The following is supposed to be an apocryphal story that doesn’t actually fall in line with the realities of the Free Kingdoms. I got bored and decided to write a few thousand words, and this fell out, is all. I know that the Free Kingdoms probably aren’t actually a Kingdom for sale in the lore, shoo, go away.
I also didn't really proofread it, so it might have issues in places.
A Rising Storm
“I’m… I’m not sure I quite understand”
The winds outside the towers of the Belfry buffeted against the shuttered windows of the high tower that Lord Alabast used as his personal office. Somewhere further up the tower, the bells that gave the sprawling university its name rang out a constant cacophony of noise, echoing the thunder that rumbled out in the distant mountains.
“You’re telling me they are… electing their King?”
“Not quite, my Lord, it’s rather strange, we haven’t seen anything like it before. It’s more like they are selling the throne off to the highest bidder.”
“But the… candidates you called them? The candidates can’t just buy the title for themselves?”
“Exactly, High Lord.”
“The nobility agreed to this?”
“No, my Lord. Again, it’s rather strange. Those who don’t manage to be placed on the throne itself will be granted their own, lesser titles. The scribes downstairs were quite baffled, nobody seems to know where the existing nobility actually disappeared to...”
High Lord Morbis Alabast shook his head as he shuffled the sheaf of papers that made up the daily reports delivered to him by his eyes and ears throughout the foreign Kingdoms. Nothing much from Bordweall and Kairos today, and Fortuna was as quiet as normal. But this ‘Free Kingdom’ was an anomaly that he didn’t appreciate, a potential unknown that could spoil plans laid out years ago.
Morbis wasn’t prepared for this. He hadn’t considered that the southern lands would be able to reorganise so quickly. A burst of frustration flashed across his normally jovial face, the papers in his hands being thrown down against the dark oak table that he sat at.
“How am I only hearing about this now? How didn’t we see this coming? Spirits bless, man, there is a Xeilian on this list!”
The Xeilians couldn’t be allowed to take a throne. Not again, not after what they had done to the Stormlands. Almost 150 years had passed since Xeilian soldiers had been thrown out of his lands, and even still their foulness could be felt in some of the more isolated corners. Nevermind the Xeilian blood that his family had been forced to endure being woven into the Alabast line by their cursed Mad King.
“I’m sorry High Lord, this is the first we’ve heard of it. Some people are whispering that it’s the doing of some heathen Gods. One moment their realm was in discord, hardly worthy of the title of Kingdom at all, the next… well, this.”
The scribe, robed in the silver and blue of High House Alabast and holding more of the report sheafs, shuffled in place, obviously nervous. Morbis sighed and leaned back into the tall backed chair that he had begun to favour over the last few years. There was a time that a simple stool would have made do, but those were past, now the appearance of wealth was often more important than the numbers in the ledgers. Now he was forced into what was almost a throne of his own.
“Nevermind that, Tavast, give me the rest of those, we don’t have time to dither.”
Tavast jumped forward, placing the reports down onto the table and pulling the first from the tall stack.
“This one details the campaign of one ‘Jon Warren’, a curious man with what appears to be a background in finance. I’ve had some of our own scribes who are proficient in that area take a look through his policy work, and they say that it rivals that of Kairos”
That report was carefully placed into a new stack next to the first, and another was pulled from the taller of the two.
“This one details the campaign of ‘Varuian Maulvorn’, a religious zealot claiming some kind of divine right to the throne. A dangerous man, if you don’t mind me saying my Lord. Polarising, but should he ascend to the crown I expect we will see holy war burn swathes of this land to cinder and ash.”
That report was more forcefully planted atop the first. Tavast had always been a devout man, the prospect of a war of faiths clearly disturbed him.
“This one details the campaign of ‘Phyllain Xeilias’...”
The High Lord cut off the scribe with an angry grunt and a fist pounding into the table. The tall stack of unread reports tumbled down, the papers within being thrown about the carpeted floors of the office. Spirits bless, the mere mention of their name threw red across his eyes and a hunger for vengeance into his belly. He expected similar bouts of controlled rage were being felt throughout the nobility of Vornair. His hadn’t been the only lands to suffer under Xeilian occupation.
“I’m sorry, Tavast. No, no, don’t worry about those, I’ll have one of the messenger boys gather them up. I don’t quite believe that I’m in the right state of mind to actually learn anything from them anyway. We’ll have to make sure that the banners are ready. Send a message to Lord Haelsson, tell him to prepare. Storms below, we aren’t ready yet.”
Morbis had known war was coming. He could feel it in the winds. It whispered softly in his ear as he tried, quite fruitlessly, to sleep at night. But everything he had seen told him that he had had years yet, maybe a decade. This would accelerate things.
“Has the King sent word?”
Again, Tavast shuffled in place.
“Yes, my Lord. He has called the Dukes to his table. You’re expected in High Revburgh within the week”
“Good, the King is taking this seriously, at least. Wait, within the week? Small Gods, you’re telling me this now? Prepare the honour guard, we leave within the hour. Which of the Counts is due to attend this year? Make sure they are notified, we will meet them on the way. Go, man, time slips away!”
Tavast stumbled backwards, away from the table, catching himself in his flowing robes and stumbling slightly as he made his way to the door. Even still, he closed it softly behind him, though the shouts Morbis heard from the man as he made his way down the corridors away from the office let him know that matters would be taken care of. Propriety was all well and good when in front of his High Lord, but the scribes of the Belfry were a fast acting lot.
Morbis pushed his not-quite-a-throne away from his table and limped over to one of the tall shuttered windows. Unlatching the wooden slats, he opened the shutters and stepped out onto the small balcony that surrounded the tower. Winds buffeted him back against the stonework, threatening to throw him from the heights, but he knew in his heart that nothing of the sort would happen.
Gazing out towards in the direction of the distant Lady of Storms, the fabled statue that gave his lands its unnatural weather, he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Calm. He needed calm. Legends said his great grandmother had quieted the winds, given his people time to rebuild after the horrors of the Cold Plague. Nobody had ever been able to tell him how. He needed that information, and he needed it now.
“A storm is coming, grandmother. Spirits willing, we’ll be able to weather it…”
