The dry salty air hung in all corners of the air. No amount of rugs. No amount of canvas to hide the putrid brine smell of the salt flats. The air was stagnant and cold. No heat or moisture resided in the salty desert landscape of the Rhumid north. It felt that no fire could force the cold winds to subside and retreat from even inside the tents of the mighty Calydonian Empire.

But there was no cold that could break the citadel in man that he retreated to when in mourning. There was no blade sharp enough to bring a man out from his sorrow for the passed liege that had fallen just days before, and the loss of his son and only heir.

A hulking shape sat upon a simple cloth-draped seat in the midst of a dark-red tent. Stakes the width of a man's arm waved and shook as the deep-red canvas caught the cold desert air and fluttered in the hard breeze that swept across the flats. A great black bolt of cloth lay draped over the floor as if a rug, emblazoned in glowing yellows and oranges flew a arcing star, ending in the points of a vicious flail.

In the middle of the dark tent the simple cloth-covered seat glowed like a fierce star alongside the twin braziers that crackled and sparked under twin nets of brass. The smoke rose gently to the ceiling, to be caught by the cloth roof and channeled out through the tallest point of the cold shelter.

And the beastly shape sat hunched between the fires. A man of sorrow. A man rendered from death to pity and shame.

Thespos Comatid was by no words a modest man in stature. No one could ever claim that he was anything less than a giant. And though his hair grayed and a lengthy beard fell from his chin he continued to defy the goddess's assault on his body. He defied the aching of his bones by lifting his sword. He threw himself to war and slaughtered many, hewn three men in half with one pull of his mighty sword. He had been cut, slashed, stabbed, and bitten in so many times even the scars that dotted his body lost count of the attempts men had made to down the giant of the Comatid family. The scars crossed his face in such a coarse cruel order, it was a wonder he stood still.

Falling over his shoulders a faded red cloak covered his arms and wrapped down to his legs. It past his knees, and fell at his ankles like a pool of blood. And where the cape parted from his chest, the blood of a king shone on his stained white armor. The blood was likewise trapped in the thread of his heavy cloak.

Thespos had been the first to rush to the body of Syros when that panicked horse had dropped him. Where many hang back stricken into shock to move. As the king's body was broken by trampling hooves Thespos had ran out to the broken corpse. Too late to save the honorable, great king the Goddesses had blessed them with.

And Syros broken and bleeding he had carried him from where he was dropped. On the pillar arms of Thespos he carried a man who knew no equal like a babe. For once, the man who had seen many brothers slain, and broken many families his equal had been broken. The ultimate price had been paid. And the price had been doubled when his son was slain. It still swam in him. Churning the murky din of his saddened conscious.

He wished he could be there. Could have saved Galos. Been in the way of the arrow on that fateful raid. There was anger. Anger so hot. Fire not for himself, but for the people who killed perhaps Thespos' closest friend, and his son. It addled him. Shook the giant's face. His soft sea-green eyes shivered in their socket as he struggled with himself.

There was a flutter of cloth as the flap to his tent opened. And the king's attention was brought up. His curled, dark-silver hair shone in the fire-light like iron.

Standing at the door was his very son and heir. A fair-skinned boy, with a build that echoed his father. Though he was not nearly as tall as Thespos.

He looked up at him, waiting for what news the young man would bring his elderly father. His son, Manoren was always the one to bring the news. Sometimes, it was all that Thespos thought he was good for. To receive and report information, or to operate on it. He was modest with the sword otherwise.

But this day Manoren did not raise his voice to speak. Simply he bowed before stepping inside, closing the tent flap behind him. The prince walked around the edge of the tent to a table in the far corner. The clink of silver and clay made a soft pattered song as he poured a glass of wine. The soft watery sounds of the deep maroon drink sounded as refreshing as the thought of water.

The two knew each other well enough as father and son. Manoren knew the tense silence of Thespos meant trouble. But he had not left, and Thespos knew that there was something his son must say. It was merely a waiting game on who would speak first and break from their respective, distant silence. Who would break the coldness on each other's faces. Who would thaw their tongue.

