Royal Crown Commission: Dinner Conversation

[Jim Roberts]

[Jan 30 PM – Castle Sibley]

Nobody could ever complain about the table Abbot Benjamin Kenobi set for
his guests. After a day’s conference, Ben had invited both the Royal
Crown Commission and the various delegates to “break bread” with him in
Castle Sibley’s somewhat austere but entirely functional banquet hall.
Thanks to both the efforts of Castle Sibley’s kitchen staff,
supplemented by the Abbot’s own Divine contributions, the meal was most
excellent.

Looking over at his long time adventuring companion, Balzac, Ben spoke.
"So Shorty, looks like you ran across something that fully kicked your
butt. 'Tis about time your ego got taken down a peg."

Casually taking a drink of ale to clear his mouth, Balzac pointed his
fork at his long time friend. "If you think I look bad, you should see
the other guys. Seriously, they looked horrible before we tangled, but
we did come out on top. My crew handled themselves very well. Oh, and by
the way, I like your new dress," the Dwarflord added, indicating the
priestly robes.

“I am proud to wear this attire,” the Abbot told him in a distinctly
astringent tone. “Just as you were that blue mud.”

Taking an interest in the conversion, many of the attending guests
paused in their own discussions and started listening intently. However,
Vowsister Avril was the first to interrupt, “We are pleased you came out
of this alright (relatively speaking). But do tell, just what did you
run into?”

“Thanks for your concern Sister,” Balzac answered easily, casually
waving about an ever present cigar. “But I didn’t know what they were.
However, your archivist Kenin called them ‘Fomorians’, whatever they
are. Kinda hard to describe as they were hunched over and their arms and
legs didn’t match up right. I’d have’ta say about 12-15 feet tall. Not
much in the way of clothing, just rags. Let’s see, armour was just stuff
tied together, improvised clubs and axes for weapons, but they do hit
hard and had a longer reach than expected. Smelled worse than a wet
camel. Oh yeah, they also had one eye that was really big. I guess it
was not our day to die.”

Major Dexter interjected, “Fascinating report Dwarflord, but what were
you doing that far into the mountains at this time of the year?”

Looking over at the leader of the Royal Lancers, Balzac replied,
“Congrats on the promotion Major, but we were conducting some first
contact and trade negotiations with a mountain tribe that looks to be
profitable in several ways. We met up with only three of these things,
but I’m concerned that there may be more threatening those tribes come
warmer weather. I sure Tiglo here almost has a ballad finished in her
head about that dust-up. She can tell the full tale better than I.”

Tiglo demurred on sharing any new epic song, but she DID chant her way
through a detailed, and rather gripping skaldic poetic account of the
whole fight in the dwarven memnon style. She was careful to report the
whole battle as factually as possible, and just as careful to portray
all the dwarves battling against the gigantic menaces in as heroic a
light as possible.

Since Balzac had actually been there, he was well aware that she was
tactfully editing some rather comical moments. She DID choose to include
the moment when the druid’s badger Niska had been flung high over the
nearest pine trees by an enraged giant as a moment of levity. Apparently
she was not terribly concerned at blowback from the badger or druid
about going for laughs, and she managed to earn quite a few chuckles
with her depiction, and even elicited a small cheer when the plucky
badger reappeared alive at the end of the battle. The applause when she
finished was anything but perfunctory; a memnon’s chanted portrayal of
events could often be a bit dry and didactic, but she had a deft and
pleasing delivery which made the rhythmic stanzas used by the dwarven
equivalent of bards quite enjoyable even to those used to a wholly
different tradition.

Once the applause concluded and she took her bows, Tiglo offered to play
a little light music while the others continued their discussions.
Nobody objected, and she pulled out what looked almost like a rounded
shield rather than the usual harp or woodwind instrument. Sitting off to
one side in an alcove obviously intended for musicians, she began
tapping out low, pleasing notes on the strange instrument. Once again
she was displaying a keen ear for the social dynamics, her music was
soft background accompaniment for conversation, not an
attention-grabbing major performance. It was quite apparent she was
listening intently to as much of the conversation as she could, and
adjusting her playing on the fly to enhance the mood and facilitate the
discussions.

“We certainly can come up and help with any of the big baddies in your
mountains,” Erik assured Balzac earnestly. “The dead of winter in the
mountains might not be the best timing, but you don't always have a choice.”

“What do you have for a scouting force around your delving,” the Lord of
Fort Resolute asked curiously? “Are you working with any of the local
tribes to augment it?”

