Servayn makes sure to remind the Sootscales of the abandoned mite lair underneath the old sycamore, as well as bring to mention other opportunities that might be particularly well-suited to them, but of minimal use (or even inconvenient...) to the human settlers of Frieland.
If some kobold families wish to inhabit the warrens beneath the old sycamore, for instance, that ensures that nothing less savory (such as a new crop of mites) will move in.
He'll also keep an eye out for other resources that might be perfectly suitable for them (like caves filled with swarms of bats they might find tasty treats) but of little benefit to the human populace. If, for instance, salmon were to travel up from the Inner Sea to spawn and die in one of the local lakes, the kobolds seem perfectly suited to wade out and collect all the dying fish to smoke and preserve for their winter food stores, which humans might find unpalatable, or just nasty (and would have minimal effect on the salmon themselves, since they'd be dead anyway after completing their long journey and spawning).
He'll try to make sure that Chief Sootscales isn't allowing himself to be snookered into any terrible deals by the Abadarites making overtures to them, particularly as regards their mine... If the Abadarites want to set up a bank and mint, turning kobold ore into actual coin, and they make a deal that benefits both parties (and, bonus for the Abadarites, strengthens the flow of commerce and progress of civilization in these here parts), then Servayn will happily broker it.
The thought that, three generations from now, the local church of Abadar might be staffed by a combination of human and kobold acolytes and bankers, is certainly not part of any future Servayn had foreseen for the scaly little schemers, but certainly doesn't seem beyond them...
So long as an imbalance doesn't form, leaving the kobolds little more than lackeys and debt-slaves to an exploitive human clergy (or, freakishly, vice-versa!), he'll work to encourage it.
Despite his energetic efforts at diplomacy between the Nomen, Varnholders, kobolds, and, now, recently arrived Abadarites, Servayn is less interested in the succession politics of Brevoy and the Swordlords. It seems necessary to maintain some level of diplomatic contact with them, to smooth their succession and fluff up their new ruler (by showing his people that their nearest neighbors won't suddenly be a problem), especially as they bankrolled our initial expedition and nation-building exercise.
Servayn is more concerned with attempting to make contact with local fey (didn't we meet some? Gosh, my brain is rubbish...) and learn more about this Wisp-queen-business, and perhaps also if there's anything we can do to advance our kingdom without nuking their own haunts! Perhaps grizzly Adams, our local ornery druid loner, might know more as well (and have some useful advice as to how to best expand and sustain our kingdom without burning down half the forest or making the river unfishable or waking up a sleeping green dragon we had no idea existed).
He's also wondering what sort of message it would send in Brevoy if one of the ruling council of Frieland arrived on the back of what appeared to be a red dragon, given the relatively recent disappearance of House Rogarvia... Maybe that's a sleeping dog he doesn't want to kick, quite yet.
Kriger shrugs, "Sounds good to me, Chief."
"I would be honoured to join you on your embassy to Restov."
Fall has set its rusty fangs in your surroundings as you travel east towards Restov. The trees bordering the road are alight with fiery colours that spring out when the cold starts to set in. It takes but two days and you find yourselves within sight of the city.
Plumes of smoke rise in unison from its numerous chimneys, rising tall above grey-roofed buildings of two or three floors, painted red or grey for the most part, with exquisite ironworks around their windows depicting flowery or draconic patterns. Sparkled among this canvas, you can see larger hotels belonging to the ruling families of Brevoy: the Surtova, Orlovski, Medvyed, Lodovka, Garess and Lebeda.
Rising above the houses, you see the wonder that is the clock-tower of the city hall, with its white dial framed with blue, red and gold figures depicting the virtues of honour, strength and vigor. Past it rises the two golden towers of the Vault of Abadar, with one tower on each side of the Shrike river, joined by a arch that seems made of ivory. To your left looms a dark grey, stout tower fort of the gorumites, commanding the west approach to the city, while a slim ivory tower reaching high in a circular field of green indicates where the pharasmans have their own version of the Boneyard. Finally, facing the clock-tower is the magnificent castle of the Aldori, lavishly decorated with swirls of gold and silver, highlighted by black ironwork; a perfect balance between exuberance and functionality.
