A Meeting Of Equals

Garrek dismounted his horse, handing the reins to one of the young servants whom his gracious hosts had sent forth for such services. The youth seemed beyond horrified to be in the presence of these invaders. Perhaps he'd heard of the minesweepers Garrek's men had been gathering off the countryside throughout their march. When they wrote the songs of this battle, they would speak of the road painted red by the blood of the Dominion, which led the Republic here.

Behind him, his fellow commanders likewise dismounted. The flag carriers planted the standards of the Republic, which stood defiantly against a cloudy sky, a good thirty paces between them and the Dominion's overly ornate coats of arms and heraldry. The Republic's flag was represented thrice: twice the tricolour of the Republic (red, white, purple, from top to bottom), and once the First Citizen's Colours (same, but with a commander's baton and a judge's gavel crossed in the middle, on the white). There was the inquisition's flag, and the army's banner, and the navy's. And there was the newest addition, included due to the insistence of General Otakar: the newly minted Banner of the Foreign Regiments, a sideways tricolour in orange, white and orange again, and on the leftmost orange field, the golden and blue stars of House Sistorian, but in reverse order from the usual.

That one was put at the front, so the enemy could see it as Garrek started marching toward the pavillion, followed by the rest. He was dressed in his finest: a vest in brown fabric, with white lace on the collar and cuffs and white stuffing showing at the arms; yellow and light blue silk sashes were tied around his upper stomach, their knots on his side, dangling beside a long cape which dragged along the ground behind him; he wore mustard-coloured knee-breeches with his rapier's hilt sown to their side, and below them cream stockings and similarly coloured heeled cavalryman's boots; his riding gloves were the supple leather of a calf, and on his head sat a voluminous wide-brimmed hat with a feather on top, like a cherry on a particularly fancy cake. He'd shaved his facial hair neat for this, keeping his goatee, and decided to eschew his wigs for once, his own red-dyed hair mostly covered by the hat. He carried a narrow walking stick in his hand, the sort that would never actually bear his weight if he needed one to walk, in the latest fashion of Sabrian gentlemen.

He wondered if he'd see any familiar faces in this tent. And if they'd recognise him underneath this outrageous (and yet, surprisingly comfortable) outfit. He hoped Torval is still in the high echelons. Otherwise, things might get complicated...

Walking into the tent boldly, he briefly passed over the faces of the enemy commanders. As his colleagues started filing in after him, he cleared his throat and asked: "Introductions are in order, yes?"



[In case there's any confusion, there has been no public announcement of Garrek's identity yet: this is to be it.]

This entire thing was a terrible idea.

It wasn't that Maurielle didn't see the value of parley, of course. In the right hands it could stop wars from ever starting, give some time to regroup. But it was clear the Republic wouldn't keep this going long enough to stall their true goals, and they had no intentions of stopping the fighting. This was all some foolish farce, taking up her time that could better be spent on shoring up their side for the coming engagements. It was her duty though, to at least attend this play. She was used to these meaningless gestures by now. If the High Palatine believed some good could come from this, it wasn't her place to question his judgement. She would would do the best she could with this. Perhaps she could even manage to do something of value with this dross.

After replying another curious letter from a pigeon, she'd put on her attire. This was the most crucial point, when the first impression was made. Full armour would be coming on too strong, yet she didn't want to leave herself with no protection. A statement had to be made, and her appearance was carefully cultivated to ensure the right one. She'd decided on an outfit she'd worn back when she was a diplomat, during the rare talks her family would have with foreign powers. A stark white riding dress, patterned with yellow sun emblems, the center of each a brilliant yellow sapphire. This made it clear who she was representing; the sword tucked into a weapon belt showed she was willing to fight. Two blue lightning bolts, the symbol for House Jahimis, were sewed into the leather of her scabbard.

It was a wonder she managed to get into the parley tent with the entire outfit still in relatively clean condition. Inside, things were pretty much what she expected to see; the High Palatine and several members from the other Houses in attendance. She still wished he'd consider moving back into the city during this engagement, with the guards. Far easier to keep track of him that way. The visiting Republic emissaries were a bunch of strutting peacocks, as usual. And it looked like they'd brought out their crowning jewel with one man. His face piqued her curiosity...had she seen him before, at some function or meeting in her youth? She couldn't quite place him; perhaps a servant she'd once met. Well, she still put on a graceful smile and greeted them primly.

"Charmed to make your acquaintance. I am Maurielle Anatol, fourth child and second daughter of House Jahimis. Perhaps this can all be sorted out with a minimum of fuss." She lifted up the skirts of her dress in a very small curtsy, head inclined slightly.

Then her eyes fell on the Great Inquisitor. This was the first time seeing him in person, and she struggled to keep an involuntary shudder from coursing through her body. Just looking at the man, she could see a zealot; someone so firm in his convictions he would see the whole world burn around him before he said "no". And she knew, with a brief glance at his intense expression, that there would be no peace.