“Nem and Trast are in charge of the scouts. We get the reports the
Sisterhood sends along from the two tribes they are workin’ wi’,” Balzac
noted, then shook his head in quite apparent puzzlement. “The Foetracker
tribe right up around Baldy Mountain have mostly moved out on us. Moved
in with some dratted storm giants down around what they’re callin’
‘Mount Touch Me Not’. I guess the name o’ the mountain is meant as a
hint or sumptin’; they’re all a bit, uh, standoffish.” He snorted
indignantly and shook his head as he groused, “still nae real sure why.”

“Did you ask them, DwarfLord,’ Vowsister Avril queried gently. Those
more sensitive to expression and nuance than Balzac might well have the
suspicion that the statuesque beauty might well have a fair notion of
the answer.

“Well, yeah, or I ‘spose really Tiglo and my chief scout Nem asked chief
Der about it,” the DwarfLord grumbled a little defensively. “Some
folderol about unleashing sumpin’ they called Chernobog minin’ the
mountain, and they wuz carryin’ on about yellow water in the creek below
the mines. Tests fine, tastes fine, well within’ acceptable limits.”
Balzac shrugged indifferently.

Several of the others at the table exchanged glances, especially those
used to the dwarven indifference to strong tastes and mild toxins, but
nobody chose to interrupt the DwarfLord’s exposition as he continued. He
was on a roll expounding on his plans.

“I nivver paid their superstitious stories much mind, we ain’t seen no
demons or whatever the hell they’s on about,” Balzac waved his
ever-present cigar dismissively. ”Jes’ made sure they wasna comin’ back
then had the lads rebuild on one uh the best sites they abandoned. Or,
well, the spot we picked first was where them bloodthirsty thievin’
Muckskulls had their main village afore we run ‘em off a year or so ago,
an’ good riddance.” He grinned nastily, and commented, “they learned the
hard way we won’t tolerate raids on our supply wagons. Dwarven armor an’
tactics was nae to their likin’, they’s prolly still runnin’.”

“Certainly not a problem driving off the Muckskull tribe,” Avril noted
smoothly. “They have been troublemakers raiding their neighbors for
generations. The Foetrackers, though, were peaceful and productive
neighbors we were sad to see move further away.”

“No accountin’ for taste, I guess,” Balzac shrugged, his tone now
sounding puzzled, not indifferent. “Kinda helps us out, though, freed up
some nice real estate all up the valley, good graze for sheep an’ some
terracing th’ tribes did for gardens an’ all. Got some real nice snug
alpine houses all ready for settlers come spring not far off the main
trail. I kinda liked the name the friendlies told me the Muckskulls usta
call it, so we sorta kept it - we’re callin’ the place Potempkin Village.”

“Maybe we should consider having some of our friendly tribes people go
out and talk to the Mountain Clans,” Erik suggested reasonably. ”In
essence a small scale repeat of what we are doing on the plains. Having
a friendly group of people around your area can help greatly.”

"Way ahead of ya there, big guy," Balzac replied breezily. "We've been
supplying the local tribes with dwarven made weapons and shields. They
trade provisions and information. We have defence agreements with
several tribes to act as scouts and we handle anything they can't. We
made the same deal with the Squashditchers and come warmer weather we'll
start driving a paved road up iron their areas. We also interface with
the ladies at Symbala and our own regular patrols along with Dwazak and
his hoarders.”

The Dwarflord considered for a moment, and added, “As an added bonus to
the tribes, we bank their extra goods for future use. Oh yeah, Trast
keeps going on about relocating a couple of blink dog packs into the
vale for added security. The kid may be a bit strange, but he does have
some good ideas."

Vowsister Avril was following the DwarfLord's discussion intently.
"Khuzdar," she said at last, "I *am* the Vowsister who has shouldered
the task of tending to Symbala's *military* position vis-a-vis our
neighbours, which puts me very much in the picture with the local
posture. For the benefit of our Kamyran visitors, I must point out that
what you describe in many cases are the current aspirational goals, and
not the immediate reality. As military officers, I believe the Crown
Commission needs to be aware of the distinction."

As the main course plates were being cleared and the desert was being
served, Balzac leaned back in his chair and looked around at his dining
companions, “So, what all has been going on? Get that mess out by the
ferry cleared up?”

“We shall talk later,” the Abbot replied genially as he eyed a fresh
serving plate of some delectable concoction topped with his now
(in)famous bonbons. “Now let's enjoy our desert!”

An expert at reading expressions might possibly have noticed Sister
Erin’s visage shifting between offended and appalled at the exchange.
But only an expert, as a heartbeat later her vision was back to a simple
gaze of mild interest.

