The Whiteraven Summit of 2268

The following account of the signing of the People’s Accord of Nations is recorded by my quill, my chisel, my word onto mediums both material and naught. My name is Kai’raos, chronomancer spirit of the Reaper’s endless chambers, and I am bid by my Lord Vesmir to attend to this task:

It is the thirteenth day, of the second month, of the two thousand and sixty eighth year of the mortal-known calendar. The time of our departure from the Final Bastion was one thousand three hundred and thirty minutes from the beginning of the day. Our transport was near instantaneous.

The town of Whiteraven surrounds us with its wooden houses, standing tall, but not unscathed. Charred wood holds, but the memory of the Demonic fires that touched it remains. Ancient oak trees rise up through its streets, though many are husks of deadwood. The marble angel of the church still shines over the rooftops, yet its wings are sundered and broken. Repairs are slow and methodical, as hope begins to trickle back into the weary populace. Whiteraven bears her scars on every inch… yet she will not bend.

As I stand taking in the events, a mortal Human child runs past, gazing at my companion with a smile. The Final Authority, once called Vesper, smiles back with compassion overflowing, as the boy continues his path… straight through my form to a nearby threshold, where his mother awaits. He does not notice. He cannot. Out of phase with reality I must remain to complete my task, yet the boy’s temporal assignment floods through my mind; one billion, four hundred and fifty one million, six hundred and nineteen thousand, seven hundred and ninety two seconds. The memory of mortal compassion within me stirs, and I wish I could tell him. But interference is unacceptable.

“Welcome to Whiteraven, my Lady. If you follow the local guard, they can guide you to your chambers. The talks shall occur tomorrow at first light.”

The Human mayor of town, Yolanda Smythe, announces herself to the Final Authority, who leaves with town watchmen in red and white towards the massive longhouse next to the church. As I follow, an encampment can be seen outside the town from the top of the hill I now climb. The banners of the Order of the Blood Red Rose flutter in the nighttime breeze, illuminated by several campfires. In another time, I count their number from up close; one hundred and thirteen exactly. Three Knight-Commanders, Ser Gaius Sergius Praeconinus, Ser Godfried d’Raulovir, and Dame Millicent Coopersdottir, keep watchful eye on their oathsworn and to all else who arrive at Whiteraven.

It is the fourteenth day, of the second month, of the two thousand and sixty eighth year of the mortal-known calendar. The Second Whiteraven Summit has truly begun.

Knights of the Shield from the Blood Red Rose congregate near and within the grand longhouse, its double doors currently wide open and welcoming. The Final Authority enters and sits to the right side of the space, as dignitaries begin to file in. Some hold expressions of fervor, others trepidation, and others further still bear signs of indignation. Each is announced by a town crier, or their own herald.

To the right side of the chamber, Matron Mother Rachana of the Grē’llana Pride sits, speaking in earnest to Tryfon the Enduring of Dasos. Both show signs of age; this is not their first time within this room. Their Savar’Aving and Wolven attendants look to one another with a mix of displeasure and respect in equal measure.

Lady Pelokai Obram, an Avian with black and blue feathers, sits in practical fashion, as the towering figure of Sir Eitan Roshal stands at attention behind her. While the noblewoman is new to the practical application of lowlander politics, the knight next to her has never left Mizrah Atara. His armor clicks and whirrs with clockwork-artifice unknown to those who dwell beneath the mountain of Le’ever Hashamayim Xyrpmya. In his right hand, a vicious polearm is held, its spear-tip warping the air like a heat mirage. From beneath his full helm, he stares across the room emotionlessly, but ever vigilant.

Sitting respectfully to the back of the chamber are the Order of the Rose’s Knight-Commanders Three. Ser Godfried and Dame Millicent are exchanging quiet words, with Ser Gaius’ imposing figure standing over them both. His eyes never leave the dignitaries to the opposite side of the room for long.

To the left side of the chamber, a Draconian of bronze scales flecked with emerald and chrysoberyl stands alongside four winged drakes of similar colouration. Each drake bears a vertical banner displaying the symbol of the Groundbreaker attached between their shoulder blades. The Draconian, S’valrok the Beckoner, smiles with an infectious joviality, his wyrm-like companions sitting at attention like the finest of trained hounds. The Firstborn Kaltraxis has sent a dreamer to support a dream, and this act will echo forward.

