The Whiteraven Accord
Excerpt from the Historical Record of the Whiteraven Alliance by the Avian Asenath Khaye of Fall Society:
In a crackle of chromatic colours and sharp sounds I emerged from the portal at Whiteraven, an independent town east of the Tiefanese border. At once I was greeted by an ordered line of human men and women, finely dressed in matching whites and reds. A gendered pair took a step forward. Each inclined their heads to my companions and myself before the male spoke: “You must be the delegation from the Kingdom of Mizrah Atara. Welcome to the Summit. If you would please follow us…”
We were led past row upon row of quaint wooden cabins. A humanoid face could be seen peeking out of the cross-patterned windows of one of the residences, but as my gaze met theirs, it was hastily torn away. Ancient oaks loomed around the small town, immersing its winding paths and buildings in a light blanket of shade. The thick canopy above kept most of the sun’s rays at bay, though those few that did pierce through were blinding.
After a minute of walking, the rows of cabins began to converge and over their roofs peaked a bright white figure: a marble angel. Each step revealed more, the heavenly guardian’s pinnacle declining sharply to merge with formidable stone walls, etched with ornate, divinely-inspired heraldry. At the church’s side stood a formidable longhouse, dwarfed only by its monolithic neighbor. From this hall could be a heard a cacophony of voices. As the guards, also in red and white, dragged open its thick doors, the discordant symphony of various dialects and languages rose to a clamour.
“Please welcome the delegates from the Kingdom of Mizrah Atara, Elikapeka Mandel of the Ascension Society, Naamah Pensak of the Ascension Society and Asenath Khaye of the Fall Society.” Though the woman projected her voice as much as she could, her words were overwhelmed by the commotion of those gathered.
The black and grey tartans of many of the Einher may very well have blended into the dimmed room had it not been for the sea of reds and blues worn in some manner or another by a majority of the humans spotted throughout the assembly. The Einher mostly kept their distance from the few pale-skinned elves Ice Elves, each of which maintained a crooked smirk that would only grow when confronted with obscenities from the assembled Einher. Throughout the room High Elves could be seen spread out, their accents rising from almost every conversation. Scars were carved upon the faces of the fairest Deminis’Thalan, gravely contrasting the upright air that they embraced. When one would move between social groups they clunked with weather-worn weapons sheathed at their sides, while others jingled with the chainmail tucked beneath the surfaces of their fine clothing. The male guide piped up “follow closely” as he led our delegation through the disorderly horde of guests.
Hoblings intermingled erratically, with excited voices and wide grins reborn upon each new introduction. Bestial races mostly remained in concentrated groups. The Wolven must have been in a heated discussion, a continuous stream of venomous “ki”, “is” and “os” aimed at each other from their corner. The Savar’Aving had a narrow range of straight-faced expressions, speaking among themselves in their sharper tongue as they looked upon the vocal Wolven. We remained silent throughout the affair, observing the dynamic scene with keen interest. In a distant corner two Draconians, one ocean blue and the other brilliant gold, towered over the crowd. The red and white guards frequently directed their eyes to the two, unease clearly marked in their grim expressions, but the rest of the gathering seemed to pay the two no more heed than any of the others present.
“Closer, quickly now,” the guide urged as they passed columns of transplanted church pews, through to the longhouse’s center. A grand round table stood in the middle of the masses. The delegation circled the table until the guides stopped and held out their hands towards the set of chairs before them. “Do take a seat.” The man spoke loudly to overcome the noise around him. “The official proceedings should be starting short-”
A trumpet penetrated the din of conversations, silencing them all. Our guides rushed us into our seats. The delegates from Ascension sat at the round table and I was positioned in a pew. Other red and white clad humans gathered together their own delegations. In the blink of an eye the room turned from chaos to order. A small portion of the ranks sat at the round table while the majority were whisked away to the tables and pews nearer the entrance. From this door the trumpeter and another man entered, wearing similar, though rather finer, shades of red and white.
“Honoured guests!” came the shrill voice of the elegant man. “The Kingdom of Tiefanue, the host state of this summit, welcomes you to Whiteraven!”