Garrek listened to the Dominion's finest make their introductions. He'd met this Anatol lady before, in his youth. She had served under Torval for a while, while he'd been a squire. And speaking of Torval, his eyes met those of his uncle for a moment. Still a general, then? That made the two of them equals.

He recognised Kansar easily, giving him a brief look before glancing at the sword on the youth's hip. When he'd been sent away from home, that had been left behind, and he hadn't seen it in a long while. He sometimes still dreamt of it. Kansar shielded his eyes from the sword, so Garrek turned his head to glance over his shoulder. After he was sure everyone was where they were to be, he cleared his throat. When he spoke, he was painfully aware of the regional accent which sounded just like the Sistorians'.

"Very good, very good", he said, outwardly calm and collected. "I give you the First Citizen of the Republic, Sir Avus Gula, the Wielder of the Keys to All Our Cities, Grand Marshal of the Armies of Liberty, Noblest of Blood, Thought and Deed." He stepped out of the way to let the middle-aged-going-on-old ruler acknowledge the enemy with a solemn nod.

"The High Inquisitor Pietro Gori, the Cleanser of Heretics, Hero of the Republic and All Her Citizens." The grim-faced inquisitor gave Garrek an unimpressed look before turning his eyes to the Dominii. They didn't get so much as a nod from him.

"Commodore Taniel Corso, who is possessed of the nickname Black Jack." The artillery officer was the first one to crack a smile, his back bending a bit in a formal but reserved bow. He was the least of the men in the tent, but probably had the most kills under his belt at Marialla.

"General Otakar, the Minister of Wars and Defence of the Republic." The general actually did give a complete bow, humble as he were despite his advanced age and great status.

Garrek nodded to himself and turned back to the Dominii. Taking a bit of a breath, he spoke in well-practised words. "I, on the other hand, am Garrek, the commander of the Atoners, and now general to all Foreign Regiments of the Republic. Once I was known to you by a different name, before I left the Dominion in search of new venues. My mother named me Renal, after a grand ancestor of mine who won four battles in one day and was named Hero of the Dominion for his services. I am of House Sistorian, and that", he pointed at Brilliance, "is rightfully mine."

A silence fell in the tent for a bit. Torval opened his mouth to speak, and Garrek quickly added: "I see the scar's healed up well, nuncle. Sorry for that incident. I wasn't quite myself, that night."

‘’Thank you for such a warm and radiant welcome, a proper treatment by proper hosts I say. I agree too, discussing the past is for men who like reading old and silly books. Such shameful thing that our dear consul had to die in such tragic cirscutances. But well fanatics abound everywhere, don’t you think? Well, barring that aside, and before we discuss the matters of the future.

I say I agree with you, those poor people, they died such terrible and brutal deaths. I have never seen so many innocents died before, even less in such gruesome and terrible ways.’’ I say looking at the High Palatine, with a horrified face. . I was not lying of course, those poor fellows dying and exploding in such ways that were not of this world.

‘But excuse me my dear Sir’ I add with a sad face '‘as far I am concerned Mr Sistorian here did not shoot a single one of them, even more he cannot be put to blame for any one of those deaths. Because it was not gunpowder that killed them, but magic. And as you see, and as far I am concerned, he is incapable of using magic. If any of our own soldiers would be to blame for such a terrible crime, I would assure you tough I would burn them on a stake personalli its part of the Inquisitor's oath never to execute a person without proof of their terrible crimes. The thing is, that well none of our soldiers layed the road to his place with traps; it is not our fault they died while they came here to see how their god treated them. Or to be more precise, it was not our fault their god decided to receive them with such a radiant welcome.’

Having High Inquisitor Gori speak brought the entirety of Manlia Suren Issander's attention upon him. For the first time he really saw him - or through him, rather. For what Manlia saw was barely a man.

There was a time where peering directly into the spirit realm without practice or meditation would have been nigh impossible. Yet in recent years Manlia had begun to master the trick - and with Radiance's Spark, the mortal plane had taken on a new colour, a new light. Magic shone brightly, and its gleam was a pathway that Manlia's eyes could follow into the spirit realm itself.

And so it was with Gori. Though garbed in crimson, hints of the High Inquisitor's tattoos showed from beneath his vestments, and Manlia could not help but stare into their blackness - their nothingness. Then they consumed his attention, his presence of mind...

And I am elsewhere.

The pavilion is gone. I am barely more than a point of attention within a void. I know this sensation with intimacy. I am within the spirit realm.

But this has never happened before. Never have I been drawn into the spirit realm against my will.

It must be the power of Radiance's Spark
... coming into contact with that which is Gori. Meeting that which is barely alive.

I can sense the liquid desperation around me... For this is not just any personal Hell. This is a Binder's prison... the very core of every Inquisitor's body and soul. Sealed within tattoos, tormented spirits flail in unseeing agony, the source of the Inquisition's power...

