Ebony Moon Rising – Chapter 12: Mission to Tinto, Part I

Prime Minister Marlowe had not been having a good morning.

Apparently, President Gustav had moved the moved the date for the reception—the gala reception celebrating Tinto's two year anniversary, the same reception which had been painstakingly planned for months—up by a week... without informing the presidential staff. And apparently he had done this some time ago, but only thought to mention it the morning of.

The practical result was that the guests were arriving even as the harried presidential palace staff was engaged in a titanic struggle to mount a halfway decent reception regardless. Not that they didn't have their hurdles to overcome. Marlowe's expression blanched as he strode down the halls of the palace, his mind quickly running down some of the worst of their problems.

First, the bakers had been thrown into a tizzy, and 'explained' to him in loud tones that there was no way the centerpiece cake would be completed in time. (That problem had only been narrowly resolved, by bribing a baker in town to 'repurpose' a large wedding cake for a very large fee.)

Second, half of the palace staff were off on holiday (as they were supposed to be resting up for the event to be held next week) and Marlowe was constantly surrounded by runners as they went to and fro updating him on who they could find, who they had to replace, and how much the temp staff was going to cost them.

Finally, it was a nightmare trying to organize all the rooms for the now-earlier-than-expected incoming guests. Hell, some of the guest rooms didn't even have beds in them yet! The guest wing was the latest addition to palace, and the last batch of matching bedroom sets weren't expected up from Two Rivers until the following week...

And those problems had only been the main attractions, not even counting the dozens upon dozens of tiny little issues the crept up every several minutes—where's this decoration, we're out of silver polish, the appetizers won't be ready for another hour, etc, etc.

As Marlowe came to a stop in front of the broad double doors leading to the main reception hall, he smoothed his ceremonial robes and did his best to chase the last of his frustrations from his face—it would hardly do for the prime minister to look cross at his own country's reception, would it? Especially if that reception happened to be the first international reception held by Tinto as an independent nation!

Once convinced that his expression was collected enough, Marlowe nodded to the palace staffer by the door. The staffer nodded back, and swung the broad double doors inward. "Now arriving, the Prime Minister of Tinto, Marlowe Cody!" the staffer announced.

A light round of applause greeted Marlowe as he crossed the threshold into the next room, plastering a bland smile on his face and limply offering one hand in acknowledgement. The applause was hardly the resounding ovation that President Gustav had received just a few hours earlier, but Marlowe would take it without complaining.

As the clapping died down, and the guests returned to their meaningless small talk, Marlowe took the opportunity to get his first good look at the room—the staffers had finished decorating just minutes before the first guests had been admitted earlier that morning, and Marlowe hadn't had a spare moment since then to scope out the final product. Several flags—all Tinto's—hung limply from the ceiling rafters, and red, white, and silver bunting was absolutely everywhere in the reception hall. In Marlowe's opinion it all came off as laid on a bit too thick, but President Gustav had insisted, and when President Gustav insisted, no one cared to argue.

Well, that was enough of scenery watching, Marlowe decided unhappily; he was going to have to mingle with some of the guests at some point in the night, and he might as well get started sooner rather than later. Taking a moment to grab a glass of champagne from a refreshment table as cover, he covertly scanned the crowd as he tried to decide where to begin.

Almost immediately, his gaze fell upon a knot of armor clad guests (some barely out of their teens!)—it was obvious they were a group, and their (aged) leader was making polite conversation with President Gustav. Marlowe nodded to himself: those would be the Maximillian Knights, then.

The Toran Republic had been one of the first countries invited to the reception—an effort by President Gustav, most assumed, to bury the memories of the long and bitter history between Toran and Tinto. President Lepant, however—bowing to popular public sentiment—politely declined to sent representatives (the City States invasion following the Gate Rune War apparently still too fresh in the mind of Toraners even now).

The presence of the Toran Maximillian Knights, then, might seem a bit incongruous, given the Lepant Administration's seemingly cool attitude towards Tinto. It was something of an open secret, however, that it had been President Lepant himself who had privately asked Lord Maximillian to come out of retirement one last time, and attend Tinto's reception.

Considering that Maximillian and his Knights had long since ceased to be an official Toran organization, they had no official capacity to represent Toran in any way. But their presence was highly symbolic (doubly so considering their history of service against the former City States, and Tinto especially). It was small, but it was a start, a tiny olive branch laying hope for future normalized relations.

