Diplomacy is Not an Option News

It was the middle of the night. The bittern was howling all over the place as if it was complaining about its bitter fate. "What a fool I was to stay here for winter! Why did I refuse to move to warm countries like all decent birds normally do? Here I am in the middle of these freezing swamps. Standing with one paw in the cold water, with not a fishy nor a frog nearby."

On the second floor of the cottage on the moors, Count Parabalsamico was strapped to a chair. Opposite him sat Mrak Garben, the head of the Inverland spies. The logs in the fireplace crackled cozily. Usually grim, Mrak was glowing with pride. If his pride could shine it would be brighter than the full moon outside the window. Garben was reading some paper, playing with a serrated dagger and smiling into his beard at the same time.

"So..." - pale but undaunted Parabalsamico gulped.

"So, what?" - Mrak jabbed the dagger into the table with a swing.

"What is this all about?" - Count would have shrugged his shoulders if not for the rope.

"Theft. Her majesty's cloak (one unit). Lord Nero's name sword (one unit) in gift scabbard (one unit)," Garben read out his paper, set it aside, and crossed his hairy arms over his chest, "The cloak and scabbard are safe now. What did you do with the sword, you scoundrel?"

"You've got it all wrong!" - Count protested, "This property was taken in payment for my services! Anyways, I demand some respect!"

"Respect..." - Mrak protruded his lip and nodded, "I can do that," he rose from his chair and grabbed Parabalsamico by the ear so that Count whimpered loudly.

"My dear lord. Can you even imagine how many mountains have been razed to the ground in Inverland in two years of searching for your fields of 'stone ore'? 'Stone ore', seriously? It doesn't even make sense! An endless source of stone! Ugh!" Garben spat over his shoulder and released Count's ear, as red as an overripe tomato. "Yet once there appeared doubts of the existence of this source of yours, master alchemist fled from the palace. Whisking away everything his greedy little hands could reach. Not to mention the expense of your so-called research!"

"Wrong, I admit," Parabalsamico responded, "But I can make it up to you!"

"Oh, you will. You'll make it up, no doubts," Grim took a sip of a fly agaric brew from his flask, "You'll be in Inverland the day after tomorrow. There, you'll be publicly flogged and your head chopped off. We'll make an example of you to the rest of the rogues, thieves, and crooks. After that, consider you're even with the Inverland crown. But before that, you are going to tell me where is now Lord Nero's bloody sword."

"For the money I have..." Parabalsamico has no intentions to give up easily, "...you can make thousands of gift swords."

"How come that I didn't notice a sack of gold with you," Garben sat down at the table and dipped his quill in ink.

"It's not a sack. It's much, much better! It's a map showing the way to the fields of..." - at this word the count paused, catching the evil glance of Mrak, "...I meant, the way to the untold riches. It's in my inner pocket."
"In fact, I risk nothing here" Garben sighed. Distracted from writing his report he revealed Master Physalis' map. "You either kidding me or lost your mind?" - Mrak turned to Parabalsamico, "Skulls, and bones, and other danger marks. Not a hint of treasure."

"The head of spies, and such a fool," said Count with undisguised scorn, "It's a tricky cipher! I've been looking for the key to it for four years! That's the actual reason why I left Inverland in the first place. As for your sword..."

"Lord Nero's name sword," Garben corrected Parabalsamico.

"Yes, that one," Count agreed, "I traded it for this very key, all right? I'm telling you, this is a big deal!"
"And where is the key to that 'tricky' cipher, I wonder?" - asked the head of the Inverland spies.

"In my head, naturally. I can draw it, if you promise to let me go," Parabalsamico made an offer.

"You know what I think of all this bullsh..." - A horse's neighing sounded outside the window. Garben jumped up like he was stung, grabbed the dagger, gagged the Count, and dashed for the doorjamb.

The logs in the fireplace crackled cozily. A miserable bittern was complaining about its bird life. Someone was coming up the stairs to the second floor of the cottage. A door hinge that had not been greased properly creaked.

"Count Parabalsamico, it is my pleasure to see you in good health," the face of the unexpected visitor was concealed by a hood. She was in no hurry to go inside.

"MMMMMMMMM," Parabalsamico goggled his eyes at Mrak who was hiding behind the door.

