Open Chronicles The Return Of The Queen

[Vyx'aria]

Vyx’aria watched the display without reaction.

The living sand rose and shifted at Medja’s command, yet the Drow Queen neither leaned forward nor drew back. Her posture did not change. Elbow anchored to the armrest, chin resting lightly on curled fingers, she regarded the conjured empire with the same still attention she afforded everything placed before her.

In that silence, a single thought passed. Another ruler crossing distance and danger to place a burden at the feet of the drow. Another surface power seeking strength it did not wish to spend itself alone. Alliria had done the same, but Xeraphine was at least more blunt about it.

Her expression betrayed none of it.

When she finally spoke, it was with unhurried calm, her voice even and uninflected, carrying easily across the space between them.

“A shared enemy,” Vyx’aria said. “Name it.”

 

[Vyx'aria]

Azrakar looked across the shoulder of the dancer. He caught just the slightest shift in the queen's expression.

Perhaps now was not the moment for their back and forth. Not when she had an endless stream of visiting dignitaries.

"It's a large city," Azrakar said. It was hardly an explanation, but Drow were hardly known for being forthcoming with details.

He leaned closer and lowered his voice.

"Why don't you go back to her Highness. When there is a gap, why don't you whisper to her that I promise no brooding and that I will see her later."

It was careful that as an unaffiliated male that he phrased things as suggestions, even to a dancer. He might have been caught by Vyx'aria for his out of date knowledge of drow culture, but some things had not changed.

The dancer bristled when the male implied she should serve as a messenger. She would do it, but there was no denying the male's boldness. She reached out, her hand grasping and curling around his bicep. She gave him a cruel grin, "Perhaps you ought to demonstrate to me all the ways you plan on pleasing her. We only want the best for our queen, no?"

 

[Medja]

From the conjured crag within the emerald sands a great beast rose, a familiar visage to many. He who rent a continent, the ruinbringer: Drakormir. Yet the dragon's form stepped forward only to fall and scatter, and from the place it fell, thousands of skittering monstrosities spread.

Over the surface of the land they crawled and flew like locusts, but so to did they dig down, and out, and through. Burrowing abominations, teeth flashing in the dark, surging through the caves of the Underrealm like a flood.

Then the sands went flat and withdrew back into the locket.

Click. The trinket closed.

"Six years ago the Great Bringer of Ruin rose from the depths of Arethil and ravaged the land. It took but one day for the beast to fall, by the grace of great sacrifice from the peoples of Amol-Kalit and Elbion," Medja intoned, her verdant eyes sending their piercing gaze towards Vyx'aria. "But a god does not die so readily...and a god's vengeance is a terrible thing."

Medja tucked the trinket back into her dress and folded her hands across her waist.

"Make no mistake: the Empire does not want for strength. Each day we rise, we fight, and we slaughter. We have crushed a hundred nations and even now we press upon the borders of the remaining nations of Liadain...but these creatures, these...spawn of Drakormir the Elder...they are a cancer. And like cancer they spread, relentlessly, even through the depths of the earth. By the estimates of my magic...they burrow for Epressa."

The Empress' hand signaled the demi-jackal warrior once more, and once more the servant stepped forward and knelt, presenting that same ornate box.

"I do not come here to grovel for aid, Valsharess. I come here to warn you of what may be a danger to your people in the future, and to offer the Empire's strength, in hopes that one day we might find ourselves not just allies of convenience, but sister nations. To that end, I offer a token of good faith: an artifact from my own personal collection, a relic of a bygone era."