Open The Buzzard Queen

Three weeks ago...

Within the borderlands of the Free State of Vresia, an Arshakan cohort trudged through rolling swaths of wetlands.

On Day Three, the pack horses and carts were lost to sinkholes. It was Day Twenty-seven now, and the Wingbreaker Cohort carried food, blankets, and weapons on their backs through the endless grey landscape. Mud clung to their legs from the waist down. They slept in their wet boots, so that their laces and socks wouldn't freeze at night. They ate cold rations in the morning, because there was no cover in the hill land, and fire could be seen for miles in every direction.

Festius and Nictal were tired of eating cold gruel every day. The two soldiers crouched in a cluster of reeds, Imperial Standard shortbows gripped in their hands. They watched a pair of coots wade through the water some distance ahead.

The soldiers had taken to calling the creatures with black feathers and pale white bills coots, because they resembled the little birds in color and girth. Except they weren't like the waterfowl from back home. The birds around here were fucking huge - taller than a man - and they had narrow, toothy maws. Sometimes the monstrous things looked more hunting hound than bird.

A young woman appeared from behind the pair of coots. She bent low in the reeds, plucking plants from the water by their soft, white sheathes. Her hair was long and dark. Through the thick reeds, Nictal thought she looked like their hatchling.

He drew his Imperial Standard shortbow, arrow feathered with the yellow of Ko's rays, and shot the woman through the heart. Nictal could barely hear Festius cussing him out. The blood rushed to his ears, pounding in his head, as he realized what he'd just done.


Present Day.
The city of Cirene, capital of Vresia.

The war council had a good showing. Neighboring Free Lords had answered the call and sent their representatives. Messengers from Selvari still in their riding leathers, ambassadors from the foothills of Urdshal, even a few velvet-coated merchants from the vineyards of Enegal. Mercenary bands and independent weavers were already drafting up their contracts. Servants, spies, and simply curious folk lurked about the edges of the room, taking in every detail.

"I heard that the Buzzard Queen is finally going to make a proclamation against the empire," one warlord who sat at the war table said.

"The empire's been harrying the rest of us on the Frontier for a long time already," the man next to him responded. "And Vresia's done nothing. What changed?"

"Vresia doesn't care about her neighbors. But her people cared about Lyra, and now the girl's dead."

"Who under the eight moons is Lyra?"

They were one conversation of many. Business had not officially started yet, and there was no order in the room.

At first glance, one would think Shenzi to be an armored guard, or even one of the many mercenaries that were present. Looking close, one might even think his excited shivering at times to be an excitement for what was happening, or perhaps a thirst for combat or strife. The truth was something quite a bit more...innocent, perhaps, or at least not as bloodthirsty. No, this kind of gathering could be incredibly good for business. The thought that someone would be getting hurt from all of this was slipping his mind, instead focusing on the potential benefits.

With what Shenzi knew of the Empire, they would not take another nation pulling from their yoke lightly. That would lead to fighting, at the very least some skirmishes in an attempt to save face. Conflict meant people would need weapons and armor, and THAT was why the construct had made his way here. He needed more inspiration, more input from others to help craft unique works of art, and the more he pounded out these pieces the closer he felt he was getting to what he was looking for. He didn't quite know what that was, but he knew he was on the path to it. Once this council was over, perhaps someone in this room might want a commission. Hopefully he wouldn't seem TOO eager.

Of everything he had heard, Suzaku's anger burned the hottest at the news that a little girl had been killed. Children were innocent, to be protected and nurtured, and the fact that some Imperial soldiers had killed this Lyra seemingly so callously had been one of the biggest reasons he'd traveled to this place to offer his sword. He knew the story might be different amongst the various versions that he had heard, the details seemed to shift quicker than the desert's sands, but there had to be some grains of truth to be found. He also wouldn't put it past the empire to kill a girl, from all he'd seen and heard in his travels.

The more pragmatic part of his mind knew that for most of the people in the chamber it didn't matter the truth of what happened to Lyra. Many wanted to use the story as a flashpoint to a new conflict, for whatever their goals or ideals were. Suzaku was was the same, his continuing journey to gain strength and allies for his own revolution. The people of his homeland would never bring themselves so low to sell their swords, their pride as unbending as their steel. That was how the swordsman would overcome them, even if he had to fight in wars half the world away. Still, if his blade found it's way to the throat of whoever had killed that little girl, all the better. Sometimes justice and karma worked in strange ways.

---

In the Smithing District... where about newcomers and locals mingle and hawk.

Long toed and high necked boots rest crossed atop the sorry excuse fore a table they had managed to set out. Marki's shield, the one the captain liked the most out of the painted lot put forward, was set before the stall like proud standard., though Gwyn couldn't ever say why. Damn thing was gauche. Crude. And all the while too fancy!