Nearby, Shak’tar with ruby underbellies sit, clad in feathered mantles and jade adornments borne of the Crescent Isles to the west. Each Squamata present has bled for the alliance, and would do so again if new respect was garnered. Their leader, the High Priest Nipe Totec, impatiently watches the room with an intensity only matched by those who sit opposite him.

The Crissen’Thalan Cezário Viamenté, a High Priest in his own right, sits with his delegation of Sylth Al’gor from the Jormungerian Theocracy. Clerics of his council have denied all former outreaches by the alliance of old, and left its first signing early. He will not abscond from this one. The city-dwellers of Nevasca silently judge the assemblage with faces of interest towards the central figure; Avandra Ironarm.

The steward of Tiefanue speaks: “I’m going to just get right on to it. We need-”

Her voice falters, not from lack of will, or fear, but from inexperience. The room all turns to her. I see myriad emotions cross her face in moments, but only one remains. She falters no more.

“-Need… to come to an agreement. The nations-”

Suddenly, the doors fly open as an Ajaunti enters, dressed in shades of orange and amber, a half-cocked grin plastered across his sea-worn face. He walks with the gait of a man in charge, but with nary a noble bone in his body. His dark eyes scan the room before alighting on Avandra.

“Terribly sorry to interrupt… be it late upon the bell, or do ye’ have room for one more?”

The room turns briefly to the interruption. The Knight-Commanders whisper to one another.

“No, you are welcome as any other. Sit, uh, lord…?”

“Nay, not a lord. Anton zhon Anton II, Free-Commodore of the House of Orange, at your service,” he says, with words slick as grease.

“… Fine, sure. Look, all you nations that have chosen to attend: we are fixing the alliance right here, right now. I figured if you bothered to show up, you at least want that to be so.”

Anton slides into a chair at an empty table, kicking his boots up onto its surface as casually as at a tavern.

The Dragon Knight of Kaltraxis, Oskeladd, stands next to Avandra, leaning on his simple wooden walking staff. He admires his dear friend’s candor, but worry grips him that her political inexperience may lose the crowd. With measured care, he speaks: “With the Tiefanue line broken, that which founded and maintained the first International Declaration of Allied Sovereignties—the Whiteraven Accord—needs new life to continue what it chose to uphold a decade ago. We have drafted a preliminary piece with what we-”

Nipe Totec spits out a retort, cutting Avandra’s advisor off with a throaty growl. “Do you even have the slightest clue what you are trying to accomplish, Avandra-Steward? Your worth in leadership is still in question, and my people demand answers as the sole recompense for the bloodshed we endured.”

“That you endured?” Tryfon interjects. “It may have been ten years since I last sat in this room, but must we echo the past with these tired claims? If it was not for the Pistos Pnevma of Aslak, your war-priests would have fallen long ago in battle.”

The High Priest’s eyes burn with jade-green light, his hand twitching with the barest crackle of magical energy, as he spits back, “Still your tongue, wolf, lest my Queen’s talons cut it loose.”

The room begins to erupt in accusation and counterpoint from all sides, save for Anton and the Ice Elves of Nevasca. Avandra stands abruptly, hand clutching the warhammer of King Roland Tiefanue the First… before letting its head fall to the wooden floor with a reverberating boom. In that moment her presence, once foolishly mistaken for a commoner out of her depth, is dauntless and immutable. I feel it too; a force of will unbridled in its intensity. Yet, despite the holy weapon in her grip, this feeling came not from its divine craftsmanship. No Lightborne enchantment did it let loose, nor hidden magical bolstering of Avandra’s spirit; it was the woman herself, and nothing more.

“Will all of you STOP IT! This is exactly the needless squabbling that allowed this so-called alliance to come to ruin. Because you all care more about your lofty positions than you do your own people!”

The room falls deathly silent, but Avandra’s words continue, undeterred.

