Domino Effect

He’s not kept waiting for long.

The creature that emerges from the depths of the mountain range is a behemoth, an entity that borders on the line of bear and wolf, and is quite literally the largest canine he’s ever seen. For a moment, Rhazien’s disarmingly affable smile curls into an inquisitive smirk, bi-colored eyes roving the beast in a moment of awe. So this was the Warlord Aresenn spoke of. As Basilisk approaches, Rhazien is watching him closely; the Saxe male’s senses heightened, and keenly attuned to the slightest shift in the environment. He may have been neutral with Aresenn, but how would the Warlord receive the uncle of the tyrant Sephiran Saxe? Surely their reputation had spread across Ardent by now. With a steady breath, he focuses his gaze on the male, the guards hovering in his peripheral as he gives the alpha his full attention.

There aren’t any signs of aggression from the male; instead, he trots into a conversational distance, takes a seat, and towers over Rhazien. He exudes an aura of dominance and power, but it is not oppressive. Instead, it serves as a warning, Rhazien assumes.

Nodding in agreement, Rhazien confirms he is the diplomat of The Syndicate. His jaws part, and he’s ready to engage with Basilisk, but the words that slip from the Warlord’s mouth stop him from speaking. Declare war? Fallen Ashen Empire? My, was Rhazien intrigued. His mind reels back to his encounter with Artorias, and how the male had named himself an enemy against the Saxe, trying to banish them from Ardent. Of course, this wasn’t received by Sephiran, or even Rhazien for that matter; which resulted in The Hallows and The Syndicate becoming enemies.

Despite the musings occurring in Rhazien’s mind, his exterior does not crack; a neutral expression remains on his face, shoulders lax and hips shifting as he takes a seat before the male. “Rhazien Saxe. Yes, I am the Syndicate’s diplomat.” He says, introducing himself and confirming Basilisk’s initial question. With a click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he gives one of his serval companions a command. Zemir slips out from beneath his grizzle cape, the neck of a liquor bottle clenched between her agile jaws. She sets it down before the Warlord, nods to him, and slips back to sit beside her master. “I wasn’t sure if you’d find a use for venom,” He begins, hinting at one of their valuable resources. “I decided liquor was a good start.” He motions towards the bottle, wondering if the man is a drinker or if he partook in other pleasantries.

Zemir starts rubbing her head against his forelimb, purring and watching the Warlord with an attentive eye. “I haven't come to declare war over a drink.” If Basilisk didn’t have mugs for the booze, he’d summon Zemra, his other serval companion, to set up the pair she’d brought. “Aresenn informed me of your interest in raids.” A short pause. “I’ve come to discuss the possibility of a raid between our kingdoms, given we are neighbors. I’m also curious about this mention of war…” Although he didn’t know of the previous Warlord, he’d heard the Armada were allied with the Hallows from Aresenn and Sephiran. “We can establish the standing between your Armada and our Syndicate as well.” If Basilisk was still allied with the Ashen empire, as Artorias called it, that would make them enemies. But was the world of politics really that black and white? Certainly not.  

"Speech"