Setting Bedding

"Setting Bedding" is a [SEASON NUMBER] thread written on [IRL DATE].
==Summary==
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==Full Text==
The partial destruction of the Jaw of Fenrir at the hands of the Rebellion’s pet demon was not pretty. Watched over by the mysterious, gigantic beast striking a hazy silhouette in the storm-ridden sky, the Conclave had been spending the past several days chipping away at parts of the enormous fang that had come to rest midway through the settlement, crushing houses, buildings, silos and prisons alike. The enamel was supernaturally hard, even being so many years after Ragnarok. It was slow, and frustrating.
To add onto their misfortune, the supernatural storm that had begun to stir last week had not let up in any way, shape or form. Day and night, the winds whipped across the prairie, making dragon flight extraordinarily difficult. Slave caravans were getting hardly a few miles out from the Jaw before getting stuck, overturned or simply lost due to the horrible weather. Water was draining straight into the Troughs, and in order to keep the merchandise from drowning, escaping, or rotting, Vidar had made the begrudging order to relocate them above ground. The task was proving difficult, especially with the limited time they had before the Troughs flooded completely. He currently oversaw one of these such transitions, cloaked and bandaged once more, with another heavy dragonskin layer hooded across his head to drive off rain as he planted his stance firmly on the wooden ramparts several stories above the encampment below him. Conclave men and women shouted to each other and hauled half-breed after half-breed up the steep, slick, muddy walls using chain pulleys and the strength of their own arms. They were all pale and shaking with cold. 
He curled his lip. The water had reminded him of another thorn in his side. Nio was gone. That had upset him more than he thought it would. They had clearly taken some sort of chance that had risen on the night of the monster’s appearance, and vanished. Their lack of attention that night had caused many unnecessary losses. He’d lost several valuable bargaining chips against the Rebellion. The chance to make them pay for it would arise. He would ensure that.
“Jarl Vidar!”
A bone-white branch of lightning flashed overhead, quickly followed by a thunderous rumble. Vidar tossed his dripping cloak to the side and turned to face a handful of his attendants coming up the steps towards him. One of them had a messenger dragon on her shoulders–a Grim Gnasher. It was a highly prized dragon for communication, due to its speed and stealth. His dark brown eyes fastened on it for a second before flicking to each of their faces, waiting for an explanation. 
“This just came for you,” Tasha said, holding up a sealed tube hanging by a braided strap. 
“Well, it won’t do any good being opened outside,” Vidar said pleasantly, leading the group towards one of the temporary command tents erected as a place for local officers to continue coordinating their many new projects. The Jarl shrugged off his cloak, draping it over one of the chairs, before sitting across the table at a second seat, gesturing for Tasha to hand him the message. She obediently held it out. He casually flipped the opening to face him and pried it open, shaking out the parchment into his hand and flicking it open. It was incredibly short.
I’m coming to negotiate.
-Stonegit Elmiss
Eyes wide, Tasha jerked her head up to look at Vidar, who had an elbow on the table, rubbing his leather-bound fingers across his chin. Another of the attendants, a short scholar named Belas, looked back and forth between them, and then down at the message. “I’ll tell ‘im to fuck off, then.” But he sounded unsure.
“Of course we won’t.” Vidar took the parchment and tucked it neatly in half, sliding his fingers down the spine of the fold. The others looked at him incredulously. He scoffed. “What are you waiting for? We have a guest to entertain.”
“Sir,” Tasha whispered hoarsely, “he doesn’t mean negotiate, he means–”
Vidar tore the paper cleanly in half. She shut her mouth at the sound. “I know,” he said deliberately, turning the parchment again and lining up the pieces neatly, “what it means. I’ll ask you not to question my intelligence again.”
“Yes, Jarl.”
“What do you mean, though?” One of the brawnier men folded his arms with a puzzled scowl. “We’re just gonna let him in, and then…?”
“My dearest Njal.” Rip. The paper was now in fourths. “Think, just for a moment. It’s not just going to be our guest alone.”
“He’s bringing the Rebellion?” Hanna guessed, eagerly rubbing the hilt of her sword.
“Mr. Elmiss mostly operates under the jurisdiction of the Wilderwest crown. Unfortunately.” The attendants tensed slightly at the sound of bitterness leaking into his words. “Would someone else like to guess?” Rip.
Tasha’s nails were biting into the palms of her hands. Her throat was jammed. Sighing in annoyance, Vidar finally looked up from his paper project, pinching the shreds far too tightly. He flung them to the table and then stood, sweeping past the attendants, who all stepped aside hastily. He yanked the mouth of the tent open and swept a hand at the dark silhouette of the massive fang plaguing them, through the driving rain. Njal’s mouth formed a round “o” of comprehension. Thunder rocked the ground.
“I thought my dear friends would have a better knowledge of the history of that wretched Rebellion,” he said lightly, letting the tent flap swing shut. “I should write up a test before they become my lieutenants. It would be so much fun. We’ll make it a game.” He sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. “Here’s a pitch for the opening question: what is a demon Catalyst?”
“A person,” Belas piped up from the back. “A demon growth accelerant. A tangible attachment to the physical world.” The higher ranks of the Conclave had gone through basic demonic training. It was an obvious softball.
“Very good. And what is the title of the demon currently residing on Haligan?”
Njal jumped to answer. “The Warden?”
“Excellent. Tasha, my darling.” She stiffened. “Who are we nearly certain, based on secondhand accounts, energy readings and generally good estimations, is the Warden’s Catalyst?”
“Stonegit Elmiss,” she whispered, but not so quiet as to enrage Vidar into making her speak up.
“Wonderful!” Vidar clapped his gauntlets together, making everyone flinch. “And, as we know, he is coming to visit us very soon. Who can we suppose will be joining him, who couldn’t bear to see him face us alone?”
Everyone was silent, but they understood. Vidar grinned.
“Good. Then I hope we make the proper preparations.”