Several weeks ago, Aresenn approached Rhazien with valuable information. There was a change in leadership within the Armada. Given they were now neighbors, and the possibility of a raid had been discussed between the alpha and The Syndicate’s Emir, Rhazien felt it was necessary to visit the Warlord. He was The Syndicate’s diplomat after all. This was his job. He’d left the sanctuary of The Polar Sound earlier that morning, warning Medulla to search for him if he didn’t return by nightfall. So far, his journey had been uneventful.

Beneath the canopy of pines, Rhazien traverses across freshly fallen snow, creating a trail of impressions that vanish almost as quickly as they are made. Snow continues to fall from the heavens, immersing the north in a blanket of white that stretches as far as he can see. Even the towering pines are heavy with snow, the hushed stillness of the forest broken by the rustle of branches breaking or the occasional gust of wind. Pulling his grizzly pelt tighter around his neck, he feels his companions rustling underneath, riding on his back in their usual fashion. Their warmth is a welcoming contrast to the chill of the frigid air, and it seems to worsen as he nears the market Aresenn described to him. The soft glow of lanterns illuminates in the distance, guiding him to the neutral grounds that are bustling, even with the weather.

The air is alive with conversation, vendors calling out as he passes by, curiosity driving him as he saunters through. He wants to make a complete sweep of the area, to complete an assessment of the market and its valuables, before he teeters towards the borders of the Armada. Weaving through the crowd, it starts to dissipate as he reaches the designated location. Guards are standing by, and Rhazien nods to them, expressing his neutrality before tipping his head back and calling for the Warlord.  

"Speech"

A call from the market was unexpected, and the titan of a wolf tilted his head for a moment. Listening to the howl that echoed off the stones of the market cave. He stopped what he was doing, and trotted through the Col to see who was calling for him. He entered the market through the Armada side of the tunnel, and nodded his head at the guard posted on duty there. 


It was the guard himself that nodded him towards the specific wolf who had called his attention. As Basilisk approaches, he came to recognise the scent he now associated with the Syndicate. He knew it from the wolf Aresenn that had greeted him. He had since been called to the meeting at the Hallows, and regarded this wolf with curiosity. Had he come to confirm Art's words, or the red wolf's?


Regardless, he trotted into speaking range and took a seat by the other wolf, towering over him. “Greetings, I assume you are the diplomat of the Syndicate?” He said, Aresenn had suggested one would come. “Have you come to declare war on the fallen Ashen Empire, or to speak of neutrality as your Aresenn suggested?” He asked, cutting directly to the point.

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"

The dark toned wolf introduced himself, giving his name and confirming his rank. Diplomat to the Syndicate, and the apparently infamous Sephiran. The Warlord laughed softly under his breath when the wolf pulled out a bottle. Mentioning venom and liquor in the same breath, and clearly indicating he intended the bottle to be open and drunk. Interesting. Interesting indeed. Giving a good natured smile, through one that showed a little teeth, he indicated for a guard to grab some glasses. He poured the drink himself, and nudged one towards Rhazien. “After you” He said, humour still in his voice.

“I have heard that you have declared yourselves mortal enemies of the Ashen Empire. The Armada was once known as the Ashen Armada, through even before they fell we stopped being theirs to command a long time ago.”Friends and Allies of the Empire instead of a moving part to their whole. He took a slow breath. Diplomacy was not his strength, nor his interest. “The Hollows are linked to us in ties of blood. Family and loyalty runs deep between our two packs.” He said, being as open as he could with this wolf. They would no doubt wish to keep that in mind. If The Hallows called for aid, the Armada would answer. “But with all that in mind, I have no animosity for the Syndicate, and there is the chance that one day out pack may be linked with blood.” If Aresenn and Andromeda furthered their relationship, that was a tie he could not ignore. “As of this moment, my feelings to the Syndicate are of neutrality, and I am open to the idea of launching a friendly raid against your pack” He placed everything out there between them. He saw no reason to play coy, and subtlety wasn’t his game.


"Basilisk"

One of Basilisk’s guards emerged from behind the behemoth, presenting two, large glasses meant for the booze. The Warlord shuffled them in his paws, opened the bottle, and poured them a drink. Rhazien didn’t hesitate to grab a mug, nodding a silent thanks before bringing it to his lips. The sharp scent enveloped his senses, his mouth watering in anticipation of the taste. This stuff was bitter as hell, but potent. Taking a swig, his maw and throat are overtaken with the warmth of the booze, a slow-burning sensation forming in the back of his throat from the ethanol.

Truly, this was a pivotal moment in their interaction - it may have seemed trivial on the outside, but it was an opportunity to build trust. The Syndicate could have poisoned the bottle of liquor with their stores of venom, and Basilisk, could have dusted the mugs in whatever deadly concoction he had behind the walls of the Armada. This cordial interaction was a risk for them both, truly; one Rhazien was happy to take, in the name of The Syndicate.

