It was the closest to the center the desert states had: the Port of Nazahar. In comparison with much of the region, it was rich and lush and rife with life. At least, in normal times it would be. The port, normally sporting ships flying the flags of every nation bustling wading in and out of dock had only a meagre number of ships moored. The Nazahar's own trading fleet had been reduced alarmingly before they had caught wind of the hazard in the north. Captured. Likewise, unable to be trusted, seeing how so many of their vessels had been captured, sailing eastward meant so many of their trading sloops had been caught up in customs and were not to be released anytime soon. Whispers on the wind suggested they would be commandeered for 'the good fight.'
With the lack of import and export of goods, so did decrease the traffic of peoples of various nations. What was once tenuously open borders (or at least so for those who knew how to smuggle their way) were not so anymore. The economy of the desert nations were in shambles and those who lived rich lives in the arid sands found themselves cutting back on their indulgent ways just to make ends meet. As for those who could not claim such…
A grim faced man slams a jeweled goblet upon the table and leans forward across it, glowering at the other man convened at this meeting of men of power amongst the deserts. Of those present, he was perhaps one of the most haggard, and palest. His face is gaunt and his body large and muscled. He works his jaw, his beard bobbing up and down as if he is the act of thinking is a bit much for the brutish figure. Finally, in a gruff voice not used to speaking the common tongue, he rasps, "You insult Drusknali with these excuses. We, followers of Roknar are strong, but cannot continue like this. We keep Desert at bay from pampered," he spits the word, "people, you all. In exchange, you help Drusknali and Drusknali never again make ah, rohidna… To raid. That was oath. Now, you do not keep. As I see, you become Oathbreakers, all."
As a servant moves forward to wipe up the cheap wine the Drusknali man spilled, the man at the head of the table smooths his tunic and waits for the man to finish speaking calmly. "Let us not jump to anything brash, Erhkid—"
"Let the damned desert beast rage! They're nothing more than brutes living in the hollowed out skull of a giant desert skrag!"
"It not skrag!" Erhkid roars, "Child of Roknar. A dragon!" He bares his teeth in a bestial display. His hand unconsciously reaches for something which was obviously not present.
"See, see! The beast reaches for a weapon. A smart thing I suggested we not allow any weapons past the room, Barton," the nobleman snorts.
The one called Barton sighs and stands, outstretching his hands for peace until all those present settle themselves once more, "At ease, gentlemen. We are not here to fight amongst ourselves or see our own treaties and promises fall. We find our troubles not amongst ourselves but with the world at large once more. It has been some many years since our affairs has had to extend beyond our borders, but the time has come at hand once more…" He allows a hush to fall to let the words sink in.
In the corner, an elder man with tassels of beard akin to fur idly scribes the tidings of the meeting on parchment with ink and quill. His nose crinkles as he picks up on the tension in the room beginning to shift from hostility to foreboding. Nearby, a woman stands watching the affairs with her hand near her sword watching like a hawk for any foul play. Despite the orders to turn over weapons, there was still a few who believed a couple may have slipped through… precautions.
Nearby their youthful companion gawks at the proceedings, being so long since she had since so many influential people in one room. That was ignoring seeing them discuss something as important as this. She looks to Oebrym with a curious light in her eyes, expecting him to explain but he was busy scratching away on the parchment. She turns back and moves forward to refill the glasses of those present with her decanter of wine.
"I am sure many of you are aware of the trade stops in the north and east. Much of the north has been lost between Guilheim and Veiltȏndr. At the moment, we believe the rate at which it spreads has come to a halt but we do not know how long it shall hold. To the east, the major port of Hartstand seems to have come under the influence of… some righteous lot who thinks they can oppose the troubles in the north. Regardless, they have taken a very stern stance in their opposition and are seizing control where needbe to make their front against the scourge."
Tahlia's eyes go wide to think it had spread that far in the north. She tries to draw a map in her head of the area. Over the years, it was not a lot to speak of, but if they captured enough ports and ships they could spread out of control, she figured. She shuddered at the thought.