“Your Grace?” she asked solicitously. “Perhaps our guests might enjoy
hearing a status update while enjoying these fine salted caramel brownies?”

Near at hand, Tramma blinked. *She* was enough of a people reader to
have noticed that *something* had ever so briefly crossed the young
clerk’s expression. And while the bard couldn’t quite choose between a
couple of possibilities at what might have bothered her Belmakian pal,
Tramma decided that the best course of action was to throw in her
support behind her friend’s suggestion.

“I think that’s a fine notion, Sister Erin,” Tramma interjected
smoothly. “And it helps that we’ve got a trained military observer here
who might be willing to make a report to all of the area’s leaders *and*
the visiting Commission.” To Dame Sharpe, she added quickly, “If you’d
be willing to mix business and these fine confections, ma’am.”

The lead Commissioner smiled graciously at the bard. “I think that would
be a most excellent and expedient use of everyone’s time,” she agreed.
Turning to the only Dorian officer present, she asked simply, “Captain?”

Finfin nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” With that, the elf gave a recap of the
events on the Plains, not just the recent events, but the entire lead up
of the team spearheaded by the DwarfLord’s discovery late the previous
year of an external plot to stir up a civil war among the factions
inhabiting the nearest quadrant of the Kirith River Plains.

The events *after* the DwarfLord had returned to his delving were new to
the dwarves present, and the most recent events were likely new to
everyone who had not been there. The link between the plot and
Amarthmoria had been all but confirmed, fortunately with some dissension
among the leaders of one of the “Bad Guy” coalition members.

“Those bastards again,” Captain Gallach swore. “We’ve known for years
they were behind the invasion from out this direction in the Two Fronts
War. I’ll want everything you have on this, just the sort of intel we
were hoping you could develop out here. Well done.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Finfin replied. “I shall see that a copy of what I
have is in your hands before we return back to the Plains. Of course,
details of these events are on their way up to my own superiors, and I
have just recently put the Empire’s Intelligence Services into the
picture, but I firmly believe that this Intel *needs* to be shared.”

Next, Finfin briefly narrated the developments of the Thawellui High
Priestess – or Great Medicine Woman of Bastet, to use the local
vernacular – Jeyshann’s involvement, and how the Cat Priestess had
personally raised an army that was huge on the local scale. Originally
to invade the Sea Kings to “use their great canoes to take the War to
the Black Islanders”, but fortunately that plan was now in abeyance, and
the High Priestess was currently allied with Abbot Kenobi as they tried
to unravel more details about the Amarthmorian Plot.

All while attempting to improve relations with the “Strictly Honorable
and Tradition Minded” coalition, further undermining the position of the
“Bad Guy” coalition to better pull the teeth of any Amarthmorian Plots.
And this, of course, segued naturally to the complicated topic of The
Waterworks, and the current hope to further improve tribal relations by
neutralizing this hotbed of kobold activity. Not simply by mass
extermination, but by cultivating an entrenched minority that were
opposed to necromancy and desecration, as advised by the Sky King Himself.

“My, you *have* kept busy,” Colonel Sharpe shook her head in bemusement.
“Do go on, this is fascinating, and just proves how right our King was
about the importance of this settlement. I just never expected anything
like this so soon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Finfin replied succinctly. “The immediate situation does
raise a rather interesting question,” the elven officer continued, and
turned to face the Dwarflord. “Khuzdar Balzac?” he asked quietly. “Our
tactical situation makes it likely that in the next few days, we will be
engaged in a hit and run strike against some particularly powerful
kobold necromancers. Would you like to come along for this expedition?”

Tramma sat up at the notion. “Oh, *do* come along, Khuzdar!” the bard
enthused. “We could *really* use your help! Particularly against the
dinosaur.”

A few moments of silence greeted her observation. Finally, Finfin asked
gently, “Ah, Tramma? Which dinosaur would that be?”

The silver haired bard smiled warmly at the elf. “Now, Fin,” she gently
admonished. “Military tactics are absolutely your bag. But dramatic
presentation is *mine*. And *any* good bard would tell you that in a
major Boss Fight like this, there has simply *got* to be a dramatically
intense Boss Creature. This is a swamp, so it's gotta be something like
a dinosaur. Or worse. Oh! Maybe a froghemoth!”

"Kobolds you say,” the DwarfLord mused. “Annoying little buggers. Breed
like tribbles and not near as cute. Added necromancer into the mix?” He
paused to give a nasty grin. “Oh yeah, I'm in. Besides, it would be a
fun date for Braunhilde. We're both going."

“If Balzac goes out to help with the Waterworks,” Erik said with a
slight tone of regret, "I probably should stay around here.”