Their fangs bare and dripping with venom. Their irises furiously narrowed, homing a pinpoint dagger of pure offense straight into the heart of this frivolous warrior-lord. Yet despite their very conspicuous enmity, Lord Kórakas remains calmly seated in his chair. Even as there is an active showering of sacrificed wine upon his lap, he does not move. Rather, he puts his goblet of wine to his thin lips, drinking from its bounty in a motion as easy as blinking. The situation is as a curse to the ears of one motionless figure in the room. Achernar, who had so quietly and patiently allowed them the freedom of discussion, could no longer stand this talk. His hands, planted flat against the table, tremble with unrest and unease.
“Enough,” his hands folding into tight-knit fists, Achernar rejects this course of action with every cell in his body. His eyes pierce the air ahead of him, soundly crushing every instrument and every vocal cord in the orchestra. Though some bat Achernar a curiosity look, others seem as surly as having been abruptly snapped from a dream. His back straightening as he hardens his stance. He then steps to his left, beginning to orbit around this round table. Adamantly, candidly, as he walks, he elaborates, “Let me be clear: our cause does not seek violence nor bloodshed. We are by no means an insurgency or rebellion seeking the head of Our Empyrean. Our objective is to spread the truth, nothing more. What follows thereafter will be entirely the choosing of the people, not ours.”
The glint of a taut bead of sweat jaggedly running down Lord Kórakas’s scarred visage catches everyone’s eye. His glowing eyes lock to the back of Achernar’s head, watching his braided ponytail sway in his step.
“…So, what becomes of Raphael at the end of this?” Lord Caerus of House Kórakas questions Achernar with a surprisingly alert tone, leaning his hulking chest against his forearm upon the table. “Will we not seek to overthrow him?”
Achernar pauses in his step, quickly returning, “No. It’s as I’ve said, what follows after us will be of the choice of the people. If they choose to question Raphael, then they will question him. If they choose to rebel, then they will rebel. If they seek to stage a coup, then they will stage a coup.”
“…And if the people choose to do nothing?”
“Then that will be the end of it,” Achernar answers simply, tensely fixing the brow of many in his company.
Indeed, the room becomes a sheer conglomerate of different masks and bodily alterations. Eyes and heads shuffle in the confusion, scouring to find solace in one’s bemusement. Indeed, very few find pleasure in Achernar’s answer. Perhaps no one did. From atop echoes then the sound of the creaking stairway. Cautious steps steadily make it down their way, reverberating through the cellar’s dust-laden vastness. As like the sun coming out from the horizon, the dancing orange gleams with vividness as it rises from behind the wall. The flickering fire of a candle is clasped in soft, milk-white fingers, drawing closer to a modest bosom. A woman stands in the archway—candle in one hand, jug of wine in the other. The others watch her, inclined mysteriously to fall into her glowing eyes. They fall into its abyssal blue; blank and empty yet mirroring innocence and normality.
“…Ah, Zena,” then acknowledges Telvern Thaddeus, watering his croaky throat with his own ale. “Your timing is impeccable. It would seem my friends here require more wine.”
The acerbic nature of Telvern’s words was straight from the annals of history, when he was a young, upcoming politician. Indeed, many of the council visibly bite down on their tongues, holding back any sort of riposte they could make. A visage, lithe and indefinite, then lightens with a vibrant beam as though an entertained parent. Zena fixes her eyes forward, mockingly cocking her head at the state of the table. The wasted blood of goblets and jugs ebbs freely, glistering orange in the breath of the candlelight. A heavy pocket of air forces its way up the passageway in her throat, following then a thorough lashing of her tongue.
“Didn’t your mothers teach you anything?” Zena blisters truly like a scolding mother, resting the candle and jug of wine in her hands atop the first place she could find.
Slung along the shoulder of the barmaid is a long linen cloth, tattered with overuse and faintly stained from other unfortunate mishaps past. Zena wields the cloth like a weapon ready for war, the war to rectify the mess of another—a strangely true simile for any soldier. She puts it to work, methodically attacking the ruby red spill. Round and round did her cloth go, which proved a winning stratagem which routs the enemy with surprising results.
