A Gift From The Serpent King.

It isn't long before Solla and her warrior women filter into the hall. The women, or those who've made it back to the castle, look somewhat the worse for wear.

"Your Grace!" Solla announces, marching in, her sword drawn, pointed at the back of a red-headed man. “We've got prisoners. This one says he's got something important for you, eh?”

Sure enough, the ginger prisoner is bearing a small wooden chest. Turning to regard the prisoner, Donald has him step forward and speak his peace.

“King Donald of Beatha, I am Captain Arne Firebeard.” the Deanian announces. “On the orders of my king, I surrendered myself to your forces. King Einar has brought you a gift, an offering he claims will facilitate diplomacy and peace between your kingdom and ours.”

The sailor speaks slowly, as if reciting a message he's rehearsed many times on his travel to this audience.

“Oh, Einar wants peace?” Donald asks, exasperated. “Just we've been detectin' some mixed signals on that front.”

“He told me the gift will explain all.” Firebeard says, producing a key from his weather-beaten clothing.

“Very well.” Donald says, a note of caution in his voice. “Open it.”

“No sudden moves.” Solla warns the Deanian, letting him feel the point of her sword. “Try anything, I'll turn you into a kebab before you can blink.”

“Noted, Lady.” the sailor says, inserting the key and opening the chest.

“Well, let's see.” Donald says warily. “What's this gift, then?”

“It's...” Arne brings it out of the box. “Well, I'm not sure, Your Grace.”

The Deanian holds a glittering object. About the size of a man's fist. It resembles a great blue stone, set in a silver casing, engravings inlaid in bands about it.

“You don't know what you've carried all this way?” Donald asks.

“The box was already locked when I received it, Your Grace.” the Deanian apologies. “King Einar told me not to open it until I stood before you.”

“Looks magical, whatever it is.” Donald remarks, eyeing the object with suspicion.

“Times like this, I almost wish we had a court mage.” Jana muses.

“Almost.” Donald states.

“Your Grace? Perhaps I might be of help.” Swain says eagerly, stepping towards Arne.

“And what do you know of magic, bard?” the Beathan king asks.

“More than the average person, I'd say.” the bard muses. “It's rather hard to travel as widely as I have and not learn a thing or two about the occult.”

“Fine, take a look. But be careful, aye?” Donald remarks.

Stepping forward, Swain gingerly takes the object from it's courier and examines it.

“Please, everyone, step back.” he urges. “From what little I know of Einar, there's a good chance this is a bomb or... something similarly ghastly.”

After a surprisingly quick period of fiddling with the device, you hear a click. The object begins to glow and hum.

“That did... something.” Swain remarks, lifting his hand, letting the orb levitate away from him.

Carried by some arcane power, the object travels into the centre of the room. The silver bands expand, breaking apart from the central blue stone. As they revolve around the stone, it begins to vibrate, until it explodes, leaving behind a minute nebula of blue light, perhaps ten feet high, ten feet across.

After a few seconds of pulsation, the mass of light begins to resolve into something more distinct.

You see the representation of a room, projected into the midst of the main hall by magical provenance. The similarity of it to your enchanted ring, albeit with a tint of blue, makes you gulp.

A man sits at a table, robed and hooded, paying no attention to anyone in the hall. A second or two later, you notice the kitten he holds in his arms, playing with the tiny creature.

On the other side of the table, a young woman with close-cropped hair, wearing mail, leans over to pet the cat.

This goes on for about thirty seconds, until the woman glances in the direction of the small crowd watching them from afar.

“Beloved.” she hisses. “It's active.”

The hooded man looks in your direction now. Seeing you all elicits a grin from him.

“Ah, so it is!” he remarks, his voice lilting, accented. “And the image, so much clearer than I was expecting, that's encouraging...” he mutters to himself.

Rising from his seat, the tall thin man gives the departing warrior woman a quick peck on the cheek, before striding towards the centre point of the projection.

