4981/The Seat of Empire

The Seat of Empire
Date of Scene:	04 January 2017
Location:	Core Tellus <CT>
Synopsis:	In Which Everything Goes According to Plan
Cast of Characters:	William Pauwel, 961, 278, 1003, Lezard Valeth, 1088, 1096
Tinyplot:	CODE Chaser: Shattered Judgement

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William Pauwel has posed:
    About a week ago, the fortress of Eastgate was home to what was ostensibly to be a diplomatic summit between representatives of Evance and Iskandria, two powers presently engaged in what may in fact be one of the first armed international conflicts to have been waged on Tellus in centuries. This summit was to be mediated by the Iron Church, a faith that has taken root in the region of Tellus known as The Frontier, which also happens to serve as home to the primary battle-lines in this particular war.

That was what was supposed to happen.

And then Evance sailed a fleet of airships over and blasted the fortress to kingdom come.

    One of the only reasons that particular fleet didn't make it any further than Eastgate was the timely intervention of League members Victor Xix, Lezard Valeth and Vatol Halftail, who managed to crash an airship into the fortress, but also prevented the remainder's continuing advance into the Expanse.

    Having won political clout enough to secure an audience with Iskandria's heads of state, the League has been extended an invitation to the High Seat of the Expanse itself. Upon arrival in the city, they are quickly ushered off to the finest accomodations the capital has to offer. Baths, theaters, tailors, whatever the heart might desire.

    Within a few days, they are escorted to the city's administrative heart: the Senate. The building itself is stately and majestic, and its interior matches soundly. Presently, the League finds itself in the lobby just outside the senate itself. A diplomat that Victor, Lezard and Vatol would find familiar nervously wipes his brow near the oak double doors that lead further inside. "It shouldn't be much longer now," he reassures, checking a little brass pocketwatch. "Two minutes or so, I would wager. They're usually quite punctual."

It is indeed two minutes before the appointed meeting time.

There are refreshments and snacks available, and guards flanking the oak doors.

Victor Xix (961) has posed:
     Victor does not like this city.

     It isn't even the fault of the city itself, though, admittedly, very little that Victor Xix dislikes *is* the fault of someone specific. Usually it's the fault of time and tide more than any action by any mortal will or hand. No, Victor dislikes this place because he knows what it once was - /remembers/ what it once was. Seeing what it is now - a clinking, clanking collection of incompetents barely capable of stringing together a battle without his, Vatol's, and Lezard's presence - irritates him in that small, subtle way.

     The ridiculously massive Greaver has not bothered to dress for diplomacy, because he doesn't seem to dress for dick-all anyway. He remains in what he always wears - his distinctive tattered red cloak, his torn pants, and that's it. It's both a distinctive style and a statement - an apathy for the world around him, the world he has found himself in, the world of wrack and ruin sinking slowly into sands of its own making. Victor does not care for social mores, nor politeness, nor manners, nor anything of that sort.

     The only reason he hasn't walked through the doors irregardless of the sweating little diplomat's wishes is that the Pope specifically asked him not to kill anyone if he could avoid it. Since walking through those doors would likely require him to kill someone, he doesn't do it - because it's avoidable that way.

     He does, however, grunt an acknowledgement at the little man.

     Otherwise, he bears no outward sign of his irritation at this 'great city', nor any outward sign of being annoyed at being kept waiting. Staunch, huge, implacable, and more than a little inhuman, the ancient Original Greaver simply stands in the room, making probably every guard who knows anything about the Frontier unpleasantly and unhappily nervous.

Bramble Patch (278) has posed:
They were here for diplomacy. But diplomacy always had a chance of going bad, and guards trying to throw you in a dungeon. Or banish you. Or throw you in a dungeon in the land you're banished to. Or sometimes just a show of superiority was needed to back up diplomatic efforts.

All of those are why Bramble Patch is tagging along. As well as her own curiosity about the things Victor was talking about being here for.

