The Arcaadji Plibtribyew

- Old Psophis Castum, In the time between night and morning...

Deep within her ancient limestone walls, the fortress of old Psophis woke with an unusual haste, as the few staff in the employ of the Vožd readied the stronghold for the long day ahead. Old Arcaadjitte women mopping out the sandstone tiled halls and sweeping the wooden floorboards. The Drošani (or bannermen as some might have called them in the south) inspecting the doors and portholes for any tampering. One yawning hag (in the literal sense of supernatural heritage) marched atop the inner keep with a smoking censer, as below the front gate was cranked open by a Minotaur.

Before the sun had risen most of the denizens of the small but exceedingly sturdy fort were already up and at their posts, or for the more domestic hands of the staff? They returned to their beds. While those further up the ladder struggled to escape their own bedding as they would be the ones carrying the long day ahead.

From the upper floor of the two story keep, down a small craggy flight of stairs stepped the master of this house and all associated lands beyond, yawning and clearing the sleep from his eyes. The Vožd and Baron; Lampys Erymanthius. He was a man of some height and a rigid posture, lean and bony, his skin darkened by the sun. With black brown hair now shaded by a few strands of grey, cut clean shaven from most of his head, except a line of hair kept right at the top of his head. The Vrĭx style as it was called locally, while in the distant south it was called a 'Barbarian Curtain'. Beside his long horseshoe moustache, slit black eyes, and resting grimace, he might have been quite intimidating to a stranger. Yet stepping forward clad in only a base towel about his waist, the riding boots on his feet, an empty horn-pipe hanging out of the corner of his mouth and his clothes bundled in a pile under his arm...

It was in that moment a far cry from the barbarous mountain lord he usually presented himself as.

He marched slowly down the stairs, through small tight halls where the stone floors had developed grooves from centuries of walking, and into the central “throne” room of the fort. A decently large hall of simple checkered blue and white tiles, an arched ceiling with carvings of ancient saints, a pair of grand bronze doors cast wide open to outside. A few lamps hung upon the walls cast orange shades. The hall was occupied by five things as he shambled in. First, one of the many cats of the fort, a fat orange tabby of venerable years laid sleeping right at the open entrance. Second, the old throne of the former baron, now shoved into a back corner and split largely in half by a massive scimitar that remained embedded within. The blade of which was now wrapped in cloth after one of the cats had nicked themselves on the edge. Third was the current 'Throne' sat right at the centre of the hall. It was made in the local style of seat and resembled a small but wide table upon which a firm green cushion was set, raised only a foot above the ground. Lastly, women stood before the Vožd's seat.

The first was the foremost Custodian of the House, Szazachis, an almost eight foot tall Lamia who was like a second Mother to the Vožd, all dark grey scales, black cloth dress and the sort of glowing yellow eyes that put the fear of God into men on moonless nights. Swaying slightly as she stood in conversation with his Letter Minder, Oath Keeper, & Financier, Eramina Erymanthius. A short woman of bright red hair and resplendent emerald gown. One of his actual half-sisters and a member of his inner circle.

“-well I will be on guard as always-” Szazachis whispered as the Vožd drew near.

"More than usual! I am tired of being the last to learn we have a s- Brother!” Eramina jumped as Lampys shambled past her.

“After.” Lampys croaked, though she ran after him and paused him for a moment, grabbing his shoulder.

“The funds for the potters and the Likatti outpost, are we still in agreement?”

Lampys nodded. “Aye, aye. Now please let me cleanse myself while I have the chance.”

Eramina rolled her eyes but allowed him to pass, turning back to Szazachis to continue their meeting.

The Vožd stumbled out of the Fort, into the lush courtyard of the Castum lined with with northern olive trees and flowering Blind-Weeds, and then out the main gate of the Fortress. Out into the thriving town that surrounded it. The sun had not yet risen, though the sky was shifting, the night stars and the crescent moon fading slowly above on a sky stained with shades of pink and blue.

The streets were paved with ancient greenish cobblestone and were already filling with bodies. The street dogs, cats, and steppe cassowaries waking to scour the alleys for prey. The street sweepers clearing dust and free peddlers readying their booths for this fateful day. Young children sent to fetch water from wells. And those like him who were headed to the public baths.

A long structure not far from the Castum. A structure of old marble floors and pillars, with bronze pipes all about and secured beneath a tiled roof of fresh red clay tiles. It was an ancient thing like the Castum from the days of the very first Empire that had occupied these lands. Lampys Erymanthius had overseen its restoration in his first year of rule and continued to make use of it. Much to the dismay of his guards. He stepped under the overarching covered roof, past the public pool already filled with craftsmen and labourers to one of the sections of showers that surrounded the central pool. Open topped structures with walls of brick and stone benches.

No one else was present in this particular shower so with little ceremony Lampys yanked off his towel. Kicking off his boots he dropped his clothes and his pipe on the pile, then stepped beneath the green bronze shower head. With little ceremony he yanked the valve.

Outside the showers some would have been forgiven for thinking the noise that came from within was a water pipe flexing. Not of a man reacting to the spray of cold water that shocked him awake, and when the frigid spray had served its purpose he adjusted the valve and began to wash himself off. Though he did not get far before something large and predatory landed above him on the wall. A northern harpy, with her raptor talons painted royal green and plumage a resplendent blue, clad in the light leather armour of the Hetman's forces.

“My Zevazt?” She asked tucking her wings in and forcing herself to look at his face, already flushed from flight.

The Vožd did not respond immediately as he looked up at her. “You know it is rude to interrupt a man cleaning himself?” Lampys asked running his hand through his hair. “What is it Dojk?”

The young harpy clicked, reflexively biting her lip for a moment. “Well... No news is good news today! Outside of that fop the men caught the other day... Nothing seems to be amiss.” She proclaimed. “The Plibtribyew safe. At least from issues we could solve with claw and club.”

The Vožd was silent, nodding to himself. “Good.” He said simply.

“Good?”

“Good.” Lampys repeated, shutting off the shower head. “You have done all I can ask of you, and for that I thank you. Now unless you've come to gawk at an overly familiar sight I think you've better places to be, Dojk.” The harpy bowed to him, turning and flying off as fast as she had come.

The moment the noise of wings and a nervous chuckling beside, Lampys towelled himself off and dressed, though immediately he noted that his shirt was absent. To which he simply shrugged, pulled on his pants, sash belt, leggings, boots, and his red Khaftan coat. Scrounging for a moment in his restored pockets for a tin of 'Pink Salt' and a box of matches. While there were many pipe weeds out there cultivated in the distant south and west, he was fond of the home-grown rock, usually created from mountain salts in Northern Arcaadjia by local alchemists. Usually serving as ritual incense for archaic practices, it was also a smokable for eccentrics like him. He lit his pipe and exited the baths. Searching about for a moment in his pockets for his coin purse, and grasping it, he made his way into town.