Manoren moved from the table, two goblets of wine in his hand. His pace was soft and calculated, and perhaps 'walk' was hardly the right word to use for the way he moved. He was softer than that. If there was any offensiveness in his gait, it was washed away on the wind by how he glode to his father's side. Rounding in front of him, he knelt out of respect and rose to him a silver goblet of wine, filled to just a hair below the brim.

Thespos glared down at it for a long time. His mouth remained shut. His eyes unblinking as he looked down at the offering. Manoren was about to retract the offering from his father. Finding defeat in the cold unmoving glare of his father. It disturbed him.

But from under his cloak a heavy hand reached for the silver chalice, and took it from his son's hands. With a thirsty chug, he rose the goblet and there downed the wine, half flowing into his thick silver beard and trapping itself in his bushy mustache where it remained, a maroon stain on whiskers of elder gray.

“You have something to say.” Thespos said, looking up at Manoren. His voice was booming even when silent. Rolled like thunder as it left his tongue. It rattled with the broken bones of the thousands of mens he had killed.

“It's hardly good news.” Manoren said. He was softer. It was still deep, but was not carved out in blood and battle. It had not been risen to roar orders and rallying cries across the thunder of crashing wood and screaming steel. It had not had to overcome the battle cries and roars of men.

“What could make these days darker?” Thespos asked saddened, “We have lost a King of Kings, and hardly a half week after we lost his son. We lack a leader, we're in the middle of the desert building his last wish. A road. A road! Such men should dream of better and build better.”

“It is Onesimos.” Manoren spoke, plainly, “He has died.”

“Onesimos.” Thespos spat bitterly. His distaste was obvious and shone green in his eyes as he looked away, spitting on the ground, “That is a king whose name is fit for a road!” he boomed.

“How did he go?” Thespos asked his son, taking a sip from his wine. To be honest, his curiosity was not profound and he could hardly care if he was gored by a Rhumid warrior, or had simply masturbated too hard for his cock.

“His men say murder.” Manoren said, “They want blood.”

“Is this true?” Thespos asked. He knew Manoren had a way for knowing and expected the truth out of him. He knew it would come from him to he.

“Maybe.” his son said indecisively, “I would examine the body myself if his men were not so on edge and saddened themselves. But I hear a poison arrow may have claimed him.”

Thespos spat a hissing spit. Half laughing, shaking his head. “That is a way to be claimed.” he said growling, “I doubt we can expect anything from his son now then.”

“Not until someone confesses or he kills the man he thought responsible, maybe.” shrugged Manoren. Walking across the tent he continued, “But that itself his uncertain. You know I know I have only known the man so long. I can speak in confidence.

“I would have much rather predicted Syros' next move. At least I had to guess with his honor.”

“Fuck that horse.” Thespos cursed. He swallowed back the pain in his heart, keeping a straight face. He turned to look at his son, who had stopped to examine the mighty sword his father carried into battle.

Star Fell was its name. Legend in the family spoke of it having fallen before Andrean Comatid one night as he looked out the windows of his palace. He observed a great fire streak across the sky, and a sparking fire in the country. Rushing to investigate, the king had found buried in a hole so deep it would fit a house a great black stone.

Andrean ordered the stone excavated, and broken and melted down to iron which as used to craft the large curved blade. His sword though lay sleeping in a wrap of heavy furs. Only the long wooden handle hung out. The handle itself was almost as large as a man's torso. It had become in itself a sort of rite to inheritance in the family since its forging. The son to carry the sword was the one to inherit the son. And none lifted it better than Thespos, who was the second of the line to carry it into battle.

“If it would make you happier, scouts later found the horse and brought it back to camp.” Manoren said, “I managed to acquire it and slaughtered it. For Syros. And for Gregorios.”

“Horses are expensive and hard to rear, why would you kill it!?” Thespos shouted angrily.

“It seemed the apt punishment. But that beast could be attributed to the deaths of two men who would call it master. And it was old itself. It had to be put down.

“I gathered up its blood, and if you would wish I ordered the cook to cut and serve the meat for today's dinner. Its hide will be tanned and set aside for armor repairs, and the bones ground to meal and used for ritual.”

“At least it will be put to damned use.” said Thespos.