Sephiroth (1003) has posed:
if Victor is making peopl uncomfortable by presence alone, Sephiroth is not helping. He is nowhere near as massive, or really even as threatening looking. Exotic and a little alien, sure. Most human beings don't have faintly glowing, cat-like green eyes. Most humans don't have waist-length silver hair, either.

The SOLDIER is lacking the Masamune on this trip. It's a little unwieldy for interiors that he's not planning to cut through. He /does/ have a bangle on his wrist with a couple green, a yellow, and a red glasslike orbs in it. Maybe he's not so unarmed.

His expression is neutral, a cultivated boredom. None of this is impressive. None of it is exotic or exciting. Though Bramble Patch gets a bit of a look. The pony thing is still weird.

Lezard Valeth has posed:
Lezard has little need for excessive luxury. He does not dote in the baths, nor does he have a need of tailoring. His own clothing is quite fancy enough. He does, however, quite enjoy the theater. He spends a great deal of time between there and examining the local universities and magical groups, before time inevitably marches on towards the meeting.

Lezard arrives with the others. A larger League group enters than did enter the fortress, but surely the diplomat can handle it.

He seems fairly self-absorbed at the moment,mulling over some things as they await the opening of the doors. "Is there anything you wish to say before we enter?" Lezard prompts the diplomat. "I would not wish to cause any... undue grievances from a lack of foreknowledge."

Vatol Halftail (1088) has posed:
Vatol is fully armed and armored again. Like last time, he is also wearing the provided toga like a cape. Actually, judging by the grime, it's probably the same one from last time. Did he bother to take it off? It looks kind of chewed, and... in need of laundering, or a good, thorough burning.

The terrible rat-man brought a proper honor guard this time. It cost him some warpstone tokens and some healthy slaves, but he's secured himself a dozen strong Stormvermin: large, strong, black-furred Skaven, armed with well-made glaive-like spears and outfitted with a segmented plate cuirass each. It's a huge upgrade from the patchwork armor found on most of his minions.

There's even a banner: a cloth thing with an image of a black equilateral triangle formed from overlapping bones on the forehead of a horned rat's-head silhouette. It's accompanied by a couple large characters of Skaven script and, beneath it, a smaller image of a white rat with a truncated tail. Vatol was very particular about having it around for /diplomacy/.

Vatol is presently examining his unfamiliar ally-things with the wariness of practiced paranoia. He's particularly irritable, too, but that's probably because he's taken his mask and helmet off to reveal his short horns and, as a result, has been muttering about destroying the sun for the last thirty minutes. "...burrowed-dug their city like /sensible/ things, wouldn't be a worry-problem..."

Orta (1096) has posed:
    Sadly, Orta had not even heard of the Multiverse until last night. In all probability, she didn't exist in it until then. She missed out on the diplomatic buttering up. She is wearing the same odd clothes as yesterday, her entertainment has been catching up to Victor on his promise to eventually take her to the Church, and her last bath was probably a couple of days ago (it could be worse).

    The last thing she'd eaten had been taken from a destroyed market stall with a dead merchant, and so after following the greaver in on the trail of his cloak, her attention is all on the refreshments, and absolutely not at all on the diplomat. This was probably a terrible first choice to meet the League, but then the fact the League is here is a coincidence anyways.

    When the man Orta had flagged down is literally twice her height, it's pretty easy to stay behind him at least, to the point where it seems like she's actively dodging the attention of anyone else in the room, keeping one hand in a rough travelling bag crossed over one slight shoulder. When she thinks nobody is looking, she goes straight for the table, and starts packing as much as she can into it, chugging the remains of a waterskin and then filling it back up with whatever appears to be drinkable.

William Pauwel has posed:
    It could definitely be worse. Orta could be a rat who is wearing something that is literally a week old and probably soaked in things that nobody should ever be made to know. Apparently air fresheners are a thing on Tellus, though, because the Diplomat seems to be judiciously spraying the air and hoping that it doesn't offend the rats that can literally summon thunderstorms. As it stands, the refreshments are open to her. It seems to be a smattering of miscellaneous finger sandwiches, various fruits and a platter of unidentifiable but not unpleasantly flavored meats and cheeses.