The settlement of Psophis had grown out of the old Castum, with the present settlement supported by five major water wells that had become the centres of the five districts. Forming a roughly diamond shape (if a tad oblong and bottom heavy) that were now enclosed by tall modern walls.

The Castum Well in the Fort courtyard was the centre of the South, the Arcade Well supported the dense Centre, the Old Shrine Well supported the East District, in the North the Military District was supported by the creatively named Northern Well (with a second small well dug specifically for the Imperial Outpost), and lastly in the West the 'Jade Well' supported the mixed Western District. In his years of rule he'd grown well acquainted with his township, and at a brisk walk Lampys strolled out towards the Arcade.

The heart of the current city market was a round plaza, surrounded by a large circular arcade of marble pillars and one-sided basalt roofs, fit for protecting the vendors and merchants from both the warm summer suns and the blizzards that oft struck during the winter. Already, many of the vendors and individual caravan masters had readied themselves for the events of the day ahead with their tents and booths manned. Though all went ignored by the Vožd as he marched through the arcade. Until he reached one section set aside for the food carts 'Begs', called such for the sway they had over the Urban labourers. Their works filled the air with strong aromas, from myriad coffees and teas, morning meat dishes and stews. Though Lampys was focused upon only two Begs this morning.

The first was a tea seller, a short Arcaadji man of advanced age who sat himself down beside his huge brass Samovar, which was a head taller than him. With great proficiency he poured out clay cups of steaming orange drink to satisfy the small crowd before him, though the moment he saw the Vožd approach he scrambled for the finer tin cups he kept hidden away. Then forced himself to stop. He continued as before, brow set and heavy as he ladled out cups for several older women, an ancient orc resting upon a cane, a small horde of children who bickered over a tin of sugar cubes one had brought, and finally the Vožd himself. “A good morning Izrymchi?” He asked.

The tea seller's hand shook as he poured one more cup into a clay cup. “Yes'sir.” His coarse response a single word. “Like ta' be busy all morning, s-” He fell silent as the Vožd withdrew a full silver Drakh. “Gah! Take tha' cup with'yas' 'en! Make me feel a wretched swindler!” The smallest smile appeared as Lampys tossed him the silver coin and it vanished into his pocket in a flash. “AN' DON' SENDI' BACK 'IS TIME!”

“I can hardly control my sister Izrymchi.” Lampys said as he walked away, blowing on the saffron tea a moment before taking a drink. It was the sort of thing made for the smiths and soldiers of the city but had become popular with just about every member of society, a hardy citrine tinted drink that was sharp and bitter. But gave a lasting vigour that lasted long into the day. Even southern migrants would enjoy the beverage, though they insisted in spiking it with milk of all things.

He sipped as he awaited the line ahead of him to disperse, catching only a single shocked glance from a hooded figure, most of the denizens of the town were acquainted with the sight of him. A fact he relied upon to identify interlopers.

“Young Lamp!” The owner of the small stall started when she noticed him. Mathyzt Aželězo was an truly archaic dwarf whose remaining hair had turned white as snow, her eyes almost blinded by cataracts and face darkened from liverspots. But her nose and hearing remained. “Come!” She poured him a Badyyzkorst, a 'cup' of thick beef and mushroom stew contained in a hard bread vessel, allowing a potter or cobbler to carry it with them and eat the 'cup' after the stew was done. Despite her age and ailing body Mathyzt had served the people of Psophis for almost a century, and wielded a ladle with like a mage wielded an arcane staff. “I trust you and Erami are taking care of yourselves?”

“Much as we can Mathyzt, though you know she is married to the work.”

“Bah! Of course she is! Because no one is man enough to court her!” Mathyzt said as she poured out a second Badyyzkorst and handed him both. “For her. We've never had to worry about you starving, but her? I should hope that... Oh! Before I forget! Nephew Tomar will be bringing his boys today so don't be too hard on him for what he has done.”

Lampys handed her a Silver Drakh before shuffling the cups to carry them home. “I can tr,y so long as he hasn't hired a mason for it. Be well babúsja.”

Then Lampys went on his way, returning to the Castum. Outside of which already people were waiting. Mostly clansmen from out in the hills dressed in cherkeska and tall woollen hats, but there were also green painted barbarians (dressed much the same as their human counterparts,) green-skin clansmen struggling to stay awake as they leaned upon their spears, and a handful of cosmopolitan Imperials in brightly coloured clothes that looked particularly extravagant beside the locals.

All waiting for the opening of the Plibtribyew. It was an ancient ritual that had been maintained since the founding of the Castum, where the nominal lord of the Fort was expected to open his doors and receive petitions from the common folk. Even the eras where Northern barbarians, greenskins, beastmen, vampires, and even rogue lords from the south had ruled over these lands, the ritual had been maintained.

Lampys passed through the crowd without issue, as the awaiting petitioners parted with whispers and nods. Within, his sister was waiting, already unrolling the sitting rugs beside the throne. Eramina turned at his approach. “Good that...” He offered one of the Badyyzkorst to her. “God bless her soul.” She whispered as she took the cup. Pausing and taking a drink of the hearty breakfast. “Are you ready?”

“As ready as I can be. It has been a good winter though sister and I'd know a great issue long before it arrived.” He sat upon his throne and place his cup of tea on the floor before him. For a moment it looked like Eramina considered contesting that. Though she let it rest as one of the maids brought in a low table and placed it before the Vožd.

As he drank his stew, a heavy set of steps came from behind, with a tall Orcish woman emerging from the inner passage behind, clad in little but a silk skirt and a ribbon someone had tied upon one of her tusks. She smiled sheepishly at the Vožd, and adamantly ignored the Stewardess who glared at her passing.

When he had finished his breakfast and washed it down with his remaining tea, Lampys waited. Outside the courtyard began filling with people while his sister departed for a time, his maids and porters finishing the readying of the hall for the petitioners, even if most of the work had already been done. Though he did not need to wait long before two men entered through the front, with clear intent and familiar form. Two of his inner circle.

His Otaman (or 'marshal' as some Imperials preferred), the Junker Dulf Rothbart led the way. A robust man from the distant Imperial heartland who was all freckles and curling locks of red hair. Notable for his heavy plate armour, curved nose that bent to the left from an old injury, and a cloak fashioned from steppe tiger skin. He absolutely overshadowed the man following behind him, Lampys' Magistrate, Sir Owen YacGorbens. A spry and short fellow with dark brown hair cut to the grain of his head, and a well tempered moustache. He still wore the dark leather clothes of a mercenary from the distant west and his hand rested on the estoc sheathed upon his hip.

