[center][i]From wisdom, power. From power, right.[/i]
-from the [b]Twenty Seven Hidden Precepts[/b], Drathan Holy Text[/center]

"The Rainlanders have tried before," said Lord Qazr, "My Art is more than equal to their petty oven-gods. My servitors superior to their conscripted peasants."

The sorcerer's shrill voice echoed throughout the audience hall, a truly exquisite vaulted chamber of polished sandstone, swirling with reds and oranges. Flowering vines and iridescent fungus climbed columns in elegant curls, and the fossil of an ancient, fanged sea-beast made a clear impression in the smooth stone of the floor leading up to the throne. A semi-circle of Drathan courtiers in vibrant silks, faces painted garishly, clustered around Qazr's throne, all eyes on the black-clad mercenary standing before them. 

"With respect," said Daigon. His low voice quivered slightly, as though he were holding back tears, but there was no trace of sadness on his wolfish, weather-worn face. His grey eyes traced the bones of the monster embedded in the floor beneath him as he spoke, "This time will be different. Zar Vorgul is well fortified, but this is not some Salished governor with dreams of glory. The Shashul has assembled all his considerable power: the Steel Legions, the fanatics of the Forge Cult. Your magic and your guardsmen will not be sufficient."

"[i]This[/i]," spat Qazr, pale lips peeling back to reveal crooked, yellowed teeth nestled in black gums, "is more meddling in my affairs by the [i]Archmagister[/i] and his lickspittles in the Congress. Under my very nose is my city turned into a camp for sellswords and cutthroats owing their allegiance not to Vorgul, not to Lord Qazr, but to [i]Zar Dratha[/i] and its upjumped conjurer-king. Now I hear that even the masked freak in Zar Endal dares to send his ragged hordes, to 'reinforce' me. Without so much as a Salished outrider appearing on my horizons! A takeover! An infringement on a Drathan lord's rightful [i]sovereignty[/i]! And I am sent a mere hireling, of untutored blood, to give me direction. A spell-less exile with no knowledge of the Art nor-"

"No knowledge?" asked Daigon, the barest trace of a smirk passing over his gaunt features.

Qazr's pale, withered skin reddened with rage and he made a choking sound as his rant died in his throat.

"You dare?" asked the wizard in a furious whisper. He leapt to his feet, his voluminous yellowed silks swirling around him, like a fetid flower springing suddenly to bloom. The assembled courtiers shuffled nervously backwards, some muttering incantations of self-protection. The air shimmered slightly and the sour stink of spent magic became faintly noticeable.

Qazr himself lurched directly at Daigon, who stood relaxed and unmoving as the wizard-lord barreled towards him.

"Lowbred northern pig!" screamed the wizard. Qazr made a slashing gesture with his fists as he closed on Daigon, who muttered something just as the wizard did so. There was a loud, sharp splintering sound and the stone at Daigon's feet cracked slightly. A trickle of blood leaked from the mercenary's nose.

Qazr stumbled to a halt, his wrinkled brow furrowed. Whatever had been supposed to happen clearly had not.

"So," he snarled, "the Archmagister taught his pet some-"

He did not finish the sentence because Daigon beheaded him. Drew his sword and cut through Qazr's neck in a single smooth motion. The wizard dissolved more than fell, flesh liquefying into blackened ooze as the magic that had suspended his life far beyond natural limits dissipated.

The mercenary stood over a pile of silks and sludge that had previously been the lord of Zar Vorgul. He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand.

Courtiers murmured in surprised tones, but the atmosphere in the room was more curious than alarmed. Murder was an acceptable way of settling disputes among the Dratha, and anyway Qazr's tenure had lately been marked by paranoia and indecision. 

No one had bothered to depose him because few wanted to rule a doomed city.

"Well!" said one of the Drathans- a tremendously fat man dressed in fabulous vermillion silks, his face caked in white makeup. He approached Daigon, offering the sellsword commander an amused smile, "The Archmagister really means to defend this place?"

"He does," said Daigon, "I rode ahead of my company-the Coward's Men are encamped a few days march down the Dust Way. Lord Alkhazar's forces are expected within the week." 

"Hmmm," said the courtier, "Perhaps I shall stay after all- a battle would be very interesting, and you seem to know what you're about. If none object, I shall assume Qazr's throne?"

He turned to his murmuring comrades, who offered a collective shrug.

"My lords," a slave entered the audience hall and bowed deeply, eyeing the puddle of ooze and pile of silks in the middle of the floor, "Ah...there is a...one of the Necrodomii here to see...Lord Qazr. He says he is expected?"

"Lord Qazr's long and celebrated tenure has ended," said the fat Drathan as he settled himself upon the empty throne, "I am Master Odrosyan, the new Lord of Zar Vorgul. My friend general Daigon and I will receive the Necrodomius presently. Oh, and send in someone to clean up that mess."