When all your animals are horrible abominations against nature, you learn to make do.

    "A-ah, yes, Lord Valeth," the Diplomat perks at the magus' questions. It helps that he seems to be one of the only members of this delegation who's actually taken a decent tour of the city. At the very least, he's a relatively familiar face. "There is only one thing. I have taken the liberty of informing the senate of some of your companions'--" he glances askance at the rats and the actual tiny horse, "--natures, but these people are not particularly acquainted with the... far outside-- 'multiverse,' you called it. So some may be just a bit uncomfortable."

Something rings. The diplomat scrambles and fishes his watch from his pocket, and then glances to the double doors which, as if on cue, swing open. "Ah, it seems it's time! I will introduce you to the senate. Please, follow me."

    The diplomat scurries through the doorway, down a red carpet embroidered with gold filigree, to a central dais. Surrounding him from all sides, seated on cocentric benches beneath cocentric tables, are a wide variety of men and women who can only be Iskandrian's high senate. A majority are as human as any other, but several are not. Some stand at well around eight feet, others are marked with distinctly inhuman, vaguely bestial traits. Directly opposite from the door is a raised podium, at which a man in regal robes stands and waits. There's a golden laurel around his brow-- a prime minister, presumably.

    "Prime Minister Octavius, senators of Iskandria, I present the representatives of the League and the Iron Church," the Diplomat roars in a voice much larger than his fragile frame belies. "Lord-Messiah Victor Xix, Archmagus Valeth and Warlock Engineer Vatol Halftail of Clan Skryre, whose brave defense of Eastgate repelled an underhanded aerial assault by Evance's Fifteenth Sky Battalion. They are accompanied by sir Sephiroth and ladies Bramble Patch and Orta."

    Apparently these sorts of things have... quite a bit of pomp and circumstance to them. The senate rises to greet their guests, but seem more than a little put off by literally bipedal rats and an actual pony.

    At least the Prime Minister seems to take it all in stride. The aged statesman grins and throws opens his arms, "Welcome, to all our honored guests, though I wish it were a happier meeting. We have convened here to discuss our great war with distant Evance, and to hear the words of the Iron Church." Then, with much less ceremony, he lowers his arms and leans forward slightly on the podium, "And, indeed, to listen to the words of the even-more-distant League. Ladies, gentlemen, the floor is yours. You requested an audience, and so we have gathered."

Victor Xix (961) has posed:
     Orta's presence pleases, or at least, /eases/ Victor. The fact that there are other creatures like him in the Multiverse is a pleasant surprise. She isn't a *Greaver*, she isn't of his line, she isn't anything like that, but she's close enough to his own existence that he considers her...kin. He imagines - with the limited capacity assigned for imagination - that the vague affection he has for her is not unlike what a father might feel for its child: something that resembles the father, is distinctly different enough to not *be* the father, but still evokes a desire to protect not unlike the desire to survive. He pays far more attention to her than to the antics of the diplomat and the suffering, sweating people around him.

     Then the mission begins.

     Victor walks forward, his cloak billowing around him.

     "You are weak," Victor declares loudly, his voice thunderous like the roar of a great beast, like he's giving a speech to a group of soldiers rather than diplomats. In fact, framing the entire thing as a lecture to soldiers, Victor's sudden burst of loquaciousness makes a great deal more sense.

     "I remember. I remember when the Grancity of Argus stood wrapped around these mountains. I remember when I stood in this spot, here," Victor points directly at the floor, "And what stood here was a tower whose might could silence the sun itself, not a pile of stones erected by children playing with blocks."

     "I have bled in this place, in what this place once was. I know what it was capable of. I know what you are capable of. And you are weak."

     "These people," Victor waves a mighty hand at the assembled League members, "Are mighty. Lezard Valeth and Vatol Halftail wield unbelievable powers unknown even to the Creators. Ask your lieutenant," he points at the diplomat, "To confirm this. The strange four-legged creature, the 'Pony'," Victor doesn't appear to mean this in an insulting way, "Wields the might of plants. The man, Sephiroth, is an expert with a blade so ingrained even his stance makes it clear that without it he still knows its motions as if they were second nature. Orta is like me."

