Wartime Correspondence

[Random_White_Guy]

Father,

When you told me the tale of the Rebels I could hardly believe it. That Humans would fly up to the Crown Princess' home in the Ecstatic Terrace to... complain. To complain to the Crown Princess of the illustrious Sultanate of Baz'eel. As if Ephia's Well was some Tavern with a reluctant barkeep. To admit openly, publicly, before not only the Gods but the Princess herself that they had been out maneuvered by... A Stonefolk.

I know I told you the chambermaid from the Terrace must be pulling your ear for a few more dinar on her bribe but to learn it was true may be the fairest gift you have ever blessed me upon my nameday. Q'tolip's little urchins, The Grandmaster's lapdogs... begging of the Sultanate to ease their woes. Contrary to your wishes I have not been performing duties for the Legate. I have no interest in playing Scribe, nor keeping record, but it is a thrill to watch and listen. This backwater outpost certainly has changed in the last few years. The creature is... an oddity. If I close my eyes he almost reminds me of Aunt Halim though his hips smaller.

Already has product begun to move swifter. Though I have been helping myself at the Brothel.

"The Yearning Urn" is a rather poor name but it isn't without its charms. After a few bottles of wine I find myself enjoying putting on the occasional show for the refugees.

Does that make you happy father, knowing your fair princeling collects Dinar by the pouch from the local Humans?

Does it twist your mustache to envision my supple grey flesh gleaming by torchlight while the pinklings blush?

All for the profit and delight of the local Cartel?

Lead by a... Stonefolk?

Fret not Father I have yet to begun to debase myself.

Or will you bring me home already? I miss Baz'eel and soon the new season of fashion to come and such splendor awaits.

Should you make me miss the usual revelries I will be most cross. Most.

If we continue this staring contest to see who blinks first, and you leave me in this sweat-caked latrine they call a "Well"

...I shall either need more product, or more of Grandfather's fortune.

The Peace you so crave from the Stonefolk to maintain does not come cheaply.

Kisses,

R.

[Random_White_Guy]

Father,

The Stonefolk has proven amenable to Baz'eel's peace for a price. Otherwise though it sits a rather docile creature for the moment.

In meeting the humans spoke of trying to raise money. They wanted a pittance.

It is sad how much these backwood wastelanders believe they are influencial because their dinar reaches five digit.

Nothing worth reporting but it has seemingly given up its political aspirations with the others taking to jockey for position.

At the very least there is some good news for the princess, it returns to trading. Offering its merchandise and sale for others, and 150 dinar to see the "Discreet Catalogue".

It is...  It's strange how effective it is. The simplest logic taken to the further bounds.

There's no secret panels, no secret room, no behind the counter lever to pull to open some hatch in basement.

It just... opens a different bag and shows it to the customer.

From the minds of the invalids, hrm?

The bad news is If I do not get some excitement soon I may have to pay one of these wastelanders to start a fire or two.

Yes, Papa, it is so.

Your father's precious fortunes pissed away, drip by drip, upon these wastelanders to burn and suffer.

At this rate I shall be home in 9 days time.

Not a moment too soon.

If you do not bring me back I will burn this entire Well to the Ground. Or join the Q'tolipans.

Either one will sully your reputation more than I could ever hope in a brothel.

R.

[Random_White_Guy]

Father,

Do forgive the lapse in correspondence as business has been so very, very good.

I shudder to think of the debauchery undertaken these many months, while extorting Banafsian refugees and sullying the family name.

Fret not as I've kept the beast mollified and your business interests secured. And matured to understand with clarity - After all when you die those interests become mine.

Elossi's and more clients await.

So if you could please hasten your demise, that would be simply divine.

Toodles.

R.

[Random_White_Guy]

Father,

Per your last correspondence I will be more frequent in my reports, per your accord with the Creature and the INFURIATING terms you have put on my Trust Fund. I HATE you.

It is difficult to put into words. Watching efforts unfold it is surreal sitting in on the meetings that the creature is having with the Humans, Dwarves, and more of the Settlement. There are times it appears entirely docile. When the sun is high in the air it lounges by the plaza, smokes in the Pyramid, wanders the city trundling about. No more than five words spoken to anyone. Like a Groknak kept in a Pen too long it paces around. The Coffeeshop to the Souk to the Glaziers Union Hall to the Krak to Hasheema's Hope. Plodding along. Looking, watching, listening.

...And then suddenly with a turn its tail cracks into a mountain. An explosion of activity. As if debris flying everywhere stirring Melek from their holes below the mountain. Where there was stillness comes the Deputy Chief Scribe, Scholars of Sandstone Colllege, Recluta, Apothars, Janissaries. Bellows, Couriers, Voiced citizens, Merchants. All requesting a meeting.

