Ashley
__**Thunder Fest: Ball Room**__
The Findara castle's ball room has been entirely redecorated to fit the themes of Thunder Fest. Large banners of Findara's colors have been hung, a band has been hired to play music of all types, and a number of various bards have been assigned to accompany them and sing for the guests. Servants are available with trays of sweets and alcohol, as well as any other assistance guests may need.
Michelle
*Thunder Fest was certainly an occasion to be remembered every year, Astalios thought to himself, not only for the spectacle of fireworks, but for the excellent statues that could be made of the occasion. The lighting during fireworks displays illuminated the silhouettes of people so very well that it was easy to hold the impression of their shapes in his mind - and not only that, but the expressions of jubilation, of awe, and of wonder at the colors that tended to explode through the sky.

He could not sculpt a firework to any degree he considered truthful - but he could recreate the people and places present on a smaller scale. The texture of a tree, the ridges of oaken bark as a noblewoman and a nobleman held each other tight by the shoulders as their eyes sparkled and they grinned at the sky, taking in the scene before them. Every detail could be painstakingly pressed in as he worked the metal further and further. For these, he liked to use bronze...

But there were other events occurring that he needed to pay attention to besides catching a particularly interesting expression or a picturesque moment. Representing his kingdom came first, and with that came the gravity of his station. One needed to look the part, act the part, and not embarrass oneself in order to do the bare minimum. 

He wore his set of plate armor, polished bright, but instead of the dun steel that he normally wore, he had turned it to pure gold, the glossy yellow sheen of the metal contrasting quite well with the white color of his pauldrons and other armor plates, which he had chosen to line with sterling silver in lip service to one of his monikers. Over the armor, he wore a fine gold-woven tunic of yellow fabric pressed with the black form of the crowned stag, his family's emblem. On his head was seated a plain golden circlet, a crown with no detailing beyond the fact that it existed and was made of unadulterated material, which was as he preferred.*

*Bells and whistles, he thought to himself, and excessive gems and decoration, could ruin the crown. Just as one would not look at a masterpiece of a painting and say to oneself "I believe this needs more green", so too did he believe that adding more gems to a crown missed the point of the art.

Trying too hard to prove your power often meant you had none to begin with.

At his belt, he wore his dagger, a steel blade, simple and prudent, but the sheath now was made of the same gold and silver as his armor. As it was improper to wear a warhammer to a ball, he had elected to leave it behind in Alynthi. As he entered the ballroom, the heralds at the doors gave the announcement with a bow - and he strode forward past them with a nod as they performed their services admirably.*

"His Royal Highness, Prince Astalios Dilitirios of Alynthi, Quicksilver, The Silver Stag, The Iron Prince." *The prince himself was a sturdily built man. His eyes were a muddy shade of brown, his face somewhat weathered from the long years of campaign. His jaw and nose were both prominent, and the neutral expression on his face trended towards grim as he looked over the party before him. His reputation as a battlefield commander meshed well with his appearance, and there was an air about him of solid strength, the ability to survive in the midst of a war.

Social situations were not his forte, he supposed, but he had been running the gauntlet of parties lately in search for someone to marry, and this had made him somewhat more comfortable with the occasion. He simply kept walking through the crowd of nobility, making the necessary introductions as he went along, until he made it to the first table of refreshments, at which point he selected a cup of wine, a watered down vintage of red. Keeping his wits about him was as necessary as breathing...*
Mike
Thunder Fest was never on Hannibal's list to attend but this year he thought he might as well throw his head out. Needing to represent his kingdom, the prince kept a smile and head held high. 

Hannibal walked through the open doors to the ball room, then having his name called out made him more excited. "His Royal Highness, Prince Hannibal Samir, The Prince of Dunes and Waves." As his name was called he stopped and took in the scene for only a moment. From the kingdom's colours to the music and other people of class. The eyes darted from floor to ceiling, admiring the options for drinks and snacks as his gaze passed. The Heralds then told the young Prince standing there going on to shoe(?) the prince along into the room.

The Khisfire Prince made his decent down the steps into the room. His cloak folding down the steps and the excessive gold accessories shining in the candle light. Once down he stuck to the side of the ball room, favouring the servants with sweets and drinks. He'd take some caviar, being the first thing he saw. Not really being a seafood person he found it shockingly quite nice. But the prince right after got stuck into the booze. After a couple minutes already on his second glass but choosing to save this one. The Prince then looked around, feeling accomplished for nothing, after seeing the Prince of Alynthi himself. Just the feeling of being in the big leagues was enough to get him excited. 