     "The Iron Church is not weak. It has me. The League is not weak. It has them."

     "You have *nothing*. You are weak."

     Victor stamps his foot on the floor. It cracks under the strain. "Join us. You will have us, and be strong."

Bramble Patch (278) has posed:
Bramble Patch shoots a look briefly at the Diplomat. But as no one has decided to mistake her for a pack animal (again!) she lets the subtle hints at certain members of the group being weird.

She grabs one of the fruit with a forehoof, probably getting a few odd looks for doing that too. This tiny horse moves and acts very little like a tiny horse should by normal standards. Not that she cares. Bramble eyes the fruit a moment, then shrugs, takes a bite out of it with thoughtful chewing following. "Eh, not bad." Tosses the rest in her mouth and follows through the opening doors.

Pfff, fancy carpet. Show offs. Though that is probably to be expected. Bramble turns her head to look around, taking note that there's at least a few not-entirely-humans in the senate. Yay for diversity.

This is mainly Victor's show for now, so instead she sits down and rummages a vial out of her vest. Spits a bit of the fruit pulp into it before swallowing the rest, sticking a stopper on it, and Bramble tucks it back away in her vest pockets for later examination. Always good to collect potential samples of foreign plant matter.

Oh wait, he's talking about her. The mare snorts softly, but doesn't take offense, it is a fairly apt description. Technically she is kind of strange, even by Equestrian standards. "Strengths your enemies can't even dream of grasping." Try to put a good spin on things, right?

Sephiroth (1003) has posed:
Sephiroth is a little better than Victor at diplomacy, but only a little. He listens to the speech, a little harsher, a little more disdainful than he would have used, but true and acceptable. He reaches up to push a lock of silver hair back from his face, the expression still bored neutrality.

His eyes are searching though, pinpointing potential combatants, nearby weapons he could take and a proper tactical order for ending any potential conflict in this room with the minimum amount of danger to himself and his allies and the minimum casualties of 'innocents'. Though, he has a feeling that Victor may just slaughter everyone if he deems it necessary.

The Greaver is added to the list of things he's watching.

Orta (1096) has posed:
    Unidentifiable origins to obvious food are of absolutely no bother to Orta. To say that she isn't used to cooking up bizarre beasts would be a bold-faced lie. To say that of a goodly portion of her world would be as well. The fruits aren't going to keep, so she ploughs through those right away, and keeps only a couple for later. Meats can be preserved, as well as cheese, and so she wraps those up in some kind of wax paper lightning fast. Sandwiches vary by type. One canteen is now straight water. Another may be accidentally filled with wine. Pretty soon, her bag is fuller than the table.

    Only then does she finally turn her head to the diplomat, grey eyes sharp and attentive as she feels out the unfamiliar but general references to honourable titles and nobility. 'Lord-Messiah' sounds particularly important, being a double honourific, but Archmagus and Warlock are strange as well, though she understands Engineer well enough.

    These people are soldiers, or at least pilots or captains. That much is obvious; except whatever Bramble Patch is. Orta jogs after Victor as the procession goes down the red carpet, keeping up as closely as possible, and staying opposite to the pony as if she's never seen a horse before, though there is no shortage of mistrustful looks towards the others.

    To say that she thinks of the greaver of a father in return wouldn't be accurate, but having touched his mind, the engineered mental map of his warlike senses and psyche are comforting nonetheless, reminding her of her extant guardian, whom she couldn't bring inside, and thus feels nervous without.

    Only once he begins intimidating the senate though, does she fully understand that he is incredibly old as well. She munches on a slice of fruit in quiet fascination at hearing accounts of an ancient age from someone who can speak verbally. She looks like she's trying to absorb everything happening as thoroughly as possible, to the point she doesn't react when the floor cracks underneath her. Special interest goes to Sephiroth playing with his hair. It's the only colour she's ever seen close to her own. It helps her stand out less. Slightly.

