354 - Meeting of Elders [Sturmblitz] (Patreon)

The Sanger and Black Horse elders continued their argument even as they brought out a series of artifacts in sequence, some unfolding to form miniature landscape features while others created similarly miniature landscapes on the table, including simulacra of rivers, people, and animals. They spent the next full day moving about tiny soldiers and throwing variously shaped dice. The miniatures were carved of stone, inlaid with metals, detailed to the highest degree, and moved by imbuing one’s own aura into them — even including a limited degree of animation upon their pedestals. Many of the larger models represented real people, both living and dead, and of course both martial elders had themselves as the strongest units in the game. This was new — so new, in fact, that Cyrian hadn’t seen it at the last meeting, held during the Fog-sage’s mortal unification campaign. During that meeting, and all meetings prior, the game of choice had been some variant of chess, or whatever obscure card game Sanger had been gambling with. Once, it was backgammon — it came within a hair’s breadth of causing an inter-sect war, and games of chance were banned afterwards. It was obvious to the wizard why wargames of this complexity had suddenly gained appeal with the martial cultivators — they had been, after all, among the tools that allowed a mortal with very limited cultivation to turn the War of Fog into the meatgrinder it was.

“We’ve been playing Ankhezian wargames since our founding, but I’ll let them pretend they have something new,” the wizard thought. He decided not to dedicate his attention to the game fully, for the sake of keeping the peace and letting the meeting proceed apace.

To the surprise of neither of the magicians at the table, they were invited to join and given their own miniatures with their own reasonable rulesets, an obvious gesture of respect and recognition. It took some force of will to hold back from correcting the numerous small and not-as-numerous large inaccuracies, such as the fact Cyrian was represented wearing green robes and branded with his old “Swampweed Lord” epithet. He knew he couldn’t protest it without looking petty — everyone was represented as their younger selves in the game. Alexander and Edmund knew that he knew, and with their sideways glances they made it clear that they knew that Cyrian knew that they knew.

“This is why I stay in my tower. Older than some cities and only growing more petty and childish by the decade…” he complained inwardly. This was despite the fact he had been personally murdering the male heirs of a particular noble family the moment they hit 35 for the last five generations.

The topic of the meeting showed up in the wargame as a unique piece, as large as those representing the sect elders. It was a humanoid beast that emerged from a city tile in the south of the diorama, with eight snakes made of lightning forming out of its white-red hair, and a gigantic cleaver as tall as the rest of the model. The red was wrong, being literally bright red rather than orange. The miniature’s clothing was loose and flowy, wearing only chest bindings and parachute pants resembling the uniform of the Black Horse Sect’s least-favoured branch. The pants looked as if they were merely embroidered with the red-orange-black pattern of dragon-tree serpent scales.

In short, the details were all wrong, intentionally so.

“In the end, we won’t get to complete our game unless it is addressed,” Branstein said, eyeing each of the others in turn as he sipped his tea.

Sanger let out an incredulous laugh, scattering smoke as he did.

“What, do you mean to march to the sect gates and put it up to a fight, like the old times? I may have taken you up on the offer, had you only made it before Eberheim.”

“We have no stake in the matter,” Isidora refused. “Martial sects are to handle martial sect disputes among themselves — so it has always been.”

The witch grinned in an unsettling, cattish manner only she was capable of. Despite her diminutive, teenager-like stature, her seniority was indisputable. Among the four of them, she was the only one with such control that she could perform supernatural feats without any aura signature. To mortals and low-level cultivators, the difference didn’t mean much, but anyone advanced knew what an inhuman level of mastery it truly was. It was tantamount to turning raw ore into a masterwork sword directly through manipulation of its constituent metallum.

“Besides, you have no legitimate grounds for what you want. If they understand our rules, you will not be able to do much more than coerce them into joining our ranks officially. You want the Willowdale sect grounds, so you can get out of the Northern Capital.”

A cold anger flared in Branstein’s eyes, but he had no recourse. The witch was the oldest among the four of them, and by rule of seniority, she had free reign to speak as she wished.

“What do you suggest, then? Regardless of my wishes, she must be dealt with. We can’t have a genius run rampage over our lands doing what she wants, squandering resources and flagrantly disrespecting the conventions which have allowed us to survive for as long as we have. Upheaval after upheaval, genius after genius, we have persisted!”

Branstein thumped his fist on the table to punctuate his tirade, until, eventually, his control over his own aura slipped, and the miniature representing him exploded with the force of a hand grenade. It neither knocked down nor caused any damage to any of the other miniatures, or to anything else on the table.

“Settle down,” Isidora said, suppressing the sword cultivator’s rampant aura with a wave of her hand. She floated down into her seat, taking up a cross-legged position. “I believe we are all in agreement that the Black Horses’ Root Branch does require a new sect ground, and that the Heretic’s Daughter should be brought into the fold. At bare minimum, I wish to speak with her in person and ensure she will not do something foolish that would endanger us all. Her little martial arts proliferation project is one thing, the Dead Ones know you martials need new competitors to push you from that three-century-long rut… But we know nothing as to the extent of her knowledge in fundamental matters, let alone advanced leyline well maintenance methods. If we are not careful, the New Man Sect could cause irreversible ecological damage to the basin. The aftermath of Ubul’s leyline flood has been troublesome enough as is. I’ve not been able to adjust the weather in my territory to half the extent I am used to.”

Silence reigned for a few moments as the witch cast her gaze over her juniors.

"What? You cannot expect me to simply present you with a plan of action."

She went on to do just that.