TYPE
Now what?
♕ The Empire of Alstasia ♕
S U C C E S S I O N
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S U C C E S S I O N
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Emperor Lucius, Fourth of His Name, Lord Protector of the Realm, Scion of the House Breckenridge. His life had been filled with titles. With names. Names claimed in birth. Names claimed in History. Names claimed in deeds. Now he sat here, in the darkened room which held his throne, where fate has given him a new name. Now he was all the things that came before, and the only thing that remains. Now he was, The Last. The end of an era. The final breath of a dynasty spent.
For the last few months he had been gripped by his past. His crown anchoring him to his quiet throne. His empty heart having him send all kind words and sympathies away. Drawing curtains and casting his frame in black. The Emperor was in mourning. The world had allowed him such a thing. Allowed him his grief. One thing was not willing to concede him some relief. Time, that most diligent of task masters now came for him. His blood felt thin, as spent as his lineage. His bones, once strong - noble birth and a proud history raising his brow and squaring his shoulders - now felt brittle. His step as unstable as the peace which had befallen his beloved Alstasia as of late.
The sound of the great doors, small and far away from where he was sat, slowly groaned open, a single man entering. His silver and gold armor cast in shades of grey, the shadows of the room reflecting nothing beyond the dark brooding which had invaded the mind of Lucius as of late. With a quick, but still respectful march, he made his way past the tall columns keeping the arched roof of the throne room up. As he walked past them, his eyes were drawn to the hundreds of carved bodies within them. Heroes of old. Many… nay, most of them - the product of his Emperor’s Line.
The guard, sent by the head of house, suddenly felt a lump within his own throat. His eyes becoming unfocused, as he turned his gaze back onto his Beloved Emperor. The man now sat, surrounded by gold and history, his shoulders bent forward and down, his proud brow brought low by a crown that suddenly looked too heavy for his head. Emperor Lucius did not move. Did not recognise him for many moments. The Guard, his back straight, his chin up, and his knee bent - waited. He would wait forever. If need be.
Slowly, as if it took more will than strength, Lucius looked up, his eyes taking in his visitor. The first person he had seen in what felt like days. He nodded down, once. His mouth in a low grimace, his dark eyes intense.
“My Imperial Majesty, I pray you forgive this intrusion on your time. I come now to fulfill a task set two weeks prior. A task set by the word of the Emperor. The Electorate have been called. They come now. The sentries have sent word that the first of the carriages will arrive within the next few hours.” Having spoken, his throat suddenly dry - not daring to moisten his lips - he looked down respectfully, waiting for any further instruction.
Lucius looked at the man. He was strong. Clearly. He was trained. Clearly. Even with the uncomfortable pose he kept, his arms were steady. His back straight. Could he be an Emperor? What would Lucius need to add to him, so that he would be? The thoughts slowly trudged over his mind, as though a horse stuck in a bog. Would any of them be good enough? Could he trust them? Did he have a choice? He looked back towards the guard. No. He did not. Just as this young man was bound by vows, so too was he. He would need to see this done.
Calling apon a history of more than one and a half millennia. Calling upon a will forged in war. Calling upon the sheer stubbornness of a dying dragon, Lucius felt his hands clench upon the armrests of his throne. He felt his arched back straighten, his shoulders square. His brow rise. His chest inflating with the first proper breath he had taken in what felt like years.
From his position, knelt at the foot of the throne, the guard’s eyes widened. As if seeing a phoenix being set alight by its own will, his Emperor resurrected himself. Suddenly the man was wearing the crown once more. Suddenly the throne was a chair for a Lord once more. Suddenly the room felt bright. Lucius raised his hand, his fingers snapping loudly, as the curtains opened, bright light streaming past the stained glass. The golden marble that made up the floors, the roof, the pillars, lit up with glorious golden light, his crown glinting once more.
His hand, from it’s raised position, extended over the room, the dust that had settled over the course of the last few days evaporated, as the large doors - still mostly closed swung open entirely. Then, rising from his seat, Lucius cleared his throat, the sound reverberating over the room. Over the guard, power, majesty, control radiating off his Emperor. Then he spoke. His voice louder and stronger than any mortal man should be able to speak. Each syllable sending shivers of awe down the guard’s spine.
“Ready the house. Tonight be host the future of Alstasia. We shall meet them with open arms. This house has mourned its last. Now, work is to be done.” As his voice cut off, the braziers set along the walls ignited in unnatural golden fire. The fires of his house. They will burn one last time.
The guard, bowed low, lower than most would, his forehead nearly meeting the floor, before he rose, his armor suddenly bright, alive, casting shards of white light along the walls, along the throne, reflecting in the crown. One more nod towards his Emperor, before he turned, marching out of the throne room, not to inform the house, for he knew they would know. They would know that Emperor Lucius had returned. The Breckenridge have returned. And as always, Alstasia remained willing to serve.
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Robespierre, and his family had served the crown for nearly as long as the Wright. While they were not the warriors, or the horse-masters, or the builders of the world - his family lived for something else entirely. A life of service and dedication. It had them ascending from poor earth tillers to servants in homes of unimaginable wealth and power. Here he now stood, at the doorways of the greatest home on the continent. Perhaps the world.
As the master of the household, Robespierre was to welcome those whom would be replacing… no. Occupying the house in place of the Breckenridge. His family had long since insisted that they would serve the Breckenridge first and foremost. Dutifully they had followed the family wherever they went. If that meant they were not on the throne, it would mean that his family would not serve the throne. Now however such a luxurious choice could no longer be entertained. Soon there would be no more Breckenridge to serve. Loyalties will need to shift, and it would fall to him to find his new charges. A task that weighed on his soul more than his starched, pitch black formal-wear, or the responsibilities that came with it.
Next to him, to his right, stood his secretary. To his left stood the Deputy Master. They all knew their roles. They all knew what they had to do. Soon the gates at the edge of the grounds would open, and carriages will appear. From there, they will direct the servants to take any luggage into the home, while directing the guests towards the formal waiting room, where the Emperor will greet them. Then lunch. Before they will be left to their devices until that evening, where the opening ceremonial ball is to be held. There was still so much to be done. But for now, they had to wait. Wait for the future to arrive.