Leaning over the candid wood, Zena’s patchwork chemise hangs loosely, baring the flesh beneath her collarbone. Though the candlelight burns rather dully upon her ashen hide, it stops not the leering eyes of one member of the council. With knuckles pressed cockily into his disfigured cheek, Lord Kórakas perversely tilts his head somewhat as though seeking a better viewing angle. Yet his invasive focus snaps, hearing then the screeching motion of a chair. The unrestricted sway of a dark green cloak grabs the warrior-lord’s attention, catching then the rangy shape of perhaps the quietest amongst the Ruler’s Council.
He, the perpetual frowner, is Lord Marius of House Lino, seeming as though he is simply unable to sit idly by and allow Zena to clean by herself. His droopy eyes nervously scramble to find something to help clean, ‘til then he simply tore from his own cloak and offered it in aid to the barmaid. As Lord Lino and Zena continue ahead with their towels to win the war, Lord Aidan Cayrel ganders the barmaid with eyes squinted and askance. She has no place in their meeting, and as far as Lord Cayrel knows, she is an outsider. He bats his glowing, teal blue eyes to the slacken face of Achernar, who resides just to his left. Achernar could read Lord Cayrel as though a book lain bare, noting the clear and obvious distrust of the foreign Zena. As the two are eye-to-eye, Achernar nods his head as if a signal of affirmation. Just as the barmaid in question clears the table of wine, Achernar has cleared Aidan of his distrust.
“How do you intend to deal with the queen, Lord Nemeth?” then inquires Lord Cayrel. “I suspect Raphael will march the Imperial Army into Alverra in the coming months. However, even with his departure, there will remain plenty of loyalmen within Governanti to threaten us quite substantially. Her Grace will not simply permit us the freedom to slander the name of her Opposite.”
Achernar’s answer does not come immediate, but Lord Cayrel’s voice exudes with sincerity and genuine concern. Queen Meliora is not Raphael, who the Solasúians loathe without end. She is the People’s Queen, who is universally idolized, revered, even loved. Undoubtedly, each member of the council has plots and plans upon Governanti…but many did not desire the fall of the queen. As Zena finishes with the table, she circles back around, pouring everyone a goblet of sweet decadence. A sound of mischievous glee bombastically floods the room, shuddering not the barmaid nor the room’s other occupants.
Lady Metis of House Mundus bursts open with laughter, then indulges in the sweetly, sourly balance of the wine flooding her palate. A smile, like that of a ruler amused by a jester’s routine, then extends up to the lower half of her upturned eyes.
“Oh, you needn’t worry about that, dear,” assures Lady Mundus, emanating absolute confidence. ”My sister wouldn’t harm a feral dog if it were gnawing off her leg.”
"Sister, please…” In the aftermath of Lady Mundus’s words, another voice would flow into this chaotic whirlpool. A fledgling in comparison to her withered, wrinkled company, she courteously rises from her chair. Taking her hands together in a refined manner, she faces Achernar. He hadn’t seen her amongst their gathering before, but he is familiar with her identity. She is Transcriptor Methea Mayne of House Mundus, the adopted daughter of the renown Martellus Mundus. The two are unacquainted, having had very little interactions and even fewer exchanges in the past couple of years since Methea was bequeathed the role of Transcriptor. Indeed, Achernar’s only idea of her is the sight of her unblinking focus, her dark teal eyes peeking over her chestnut-colored desk. The sight of her impresses him, getting a hint of keen maturity lingering in her posture.
“Where do you stand on Meliora in all of this? Is she among those blind to the truth, or do you believe her beside Raphael and his falsehoods?” Methea questions; her soft composure suddenly hardening, her quiet, aloof tone growing with reinforcement.
Achernar eyes the fledgling lady earnestly, meeting her challenge with steadiness. “The former,” Achernar unveils without hesitation, boding a tone like a fissure between hope and misfortune. The veracity in his voice appeases young Methea, unwinding the tension in her expression.