The two men had been whispering to another as they entered, but the moment they passed the threshold, they stopped. “Mine Vožd!” Rothbart barked.

Lampys beckoned them over. “I assume you're not here about the little mouse you caught the other day?”

“No sir.” YacGorbens said, overtaking Dulf to give the Vožd a formal bow. “News from the South East. One of your patrols chased down scouts. Striped and horned scouts. We can confirm that, at best, they and the Northern Clans are mobilizing against the broader Empire by optimistic leaders. With enough sway that the Beastmen recognized the need to retreat.”

“And at worst the Khagan of Beast Men and the Konungr of the Mountain tribes are the same supernatural entity. As has been whispered.” The Vožd finished for him. “I trust you've confirmed the report?”

“Three messages by Crow back and forth! And apparently one of the men who engaged is already riding into town with a personal gift for you!” Dulf asserted. “But even if we are lucky and this is simply the goat men and men goats taking advantage of each other and they're planning a proper harrowing in the south-”

“We can hardly afford to make assumptions with the numbers they have,” The Vožd said as the clack of hooves came from behind, two women hurrying their way out of the Castum. The one a beat red creature with furred ears, black eyes, and cloven hooves visible beneath her skirt. The other used the first as cover for her lack of garb beyond a pointed hat, a pale woman of oily black hair visibly with child. The faun tried her best to avoid making a scene, though the witch waved coyly as they exited at Lampys. The Vožd paid them no mind. “Still. The fact that we know where they are massing... We have the initiative. I will hold council tonight with my circle once the Plibtribyew has finished.”

“Of that?” YacGorbens said idly tapping his sidearm. “Are you certain we should allow her to... I know the custom but...”

The Vozd laughed. “The sooner she is dealt with the sooner you have a chance to track her to her master.”

“If she goes for the traditional fee!” Rothbart laughed putting a hand about the Magistrate most fraternally. “You overestimate their willingness to suffer for their masters Owen.”

“You never know Dulf. This is the third one this year and they're starting to clog up the holding cells.” Lampys conceded. As more people entered the Throne Room from within the fort, led by his Sister. A stout man in Monk robes devoid of any hair at all carrying a small stool. Along with a heap of writing supplies. Lampys' personal scribe and note-taker; Grigor. Beside came his Master of Ceremonies, Dijengis. A towering steppe barbarian who'd wholly adopted Arcaadji custom to the point he'd taken up many (sometimes forgotten) customs, such as bleaching his locks and moustache, his bright teal robes as gaudy and apparent as the shined horn in his hands. The monk began setting up his things beside Lampys' throne while Dijengis quickly made his way out to await the hour of announcement. “Shall you be remaining here for the festivities sirs or will you bee needing leave?” The Vožd asked his inner councilmen.

The Otaman ran his hand through his heavy beard. “No, if you would allow it,” Rothbart declared. “I need to go scrounge up some knick-knacks for the nephews and nieces back home. They do love trinkets.”

“Then go, enjoy yourself while there is light and time to do so.” Lampys turned to the pensive magistrate.

Owen shrugged. “You know I struggle with ceremony sir. I will be present, if not at your side. As per usual.”

“That is all I can ask of you my friend. At your own pace.” The Vožd nodded turning as someone else entered the room. Initially heralded a number of other cats. A young halfling woman of short sandy hair and blue eyes, with a bandaged neck that failed to hide several bite marks, dressed as one might expect of a common baker, if a tad dishevelled. She paused the moment she entered with the Magistrate and the Vožd looking her way, frozen. YacGorbens turned about quickly after Rothbart, while Lampys beckoned the short woman over. She said nothing though took his hand for a moment, letting him kiss her on the wrist. She departed with a wide smile, making her way out of the Fort through the courtyard and vanishing into the crowd.

The Master of Ceremonies was already beginning to spread tickets for the Sortition, a lottery preventing the early risers from completely dominating the proceedings and the time of the Vožd, as some cunning clans had done in the past. One of his grandfather's innovation's he'd seen fit to restore.

“Sir...” Grigor began as he finished setting up his basic scribing table and sat down upon his stool. “Where is your shirt?”

For a moment his brow furrowed and he idly scratched his head.

“Would that have been on-” Lampys was stopped as a booming voice shook the Courtyard.

“MINE HETMAN!” The call made him jump to his feet, as from the road a haggard rider came into view, astride a tall stallion that was heaving for breath and shaking, not unlike the man himself. He was utterly naked aside the turban on his head, the boots on his feet, and the belt from which his scimitar hung. He struggled to dismount as a young boy jumped into action with a bucket, drawing water from the well for the horse. While the rider, carrying something twisted and bloody finally managed to dismount. Rothbart and YacGorbens reappeared from behind the rider who stumbled into the throne room. Clearly limping with bandages covering one of his eyes. “HETMAN! Gr- Great Hetman!” The Vožd marched to the door, catching the rider as he jerked to kneel and almost collapsed in a heap. “I- Have I come too early for tribute?!” He laughed aloud, in spite of the fact he was clearly ready to pass out.

“Good news is always welcome my Askora. But breathe a moment! You are no good to me dead!” Lampys helped the man fall to his knees without him wholly collapsing and went into the courtyard, where the young boy who'd taken the bucket was allowing the rider's horse to slake itself. He grabbed another. Returning to his rider with the full bucket and allowing the man to sate himself.

He choked on the water, but did not stop drinking for a long moment. When he finally pulled his lips away from the wood, he forced himself to formally bow, so low his turban hit the floor. “Great Hetman, I come with a gift for you.” He offered his prize, which now could be seen clearly. The head of a huge forest goat man with twisting broken horns and a shaggy hair. A feral beast normally residing in the distant south-east. Now caked in dried blood with eyes wide open, it stared blankly and impotently up at Lampys. “It is true, I have never seen a feral beastling run, but I tracked him down! He cost me an eye, but I think I came out better than he!”

The Vožd took the head by the hair, watching as its mouth fell open and a tongue covered in bony spikes slid out. “You do us all a great service.” He then reached down to pull the rider to his feet. “But you are no good to your brothers in arms dead. Get yourself to the lodge and have your steed brought to the stable. Make sure your wounds are treated and I shall receive a full report from you tomorrow. Now go.” He slapped him on the shoulder as one of the Drošani on guard passed off his glaive to assist the Askora, who it was clear was all but ready to pass out now that his purpose had been completed, and the pair stumbled off towards the fortress gate. His horse remained, though yet another Drošani stepped from his guard position to pull the beast along. At least, whenever it finished gulping down water.