It's maddening, and yet...

You should have seen her father, it was /delicious/.

Elevated to the seat of Deputy Chief of this backwater's Bureaucratic Corps and her tiny little pincers clutching her cigarette. Repose in her massive throne, behind her exquisitely carved and massive wooden desk,  throwing her barbs and insults, her demands, her efforts to intimidate. Tens of thousands of Dinar in her pockets, Legates in her pocket, Voiced moving to her every whim, orchestrating elections and keeping the wheels of Ephia turning, waxing rhetorical about how much control she has over the city and the repercussions if the Creature disrupts her well oiled machine...

It merely stared as she spoke. Drank its water. Answered her questions, expounded where asked, it made little inquiry of its own, it complemented her on how far her Bank has come since the ideas drafted in its Legate office.

"The reward of not /abandoning/ my station and responsibilities".

If I could bottle and sell the venom, Father, Waradim spare my great-great-great-great grandchildren the burden of how much generational wealth they could not even give away. She may well hate the Creature more than I hate you. Which is saying something. And yet it is all Business. Always. She welcomed it to seek her with more business, to send refugees her way for loans, to inform her of its business and dealings so she can smooth matters over.

It simply acquiesced and agreed. As she chastised me saying I could "Do better" than serving such a thing, I fanned myself with a feigned scoff.

...but in truth part of me considers unleashing the Creature on /you/.

How would your many caravans fare peppering the landscape far and wide, only to arrive to find your efforts upended in Ka'esh, Qadira, and suddenly your illicit dealings with the Low Kulkund Senate now throttled. Everywhere your agents turn, a stoic and unmoving stare. Walking past your merchants with a gaggle of customers drawn away in its wake. Carrying no more than a thousand Dinar on its person, carrying no satchel full of hundreds of pounds of refuse stolen from the battlefield of the Thousand Clans, No Alchemical wonders turning lead into Gold...

...because it does not even need the lead.

Would it drive you as mad as it did the Deputy Chief? I do wonder, yes...

It is the simplest misdirection but with everyone looking towards the rattling noise that the creature is making in the Plaza, there hasn't been a single question or ask about what is going on in  Hasheema's Hope.

Things are about to get very interesting, Father.

Drown yourself,
R.

[Random_White_Guy]

Father,

I know you will find this hard to believe, I do not even believe it, as it may simply be the copious amounts of narcotics and coffee keeping me awake. The Stonefolk is starting to... make sense to me.

Days ago he had me write to the Purple Magistrate, his former Palatial Tutor Marcellus. The man who saw him educated when he became Magistrate, the man who he opened the Library and Shrine of Izdu with, the man he convinced to leave the Scribes to become a Minister. He would go on to become a Legate, a War Hero, a Legate, and a Third Term Legate. The first to hold multiple seat since John and Diakos and Zarat shuffled the thrones.

The Stonefolk's request was simple - That the unrepresented League, this time the Gold, be granted a seat as Magistrate. A local custom recorded by the Scribes. He did not even ask for it to be himself, or seek to illicit a bribe of Charity. It was not even much of a threat. Merely a reminder of the insult and that the Gold League would serve gladly as opposition party.

Days passed, there was no word.

More days passed, there was no word.

He held small meetings in Hasheema's Hope, where few expect the Gold League to be found.

Then Marcellus Announces he shall be going upon a Vacation, leaving his Prelate of Baz'eel the woman Nasreen who you knew from your youth. And like a Groknak's bellow, an echoing cry went out.

The Cinquefoil Rose have been courted and agreed in barest sense to proceed with a plan to circumvent not only the Legates, but the Assembly Entirely.

From there in the Souk did others of the Rose begin to question, did mercenaries, did merchants, and more.

"You do not have permission from the Assembly to do this"

"We do not need it."

"Says who"

"Says the fact we have the Dinar to hire Laborers, Says the fact we have begun Negotiations with the Rose, Says the fact they have La Banda Rossa, the Sisters, and the Balladeers. All they ever seek from the Assembly is Dinar. The Consortium has that."

And just like that - a silence. The only other noise the crackling echoes of the White and Purple Leagues over the Bellows decrying the Gold's new path.

I could not paint a prettier picture, Father.

The Humans are beginning to believe in Baz'eel's methods, but not for Baz'eel.

For themselves.

The Gold League always touts a desire for Self Governance on its propaganda board in the office. It's usually drown out by desire for wealth, desire for power, greed, ambition.

Not today though. Today I witnessed its nascent first step.

I hope you're wetting your Toga, your precious little Colonial interests may be finally growing up.

And I hope all that piss infects your wounds, and you die.

Die, die, drown in your piss.

- R.