He did know this event was defiantly going to have some politics at play, he did feel if King Alyus or that whole side turned up it could feel awkward, especially for him. Being apart of Khisfire one of the few neutral kingdoms. But he hoped his charm and social skills could carry him through this event and possibly make acquittances with a royal or two.
Margaret
*Umras didn't quite understand the purpose of Thunder Fest. He wasn't exactly against it, but he was still confused. On the long ride from Dasvaz to Findara, his guards had informed him about the festival and why it was held multiple times, but the information just never seemed to stick. He was still so unaware of the customs of neighboring kingdoms. He had been caught up entirely in the maintaining of Dasvaz, he never felt like he had time to learn about the kingdoms neighboring him. Though, with the plans he had, he knew he had to catch up. Luckily enough for him, the leaders of Alynthi and Findara would both be here. Unfortunately, Lazaroth and Gantrick would have a presence as well. The social dance he'd have to perform would be one for the ages, but he felt prepared. Or at least, as prepared as he possibly could be. Terror still brewed in his heart as he dismounted his steed at the gates, slowly taking the long walk up to the castle.*

*15 or so tall warriors flanked him on every side, male and female alike. Each stood a foot taller than Umras, none residing below seven feet tall. Each carried massive and rough blades, seeming more like rough lumps of iron than swords. Jagged edges ran down the sides of the warriors, sharp enough to cleave a knight in half. The warriors each held rancid snarls as they walked past the people of Findara, their draconic snouts curled in anger. They couldn't help but feel adversarial to the people around them. Umras, however, smiled precariously as he walked, offering small waves to passing commoners, who returned them almost entirely out of fear. He stood as the complete opposite of his men, dressed in something he had never worn before: Plate-mail. It was heavy, but befitting of strength, he thought. Slowly, he and his guards made their way to the ball-room, standing precariously behind the door.*

*The doors seemed to swing open so slowly, catching the attention of the nobles that lay in front of Umras. Slowly, Umras walked past his guards and into the room, freezing suddenly as the heralds stared towards him. They were surprised. Fair enough. He shrugged slightly, waiting for one of the heralds to remove a scroll with his title. They seemed to sneer softly before their voices boomed across the ball-room, bringing great embarrassment to Umras. He quickly walked past them, trying his best to keep the axe at his hip still as he wandered into the crowd, bearing the title given to him by the heralds.*

"His Excellency, Chieftain Umras Kilfras of Dasvaz, The Weak, The Meek, The Slave!"
Michelle
*Now, **That** Was an interesting spell on the ears and eyes. He had known the titles of the new Chieftain of Dazvaz for some time, but to call oneself The Weak, and the rest of the titles he professed, was an odd move. It could have been considered a projection of strength, but really, he supposed that it was a title meant to humiliate his enemies. Losing to a man called 'The Strong' was almost expected, but losing to one called 'The Weak' was much worse.

Of course, there was some irony in each statement, as the dragonborn had been through plenty of combat. Gladiatorial combat, wars of succession, riots over a slave being the new chieftain of Dazvaz. He had been doing his best to control his people - or what could be loosely called his people - in a time of conflict. Given how the orc warbands valued strength, he supposed that name might have been an insult to their sensibilities - and a deterrent from being challenged, as the embarrassment of loss would destroy the reputation of any orc that lost to The Slave.

He wondered if the Chieftain, who had been thus far unable to attent social events, might be different from the last few. There were always threats and challenges for him from them, but The Meek might at least be worth a try, given his rather clever manipulation of the title system in his favor. There was nothing for it, he supposed.