“The Kingdom of Tiefanue is gone. Prince Leopold, his brother Roland the Second, hells, their immortal father, our liege, are gone. And they did a lot for the people; for years I was told the stories growing up. But Oskeladd tells me the entire bloodline was annihilated by this,” as she holds up the twisted, blackened royal crown of Tiefanue. “Somewhere along the way, the one who wore this crown meant more to Tiefanue than the common person. Those labourers who give everything to see society fed another day. Clothed another day. Housed, and fulfilled in a life uncertain another day. Those people are what truly matters in any nation. Somewhere between a bunch of acid-dripping bugs trying to kill us all, and the Hell King following suit, this accord forgot that. Fine, call me brash. Call me lowborn. Say whatever you want about me, but know that when you do, you say that to all your citizens who trusted you to keep their best interests at heart when Berphaunt sought to conquer all of Arthos.”

She strides forward and steps up onto one of the immense tables dominating the space, much to the surprise of the noble guests sitting nearby. As she does so, one of the doors opens quietly for a rugged Einher bearing the black and blue colours of Clan Gotland, a gnarled walking staff in his left hand. A Thegn under Revna Mothersblood’s new unified northlands, Abiørngundr respectfully stands aside from the doors, leaning against the wall to watch Avandra’s continued oration.

“Instead, the Church of Light, under the very monarchy that was supposed to set an example to all about our country’s ‘goodness,’ was allowed to fester with the corruption of the king of literal Hell. The accord went from nations putting aside their differences to dedicate themselves to peace and protection of the innocent, to just bathing in the Light for its own sake. At first I took this throne at the behest of the people I fought beside; to watch over it so that some noble didn’t start this mess all over again by trying to stake their claim to its seat. But now? I see it is just another fancy chair unneeded. I’ve had a lot of time to think about this. The people of Tiefanue, and everywhere else, don’t need another king or queen; they need action not bound up in your red ribbons of politics. The Empire of Berphaunt will not stop till everything is under their thumb, the Orcs of Amaranthia grow more emboldened by the day, and even Mjoll is united under one banner for the first time in years.”

At this, the Cleric Cezário takes a deep breath, his smirk fading quickly to an expression of resolute focus. Abiørngundr raises an eyebrow, but holds his tongue.

“The old accord was tied to the Light, no matter what anyone hoped to prove on paper. I have nothing against them; apparently they think I should have this hammer, for one. But this can’t be what an alliance is based on. This new accord? It will be tied to our people; a collective promise that our nations will defend them against all that seek to bring them low. Because we can. Because we owe them that and so much more for all they have endured. As we speak, I’ve emptied the entirety of the royal coffers of Lightguard City, and given that money back to its people. As we speak, with Lightguard in some form of repair, my Hammered Host leads the rest of the Tiefanese people to move to the abandoned Castle of Pembroke to rebuild their lives. As we speak, roads are being carved, buildings are being constructed, and new seeds are being sown.”

The crowd is stunned. The sound of a pin dropping would be as deafening as thunder within the chamber. A group of surviving Tiefanese nobility look between aghast and infuriated as the realization that their wealth has disappeared dawns on them. The Final Authority stands, “If this is to be, Avandra, what of the throne of Castle Lightguard?”

“You know, Vesper, the moment the church changed the capital’s name from Tiefheim to Lightguard by ‘the will of the Gods,’ it never really belonged to us anyway. Do what you will with it; it’s not Tiefanue anymore.” Avandra’s voice is direct, but not cold. Oskeladd smiles at his dear friend, nodding to himself as she inhales, her face flushed from lack of air. She continues.

“I’m not asking you to throw away your positions for the sake of your people. Few of you would give up your comforts regardless of if I did. But together we can all make a stand against the Ga’mores of the world. The Roderick Hales. The Imperial Regents. We stand together, yet stand apart as individuals. No Elder Council. No constant voting and endless meetings… just enough to make decisions actually happen. We just agree to the practicality of our continued survival. What say you?”

Venom as cold as an ice floe in the northern waters spill from an Ice Elven mouth, as Cezário stands from his seat.

“Honeyed words, child, but sweet nothings give Jormunger no assurances. You call this meeting to garner aid, yet offer nothing of consequence. You openly admit your nation has no ruler, hollow coffers, a military either forcibly conscripted into the Undead legions of the Ealdor-Banum, or lying charred by Hellfire, and you expect us to simply just, what… work together for the ‘good of the realm?’ Help me to understand why Holy Nevasca and her Crissen’Thalan should lend our enduring forces to such a cause?”