"There is an inspiring grandeur to great architecture. If we can spare the funds, we should sponsor a great up-and-coming architect to shape the style of our cities: something purposeful but beautiful, practical but elegant."
"I am not entirely familiar with Restov's politics. I will ponder where might best serve our needs."
Lukasz looks to Kalsgrim: "You're asking me? When Tuck and I came, we spent our nights in some hole in the ground, laying low. But if money is no object, then we can always stay at the Golden Stallion, by the townhall. It is held by some Garess bastard of high enough quality."
I raise an eyebrow, "The situation is unstable. We would do best not to take sides. Perhaps we should seek an audience at the castle first? In any case, we should stay at a neutral venue rather than anywhere affiliated to a noble house."
Not really paying attention to all the political talk, he waits for it to get quiet a moment and then, "I agree!" he exclaims, hoping that covers everything.
Kriger nods with a determined look upon his face. "You just say the word, Chief, and I'll go to squashing. I'll squash 'em like bugs. Or like a big ol' squash. They'll be squashed all right. There's no notion that won't be squashed when I go to squashing." He looks to the others, nodding emphatically.
"Kriger, there is a saying that, at the right time, 'the right words can cut sharper than any blade'."
You make your way to the gate. The Watch is a little perplexed at your sight and is not sure how best to handle you. Finally, Malaswyn offers that they send someone to the castle. After an hour of waiting, a small man with heavy chains around his neck greets you.
"Welcome! Welcome my Lords! This is such a surprise! I will show you to your appartments. Swordlord Jamandi is being told of your surprise visit and will surely be delighted to meet with you, though I must confess, he is quite busy these days. Mmmh... Are you here for long or on your way? We would like to honour, if you are to stay, the saviours of Varnhold, no doubt! You'll be happy to hear a play has been written about this feat. I'm quite sure it is still playing."
Kriger leans in toward Malaswyn, "What's going on with the short fella and the chains? I'm thinkin' it'd be a lot simpler to not carry the chains around his neck."
Kriger, as you pay more attention to the chain, you realize they don't seem heavy or to burden him in the slightest. More importantly, there seems to be a fair number of keys embedded and hidden among the links.
Kriger leans in toward Malaswyn, "What's going on with the short fella and the chains? I'm thinkin' it'd be a lot simpler to not carry the chains around his neck."
"It may be symbolic of his role. He must be the seneschal, or hold a similar title."
I smile at the small man and try to include him in a little small talk as we head to the castle, "Kalsgrim, it seems we must announce ourselves when we visit our friends."
"So, a play: who penned the tale?"
"Well, it is a group of balladins from Restov, going by the name of The Dream Makers. They were utterly unknown until this new play made them famous. Perhaps you would like to see it if you stay long enough?"
The Seneschal brings you to your apartments. You are given a whole tower along the eastern wall of the castle. Pink and yellow stuccos adorn most walls, fringed with whirls of silver and gold, adorning the edges and corners, while black, more formal iron serves for fortifications.
Upon leaving, he adds: "My master will organize a feast in the coming days. There will be a masquerade and a bal. Baron Drelev will be expected as well. It will be a great opportunity to reiterate the bonds between the Swordlords and the new kingdoms south of the Shrike."
Servayn's only 'objective' in Restov is to not offend anyone and cause any further difficulties for our fledgling Barony. We've got enough stuff to deal with back home, and this is just a courtesy call, which, apparently, despite wanting it, they've totally forgotten inviting us...
Just after a succession drama, the political landscape is probably a minefield, so Servayn will attempt to find out who we should or should not be seen talking to, or getting too chummy with, to not make enemies.
Over the course of the week, you discover the Free City of Restov, a place that claims no house connection, though the city does have sworn allegiance to Lord Aoleski Surtova, current Regent of the Dragonscale Throne.
Each of you finds refinements according to their taste, as the city strives for sophistication, while remaining a rough frontier town.
Malaswyn finds a small clergy dedicated to Sarenrae, though they only operate a small church and a few shrine. They are impressed by the visit of such a holy a renowned figure and agree to send two acolytes to Providence.
Kriger follows Kalsgrim around and has twice dispatched infatuated beaux who imagined some offense in order to test their skill-at-arms. Though intrigued by the styles of the Aldori school and the Taldan Rondoletto, he's quickly grown bored and simply shouldered the young men and knocked them off their feet, only to buy them drinks a few minutes later. He's made a few friends this way and has invitations to both schools.