Achernar’s eyes cast a wide net over the council entirety. He overlooks them as if evaluating them, meeting each of their mixed expressions with a solemn eye. A hard sigh then forces its way out of his lungs. His thoughts remain as a sentence without a period, adding then, “For thousands of years, the Barns have held the quill and parchment of the history, culture, and truth of our race. Their name alone is a beacon of perpetual light, unequivocally influencing the hearts and minds of the people. We look to the Barns for purpose, for clarity, for justice, for answers…and for the truth. The books we read, the history we teach, the beliefs we hold—all of it was inked by Barn hands. We do not question the Barns. …Rather, we choose not to. At this very moment, Raphael writes his truth with one hand and holds Governanti by the throat with the other. Her Grace…Meliora is a no better position than the rest of the city—the rest of the world.”
“And how do you intend to break her from this stranglehold?” Transcriptor Methea then continues to press, seeking answers to satisfy something. Her eyes, her disposition—they all seem to change into something else entirely. The transformation, though subtle, captures the callous gaze of Telvern Thaddeus, who observes as if with an answer. He sees through her as she sees through Achernar. Her eyes almost sharpen to a fine, uncharacteristic point. Her body straightens to the likeness of a soldier. An inconspicuous glower lurks beneath the flesh of her face, teeming with unyielding poise as though prepared to take Achernar’s life in cold blood. As Telvern witnesses her changes down to her structure, Achernar returns to face young Methea.
“My relations to Meliora is no secret. She has been my dearest companion and friend since I was just a boy,” Achernar elaborates heartily. “Meliora is by no means enchained by her emotions—far from it, in fact. She is driven by principle, by logic and reasoning.”
“And if she rejects your logic and the city does not take action, then we shall be the ones enchained,” Lord Ishvara spitefully decries. “This is not like the Great Lands of Sa-am, where the tongues of Solasúians are free to speak as they please. Running a king’s name through the dirt is an offense worthy only of imprisonment.”
“I am aware, Lord Ishvara. But I cannot stand idly by and watch the truth be scribbled over by Raphael’s quill now and into the future.”
“Hmph,” groans Lord Ishvara unpleasantly, closing his eyes and turning up his nose. “…Who could have thought that the bastard of Denroux the Profane would grow into such a hopeless idealist?”
A wince—though ephemeral—coils up upon Achernar’s face as he hears Lord Ishvara’s comment. He is the son of the Profane Lord, the once Earl of Scetair—the city that would eventually become the foundation of the Resistance. Denroux was a hateful Solasúian who committed many violent and unconscionable transgressions. Achernar, the result of one such crime; fathered not of love, but of pure violence. Forty-three years of life, yet even hearing the name of his father still boils the cursed blood coursing through Achernar’s veins.
“…The next meeting of the Ruler’s Council will likely be to discuss Our Empyrean’s plans upon Alverra,” Achernar expresses with genuine conviction. “Once he does inevitably depart for the west, we will begin to cut away the wool over everyone’s eyes. That is why the coming weeks are crucial. We must begin making final preparations.”
“Very true, Lord Nemeth,” said Lord Cayrel, placing his forearms flat against the table. The suavely dressed lord then turns to his right, shooting a curious look towards Lord Ishvara. He is immediately met with a long, stolid scowl—the typical expression on the elderly Ishvara’s face. “Lord Ishvara, how goes your progress on that…contraption of yours? Oh…what did you call it again? …The penning device, I think?”
“
The Ishvaran printing press
,” Lord Decimus Ishvara swiftly corrects, a spark of pride exuding from his stone-cold voice. “It has performed to my expectations. Once the Bastard King finally leaves for his little crusade, we will have enough paper to carry our message throughout the entirety of the country.”