"Ser Garben, show some respect for the lady and reveal yourself to my sight."

Mrak looked out from behind the door.

"Madam Ambassador? What winds brought here that late?" - he asked suspiciously.

"Matters of national importance," the Ambassador walked to the table and sat down where the head of Inverland spies has been sitting, "My oh my. Where did you get this map, Ser Garben?" - she asked in response.

"That imbecile... Pardon me, I meant 'gentleman' is trying to buy his freedom for it. Wine?" - Mrak took a brass goblet and the dusty bottle he kept for occasional guests from the fireplace. He himself preferred a fly agaric brew. "An empty shell, if you need my opinion. Or fake."

"Since you think so, perhaps I should keep it? As for our conversation, we may postpone it to another..." - she looked expressively at the bound Count "More convenient time, perhaps?"

"Hold on a minute. Are you saying this map is actually worth something?" - he asked, sniffing the wine. The smell of vinegar hit Garben's nose, so Mrak cringed.

“In capable hands,” Ambassador took off her hood and gloves, “Still, what are you going to do with the poor count, If I may ask?”

"...with this Eggs, a fisherman from Cutthroat Island. He watched the ships sailing far, far away"... Master Physalis began his story. Hearing that the old man had started from afar, Count became gloomy. For what had he been riding in creaky wagons through the bumps of Samreignia? For what had he staked his precious face in arguments with the dockers? To spend hours listening to a tedious lecture? Parabalsamico had had enough lectures at the University, and for the most time, he had been napping at them. The old man talked nonsense about the horizon and masts, as proof that the world was round.
A miracle with the face of a pretty maiden saved Count from boring hypotheses. She walked out of the Sea Serpent, carrying a tray, on which was arranged a sterlet baked with truffles. There also were pickles and potatoes under aromatic garlic butter, sprinkled with herbs. The maiden set two goblets of the finest wine from the southern Samreignian slopes before the guests. Master Physalis pounced on the sterlet. Parabalsamiсo took a moment to steer the sluggish ship of discussion on the course he desperately wished.
"Master Physalis, this Eggs of yours certainly deserves to be remembered, but..."
"To Eggs!" Physalis exclaimed mournfully, "The best captain I ever sailed with," "Damn you!" cursed Count to himself. He supported the toast, though, and sipped from his goblet in grave silence.
"Master Physalis, the fact that they've deprived you of your professorial title is a colossal disgrace to the entire scientific community! Mark my word, I will use all my influence to restore your reputation. I will personally cross the Halimatian Sea and get the proof of the truth you've brought back then. But before that, I need to know what awaits me on my journey, and what reward can I promise to the brave men who will set off by my side."
"Great dangers lurk in the depths of the sea..." - Physalis, again, started from afar. "Bloodthirsty sharks, giant octopuses, scary hogfishes..." "Damn you!" thought Parabalsamico once again.
"Master Physalis, sailors like you and I could use some specifics," Count interrupted the lecture on zoology.
"Young man, who knows what you'll come across. I got seasick one night, and I went aft and leaned over the side, and there was black on black, a shadow of terrifying proportions..." "Well, yes, a shadow at night. The old man must have had a lot of seasickness medicine," Count said to himself.
"Master Physalis," he interrupted the old man again, counting on the inebriated Master wouldn't notice his impoliteness. "Let us set aside the inhabitants of the seas and move ourselves to the land. It's essential for naturalists like you and I to learn about animals. I wonder if there are any elephants with long tusks or unicorns with branching horns on the land you've discovered."
"Tusks and horns? I'm afraid not." - the old man talked slowly. "But there are enormous beasts there! Rest assured they will trample you once you lose your vigilance. And there are preys with wings thi-i-i-is big," said Physalis, spreading his arms wide as if he wanted to embrace the world. Only Count's reflexes saved the old man's goblet from being knocked off the table.
"Ah, butterflies!" - the master exclaimed dreamily, "Young man, what beautiful black butterflies there are... Their black color allows them to be invisible near the volcanic soil so that birds..." "Volcanic soil!" - Count was struck by a memory from a university lecture.
"Tell me, Master Physalis, don't cinnamon, chocolate beans, or coffee trees grow on that mineral-rich soil? As botanists by learning, I am extremely curious if these rare plants exist anywhere else but in the Gorgoth Empire..."
The old man drained the goblet.
"It is a dead and wicked land, young man," he said pathetically, "The people there live wild. They survive in harsh conditions, fighting death every day. And if they lose, they become undead. Here you are!" With these words, Master Physalis laid out a map on the table. "I have marked everything. The habitats of the beasts, the main settlements, and the places where no living soul should ever step."
Master Physalis's head fell on the table.
Count finished his wine and looked closely at the map in the light of the torches burning in the inner yard. "Just to paint over all the excess details, and to draw the necessary ones," he decided. Then he put the map in his inner pocket, took off the cloak from the snoring Physalis, and wore it himself. Count was about to leave, naturally without paying, when pity for the old man stopped him from acting low.
Parabalsamico went inside the tavern and proceeded through the refectory to the innkeeper, who was standing behind the counter and wiping a mug with a towel.
"Look here, my dear fellow," Parabalsamico said to the innkeeper, "My father is nestled outside. Would you be so kind to take him to his room, and in the morning he'll pay you everything to the last..."
"I be damned if it is not my favorite alchemist!" - Parabalsamico recognized the voice that echoed from a dark corner of the room. He had been hiding from Inverland spies for the past five months and had especially avoided meeting their head. Until now.
"Whsoo? Ou've got me mishtaken with shomebordy!" - Count mimicked a Gorgothian accent, taking advantage of the fact that Spy was now sitting at a distance. But before he could figure out which card to play next, someone sneaked up on Parabalsamico from behind, put a bag over his head, and stunned him with a painful blow...