He strode forward across the ballroom floor to greet the dragonborn, a respectful nod given his way as he presented himself to the Chieftain.* "Good evening, Your Excellency. I trust you are finding Thunder Fest enjoyable thus far?" *His voice was deep and even, steady like a cello's rhythm, and though the words were proper, the brown eyes of the half-elf set firmly on the face of the dragonborn in an evaluative stare.*
Margaret
*Truth be told, Umras didn't give himself the title. He didn't quite care about it, but it did have the potential to hurt his reputation amongst fellow royals. As he stood, he chose to wear his titles like a badge of honor. It was better to be proud of being a slave, no? Proud to stand as the Chieftain when only a few years ago every movement you made was followed by the rough clank of iron chains. No. He was proud to be Chieftain, and proud to have once been a slave. His audience in Dasvaz was made up entirely of the misfits, rejects, and slaves. He wasn't going to lose them by pandering to the audience who only wanted him dead. He liked to think that he knew how to play the game of leadership. But as Astalios approached him, he felt a twinge of terror. His eyes darted around the room to look out for Alyus or Calanthe, knowing that a meeting with the Iron Prince could damage their reputation. But the prince only came forward, and he had to stay strong.*

*Standing over the prince at his startling height of seven feet, Umras smiled warmly as the prince approached, offering his scaled hand out towards him in a cordial manner. His voice was rough and low, similar to the dull scrape of a sword against the grind-stone. He was far from the regal manner expected from other royals, though he knew that much wasn't expected from him. To arrive at all was a blessing to most. Seeing a Chieftain at a ball was... Fresh.* "As much as I can. We don't have these kind of festivals in Dasvaz, but I'm considering adopting one. Maybe something to honor Guttrak." *He shrugged, chuckling softly.* "I pray you've found the festival enjoyable as well, Iron Prince?" *He nodded slightly, terror hiding softly in his voice. It wasn't entirely noticeable, but it was ever-so present. He was scared. Scared to give off the wrong impression. But he continued speaking, knowing that Alynthi was the most powerful ally he could gain.*
Michelle
*He was large, that was certain, but so were all dragonborn - and orcs, for that matter. It didn't make them any tougher in the face of an arrow or a warhammer, much less a ballista bolt or a flood of mercury that washed them away. How well they deployed their resources was the real test of competence, he thought to himself. And this dragonborn had enemies everywhere, yet was hanging on quite well for the moment. Time would tell whether this held for the future.

He nodded back, just as cordially, and shook the larger hand of the dragonborn with his own, which was dwarfed by the grip of the scaly chieftain. Regardless, it was a firm shake, and Astalios was utterly unafraid of the situation he was in. Perhaps the best way to examine the mettle of the person he was meeting, he thought to himself, was to review each of his statements like a scientific paper. Acumen in names meant it was likely his words could tell Astalios more about who the man was.

'Enjoying as much as he could' was an obvious reference - the man was beset by enemies. Perhaps this festival was a chance to show he was unmolested by issues such as rebellions, and that he did not intend to let them stop his normal routine. That was confident, though his large guard complement and awkward disposition initially meant he was certainly unfamiliar with the setting - as he should have been, considering he had been a slave.

'Something to honor Guttrak'. That was a jab in its own right - that Dazvaz had been given its independence was a sticky subject for the dragonborn of Dazvaz, as the orcs had enslaved them shortly afterwards, and many of them had considered it an insult to Guttrak's memory. But perhaps it was more symbolic - that this dragonborn intended to follow in his footsteps. That was an interesting prospect for Alynthi especially, considering his length of experience in fighting on the Dazvaz border. Perhaps that calm would continue.*

_ _
*Curious indeed. An idea for a statue was already forming in the prince's mind, but there had to be more than single sentence for him to really capture the likeness of Umras. For now, he simply examined the dragonborn like a bug under a microscope, seeking to explore every detail of what he was dealing with as his muddy brown orbs searched the dragonborn's face, almost as if he could see past them into his mind.*

"You have the power to enact whatever festivals you so wish. Generally, a good festival is marked by a deeply held ceremony, in combination with a cause that brings a group together. This one is celebrating light." *His tone was even and practiced, but he wondered internally if he might bring down more warbands upon his head should he enact a festival celebrating a warrior that had humiliated them. 

Or perhaps not. The orcish psyche valued strength. Perhaps they too respected the prowess of warriors like Guttrak, regardless of his cause.*

"I can say I am enjoying the architecture of the palace, though I have already recommended King Zarreus cut back the forest at least a mile from the walls. Slipping close to the castle is much easier with visual cover." *He stated briefly, his mind on practicality first and foremost.* "Your archers need a clean field of vision to better repel besieging armies."
John
Finally arriving from the nearby kingdom of Thyseer, Princess Delsandra Qinrel made her appearance within Findara's castle. The heralds at the door sung once more as they swung the entrance open, and dressed in a lavish dress of blue and gold Delsandra stood. 