As Basilisk speaks, Rhazien listens with unwavering attention, his mind processing the message, analyzing his tone, and trying to decipher any underlying intentions. The Armada hadn’t let the Ashen Empire interfere in their affairs in quite some time, which was good to hear. But the Armada and the Hallows were linked in ties of blood, a deep familial loyalty that was to be respected and understood. The Warlord follows with a declaration that makes Rhazien internally grin. He doesn’t have animosity for The Syndicate. Someday, their packs may be linked with blood. Rhazien assumes he is referring to Aresenn’s ties with whatever girl he’s been seeing here. Sneaky pirate boy.

Nodding at key points, Rhazien upholds his aura of receptivity to the Warlord's statements. Once he finishes, he takes another swig of his drink, processing the information and carefully choosing his next words. “When Artorias arrived at the borders of Norad, we’d just taken it over.” He begins. “He was infuriated, spewing threats left and right, trying to order our entire family to leave Ardent and never show our faces again.” His gaze lingers on the deep, azure eyes of Basilisk. “That if we chose to stay, we would be hunted down by himself and the Ashen Empire. That we would all die.” The tone of his voice is far more serious now, and lacking that playful banter from before. Basilisk seemed like a family man - he’d mentioned how important family ties were to him. Surely he’d relate to the rage that burned in Sephiran, having been told his family would be slaughtered if they did not leave. “It was only natural that our Sultan refused Artorias’ demands and declared him an enemy of The Syndicate. We do not take threats of genocide lightly." A short pause. “The Saxe were forged through deep, familial bonds. Survival is in our nature, and we’ve learned to flourish in the dark corners of this world. We’ve been painted as malicious, savage creatures, having uprooted the Norad pack to claim their spot in this everchanging world of politics. But everything we do is in the name of our family, our safety, and our success.” He falls silent then, wanting the Warlord to process his words. Then, he’d move onto the circulating topic of neutrality.

“I feared we’d been declared enemies in every corner of the continent. We did not know the extent of the Ashen Empire…” His voice trails off, as a contemplative expression tugs at his features. “Our Sultan will be pleased with your neutrality.” He says, nodding his head to signal his agreement with the gesture. “I will propose the friendly raid to Sephiran. Perhaps we can consider this a step in a direction beyond neutrality.” At this time, he didn’t know much about the Armada beyond their location, their market, and the Warlord’s interest in raiding. But perhaps with time and more interaction, they may find they are more similarly aligned than they previously thought. “The Syndicate resides to the East, just beyond the Northern Wall- we’ve overtaken The Polar Sound and Ardens Glacies.” Basilisk would need to know where their pack was if he didn’t already. “Our warriors will be awaiting your arrival.” With one last nod, Rhazien concludes the topic of the friendly raid, unless Basilisk had something else to say.

"Speech"

Rhazien took a sip, and Basilisk followed suit. He found the drink more bitter than the stuff his healer made, but he swallowed gracefully, and placed his glass back down again. Rhazien launched into his own description of the events that had happened down in Auster. Basilisk did not think highly of rapists, or wolves that would kidnap a child to take a pack. He was not interested in a ‘he said, they said’ situation, he had taken Art’s warning and would eventually form his own opinion of the Syndicate. So long as the pack was aware that The Hallows was not alone, nor easy prey.

When the dark wolf spoke of the raid as a step beyond neutrality, he raised a brow at him. “That would depend entirely on the interactions between our packs.” Words alone would not sway him in any direction. “I look forward to clashing with them” Basilisk said, swiping a bottle of alcohol from a table that was selling it - nothing prepared, nothing that he had to go and fetch. This way, Rhazien could see for himself it wasn’t tampered with, and his appearance had not been anticipated. It was one of the few remaining of Halo’s batch. Ah, Halo, he missed her. He handed it over to Rhazien “A gift for your Sultan.” He explained.


"Basilisk"

Something beyond neutrality would depend on future interactions between their packs. Rhazien nodded in agreement, taking another drink from the mug and enjoying the bitter, burning taste that trickled down his throat. “I’m looking forward to it as well.” He says, thoughts of how the raid might occur forming in his mind. He imagines the massive man trekking into The Polar Sound, warriors adorned in armor at his back and ready to brawl with The Syndicate. And their warriors, well, Rhazien would make sure to alert them of the impending raid, so they could be prepared. His biggest challenge would be buffing Sephiran. He fights back a sigh at the thought, shifting his gaze back to Basilisk, who is offering him a bottle from the table.

A gift for the Sultan - a kind gesture, one Rhazien is pleased to accept. “Thank you Warlord.” He says, pulling the bottle towards him and motioning for one of his companions to gather it. “Following the raid, I will return to touch base with you.” Depending on how it progressed, they would need to discuss any future arrangements between their packs. Aresenn was seeing one of the females here- their blood may mix sooner than they anticipated. It would be beneficial to keep tabs on one another.

If Basilisk felt content with their meeting, Rhazien did too. The rest would be explained by their performance on the battlefield.

-potential end?-

"Speech"