    She speaks up after a few moments of silence, following him. Her voice sounds young, but serious and sincere. It is also heavily accented, and sounds like a mix of five dead languages. What she has to say sounds like: "Suos Victor valde posteri. Mi suos potentia pertina tu. Prena aude narrel." What it actually comes across as after a brief nonsense second is "Victor is very old. He is a respectable friend, and strong enough that it concerns you. Please listen to what he has to say."

Vatol Halftail (1088) has posed:
Vatol's Stormvermin march in with him. He stands at their back, between two ranks of six each. There are thirteen total Skaven here, then. An auspicious number.

Not enough, though. Not enough by half! Fifty-three man-things to their less than twenty?! Vatol does not like these odds. Nevermind that he wields terrible sorcerous might, or that Lezard and Victor have proven they're more than capable of fighting ten times their number by themselves, to say nothing of their /other/ allies, but still, his rat-brain is telling him 'flee, and return with a /proper/ warband' and in a loud kind of way.

Victor does the thing where he's bad at diplomacy. Vatol steps forward, swallowing his nervousness and hiding most of it by sheer virtue of the lack of other (enemy) Skaven around to detect the more subtle smells he's giving off. "Clan Skryre brings to you a token-gift, Prime Minister," Vatol says. He opens a pouch at his side and draws something out of it. He lets it fall from his hands, draped around and dangling from his fingers.

It's an amulet, a silver chain with a green, polished gemstone that catches the light and seems to drink it in and turn it to its own subtle glow. There are tiny runes etched onto the facets. It's a pretty thing, and, to the magically-inclined, /reeks/ of sorcery. "A charm to ward off injury, created by the mighty-great warlocks of Clan Skryre. Very useful in the face of assassins. Very useful for leaders."

This and more could be yours, he doesn't quite say. Not precisely.

Lezard Valeth has posed:
Once Victor has finished his speech, Lezard steps forward. "Assembled of the Senate. It is good to see that you have gathered. The land speaks of your wisdom." He is all smiles, of course... And he doesn't specify /what/ is being said of their wisdom.

"The Iron Church can recognize this fact, which is why we have come on the eve of a great storm for he land." He closes a fist. "The land of Evance is devious, and treacherous. We have witnessed that at Eastgate, where what was to be a diplomatic conference became open warfare."

He spreads his hands, then, and steps forward. "This is a land rich in culture, in tradition, in learning. I have seen your theaters, spoken with your scholars. There is no doubt that you may possess much of what it takes to be truly great. But Time... Time is the great eradicator, is it not? As the Lord-Messiah has spoken, this land has fallen from the pinnacles it once held, where power and wisdom held sway, and none could deny it."

He turns, gesturing with a flair for the dramatic with his cloak. "But that need not be the case forever. The Iron Church seeks the strong. If you are willing to reach out and grasp that greatness once more, if you are capable of weathering the storms to come, they will help you. Similarly, we possess great knowledge of our own, our organization working alongside the Iron Church in order to help reclaim the glories of the past. We of the League seek progress. Advancement for ourselves, our countries, our worlds, our fellow men. We are merely a fraction of the assembled knowledge of dozens of worlds, and that knowledge can also be used to assist you in claiming what you deserve... Should you be but willing to reach out for it."

William Pauwel has posed:
Victor Xix was not created for diplomacy.

    That much is patently obvious from the fact that their diplomatic escort appears to have gone white as a sheet and may in fact be suffering from heart palpatations right now. Not only is one of the visiting delegation /yelling at the senate/ and /calling Iskandria weak/, another just spat a wad of fruit into a bottle and a third appears to be wondering if he needs to try out a new line of hair product.

    The response from the senate seems somewhat negative as well. Several seem like they're about ready to jump out of their seats and start a proper congressional bar fight. Others begin murmuring something about 'the Ancients' and 'that can't possibly be right.' The eight-foot-tall giant looks distinctly uncomfortable. The Prime Minister...

Is smiling?

