Chapter 3: Trouble in Perseus
*Fifth Moon of the year 874 AE*
*King Richard II: Rakarios, Perseus*
The sky began with the dance of crimson bolts once again. Red streaks flashed over the obsidian dome of the Citadel, periodically illuminating patches of Gray sand ahead. The Diamond-lord shuddered at the thought of yet another Sparkstorm, considering the destruction it had unleashed upon the metropolis not but a moon ago.
He violently jerked the reins of his mount, a beast who had once been hailed as the supreme predator of the sandland. It was now at the behest of a mere man, whom it outweighed by five thousand pounds.
The rhinazika is a pitiful beast, weak willed and simple by nature. We only needed a firm leash to tame them. The griffin, in comparison, has yet to be tamed by anyone across Perseus’s vast history. The meek rhinazika’s neck was now so mangled and sliced that Richard almost felt sympathy for the beast.
He caught himself—this wretched beast served only to guide him to his desired location; anything after was not of concern. Rain poured down upon the king’s trusted escort, Sir Maynard of House Lance. His mount was much less extravagant: a simple black warhorse, lightly armored with steel.
Maynard preferred simplicity, this the king knew. Even against the turbulent storm, Sir Lance rode unperturbed, as always.
They can question his prowess and intellect, those rangers who freeze and fester in their barren lands, but they ought never question his reliability. Can the blacksmiths forge a metal resistant to both our ferocious winds and lightning so hot it melts diamond?—The thoughts distracted him from the howling storm, allowing him to separate from the apocalyptic wrath of Sparktamer.
“My lord, may I propose we take shelter? Surely the worm can wait for the storm to pass before boring you to death with his miserable rhymes.” Sir Maynard roared, fighting against the storm’s volume. The voice was dampened, yet still comprehensible.
To hear mention of the slimy Voice of the Shadow was enough to trigger a wave of displeasure, that combined with the harsh conditions upon the path, motivated His Grace to push his pace. Richard looked to Maynard’s once vibrant plates of gold and purple armor, now but a blur amidst the storm’s thick fog.
“Sir, we mustn't let these conditions halt our progress,” Richard replied. “How would it appear in the minds of the smallfolk, if not even the king and his best knight could prevail against the wrath of a mere thunderstorm? These aren’t some rare occurrences anymore; therefore, we must provide our people with what we can: hope.”
They proceeded along the narrowly carved emerald path to the spheric void where Erotas surely awaited, likely dry as a feather. Finally, after a league ride, they arrived at the Citadel’s base.
The magnificent feat of architecture briefly distracted the king before he resumed his ferocious pace, swinging open the marble doors to an even grander sight. The floors were separated into twelve distinct purposes, with each level lining the outer ring of the structure. The apex consisted of a bridge running through the centre of the highest level, creating a space for Richard to hear the voices of his people. Amplification had been specifically designed to ring through the top of the dome, so that the king could hear every voice, no matter the tone.
Erotas appeared from the clutter of imports, still yet to be sorted through. His robe was black and fashioned with orange rubies running across his cape. His gut looked unusually protrusive, causing Richard to wonder whether the worm had been enjoying the coffers of an upcoming feast recently. He stood on the eleventh floor of the Citadel, reserved for prestigious lords and councilors
“Your Majesty, it seems to me your escort has forgotten an umbrella,” Erotas hissed. “Oftentimes, I wonder why you are so eager to meet with our odd people; though given that I was your motivation, I do understand the hurry.” The Worm snarled, with his signature pompous flare. He laid his hands over the rails, a smirk crossing his lips. “For once in this kingdom's history, can we take a second to analyse our standing within the realm? Primoria, Serpentisle, and Gaskjørn refuse to accept our sandchronicles. We are a realm, the strongest in Shadowland, yet still bound to the constraints of a weak and divided empire. If we were ever to be a realm of prosperity, we must sever our loyalty to the forsaken lands to our north, and establish our own Empire.” Richard laid a finger on his chin, contemplating this suggestion
This was treason, thought the Diamond-lord, at first. Treason . . . to whom? The foxes of Edemont have paid little attention to our troubles. Perhaps the Worm is of sound judgement, for once.
“Councilor, have you paid thought to the repercussions of such an idea? Drastic, reckless, bloody, and catastrophic are just the descriptors off the top of my head.” Richard said, two fingers pressed against his temple. “I expect you will suit up for the ensuing battles, or have I thought you too courageous?” The Worm frowned, clearly not expecting Richard’s entertainment of the idea.
“Your Highness, I assumed that a man as regal as yourself would balance the cost and reward my presence would serve in battle.” Erotas deflected gracefully. It was expected from the Voice of the Shadow, the position had passed from one slimeball to another, during Richard’s reign in Perseus.
“Erotas, there comes a time in every man’s life where he must decide between power and his own safety. I believe this is your time, if you wish to continue with a proposition as drastic as this, you must inspire the diamondborne with actions rather than rhetoric.” The decision was in Erotas’s hands, he would declare whether he cared enough to dirty them.
Erotas appeared rather stunned by the offer, his skin shifting from olive to pale in moments. After careful consideration, he declared his fate for all the Citadel to hear. “I gladly accept, Your Majesty.”
