bloodymorrow
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Adhaj City, 84 years after the Imperial Conquest
With a fumbling hand, the aide reached into their pouch and produced a folded letter. Its parchment was yellow and greasy, stained with some dark red substance. It did not take a genius to guess what exactly caused the stain, nor did it require much imagination to suspect what exactly lay in the wooden box that sat on the floor. Flies were still buzzing within. Taking a moment to smooth out the letter, the aide rubbed one corner of his moustache and glanced towards the prince. "Your Majesty, it is . . . it appears to be from . . . my goodness -"
Captain Viktor growled and swiped the letter from the man, his lip curled in irritation. The aide backed away, trembling from the Koluvian giant that bristled with authority. Viktor's flinty eyes scanned the document intently. The fist at his side was trembling. "Little more than a juvenile threat, Your Majesty. I'd pay it no heed." He crushed the letter in his palm and turned about on his heel. "Guards, get this fucking thing disposed of!"
"Wait," Damien murmured, rising from the throne. Truth be told, he was glad to be free of the thing for the moment - the throne of opulent Sarazad was a dreadfully uncomfortable thing, a brassy chair with lumpy pillows and huge arms carved into the resemblances of beetles. He had to push aside stray palm fronds as he descended the royal dais towards his courtiers. Braziers stationed at the corners of the room continued to burn, the incense barely able to mask the stench of decay. "I would lay eyes upon this myself." Viktor grumbled but handed the letter off to his prince.
The instant his fingers touched the soaked parchment, he felt a chill race down his spine. The letter was written in a flowing Zadi dialect. It took some time for his eyes to focus on the individual words, so struck was he by the momentous weight the message seemed to carry.
Bastard prince,
We have warned you again and again that it is past time you and your empire returned back home. Sarazad is not your country. Sarazad will never be your country. Every moment you spend on our throne is another moment spent defiling our heritage. Your servants wander through our towns and fields, carrying out your commands, whispering your lies at every turn. No more. We have seen to it that false tongues shall never wag again. Pack up your things and leave, bastard prince.
We are the Godly Ring. And we are the one true servants of righteousness in this world. Our fury will taste like retribution.
"Let me guess," the prince whispered, tearing up the letter in two. "That's a box of tongues."
The aide glanced down at the package he had delivered, and hung his head in shame. "Y-yes, Your Majesty. We did not get an exact count but it was . . . it was more than two dozen."
"Two dozen." Damien turned away from his servants then, pacing towards the window and rubbing his chin. He was ordinarily a pale man but three months in Sarazad had turned his skin crisp and red. His normally blonde hair was becoming straw-coloured, his bright eyes burdened by the weight of an entire country. His was the image of picturesque Koluvian royalty, and that was a strange image indeed to be found in this arid country. Outside, the capital of Adhaj City went about its daily business. The bazaars were flooded with people who bartered under scarlet awnings, the canals filled with river barges and seafaring merchants. The priests at the temple were just beginning their morning hymns, their voices united in a warbling cry to their gods. And somewhere among the masses, the terrorists of the Godly Ring were planning to kill him and every imperial citizen within the city.
"Captain Viktor, it shall fall upon you to rectify this issue. We are short two dozen lives." The heir of House Vadali turned, stroking his chin with a grim smile. "Purchase two dozen more from the Godly Ring. With steel, of course."
"Of course," Viktor growled, offering a quick salute and marching off. Once again Damien admired the eagerness the captain displayed for violence, especially violence in the line of duty. Likely he'll kill a lot more than two dozen if he has his way. Good. Let the people become more terrified of us than the cretins who lurk in the shadows. I will do whatever it takes to save them from their zealots. Feeling the heat begin to prickle his flesh, Damien sidled off into the shade of the throne room.
The aide followed behind, even as soldiers knelt down and dragged the morbid package away. "Your Majesty, you have another matter to attend to. The leader of the . . . well, the leader of a small society located within the capital."
"You'll have to be more specific than that." The prince fetched himself some water from the basin and let it soothe his chapped lips.
"The . . . the sorceress," the aide muttered, as if terrified of her listening.
Damien's face settled into a scowl. "Yes. The witch. Send her in, I must have a chat with her." The aide bowed and scuttled off, leaving the prince alone for a few blessed moments. How I long for the comfort of home and the sea air and battle. But this was the front on which his family's fortunes would turn, for the empire was locked in civil war. An embarassment in Sarazad would cost House Vadali dearly. These thoughts lingering in his mind, Prince Damien ascended the throne and waited for his newest guest.