(That Lepant was a crafty one, Marlowe had to admit.)

As eager as Marlowe was to talk to the legendary Lord Maximillian, he was just as loathe to deal with President Gustav at the moment. To his other options, then.

Marlowe next spotted Zexen delegation headed by General Lightfellow. He was about to head over that way (there were few people quite as polite and gracious as General Lightfellow), but stopped short when his eyes fell upon Lilly (just short of her teens, now), talking quite animatedly with another girl her age. Marlowe's eyes narrowed. That was General Lightfellow's daughter Lilly was speaking to...

Hadn't the two had a bit of a row a while back, Marlowe wondered. If that was true, then perhaps it was best to stay away from the Zexen delegation for now. Though they seemed to be getting along now, Lilly was know to have as mercurial a temper as Gustav and that could change quickly. If Marlowe got mixed up in the middle of that, there was always the outside chance Lilly might try to get him to banish someone from Tinto. Again.

On the opposite side of the room from the Zexen delegation was the Harmonian delegation, standing slightly apart from the other groups, with their neutral expressions and very impressive hats. Of course, it was hard not to notice the distrustful glances the Zexens kept shooting the Harmonian delegation on the other side of the room... or, really, how the entire room kept shooting the Harmonians distrustful glances. Gustav had insisted on sending an invitation to Harmonia, but no one had actually expected them to send representatives!

Striking up polite conversation with the Harmonians would take every single ounce of patience, guile, diplomacy, and civility that Marlowe had at his command... an effort, quite frankly, that Marlowe was in absolutely no mood to make.

Marlowe had resigned himself to a dull conversation with Mayor Jess of Muse (punctuated liberally with reminders of Dunan's displeasure at Tinto's secession) when his eyes alighted on the most recent addition to the reception's guest list: Mistress Sierra, savior of Tinto!

Sierra had appeared, quite abruptly and quite unannounced, alone, that very morning. She had apparently been just stopping by on a journey elsewhere when she had heard about the reception. (Of course, considering her key role in defeating Neclord and retaking Tinto from the undead, she would have been one of the first VIPs invited to the reception, if anyone knew where she was or how to reach her.) At any rate, she had been convinced to stay and attend the gala, which only added to the prestige of the reception (or so Gustav had chortled when asked about it).

Ah. That would be an excellent place to start: Mistress Sierra always was so interesting to talk to. His mind made up, Marlowe made determined strides over to where Sierra was entertaining a clutch of Zexen and Dunan representatives alike.

"Whoa, hey, there, watch it!" someone suddenly called.

Marlowe turns to see a server with a massive drink tray about to plow into him. The sight of a water-logged and mortified Prime Minister would cause a massive scene—and more importantly, President Gustav would not be happy with him, and would view the reception as subsequently ruined—but Marlowe's muscles seem to freeze. Everything seems to slow, the impending embarrassment approaching in agonizing detail...

"Easy there, now," that same voice declared; in the same instant, Marlowe felt a steady hand tug firmly at his collar, jerking him back and out of harm. "There—no need to make a big mess, is there?"

"Ah, yes," Marlowe says, sounding distracted as he watches the server—looking cross—glaring at him as she saunters off. After a moment, he shook his head clear, and turned to face his rescuer, bowing his head. "Thank you. You prevented a disaster in the making."

The young man waved off Marlowe's concerns, tossing his wavy hair. "Hey, no problem. As much as I wish these things were more interesting, I'd hate to have it come at someone else's expense."

Judging by his clothing and his accent, Marlowe mentally tagged him as part of the Harmonian delegation, although his relaxed manner and friendly smile placed him at odds with his comrades. "Are you having a good time, at least?" Marlowe asked.

The young man's nose crinkled and he shook his head vigorously. "Gods no." At Marlowe's horrified look, the young Harmonian suddenly held up both hands. "Oh, no, no, I didn't mean any insult! It's just, I really hate these sorts of functions," the young man explained, tugging at the collar of his robes. "Especially these formal clothes."

Suddenly, Marlowe's robes also started to feel uncomfortable. He loosened the cravat at his neck. "I know what you mean," he confided to the Harmonian after a moment.

The Harmonian then let out a defeated sigh. "Ah well," he enjoined to Marlowe. "I probably shouldn't take up any more of the Prime Minister's time. I'm sure you have a lot of other people to mingle with tonight."

