TBH now that I've gotten over the salt from Gwolfski saying he liked your design better, I am now legit torn between her having black hair vs. white hair. Black hair's what I was originally thinking of, but it makes more sense for her glasses to be smoked since that'd more-effectively cover her face and white hair contrasts better with dark glasses (while also making her look a bit like Lady Gaga, which I find hilarious) from a pure design perspective, I think.
The setting is the throne room of the great dwarven metropolis of Mirrorclasped -- a truly lavish affair, designed from the bottom up to intimidate. The ceiling was so high above the torches illuminating the polished floor that it could scarcely be seen through the veil of shadow -- a true shame, as the small retinue of people in the room were missing out on some truly stunning relief work. Although, it was perhaps for the better, since if the room were more completely-lit it would be considerably more difficult to conceal the small army of snipers waiting in the rafters to immediately terminate any individual who looks to be posing a threat; admittedly, there were already a few extremely-heavily-armored guards arranged around the throne room and any outsiders were only permitted into the room under the mercy of no fewer than two armed escorts per person, but this was largely for show -- and as a decoy, as the king by and large would prefer any interlopers to waste their time trying to fight off an impenetrable -- if not terribly-mobile -- wall of steel while the bowmen readied their shots.
The human diplomat, a man by the name of Cobim Raconmater, shuddered. He hated this blighted city. Everything just felt... wrong. No sense of life or bustle or joy in the hallways -- just hushed whispers and furtive scurrying from place to place as the citizens desperately tried to avoid the gaze of the damned guards which littered the place like the eyes of the gods themselves. It reminded him of schoolchildren trying to hide from their teachers.
And that was just the main city. This throne room was another matter entirely; sitting in front of him, on an excessively-ornate seat with platinum embossery radiating out on the wall behind it like a silvery sun, his every digit clinking with sparkling jewelry, was His Gaudiness Erib Catchtowns himself, the ringleader of this sick circus; two lady-dwarves, one -- the King Consort, Cobim was fairly-certain -- in black finery and the other a small mound of blue robes and black, bushy hair with two large spectacles peering out, were on either side of him; Cobim wasn't quite sure, but he hazarded that this was the Royal Archivist, although he wasn't quite sure what business a mere historian would have in the throne room during a royal audience. Two enormous guards in full armor were beside Cobim on either side; they hadn't spoken a word since meeting him outside the room. Small beads of sweat were on Cobim's forehead; he knew in his gut that it would only take a moment's pique and a single clinking snap of the dwarven monarch's fingers and he would disappear. Even with his small retinue of bodyguards, he was outnumbered two to one, and these guards were... frightening. Too big, too taciturn, breaths too deep and guttural. The sheer size of the room bore down on him from all sides, making him feel extremely small and vulnerable, like a mouse in an open field.
All considered, it was probably a good thing Cobim didn't know about the snipers. It would have caused him a great deal of unnecessary stress.
His Gaudiness leaned forward in his seat, peering at Cobim over steepled fingers, his expression cold. One of his bushy grey eyebrows was arched in what Cobim gauged to be contempt. "For what purpose have you requested an audience today?" droned Erib; his voice was very calm, without the faintest strain to it, yet completely filled up the massive chamber as though it were a tiny little outhouse, the entire volume of air seeming to thrum in resonance.
Cobim bowed as deeply as he could physically-manage. "I come bearing good news," he announced, figuring it was as a good an opener as any; he desperately hoped his terror wasn't carrying over into his voice as much as he thought it was. "In light of the immense service the Torrid Lash has rendered the other peoples of this continent in preventing the further advancement of the Spawn of Holistic's territory, my liege the King would offer to contribute to your noble efforts. 5 armies, totalling around 1000 men overall, all at your disposal to serve in the frontlines as you see fit." Cobim fidgeted with his hands slightly; "We will additionally freely provide a full supply of --"
"No," interrupted Erib suddenly, his voice still calm and even.
Cobim looked up, silent for a few moments as he tried to process what had just happened. "B-beg pardon, your Gaudiness?" he stammered in genuine confusion. The Consort glanced sideways at Erib, clearly as gobsmacked as Cobim was, although it was tinted with rage rather than fear, her black-painted lips curled slightly to reveal gleaming white teeth.
"No," repeated the king; "We refuse your offer. Your current contribution of small strike forces and rations is sufficient. We do not require, nor do we desire, further aid." More livid sideways glances from the Consort.
Cobim chewed his tongue. His superiors hadn't thought to suggest what to do should Erib refuse; the mere thought was absurd. However, it seemed that everything about this blasted hole was absurd. "Er," he stammered; Erib raised an eyebrow inquiringly. "Sir," began Cobim, "With, um, all due respect, I beg you to reconsider. We mean not to insultify the, um, grandiferous strongliness of your glorious legions. It's, um, just that... the southern mountains serve as a... importicious... barrier to the Spawn's advancement. On the off chance that they break through your blockades and spread into the flatlands -- "
"They won't," interrupted Erib; to Cobim's horror, there was a distinct twang of irritation in the monarch's voice. He glanced around the room nervously; the Consort's lips were drawn tight -- she obviously was not pleased with the state of the negotations, although he wondered feverishly who the cause of her wrath was. The Archivist, meanwhile, simply looked tentatively-interested, as though she were attending a boring play that suddenly looked to be leading up to a murder scene.