    Or rather, his expression simply hasn't changed at all since Victor began his Drill Sergent subroutine. Instead, he simply waits patiently for the Greaver to finish, and then simply nods his head. "Yes, Lord-Messiah, I am certain that, to you, our people seem quite diminished in comparison to that which was. Indeed, we are not our ancestors, but to come into our halls and decry our culture and our strength is, perhaps, somewhat counter to your objectives?"

After all, humans are nothing if not proud creatures.

    He looks to Orta, then, "Please do not take my hesitance as a sign of disrespect, Lady Orta; I am merely voicing the feelings of some of my fellow statesmen. All who build something for themselves are worthy of their own pride, no?" He smiles and glances at her... bulging packs? "Ah, I see you've taken a liking to our hospitality. I will have to ask our chefs to prepare more before you depart."

    Vatol offers a present from his clan! The Prime Minister nods his head like he understands (he does not understand), and then gestures with one hand. A guard approaches the Skaven to receive the gift, because the Prime Minister doesn't need to do such things on his own (also it'd be a bit troublesome to come down, then back up again). "Your generosity is quite welcome, Warlock Engineer of Clan Skryre." He gestures again, and a different guard approaches with what looks to be an... ornate machine-pistol? "I was informed that your people had some interest in our weaponry. Please, take this as a reciprocal gift- although I'm sure that it's paltry compared to the arms our Lord-Messiah can produce?"

Maybe.

But most guns aren't gold-filigree'd.

William Pauwel has posed:
    But even the most even-tempered and jovial of statesmen can't keep a room full of offended patriots quiet for very long. The low, ambient murmur of discontent has begun to build. Senators are red in the face. That one over there has just sprouted claws from his fingertips! It's a good thing Lezard Valeth has picked up Spell Focus: Diplomancy, or this might have gone violent.

    The council chamber goes quiet again as he speaks. Octavius leans back from his podium ever so slightly as he waits for the Archmage to finish. "Ah. I was beginning to wonder when we would hear why you all have come all this way. I knew it could not simply be to break our floors and startle our less reserved officials." The Prime Minister clasps his hands atop his podium, "Indeed, it is as you say. All those who live on Tellus understand the cruel, crushing weight of time. We see fallen wonders all around us. We live every day on the shoulders of fallen giants, hoping to someday reach some semblance of our world's past glories."

    "On the one hand, there is the Guild, which has taken unto itself the task of gathering and studying the works of our ancestors-- relics which, by right, belong to all Tellurians," he thunders, spreading one arm, then the other, "On the other, our neighbours push back against our borders, against the progress of our great nation and the slow march of a civilization that is not content to allow so many beyond our walls to suffer the barbarism of the wasteland."

    It looks like he's got a bit of a theatric streak in him, too. But he quiets down, somewhat, collapsing again into a business-like, but jovial tone, "Ah, but regrettably, I am an old man. Too old to think that such an offer would come with no strings. Iskandria wishes for peace and for unity, for a future where our destiny is truly manifest. But what is it that the League-- and the Iron Church desire?" He cants his head, fixes his gaze on the Archmage and finishes, "We have heard what you claim to offer. Now, what are your terms?"

Victor Xix (961) has posed:
     Victor is not good at this, and he's /aware/ of it. He did what fits into his paradigm. The senators start getting angry, and Victor does absolutely nothing, because as far as he's concerned every single life in this room that isn't in the League is already expendable. It may go further. It's hard to tell with Victor. He's sort of impassive to a fault.

     When Lezard Valeth salvages the situation, Victor nods, then delivers the terms in his usual blunt manner.

     "The Iron Church wishes to build a cathedral in your city. Pope Pius I has expressed to me a fervent desire to make your city the beating heart of the Iron Church. He gave me a list of reasons that it would benefit your city and the Church."

     Victor literally unfolds something from a very small pack and hands it to the diplomat.

     It is literally a list of reasons, signed by the Pope, stamped and sealed in wax, because the Pope knew better than to assume Victor would deliver anything like this with any sort of competence.

     Victor instead falls back and gives Lezard and the others the floor. He does, however, whisper to Orta, "I appreciate your support."