"I suppose," Marlowe agreed unhappily—he was rather coming to like this young, brash Harmonian, but his duties did come first.

"Stay strong, hmm?" the young man added, with a deliberate tug of the collar clarifying what he meant.

Marlowe was about to turn away, but a look of confusion stole onto his face. "Oh, uh, I'm sorry," he called after the young man. "What was your name again?" he asks.

The young man seemed to take the request in stride, glancing back over a shoulder with a smile. "Clovis," he called back as he continued on to the Harmonian delegation. "Ambassador Clovis."

OOO

Several days earlier, in Bishop Sasarai's office in the Circle Palace...

"Ostensibly," Sasarai continued, "you'll be there to look after Harmonian interests, along with the rest of our ambassadorial delegation."

Nash's expression turned crafty. "And I'll actually be there to do, what, exactly?" he asked.

Sasarai's expression mirrored Nash's. "And off the record, your mission is to break into Tinto's presidential palace, and determine what Tinto's long-term foreign policy is."

Nash frowned. "To what degree?"

Sasarai swiveled his chair to face the map tacked up behind his desk. "Simply put, we need more information about Tinto's future plans."

Nash folded his arms. "And you're sure you can't just ask them?" he inquired.

Sasarai favored him with a droll look over his shoulder. "And reveal how anxious we are about its plans? Of course not, Nash."

Nash shrugged. "You can't blame me for hoping."

"Anyway," Sasarai continued, turning his attention back to the map, "this mission is necessary, because we've had notoriously bad luck in divining just what President Gustav is going to do next. For example, no one in Harmonia actually expected Gustav to go as far as to actually break Tinto away from the Republic of Dunan."

"I don't think that Dunan expected it either," Nash added darkly.

Sasarai then stood, moving next to the map. "And now that it has, Gustav's first order of business will undoubtedly be to move to expand its borders."

Nash looked skeptical. "Do you really think so?"

Sas favored him with a sardonic stare. "Do you really think the tiny sliver of land that Tinto controls right now is large enough to satisfy Gustav's ego?"

Nash expression turned thoughtful. "Good point," he finally conceded.

"Now, we know that they're unlikely start a war with Dunan—they were on the same side until recently, after all. And considering their historic bad luck in seizing and holding territory in Toran—again, especially recently—I doubt they'll care to stir them either. So then, that leaves them only one of two directions to go," Sas said, gesturing on the map to the surrounding areas around the new country, "Either way he is going to invade Grasslands--that much is obvious. The question is in which direction: march west, onward toward the Zexen Confederacy, or march north, into the Grasslands proper..."

As Sasarai's finger trailed up along the map, why Harmonia was so concerned about Tinto's secession became crystal clear to Nash. "And if they do that, they could be threatening Harmonia's own interests in the Grasslands..." Nash said softly. They could even threaten Caleria... At that thought, Nash felt a sudden pang. After he had lost everything, it had been Caleria that had taken him in.

Sasarai nodded. "So, now you can see the potential for a problem, and why we need you to go in and get the truth... Straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak."

"Resorting to name calling now, are we?" Nash asked, smirking.

Sasarai shrugged broadly. "I don't know what you're talking about, Nash." He tossed Nash a manila folder. "I suggest you get going, Ambassador Clovis."

Nash stood, then bowed formally to Sasarai. "Oh, as you wish, your most high holiness."

OOO

And several days later, Nash stood awkwardly to one side of the massive Tinto Presidential Palace reception hall, feeling awkward. He really hadn't been lying to Marlowe when he said that he hated big events like that. Or frilly formal attire like he had been forced into. And don't even get him started on meaningless small talk!

With a disconsolate sigh, Nash turned his attention across the reception hall. There, he spotted Sierra easily entertaining a small clutch of guests—including Marlowe and young Lilly Pendragon—with one of her anecdotes. Sierra had, of course, insisted on coming along with him on his mission. But this time was a little different, considering how well known she was in Tinto, what with that whole 'liberation from Neclord' thing. It would never do for them to show up together, lest Nash blow his cover... or Sierra blow her cover. Or something.

They had had to come to Tinto separately—Nash as part of the official delegation a few days ago, Sierra winging her way in that very morning. They hadn't seen each other in about a week... and now that they were here, he couldn't talk to her. Frankly ...it kind of sucked.

He was so distracted by his thoughts that he didn't even notice when Sierra approached him. "Have a lot on your mind, Ambassador?" she asked playfully, twirling her long fluting glass and stirring the champagne inside.

