What a waste. So many times over this day did Cromwell feel the need to say that, whether it be out loud or simply to himself. His day started with a waste, so why should the rest of it be any different? Instead of his intention to capture the generals, the royalty, and the nobility of Humbrag, he was left with cinders. Pawns, fonts of information, corpses, it was all lost for this dramatic show of force. Naturally, Cromwell held no qualms with this... cremation. It was effective, he would not deny that. But he hoped to blacken some hearts along with the skies on this day. Now, he was left to stand among the highest point still standing among the capital, inhuman whispers hanging in the air around him.<br/><br/>At least the sloppy work left gaps which Cromwell could benefit from. A swarm of messengers and mages with affinity for communication stood behind him as he did his job as the Right Hand of the Dark Lord. Despite some of them being accustomed to this job, all of them were understandably unnerved by the armored and masked man listening to the near silent cacophony of whispers around him. It was not their fault. Lesser men and women would always be put off by the Warlock at work, listening to himself for the answers he required. The whispers told him there was a member of the former royal family trapped in a pocket made by molten rock cooling, alive only because of their own latent magic potential. For this, he ordered a mage to relay the information to one of the idle Shade Hulk squads, to have their behemoth break open the pocket and for them to collect the royalty before what little energy and oxygen they had left ran out. Another whisper informed him of the path of escape a pack of nobles took when the siege began. Thus, a messenger was dispatched to a Unseelie Ranger battalion, to hunt down and capture the cowards. More whispers still told him of salvageable records and other information buried in some of the rubble. For this, he saved for himself. One by one, the limited amount of survivors soon found themselves in custody or being hunted. But, all in all, this was a waste. A waste of resources compared to what could have been done. A waste of supplies the army required, burned away in the inferno. A waste of information that could end battles before they began, lost to flame and death alike. A waste of energy, used to hunt down any general that may be able to form a resistance against -or at least a thorn in the side of- the army as they prepared to move forward. His own projects were going to have to be put on hold as he revived all the corpses he could to see if anything valuable could be gleaned. It was simply a waste.<br/><br/>Cromwell had eventually found his way down from the highest point, the whispers muted to the point that one would have to be right next to the Right Hand in order to hear anything, much less hear anything audible. The cache of records was his target, swapping out the messengers for his personal retinue of archivists. They were loyal, whether by fear or genuine feelings, and they were all good at their jobs. They would help him catalog the records and organize them in such a way that, when he and he alone submitted them to the Dark Lord's archive, it would be quick and simple process that would be able to be done within an hour. The unearthly red and black flare of eldritch energy cleared the rubble for his team to enter, as well as the entirety of his Red Mist. As if a valve had been turned, the Mist blew out of his person, seething and roiling as it moved forward with purpose. The whispers grew louder, though information was not being relayed. It was almost as if it was speaking to itself as it covered the admittedly well preserved and moderately sized room.<br/><br/>Despite his reassurances, his archivists donned their own masks to filter out the Mist, as if it would protect them from it's currently harmless form. After the first few years, he stopped trying to get them to stop wasting time with their precautions. Cromwell busied himself with his Mist, manipulating it in subtle ways as he marked specific areas to be collected and organized. Whoever cared for this hall of documents was not orderly in the slightest. And thus, it wasn't long before he felt he was needed to lend another pair of hands to the efforts. So, when a messenger finally descended into the undergound hall, Cromwell would be found at a table, reading off of a stack of documents in his hands. The messenger, a half elf who was barely a man by any standard, quickly moved through the Mist at an uneasy gait. He offered up the pitch black letter to the Right Hand, before bowing and scurrying out into the ash tainted air. Cromwell didn't even bother reading it. He knew the Dark Lord ensured everyone on the Council received one, as if it was a friendly reminder for a function and not an order from their Lord. A whisper floated up to his ear along with the mist, telling him that the sun had would be past the horizon within the hour.<br/><br/>He gave himself and his archivists fifteen more minutes, knowing he only needed thirty to get to the Council meeting. Once the cache was completely categorized, the archivists quickly left, filing out of the room As Cromwell raised his hands.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff0000">"Consume and Preserve," </span>Cromwell whispered, his eyes closed behind his mask. The Mist thickened over the packaged information, and one more roiled. But this time, it was much more violent. As if the Mist was actually feeding. Soon, the Mist quieted down, thinning to the point of near non-existence. With a content sigh, Cromwell turned and left the now empty Records Hall.