops long enough for the official request for surrender to be spoken, something that took no small amount of charisma. And yet, Grar was not sure how someone could go through an experience like that and be so unfazed.

The two Lycans approached the tent, and Valdyr entered first. Valdyr gave a quick, respectful nod to Malsoth upon entering.

"Kvedja, Sultan. Hel and Primarch, Kvedja as well. Sultan, it is good to see you in health. We have much to discuss today."

Rather older than when he was last seen outside his own border, Governor Redfarn Betcher sweeps coolly into the tent. His hair is significantly a much closer match to his own long gray robes than any of the gathered can remember. He has traveled far to be here today, but has taken the time to see that the stress does not show. He assumes a completely neutral and placid expression, leaving his personal opinions completely hidden.

Sister Arlensul and Mogaba follow close at his heels. Mogaba's toothy grin is wild, excited, and proud. His posture is alert and his demeanor is pleased. His leather armor is patched in a few places, as is his skin. Arlensul, however, is as grim as her Governor is calm. While her habit is clean, and her armor polished, her icy blue eyes express displeasure that her veil cannot hide.

"Greetings," says Betcher, "I hope that I am finding all of you well."

Seeing Malsoth, he turns and offers a polite smile.

"If you desire a replacement, we can send a specialist at your request."

Kalther enters the tent finally, looking haggard after the brief but stressful campaign. On seeing Malsoth, he smiles and approaches him. "Malsoth, it is good to see you. It is good that this dreadful war is over. I only wish it had come to a cleaner end."

Malsoth does not respond verbally to any acknowledgment. He returns Valdyr's nod, but with little feeling. He slowly shakes his head, declining Betcher's offer, while otherwise ignoring any mention of his name not directly addressed to him.
Kalther, on the other hand(oh god)... Malsoth turns to face him. Although his face is plain, those who can read the eyes of men can see that the proud defiance he once bore in secret is all but gone. After a moment, he holds out his remaining hand, offering it to Kalther in a silent gesture that speaks volumes.

It is clear that the Sultan is somewhat confused by all the attention that is being paid to Malsoth, but he takes it in stride. "Ah, yes, Friend Primarch! Quite brave indeed. Quite... Brave. Yes.

Ah, Lord Valdyr! I agree completely, much to discuss!

And the Honored Mr. Betcher, how long it has been! We have much to look forward to, I can only hope!"

When Kalther arrives the tent might have turned a few degrees colder. Arlensul's icy demeanor stiffens. Mogaba's smile broadens, but becomes somewhat fixed. Even Betcher's calm takes on a forced aspect.

"I agree, Sultan, there is much to discuss." He slowly turns to face Kalther, clearly unimpressed by the orc's display. "You know what you did. You know how this will effect the island. When will it be destroyed?"

Kalther's smile remains fixed, much like Mogaba's. "I'm aware this situation may be an unpleasant one for you, Mr. Betcher. I assure you however that I'll take any steps within my power to prevent any danger to the island. I can not, however, promise you it will be destroyed. At the first possible moment, it will be returned to its home plane."

Betcher frowns. His companions react to this. Arlensul fingers her holy symbol in an uncharacteristic display of nerves. Mogaba's grin takes on a bloodthirsty quality.

"I will accept banished only if it is made permanent. If you cannot kill it - execute its summoner. Make them impossible to raise. This must not happen again."

He turns briefly to Valdyr and the Primarch.

"Surely you see the intolerable nature of this empire's action." The word empire is a curse from the way he speaks it.

"I most certainly agree."

The elf that strides into the room is tired and haggard looking. Deep, dark wells form beneath his eyes, but his posture is one of clear defiance.

"If there is one thing that any of us can learn from this tragedy, this conflict, this catastrophe, it is perhaps that we are all far too capable of falling prey to our own feelings of invincibility. ESPECIALLY if such stems from a source as unpredictable and violent as that of the Arcana."

The Sultan looks somewhat surprised at his entrance, and is currently straining his face to recall just who has barged in on this conference of heads of state.

The Primarch's eyebrows rose. "A highly pointed suggestion, sir... I apologize profusely, but I, the Primarch, cannot seem to recall your name, or place of origin. Are you perhaps a delegate from the survivors of Teelsburg?

"In any case, I must concur with Lord Valdyr, and the as of yet unnamed delegate. Recent events have demonstrated that the use of extreme amounts of arcane and divine power can lead to rather unfortunate consequences. As such, in the case of the currently... 'problematic' celestial, then should it become necessary, the Primarchy would be more than willing to assist with removing or detaining aforementioned celestial. Up to and including my own personal spellcasting capability, should it become necessary.

"Of course, we would require at least some international assistance and resources. This sort of removal often requires significant effort. And as such, we should endeavor to avoid such problems in the future."