"But wouldn't it be safer to just --" sputtered Cobim, before being stopped by Erib's upraised palms. He gazed at the King, somewhat-stunned.
"It would be unacceptable," explained his Gaudiness, slowly and carefully, as though speaking to a very young and rather-slow child, "For such a large-scale contribution to be made towards our effort." He reclined back in his seat. "That is not how we do things here, you see. Unlike you humans, we make every effort to protect our civilians from information that may prove upsetting." Erib nodded at the Archivist, who nodded back; then he continued: "To wit, the severity of the conflict with the Spawn. An army of the size you suggest would raise... questions, inevitably. And where there are questions, there is doubt. Doubt in our fellow dwarves, doubt in the law, and doubt in my rulership. Doubt which leads to fear, which in turn leads to hate. And so our glorious, unified kingdom shall disintegrate into violence and clannish squabbling, which you humans have the gall to call civilisation." He shook his head; "Humans can keep their chaos, their fiefdoms and their petty infighting. The Torrid Lash shall remain a unified bastion of law and order as it has for the past two centuries."
Cobim opened and closed his mouth a few times, unable to come up with a suitable response; he was decidedly-offended, and had more than a few choice words to say at the moment, but speaking any of them aloud seemed unwise in light of the massive guards breathing down his neck. In any case, His Gaudiness's opinion on the matter seemed rather final. Cobim bowed again. "Thank you, sire," he said, looking at the polished stone floor; he found himself suddenly unable to look Erib in the eye. "I will take my leave now, if it pleases you."
"It would indeed," responded Erib evenly; "Go, and may Tumam's righteous light ever guide your footsteps." Cobim didn't believe in Tumam, and wondered if the King was deliberately trying to insult him, but showing offense seemed unwise. He simply turned and walked away without another word, his retinue and the eerie guards following him as he went.
The dwarves watched the human diplomat as he drew further away towards the far end of the great hall, his figure shrinking into the distance; the guards opened the doors for him as he approached, then closed it behind him.
Once Cobim was gone, the King Consort -- whose name, incidentally, was Tobul Holdtraded -- turned and glared at Erib furiously. "Was that really necessary, dear?" she said, her tones surprisingly-sweet considering that she looked angry enough to gut the king right there in the throne room; "1000 bodies? At no cost? Do you feel like explaining to our soldiers' families that we could have had one thousand humans to die in their place had you not been so pig-headed?"
Erib puffed. "It's a security risk. I already explained. If the public knew we were accepting aid from skygazers, there would be an uproar." He paused contemplatively; "Urvad certainly wasn't very fond of them."
Tobul smiled dangerously at the mention of the late queen. "The Great Queen has returned to the stone," she said, every word dripping with equal parts honey and venom; "Tumam grant the rest of the kingdom isn't sent to join her."
The Archivist, who had been watching the conversation with passive interest, spoke. "The wife has a point, albeit a small one," she said, her voice a quiet monotone that Tobul had to strain to hear; Erib immediately turned towards her, at full attention, as she continued: "You could have at least negotiated for more strike forces, if not full armies. Additional cannon fodder is always a boon." She turned away and stared into space contemplatively. "It's a moot point now, though. You've let the opportunity slip away."
Erib gritted his teeth as the Archivist's words sank in like a dagger; the woman stared off into space, immediately retreating back into her own inner world, either not aware of or not caring about the effect her commentary was having on the King's psyche. She was right, as usual. He'd just missed an opportunity to secure an enormous amount of free resources for his use. The failure burned in his gut like a hot coal, but he forced himself not to show distress. Nothing for it but to just let it burn.
As Erib brooded, Tobul stared daggers at the Royal Archivist. Not because she'd upset her husband; she knew better than anyone that the man's ego was like an eggshell. No, it was Tobul's own pride that was slighted. Seeing her own husband take such deep heed of the Archivist's counsel only seconds after rejecting her own had lit something very nasty inside of her; the fact that the Archivist had, in a momentous occurrence, agreed with her only made it worse, as though the words only had meaning when they'd come out of |her| mouth. And then there was the fact that the Archivist had all that respect despite being objectively poorer-dressed then her.
The Archivist stared off into space, apparently-unaware of the Consort's rage, a fact which only made it burn more hotly.
Not super confident in the prose here, but I need to get this out since it's been festering on my computer for a while now.
I've been doing a bunch of character sketches; hopefully I'll be able to share them at some point (I incorporated some of the stuff in Monitor's drawing into my sketch of the Archivist, if that's okay).
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Topic: (34.11 Succession) Clobbermountains -- The End(?) (Read 383637 times)