Uusi's Unseelie Delusion

The beginning of Uusi's personal delusion:

You're in a large room with stone walls lit by purple flames mounted on iron chandeliers. On the walls are intricate tapestries dedicated to your greatness, depicting a multitude of humans cowering before you. Beneath your royal rump is a gilded throne with a scrying orb mounted on the armrest to your right. Before you are your loyal sycophants, their eyes locked onto you, revealing fear and ambition in equal measure. On the left is a flame primordian you know as Lilith. She raps her long pointed nails against the plate armor over her breast. To your right is a deathly pale dwarf named Fass with male-pattern baldness and a black, neatly-trimmed goatee. He is hiding a half-eaten turkey leg behind his back that he likely intends to chomp on when you look away. They are your closest advisors, although Fass insists on being called your Grand Vizier.

You were hatched in a cave among kobold of your kind, but now you are the dark lord of this land thanks to the magical prowess granted by your draconic bloodline. You were taken from your people by the Sorcerer Empress Pluriflor the Eternal. You spent years in the tutelage of her underling, a violent and cruel archmage who taught you to control your sorcery before you dispatched him with a scroll of Power Word: Flay. You, like all spellcasters here in the land of Falconia, are of the ruling class, elevated above the common, magically inept rabble. And beyond that, your ambitions have earned you favor with the Empress and a lordship of your own. A human boy with an iron shackle around his neck polishes the claws on your left hand.

You need to look your best today. The Empress is expected to arrive any minute. A rack of robes is wheeled in by nameless serfs. What are you going to wear for this meeting?

Pluriflor meets with Uusi to speak her request:

"Allow me to cut to the chase. Uusi, I'm about to makest thou the second most powerful sorcerer in the nation, after mineself. As is thine knowledge, the center of Falconia's economic might, the Dwarven city of Zelositan, has long been under the management of Lord Grayhawk. The Blighted Mines of Zelositan are a reliable source of magic sublimate and precious metals. Recently I hath been informed that Grayhawk has been hoarding away a chunk of the mine's treasures, and I believe he intends to use it against me. I want you to kill him."

"Grayhawk is quite popular with a certain circle of nobles, so it would be easiest if this deed were not immediately connected to mineself. I hast granted him the recently conquered Territory of Stockhelm and I hast commanded him to bring the populace to heel. He will be meeting with a local leader, who himself is another potential thorn in mine backside, in the governor's estate. Kill them both and leave no witnesses. If thou accomplish thine mission and thou do-est it right, thou shalt be given Zelositan and Stockhelm. Agreed?"

To assist Pluriflor, Uusi uses the scrying orb set into the armrest of her throne. She experiences the following vision:

You peer into your crystal ball and see a young, lean orc man with gray-green skin and the vestments of a high mage. This must be Grayhawk. He is walking through what appears to be a sprawling complex of forges and molten metal. A crucible shaped as a noble owlbear passes over his head on a rail, on its journey towards a mold that will soon produce dozens of cast-iron polearm blades. Grayhawk is followed by a squad of bodyguards and a beautiful satyr woman with jet black hair and wearing elegant, tight-fitting gown.

From your experience, you'd expect slaves that toil in this unbearable heat to be frail and exhausted. On the contrary, they appear to be quite fed and muscular. Grayhawk must be overfeeding these peasants. Doesn't he know a physically able populace is more able to overthrow him?

He stops next to grindstone where a bulky dwarf is sharpening glaives. When he sees Grayhawk approach, he stands and bows at the hip. "My lord," he says, "this iron is of immaculate quality. It seems the legends of Zelositan's great mines were not understated. It will be our honor to work this material at its source, once your business here in Stockhelm is concluded."

"Wonderful." Grayhawk says, flatly. "The workers of Stockhelm have proven to be its treasure. Your men will join the honorable ranks of my own within the Blighted Mines upon my return. That is, so long as your weapons hold up against these rebels. They will not be pleased when I disintegrate their leader, so reliable arms in the hands of my elite guards will be invaluable."

Grayhawk then cracks a smile. "I hope they hold up for your sake as well. If I do not succeed and this province is handed off to another by Pluriflor, you and your men will not be treated nearly as benevolently," he says, the implication clear. He runs his fingers through his unusually gray hair. "I'll return to check on your work on the morrow. Farewell."

The dwarf bows again and returns to work.

The satyr woman sidles up to Grayhawk as he walks away. Gently pulling his ear down to her level, she leans in and whispers: "Sire, your strategy seems to be working. Production far exceeds expectations and it will not be long before we have enough to outfit an army to rival the Queen's. I do worry, however, that your kindness could be construed as weakness by the people... and by your fellow sorcerers. Allow me one execution, to remind them of their place." She punctuates her point with a stiletto knife dripping with poison that she pulled from a sheath on her thigh.

"No, Desiree, now is not the time." Grayhawk says sternly. He makes pointed eye contact for a moment before pulling her head close and kissing her hair. "I will inform you when your talents are needed." Grayhawk continues on his way, but Desiree stays behind a moment longer. As the guards pass she stares at Grayhawk with a mix of longing and anger, gripping the knife tightly.

The vision fades.