When the elf is addressed, he blinks twice rapidly. His face quickly turns to scorn, as the Primarch concludes his statement.
"Pointed as it may be, Primarch, it is still a truth that needs to be hammered home! This whole rigmarole could have been avoided if we... You... I mean... Oh, feth it."
He exhales sharply, his face suddenly sagging from anger to abject weariness. A bony hand emerges from his somewhat unkempt robes, and he clasps his face in it. He shakes his head.
"Look, I'm sorry, but I just can't do it, okay? I know that National Unified Thamaturgist Society Protocol requires us to establish dominance in our dealings with "trivial societies", but really, no, I can't. I-I just..I can't. Can I start over?"
He exhales sharply. None of his affectation of proud bearing remains... Instead, he has rather more resemblance to a wet cat.
"I'm Professor Victor Inquitego, Arcanist of the sixth degree. I have been elected as the most able, both physically and mentally, of the Teelsburg University board of Trustees, to sit in on this meeting and reestablish the Society's place on this island." He glances downward. "Really, fact that I was chosen most capable says a lot more than I'd like it to... "

He sighs. "So, where were we? A ban on Magic of Mass Destruction? Sounds good. Put my name on the petition," he says, tiredly.

Kalther raises his eyebrows at the professor's manner. "A ban on Magic of Mass Destruction? Will you place a ban on powerful magical creatures entering this area of our plane? Such a thing sounds unenforceable. A ban on non-intelligent magics of mass destruction would be more reasonable. And then, what do you define as a magic of mass destruction?"

Hel snorted. " 'Trivial Societies?' Teelsburg's a bloody ruin!"

Primarch's head swiveled in place, and presented Hel with a narrow glare, before rotating back to face Professor Inquitego. "Very well," he said, jawplate twisting into what could be assumed was a kindly smile, "Lord Kalther brings up an excellent point, Professor Inquitego. How exactly would the National Unified Thamaturgist Society suggest we as nations define 'Magic of Mass Destruction,' as you called it? After all, as you mentioned, Arcana itself and all workings based from it are inherently unpredictable, and we as nations require solid and predictable rules in order to function properly. As the technical expert here, I, the Primarch, am sure your advice would be most invaluable--unless, of course, you would rather observe the proceedings a little longer before making an official statement."

In what little time he had, the Professor has scrounged up some form of seating... It looks like he just doesn't want to stand for too long. From this position, he looks up at Kalther. The look on his face is one of tired exasperation.
"Look, sir, I have no idea who you are. Really. I'm sorry. I mean, I know the Primarch... Who doesn't... I know Lord Valdyr, Governor Betcher, etc etc. So sorry if I don't understand your position. Really, I just was trying to come in on a good soundbite."

It's plainly obvious that Hel's off-hand comment stings deep. Nothing quite like reminding a man that his home, occupation, and many of those he may have loved and cared for lie in a bloody, fiery conflagration to get his spirits up. His head dips, and he begins staring at a point somewhere below the knees of all assembled. His words are too tired to be angry.
"Look, I'm trying to play my part here, and be intelligent and full of all kinds of deductive brilliance and generally a real credit to the Society... But, honestly? You need this defined? Really?"

"As uncomfortable as it may sound, we do," the Primarch said. "If all of our nations are to abide by even a single rule, then we need to completely define that rule, so that there can be as little disagreement between our nations about what constitutes a violation of that rule and what doesn't. For example, if we include "no excessive summoning of powerful extraplanar creatures," there may--allow me to rephrase that, there inevitably will be--some conflict over what counts as "excessive summoning," or "powerful extraplanar creatures." Would permanent interplanar gates count? What about temporary gates? What about summonings of large numbers of extraplanar creatures, or forming alliances with extraplanar entities that can provide their own transportation? All of these can be considered examples of the types of magical misuse Sir Kalther, consort to Empress Aowyn, and thereby representative of the Second Sraibthine Empire," he gestured towards Kalther, "had mentioned.

"Intergovernmental politics is an excessively complex area, Professor, and, much like Arcana itself, the world of politics is full of chaos, confusion, and entities knowingly or unknowningly twisting written and unwritten rules in order to achieve their own ends. Stable, repeatable rules and regulations, combined with a certain amount of tact and diplomacy, are the only reasonable means to secure repeatable results. Much like with the enhancement of Material Plane objects via the arcane arts.

"...I, the Primarch, must apologize. I am afraid I have been lecturing for the past minute or so, rather than discussing. Please, Professor, continue."

There's this look that a wet cat gives its owner when receiving a bath. In another time and place, the people of that time and place would equate that look with a question of "Why you do this?", as the cat, clearly miserable, questions his lot and the actions of its master.

This is the look the professor gives the Primarch.
He doesn't say anything immediately. Instead, he rubs his sore eyes for a moment, while his lips purse tightly. With a noticeable amount of effort, he stands, only coming up to the Primarch's chest, but making the effort all the same. He cranes his neck upwards.
"She was right. You talk too much. It's not just that, though. It's that... that you talk like a wizard. And, quite frankly, I'd be lying if I said that didn't scare the crap out of me.