Servayn has inquired here and there, at first sticking to the bars and taverns, but eventually being invited to the salon of an old Taldan duchess in exile, that whips her courtesans with nasty words rasped from a vicious tongue. The situation in Restov is tense, as it is all over Brevoy perhaps. The old land of Rostland is itching to split from northern Issia, as it used to be before the Conqueror united the two lands. According to the duchess, Rostland could swallow being ruled by a Rogarvia outsider, but not by a Issian Surtova. Restov, as a somewhat free city ruled by the Swordlords, though governed by a Surtova-appointed Lord-Mayor, is a hotbed of rebellion, though riddled with spies from every house.
Kalsgrim takes long walks across the city, looking for inspirations for Providence. Ususally shadowed by Kriger, he avoids any trouble and quickly finds a small church to Erastil, but as Malaswyn, he finds the state of the cult lacks scope. He is told he would have to travel north to the capital to find a sizeable church and clergy. He also spends some time at "court", though no Taldan would call it such, where he is most popular as the Vanquisher of Vordakai!
As the week flies by you, the Masquerade approaches, and soon enough, everyone seems to disappear as they work on the final details of their costume. Swordlord Jamandi sends some of his taylors your way to work on your costumes. It is rumored Lord Aoleski himself might attend!
Servayn will inform the others of the tensions boiling below the surface of the city, and that even before the Masquerade, everyone's face may be a mask, concealing hidden agendas for one faction or another, and to avoid making any promises or agreements that might be touted as Frieland supporting one side or another in whatever civil disagreements are building here.
The thought that some in Restov might welcome a return of a Rorgavian ruler to the Surtovan rulers weighs heavily on Servayn's thoughts, as his tenuous and unconfirmed ties to House Rorgavia have already steered his life in diverse ways... Attempting to absorb Restov into Frieland seems likely to only lead to the remainder of Brevoy being mobilized against the new frontier nation, and overrun it in short order, by a furious House Surtova, or, at best, to lead to a ruinous civil war in Brevoy between those craving the stability of Surtovan rule, and those aching for freedom and willing to stand under the banner of even the most dubious claim to Rorgavian regency.
In any event, thousands would likely perish, and Frieland, as it exists now, would be changed in ways too terrible to contemplate...
Best to let such notions lie, he thinks, although he does bring the matter up quietly with Kalsgrim, ensuring that no pesky ears (beyond Kriger and Malaswyn) are present to overhear, just to forewarn him, if someone *else* gets the notion in their head.
That being decided, any fancy of showing up in red ceremonial armor, dressed as Choral the Conqueror, arriving astride Ember, descending from the sky in a display of magical fire, is right out. :)
When we are alone, I consider the politics of the region, "It suits us best if this kingdom remains calm until we are established. We can ill afford refugees and are not equipped to repel a victor who decides that his assembled army could achieve another victory. We should look to our war-readiness when we return to Frieland but for now we should speak soothing words and avoid the heady factionalism. We are for Frieland, nothing more."
I ponder the arrival of the tailors, "Something flowing in blue or white with gold, ideally rose-gold, detail. And "I smile rather impishly, "A headdress in the manner of a dove: for they are both beautiful and sacred to The Everlight."
I consider visiting the church of Adabar to give my thanks but decide that, in their minds, the transaction is complete.
As the tailor attempts to get Kriger's measurements, Kriger is less than cooperative. "Bah! I don't do costumes! Get away from me ya fool!" He attempts to keep him at bay but the tailor proves quite persistent. Getting on his last nerve, "Okay, okay! I'll only go to this foolish costume party if you've got an outfit that represents my homeland. And that's it! None of this 'flowy' stuff that Mal's wantin' to wear. I don't do 'flowy'."
The tailor seems about to stab Lriger in the eye with a needle he's holding, but he instead manages to blurt out: "Mylord Kriger, it won't do to be overly cryptic with us. You wish to look like a country? What does that mean? And you Lord Servayn, you have been quiet this far. What costume shall we prepare for you?"
The image of Lisa Simpson costumed as Florida came to mind...