I test my surroundings, trying to grasp more of what has happened to me.

The feeling of desperation intensifies, though it is not mine.

They are the inhabitants of this wretched place... but by the Arbiter - there are so many, so many, so many... how is it possible how can there be so many so many faces not possible not possible oh no no not godly not possible...

Calm.

Focus.

This is not so different from escaping a wicked spirit. You have trained for this before. You are no spirit - the tattoos hold no power over you.

I know the way out.

But first.

"I would speak with you, Gori."

An eternity later, Manlia Suren Issander opens his eyes... Renal stands before him.

"Do you wish to hear our demands, or shall we exchange more... pleasantries?"

Renal.

Here? Alive?

I mourned you.

My face is blank. I am silent. My self is in chaos. A thousand voices screaming in sorrow, in rage. You have betrayed the Dominion, Radiance, house Sistorian.

You betrayed me.

I grasp Brilliance, beginning to unsheathe it. You will not take it from me, not alive.

The High Palatine laughs. The voices die down. All eyes are on him. I let go of the sword. Nobody noticed.

The Inquisitor speaks. His words are poison, twisting and writhing. I feel sick. You stand alongside this man, Renal? I do not understand. You would mock Twin Star, to whom we owe everything?

Demands. When they should beg forgiveness, mercy. How far has your mind gone? I must focus all my power to stand silent, not to lash out. This will be over soon. We will let them speak their madness, then we will leave. That will be all.

As the High Inquisitor finished giving his demands, one of the Republican officers gulped down some of the wine. He cocked his head at the Inquisitor with approval, and then glanced sideways at Manlia as if to say, and so there we have it. He filled up his cup with more wine, and then offered it to Manlia.

Manlia pushed the man's hand away.
"The time for drinking wine in Varantium is over. I have outlawed it in Falor."

"Our demands-" another Republican official, creeping behind Gori, chimed in.

"-are clear." Manlia said. "You came here not only to conquer, but to destroy. To salt the earth. That was always obvious to us."

He could feel the nobles of the Great Houses seethe behind him. They still did not understand the purpose of this meeting...

"Your answer, then?" the First Citizen of the Republic cooed, his face saggy from stress, age and pride, so that a faint collar of flesh drooped upon his shirt.

"My answer is this. Even if you somehow overcome the strength of the God-Kings, you will pay too high a price and gain nothing from the ruins. Once you raze Falor - or more likely, once you all die trying, the Empire of Malvern will play its hand. And we would all be weakened. As much as I consider the Falorans of Malvern to be true brethren, they see both the Dominion and Republic as abominations. And they use gunpowder, do they not? And so, any advantage you had against us here will amount to nothing against Malvern."

"Let us worry about Malvern. Do not think that possibility hasn't occurred to us. But what will it matter, if they seize some of our provinces, when we have reclaimed Varantium? And don't think to fool us into thinking you would prefer us over them, Palatine." the First Citizen baulked, waving a silky hand through the air.

Manlia took a step forward, to seize up these Republicans, to look them in the eye, face to face.
"We should have all been as brothers and sisters. How many family members did your Atoners kill, Renal, as they pushed peasant-folk across traps meant for you? I dare say none of you dared look too close, lest you recognize the faces of the people you slaughtered. But it now obvious to me that you are not as rational as the Consul who preceded you, the Consul who was murdered. Once I break your army, I am sure you will be more open-"

"This is all besides the point!"

To Manlia's shock, the interruption had not come from the Republic, or even from Prince Kansar. He almost did not recognize the voice, since it was a voice that had rarely been raised in defiance. It was none other than Kanrel Valtorian. To see the Grandmaster of the Archonic Knights lose his temper and humiliate his own faction, to show division before a hated enemy - it shamed Manlia. Once, the Archonic Knights had been commanded by Radiance himself. Once, the Archonic Knights of Varantium had carried the Faloran standard across the peninsula, conquering kingdom after kingdom... and they had held the peace for generations. Until the decline. Now, the Grandmaster was naught but a puppet of House Sistorian. Manlia almost regretted riding to his rescue at Marialla.

Wine pooled at Manlia's feet - the Republican officer had dropped his chalice in shock at the outburst.

High Inquisitor Gori's face was alive with some strange emotion as Grandmaster Kanrel blasted a gauntleted fist onto the table.
"You are all making fools of us! You are blasphemous, worthless traitors! By the Gods, you are Falorans! Falorans! We were once the conquerors of this world, its Chosen People. We stood united and unbreakable beside the Gods, and you have made an utter mockery of our legacy! Even you, Renal! The High Palatine speaks of peace, but he is correct that there can be no peace - and not only because you do not wish it, no. No. It is we who will never have peace with you; you who have whored your souls so that you might rule without the wisdom of Gods!"