A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1404 - 1404: Ambitions - Part 1

"Perhaps it is simply the nature of the Gods that we worship, Lord Blackwell," Oliver said. "We are a militaristic nation, just as you have made yours a militaristic House. Perhaps there are places, and Gods, that can acknowledge progress in other realms."

"But ours is the Goddess of Progress in her very name. Surely, she of all the Gods, ought to see it," Blackwell said.

"In time, perhaps she might. But for now, it is the sword that has moved progress in this country. We have not seen scholars achieve all that a sword has. Gods are mere expressions of the people that worship them, are they not – an amalgamation of all the things that they believe," Oliver said.

"The words of your father once more," Blackwell noted. "A cruel set of Gods, they are. Ferdinand has achieved much that goes unseen, much that the Gods don't recognize."

"Even if the Gods do not recognize it, and give him extra boons, that does not make his competence any lesser. After all, does he not simply need to progress enough that he's greater in his field than the men around him," Oliver said. "Is that not a fitting measure of where he stands, when there is no Boundary to tell him otherwise?"

"…Perhaps," Blackwell said. "Mm. Perhaps. In that regard, he still has much work to do. The Idris man behind you, for one, still remains his superior. As long as he can still point out so many men that he is lacking in regards to, he cannot entertain any complaints. Well, I shall tell him as much."

"Ah… perhaps going easy on him might have been better…" Oliver said.

"On your enemy?" Blackwell smiled. "You have an awful lot of patience, lately, Ser Patrick. It would seem that peace is agreeing with you. I would think that, like me, you would have vengeance towards a higher seat sitting in the back of your mind. Especially after how close you came. If not for the interference of Queen Asabel, we would be talking in charred ruins."

"Oh, vengeance does more than sit, General," Oliver said. "By now, vengeance has built a house for itself, with the furnishing to go with it. It shall stay a good while, and patiently continue to build itself. And when there is an opportunity that presents itself. It shall be taken. In that regard, I would hope to follow in your trail, Lord Blackwell. We are at least mutually desirous in this?"

"…A guillotine still looms, even if it has retreated a further distance than it was before," Blackwell said. "But I have no plans that I can reassure you of."

"Then my focus shall continue to be this tournament," Oliver concluded.

"A healthier aim to have," Blackwell agreed. "Do you need more from me, before I take my leave?"

"Not that I can think of, General. You have been able to reassure me of much. I am sure the tournament shall be a great success with your backing," Oliver said.

"Make it so," Blackwell said. "It will be a great disappointment should I have built my hopes for nothing. Very well. I will relay matters to my son, so that you will not need to listen to his complaints. Do what you can, Ser Patrick, and send me a crow for the rest of it."

He was gone out of the door with that, and set to galloping away. A mere half an hour of conversation, with hardly any resistance encountered, and the plan to host a tournament was set into stone.

"…It shouldn't be that bloody easy," Greeves complained, holding his head. He'd been up for nights sleeplessly plotting. He'd even turned back to the bottle for inspiration, only for all his attempts to be usurped by something far more innocent and straightforward.

"I have a feeling, the General might have had more interest in those books than merely just the tournament," Verdant said.

"Indeed," Oliver said. "You know… I wonder if Lord Blackthorn might compete in the tournament as well?" He directed his gaze towards Lasha as he asked that question. "Those two always seem to be at each other's throats, and it makes me wonder who the stronger of the pair is?"

Lasha shrugged. "Probably."

"Thanks for your input, Lasha. You really cleared that one up," Oliver said dryly.

"I mean, if father hears Lord Blackwell is competing… Probably, definitely," Lasha said.

"'Probably, definitely,' she says," Oliver said. "Hard to tell which one of the two she means. But I'd give an organ or two to see these Generals fight. Only on campaign have I been able to bear witness to their clashing before. There will be certainly much that I can learn."

"Well," he said, after a moment's more thought. "That's step one complete, isn't it, Greeves? Next, the doings are yours. Begin the organizing."

"You say that, but I'm not a pissin' mage. I can't magic it together. Yer going to have to help me draw up some plans as for what you intend to do…"

"Then, we'll see them quickly drawn up."

Greeves lamented the ridiculous ease of it all more than once over the next coming days. The nights that he had lost to sleeplessness were made to look meaningless, in lue of the tournament that so easily flowed into certainty after it.

Naturally, Oliver hadn't expected anything like the sort of responses that they were getting. He'd done it with a smile on his face, and now, with every letter that returned to him, confirming a different nobleman's coming, his smile began to fade.

"…Are we really going to have enough space?" Oliver started to wonder. Naturally, there were miles and miles of endless rolling plains between Solgrim and Ernest that they planned to make use of. But the initial goal had simply been to host the tournament on the fields directly outside the town walls.

Karstly had been amongst the first to confirm his arrival. He had been nearly as quick as Lord Blackwell in confirming his response, despite his crow needing to fly a significant distance further. "That sounds amusing, dear Ser Patrick," Karstly said. "I do hope you don't stick too closely to what one might expect of a traditional tournament. Do be wild, good Ser."