Avandra stares at him blankly, before blurting out, “As much as I respect Revna, if you think you can take every single Einish clan knocking on your doorstep at once, be my guest, your holy… uh, grace. I wish you the best of luck.”

Cezário’s face shows the briefest flicker of rage, before settling to—much to the surprise of the room—an expression that could be mistaken for admiration.

“Hm. Well played. Yet, we will have words.” He sits back down, yet another moves forward to fill the vacuum. The Einish Thegn speaks.

“And so what if we did, Steward Ironarm? Or would you have us all hold hands with our most sworn foes on the merit of new beginnings and ill else?”

Avandra turns with surprise, as Cezário genuinely smiles, staring at no one in particular. This retort would have been expected a decade ago, but an Einher here, now, was deliciously curious to the Cleric.

“But Revna said-” she begins with slight confusion, yet Abiørngundr interjects with the unbothered intensity only an Einher can produce.

“-Our High Chieftainess, if’n you please, sent well wishes to whatever it is you are planning here, aye. Yet upon reflection, she deemed it only respectful to send I, Thegn Abiørngundr of Gotland, to bear witness. And in repayment of this show of honour, even as you both bathed in the blood of the diabolic legions on the field of battle, you allow this rime-choked serpent a chance to hiss its deceptions to your ear?!”

At this, a few of the Ice Elven dignitaries cannot help but quietly chuckle, much to Abiørngundr’s growing fury. Nipe Totec of the Ruby Bellied Shak’tar seems to also find indignation in the Thegn’s words, though perhaps unjustly at the misinterpreted comment regarding a ‘snake.’

“Thegn Abiørngundr, I am grateful that Rev- er, your High Chieftainess has sent you. She and I do hold great respect for one another, but you must understand that I cannot turn away any nation that wishes to come to the table in earnest. You know the Ice Elves as well as I, and there is no illusion as to why they have come here. However, I said all were welcome to be heard out, and I meant it. I will not start this reforged alliance as a liar.”

“Yes, brave Einsman of Gotland. Do hear Pandora’s children out for once in your tragically short life. You must have weathered much to arrive here. Perhaps this discomfort can be a teacher,” Cezário says with measured tones.

“You are NOT helping, Lord Viamenté,” Avandra spits back. The air around Abiørngundr begins to crackle with static, his eyes sparking blue as he takes a violent step towards the Ice Elves.

“I’ll give ye’ discomfort alright, you painweaving basta-”

The sounds of swords unsheathing echoes across the room, cutting Abiørngundr’s words off. Knights of the Shield, and their Knight-Commanders, all stand with blades drawn. Ser Gaius speaks.

“With respects to these proceedings, I heavily advise both the delegations of Mjoll and Nevasca to cease this escalation, else thou shalt both be removed.”

Abiørngundr takes three large breaths, the channeled Elemental magic surrounding him ceasing, his face now a stoic mess of defiance and acceptance. The Blood Red Rose sheath their weapons in near unison and sit. The Einher watches Avandra for any sign of her displeasure solely towards the Darkweaver’s comment, or any iota of a reaction to reprimand the reaction of the knights. He finds none.

“Steward Ironarm, I warn you here and now amongst this assemblage. You allow Jormunger to this table, and you’ll see it rot by their presence.”

“Abiørngundr, please, see reas-”

“No. You see reason. Mjoll was content to let you have your dream, but if it includes the Ice Elves, you twist it to a nightmare. I caution all of you to think long and hard what your alliance may risk if you go through with this course of action. Do not make an enemy of us this day.”

He turns and leaves, his footsteps echoing across the chamber. Avandra looks conflicted, her grip on the warhammer’s handle going white-knuckled. Rachana beats a clawed hand against her chest across the room, breaking the silence with intent.

“Avandra, our Mother Matriarch stands with you, even if you do not sit upon the throne. We trust in your decisions this day, and unto days forward. Felnir is ever a friend to the brave people of Tiefanue!”

Tryfon pipes up, “Well, I won’t be outdone by the Grē’llana Pride. Besides, I think all in this room could benefit from a bit of your youthful candor. We’ve been stuck in the past for too long. The howl of Aslak shall ever sound in the hills of Tiefanue!”

The Draconian S’valrok calls out, “You speak that which the Host of Kaltraxis aspires to in all things, Avandra. The Whiteraven Alliance shall be a global community under the Groundbreaker’s protection. We shall sign your new accord.”