“An ugly day when the feral hosts deign to retreat.” Rothbart growled. “And not even to fight us!”

“At first.” YacGorbens corrected him. “No doubt when the invasion hits the northern periphery in full, they'll attempt a backhanded blow, cutting us off from the south and attempting to overwhelm our position.”

Lampys said nothing, eyeing the ugly head in both hands.

“Sir?” His Caster of Ceremony approached timidly. “Shall we begin the proceedings or-”

“We begin on schedule. For the moment we have peace and the fruits of our hard earned prosperity. Begin the Plibtribyew at your leisure, Dijengis. My people have petitions and it is my job to hear them today, neither two legged goat nor braying zebra will stop that!” He turned to return to his throne, finding his sister waiting before.

The moment she saw the head she shuddered. “Brother would you have me-”

“It is the first tribute of the day! I shouldn't part with it lightly!” He returned to his throne.

“I- Yes how very noble of you but I am summoning the Trophy maker and you will be handing it over then.”

“Of course!” Lampys conceded as he sat upon his throne, taking the head and putting it to the ground, that he might rest one foot upon it. Eramina whispered an order to one of the remaining Drošani guarding the hall, who quickly departed.

Outside the Master of Ceremony blew his horn, beginning the long hearing that could drag on into the late night, where any man or woman who was not a noble, nor of the clergy, nor of significant wealth could bring forward petitions, request audience with him, or deliver tribute to him. Despite the exhaustive process, the Vožd knew well he much preferred it to his dealings with the other estates. As his scribe laid out the bound scrolls containing prior precedents at his side, and his sister pulled up a chair to sit on his opposite flank. His Otaman and Magistrate who'd watched the affair eyed one another. Rothbart turned and departed, but once more his Magistrate approached the throne.

“If I could begin my own preparations?” YacGorbens asked. “I was never one for merriment.”

The Vožd nodded. “As you would Owen.”

A brutal gleeful look crossed the Westerling man's face and he jogged off, vanishing into the crowd outside.

“Your inner circle is full of eccentrics.” Eramina sighed.

Lampys laughed as he pulled his pipe out of his mouth. “You are my foremost supporter in that circle, sister.”

“Yes. And my eccentricity is that I stayed behind with you people. God have mercy I could have had some fiefdom of my own but for some damned reason I remain.” She leaned back into her chair. “Can we...”

She stopped as someone very small and very round walked in from behind, carrying a familiar shirt and clad in a sheepskin cloak that hid little. A goblin who was more wide ears and grinning sharpened teeth than anything else. She did not walk so much as shuffle with how... expectant she was. She was not slow though, tossing the shirt to the stone faced Vožd and blowing him a kiss, before she vanished out the front door. The garment landed on his lap with a dull thop.

To one side, Grigor was trying very hard not laugh. He failed spectacularly.

To the opposite Eramina clenched her fist for a moment. Eye twitching.

“Brother.”

Lampys pulled off his coat to dress himself. “Yes?”

“Unless the goatmen are at the gates come autumn I am adding a second entrance to this damned fort.”

“I... Wouldn't refuse that.”

The Plibtribyew began without much fanfare, the courtyard packed such that it became a wall of bodies, and no doubt behind the street was likely filled with bodies of prospective commoners and tribal folk eager to seek the audience of the Vožd. No doubt even further beyond the whole city was alive. Filled with families, tribes, and visitors who treated the ceremony not unlike a public festival. The merchants of the city certainly treated it as such, with many foreign caravan masters having made the precarious journey on tense roads to his domain for the Plibtribyew when the masses from across the Highlands always made their way into the city. There were even southern performers like mummers and traditional sports played outside the walls.

The Vožd saw little of this though, as sat upon his throne he carried out his duty with an almost endless line of petitioners. Seeking audiences, redress from existing rulings, questions, personal requests, or occasionally tribute directly to the Lord without intermediary. Perhaps a sign of the good fortunes of Arcaadjia.

It was what the Vožd usually dealt with amplified a hundredfold. Dwarven clansmen complaining at length about their greenskin neighbours. Their greenskin neighbours usually more concerned with one another and the feuds that split their tribes. The more mannish Arcaadjian tribes usually irking both of the former with their flagrant use of firearms and horseplay, while all three groups filed complaints about the more Monstrous clans. The great barbarian clans were at odds with one another more than any outsiders, though they oft stepped on their neighbours toes. In the literal sense, as they were quite big and were not known for nimbleness. But Lampys recalled well what the land had been like when he had taken the throne. No longer did the people demand duels to the death and liaison to go to war, but compensation for lost fingers and wounds. Rather than head prices, there were demands for recompense or duels to settle legal matters. Almost none to the death either, aside the black orc tribe of Golak who were going through a succession crisis of their own after Gout finally got their chief. Perhaps the duels were to compensate for the shame that came from Old Splint-Fang being brought low by his love of pork.

But there were also property disputes, emigres from the south requesting certain positions either in Psophis or in the villages surrounding the town. Summary requests for farming rights in public lands and grazing paths, oft granted or shuffled about to prevent the free peasants and cattlemen from eating one another. The occasional inheritance that was in dispute were also brought to him.

Outside of one minor incident where a number of harpies fighting over their mother's home almost killed one another, it was a peaceful and productive morning with over a hundred and fifty petitions settled, and satisfied as much as he could. Such that he didn't even notice when one of his inner council members strutted into the throne room like any of the other petitioners.

Gevny Tarotzki, the Boyar of Tyv was a huge man, broad shouldered and fat bellied. Dressed in dark blue robes with silver tusk caps, he was perhaps the most prestigious man of partial greenskin heritage in the entire highlands, despite his status as the revenue master of the entire hold. A status normally reviled. Perhaps it was the air about him, as the grinning man stepped before the Vožd, under one arm a mass of scrolls. In the opposite a cone of 'iced sweet-milk' that was being sold outside. “My friend,” Gevny said as he placed down the scrolls mostly beside the Scribe, aside one which he handed to Eramina personally. “I am happy to report that the tax-work this half-year is finished with little issue.”

The Vožd scoffed halfheartedly into his pipe. “You are neither a plebeian nor a clansman Gevny.”

“Perhaps not, but that won't stop me from trying to fit in.”

Beside Lampys, Eramina looked over the master-scroll. “So it is, another year of surplus. We might even be able to export the excess to the south. If the roads can be made safe.”

“Or perhaps let them come to us?” The Tax Organizer added before turning back to the Vožd. “I do not come purely for that however. Were that the case I would not make a scene. The... Little rat the magistrate caught the other day? I believe she is next in the allotment if you are still...”