*"Her royal highness, Princess Delsandra Qinrel of Thyseer."*

Dipping her head for only a second to the heralds, Delsandra returned her gaze to the ballroom ahead of her. A circlet adorned her head along with a matching necklace around her neck. Her regality likely had no match, at least in her own mind. With her chin held high, the princess glanced around at those below her, literally and figuratively. Dancing her blazing eyes around each guest, there were a handful she recognized and a handful she didn't, though most she did seem to know were only through paintings and stories. Her eyes settled on the prince of Alynthi, though his armor caused a gentle huff of air to leave Delsandra's nostrils. What was it with men and seeming powerful or strong? Then her eyes slid over to the prince of Khisfire. Oh how regal the Khisfirans dressed themselves...

_ _
Finally, Delsandra's eyes rested on a figure she did *Not* Seem to recognize; a dragonborn by the looks of it. A slight sneer appeared on her face but only for a split second before molding back into her expression of regality. Finally, she made her way closer to the main floor of the ballroom, her dress flowing well with her body, almost making it seem as though she were floating in the air. The eladrin seemed rather disinterested in speaking with anyone for the moment, and instead opted to call over a servant for a glass of wine. Clasping it in her delicate hands, Delsandra stood in front of one of the many decorative banners along the walls of the ballroom, rather than pursuing a conversation. While her mother nor her father would be attending the Thunder Festival, Delsandra wouldn't miss a chance to show off her own beauty and represent her kingdom.

Eyeing the conversation between the dragonborn and Prince Dilitrios, Delsandra grew more and more curious of just who the lizard man was. She knew the shapeshifters bears and drow ruled the north, the sun elves ruled the south and triton ruled the seas- perhaps he was a representative of some kind? It was the armor that left Delsandra the most stumped. Maybe her assumption of nobility were far too kind...
Margaret
*Umras' face was a twisted mess of scars and blue twinges resting on his pearly white skin. Beneath his snarled demeanor were kind eyes and an expressive smile, his draconic snout offering a slight chuckle in response to Astalios.* "Certainly some deeply held beliefs about Guttrak. Might as well be the patron saint for us Dragonborn. Like you and Alynthi." *He smiled, his warped claws gripping a small, glass cup. He wasn't sure what the liquid was, but he shrugged it off, taking a sip anyway. He imagined Vikra screaming at him for not checking if the drink was poisoned first. He loved that little Kobold. Always worried about someone else. She'll make a great guildmaster. Crashing back down to reality, he sighed softly at Astalios' response. The immediate turn into war was a little disheartening, but Umras appreciated it. He didn't want to have to bring up the topic himself. He was terrified of doing so, really. Casting the wrong impression to Astalios was his greatest fear. He saw a wonderful ally in him, and needed to present the best version of himself.*

"I hope I'm not too forward, but I'd like to offer my sincere apologies." *He spoke, his voice inflected with a twinge of sadness.* "Know that any breaches into Alynthian territory from Dasvaz have not been ordered by me. My warband has been working every day to insure that the border between our two nations is heavily secured. My control doesn't extend to every warband in Dasvaz, and some have acted on their own volition to attack Alynthi. I've been trying to offer compensation to those affected, but I'll offer my apologies anyway." *He sighed, bowing to the prince as best he could. He really was deeply ashamed about the incursions into Alynthian territory. He had killed hundreds of war-hungry Orcs by his own hand in an attempt to quell the invasions, but he knew better than anyone that he couldn't control them. At least, not yet. The only tool he had was the warband at his disposal and the fear he could pot

Entially command.* "I know that our nations have had troubled relations in the past. I'd like to change that, if I could. I see strength in you, Prince Astalios. You command my respect."

*His eyes quickly broke over as the heralds announced the Princess of Thyseer. Another he'd have to speak to. This ball was a political opportunity for Umras, and he only wanted to smooth over the poor relationships his nation held with the kingdoms around him. Of course, he'd likely lose Gantrick and Lazaroth in the process, but it was a necessary consequence. He refused to ally himself with slaving kingdoms. The practice of slavery deeply troubled him, and the thought that it continued under his reign was terrifying. He'd have to enact the protocols he had planned out when he returned to Dasvaz. He'd have to talk to Vikra again. He needed her. He was always reliant on the kobold, wasn't he? Her fault for being a reliable person, he guessed. Turning back to Astalios, he shrugged softly, almost chuckling.* "You think we're a little over-dressed?" *He joked nervously, taking a final sip of his drink.*
Mike
The prince looked around the ball room before stuffing his face with more food and drinks form the servants. One would assume he was a pleb with the ill manner he was scoffing down food. Eventually he heard some guy with the title of 'the slave', all that went through his mind is 'what'. As the prince then saw the lizard-folk get approached by the Prince of Alynthi, all that went through his mind is 'who the hell is that guy? Why not me I need some royal friends.' 