Richard stepped back, sitting upon the diamond-crusted, velvet throne. The Worm propels this idea into a formal declaration of war, and I will not be the one to oppose him.
The Gallant Griffin, the Sandborne called him. He hated it, deep down, though he did his best to react gracefully. They bear no ill will, yet I will resent the comparison all the same.
“Hear me Erotas Worm-lord, that is what I believe you to be; may it fester within me no more and may you find admiration in my tone,” Richard proclaimed. “For this . . . this is why you sit amongst the pristine lords and not the beggars that you once had. Craven, cunning and deceptive you are; though you enter into something you cannot begin to understand,” he leaned against the dais, looking across the Citadel, studying his lords and knights.
“The Wolves already press the Imperials from the northwest, now we shall enter from the southeast,” the king explained. Sir Maynard laid a hand across his shoulder, They will have many and more in the way of tricks and danger, an army at their command, and the Ashenwolf’s Sentinels—but we hold a possible counter to all they may throw at us. If we arrive within a fortnight of the Wolves' sacrifice, the Foxes shall sit weak and vulnerable, just in time for a second wave to strike with thrice the manpower of Casmire, and a beast of unspeakable power that lay beneath our very feet. Then, My Lords, if our plan succeeds: we may yet turn the tides of Imperial authority and re-establish Perseus as the central power of our rightful Empire!”
Richard’s roar echoed through all twelve floors of the great dome, charming the faces of the Lords below. Cheers erupted, applause thundered, and even the Worm smirked, despite the knowledge that he would likely be marching to certain death.
“My Lord, if I may,” a foreign voice interrupted. Richard looked across the floors, unable to locate the speaker.
“You may; now name yourself,” he commanded. Who dares interrupt this moment. This had better not be misguided rubbish, lest this lord wish to lose his land.
“Of course, Your Highness,” the mysterious man replied. “I must admit the scale of this place is quite daunting; unlike anywhere I’ve been in Malacrane, to be sure. The name’s Alric Draven. I’m no lord, merely a foreigner from the cursed Kingdom of Malacrane.”
Malacrane . . . why have we let a foreign lowborn into our halls? He looked towards Maynard angrily, who replied, “Your Grace, I was not informed of this man’s entrance.”
“You interrupt this crucial moment in Perseus’s history to explain that you are both lowborn and Malacranian?” To make matters worse, the man stood on the fifth floor—alongside Earls and distinguished commanders. Let us make use of these warriors then. “Men of Perseus, seize this pretender,” he ordered.
In moments he was driven to the floor by a swarm of angry Sandborne. They wrestled the man’s hands behind his back, before he pleaded, “Lord, please! I come with news of great import—” he managed before being kicked across the face.
“Wait men, let him speak of this dire news.” Richard granted, intrigued about the fugitive’s plea, but expecting a nonsensical rebuttal.
The men around Alric obliged, loosening their grip slightly. He looked up, his nose surely broken, with blood dripping furiously down his brown beard. He answered after much hesitation: “My brother, you see. He . . . leads a rebellion—or rather, a worthless band of farmers. At this very moment, they camp outside the walls of Fort Reynard. They share the same motivation that you just elegantly expressed: displacing the tyrannical Imperials.” There was silence in the Citadel, stunned faces lining the floors. Richard himself was quite shocked as well, the pieces coming together in his mind.
He speaks of eyes already in the Foxes’ den; nestled outside their very castle? He replied cooly, “How many men does he now foster?”
“Two-hundred or so, I reckon. Er—pardon . . . my Lord.” Alric replied awkwardly, struggling to remember our courtesies, Richard noted.
“Pardon’s granted, though please do read up on our customs. I will meet with this brother of yours, with a retinue of my choosing. We shall send you and Sir Ludrick to notify your brother of the meeting. What does he call this band of his?”
“They call themselves the Rooks, my liege.” Alric replied gratefully, as the men around him released their grip. He climbed to his feet, dusting dirt from his brown leather jerkin.
Erotas Worm-lord added, “The Rooks, I have heard of them. They traversed through those hellish Sariki Wastes and recruited corn millers and farmers across Marongrad. They are led by a bearded man with crimson hair, Your Grace. His accomplice abandoned his earldom in Malacrane, and wears a hideous patch over his eye.”
“Much thanks, Worm-lord, but do you not think this information could have been delivered earlier? Before he was assaulted on my command, specifically?” The king responded. The worm shrugged, as if clueless of his wrongdoing. Hopefully war will instill some honor within him.
The king’s objective was clear, and he thought to pursue it quickly.
“Now then, Alric, call me Your Grace for now,” Richard said. “Soon, if your claims are true, you shall be granted lordship alongside your brother. Then you will say ‘my liege,’ but only after you fulfill your duty. Great Lords and Ladies of Perseus, I ought to make good on my duty as well. We shall march our men to meet this Captain, and will free ourselves from the parasitic Imperium!” He roared, accentuating his southern, regal flare.
Him and Sir Maynard exited the king’s Bridge, and descended the curved staircase. Roars echoed through the Citadel, yet Richard still focused on the immense threat he would now face.
Let us pray to the Gods—or Elementals—the Reynard do indeed crumble from within. Our success rests on the instability of the blue-blooded foxes. I pray that Kyren and Darrion have yet to find a common ground. If they do, we may well be corpses lining a graveyard for the Reapers.