He trailed off as Lampys withdrew his salt tin again and refilled his pipe, lighting it and inhaling. Dark smoke tinted with chromatic weaves escaped his mouth. “Let her. We already have her in tatters.”

The Boyar bowed and made his way out, just as the woman of the hour came into view, accompanied on both sides by a pair of Drošani who made sure the shackled 'commoner' didn't escape. A middle aged woman of dirt brown hair in ragged curls and blue eyes, in blood splattered blouse and skirt in the style of the Imperial heartland that made it obvious she wasn't some random artisan as she'd claimed. The woman, who still hadn't given a name but had insisted that this was an absolute breach of Imperial justice, marched before the Throne. “I come to petition for release from these barbaric conditions!” She hissed.

“I am obliged to listen to your petition madam. However,” The Vožd chuckled as he pulled out his pipe, pointing the stem at her. “As we have evidence and testimony you were sent on pretense of espionage, I must refuse. For the safety of my realm. You understand, I'm sure?”

The spy blanched. “I... No that can't be- What evidence could you possibly have...”

“The testimony of one of your alleged colleagues miss. We knew right when you'd come up the road, actually.”

“I...” She was silent for a long moment as her posture wilted. Then, just as one of the Drošani was about to tap her she screamed as the thin veneer of sanity left her. Almost tearing her hair out. “VIGO YOU RAT! I- NO- WAS IT LABIOUS!? HARKEN!? I- I'LL TELL YOU ANYTHING SO LONG AS YOU-” The Vožd raised his hand, and she stopped.

“If you cooperate, you will receive the minimal punishment I can afford you, and you will be released as soon as possible.”

Her brow furrowed. “That... Why would you do that?”

He shrugged. “Because you aren't the first one we've caught from your handler. You won't be the last, and honestly? We would much rather be rid of you. Likely you won't give us anymore than what we already know. But, I might as well try. My magistrate will castigate me if I keep booting you people out otherwise.” Lampys spoke with the utmost bluntness, as beside him his sister shifted, covering her mouth with her hand. The scribe lowered his head. “So. Can I ask for your leal compliance, madam?”

“What other options do I have then, if I'm so compromised? Sold out before I even arrived in this God forsaken land.” The woman slumped, completely defeated. “You can have it. Have the whole lot of it AAAaand the orders hidden in the trunk as well. To the Hells with all of it.”

“Good good. Now, traditionally in acts of subterfuge up here we operate on two punishments. The first you are likely familiar with as it is common in the south. Imprisonment. A few months were you sit around in a cell that would otherwise belong to a drunkard. I can't expect a ransom, so a short stay will suffice.”

The spy shrank another inch. “And the second option?”

One of the Drošani beside her cackled, withdrawing a pair of tin pliers from his pocket.

“Two teeth. Of your choosing, obviously.” Lampys said bluntly.

She stared at the grim tool for a moment before swivelling back to the throne. “The cell. I'll give everything.”

“Oh boring!” The over eager Drošani groaned as his compatriot pulled the spy away, and for a moment there was a pause, as the Master of Ceremony outside could be heard calling out the next sortition numbers. When they were far enough away Eramina broke down cackling, while Grigor scratched his head. “I... I thought we didn't know who sent her?”

“Of course we didn't. But she didn't need to know that fact.” Lampys snapped his finger to one of the men guarding the door. “Make sure her things are checked again, we missed the paper orders!”

That was the most exciting thing to happen for some hours, where the next exciting thing to happen was an old man tripping on the way in, and just as noon was upon them a familiar individual entered the throne room. One that made even the seasoned Vožd sink, if only an inch. A particular Lamia by the name of 'Yilhelmina of Lash', who engaged with the charade of being an Imperial burgher, to the point she'd bleached her scales to the colour of 'fair imperial human skin' and had her outer mouth sewn shut. In an attempt to be more 'human.' It had the opposite effect and she was far more disconcerting than a Lamia eating a live chicken whole. Lampys himself knew he'd take the chicken eater any day of the week.

She even dressed in the ill-fitted clothing of an imperial noblewoman, looking less like she was a part of high society,so much as she looked like she'd killed someone and was playing a particularly poor doppelganger.

She slithered into the hall filled with a familiar pride and the moment she opened her mouth, Lampys spoke. “No.”

“My lord! I have done nothing at all, and besides, I'm here with the one who is petitioning you!” She pointed behind her, to where a smaller and spry red diamond-back lamia was 'stood' at the entrance, whispering something to one his Drošani. Though, the Vožd noted immediately he was not assigned to the front doors, or even the gate. He should have been up atop the wall and looked as if he'd run down from the heaviness of his breath. “Come then Natazia, present your request to the good baron!”

Both the Drošani and the young lamia flinched at the call. She seemed near petrified before awkwardly slithering before the Vožd. She opened her mouth, but struggled speak. Unable to say anything. Shrinking in on herself as no doubt the cold gaze of her mother and the weight of those watching behind crushed her.

Just as her mother was about to speak again, Lampys growled at the land owning Lamia. “Yilhelmina, she has all right to be here but I am going to politely ask that you leave. Now.”

"My lord she is a nervous girl as you can plainly! She can hardly be expected to-”

“You are dismissed! I am tired enough of you offering me half-baked marriage requests!” The Vožd stood suddenly, whistling to one of the men guarding the door as the wealthy Lamia balked. “Now kindly escort the good Burgher of Lash to her town house and ensure that she remains there until such a time as her daughter's petition is resolved!” The red faced interloper moved to do it but Lampys barked in frustration. “Not you! In fact you come here! Vitakiz! You deal with the good lady.”

The door guarding Drošani Vitakiz patted his interloper spear-brother on the shoulder as he marched in. Yilhelmina immediately turning about on her daughter. “You know what you need to do, so do it.” She hissed with excess venom, before she turned to leave without a fight, though she certainly took her sweet time as the out-of-place Drošani shambled over, careful to avoid looking at Natazia, who shrank a little further into her coiled tail.

“I...” She finally found her voice though still lacked volume. "I would- I would come to request..."

“If I may be impudent?” Lampys interrupted, and the lamia gingerly nodded. “This is yet another ploy to get you offered in a half marriage to me, isn't it?” She forced herself to nod as it seemed her soul was attempting to escape her.

“I am very sorry she is incorrigible sir.” Natazia whispered. “Sir I should...”

Lampys continued over her. “While to make matters worse you have already been sweet on a boy you met in town. Who just so happens to be a member of my own retinue.” His Drošani blanched.

“Great Hetman please-” The Arcaadji warrior started but was silenced by his master.