From outside the hall a deeper tone, a knell to the former’s chime, rung flatly in. “No need to aggrandize ourselves, brother.” A younger man in a fitted purple and green surcoat stepped in. “We have a herald, just like everyone else,” he added in a hushed tone. “There are steps one must follow to be respectful in diplomacy.”
The first man who spoke ran his fingers through his long blond hair before throwing his hand dismissively to the side. A lady wearing similarly coloured clothes entered, wide-eyed and wary. She became rapidly more composed as she spoke: “Please welcome the representative from the Kingdom of Tiefanue, His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Roland” – at which the first speaker beamed, waving his hand high – “and His Highness, Prince Leopold.”
Prince Leopold thanked the herald before hastening his steps to catch up to Roland, who had already made his way between the tables and pews towards the center. A number of other humans dressed in red and white filed in from outside as the princes made their way through the now silent room to the two seats at the round table that had stayed empty. The younger sat down, lending his gaze from delegate to delegate, while the elder remained standing. “Again, I, and the rest of Tiefanue, welcome you,” Roland declared, before at last lowering his waving hand, with a flourish, to rest at his side. “As you must be aware, Louis of Berphaunt intends to have us bend knee to his kingdom and, as you are all here, you must also be against the very notion of this. So it is here, in Whiteraven, that we convene to solidify our nations’ stances against the Empire and enter an official alliance together.”
The room was quiet. A few delegates shifted in their seats, looking between one another. Roland took in some air before adding: “So, we may as well get on with the signing. Bring forward the quills and documentation.” The elder prince rolled his right hand, beckoning to a number of servants who came forward from the pews with the items. Harsh mutterings arose from the crowd and a number of Wolven delegates clenched their arm rests. One turned towards the entrance of the longhouse and took a step.
Roland’s brow furrowed, while a wispy breath of air escaped Leopold. “Brother,” said the younger prince. “Perhaps you should field any concerns that other delegates may have before moving forward.”
“Yes,” Roland agreed. “I was about to get to that. The representatives from Aslak, you have something to -”
“What protection can you offer?” The Wolven who had headed away from the gathering gruffly interjected. He turned back around and faced the other standing figure. “With what certainty can we be confident that this alliance will not be the end of us all?”
“This alliance will protect all who sign it, as each nation will do their best to protect each other from enemies within and withou -”
The Wolven interrupted once more. “That still does not answer whether you can offer us anything more than words. How do you intend to protect us, let alone yourselves? Tiefanue could not even defend their own people from the internal threat of the Black and his undead army. Your land and naval forces have been destroyed from within and without, by Styphon and Berphaunt. What do you have to offer other than your tired rhetoric of freedom and moral goodness to us who border the Berphauntian Empire, who would be on the frontline of every land conflict? And what of the master of Brood, Ga’more?” The Wolven slammed one of his large fur paws upon the roundtable. “We will not be the buffer state for ones that can offer us no more than sentiments and good intentions.”
Other representatives began muttering among their delegations. Roland opened his mouth, but it was a female Savar’Aving’s voice that came next. “Alone we ‘ave our own strengt’s and weaknesses but toged’er we can complement our strengt’s wid’ d’ose nations d’at are lacking in t’em.”
The outspoken Wolven snorted. “Coming from the nation that is overrun with more undead than what is left of their entire race I am not surprised that you, too, would beg for handouts.”
“We do not beg,” came a hissed response. “We are willing to work toge’der wit’ od’er free nations to make sure d’at each of us remains free. Berphaunt t’reatens to tear down our ‘omes to fuel d’eir machine of war. You are welcome to join us in t’e defence of our forests – unless you would prefer to grovel at d’e feet of d’e Berphauntian masters, like dogs.”
Words of outrage burst forth from the Wolven delegation and chatter among the other delegates rose to deafening levels. Roland stood with his mouth open as if to speak, but said nothing. Looking from his brother to the chaos around him, Leopold let another breath of air escape him before he barked: “Let there be order!”
Gradually the delegates began to quiet, though tensions remained palpable. Vocalized hostility between the representatives from Felnir and Aslak were replaced by fiery glares. “Brother,” Leopold nudged Roland. “Continue.”