"Uh..." Nash answered intelligently, before quickly glancing around the room suspiciously. "Is there anyone still—?" he began, only to be interrupted by a sudden very passionate kiss from Sierra.

Disentangling herself from the kiss, Sierra rested her forehead against his, looking mischievous. "Relax, Ambassador," she purred. "I know you were very focused on your thoughts, but if you'll take a cursory look around, you notice that all the other guests have left."

For a second, Nash almost just let himself succumb to his lady's honeyed words, but he shook himself at the last moment. "What about all the palace staffers?" he asked. Indeed, there was still a veritable army of staffers hustling around the reception hall, doing their best to clean.

Sierra favored him with an arch look. "They're palace staff, Nash. You know they're trained to be more than discreet if two of the guests were to just... leave together."

Nash could feel his resistance weakening. Sierra leaned into him, her breath hot on his ear. "Did you miss me?" she asked, her voice velvety.

"...Yes."

And for a while, he simply forgot all about his worries...

OOO

...But not for as long as he would have liked. As midnight rolled across Tinto, Nash popped awake. For a long moment, feeling the warmth of his lady at his side, he simply stared up at the ceiling. I could just roll over and go back to sleep, he considered for a moment. With a grunt, however, he knew he didn't really have much of a choice. Casting one last longing look at Sierra, he slipped quietly from bed.

"Do you have a plan for the infiltration?" Sierra asked suddenly, as she languidly rolled over, the moonlight catching the pale skin of her shoulder.

With a sigh, Nash finished cinching the last of his belts. He nodded. "Kitchens, probably," he began, his tone becoming more and more energetic as his mind slowly finished switching over completely to espionage mode. "I saw a couple of back entrances, and at least one stairwell leading to the upper floor."

"Hmm," Sierra began, sounding thoughtful, "but aren't you forgetting that many of the kitchen staff will still be up right now?" she asked. "There was a lot of food out tonight, and imagine they're still washing their cooking pans even now."

Nash frowned. "That's a good point," he said, sounding quietly impressed.

Sierra glanced towards the window. "Look," she said softly, nodding towards the window. The guest quarters were at least partially cut into the mountain wall above the palace proper; as such most of the rooms had a nice view of the rest of the palace. "It looks like the lights are still on in the central ballroom."

"Think the staff is having a little after-party all to themselves?" Nash asked, grinning.

Sierra shrugged. "At the very least, perhaps they're still cleaning. I noticed that quite a few of Gustav's guests seemed to emulate his style of making as big a mess as possible."

"Hey, now, Gustav was elected to lead, not to launder," he countered.

"I don't recall Gustav being elected," Sierra replied darkly.

Nash shrugged. "Close enough." And perhaps it was a lingering after-effect of the party—or, maybe more to the point, the party's alcohol—but she simply nodded and let it go at that.

Nash folded his arms, looking thoughtful as he stared at the ballroom. "If they're all still in ballroom, their quarters will probably be pretty quiet and empty..." He grinned again. "Servant quarters it is, then."

He then bent over to chastely peck Sierra on the cheek. "Wish me luck?" he asked.

Sierra nodded as Nash headed for the door, before rolling over to return to sleep. "Try not to make too much noise when you sneak back in, hmm?" she called.

OOO

Sierra had been right, Nash discovered as he edged his way towards the servant's quarters. The lights in the kitchens were all still shining brightly, as the cooks and other staffers literally burned the midnight oil to try and manage the massive influx of dirty plates from the reception.

It was easy enough to slip past the swinging doors that led into the kitchen, and easier still to creep down the corridor and duck into the servant's annex. He had a scare for a moment—as he stealthily sidled down the main corridor of the staffer's dorms—seeing at least one light seeping from one open door. A wind of sleep scroll in his hand, he edged up to the door and risked a look around, only to be relieved at the sight of a very drunk, and very unconscious server.

The rest of the trip through the palace was less than eventful. At the far end of the servant quarters Nash found the staircase he had been looking for; before he knew it, he was on the top floor of the palace. For a second he heard what he thought was the rumbling of thunder. It was with a jolt that Nash realized that what he was hearing was actually Gustav's titanic snoring.

Man doesn't believe in doing thing anything small, does he? Nash thought as he crept past the presidential quarters (and the first daughter's quarters), to the far side of the floor. The presidential offices were on the opposite side of the floor from the servant's stairs (facing the rest of Tinto proper), affording President Gustav with both the best light over the course of the day, and the best view.