"Be at ease son, I am hardly going to get in the way of someone's courtship.” Lampys took a long drag of his pipe and blew a ring into the air, before turning away from them. “So, if I might make a suggestion to you, young couple? Consider for a moment what you want to do and what is within my power to grant you. And remember, Natazia, that you have a sister who has her own apartment in the city if you need to lay low for a while. A representative of the fur-workers, if I remember right?”

She nodded and thought, going from despair to despondence to anger as she thought and finally she looked to the Vožd and almost shouted her request. “Sir, I request two weeks of leave for Ungaven for our wedding!”

His Drošani jumped. “Natazia we-!”

He'd stepped near, only for the Lamia to seize his hands and pulled them to her chest. “I am tired of this! I love you and I'm tired of needing to pretend I don't! I am tired of mother acting like I am still a startled cow that needs to be bartered off!”

The young Arcaadjitte soldier swivelled between his lover and his master for a moment in a state of panic. “I- My Hetman- Please-” He gaped as his voice failed him, and for a moment the hard faced Lampys overshadowed him.

“Oh no. Your spear-brothers will need to do another hour of their posts and patrols. However shall we manage?” Lampys scoffed aloud with a soft mirth. “I grant your request Natazia, though I ask you lay down those specific weeks with the house captain, soon as you can. You needn't fear your mother, she has bothered me for long enough a few more weeks of her letters won't kill me. As well? I wish you both the best in your future. Ungaven, you've my permission to take leave for the rest of the day.”

The shocked Drošani finally found his voice as he forced himself to nod. “Yes sir. My thanks.”

Though his Fiancee coiled in delight with her tail rattling, with a smile that quite literally reached from elongated ear to elongated ear. “You have my eternal gratitude my lord!” The pair absconded as Natazia pulled Ungaven along, though they had barely gotten into the courtyard before the Lamia 'jumped' atop the warrior and coiled about him. Drawing jeers and whistles from the crowd outside as they faded from view. The Vožd stood there for a moment before his Master of Ceremony Approached.

“My lord, would you permit me to call a recess?”

“The köfte cart just passed then?” Lampys asked with a scoff. “Full permission, I trust your judgment on the proceedings.”

“My thanks.” Dijengis said with a bow and stepped back out, the blow of his horn and call for recess coming swiftly.

The Vožd walked back to his throne, Grigor finishing the last of his records before quickly rising and passing him on the way out. Perhaps won over by the thought of meatball dumplings, or simply eager to get some fresh air. As he sat Eramina leaned back in her chair, like a cat might before it swatted pottery off a table.

“What?” Lampys preempted as he refilled his pipe.

“Oh nothing at all...” She said with a wide grin. “It is just amusing how a man who couldn't pull out a horse from barn in any reasonable time somehow gets irate over marriage proposals. Especially a secondary marriage.”

The Vožd mulled into his pipe for a time, as outside some prospective bagel merchant could be seen serving awaiting petitioners. “I get irate over many things. Bad weather. Self-righteous southern brigands. Ill fitted proposals made by greedy parasites.”

“Of course of course.” Eramina said, as outside someone could be seen struggling in through the masses. “Just a coincidence that you've ducked out out every marriage proposal. Which... I won't begrudge you overmuch for.”

“Why break from that last tradition?”

“Perhaps I'm tired from listening to clansmen and greenskins requesting their neighbours fingers and don't care to press you on something I don't care about myself. We'll be spoiled for choice for an heir when you eventually lose your head. And the fact most are well adjusted and actually know their father?” She laughed bitterly, but suddenly rose from her seat when a man stumbled into the hall. Captain Cossodis, the leader of the Exercitus Imperatoris's local outpost was a man from the far south in mixed Imperial armour, middle aged but with dull grey hair that made him seem older. As did his leathery face. He was an ideal imperial officer in many ways, a man of the heartland who presented the (comically outdated) vision of a united empire, not simply an arm of the Legion that nominally answered to the Emperor and remained a relic, at least in compare to the innumerable minor noble armies, holy orders, free hosts, and mercenary companies.

Cossodis pulled off his helmet and as the Vožd rose, the Captain knelt. “Forgive the intrusion but-”

“You are always welcome in my hall good man. What brings you here?” Cossodis accepted a hand up from Lampys who pulled him immediately to his feet. “Has my magistrate informed you of the situation around us?”

“I am here indirectly on that, I suppose. YacGorbens told me everything but I'll admit that I'm not so worried about our overall position. Your people know how to fight on the plateau and it's no coincidence an invasion will go after the interior hinterland. Border marquises and marches haven't been properly tested in decades. Worse, they're going to do nothing when the barbarians go around them to get at better targets for ravaging.” He sighed, looking down at his old battered helmet. “But for my outpost? It feels like we've already been cut off already. I was waiting the entire winter for reinforcements and what did I get this morning? A letter, asking why I haven't sent any information on my position.” His left eye twitched, and a bitter look overtook him. Then it faded and the Captain sighed. “As a citizen of the empire without noble rank, clerical position, wealth, or knowledge of arcana, I am here to petition for support. I need provisional soldiers to rotate some of my men and I need additional supply that I'm just not getting from the Northern Registry. Much as it pains me to ask.”

“Granted.” Lampys snapped his fingers, drawing Cossodis to look up. “You do your duty and I fear the Exercitus isn't above internal subterfuge.”

The Captain sighed. “It couldn't just be the filthy steppe animals, could it?”

“Obviously not.” Eramina said as she approached. “But we must make do with what we have. Send me an invoice for the bodies and the material delivered and I shall see it sent. We have, mercifully, many extra sons among the emigres eager for military work. And a surplus of arms.”

Cossodis bowed low before her. “You will receive it tomorrow afternoon. And I owe you both. You've my gratitude for this favour.” With that he donned his helmet, turned and he walked out the way he had come. Never one to outstay his welcome.

The Plibtribyew was resumed shortly afterwords and went on. Hours passing as dozens upon dozens upon dozens of common men and women delivered their issues. More matters of property and inheritance, and many complaints pertaining to those powers from beyond the Lands of Arcaadjia. While the Vožd had so embedded himself among the populace of Psophis, her roads, villages, and highland clans, he was cornerstone of his dominion... The neighbouring nobility and those interlopers had been a source of vexation he could not address. Not for the merchants who protested the Robber lords waiting at the south of the Elk road and the 'Godly Men' who so oft harassed them, to the monstrous folk that faced more trouble from riders from the south than they did from the usual interlopers to the north and east. Where he could assist the Vožd did, though it did little to satisfy him personally.