Anton slowly stands, ringed fingers rapping upon the basket hilt of his cutlass. “Now this be all very well an’ good, but new alliances need a little somethin’ to find their balance; even here on land. Great nations of Arthos, as Free-Commodore of the greatest sailing armada ever seen on any waters, I hereby offer the services of the Ochre Fleet to the cause.”

“Ah, the wayward head of the House of Orange,” Lady Pelokai chimes in. “Not to doubt your claim, but isn’t the Ochre Fleet contracted to the Republic of Duvain under permanent letters of mark to its navy as privateers? With Duvain being absent from these proceedings, I had thought those that won its independence would follow their example.”

Anton smiles, “Well I’m sure the room loves the history lesson, Lady… whoever you are, but even from your high peaks I doubt even you can count all the vessels from our humble family. The House of Orange has freedom, even in our current arrangement with the Council of Twelve. Though, as it happens, those councillors aren’t very lively anymore, are they? Murdered by Demons when ol’ Louis’ warship ran aground across Avanelle’s docks. Tragic, truly, but I suppose then all arrangements are off, aye?”

He paces about the chamber, continuing, “Tiefanue’s got no royal navy since the Temple of the Black Eclipse did their grim work. Duvain’s shipyards won’t have anywhere near the vessels you need in time, and clearly the Republic doesn’t even wish to be here. If the Orcs get the itch—and mark my words, they will—their vessels will cut through the Southern Seas and spill warriors onto the mainland, and into your domains, unchallenged. You need me and my ships, and here I am offering them to you on a silver platter with but one, little, caveat; help me reclaim the Isle of Duvain, and the fleet is yours.”

In almost mirror to Anton’s own entrance, the longhouse’s doors once again burst open. Whiteraven watchmen attempt to apologize for the intrusion, as a woman bearing the symbol of Duvain on her naval tabard storms into the room. The First Sea Lord of Duvain, the young Leora Fraley, pauses briefly to catch her breath, as the chamber descends into murmurs. Anton closes his eyes, exhaling slowly with a slight twitch of barely hidden annoyance as he turns to meet Leora’s gaze with a re-plastered grin.

“Captain Fraley. What a pleasant and entirely unexpected surprise.”

“Cut the act, Anton. What is the House of Orange doing here?” Her tone drips with suspicion, as the privateer Commodore gives a practiced shrug of nonchalance.

“Just picking up where you left off. You’ve enough on your plate, I’m sure, and I’ve come to take your spot, since your spokesperson was so adamant in the Duvainian people not wanting to return to the alliance. Besides, serendipity dictated that my fleet survived our run-ins with the hellish beasties, and yours sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Terrible luck that, though, puts a man like me in a very advantageous position.”

“You would be fools not to take the offer of a full armada,” Cezário chimes in. “What care we who runs a gutted island nation primed for new leadership? Allow the exuberant fool to claim his prize, and let the pain of your indecision garner you the reward of naval dominance.”

Anton almost comically points to the delegation from Jormunger with a sly grin. Leora seems at loss for words as Pelokai’s voice rings out across the assemblage.

“Serendipity, Captain? Is that what you would call the coordinated reposition across the Amaranthian coastline you performed to hide from the King of Hell’s ships, while the Duvainian navy suffered?” The Avian smiles sweetly, but her visage belies a thinly veiled smugness untold. “So you see, contrary to your previous supposition of fact, I do think I can count your vessels from my high peaks; all 347 of them that most certainly allowed the Duvainian navy to fall.”

“Free-Commodore, there was a time when all of Duvain owed your grandfather’s fleet a debt of gratitude. You freed us from Berphauntian occupation… you won us our freedom. How could you betray your own people? Is this true, Anton?” Leora speaks in measured tones, but it is clear the words burn in her mouth like salt in a wound.

“I betrayed nothin’, miss. An’ the good Lady Bluebird over there can accuse all she wishes; I’ve yet to see proof. It is your government that ensorcelled the people of our beloved Republic. And let us nary forget the oh so kind and courteous throwing of the House of Orange to the nine-winds when our use was spent. Only to give us the honour of serving under the banner of the capital-riddled councillors as wolves of the seas. As infested by Abacus then as you are choked by the Miser Erasmus now. Your navy was almost entirely populated by the descendants of those avaricious, rich families; now is the time for the common Duvainian to command the seas.”