“Oh, yes, I will,” Roland stuttered before easing back into a comfortable rhythm of speech. “Delegates, dignitaries, we must maintain order and, indeed, we in Tiefanue have. It is true that we did struggle against Styphon and the Black Wyrm’s army, but it was through strength, perseverance, and our resolute stance in the Light that we did overcome his unholiness. The Black is once more at rest and here we stand before you, as battered but still living veterans of a war against one of the world’s mightiest forces. We have lost much – our people, our land, our reputation. But in our time we have gained the will, devotion, and expertise necessary to stand against whatever may threaten us next. The Berphauntians come here as foreigners to our home of Maud’madir, bringing with them Ga’more – the enemy from which they have already fled – and demanding that we bend knee because they have powerful land forces. Well, I can tell you this much: their military has nothing on the threats that we have already faced and overcome. They lost their war against Ga’more and were forced to flee while we withstood our gravest foe.”
Stroking his hair back with a flourish of his hand, Roland stood straighter.
“Even if Louis Berphaunt is in bed with Shiloth, her influence is nowhere near our lands. The Citadel will have an easy time picking off what little shadows she sows in our territories. As the Felnirian representative expressed, each of our sovereign states come with their own strengths and weaknesses. Together, our strengths can defend each others’ weaknesses. We can combine our diverse strengths to form a force more formidable than an assimilative empire like Berphaunt could ever hope to foster. Tiefanue, together with Duvain,” Roland pointed to the mentioned representatives, “Boasts naval supremacy over Berphaunt. Alongside the other free nations who would join us we could surely muster enough people to match in numbers the land force of Berphaunt and in time, united, match the eastern Empire’s martial prowess and resource base.”
The outspoken Wolven queried: “What I hear is that you need others to stand. What benefit comes for us in doing so? You are still only bolstering your words as wealth, admitting that alone you cannot provide anything of substance to combat Berphaunt or Ga’more.”
“It may not sound like much, but our moral superiority is in fact one of our greatest strengths. Berphaunt knows nothing of loyalty, of morals, of freedom. They will always fail to overcome a greater enemy, like they did when they fled Ga’more last. Either we stand, united, for what is right, against Berphaunt’s demands of servitude and whatever else may come our way – or we throw away our morals to serve what we know to be wrong.”
The standing Wolven paused to look around the room and snorted before returning to his seat. Roland swept his gaze across those gathered. His smile widened, briefly. It abruptly receded in time with the creaking of the opening door a distance in front and the frantic panting heaving from behind it.
“Your Royal Highness!” came the gasping voice of a red and white clad woman as she rushed into the hall.
Roland took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Creases etched themselves across his forehead and contempt seeped into the crown prince’s words. “What is it?”
“An urgent message from the frontlines, Your Royal Highness. It requires royal -”
Roland threw his hand to the side dismissively. “No message is urgent enough to interrupt me. Leopold, go deal with it.”
The eyebrows of the younger prince shot up, a sudden storm raging in his glare, but in the next blink their hazel seas had soothed. The corner of his left lip rose slightly, contorting his flat expression into a faint grin. “Of course, brother.” He got up from his seat, brushing the bottom of his surcoat as he made his way from the table. “I shall not be long.”
Leopold pointed a finger at a vacant area in the corner of the room and both he and the messenger hastily headed towards that direction. The crown prince, after taking another long glance around the room, raised an eyebrow. “If there are no more interruptions I will now field any concerns that your nations may be facing, that we, as an alliance shortly to be, will help you face.”
The Einher, who had been tensing in their seats and muttering among themselves for a while, stood up in noticeable discord, taking a few moments of awkwardly rising and looking around before they all got to their feet. At their center was the most thickly built Einher, with curling locks of hair and a lengthy beard, both which matched the darker shade of his kilt. It was he who uttered a gruff statement. “I, Aarto Magnusson, speak for Clan Hunhil, but our words speak true for all true Einher. Mjoll has broken into civil war: fathers against sons against daughters against brothers against mothers, all over the corruption sowed by the accursed clan, Fenrick.”