Stalling as he thinks of a suitable attire for himself, Servayn turns to the beleaguered tailors attempting to tend to Kriger, Kriger would look right as a woodsman, in a rustic style with knotwork and forest colors, brown, gold and green. Imagine the Lord Warden of the Royal Preserve, Keeper of the Game, dressed up to attend court, but still with an air of the wilderness about him, with fine clothing, but cut to ride and with decorations and embroidery along those themes; trees, knotwork, elk antlers, eagles, hounds, stallions rampant, etc.
That settled, he turns to his own attendant, Something foreign. Some swarthy Qadiran genie-binder, perhaps, wearing a too-small vest, baggy pantaloons and some ridiculous turban. But none of those absurd pointy-toed shoes!
Might as well show off a bit. Let everyone else cover their bodies in layers upon layers. Kalsgrim may be seeking a bride, but I'd be happier with a show that only lasts one night. Calistria knows it's been too long, on that account!
I ignore Kriger's comment as a thought develops, "This is something to consider for the future, what will be the heraldic colours and devices of Frieland?"
The tailor listens to Kalsgrim's suggestion, turns to look at Kriger, and cannot suppress a burst of laughter: "Mylord Kriger would certainly try to kill me if I tried to pull that off on him... I'm sorry Mylord Kalsgrim! I forget my place."
"I believe he was discussing heraldry, and nothing to do with Kriger's outfit." Servayn says in a mild tone to the tailor. "Although if you have any notions on the subject, I'm sure you know more about heraldric designs than any of us, so do feel free to let us know if an idea seems ill-favored."
He turns back to Kalsgrim, "A stag seems appropriate, sir, as we reclaim that imagery from the Stag Lord and his ilk. There are some local vistas that come to mind, such as the fort overlooking the lake, or the stag could be standing among the trees, peering forth from our rather generous amounts of wooded land."
"A view of the stag on the shore of the lake, with the ruined fort in the background, setting or rising sun casting them in silhouette, might allow us to work both the symbols of Old Deadeye and the Redeemer into the device, although I'd want to avoid cluttering it too much..."
"If Mylord Servayn asks, then this humble servant will provide with what little wisdom he's garnered through past fatal exercise of judgment: Is your state devoted to the worship? Or is it more about ideals and claims. I find religious signs in heraldry tedious and... dangerous. What will the gorrumite say? Shall you add a sword in the background? Pharasmites? Kuthonites? Your crest will become either someone else's, or anyone's. My Lords, the people of Restov don't see you as servants of gods, but as bringers of peace to a land that was ruled by bandits and monsters! Your Frieland is about freedom and peace, in my opinion. Your land is vast forests, sinuous rivers and fertile plains and hills. The Stag Lord is now mythology, and the stag of Erastil now guides you through its values and principles... If I may be so bold, would you do me the honor of allowing me to try something? I could work a pennant of forest green with blue vertical lines, with a white stag prancing above a single shackle..."
Stalling as he thinks of a suitable attire for himself, Servayn turns to the beleaguered tailors attempting to tend to Kriger, Kriger would look right as a woodsman, in a rustic style with knotwork and forest colors, brown, gold and green. Imagine the Lord Warden of the Royal Preserve, Keeper of the Game, dressed up to attend court, but still with an air of the wilderness about him, with fine clothing, but cut to ride and with decorations and embroidery along those themes; trees, knotwork, elk antlers, eagles, hounds, stallions rampant, etc.
Kriger points to Servayn as his attention is upon the tailor. "What he said! So you'd better been for listening!"
The tailor listens to Kalsgrim's suggestion, turns to look at Kriger, and cannot suppress a burst of laughter: "Mylord Kriger would certainly try to kill me if I tried to pull that off on him... I'm sorry Mylord Kalsgrim! I forget my place."
"He's right you know. I would." Kriger nods affirmatively. "There's no way I'd wear somethin' like that. No. Way."
"Masquerades seem, to my mind, somewhat wasteful, at this stage. I think we have less need for circuses, and more for bread." Servayn says, clearly having other thoughts on the matter that he does not wish to share in the presence of strangers.
He smiles, and puts his hands to his hips, to stand in a self-mocking overproud pose, "But then, if you had a face like mine, you wouldn't want to cover it up, either!"
The tailor coughs, looking at Servayn, for the summoner atill hasn't made his costume wishes clear.