With a fumbling hand, the aide reached into their pouch and produced a folded letter. Its parchment was yellow and greasy, stained with some dark red substance. It did not take a genius to guess what exactly caused the stain, nor did it require much imagination to suspect what exactly lay in the wooden box that sat on the floor. Flies were still buzzing within. Taking a moment to smooth out the letter, the aide rubbed one corner of his moustache and glanced towards the prince. "Your Majesty, it is . . . it appears to be from . . . my goodness -"
Captain Viktor growled and swiped the letter from the man, his lip curled in irritation. The aide backed away, trembling from the Koluvian giant that bristled with authority. Viktor's flinty eyes scanned the document intently. The fist at his side was trembling. "Little more than a juvenile threat, Your Majesty. I'd pay it no heed." He crushed the letter in his palm and turned about on his heel. "Guards, get this fucking thing disposed of!"
"Wait," Damien murmured, rising from the throne. Truth be told, he was glad to be free of the thing for the moment - the throne of opulent Sarazad was a dreadfully uncomfortable thing, a brassy chair with lumpy pillows and huge arms carved into the resemblances of beetles. He had to push aside stray palm fronds as he descended the royal dais towards his courtiers. Braziers stationed at the corners of the room continued to burn, the incense barely able to mask the stench of decay. "I would lay eyes upon this myself." Viktor grumbled but handed the letter off to his prince.
The instant his fingers touched the soaked parchment, he felt a chill race down his spine. The letter was written in a flowing Zadi dialect. It took some time for his eyes to focus on the individual words, so struck was he by the momentous weight the message seemed to carry.
Bastard prince,
We have warned you again and again that it is past time you and your empire returned back home. Sarazad is not your country. Sarazad will never be your country. Every moment you spend on our throne is another moment spent defiling our heritage. Your servants wander through our towns and fields, carrying out your commands, whispering your lies at every turn. No more. We have seen to it that false tongues shall never wag again. Pack up your things and leave, bastard prince.
We are the Godly Ring. And we are the one true servants of righteousness in this world. Our fury will taste like retribution.
"Let me guess," the prince whispered, tearing up the letter in two. "That's a box of tongues."
The aide glanced down at the package he had delivered, and hung his head in shame. "Y-yes, Your Majesty. We did not get an exact count but it was . . . it was more than two dozen."
"Two dozen." Damien turned away from his servants then, pacing towards the window and rubbing his chin. He was ordinarily a pale man but three months in Sarazad had turned his skin crisp and red. His normally blonde hair was becoming straw-coloured, his bright eyes burdened by the weight of an entire country. His was the image of picturesque Koluvian royalty, and that was a strange image indeed to be found in this arid country. Outside, the capital of Adhaj City went about its daily business. The bazaars were flooded with people who bartered under scarlet awnings, the canals filled with river barges and seafaring merchants. The priests at the temple were just beginning their morning hymns, their voices united in a warbling cry to their gods. And somewhere among the masses, the terrorists of the Godly Ring were planning to kill him and every imperial citizen within the city.
"Captain Viktor, it shall fall upon you to rectify this issue. We are short two dozen lives." The heir of House Vadali turned, stroking his chin with a grim smile. "Purchase two dozen more from the Godly Ring. With steel, of course."
"Of course," Viktor growled, offering a quick salute and marching off. Once again Damien admired the eagerness the captain displayed for violence, especially violence in the line of duty. Likely he'll kill a lot more than two dozen if he has his way. Good. Let the people become more terrified of us than the cretins who lurk in the shadows. I will do whatever it takes to save them from their zealots. Feeling the heat begin to prickle his flesh, Damien sidled off into the shade of the throne room.
The aide followed behind, even as soldiers knelt down and dragged the morbid package away. "Your Majesty, you have another matter to attend to. The leader of the . . . well, the leader of a small society located within the capital."
"You'll have to be more specific than that." The prince fetched himself some water from the basin and let it soothe his chapped lips.
"The . . . the sorceress," the aide muttered, as if terrified of her listening.
Damien's face settled into a scowl. "Yes. The witch. Send her in, I must have a chat with her." The aide bowed and scuttled off, leaving the prince alone for a few blessed moments. How I long for the comfort of home and the sea air and battle. But this was the front on which his family's fortunes would turn, for the empire was locked in civil war. An embarassment in Sarazad would cost House Vadali dearly. These thoughts lingering in his mind, Prince Damien ascended the throne and waited for his newest guest.
