Excerpt:

“Blasphemy!” That one word resounded through the chambers as the Councillor stood, his voice booming. He allowed a pregnant pause as he scanned his fellow legislators, their shocked faces staring at him. “To submit to them would bring upon us great shame. We cannot, shall not, allow this treaty to be passed. Vassalage to them ensures that we become little more than pawns, to be used at their leisure before Ambrosius decides that he's had enough with us. Until, that is he decides that we are an ugly smudge on the borders of his empire and decides to do away with us.”

“But he's promised us trade and opportunity!” another shouted, challenging the first councillor.

“Perhaps, but he has done so to every other one of his former vassals as well. And look where they are now? Firmly under his heel, forced to prostrate themselves to him without any chance of a future. Are you all so heartless as to turn your back on centuries of groundwork?”

The reaction of the Curia was silence for several moments far too long, and then a loud denouncement of the now disgraced councillor. In the balcony, Pierrick Aethle sat in silence, passively observing everything below. As a Lord-Curator, he was a member of the Curia below; though often he preferred to watch the events below with a certain curiosity. Along with many others of his sort, Aethle was respected not as much for his importance within the legislature, so much as his discretion and pragmatism, rarely offering his opinion except in the most dire of circumstances; and voting to no particular clique within the law-making body. He didn't vote his conscience either, but instead by whichever party offered him the greatest reward. Often such came in a title with its signifers of rank, but more often far more tangible benefits than mere titles were his bounties. A fine slave girl to take as his own, or a bounty of gold and silver coins, even land and the occasional mistress or two were his rewards for a vote cast in the proper way by the powers that be.

Lord-Curator Aethle beckoned to a servant. As he approached approached, a paper was handed over with simple directions spoken to the courier.. “Send this to Curator-General Marik. Its of the highest importance. Haste, boy!”

Pierrick then stood and took a drink from a goblet of wine beside him, tugging briefly at his outfit to ensure a proper fit before making his way out. His black hair was slicked back, beard neatly trimmed, and wore his doublet, trousers, and cloak, all of black and ordained with both chains and threads of silver, buttoned in gold. As he left the balcony, two men, wearing armour of scale with a tower shield and spike, quartered argent and sable followed the man from the building, his bodyguards.

The halls were lavishly decorated by both marble and tapestries, statues of the Gods, as well as famous citizens, male and female, statesman, general, monarch, and countless others of note. Artefacts too hung on the walls, ornate shields above each of the statues denoting their heraldry. As Aethle walked the carpeted floors, he paused at a tapestry outlining the borders of the nation, noted upon it cities.

“Lord-Curator!” was the call, three times, behind him. It was a loud voice, and the man that came after him was similarly attired as Aethle, though in blue and greys. The man that approached, slowing now, was an older one, his hair balding and as white as the snow that was thickly layered outside.

“M'lord,” was Aethle's simple reply as he bowed his head and clasped his hand together in greeting.

“Do you have a few moments?” was the Curator-General's request. There was no proper way that Aethle could have refused Haren Marik's polite command.

“I do,” was Aethle's reply.

“Come along then, there is something I want to discuss with you. In private.”

“Of course.” To ask questions of any sort just yet wasn't the smartest of things to do.

The Lord-Curator followed the Curator-General into a moderate room, five metres to a side, a desk in the centre heavily laden with treaties, books, and letters of all sorts. Inside the room, beyond the presence of Haren and Pierrick, the other Lords-Curator were present: all three of the others, Lord-Curators Yther, Rondel, and Veight.

“M'lord,” they all said, almost in unison as first entered Marik, followed by Aethle. For their fellow councilman, the Lords-Curator simply offered a curt nod.

There were ample seats for all around the desk, and as Pierrick sat on the far right, Rondel, Veight, and Yther took their seats facing the Curator-General who sat, obviously, behind his desk, a copy of the treaty that was debated in his hands.

“The treaty is at a stalemate. What happens once the stalemate is breached is anyone's guess. You all, I know, have your personal politics, but also I know that you each are true sons of Agaton, and have already agreed that, should the treaty be signed, you all have agreed to lay your titles to rest.”

The four nodded in agreement. The terms were largely generous, the relinquishment of all Agatonian titles being the only hardship that the king was offering in the event things Beyond that, there were the customary tributes in coin and goods, but for a nation as richly endowed in both fertile land placed as it was at a critical intersection of trade along the Great Sea, the sums demanded were truly paltry. It was disgraceful, in Aethle's opinion, but there was no choice whatsoever in the matter. The Aualtan Empire was not something to be trifled with, and Agaton as something that Aualta could easily trifle with if they decided it wanted to levy its vast armies against it. Agaton would not last under such an onslaught. As the Agatonian saying went, “Better to live as slaves to rise again than to be crushed in the face of overwhelming odds.”

“Aside from giving in your titles, you're also expected to either disband your feudal army or integrate them with the Aualtan garrison. The decision will stand with you,” the Curator-General stated rather flatly.

“Kind terms,” Veight noted, largely to himself. Of them all, he was the youngest and also had the least to give up. Aethle shook his head. Of course he thought they were kind terms. Pierrick also had to admit that they were acceptable, for they were about as generous and free as he could possibly expect them to be, within reason.

“Indeed they are,” was Yther's agreement. A similar note from Rondel as well. Marik, behind his desk, nodded in agreement as well.

“I'm glad we all see eye to eye on this. With some luck I'm certain that within a decade the Aualtans will see that we are, in fact, a valuable asset to their empire and we shall be well on our way to integration into their Empire.

“That is all, Lords-Curator. I wish you all safe travels to your residences, and that the Curia makes the right choice.” That last wish was, of course carefully worded.