The last word was spoken with seeping venom. A few of the Einher grumbled a curse and one even spat before Aarto added more passionately, “They truly are bastards, the lot of them, just like the dark one who they support: Orin, the betrayer who dared attack us, unprovoked, accusing us of killing the ol’ High King, and then declared for himself the title.” The rest swore in crude affirmation and their leader continued to speak. “Thanks to the bastard and his followers, our people are now divided, slaughtering each other over lies and deceit. And to what end? Nothing good. Valhalla comes too soon for some and never for more; there is as little honour among some clans of our blood as there ever existed in our common foe. The struggle within our land only strengthens the threat from without: Pandora’s forces push harder south. With every Einish life lost she and her hateful children gain more and more ground and yet you invite them -” Roars of outrage bursts from the Einher as Aarto pointed in the direction of the pale-faced elves, who grinned “- the frozen devils themselves, here, for diplomacy? Is this supposed to be some crude joke, lad? ‘Cause no one is laughing save for fools, which are the same type of person who would even consider bringing former slaves and slave masters together and then telling them that they must unite to ensure their freedom.”
“Enough.” Roland interjected, only to have his word echo louder and sharper with a familiar Savar’Avingian hiss. The representative from Felnir gracefully moved up from her chair. “‘Ow feral must you be to believe d’at grudges cannot be overcome, d’at t’ere is no greater t’reat to your livelihoods d’an what you can find from your own ‘istories? T’e Wolven and us, we ‘ave our own tales of chaos and carnage, taking eachod’ers blood and spilling it freely for ages, but still we remain. Why stay is t’e quesion, no? One may never forgive but at least try to look past d’e past, at t’e shadows of empires and greater evils d’at loom over us as disciplined predators to naive prey. No nation ‘ere ‘as been blessed to come to d’e alliance free from tensions and uncertainties, but if we do not put aside what ‘as come before and act toged’er, now, we will ‘ave our decisions made for us and be damned to never make our own choices again.”
The Savar’Aving moved from her group and rounded the table, nearing prince Roland. “Felnir stands ‘For Our Daughters’ and for d’em we must work toge’der so d’at d’ey may ‘ave d’e liberty to choose t’e same for t’eir own.” Upon reaching the prince, the Savar’Aving extended a clawed paw out to him. After a few moments of Roland staring blankly back at her she calmly asked, “D’is is your custom, no? A ‘andshake.”
An open-mouthed exclamation of understanding escaped Roland. Only after examining the extended appendage did the elder prince attempt to maneuver his palm to safely grasp her own. Representatives shared looks between each other, but Roland finally managed to greet the offer. The shake was loose, a great lumbering effort drawn-out by the equally cautious retraction of his hand.
“An honour,” the Felnirian representative replied sincerely, clearly unabashed by the awkward display of the foreign custom.
Roland watched the Savar’Aving, his gaze still blank, as she bridged the gap between herself and the round table. Between the princes’ seats she reached out to grasp at the quill and ink, her paws closing around them.
“You wish to sign, then?” Roland asked, as she dragged the document closer to her and skimmed its contents. When she did not answer, he moved beside her and his chair, echoing the question.
In spite of her protracted, sharpened nails, the Savar’Aving managed to wield the quill with some grace, dabbing it thrice in the open ink vial. She let the quill waver over the container for a while to allow the excess of ink to drip safely. Only then did she respond. “Yes. Where?”
Roland placed his finger upon a line inscribed on the parchment. The representative of Felnir lowered her grip and let the quill rest just above the designated location. She pressed the tip down upon the page, leaving the first mark, a line, near its bottom. From the tip to the feather of the quill murky blue and black runes appeared in succession. These dimmed symbols became blinding and all in the room were drawn to their premonitory intensity. A flash of brilliant darkness coalesced together and burst radially from its source. Any feelings that had once been present in the onlookers were torn from their spirits, leaving each facing a growing existential void with a sense of fateless dread. For an instant the world felt frozen, still. In that second, an eternity lingered. One moment the Savar’Aving and prince of Tiefanue could be seen and the next they were torn from existence. Their flesh disintegrated; first muscle, then bone, all to be replaced in an instant by an empty blackness that extended out to consume both of them in its gluttonous twilight. Slowly, the lightless energy began to fade along with any trace of the two individuals that once had been. The quill that remained hovering in limbo just above the table. When at last the passage of time normalized its pace the hall was still struck with an unnatural silence, broken only by the clattering of the quill as it fell to rest once more beside the newly inked parchment.