"As it stands now, we can't continue on like this. We need to resolve these problems immediately. Perhaps there is a peaceable solution with this 'Chastefell Coalition' eastwards, but I see nothing but battle with the Broodmother, and I do not think we've the resources for a sustained battle. Whichever path we take, I feel we will need someone to carry out the task. What words have you all on these matters?"
With the lack of import and export of goods, so did decrease the traffic of peoples of various nations. What was once tenuously open borders (or at least so for those who knew how to smuggle their way) were not so anymore. The economy of the desert nations were in shambles and those who lived rich lives in the arid sands found themselves cutting back on their indulgent ways just to make ends meet. As for those who could not claim such…
A grim faced man slams a jeweled goblet upon the table and leans forward across it, glowering at the other man convened at this meeting of men of power amongst the deserts. Of those present, he was perhaps one of the most haggard, and palest. His face is gaunt and his body large and muscled. He works his jaw, his beard bobbing up and down as if he is the act of thinking is a bit much for the brutish figure. Finally, in a gruff voice not used to speaking the common tongue, he rasps, "You insult Drusknali with these excuses. We, followers of Roknar are strong, but cannot continue like this. We keep Desert at bay from pampered," he spits the word, "people, you all. In exchange, you help Drusknali and Drusknali never again make ah, rohidna… To raid. That was oath. Now, you do not keep. As I see, you become Oathbreakers, all."
As a servant moves forward to wipe up the cheap wine the Drusknali man spilled, the man at the head of the table smooths his tunic and waits for the man to finish speaking calmly. "Let us not jump to anything brash, Erhkid—"
"Let the damned desert beast rage! They're nothing more than brutes living in the hollowed out skull of a giant desert skrag!"
"It not skrag!" Erhkid roars, "Child of Roknar. A dragon!" He bares his teeth in a bestial display. His hand unconsciously reaches for something which was obviously not present.
"See, see! The beast reaches for a weapon. A smart thing I suggested we not allow any weapons past the room, Barton," the nobleman snorts.
The one called Barton sighs and stands, outstretching his hands for peace until all those present settle themselves once more, "At ease, gentlemen. We are not here to fight amongst ourselves or see our own treaties and promises fall. We find our troubles not amongst ourselves but with the world at large once more. It has been some many years since our affairs has had to extend beyond our borders, but the time has come at hand once more…" He allows a hush to fall to let the words sink in.
In the corner, an elder man with tassels of beard akin to fur idly scribes the tidings of the meeting on parchment with ink and quill. His nose crinkles as he picks up on the tension in the room beginning to shift from hostility to foreboding. Nearby, a woman stands watching the affairs with her hand near her sword watching like a hawk for any foul play. Despite the orders to turn over weapons, there was still a few who believed a couple may have slipped through… precautions.
Nearby their youthful companion gawks at the proceedings, being so long since she had since so many influential people in one room. That was ignoring seeing them discuss something as important as this. She looks to Oebrym with a curious light in her eyes, expecting him to explain but he was busy scratching away on the parchment. She turns back and moves forward to refill the glasses of those present with her decanter of wine.
"I am sure many of you are aware of the trade stops in the north and east. Much of the north has been lost between Guilheim and Veiltȏndr. At the moment, we believe the rate at which it spreads has come to a halt but we do not know how long it shall hold. To the east, the major port of Hartstand seems to have come under the influence of… some righteous lot who thinks they can oppose the troubles in the north. Regardless, they have taken a very stern stance in their opposition and are seizing control where needbe to make their front against the scourge."
Tahlia's eyes go wide to think it had spread that far in the north. She tries to draw a map in her head of the area. Over the years, it was not a lot to speak of, but if they captured enough ports and ships they could spread out of control, she figured. She shuddered at the thought.
"As it stands now, we can't continue on like this. We need to resolve these problems immediately. Perhaps there is a peaceable solution with this 'Chastefell Coalition' eastwards, but I see nothing but battle with the Broodmother, and I do not think we've the resources for a sustained battle. Whichever path we take, I feel we will need someone to carry out the task. What words have you all on these matters?"