Monarchs Glen

(OOC: This thread is open to all faiths and races. The idea is help bring in the element of how diplomacy may or may not be working in the lands. I will post in segments probably changing the story location/relevant activities bi-weekly or upon participation change request by role players. If you wish to contribute, please post as the thread progresses throughout the age(s). Please do not use this thread to highlight inter-guild wars even if they happen in the middle of a delicate negotiation. Think of this as the meeting at the United Nations or something, with luck, all sides “claimed grievances” can be brought to light. Most of all have fun.)

Part I

Nymphsong sat at his desk. He reached for a parchment, then his quill. He dipped the quill into the readily available ink well. He paused, he pondered. The ink from the pen slowly pooled at the tip of the quill. Still Nymphsong, lost in thought failed to notice. The tiny specks of ink fell to the parchment each landing in carefree splatter. Nymphsong, a world away noticed the spots, and in attempt to remove the spots smeared the ink with his hand over the parchment. The ink spread over the parchment, staining the perfection of the paper with blotches of unintentional imperfect humanoid action. Nymphsong thought to discard the parchment and reach for another. Then he paused, perhaps the very stain was a symbol of the present situation. War had engulfed the lands for a generation. Many fighters had come and perished over the ages. Was perhaps the time, to find resolution where all the mortals could coexist? Nymphsong knew that peace talks could happen, he believed they could be productive, he felt they might even be the first inkling of signaling a peaceful resolution to years of violence. But, where to hold the peace talks? Who could head the peace talks? Would anyone even wish to attend? How would the races mingle? Much remained allusive. Nymphsong, pondered the possibilities and then a feint, yet genuine smile trickled across his face, the answer was forming.
Nymphsong, then freely let his diplomatic mind flow as he wrote,

"To the Lords of Angelique, Leto, and Barnabas,
To the Goblins, Dwarves, Humans, Elves, and other kin alike,
Greetings from friend to some and foe to others. I sit here in my study, and I have decided that we should bring the lords of the great kingdoms together to discuss the rules of war and perhaps a charter for peace. If nothing else, we can get an idea of where each side stands in the ongoing struggle. I understand that during these difficult times, finding a secure location for talks will be viewed skeptically at best. And having the talks in any one faith’s lands will be a slight upon the others. Therefore, I have contacted a merchant who has procured a long ship for our talks and was purchased by my chauffers. The long ship will be located near Scarwater Bay, but warded in magical protections designed to thwart wood-be assassination attempts. The location is ideal, as it is not on land, and will give leaders time to talk and mingle without the thought of war from land. I will accept full responsibility for any adverse actions that befall the meeting participants. Please RSVP within the week so that a guest list and quarters can be made available. Then arrive within another week of that prepared for dialogue and declarations of truce and treaty.
Your Friend or Foe,
Nymphsong”

Nymphsong carefully set his quill back into the ink well. He then roled the parchment, and sealed it in hot wax using his signet ring. He then cast a minor copy spell over the parchment creating hundreds of the invitation. With words of magic haste, the parchments flashed for a second and were on their way to the heathen and friendly lands throughout the realm. Perhaps this was the best chance for, peace in our time…if only the intended guests responded and wished for parlay.

*The parchment laid unrolled on his desk, he looked at the stars out of one of the windows in his room wondering to himself about what it said. Could it work, could there be a way for those who had warred since before he himself had been even a thought find a way to even discuss things without killing each other. He wasn't so sure but he couldn't miss the chance to find out. The sheer opportunity to mingle with those he should be intent on killing intrigued him.*

*He returned to desk and picked up a pen. He would make sure to lend support to his ally and perhaps find a way to cause a little trouble outside of the upper circle of Barnabas and hopefully not get himself killed in the meantime.*

Lord Nymphsong,

We of the Red Ranks support your attempt to bring everyone together. We will meet when is best and do anything in our power to help you in this endeavor. Let us know how we can lend you aid.

Carlos

*He looked at the simplicity of the letter but felt there was nothing he could. After a few moments he sealed the letter, in the morning he would let the rest of his vassals know they would need to attend and be on there best behavior. A messenger could not leave on such short notice so he returned to the windows and looked to the stars hoping for an answer that would never come.