Mercifully it was not all so dire. And most other petitions could still be resolved outright. A beggar came requesting support for the old Pagan shrine in the Western District which had been struggling to maintain its free luncheons. Not granted per-say but two strapping young men were instructed to head to the caravansary with the beggar to 'politely request' support for the ancient institution, as it was underpaid caravan hands and workers who were the source of most of their demand as records showed. An emissary from the Chaplain of the Imperial Church requested the old Shrine be shut down. He was refused and instructed to remind the Chaplain that, as a leader of faithful, he could come at any point during the year to be refused personally. A hog-herder from the hills delivered tribute in the form of a piglet, as word had spread the fort's old waste-pig had passed away that winter.

The little hog was accepted and would spend the rest of the day sleeping against the Vožd's thigh.

A dozen duels authorized, three refused, one refused and the instigating party requested to leave the city for his own health. Twenty requests for financial support in wild ventures, three granted and turned over to the Stewardess. Ten requests for legal changes, eight of which were out of the Vožd's jurisdiction while the two were turned over to be examined. Almost thirty odd requests, half of which were dismissed and the rest answered in one hand or another. Just over thirty more nominal property requests. Mostly put on the ques for examination in the weeks to follow.

An envoy from the local druid circle and the local witches came forward to request the formation of a true estate for the magical circles in Arcaadjia. Denied on grounds that Lampys knew most of the skin shifters and night dancers, and didn't want some wizard rolling into town with an automatic set of privileges to rely on. Though he promised to seek out an alternative solution that would satisfy the many brother and sisters who served him.

A half-blind, half-deaf, harpy waddled into the hall very slowly. No longer capable of flight, she revealed she'd served Lampys' grandfather as a scout and confirmed it when the ancient cook was called in. The pair had almost forgotten they were holding up the Plibtribyew with their reminiscing. She'd requested permission to roost up in the upper fort. A petition granted.

The day slowed, the night falling outside as the sun drew itself down beyond the mountain peaks that cradled the great plateau. Outside, the crowd had diminished. Just as the last hag requesting a few extra acres for her pine-swamp had exited the hall with a spring in her step, a huge beast of stone stepped forward into the throne room. Wide as a buffalo, tall as a horse, long as a python and built like a covered wagon. The resembled a lizard made of hard stone, with six legs and a back from which grew huge orange crystals, which upon the very top had been shaped in a form like a saddle. The beast had a wide face, small glimmering eyes, and a mouth so large with teeth so sharp it could have bit a man in half.

Yet the beast was led along by a dwarf, short even by the standards of his people of white beard and shaved head. More wide than tall and wearing only boots, skirt, and a sash. But a cunning grin was spread across his face as he led the beast along. As a grown man might lead about a loyal dog on a leash. Something to be expected from the last major member of the Vožd's inner circle who was as renowned for his mastery over animals as he was for his hammer arm and many children.

Boyar Akzgaal guided the Stone Ourum along with a sly look, prompting the Vožd to pass the kitchen piglet off to Grigor, rising to meet him.

“Qarbúja! I trust you have good reason to be here with this handsome beast.”

“Of course oğul, the Tyv breeding Syndicate sent a young lad out to deliver this one to you as tribute.” Lampys knelt down before the Ourum, carefully wrapping a hand about the beast's head and rotated along the outside until his hand rested under the chin. He began scratching the Ourum's neck earning happy chuffs from the giant, whose tail began wagging. “Stood in the sun too long and passed out, so they needed someone to deliver her. Got wind from the westerling that you'd call for a council tonight so I decided to show up early.”

“Handsome lady aren't you? You'll make a katafraktariji of mine very happy some day.” He stood, the beast creaking, annoyed the chin scratching had stopped and bunted her head against the Vožd's side. He did not sway. “I accept her gladly. Also, see to it that the diligent young man they sent gets a reward. And a warning to take care of himself?”

Akzgaal nodded. “Aye, that I can do. There aren't many people though, if you'd permit me to stay? Personal favour, obviously.”

“Today is far from the day I learn to kick people out of my house with any swiftness.” The Vožd admitted. “Just sit on this one. Young Ourum can get very excited and I'd like to have my day free of serious injury. If possible.”

"Bah. Being sensible. I raised you terribly." The Boyar laughed as he guided the lithic mount along.

Mercifully not many remained with true petitions. Most small matters that didn't even need a cursory check of the old precedents. Gift seekers, favour panderers... One old man who stood up for a few minutes trying to remember what his petition had been. Such that the Vožd, realizing only one more petitioner remained behind, and one whom he recognized had given the elder the privilege of returning as he pleased with the request. Preferably written down for him by a local scribe as soon as he could recall it.

When the old man departed led by one of his grandchildren, the last petitioner whom Lampys had expected all day finally entered his throne room, and once more the Vožd rose to his feet.

He was a dwarf man of some years, with silver eyes and bright red hair that had started to pale, his many braids in locks and beard laced with silver rings. He dressed in a leather apron and rough clothes as was expected of a miner. And behind him three young boys. One of whom was a spitting image of his father, more wild red hair than boy. Though two of his children were adopted, and bore more than a passing resemblance to the lord of the Hall. Both old enough that they were almost taller than their adopted father, though one only by a few hairs. Each of the boys carried a wooden box.

The dwarf began. “Good Vožd...”

“Come cousin Tomar, you've been waiting all day to see me, you needn't bother with formalities.” Lampys briefly knelt and embraced the dwarf. Before turning his attention to Tomar's sons. “Boys! How are you?” He opened his arms wide.

Immediately he was met by a flurry of replies as the children piled in for a hug, the human pair pulling away while the young Dwarf remained clamped to his shoulders. Such that when Lampys rose he held him, and immediately noted the boy stared at the Ourum. Whose tail began wagging.

“Can I?” The young boy chirped.

Beside the magical mount Akzgaal audibly snorted, while Lampys ran his hand over his moustache. “No harm in that I think.” He walked over, and placed the boy atop the crystalline saddle. “There you go.” He moved to turn away, but found the adopted human boys almost at his heel, their cargo left with their adopted father. He laughed aloud, helping both to (if only briefly) ride atop the war-beast. The happy noises of the Ourum filling the room as Lampys turned away to Tomar and the ominous boxes at his feet.

"Now, I assume you came with some excessive tribute?”

The mining dwarf sighed dispassionately. “Did the old man betray me or-”

“Mathyzt." The Vožd said plainly. "So I've had all day to ready myself.”

Tomar briefly collected himself for a moment, eyeing things. “In my defence it was the men down at the mine who insisted we present something this year. Your Tax-Orc has it on record but we struck a thick vein of gold the first day of the season, one thing led to another and... Well...” He leaned down and cracked open the first box without subtlety, revealing plain red cloth, glimmering amethysts, and polished gold. “Thirty Rings all ready to be sized to your specification." He cracked open the second box, and the Vožd recoiled. "And a crown worthy of your rule though still ready to be sized the same.”