Sephiroth (1003) has posed:
Sephiroth shifts his weight ever so slightly as some of the senators get rowdy. The combat trained in the group, and the crowd, can probably tell that this is a sign that things may suddenly be very bad for someone. His right foot slides a fraction of an inch...

Lezard speaks, then The Prime Minister speaks, soothing the crowd. The General holds his position, just in case. He watches. He waits. He speaks, his voice carrying without him seeming to even raise it.

"I have been authorized to negotiate terms on behalf of the ShinRa Electric Company for assistance in construction and excavation, with further assistance available should the relationship flourish, with prosperity for all involved parties."

Bramble Patch (278) has posed:
Note to self, don't let Victor do all the talking. Good thing Lezard is here to pick up the slack in diplomacy skills.

Not that negotiation of the not-by-force kind is a particular strength for Bramble Patch either. But you don't aspire to villainhood without learning to play with words to some degree either. "There you go. You have your Guild. You're at least -trying-. Better than some people out there." She gives a snort off to one side, then turns her attention back to the room full of snooty political people. Ugh. The guy in charge seems to be the only one without a rod rammed up his... ah, anyways, she's getting off her train of thought.

"We're not here to try and upsurp that." Well, they kind of are, but not in the way some people might be implying. Fiddle faddle terminology differences. "We're here to offer access to versatility and new views into things." The equine paces a little back and forth at the side of the group. Fortunately her hooves don't cause unintnetional floor damage like the stomping did. "You see, that's the problem with history. You ever hear of the saying 'think outside the box'?" Some vage gesturing in a box shape that doesn't really translate entirely with hooves, but points for effort. "History has a tendancy to be seen only in the way those putting it down want it to be seen, only what they want known is in the box, as it were. If you -really- want to grasp it," she even rises on her back legs and curls her hooves as if grasping something for dramatic effect, "you need an outside perspective. A different view that isn't limited by just how you have been taught to look at your history. Prehaps the different outlook the League can offer is capable of finding those outside connections your men and their existing hard work cannot."

Lezard Valeth has posed:
Lezard bows his head, accepting of this theatric streak. The man seems to be mostly on board. It's not like they aren't offering the country everything it wants on a silver platter. "Nothing comes without a price, indeed. For the part of the League, we wish to establish a facility within your city, and will require... diplomatic immunity from local entanglements. We can provide your country with a great deal of assistance, helping to recover the lost glories of the Creators. Many of us specialize in such work. However, we will need to be able to operate without restriction. Surely a small price to pay for the chance to scour your foes from the land and claim the verdant realm that you so desire, no?"

Orta (1096) has posed:
    The person who takes the offered pistol is, in fact, Orta. Right away, actually. She seldom turns down gifts. She turns the incredibly detailed firearm over in her hands, looking at as if she were reading text engraved off the side, before flipping it around with her finger in the trigger guard and palming the grip like a gunslinger, aiming down the sights as if she's used it for a while, but seeming disappointed.

    "It's a laser weapon. The very old type of laser. The ones that fire fast and straight, with a lens inside. It doesn't tell you where to shoot though. You have to line up these things." Orta ejects the magazine halfway out. "You recharge this. It's like a stolarium battery. I don't know what from. I'd have to see it. It should do plenty of damage, but it could run out." She turns around and holds it out to the group. "Someone else can have it. I like mine better. This one doesn't speak to me the same way, and it wouldn't be useful against anti-laser carapace. It's strong though. Maybe five miliavis at a hundred leens. It could be useful."

    Holding out the lavishly engraved, normal-looking pistol is essentially done in lieu of explaining her interest in the Tellurian Guild.

Vatol Halftail (1088) has posed:
Vatol inclines his head in lieu of some kind of smile. It might look terrible if he smiled. He hands over the amulet somewhat carefully, remarking, "Yes-yes, we are quite interested in your weapons. Clan Skryre is well-known for its own war machines; seeing-learning of others will make our weapons more appealing for trade. You are to be thanked for your, ah, generosity."