As Lord Ishvara speaks, Lady Mundus raises her emptied goblet—a signal to the barmaid. Without pause, Zena heads her way, trickling carefully more of that burgundy liquid. “House Mundus is making the final edits on the…revision of Raphael’s publication,” she affirms with cheekiness, putting the goblet up to her lips. “Once completed, we will begin to distribute it to the public masses. Oh, and what a
fall from grace
it will be, indeed.”
“Many of my Clan-Brothers and Clan-Sisters who make the Bastard King’s armies continue to spread the truth amongst their peers,” Lord Kórakas continues this tread, crossing his arms. “Rumours and stories, fed from one faceless soldier to the next. None of these slanderous tales have compromised their position.”
“Very good,” Achernar nods, then turning his gaze to the next noble down the line. Kindly, like with sympathy, his eyes fall square upon the shoulders of the youngling lord, Marius of House Lino, who sits with a head down and fingers twiddling. An odd silence, like someone had forgotten their line, befalls the scene, to which Achernar addresses, “Lord Lino?”
Alertly, like quite off-guard, the fledgling lord Marius is reinvigorated, much to the entertainment of his much older, more experienced company. “O-oh, uh…” apprehensively, like being pushed to speak publicly, Lord Marius of House Lino utters, visibly scrambling to assemble words. "…W-We of House Lino have begun offering heralds and public speakers a serviceable commission to spread our message.”
“Is House Lino taking proper measures to ensure such offers cannot be traced back to it?” the nobleman Achernar probes with intrigue, taking a sadly gander upon the lowly Lord Lino.
The eyes of Lord Lino flee the center of the table, gazing down at the buskins laced around his feet. As seconds of unusual silence persist, his fingers nervously fidget with the cloth of his verdant houppelande. Lord Lino, whose father taught him of the value of truth and of the brave heroes to speak it like a language, audibly gulps before reluctantly confessing, “I…do not know, my lord.”
In the aftermath of the fledgling lord’s confession, Lord Kórakas urgently pulls his callused hand over his mouth, wine nigh of spilling from its bay. As he chokes back the wine somehow remaining in his mouth, he wheezes with the guffaw of a hyena. It is absurd and indecent, but he simply couldn’t help himself.
“…You know not the activities of your own house?” the warrior-lord utters amidst his laughter, clutching his abdomen full of mirth.
“Well, I… My family does everything. I-I am here because they told me to be here…” the sorrowfully quiet tone of the young Lord Lino tries to elaborate, flattened under the heel of Lord Kórakas’s wild laughter.
Lord Kórakas then takes the reins of his out-of-control lungs, yet still does that grin crest the very peak of his gums. “Who in the name of Dias would raise this boy to the peerage?” mockingly remarks the warrior-lord, chugging his wine as if to drown out his laughter. “He probably hasn’t laid a woman before, much less even possess the loins to actually take her.”
“Now, now, Lord Kórakas, there’s no need to mock the boy so,” Lady Mundus serenely sloughs off with eyes closed, sampling her wine. Her hand then rests the goblet upon her lap, gazing a gaze square and unfaltering upon the face of Lord Kórakas. “I understand it must be very frustrating for you, knowing your own loins haven’t satisfied a lady before. It’s no wonder why you’re so infatuated with your spearplay. Perhaps you are simply…making up for the play of your own spear?”
“You seem awfully interested in my spearplay, Lady Mundus,” Lord Kórakas notes loosely, bearing little enmity for the aforementioned lady’s crude comment. His grin, wide and profound, then twists with maliciousness as he then leans forward. He catches the candlelight from his back-left, swathing this battle-damaged face of his in a sinister shadow. Yet his eyes as they size her, honed and dilated like a serial killer in love, promptly stand out from the darkness. In one full breath, he utters, “…Care to observe the truth for yourself?”
“Oh, dear…” Lady Mundus amusingly chuckles, expressing playful sympathy. She then meets the warrior-lord’s menacing glee with a belittling grin like one forced from a child’s joke. Meeting him across the vocal battlefield, she leans across the table and then harshly, quietly cracks, “Please don’t embarrass yourself. I’ve already heard enough about it from your Opposite.”
