[h2]Kingdom of Arkron[/h2]
[h3]Arkronia[/h3]

For Senator Sessi Dren, the Crown Princes speech confirmed many of her worst fears; not to mention the rumours shared with her by the Arkronian Captain when they had arrived. She had no doubt that those within the Republican faction of the senate would latch onto the speech as a sign of weakness and, since it had been made publicly, there was very little she could do to try and counter the truth now. 

Rhaetia, at least in the last forty years, had begun an interesting slide away from holding itself aloof from the its imperial neighbours and focused on bettering the lives of its citizens. More recently, largely thanks to the civil war in neighbouring Canthor, the voices demanding that the right of liberty and freedom for all be extended across the greater Empire.

The ideas were dangerous to Kings and Queens, she knew that. The nobles of neighbouring kingdoms had little interest in sharing power or giving their citizens anything that resembled a part in government. It had only worked in Rhaetia with the withdrawal of Imperial troops and surplus of returning soldiers who forced the republic into life. The sheer number of events that had occurred at the right time and place to allow the existence of a republic at all was staggering. 

She looked around the room at the glittering gems, fancy clothes, and arrogant sneer on so many imperial lips and she knew, in that moment, that was would be inevitable. The Republican party was gaining strength among all Rhaetians while the loyalists grew older and fewer every year. Peace, it seemed, was going to be about as sincere as the smiles exchanged between the vassals around her. 


[h2]Second Rhaetian Republic[/h2]
[h3]Rhungora[/h3]

Tul Bisner, Senator of Rhaetia and War Hero, grunted as he heaved himself off the young maid, pausing only to wipe his cock on the edge of her dress. Two male servants, their faces impassive, watched as they been directed from the nearby doorway. The girl lay completely still as he finished standing, her legs still splayed wide, her private places wet with his exertions. 

“You both witnessed it?” Tul looked at the two servants who nodded and bowed low. “Good. Get her out of here and if she doesn’t give birth to a child within nine months, kill her.”

The terrified girl was dragged whimpering out of the room, her dress still open for the world to see her shame. The whimpers turned to quiet sobs as she was dragged down the stairs. Tul had no doubt that one or more of the men in the barracks would have his way with the girl and she would produce a child. If it was his child she would be rewarded. If not, she and the child would both die.

A maid flitted into the room and bowed, handing him a clean robe. He quickly dressed, tying the cord about his waist as a third maid appeared to clear away the still glistening bed sheets and replace them with fresh ones at once.

He ignored the maids and stepped out of his quarters to pace slowly down the long hallway of white washed stone, turning at last into a small room set aside as his personal shrine.

A small satin pillow rested on the stone floor in front of the shrine, it bore only a small golden statue of Shakamuni, the goddess of fertility.  He lit a small stick of incense and bowed his head to the floor, praying that a child would be born with his face.

Even as he did so, he knew, in his heart of hearts, that no child would ever be his. He had tried to impregnate a different maid, or girl, a week for the last five years and none had born him a child. He could feel the tears prick the corner of his eyes as he considered the reality that he would be the last of his line. He was certain the disease he had picked up from the prostitute when he was young was the cause. 

He was still on his knees praying when the first of the assassins came over the south wall of the villa. She struck first at the Water Tower, a colossal structure that stood watch over the only bridge providing any access to the fortress. Black shapes flitted up the walls with the aid of grappling hooks and the nominal guard was swiftly overwhelmed in a hail of throwing knives and arrows.

The alarm was not sounded until a sharp eyed sentry on the second story spotted a pair of grappling hooks sail over the outer wall. He managed a shout of warning before he was cut down by the attackers.

“Assassin!” The scream went through the villa like an arrow through cloth. Soldiers of the senators personal guard leapt from their beds to take up their swords, rushing out into the night to engage the enemy. Many of them had no time to don their armour and they would pay with their lives.

“Senator,” A grim faced guard burst into the Tuls' quarters. “We're under attack.”

Tul didn’t hesitate as he ripped his sword from its sheath and hurried to join his men. A sick feeling filled his stomach as he did so. Assassins were rare in Rhaetia but not unheard of. They were famously expensive - someone wanted him dead, and badly. 

The night was alive with shouts, screams, and the clash of steel. A quick glance down at the walls from his upper chamber showed his disorganized and sleepy gaurds being driven quickly down the length of the wall by a well prepared and merciless adversary.

A rush of armed servants from a side passage momentarily stalled the assassin attack and furious hand to hand fighting engulfed the lower level of the villa. The gardens - a work of art - were destroyed beneath hurrying feet and blood clouded the small reflecting pool in the centre of the courtyard. Guards hurled themselves at their attackers regardless of their own life and limb and were cut down in droves.

Tul hefted his own blade and waved a number of newly arrived soldiers over to join him. He felt his lips peel back from his teeth in a feral snarl. If this was how his enemies wanted to conduct the affairs of state, he would rip theirs heart out with his own bare hands.

“For the King!” He snarled his battle cry, the guards around him taking up the call so their voices melded together in a ferocious roar as they charged the oncoming assassins.

Tul began to chant as he went, a ancient battle song of his Orcish ancestors. His feet felt lighter and it seemed as though everyone around him slowed slightly. He easily blocked the lunge of an assassin, turning his own blade over top of the others to drive the wicked point into the mans eyes. The attackers were clothed completely in black and a vicious swing of his sword the chest of one showed that they wore light chainmail beneath their clothing. 

An assassin went down without a sound as Tul moved on, stepping low beneath another attack, driving his own blade upwards so that it split his attacker from groin to shoulder. In an instant the pressure on his forces weakened and then broke altogether as the assassins suddenly retreated the way they had come. Tul gave a yell of victory and, with his guard in pursuit, rushed after them, bloodied sword aloft. 

He never saw the paint blackened caltrops in the darkness as he charged out onto the open patio, still blinded by the torchlight from the passageway. The first spike pierced the bottom of his foot and he dropped with a scream of pain, a second driving through his thigh, a third into his stomach. The rush of men behind him were unable to stop and several others were felled by the wicked objects.

A flicker in the darkness and more soldiers collapsed arrows flickered from the darkness, harvesting more lives. Tul tried to shout but a falling servant forced his face down onto a caltrop, a spike stabbing into his jaw.

Soldiers and servants retreated in confusion, driven back through the doorway by more arrows. Tul tried to climb to his feet as a trio of assassins moved swiftly back down the long patio toward him. Their leader, a stocky man with a short slashing sword, made eye contact with Tul and recognition flashed in the dark eyes. 

Tul had no time to speak as the assassin stooped and hacked off his head, quickly shoving it into a bag at his waist before giving a sharp whistle. In an instant the assassins melted into the dark and the bloodied villa was left to the survivors. 
Tul Bisner