That's about as close as he comes to being polite and well-mannered. It's not bad for a Skaven. He /does/ glare some at Orta, though, until she says she doesn't want it, and then snatches the weapon out of her hands. He turns it over in his own, and hooks it onto a catch on his equipment harness without another word on the subject.

More diplomacy is someone else's job. Vatol takes up position between the masses of Stormvermin again. Being exposed like this is incredibly unsettling.

William Pauwel has posed:
Somewhere, an old man in elaborate robes quietly prays that his Messiah didn't decide to literally decapitate an entire branch of government.

    THERE IS APPARENTLY A GOD because Victor has been in a room full of politicians for longer than five minutes and nobody's been killed yet. Prime Minister Octavius nods at the Diplomat, who quickly scurries the package up to his podium (after opening it to make sure it doesn't explode). He perches a pair of tiny spectacles on the bridge of his nose and unfolds the letter. A few moments later, and he's folded it back up and neatly set it atop his podium. "I'm sure you understand that we cannot make a decision either way until we have deliberated and reached a resolution that can be presented to the Imperatrix. However, as this is an official missive, I do believe that we must take it in good faith for the benefit of the Empire."

    "The same can be said for all of these proposals, I believe," Octavius orates, straightening somewhat. "These seven districts were built by the blood, sweat and tears of generations of stalwart pioneers, and it is as the young equine says--" APPARENTLY he's completely okay with both a talking bipedal rat and a pony. Or maybe he just looks that way? "--There is no harm to our pride, to our integrity, for giving a fair hearing to their words and their proposals. We have, after all, already shown the world that we have prospered where none otherwise could. It is, perhaps, time to open ourselves to the truth that we are not alone in this world. That we can benefit without losing who we are as an Empire."

    "While all this does hinge on proper dicussion, debate and due process," he says with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye, "I do believe that it is worth the effort. After all, we here all work for the benefit of the Empire and the glory of the Imperatrix. Ah, though Lord Valeth, I do not wish to make a promise I cannot keep. I am familiar with the... experiments which some more enterprising members of the guild sometimes conduct."

    "While I do not have any objections to their work-- I am a politician, not a scientist and so I cannot speak on such things-- I believe there will, for the reassurance of our citizens, need to be a measure put in place such that certain more... volatile work is done a certain distance away from our homes." That's not exactly hard to do, given that most of the Expanse is basically huge and also mostly useless swamp. "I believe we can come to a compromise on such matters once we draft the appropriate treaties."

Bramble Patch (278) has posed:
Bramble Patch gives a twirling gesture with one hoof. "Yeah, keeping the more volatile work away from civilian populations is a good measure on all sides. Who knows, maybe we can make that swamp a lot less useless in the end."

They're on a roll here, so she doesn't bother pointing out her size is due to species rather than age. Besides, most any woman likes being mistaken as young. Even the ones that walk on four hooves.

Though dealing with an entire senate is making her kind of glade Equestria is a less complicated diarchy, even if she doesn't particularly like the ones in charge of it.

Victor Xix (961) has posed:
     Victor aggressively does not care about this. He seems pleased at Lezard's success, but he considers his role in this mission over. Once everybody is agreeing and making nice, Victor simply nods.

     "I will report this information to Pope Pius I."

     And that's it, because they did what they needed to do.

Orta (1096) has posed:
    Orta hands the pistol over without a fuss, though a mild furrowing of the brow at Vatol's rudeness in taking it. She isn't about to pick a fight with him and his guard though. She turns back to the proceedings instead, focusing on the words being said, and the letter being delivered, piecing together the context with a studious gaze. These are things, she thinks, that she could stand to memorize, even if only to repeat them word for word to certain people back home; for whatever definition that word is worth.

    "The study of Ancient <<technology>> should always be done far away from people who could get hurt. The Imperial Academy should know that." Orta speaks plainly, rather than critically, in a blank tone of agreement. "I'm happy that you are providing for your people, and that they are safe. It's a good thing that you want to understand your relics. I can help, if you need it. I can also help with your enemy empire. Wars like this shouldn't happen. Bombing a meeting isn't acceptable." Still, she looks antsy to go, having spent enough time around more than a handful of people at once.