Down in de tunnelz the goblins were eatin breakfast for dinner and the tunnelz smelled like a strange mixture of bird eggs and meat and strangely enough, honey. This one gobbiewench sat closest to one of the fires that dotted around in alcoves throughout the maze below the cities, below many of the cities, and farms and hamlets of friend and heathen alike. As she slurped at an elf ear cooked in honey and tunnel ale, she started to chuckle to see their mistress's Horance down here in the tunnels, with pages stuck over one of the old tusks sticking out from his old kobold face. Dat fookin woman better not a wrote anudder fookin book ta read before she gets ta de point. Da shit was annoyin and Mauhura hated the way the witch's language sounded, even on paper.

"Oy! Horannnnz! Gi'cherz blind one-legged shit fer brainz to de fire!" The old kobold spit a large slobbery bone from his maw, getting grease and dirt and who-knew-what else on the letter Tara had stuck there; she'd been right, if it was on his face he couldn't lose it. He made his way to the goblinwench's voice, mostly kicking whatever or who out of the way. "Fookjooz Mazza meez no brainz'o shit!" Horance spit back and laughed pulling the letter from his nubby tusk, smeared some'a the splatterings from it and handed it over.

Pretty soon Mauhura was reading it out loud and deys all were laughing and impersonating their "best behavior" by started what could only be described as a circling mosh pit of goblins and kobolds through her alcove, she just sat in the middle by the fire enjoying the scene, tripping or hitting a few who came too close and to keep them goin so she could zone out in the noise of the fray and write a note jun dat 'uman speak back to Carlos. She was actually glad he'd go but wasn't sure what he was thinkin try'n ta get her and god forbid that crazy wench out on a boat with a bunch'a heathen.

She pushed her way out of the alcove with the letter and made her way through the tunnels till she was coming out near Carlos's place. Even at a distance she could spot him hangin out the window a'stargazin. Great c'HaraH if we were at war his purdy face be all over dat windowsill. Fookin humans. A moment later her reddish-green gobliny eyeses were peering back at Carlos, hook-nailed feet clinging to the stone ledge below. She spit the letter out of her mouth as nicely as possible with a grin.

"jooz zoood put'cher sscruffy purdy 'umanz man face back in derez bosszzz *coughhackspitsupalittlebone* 'zcoooz dat..read dat" and with that her's was off again, leaving what any good goblin would think was best smell ever in her wake - blood and dinner - but what humans might wretch a little after. The few lines scrawled by a taloned fingernail in some sort of leathered hide said she'd try to get Tara off the mountain and on de boat but no promises and besides that kinda meet -n- fookin greet things was what he was here for anyway but she'd come along herself with Horance at least, that should be fun. A blind one-legged kobold on a ship.

The war was going badly for me. In a political move born of arrogance, I had led my devout warriors of Angelique against the combined armies of Barnabas, engaging both The Red Ranks and those damned elves. I glanced out the window into the blackened sky. Occasional lightning lances still dotted the skyline, but the hurricanes and raining deluge had not stopped in days. It was like watching my empire float into a gutter.
I looked out over the war council. The Banker is a shrewd man, and even as our assets dwindled, I could see the numbers still ticking in his head. Across from him, the Dragon-slayer sat, hands clenched in rage and disappointment. Seska was not the only who had hoped for glorious victory. Between them, my brother, Prince Elladan remained resolute. He displayed not a twitch of emotion. Perhaps it was because of the rum. Lord Bogumil was oddly absent. I pray he has not been waylaid or assassinated during these dark times.
A carrier hawk cried in the storm and swooped through the leeward window. It bore the seals of the Lords of Barnabas. My companions looked on with curiosity and a whisper of hope.
I removed the letter deftly, careful not to damage the now wet parchment and carefully unrolled it. I looked up to meet the eyes of my allies. "Peace."
We had lost this one. We could only pray that we had time to rebuild some defenses before the ravaging mindless hordes of the Letites found their way to our muddied roads and attacked us in our weakened state. I gazed out the window and the rain had already stopped. The magically summoned clouds were already dissipating. But on the horizon, I could see them; the campfires of the Leto hordes were already come.