But never the less he went back to stuffing his mouth with caviar, only someone else of importance to be called in. After hearing Thyseer called his head spun, he hadn't met someone from Thyseer before, and if he recalled it was one of the more neutral kingdoms like Khisfire, so the hope of making a friend was in his mind. When he saw the Princess step down he started thinking of lines he could use to spark a conversation. When he notice the princess gaze fall upon him he shuddered, and grabbed another glass. Yet his eyes remained on the princess, and seeing the quick sneer another shudder went down his spin. Hannibal started to think something is wrong with that girl. 

When he turned from grabbing snacks once more, he saw the princess staring off at the dragonborn and Prince Dilitrios. Thinking about who this dragonborn was and what was the interest in him by every person of royalty he has seen so far. Being on his third drink he had mustered some courage to go and approach someone of similar status. Only to spin on one heel and go for a fourth drink, while still going over lines in his head to make great first impressions.
Michelle
*His face - scarred and blue painted, but not unkind, and much unlike that of the orcs he had slain in battle. But he was a terrible flatterer - and Astalios was not fond of flattery. To call him a patron saint was a bit much, in his mind, and he wondered what the angle Umras could be playing was. He had seemed genuine enough, and perhaps it was just a joke, but there was a certain threshold needed to be called a patron saint that the prince certainly had not attained. Perhaps he had done well on campaign, but that was nothing compared to a victory in a war. And many wars' worth of victory was needed to declare someone on the level of Guttrak.

'Deeply held beliefs' were both positive and negative, he supposed. There must have been a massive two-way swing of opinion in Dazvaz... Though opinion there was more likely shown at the edge of a battleaxe than a political discussion held in council chambers. He was sure that Umras had more than enough experience with the edges of said battleaxes.*

"You flatter me." *It was a strict, unamused tone that issued from his mouth as he fixed the dragonborn with a stern glare. There were enough liars in the world as it was, and to call him a saint was... Well, insulting the saints.

However, as the dragonborn began to speak again, he pieced together a few details about his situation - one, that he did not have complete control over Dazvaz, which seemed to be worse than just a simple rebellion or two. There was also the possibility that he would feign his lack of control in order to excuse the incursions into Alynthi that kept the orcs sated. Lately, they had stopped, but this could have been a preliminary statement to keep him from suspecting anything if they began again.

But friendship, that was a new prospect. The apologies he offered, the sigh that issued from his mouth - all of it seemed genuine enough. Dazvaz and Alynthi had not had good relations in quite some time.*

_ _
*It was paired with more flattery, he suspected - but there was a fine line between flattery and a show of respect, and here he could not tell the difference.* 

"I see. If the garrisons I have stationed on the border do not prove to be enough, I may have to return to Dazvaz." *He stated calmly, knowing each word carried the weight of a very real and very substantial threat for the warbands that desired to raid his kingdom. If they were not brought to heel, he might have justification enough to lead a punitive campaign into Dazvaz and take his revenge. With that laid out on the table.* "I wish you luck in your endeavor there." 

*The message he hoped to send, however, was that should he accomplish a secure border, with no raids occurring for some time, his words would seem more trustworthy, whether or not they actually were. Umras, in his opinion, was speaking well, but the true test was action.* "On the subject of being underdressed, Your Excellency, there are ways to rectify that issue." 

*Astalios breathed in and out, closing his eyes briefly and recalling the exact mixture he had in mind. Copper, tin, gold... And the percentages of each, where had he written them down...? Ah, yes. Palate number thirty-eight. There. His eyes snapped open once again as he remembered the mixture and set to work.

