[center][h1]The Three Kings and the Doge[/h1][hr][h3]Part One: Jobanzaggah of Belzagg[/h3][/center]

Nothing that had happened sat well with Jomurr as he dawdled back from the docks - nothing at all. That the enemies of Belzagg were acting so brazenly was a sign that they felt powerful: overwhelmingly so. Mighty Jobanzaggah had managed to cut some kind of deal to stay on the council, but he would not say what, even to Jomurr, and the future duke was certain that it has been an Eshiran's Bargain.

The last of the sun's rays had faded from the sky, pulling curtains of tangerine, magenta, and indigo closed behind them. The nighttime fog, he knew, was soon to roll in and cover the city in its ethereal blanket. It was nothing like the vast, dry savannah of home, with its termite mounds, islands of acacia trees and roars of lions in the dimness. To be honest, it still unnerved him and perhaps always would.

There was something else about this night, though... As one would expect of a youth of his station, Jomurr had always been possessed of strong instincts. Walking through the disgusting streets and hovels of this slum called Mudville, he wrinkled his nose, but it was as much in distaste for the situation as the place. Then, however, he felt it. The second son of House Ikon blinked and reached out with his senses. His head snapped about, eyes gazing intently out across the water. An intake of energy - a [i]massive[/i] one. It was coming from the direction of the [i]Indomitable Lion[/i] - the King's ship. Then, another. Something was wrong. He glances around, checking if anybody else felt it, but it was distant and the people around here were weak. They would not feel it. The boy's heart hammered in his chest. He should tell somebody. No, he should investigate. If he took the time to tell someone, it might already be too late. Indecisiveness was not a trait a future duke should cultivate.

Jomurr pushed off with his feet, sprinting for the ocean, pulling, with each step, from the fires and the lights around him, from the pounding, churning waves as they bashed against the promontory at the mouth of the harbour. He felt the power fill him, lift him, propel him. Still, he drew more, until he felt warm and light-headed. His arteries bulged with magical energies as they had scarcely ever done before. Don't foul this up, Second Son. He breathed deeply, the wind beating against his face, pulling the wetness from his eyes. The sparse gatherings of people about at this hour turned to watch, and they would've seen a human-shaped blur plunge over the edge of the cliffs, but Jomurr did not fall. He pushed all of that kinetic energy out, hammering against the forces of gravity, launching himself through the sky. 

He was flying.

Unbidden, he let out a bark of laughter, and got a mouthful of dry wind for it that puffed out his cheeks and made him cough. His dreadlocks whipped against his neck, back, and shoulders, but he scarcely paid them any attention, continuing to draw from the waves and expel, trying to maintain his height. Gravity pulled at him and he drew from it, effectively reversing it. This was what mages called the 'gravity loop' and he'd done it before, of course, but never like this. It was... joyful, freeing, empowering, and inn a way that all of his worldly wealth and command. 

But then Jomurr was sobered, his wings clipped. Up ahead, he saw the [i]Indomitable Lion[/i], and it was indeed under attack. There were fire and flashes onboard and the youth, streaking in like a comet, steeled himself for combat. He would earn his spurs or he would die defending his king, for such was the highest duty and honour of one of his station. His mouth became a grim, determined line. He drew copiously from his momentum, slowing and dropping, trying to stick the landing. 

Figures resolved themselves on deck: black-clad and masked. Rezaindians! How had they gotten there!? The Royal Guard was heavily engaged. Some of their number were down, along with some of the attackers. But the King himself stood like a mighty predator, laying waste to all who approached him with Arcane Lances and Kinetic Sledgehammers. Jomurr picked a target - a Rezaindian who'd cornered an injured Royal Guard - and converted the last of his kinetic momentum into a powerful Arcane Lance. The beam impaled the attacker through the chest, leaving a smoking hole where once he'd had a heart and lungs. Jomurr dropped to the deck and landed in a crouch, casting about for danger.

It found him before he could find it, however. A trio of throwing knives hurtled toward him in the darkness, slowing and dropping maybe a foot from his head and chest. The youth scrabbled backwards and Jobanzaggah himself was there. "Brave," he snapped, "but foolish. You should not be here, boy."

"I would die for my King."

The monarch's face shifted for a moment and seemed to soften in what Jomurr wanted to think of as respect, but it became hard again quickly. "You may very well get your wish." Then, he was gone, leaping from the forecastle to the stern in a single bound to bring the fight to the enemy.

This was his King: a mighty lion of a man whom his family served with unswerving loyalty. It had brought them power and wealth and suzerainty over one of the Empire's most powerful duchies, but when Jomurr was challenged, he did not take it lying down. Spreading his arms, he pulled with everything he had. His body crackled with energy. His eyes flashed with it. The air around him burned and froze in turn. The waves went eerily still and the ships tattered sails slack. As could only someone trained from early childhood, the Second Son reached into the very heart of the matter around him and ruptured it. Colossal flashes of power brightened the night sky and filled him to bursting. He turned to face a tall, robed figure who perched on the forecastle, directing the other attackers and unleashed hellfire. He pulled and released, pulled and released, and the enemy was erased before him. 

Inn a haze of power and bloodlust, