While Corvin continued to wreak devastation across the blood scorched wastes of Nefrath, bringing ruin to the Archdemon of Wrath's domain, far to the northeast, past the edges of the Shatterwake Gulf, beyond the ever churning mists of the Veilborn Expanse, and nestled at the southern edge of the human continent of Argyll an entirely different storm was brewing. Not one of flame or lightning, but one of elven indignation and pent up fury.
Valyne was fuming.
Storming down the eastern corridor of Raven's Nest Castle, her silver trimmed robe flaring behind her like a banner of frustration, she was muttering a mix of curses, grievances, and threats that would make a Voidborn blush. She'd had enough. This whole diplomatic babysitting assignment had gone from mildly irritating to insultingly absurd. Somehow, through no formal process whatsoever, she had become the acting liaison to both the Synod and Aurelian emissaries because, of course, the feather headed Duke was no where to be found.