... In the meantime, the stranger showed no signs of confusion. On the contrary, he placed his hands on his hips, standing there in the fur cloak with some gilded emblem on the clasp. The noble manners of this piece of work made it clear that a fight with two burly men hides no more danger to him than some public oratorical contest. Dockers, however, did not seem impressed. Broad-shouldered and Toothless flanked the pouting gentleman on both sides.
"Whoa!" the stranger raised abruptly his left hand. Meanwhile, his right hand was stroking the long scabbard, surprisingly presented to the audience as a decisive argument. "Do you donkeys even know who you are careless to mess with?" Not one Rothglenian of a couple of dozen assembled in anticipation of the upcoming show had even a rough answer to that question. "And what did I expect from an audience from the Backwoods?" lamented the stranger. "I am none other than count Parabalsamico, alchemist, demonologist, doctor, and, importantly, an outstanding swordsman! So you two ding-dongs..." he said to the dockers "...You'd better get lost!" The last ray of sunset highlighted, in a heroic way, the gilded emblem of Inverland's royal dynasty on the clasp of the count's cloak.
"Wait a minute," Broad-shouldered said, struck by the fact that his drunk eyes saw no sword sticking out of his scabbard.
"Thi-i-ief!" - Toothless, who had his doubts about the upcoming fight, suddenly found his purse gone. With the last coins he had been saving for liquor.
"Gua-a-a-ards!" - shouted someone from the assembled audience.
Twilight was embracing the city of Rothglen. The portly thief's heels were flashing in the dark, taking the most unpredictable routes. Behind him, skidding wildly in the corners, was Toothless who had lost any interest in count's existence. Fishermen were leaping from the pier, having suddenly remembered the need to collect crayfish at low tide. Broad-shouldered was lying on the harbor planks, surrounded by a patrol of city guards. As for count Parabalsamico, having carefully covered Master Physalis with his warm cloak, he was leading the old man to the Sea Serpent inn.
The inn was known throughout Samreinia as the only one in Rothglen where the food was good, where the wine didn't make your throat ache, and where there was a featherbed on the couches. In other words, it was a highly respectable place, and its rules even banned fights.
Master Physalis, touched by the care, kept trying to thank his savior heartily, but the count only nodded in response. It was only when Parabalsamico opened the heavy gate of the inn, and when he and the old man sat down together at the table in the inner yard, that the count broke the silence.
"Well, Master Physalis," said the count, staring at a handwritten notice on the front door of the inn. It said in the notice that until ten o'clock the Sea Serpent would only serve visitors outside. Which was a bit inconvenient for the count's impeccable plan for the evening. The theatrical gesture of care, as a result of which Parabalsamico had lost a warm cloak, put him in danger of getting cold. Yet he still had to pretend that the old man's health mattered at all to him.
Parabalsamico shivered. "Would you do me the honor of dining with me?" he asked the old man.
"Young man, you are being so kind to an old, nearly forgotten discoverer," Master Physalis said, "Tell me, how can I repay you for your kindness?"
"To begin with..." - the count rang the bell left on the Sea Serpent's table, alerting the inn's servants to the arrival of new guests, "To begin with, tell me of your travel across the Halimatian Sea."
"Young man," the old man huffed regretfully, "My stories have never done anyone any good. Frankly, from this knowledge, only misfortune came."
"That's because no one can think big like me!" - Parabalsamico thought to himself, but aloud he said: "Master Physalis, I have come a long way just to talk to you" ("And to get my hands on your map," thought the count, but of course, he did not voice that either) "You do not mean to say that everything we have experienced together today has been for nothing?"
"Since you insist. It all started with..."

