* * *
Warlord Medri Velve'Sirn spread open a map of Tir na nOg. The Sheevra Badb had claimed the entire city? How... interesting. "Continue, my daughter."
Thuulstrea Velve took a hasty gulp of wine. The girl rubbed at her throat, an irritating habit she had picked up ever since the hanging, before continuing. "....Two of the... Queen's siabras' heads... were delivered to... Isliffell shortly thereafter."
Medri tapped the symbol of the palace thoughtfully, then looked long and hard at her daughter. Only two had been reported dead of the three who had come. The Queen and the other factions of the Court had been warned already.
She hated fighting a war when the other side knew you were coming.
"We do not have enough information to decide who we shall be fighting for, my daughter. That will be Melzar's responsibility. Clean yourself up, Thuulstrea, and sleep. Tomorrow you must run on to the Bog." Medri toyed with a lock of white hair, mentally composing the letter to Melzar.
"Yes, Lady Mother." Thuulstrea bowed and left the council chambers.
Medri flicked a gesture with her Glamour to summon another map to her, this one of the Bog. If the Queen meant to send anyone from the Bog, they would pass through Gurite patrol routes. Three other letter began to write themselves out in her head.
She would also need to gather supplies for the coming war. Food for her men. Food for the stronghold, in case someone decided to lay siege. Weapons. Armor. Oil for lanterns. Soap for bathing. Blankets to keep them warm. Pans to cook their food in. The list ran on.
She flicked with her glamour again, summoning paper, inkpot, and her best quill. So many letters to write and see delivered.
* * *
Several hours later, Medri finished the last of them. One for her dear son, one for each of the other Gurite houses, one for her primary Eriu suppliers, one for her primary Sheevra suppliers, and one for Isliffell Badb'Xya.
She clapped, summoning her personal thrall.
The aging firbolg stomped out of the connecting room and growled slightly. "What do ya need of me, Warlord?"
Medri looked at the firbolg druid that had been hers for the last six decades. He had been so proud when she had captured him, so young and strong. Now he was old, his muscles turning to fat, and his hair as silvery as hers. His eyes, though, were still bright, his mind still sharp. Time could not steal that from him. "We must prepare for another war, Fireach."
He grunted. "The last one for me, I'm thinkin'."
She nodded. Yes. Fireach would find a way to die in this war. He hated the peace that came with the delegation, the peace that let him get old. "Indeed." She tapped the Tir na nOg map. "I need you to deliver a message to Tir na nOg."
Fireach narrowed his eyes. "Isn't your daughter goin' there, Warlord?"
Medri smiled slowly. "My dear daughter will be delivering messages across the south. I cannot spare her to deliver this."
The firbolg shrugged massively. "Ah."