"A right paradox it is," they mumbled. Blew a breath through their lips. "Don't know what in the mirrored hells the captain saw in this thing," Gwyn muttered neath the shade of their wide brimmed hat. Slunk forward in their seat before they took a sip from their flask. "Suppose it has a bit of, Menace," they went on mumbling. Wobbled too and fro. "In how many questions it begs one ask,"

Why the cowl? Why the strings? Why doesn't she have a shield? Does she know she is a shield?

One of the war hogs squeeled in the near distance, and Gwyn hissed through their teeth.

Did they really have to go and be so loud?

Someone who looked keen to killing passed on by.

"Hey! You! You want to do some wet work?" Gwyn called out. Slammed, not on purpose, their flask on the table. Seemed surprised by the spill and dribble. Clicked their teeth. Shook their head. Dab dabbed it clean with one end of their cloak.

Ejiro had not been summoned to the war council. His father would be, dressed in feather cloak and negotiating the cost of roosting every war strix in the state. But middling scouts like himself didn't have much to do until the new flight routes had been posted. So he was milling about.

Someone from a nearby table called out to him. Ejiro stopped, pointed at his chest, and mouthed me? Nobody else was walking nearby.

"What's wet work?" He answered, cautious and slow. "You mean like, fishing?"

He recognized the getup, sort of. A Northern company come to Cirene for the summons, but Ejiro couldn't remember at all what they were called. A squint at the standard as he tried to drum up the name. The Misery Maidens? The Broken Coins? Did the skull and the sword have something to do with it...?

Ejiro let the name go. It would probably come up naturally.

Something caught Suzaku's ear as he was wandering the district, mind snapping from his thoughts to pay attention to the stall where the words had come from. It was perhaps the mention of wet work, the kind of jobs he usually took these days as he wasn't picky with what mercenary work he picked up, but it was the other man's response that made the corners of his muzzle curl a bit up. He wasn't sure if the response had been in jest or was serious, yet it really didn't matter. Since he'd arrived in this city, this was the first thing that had truly caught his attention outside of the news.

The swordsman made his way over to the booth, his simple red clothing contrasting with the white fur and black stripes. He gave a slight bow of his head, as if in apology. He didn't recognize what organization the stall belonged to, though again he wasn't very picky. If he ended up not liking any of it, he'd just leave. "I apologize if I'm interrupting, but it sounded like you might have some work available. I've done both fishing and filleting, though I'm perhaps a bit more used to the latter."

The council room they were inside of was called Eyrie's Landing, and nearly every chair at the table* that the Company captain so admired was sat in by noble, mercenary, merchant. They waited, patiently and impatiently, for the last chair to be filled. The one at the head of the table, its carved wooden back wrapped in the rippling wings of a marsh hawk**. What passed as a throne in Vresia.

To the right of the empty chair, stood Crown Prince Leorin, the Queen's heir and betrothed to the late Princess Lyra. A pouty face was made all the puffier by the red that rimmed his eyes, and the blotchy complexion of someone who'd cried all his water out.

To the left, stood Quillon Falkwin, Captain of the Buzzards. The Captain, in his strix rider regalia, looked down on the seated council with the keen brown eyes of a gyrfalcon.



In walked the Buzzard Queen. Steel spurred heels clicked against tiled floor, little jabs at the silence of the stilled council. Captain Falkwin pulled the chair out for her, and she sat without ceremony.

Queen Adrith clutched, in her hand, an arrow with tattered yellow fletching. Arshakan in make, undeniably. Twirled the tool of death with one finger, as she looked at her war council.

Said nothing for some length of time, lost so in grief or contemplation.

Someone coughed.

"Flocking gulls, all of you," she spoke, finally, a voice born of waves and salt. "I see what you are, and what you want. It is not security, it is not the thought of justice bringing you to my house. Even revenge is too clean a motive for you scoundrels. What you are gathered here - clambering for - is an excuse. Clacking your beaks and waiting to tear apart the corpse of a mourning state.

"Well, sorry to disappoint. But Buzzards do not mourn.

"While you have been busy divvying up lives and counting the cost of war, my riders went on the wing. And in the cold hours of this morning, they have brought me news."

The arrow clicked against the table, laid down. The Queen stood, fingers splayed at either side of it.

"Princess Lyra is not dead," came the proclamation. So loud not a soul in the room could misinterpret it. "She was sighted with Legionnaire soldiers near a Frontier outpost. They will cross into Arshakan territory soon, where my squadrons cannot go."

Madness. A murmur went through the council. Was this the ravings of a mother in mourning? Could the princess really be alive, after they had found the arrow, and all that blood, and her tattered clothes? With no body, there was the possibility. But it was only a possibility.

"You want war, you want riches? Here is your opportunity: Whoever brings Lyra home to me, alive and safe, will be gifted a royal strix and named my new heir."

The Prince on her right stirred in shock. "S-surely you can't--" he stammered out, but did not get any futher past his mother's harsh gaze.

"Yes, that means you, too, son." She gave her offspring no more than that glance. "Dive deftly and catch your keep, like the Kings before you."