The steel armor around Umras's body began to morph and twist - the newly minted plates, plain iron and castle-forged, though with strange wrinkles and seams that made him think that the smith who forged it was perhaps a talented novice, began to meld into different shades of metal. The lining of his pauldrons and the seams of his armor shifted into first a bright yellow gold, then a deep reddish as Astalios melded it with copper, using his transmutation ability as best he could - and then finally, settling into a sunset orange, an alloy that shone like the real color. The armor seemed much more fitting for a chieftain of Dazvaz, he thought to himself.*

_ _
*Small etchings began to appear like scribes had been scratching them out with pens, adding gold inlay and darkening the shade of the steel more towards its black iron roots, to leave it at more of a stormcloud gray that blended well with the orange shade of the accents to give a dusky blend to the color palate at hand. The small etchings worked themselves into the pattern of flames against the dark gray of his plate, a homage to his heritage as a dragonborn, and those seams straightened themselves out to leave him with a higher quality set of armor than he had begun with.

Of course... This was a benevolent use of such power, Astalios knew, and by the same token, he could have turned the chieftain's armor to mercury and flooded him in poisonous quicksilver or crushed him in the iron that he wore. 

But it was nice to have friends.*

"I believe this may suit you better, Your Excellency." *He stated, eyeing his handiwork with the appraisal of an artist, though he tended to hide the fact that he sculpted in his free time. It did not suit the image of the stoic warrior.*
Margaret
*Umras nodded softly, accompanying the movement with an awkward chuckle.* "I didn't intend to flatter you, Iron Prince. Only to give you the respect you deserve. I know some still consider you a lowly prince, but know I look at you as a king." *He smiled slightly, shaking his head. Respect was something the prince certainly deserved. Kragbal had told him before he had departed, 'Hold those who once looked to you as your enemy in close regard, as they will soon become your allies.' Umras intended to make that an infinite truth. He knew Alyus, wherever he was, was likely staring towards the Dragonborn, watching as he spoke with Astalios. Planting the corrupted seeds of doubt and distrust. He was right to not trust Umras. Umras refused to ally himself with a slaver. Not anymore. Dasvaz was a nation built on the back of slaves and their might, and it was to return to that glory. The glory casted by Guttrak. That same glory would one day touch Dasvaz again, brought on by Umras. The Slave. The Meek. The Weak. Nay. The Strong.*

*He watched in terror and amazement as his armor changed and molded itself, fitting the colors brought to Dasvaz under the banner of Umras. His eyes showed pure astonishment, and a cheshire grin grew on his face. It was truly well done. He had heard of the prince's powers, but a direct show of them at a ball was something he hadn't expected. It was risky, and Astalios knew it. But it was appreciated. A show of mutual respect between the two. He knew right then and there that he would find an ally in Astalios. Thank Guttrak. Quickly, he laughed heartily, slamming his scaled arm on Astalios' pauldron.* "Amazing work, Iron Prince!" *He exclaimed, still staring down at the plate transformed to fit the colors his banner waved so proudly.* "I can't thank you enough. Truth be told, I'm not accustomed to wearing this type of armor. I was worried about making the wrong impression, so I had a set crafted. It's been an uncomfortable night, but you've made

Me proud to wear it. Thank you."

*His eyes grew heavy as his hand removed itself from Astalios' shoulder. A subtle sigh left his throat as he spoke. It was clear to Astalios that he was speaking directly from the heart. Almost nervously, in a way. But all of his movements seemed nervous.* "I don't want to bring down the mood of the evening, but as you likely know, I only attended for political reasons." *He quickly cleared his throat, standing as tall as he could. He wanted to show Astalios that he was strong. Stronger than most expected him to be.* "I want to forge an alliance between Dasvaz and Alynthi. I know our nations have had our disagreements in the past, and I know you yourself have led expeditions into my lands. I assure you, the Dasvaz you once knew is nothing like the Dasvaz I intend on building. I am going to make major reforms, and I can't even begin to attempt them without the aid of the strongest neighboring territory. I know this is forward, but I truly hope I can count on your support in the future."

*Quietly, Umras breathed a sigh of relief, glad to finally get the words off his chest. Quickly, he shot a gaze back over towards Delsandra. He noticed her staring. With a smile, he offered a slight wave, before turning back to Astalios. He needed to cordial with everyone he intended on making an alliance with. That much was obvious.* "I'm forging a new nation, Astalios. One that Guttrak would be proud of. I've managed to hold onto my rule as best I can, but I know that hundreds of warbands will rise against me soon enough. I know that I can best them on my own, but I want to avoid needless bloodshed. Your support guarantees that."