[b][u][center] Adjutor Insula[/center][/u][/b]

[center][b]The King of Adjutor Insula[/b][/center]

"She did not deserve the end she was met with," Lord Defender Marcus proclaimed to the second Council of Sorrow of the day - of the decade. "You were all wrong to ignore my warnings, to issue my arrest, and to enable the Scorched King's hand in yet another scenario of butchery." 

There were no murmurs or calls of outrage from the Adjutor Order members this time. Only the silent and regretful nodding of heads. 

"We stand on the knife's edge. Faran's way, the way of peace, compassion and forgiveness will bring ruin to us all," Marcus continued, though this was met with some gasps. "The man was holy, holier than I shall ever be. This I do not doubt. He was honourable and noble, full of fine promise and ideals. Though, in my earnest beliefs, he was centuries before his time."

"Blasphemy!" someone shouted from the packed benches.

"Oh? Is that so?" Marcus retorted. "The Adjutor Order is one of the most powerful political bodies in the known world. It has stood for centuries, not because of kind words or foreign aid, but because of the steadfast dedication and courage of those who have defended her. Let us not forget, the War of Vulnurbility, when Karkarth's fleets last made their attempt on our shores. Were it not for the Sighing Hand's Homeguard, we'd all be knee-deep in dragon-eggs by now. Killing is a fact of life, and it is just when all else fails." 

"I will not allow this, Lord Defender," yelled Doctrine Master Olan, of the Questioning Eyes. "The others do not see your treachery, but I do."

Marcus felt himself shrink into his armour. Had one his many loose ends come to fruition?

"You would use the raid on Love, and the murder of our beloved sister, to plant yourself as King of this island. With no one left to oppose your orders, you would embroil us in a hundred year war against an enemy we can never hope to conqueror," he hissed, spittle flaying from his pruned lips. The Doctrine Master turned to face the other Order members. "Who here will support this man in leading us to certain doom?" 

The Lord Defender sighed, and stepped down from the podium. His plated armour rattled with each step, and his hand fell to his sword. The members of the Order Guard nearest him hesitated. "Doctrine Master," he called, and the old man turned to face him. "I hereby suspend the Adjutor Order, for the duration of the crisis." 

Before Olan could even gasp in disbelief, anger or frustration, Marcus' longsword pried apart his ribcage and pierced his heart. It was a bold move, but Marcus had tired of the constant murders, the assassinations, the backhanding, the bribing and the lying. He was taking this country by force, now, or never. He let slip a clattering of Karkarth gold coins, chasing the old man's descent to the cold stone beneath him. Some may have seen the deft move, others wouldn't have. Either way, they'd cry murder, or they'd hurry behind his cause in the next few moments.

"Traitor!" Marcus yelled, pointing his bloody sword at Olan's coin littered corpse. "How deep has the Scorched King reached? I can trust none of you."

The Order Guard surrounded the Lord Defender; their spears lowered at him. "Come," he yelled at them, "murder me, finish your Master's plot." 

The guards hesitated. Marcus seized the opportunity. "They do not kill me, because they know I speak truth. From the moment Love was sacked, the Scorched King has shown his hand in the very midst of our population and government. He is responsible for countless murders, no doubt, and even now he conspires at the highest level of our sacred office. Accept me as your King, for a term of one single year, and I will fix this land, and I will save it."

The hall erupted into further commotion, and men and women grappled with each other as Marcus' test pitted ideology against human instinct. Survival against honour. Some called for his immediate appointment, others for his execution. All was blasphemy, under Adjutor law, but it was beautiful. As the chaos continued, Marcus brushed through the blockade of the ornate Order Guard, and climbed back onto the podium. 

"I do not have time for the cowards to be weeded, or the saints to be announced. I go to Love, with the Home Guard at my back. From there, I set sail for Karkarth, to end this war. If any of you think yourselves worthy of stopping me, then I beg you, stand in my way so I can see you through to Faran's false promises," he called. 

Right on cue, and waiting for those particular lines, a troop of Sword Brothers burst into the Council of Sorrow with swords drawn and shields raised. They made a B-line for Marcus, knocking Order members left and right, and threatening the Order Guard with arrest or worse for any intervention. They circled Marcus, and escorted him through the chaos like a ship in a stormy sea. 

"Good to see you again, Sire," one of the Sword Brothers uttered. 

"And you, scoundrel. I see your little band has grown since the battle at the Palace," Marcus replied, smirking. He stopped to punch a particularity fat and red faced man directly in the nose. 

"Aye, Sire. They'll want paying though," the Sword Brother replied, knocking an Order Guard arse over tit with his shield. "They're good men. No child fiddlers or killers though, as promised." 

"Excellent, you'll do well in my New World, scoundrel," Marcus laughed.