Permanent Interplanar Gates? Forming alliances with extraplanar entities? The fact that you can think of such things makes me want to start running and not stop until I hit mainland. The thought that you'd have the money, power, and clout to do it, and I bet you do?"
He shivers. It is, by all appearances, sincere.
"... well, by my reckoning, the ability to follow thought patterns like that that pales in comparison to whatever it was Mr. Kalther here did. Summoning an Extraplanar creature beyond your control? Old hat. It's been the death of egomaniacs, nations, and competent scholars who did one thing wrong for as long as we've been shaking wands. Having a mind that can think of things like that?"
He shakes his head.

Dun (the younger) strides in, looking fairly business like. In place of armor, he's wearing traditional dwarven formal robes.
"Sorry to evesdrop, but your voices carried somewhat while I was approaching.

Primarch, it's even more complex than that. What about if, or rather when, we come to defining a rule that two or more nations cannot agree upon. Surely the empire would see no problem with owning a Solar or two, but other nations would see the mere thought of this as an affront to their way of life.

Then there's the possibility that one nation has built or is planning to build something for non-hostile purposes that becomes technically prohibited.

Will disagreements come down to a simple vote, with the many dictating to the few, or will we resolve nothing while bickering amongst ourselves?

I fear attempting to create rules to unify us will simply divide us further and create subterfuge and suspicion."

After this fairly clearly rehearsed speech, he relaxes a bit and give the Primarch one of his special gleeful smiles.

The professor turns to look at the newcomer. Strangely, at the end of Dun's speech, a tired smile breaks across his face, as he looks at those assembled.
"Kid's got good ears... and a good head to go between them."
He plops down on his seating.
"Got it in one, kiddo." he whispers at the ground.

Betcher has been fairly impassive throughout this new development. Still clearly seething under his quiet stare, however, as if no mere words could placate his anger.

"It is clear then, that these rules should not be made to apply to all nations as if all nations would or even could commit the same acts. They should be specific, precise, and clear."

Arlensul's fidgeting stops. Mogaba appears to be stifling giggles.

"These rules should not be made among a large group of nations as a whole. We are too diverse. We cannot simply declare this island to be kept free from overly dangerous uncontrollable beings. There are those among our own citizens who could qualify as dangerous magical creatures within any other population while in their own they are merely citizens and subject to the laws of their home.

"This is why I request that these laws be specific to the nations they are applied to and also be enforceable should they be broken in the future. I would request that they be binding by nature, and not only binding to the specific leader who makes the agreement, but to the nation as a whole for the entirety of the unforeseeable future. Let he or she who breaks these mutually agreed to laws face Inevitable consequences."

General Berrow walks in quietly while Betcher is talking, still dressed in his armor. His expression is very stern. When he finishes, Berrow begins speaking.

"I have been hearing reports from my people, about the depredations enacted upon this swamp. You have all been sitting in here, worrying about your own political gains and yet you are failing to see the big picture. Does it matter that the Empire had a solar in its power? No. As long as they could control it, which apparently they could not. The Primarchy also had an Elder Air Elemental which they used and that helped minimize the costs of the battle. I do not think that it is necessarily a bad thing to be able to call upon the services of such beings of great power. The one who summoned it should and must keep it from harming innocents.

"Currently, in that swamp is a solar of great power. Nobody knows where it is or what it intends to do. We can only pray to the gods that it does not choose to attack anyone: my own people or any of our neighbors. The Empire has the duty to resolve this issue, yes, but there is no good way to prohibit the summoning of such things, nor do I believe that there should be. I do, however, believe, that they should be controlled and contained and without a method of doing that, they should not be summoned. Further, let it be upon the summoner's conscience what it does, including this Solar.

"There is another issue at stake. The UNENS seemingly delighted in creating hordes of zombies, with no way of ordering or controlling them and they are currently polluting the swamp. I believe that this is a greater priority than a Solar or worries about similar occurrences in the future. I was just consulting with my aides about the best way of clearing the lifeblood of my people of their pestilence before they can hurt someone or permanently foul the river and I am certain that others of you will join my efforts."

"I understand that the removal of the nonsentient living impaired from the swamp is a very important task. We are and always were prepared to remove them once the battlefield was clear. At the moment this is not possible. Because there is an unpredictable and incredibly dangerous outsider in that area I cannot and will not send the nonmilitary specialists in nonsentient control into the area."

Arlensul then speaks up.

"As a former employee of the Department of Nonsentient Labor, I had intended that any created undead would be corralled and sent to the colony to be put to work. I ordered their creation with that intent, and regret that the situation changed so that my intentions have been misread as a desire to leave them where they are. Wild zombies do not serve our purpose. I did not want to leave them, but it is not yet safe to retrieve them."

"As you see, until this situation can be rectified our hands are tied in response to the nonsentient living impaired that now inhabit the region."