<br/><br/>His path immediately took him to the Dark Lord's tent. Casting a discerning eye over those who filtered in to the tent, Cromwell knew no one was missing, including the Dark Lord's newest addition. Unsure of what the Dark Lord's motives were with the girl, but uncaring in what exactly was being planned, Cromir slipped in among the crowd. Moving with purpose, he moved to stand behind the Dark Lord's right side. As the placated Council continued to move in and converse amongst themselves, Cromwell used that time to inform the Dark Lord of what he thought, in order to get the words in without having to deal with the amorphous and the fossilized. Though Grailin was surely reeling at the loss of their ally and buffer, it was not the most plentiful of nations. Though taking Grailin soon should certainly be a priority, Cromwell had noticed a crack in the armor of the mountainous country of Forrian. Their mountain halls and draconic hordes were exposed via the infighting he had witnessed. Many with influence within and without those halls were willing to discuss a deal the last time he was there. If a power vacuum were to be opened with the loss of the current beloved but heirless King, then that armor would certainly shatter. With a little prodding, the least amount of resources could be spent to earn the greatest amount of resources.<br/><br/>The Dark Lord's hand rose as Cromwell began to suggest who to send where to create the most desired effect. Cromwell glanced to the entrance and noted the arrival of the little Dragonfire. Nodding, Cromwell receded back, straightening himself and sealing his lips to allow the chaos to begin. Pairing what he knew about her with the showcase given today and actually 'meeting' her in person, Cromwell's opinion of the woman began to be forged. Her potential was evident, but if anything good were to come of that potential, she would have to be refined. Polished and smoothed like a diamond. Otherwise she was simply a hothead that would be best served on the frontlines until some lucky soldier rids the world of her recklessness. As the predicted chaos ensued, Cromwell sent out small pieces of his Mist, unable to be seen in this light, out towards the pyromancer. He wished to examine her, note whether it was natural or studiously gained, whether her mental state was solid or not. Cromwell wished to know everything about this woman before them as she snapped at the other Council members. Not out of some perverse desire or even the need to do so for record keeping. Cromwell did not care for this woman. She was much too disobedient and boisterous for Cromwell's personal tastes. He did not need to know who she was, for she was on record in the archive already. No, Cromwell inspected her out of curiosity. Which is exactly why his Mist began it's examination over the War Room talks.<br/><br/>The woman's plan was a solid one, if a bit more direct than Cromwell would have suggested if he felt Gailin should be the main priority. He appreciated her approach, but he preferred the slower option: to plant seeds of doubt and fear instead of sending an army. When those seeds took root in whatever capacity they could, one must simply produce the correct catalyst to the mix and the entire country would crumble into no more than city-state, which could either be crushed or bargained with at leisure. But, Cromwell was sure that Emyra would expect to lead this attack on the capital. Which, in turn, would only lead to more wasted information, bodies, and potential. Hopefully this evening he and the Dark Lord could have a proper War Council over the state of affairs. Cromwell's examination and own thoughts were aburptly stopped as the Dark Lord's inky blackness was used to silence the rest of the Council. The Mist retreated quickly, just as stealthily as it was sent out. The last time the Mist mixed with the ink was not a time Cromwell had forgotten...<br/><br/>As Cromwell was motioned for, The Mist spread once out in a more official capacity. The ink that had landed on the map had already disappeared as the map was taken in by the Mist, leaving nothing behind. It was not just preserved, a simple incantation under his breath returned them to their nook within the archive, efficiently handling his duties. What he did not expect was for Emyra to be offered to join them for their dinner, the one that would actually decide the next plan of action. Naturally, the warlock did not object, simply nodding as his mask hid his skepticism.<br/><br/>Cromwell hung close to the Dark Lord as their trio began to move. As they walked to the Dark Lord's carriage, Cromwell explained what he had managed to salvage during his search today. The capture of royalty for information gathering and experimentation, the hunt for nobility for much the same purpose, and the search for any loose general that may cause problems in the future. The excitement Emyra had was evident with her sudden silence as they approached the carriage, though by this time, Cromwell had already said his part and was simply listening to the Dark Lord's own thoughts when Emyra began to contribute once more.<br/><br/>Cromwell took his place in the carriage next to the Dark Lord, and the trio was off. Once in the safety of the carriage, Cromwell removed his mask, setting it in his lap, before pushing his hood back, finally allowing him to relax a bit in the safety of this carriage. Cromwell did not say much during the exchange, thinking, planning, and offering counters and suggestions to the Dark Lord's own musing for the most part. The carriage ride was long, the sun setting past the horizon by the time they had left the camp and it's final rays of light leaving midway through their trip. Their destination was visible even at night, for it had been converted into a partial stronghold. Lights shone throughout, even lighting up the ground a few yards past the walls. Some would say it was odd for the Right Hand's estates to shine in the darkness like this, but when you were tasked with protecting the Dark Lord's Archive, you would not allow anything to sneak up in the dead of night.<br/><br/>The moment their carriage entered the grounds proper, Cromwell noticed a messenger waiting anxiously for them to step out. Opting not to re-equip his mask, Cromwell stepped out, noting this messenger as one of the Ariandel Elves, gifted with speed that outpaces even skeletal steeds. The Elf dropped to a knee and bowed deeply as the Dark Lord stepped out of the carriage.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ff8000"> "My lord. I bring word from our forward scouts. It seems General Michalis' Former Flying Battalion of Humbrag's army has formed a resistance. Upon discovery by our scouts, they have rapidly been moving to connect with a sympathetic Forrian force in the foothills at the border. General Drask wishes to know if you wish for him to pursue, and whether or not you wish for them to stay alive." </span>