The broad double doors leading to the offices were locked, but it only took Nash a minute or two to get them open. Firmly latching the door behind him, Nash took stock of the Gustav's office. The first thing that struck Nash was how incredibly Spartan the offices were. The sort of man Gustav was, Nash had half expected the room to be stuffed with mounted animals and really gaudy statues. I may be forced to reevaluate my opinion of the man... Nash thought in wonder as he eased himself around to Gustav's desk.

Nash rifled through the few scattered papers on top of the desk—mostly, Nash assessed with a crinkled nose, having to deal with the excessive preparations for the reception. He then moved on to paw through Gustav's drawers. Moving quickly, he only briefly scanned each page, setting aside those he deemed relevant on the top of the desk.

When Nash finally turned his attention to the papers collected on the top of the desk, his expression soon turned serious. Now, obviously, Gustav wasn't about to have a single report titled "Plans for Expansion for Greater Glory of Mother Tinto" (or, perhaps more to the point, the 'greater glory of Gustav'). But what he have military assessments and digests, assorted topographical, resource and other maps, and of course the all important census data for the surrounding lands.

Judging by the dates, Nash reasoned, Gustav had at first kept all his options open—even another (probably disastrous) sortie into Toran wasn't too far-fetched judging by a short report on Moravia summer weather patterns Nash stumbled across. As the months passed after Tinto's secession, however, reports on Toran, Dunan, and the northern Grasslands (and Harmonian-occupied Grasslands) slowly faded, replaced by more and more intense reports on the sliver of Grasslands between Tinto and Zexen. ...Although, Nash noted with an arched eyebrow, considering how many additional reports on Zexen littered this pile of intelligence, there was a fair chance that in a couple of years Zexen was not going to be happy with Tinto.

Nash's lips pressed flat into a line. While it was all fine and good that Caleria wasn't going to be at risk (and Sas and his superiors would be terribly relieved that their plans for Grasslands would at least for the time being go undisturbed), Nash felt his irritation gathering with that pompous, egotistical, and apparently ambitious gas bag Gustav. Why, he had half a mind to—

A loud crash ringing through the office tore Nash's attention away from the paperwork. His first concern was whether he had managed to knock something over and thus blow his cover. A quick scan of the office revealed nothing out of place—even the office's door was still firmly shut.

There was another crash, followed by the sounds of a struggle. The hallway... Nash thought as he pinpointed the origin of the sound. Hastily sweeping the papers into one of the drawers (without bothering to re-sort them), Nash rushed back to the office's door.

He cracked the doors open, then peeked through. At first all he could make out was a number of very bulky, very heavily cloaked men mulling about just outside of one of the other rooms on the floor. After a moment, they backed up, as another of their compatriots slipped out of the room, a medium-sized form slung over one shoulder.

Nash's eyes widened as he realized just what that form was: namely, a bound and gagged Lilly Pendragon. Despite still being in nightclothes and slippers, she was struggling valiantly. But her captor held her firmly in place on his shoulder, oblivious to the kicks she landed on him.

Without thinking, Nash burst from the office. "Hey!" he shouted loudly (apparently forgetting for the moment that he was in the middle of a sneaking mission).

The bulky, cloaked men all craned around to look at the new interloper. Their leader—the one holding Lilly—frowned. He was tall man, with a well manicured black beard. He was also missing his right eye, a heavy patch covering where it should have been. "Competition, is it? Hrmph. Mantz, Piers, handle this."

Two of his followers immediately moved forward. "Yes, Sir Zepel!" they shouted as one. As they advanced, 'Sir Zepel' and his other men turned to leave.

"Not so fast!" Nash shouted again, dashing forward. When the two approaching men moved to block him, he skidded to a stop. Narrowing his eyes (and frowning as Sir Zepel, Lilly, and the others vanished around a corner), Nash leveled off his right arm and fired his wrist-mounted grappling hook. For a moment, the two men looked confused, but seeing it was nothing more than a grapple hook (now harmlessly embedded in a far wall), they resumed their advance with renewed confidence.

"Heh," Nash chuckled confidently, spooling loose a bit more of his grapple line. Without warning, he sharply jerked his arm up. His grapple line pulled taught, easily tangling up the legs of one of the men. His legs swept from under him, the fellow toppled like a house of cards, only to slam into his partner. The two dropped to the ground, and Nash reeled his grappling hook back. "Never underestimate the grappling hook," he declared confidently, stepping over his fallen foes...