“Cute cat.” you remark, nodding to the kitten he's still holding.

“Ah, but isn't he?” the hooded figure smiles. “We'd overrun... some town or other last week, and I came across the wretched thing. Mother dead. I simply had to adopt it. Still haven't named the poor little guy, though. Any suggestions?”

“Looks like an Einar to me.” Donald states, arms folded.

“Good name. Strong name.” the figure nods. “Only thing is, it's taken.”

The figure pulls down his hood, revealing himself to be a young man, with a shaved head, scarred face, and a lengthy beard.

“You'll have to forgive the impersonality of... all this, Donald.” Einar smiles, gesturing vaguely about. “I just have a lot of things to do before I can meet you face to face. This is quicker.”

“We're all very impressed by your parlor trick, mage.” Donald responds. “You missed your calling, entertaining children and slack-jawed peasants.”

“Ouch! The orb's a trifle, really. Something I was working on to keep me occupied while at sea.” Einar smiles. “I've got far more important projects.”

“Enough.” Donald says. “Your messenger said you wanted to talk, so talk.”

“You know, Donald, life's a lot more enjoyable if you savour the little things. A cup of mead, an adorable kitty, a little small talk.” Einar protests. “But fine. I only have one thing to ask of you. Well, two. If you agree to them both, this war can end today.”

“Let's hear them.” Donald asks, rolling his eyes.

“First, you've gotta release Siggi. Just send him on his way with Firebeard here.” Einar asks.

“That's one of your only demands?” Donald asks.

“What can I say? Me and the queen are really very fond of him. You kill a few hundred Gaelicans with someone, it's only natural. I really think of him as the violent, maladjusted son I haven't had yet.” Einar explains.

“You know, we've just captured Jarl Hjordis too.” Donald points out.

“Ugh, I know. You can keep her.” Einar says.

“And your other demand?”

“Oh yeah, that one... Apologies, because this one will be a bit more troublesome: I'm going to need you and all your lords, vassals, retainers to leave Beatha. Permanently.”

This time, Einar's request falls onto a stunned audience.

“That's never going to happen.”

“It'd be in your best interest if it did.” Einar tells the Beathan. “Look, you've obviously got friends in Itheria, Sinnabarrow... I'm sure they can find you somewhere to settle.”

“Beatha's our land. It always has been, always will.” Donald declares, to the supporting cheers of his nobles.

“I've got a fleet and an army of raiders that might beg to differ. Now that I think of it, you should probably take all your smallfolk, too. I promised plenty of Beathan land for my cousin to settle. I think the Beathan peasantry might not get on too well with his lords. They can bring their own people in.”

“Haakon's not getting' shite!” Donald says, getting incensed now. “An' you, the way you're going, all you're in line for is my axe in your head.”

“Erika told me you'd react like this, but I thought I'd give you the chance to avoid bloodshed.” Einar says, resignation flaring in his voice. “I want you to remember, Donald, everything that happens in the coming months is on you.”

“Here's my counteroffer.” Donald says, trying to rein his anger in. “We'll give you your Jarl back. Then, you get back in your ships, go back to Dean and never return.”

“Yeah, that's not going to work for me.” Einar says frostily. “Looks like the war's still on.”

“Looks like it. Though, I don't think you ever truly sought peace. Only a madman would think your demands were even remotely feasible.”

“Ah, to tell you the truth, Donald, it never really mattered to me. I just thought I'd give you a chance to spare your people. I look forward to seeing you on the field.”

“And see me you will, mage.” Donald promises.

“Oh, and one last thing:” Einar say absent-mindedly. “Please don't damage or destroy the orb. Trifle or not, it's pretty time-consuming to do all the necessary enchantment, and the last couple haven't been as effective as yours. But yeah, see you on the field and all that.”

As suddenly as it had activated, the magical representation of Einar blinks out of existence, the blue stone at the centre of the orb re-materialising. The stone and silver sections fly back together, only to clank to the floor of the hall.