Sudden, short intakes of breath first escaped those closest at the roundtable. Leopold’s eyes widened and he gasped for air. It was not long before other utterances of confusion and outrage escalated to a clamour: the High Elves gasped, the Einher cursed, and the Savar’Aving demanded answers.
“Where did t’ey go?” hissed one of the Savar’Aving delegation who sat to the right of her representative’s empty seat. She leapt from the chair, sinking her claws into the wooden surface in front of her. “Felnir demands answers!”
The sea of people, once at rest, became turbulent. Across the room red and white tabards spread in waves. Each pair of guides hastened to those they had escorted and expressed in frantic tones the need for their charges to remain calm. Their efforts appeared only to aggravate the delegates’ concerns.
The commotion diminished with each of Leopold’s steps as he made his way back to the round table. His movement seemed to drape a muting blanket across the gathering as he strode to where the newly absent had vanished. With his index finger and thumb from his right hand he plucked the quill from the table and lifted the object, tip up, towards him. He examined it with an inquisitor’s intensity, his gaze sharpening as he gradually rotated it. At last, his pursed lips were cracked by a twitch of a smirk. From them emerged a whisper: “You missed.” The prince took the quill in both hands and snapped it in half, letting its splintered fragments clatter upon the table below.
“Tiefanue,” Aarto’s gruff voice was harsh but tempered with uncertainty, “Explain yourself. What was that?”
“A message,” Leopold responded immediately. “A threat and promise of war no doubt sent from the source of our collective discontent, concocted by the state that would benefit most from having our initiative of peace stifled by violence. The foundations of Berphaunt rest solely upon the power of its name and its absence of morals. Whether we are to stand for or against the false empire, its intentions for us are the same: death.” He took in a weighted breath, then gradually released it. “As we have just all witnessed, life is finite. I lost a brother today, just as Felnir has lost one of her daughters. In one fell swoop two brave souls were struck down, taken from us as spring flowers in an untimely frost. Yet even as they are gone, their legacy still stands as clear as they did: for unity in the face of conflict, for the freedom of their people, for hope in a future where we may live the lives we set for ourselves instead of a fate inflicted upon us by imperial tyrants. Through their hostility Berphaunt seeks to force our knees to bend. I refuse to reap the fear that they sow for us all and welcome any who will still stand with me for what is right and refuse to submit to what is wrong.”
“Enough is enough.” The outspoken Wolven delegate rose again from his seat. “What they have done is intolerable. Let us get this damned thing signed.”
Leopold lowered his head briefly to the Wolven before beckoning a herald over to him. A man in red and white emerged from the ranks of the gathered. He rushed forward, rounding the table with a collection of items held close to his breast: a vial of ink, a feather pen, and another copy of the now destroyed document. As the herald met Leopold he instinctively murmured “Your Highness” before bowing, and then stammered, “I mean, Your Royal Highness.”
Leopold waved his hand dismissively at the gesture of reverence. As the herald set the materials upon the table he snatched up the feather pen, closely examining it before dipping its tip in the ink and pressing it to the intact document before him. The new crown prince of Tiefanue was the first to sign the International Declaration of Allied Sovereignties, the official beginning to what would become known as the Whiteraven Alliance.
The Wolven was swift to take up the pen, uttering his nation’s motto, “Tradition, Unity, Strength,” while he inked his signature. As the deputy-representative of Felnir approached, he took a knee before her in genuine genuflection and respectfully proclaimed “and For Our Daughters” before passing the quill to her. The Ice Elves remained at their seats and watched keenly as other factions converged upon the enlarging assembly of wilful allies. Joining in succession were the Republic of Duvain, the Hoblings of Teris, the Kingdom of Estlemere, and the Hunhil of Mjoll, along with their allied Einish clans. Armor chimed as the High Elven representative of the government in exile of Suvant, former councilman Jatar Sumendar, made his way to record their allegiance. Finally, signing last, the independent towns of Whiteraven and Havenhallow. At this time, the representatives from the Ascension Society of Mizrah Atara elected to remain uninvested.
The Whiteraven Alliance was born.