...only to be taught a lesson in humility himself, as one of the two men was down, but not quite out. Scowling at Nash's 'underhanded' tactics, the man simply reached out and firmly planted a hand on Nash's ankle. This, of course, tripped Nash up, and sent him crashing down to the ground with a loud 'thunk.' Nash landed flat on his stomach, but still had to presence of mind to roll to one side. This was fortuitous, as Nash's attacker had regained his feet, drawn a sword, and slashed down at where Nash had been.

Nash kicked himself back onto his feet, took one look at the man and his drawn weapon, and didn't hesitate in the slightest to lash out with a fist. The man staggered back, before shaking his head clear and charging forward, shouting a war cry. Nash twirled past the clumsy charge, twisting and aiming to land a mean karate chop on the man's back.

"Ow!" Nash cried out, as his forearm connected with something decidedly metal sounding. "The... hell...?" Nash wondered aloud. The stranger grunted, then casually tossed his cloak aside. Nash stared on in confusion – beneath the cloak was wearing a suit of highly polished, if primitive in construction, black armor. But the most eye catching thing about the armor was the sigil on the breastplate—a black crescent moon on a silver shield.

"But that's not..." Nash began slowly.

By this point, the man had knocked out before was slowly getting back to his feet. Nash warily edged back, drawing one of his knives. Two men he might be able to take with a few of his more... unorthodox tactics. But two men in full armor was the beginning of a different story...

Fortunately, before the men could press their advantage, the door just in front of Nash swung open. "What in the goddess' name is going on out here!?" Gustav demanded from the other side of the door, finally roused by the racket from his deep slumber.

"Shoot!" Nash panicked. I can't let Gustav get a good look at me! Nash thought wildly. As if on instinct, Nash slammed all his weight on the door, knocking the surprised (and still a little groggy) Gustav back into his room.

But that had been enough. "Guards!!" Gustav shouted, muted only slightly by the heavy door.

Nash and his two foes exchanged looks; the men in armor then bolted for the front stairs, near the president's office. Nash was about to pursue, but then watched as they blundered into a ground of Tinto guardsmen.

Relief, however, soon turned to even more panic, as the guards soon took notice of the one other stranger in the hall. "Oh hell," Nash cursed, immediately bolting for the back stairs. It would not look good for a Harmonian to be caught snooping around the presidential palace of Tinto the night the first daughter was kidnapped.

OOO

Sierra was woken from her pleasant sleep by a loud commotion coming from the palace proper. Groggily, she slipped out of her bed, and crossed to the window. She could see clearly that all the lights were blazing in the palace, and that guardsmen and staffers were frantically running back and forth through its halls. So much for not making too much noise on his way back, Sierra thought darkly.

"Hey," Nash suddenly called.

Sierra was startled, but she wasn't about to admit it... nor was she about to ask why Nash was hanging upside down outside of her window. Instead, she merely closed her eyes and folded her arms—one of her more thoughtful expressions. "I imagine that there is a story behind all of this?" she inquired.

Nash shifted. "I promise I will fill you in on everything... as soon as you let me in."

"What's the magic word?" she asked sweetly.

"Sierra..." Nash said quietly, a stricken look on his face.

It was at that moment that Sierra realized that something was very wrong. "All right..." she said quietly, opening the window.

OOO

The news and rumors were buzzing among the guests—probably even the entire city!—the next morning. This led to an air of uncertainty as all the guests gathered in the main dining hall for President Gustav's previously scheduled informal morning brunch. No one was sure that President Gustav would even put in an appearance now, given the circumstances.

But eventually Gustav did sweep in, looking haggard and surrounded by a group composed of equal parts advisors and personal guards. It was then he revealed that yes, the rumors were true, and that his daughter Lily had been taken in the middle of the night. And although two of the perpetrators had been captured, they refused to divulge anything.

The remaining kidnappers had holed up in a mining block house just beyond the outskirts of town. Furthermore, they claimed to be Ebony Moon Knights of Grassland, and had indeed already delivered their demands to the President that morning. Specifically, President Gustav Pendragon of Tinto was to dismantle Tinto's army, swear off territorial ambitions, and resign as the president of the Tinto Republic. Or his daughter would die.