“And of course, who better to lead them than you, I assume?” she retorts.

“Ye’ spake it, not I, love.” Anton gives a wide bow.

Knight-Commander Praeconinus takes silent note with charcoal and parchment, before exiting the chamber alongside Knight-Commander Coopersdottir.

Avandra strides over, nudging Anton aside, and stands before the First Sea Lord. “Leora, the Whiteraven Alliance needs Duvain as a people; not as a navy. We’re making something better here. What say you?”

Anton grows more aggravated by his dismissal by the second. Leora looks across the representatives from all over Maud’madir, then Avandra, before turning to the Free-Commodore, her expression softening.

“The Republic of Duvain owes your house a debt it can never repay, Anton, but this is not the course you need chart. The House of Orange’s ships are legendary, and the common people need a symbol to rally to. A new council is being formed, mainly of the young who grew up on the stories of your house’s exploits. The navy, too, bears volunteers from all corners of the Republic who are ardently hopeful for the future. You can help be a part of that. Help me train the new sailors of Duvain’s future.” She holds out a hand to him.

“… What do ye’ think you’re doing?” Anton says, a mix of disbelief and incredulity in his voice.

“Giving you a chance,” she says with redoubled effort, before turning to Avandra. “Duvain has reconsidered. We will be a part of making a new accord of allyship. We hope the House of Orange will join us.”

“Reconsidered, she says. Nay, ye’ just parrot a fallen council’s wishes. Hear this, Captain Fraley: I’ll be made a fool of any day, but I’ll not be denied my due.” He pauses, seriousness finally crossing his face. “I’ll agree with you on this; the Duvainian people do deserve to know hope in their hearts again. But until the House of Orange is once again at the helm, guiding the people to equality and away from decadence, your empty words will only fill their cups for so long. Glory te’ the Republic, your Lordship.”

Anton gruffly strides out of the room, the gathered crowd splitting as he passes. As the doors to the longhouse close, Oskeladd brings forth parchment after parchment, laying them out across the central table.

“Where do we sign?” Lady Pelokai inquires.

“Nowhere yet. We’ve drafted an outline to our views, yes, but allies collaborate. Let us create this together; the People’s Accord of Nations.”

And so it was that the assembled collectives, nations, and creeds came together to forge a bond anew. Unlike a decade prior, the contingent from Jormunger stayed till the very end of the summit. Cezário spoke with Avandra at length, leaving with his attendants on remarkably amicable terms, but their ultimate decision remains unknown to me. I ponder on whether a nation so firmly held in the grip of a Dark Celestial can truly understand Avandra’s wishes for serving the needs of the people. Where does the Nevascan citizen begin and the worship of the Winter Queen end? That future remains uncertain.

Over the course of the final day, many other communities arrived to speak their peace and make their provisional mark upon the page. The new accord was taking shape. All was as it shall be…

… It is two hundred and eighty four seconds since the final signatory took up the quill.

It sees me.

Not the bearer of the ink-tipped instrument, but something else. A watcher betwixt the layers, no taller than a man. Bordering the fictitious and the solidified it hovers, haloed in fractals, mere feet from the accord, scanning it and those that sign with a hunger unfathomable. Its eyes are incomprehensible yet its unseen gaze pierces into me; I know it, though such should be impossible. I try to move. I cannot. I feel a mind within my nonexistent physical skull again. Not the conjured memories tied to my spirit—a fragment of my once-mortality—but a phantom-head-to-be. It closes the distance, as if beckoned by my thoughts.

Fourteen seconds.

I compel the temporal in front of me to reverse this malady keeping me still. It consumes the beat of the soundless clock I summon in wordless defiance.

Eight seconds.

I go to call to Him, but I cannot. He was important. He gave me my name: Kai’raos. He gave me my task: to tend to the minor fraying threads of epochs via Chronomancy. He was someone. He gave me something.

Four seconds.

Why am I counting? I cannot remember. The phantasmagoric abyss of its floating body encircles my head-form. Long appendages hold the ethereal that is me. I need to call something, for it made me something… once. It gave me a name. It gave me a task. I try to compel, but I am no longer compelling. I am… afraid.

The count ends.

As do I.