On February 2, 1491, at low tide, an old man came to a bench near the Teahouse in Rothglen port. He sat down and stared at the local fishermen, walking in boots around the mighty piles of the pier and gathering crustaceans in the setting sun.
It was a cold day, and the Rothgleners, unfriendly by nature, were looking at the old man more suspiciously than usual. In fact, they were looking at him very unkindly. If the old man had a sharper eye and caught a single look of a kind, he would have taken off like a scalded cat far away from the Teahouse. He would have locked his house with all possible deadbolts, putting a barn lock on the inside to be sure.
Unfortunately, the old man's eyesight was just a bit better than an earthworm's, as for his running abilities... Truth be told, he could hardly outrun a crustacean thrown ashore, that only if it was turned upside down. Besides, the old man had no house in Rothglen, no den, not even a bed of his own in the rustiest tavern.
With the sun up to his navel behind the peaked roofs, the old man had the urge to get up. The cold wind had gotten through him so much that he could not feel pain in his joints, or rather, he could not distinguish between a joint and a joint. Because all his bones were aching like hell.
At this moment two Rothglen dockers had just rolled out of the Teahouse. Dockers are always angry in February. At the weather, at the lack of ships, at the low wages, at the tax collectors. But those who rolled out were completely beside themselves. After all, they'd just been refused fortified liquor at the Teahouse. In addition, they had been thrown out into the street by a superior force of sober, but no less unpleasant regulars. So it was Providence's fate for the dockers to scratch their fists at someone that day. The fishermen hid behind the mighty piles. One portly thief climbed up to the second floor of the Teahouse, where he pretended to be a seagull, quite convincingly. Unfriendly passersby hid their eyes.
"You!" the broad-shouldered docker shouted to the old man and burped audibly. "We don't like your kind here, ya know", - the other docker said. He hiccupped, showing his four broken front teeth. The old man opened his mouth to reply, and coughed. He tried to wrap himself in his leaky, once luxurious, painted doublet and pretend he wasn't the one being talked to, but the broad-shouldered man grabbed him by the chest.
"Do I have the honor of beholding Master Physalis?" - Long in the sunset, the stranger's shadow stretched across the pier.
"I am, yes, Physalis," the old man mumbled miserably, peering out from behind the docker's thick neck to examine his unexpected savior.
"In that case, put the master down," the stranger demanded. "Show some respect to the man who first crossed the Halimatian Sea and returned back to Samreignia."
The toothless docker turned toward the voice. The broad-shouldered one did show respect for Master Physalis by dropping him to the ground. The old man grunted, hitting the hard port planks with his tailbone. The broad-shouldered rolled up the sleeves of his canvas shirt. The toothless spat on his palms. Punching a pompous, pompous brat is better entertainment for a dockworker than mocking harmless old men...

Winter! ...The peasant with delight makes a fresh road with his sleigh. And we are happy to congratulate you on the upcoming holidays!
We wish your dreams come true! More stunning victories (including in games) and peace of mind to you guys! May there always be room for play and joy in your lives! Merry Christmas!

Yours, Door 407 team