[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/dColfmV.png[/img] [b]Estroth's Machinations[/b] Fort Derung Late January[/center] [hr] [i]Carnage.[/i] One of the gladiators impaled the other upon a spear, and the crowd went wild at the gratuitous burst of blood that erupted afterward, each of the fine droplets flung into the air a scintillating ruby in the sun. But then the one with a spear grew too caught up in his victory and was in turn skewered from behind by yet another one of the savages. Some of the spectators were enthralled by the gore and followed the fighters' every movement, but General Estroth merely watched with a lazy and impassive look as he decided upon which of them to hedge his money upon. Eventually he pointed to one especially savage pygmy. "A thousand dacha upon that one," he said to one of his officers. The two took simultaneous gulps of wine, and then Estroth's man answered, "Deal." Bloodsports had fallen out of favor in the mainland, for slaves were a valued commodity and throwing them away in the arenas was seen as a barbaric waste. But here in Lemuria, it seemed as though there were always too many of the mongrels. For every pygmy that his soldiers shot or worked to death, another three vermin seemed to take its place. The pygmies were vile, lazy, treacherous little beasts that weren't even especially good at the sort of manual labor expected of slaves; they were only used in the mines and rubber plantations for their convenience and expendable nature. Talic Estroth had the lofty ambition of one day seeing the genocide to its end, but in the meantime he'd settle for reinstating pit fighting. Watching the wretches hack one another to pieces was sometimes entertaining. [hr] When he left the arena later that day, a gunman was waiting outside. But the young dark elf was scared, and his trembling hands couldn't aim true. He fired one shot of his pistol and then ran, but a sudden impact struck his leg and brought him to the ground. A small grin formed upon Estroth's cruel visage as he held up a smoking pistol of his own. "Closer," the general spat. The wounded would-be assassin was picked up and dragged forward by Estroth's bodyguards. The dark elf struggled for a few moments but then realized the futility; there were four soldiers dragging him forward and he could hardly even flail his limbs if he tried. "Sometimes, I still long for the days when I could go into battle myself. At least this gives me a taste of that excitement once again." The bodyguards beat the dark elf back down down onto his knees but even then they didn't let go. They had of course torn the pistol free from his grasp, but even now they were wary of him suddenly procuring a knife. But true to the tales, the crazed general showed no fear. He put one hand under the traitor's head and lifted his chin up, forcing the terrified youth to look at him. The elf's eyes were drowned beneath a glossy layer of fear, but muddied into that was more than a little bit of hatred and defiance. Talic laughed a little bit at the sight, and at the spittle that followed. "You're a disgrace! A fucking savage, no better than the na-" A fist broke his jaw and knocked him onto the ground. Though a general's sword was meant to be a sign of his status, this one always enjoyed the times that he could put his blade to use. He drew it then, and the bodyguards released their holds and backed away. Estroth pressed the tip of the sword into the assassin's neck gently enough to just shed a tiny trickle of blood, but then he roared, "I'm fucking Talic Estroth! The Butcher of Derung! And you compare me to [i]them?[/i] You think that you can kill me? Ha!" He lifted up the sword and nearly brought it back down on the man's neck, but that would have been too...clean. Instead he buried the blade's edge into the wounded man's ribcage so deep that he could hardly wrench it back out after the fact, even leaning back and putting his boot upon the wretch's mangled chest. The thick layer of blood upon his boots would be covered by mud, but his sword needed cleaning, so he thrust it into the hands of one of his men. The assassin still lived, albeit choking on his own blood. "Should've aimed for the head." He turned away from the dying man's spasms to face his second, a Colonel Zekel Mythec, and dryly ordered, "Have the traitor's family strung up and shot." [hr] There were only a few people assembled around a grand war table. Estroth didn't keep an especially large staff; over the years he'd ensured that his inner circle consisted only of what few like-minded officers he could find, mixed with a few other sycophants whose desire to ingratiate themselves outweighed any pretensions of bureaucracy or of adhering to strict policy. The Emperor reigned supreme, above all, essentially an infallible god. But on Derung, it was only the General who spoke for Yllendyr. To keep with the analogy, he had what one could call a divine mandate; for his ruthless effectiveness the Imperium granted him a great deal of autonomy and leeway, and he didn't tolerate officers that entertained delusions of crossing him or questioning his methods. "General, I've received reports from the second Auxiliary Legion. Captain Gruz reports a decisive victory over the Matamba tribes; several hundred pygmies were slain and the force was able to advance into their territory and raze three redoubts and villages. Unfortunately, they were evacuated before-" Talic silenced the junior officer with a wave of his hand and threw the paper report to the side. "Decisive victory. Good, I've come to expect as much from Gruz. Now reign him back in before he overextends his forces and gets them all killed. Tell the mongrel orc that his orders are to withdraw and regroup with the First Auxiliary for their invasion of the Sundi region." So he sifted through the rest of the day's missives. Reacting to reports of renewed pirate activity, he ordered yet another naval patrol to circle the island and attack any illegal ships. It seemed that no matter how many times he cleared the nest, more pirate vermin always arose; he blamed it on the navy's refusal to send more ironclads. "And one more, General. A letter just came in; it's from the mainland. To be opened by you, it said." Expecting nothing more than a trade manifest or perhaps the rare notice of garrison changes, he was thoroughly taken aback when he saw the unbroken seal and heard that it was for his eyes, and even more so when he read that Naerzo had fallen terminally ill and was expected to pass within the fortnight. The others saw the look on his face and became instantly anxious; many had never before seen anything but cruelty, anger, or irritation upon their commander's face. "Make preparations for me to return to the mainland; I want to be on a ship tomorrow," he suddenly declared. "What? Have you been reassigned?" Zekel blurted. The general scoffed at the mere suggestion. "No, I expect that I'll return soon enough. I imagine that I'll be attending a royal funeral, and then a coronation."