It’s a quiet, cool day in Glacikaldr. The snow falls softly for once, and even as dusk creeps closer, the usually biting cold merely nips at those who walk the open air.
Children run about the central city square in warm furs, screaming and laughing as they enjoy one of the rarer nice days in the city. Adults dare to linger in the outdoors, hovering near lanterns to gossip and laugh along the streets. Night crept closer, drawing people to their homes as the Moonguard started to rouse and take to the walls against the winterlands’ other denizens.
Queen Cessair Wolf-fanged stalked towards her own home with none of her people’s calm. Her steely expression couldn’t be mistaken for being relaxed, her shoulders set tight as her armored feet clang against the flagstones. Her eyes don’t land upon her people around her as they shift and bow their heads, don’t track the delighted children who pause their game to stare at her passing.
She has a destination, and all else is secondary.
It’s mechanical, walking through the city to her manor-home, she finds herself seated in her study, writing in quick, yet careful script, manufactured perfection in the curled, looping handwriting, putting the words she'd carried and crafted into black-blue ink.
To the Honorable Queen-Regent Jocelyn Kilvaro of the Emeraldite Empire,
It has been some time since I stood before you; in the aftermath of Oakhold’s ruination and terrible grief delivered upon your family, I stood in your castle as you gave title to Sir Richard D. Lion. I would fault you not for remembering me as I was, a soldier of Cerise, but now, I have to honor to address you amongst the finery of a new name: Queen Cessair Wolf-fanged of the Glacikaldr Empire. I only regret it is due to current events and the return of ruination that I must reach out again.
Peace is the goal for which I took Glacikaldr’s throne, the very basis upon which I have lived in this world. I will not sit idle while war brews amongst my neighbors and await bloodshed to taint this land again. Thus, I suggest a meeting, that we might converse of these happenings and what may be done.
Yet I confess, Your Majesty, that if I am to speak truth, I have concerns of my own. As I’m sure you know, I was working in collaboration with a man in your employ, Von Derk, in attempt to investigate the disappearance of Stag-Point and recovering its abducted peoples. However, in our second meeting, his spell of truth caused repeated harm despite my lack of deceit – I must pray that you did not approve of your underling bringing harm to another of Templehelm’s leadership, but it gives me pause that this is a man you would hold in regard.
It is in spite of this reluctance I write to you now: I will not let hesitation stay needed action, and I must hold faith that you will not either. I swear, upon all gods and ancestors, I would do you no harm at this meeting and wish you no ill will.
In such tumultuous times, I do not labor under false belief this is a trivial request, but I do labor in hope that you may consider my words. I invoke my actions to speak for me now: defending the Emeraldite saint Giften from Gazan’s forces, the defense of Oakhold against numerous incursions, my repeated aid to Wood’s Edge, my service in investigating a Grastagg official, my defense of Stag-Point from wytches, and my continued inquisition into the disappearance of the same city. Let my deeds speak my intentions, and let your mind be at ease.
I eagerly await your reply, and may your gods bless you.
Queen Cessair Wolf-fanged
Thrice-Dead Soverign of Glacikaldr
It was careful, measured, the words each debated and placed like stones in a wall, her every flourishing line and plumed letter filling in the gaps. It was all truths, all carefully chosen– it had been a hard lesson of her status that information must be given with caution, that certain things couldn’t be written at all where anyone could read them.
Black wax fell in gentle waves over the creases of the paper, folded into its careful diamond, the howling wolf head seal pressed into the soft wax. It took a mere brush of her finger over it for frost to gather, a silvery gleam overtaking the surface, the very paper chilled as metal now; it gave a certain extra legitimacy, knowing exactly who and where this came from upon mere touch. Near to her hand, the medal of Stag-Point sits waiting; once a symbol of pride, now an item of bitterness she's happy to send along with the letter as proof of her efforts.
The letter set aside, another was penned– the words as carefully chosen, but warmer, shorter.
To the Esteemed Eastlake Guildmaster Mikail,
It’s been too long since we spoke– I will utter my regret as to that fact in person, should you
be so kind as to grant me conclave with you. Current events are concerning, and I fear for my
friends along the Steppe, you included.
My thanks and best to you, my friend– may the gods bless you.
Queen Cessair Wolf-fanged
Thrice-Dead Soverign of Glacikaldr
Mikail was an old friend– an old conspirator, even, given how he’d been so willing to work with herself and Condor against the queen-regent’s wishes against Gol. With any luck, he’d remember that friendship, or at least remember how much coin sat in her purses, at worst. She needed not just allies in this, but information, and he was her best option.
Signed. Sealed. Letters sent, feeling like lead in her hands even after her palms lay empty.
Her ragged lungs felt like sails, as every jagged breath led her to the balcony, to frozen air and a sliver of sun that remained.
People still milled below, though fewer now. Children called in for dinner, soldiers to their posts or their homes after their own shifts. Father Blackfrost standing at the doors of his church with a cigarette in hand.
The words in her head still felt heavy, even after being packaged to letters and sent off.
Her elbows rested against the balcony rail, leaning forward to watch a dwindling group of children pelt a rough snow golem with icicles, cackling with laughter.
All anxiety and fear could come soon, and she had no doubts that it would. For now, just now, she breathed in the peace. It would not last.