Within, the crown of silver and gold was threaded together with the fine craftsmanship he'd come to expect of his adopted relatives, crafted to resemble two snakes wrapping about one another, and in their tangled cords were fitted with dark emeralds, pale amethysts, polished bands of tigerseye and bright teal mountain pearls. He picked up the crown for a moment to inspect the crown, but already knew there would be neither flaws nor imperfections. He sighed. “If it were any other man Tomar.... I'm sure I can find a use for the Rings. The Crown will be more difficult though...” Lampys returned the crown to its case. “Your tribute on behalf of family, associates and syndicate are accepted, cousin.”

“We are happy to give, my Vožd.” He said as one of the Drošani marched forward, quick to move the tribute to one of the inner chambers of the Fort. “Cousin?” Tomar asked. “Wife would like you to drop by one of these days, before the next one arrives.” He said, eyeing his three sons atop the Ourum.

“I'll find time for it. Been too long since I last saw Bjemi.”

The Plibtribyew ended well before the last petitioner departed, with his sons at his side.

Though outside, the streets were still alive with noise and action, the Fortress shuttered the front gates and doors, as the Vožd called for his inner circle to meet him in council.

All found their way to the small room in the upper fortress, with little furnish beyond a circular table and chairs. Lit by candlelight, filled with the smoke of several pipes, and quiet.

From his left to his right; Boyar Akzgaal, Boyar Tarotzki, Otaman Rothbart, Magistrate YacGorbens, and lastly Stewardess Eramina. Waiting as the Vožd finished lighting his pipe once more.

A puff of smoke escaped his mouth. “I believe we all are aware of the situation. So, let us forward some suggestions.” The Vožd said.

The Dwarven Boyar grunted audibly biting into his own pipe before he removed it from his mouth. “I presume war isn't an option? We rally our forces and we could pre-empt crushing the northernmen and the beast-swine. Do it right and their numbers won't matter. They'll fall right back into their tribal feuding so long as we behead their leaders.”

Eramina sighed, rubbing her brow as she pointed her own pipe at Akzgaal. “Not unless we want to leave ourselves undefended! There are a dozen lords in the south who'd just love for our lands to become weak from a war, even if everything goes perfectly. The slightest weakness will let them summon the faithful zealots and press some illegitimate claim on our holdings. Initiating would be a fool's errand.”

Rothbart smashed his fist against the table, hard enough it shook. Though no other members of the council were phased by his roughness. “We cannot be complacent though! Perhaps if we drew them-”

YacGorbens shook his head. “No. It would be better to let them launch their invasions. It would be a fitting punishment for the constant interference of the minor robber barons to our south, who feel entitled to whatever dares come close to their dominion. We can strike-”

“And let them cut us off? YacGorbens you know better, you manage the damned Elk-Road yourself on Rothbart's behalf!” Eramina snapped.

YacGorbens shrank while Rothbart struggled to speak, to which the half-Greenskin Boyar raised his hand.

“Before we begin a rousing argument I have a proposal. What if we tried something... Unconventional?” He adjusted his seat and laced his fingers before him, looking to Lampys. “My lord, the crown you received earlier. Perhaps we could put it to use?” He sighed. “We have a rare opportunity. Well before the enemy can make serious moves against us or even their true aims, it is clear we're not in a position to act, nor should we act alone when we are not the ones who will suffer. At least directly and at first. But we can bring in support from the south.”

Akzgaal stuffed his pipe with more pipe weed. “How? Most land leaches won't recognize trouble until it finally bites them. And I say let it bite.”

Gevny nodded. “We could. But we can play to the wants of the nobility. Perhaps arranging a tournament with that crown as the ultimate prize! It would let us draw some of them to us, and we have the means of proving the threat directly to their lords. Let us begin rally a response.”

There was a moment of silence as the council mulled over Tarotzki's proposal.

To the visible surprise of most there, YacGorbens nodded and clapped. “That... Actually that works very well. Naturally we'll need to be prepared but it might also draw attention to the worst southern interference. Let us secure some allies if we can, heaven only knows we've been operating on almost total isolation since your father almost destroyed the Lordship, Lampys.”

Eramina shook her head. “A tournament could be most expensive. Punitively so.”

Gevny nodded. “Indeed, but I would be more than willing to help finance it. I know how the revenue ledgers look, my lady, we can not only afford the initial cost thanks to our current surplus but with a little luck this could further stimulate our coffers!”

The Stewardess, normally one to contest lavish suggestions was silent for a long minute. “True.” She conceded finally.

Akzgaal nodded at Eramina's concession, looking to the stone-faced Vožd. “We'll need to prepare then. Southern lords are far from tolerant of even our people. Much less kinds like the harpies. I doubt most would be able to distinguish a barbarian from a local highlander.” He sighed. "Or a dwarf from a highlander for that matter."

“We can accommodate for their issue, without sacrificing our protections for our people.” The Vožd leaned forward. “Would you all consent and support such an act? I cannot say I care for festivities of that kind. But I will not deny the opportunity it presents.”

“As I said I would.” Boyar Tarotzki nodded. “Besides, it has been too long since we had some fresh excitement and I already have some plans.”

Rothbart grunted and leaned back in his seat, rapidly turning from his attention across the council. Then to Lampys. “Well. If it's a real clash I wouldn't oppose it. Might even throw my hand in as an independent if you let me have a round of joust!”

Boyar Akzgaal nodded. “We'll need to be careful. But if it can get a response from even a few lords? I'll throw my own lot in.”

Magistrate YacGorbens nodded. “I consent as well, full support if we can double the road and southern forest patrols, possibly get a druid under me for the duration. To keep our guests to those we can see coming up the road.” He clapped and gestured over to Tarotzki. “Also, we'll need to construct some basic facilities. I can oversee the process started in full swing by next week, if I get the money for it.”

The Stewardess laughed, low and dangerous. “To make yourself some sneaky little passages I assume?”

“I always share my secret passages my lady.” Owen admitted with an honest chuckle.

“See that you do.” Eramina said before taking a long drag of her pipe.

She shuffled, thinking as she leaned back.

The Vožd turned to her. “And you sister?”

She took a moment longer to think, before she blew a ring of smoke in the air and looked over to her half-brother. “We would need to ensure our people get direct access to the festivities. Something awkward, if we're also courting southern noble folk. I can already see a hundred little issues rearing their heads. But...” She shrugged. “We could do much worse brother. I agree if you think it would serve us.”

“That I think.” Lampys Erymanthius said and stood. “I authorize this... Great Northern Struggle then. Let us hope my 'fellows' are as fond of martial contests as they claim!”