---

*The table was commissioned by the late King Altimo, who spent half that year's treasury on the piece. Its carver -- whose name was scrubbed from the records and banished from Vresia and nine other Free States after the completion of the table -- was an eccentric who refused to work in any medium other than the finest walnut burl, which had to be sourced from the Chandrakanti and floated down the Almone Rivers, then put on a ship and sailed up the coast.

**The bird carved into the matching table and chair is not the Vresian crest, but rather King Altimo's favored pet strix, which from the depiction seemed to be a harrier cross.

"With or without a princess involved, to have a great number descend upon Arshakans now is quite the calculated move."


Odiane fell into step beside the Captain, her face betraying no expression but the stern appearance her facial features held. Schooling emotion had come easily to her, but it also made her a good spy. To the Company, she was a scout, one trusted enough to speak truth and report no falsities that she was able to operate alone.

Couldn't have any witnesses or dead weight in her work.

"Offering to claim a new heir is also another calculated move. Most would think of riches and prestige, others would look to claim for more power." The half elf let her words there, her gaze forward as others scrambled to begin their plans and act on the decree the Buzzard Queen gave.

What she could not tell her Captain was all the truth. Loyalty aside, Odiane knew information was valuable only at the right time.

And so, she did not speak a word of crossing paths with the Princess in the past. Did not speak of the other things she had collected in her time as a spy.

If time revealed information, gaps in intel, then perhaps Odiane would weigh her options.

After all, she did not truly wish to succeed in the Queen's order and be declared heir to a throne. She escaped a fate like that once already, she did not want to have her boots stuck in that mud again.

The Princess was alive? Suzaku almost couldn't believe his ears. It seemed a small miracle that such a young thing could have survived, if even half of the rumors were true. It seemed she wasn't quite out of peril yet, though. Every day brought her closer to the Empire's borders, and once she was beyond them it would be nigh impossible to save her. There wasn't much time, yet the swordsman knew that if he tried to go at it by himself it would be akin to a self-imposed death sentence. No, there had to be others here that were keen on the reward offered by the Buzzard Queen. Power and position aplenty, but that didn't interest Suzaku in the slightest.

Even beyond his desire for strength, to hone himself into the deadliest weapon, there was one thing he wanted more than anything. To remove the Princess from being a pawn, to try to bring her to safety and hopefully to a place where she wouldn't be used in the games of others. The latter part of that might not be possible, not with all the politics and machinations currently going on, but if he could he wanted her to at least be safe. His eyes flashed with that determination as he went to hunt for a group that might be willing to let him tag along on their hunt. If his search was fruitless, he'd still try to go alone. Innocents shouldn't need to suffer, if he could do so in their stead.

"Fishing?" Gwyn asked, lips screwing up to a whirlwind's worth of incredulity. They jabbed a finger at the man with the funny hat. Their own floppy head covering's brim rippling, steeple cone bouncing. "You listen here, feather boy,"

"What?!" Gwyn whipped about to face the red haired tiger. Look of disgust plain on Gwyn's face. "Filleting?!" She called out. Felt the thought catch at the end of her tongue like a pesky crab's pinchers snagging on. "Well," what hot air puffed them up half a cog-turn of a clock's gear ago eased out of them. "Suppose we could use someone handy with a boning knife to help old Cookie in the mess wagon,"

"Oy! Blackshields, pony up!" one of the milletheads Gwyn shared the Shield with called out. "Got some news blowin cross the camps, and we got a new detail that needs fillin!"

Word spread like wild fire.

The princess, alive.

Gwyn grit their teeth, and pulled their hat's wide brim down over their face as they fell back into their chair. "Alive," they sounded. "And winner turns heir," clicked their teeth.

Almost seemed worth the trouble didn't it?

"So, tiger!" Gwyn called out, snapping a piece of parchment out and slapping it on the table. "You want in on the Shields?" grinned wide, though it didn't reach their eyes. "Might be you and I get put on the detail to find this here, princess, eh?"

They weren't a real scrapper. Better at the coins and ledgers. But hey, they'd heard that even pigs flew in some parts of Khurun.

The Queen's proclamation took wing, and spread throughout the town. It wasn't planned for so much as inevitable. Damn hard keeping things a secret, when the denizens could fly.

The two in front of Ejiro were talking about saving the princess. And Ejiro hadn't been dismissed yet, so he wasn't sure where he should stand in the matter. Maybe off to the side of the table? Or behind the tiger, like he was in line.

He settled on sort of a triangular configuration, next to the table but half-angled to face the tiger like he could be waiting his turn. As he waited, he looked long and lazy at the wide-brimmed one and the tiger. They seemed earnest enough. But did someone in his position really need to rely on the help of total strangers? It'd be more like he'd be helping them, with his status as a strix rider.

"Won't you need someone who knows the lay of the land?" Ejiro interrupted.

Oops, he'd said his last thought out loud. Now they really would think he was interested.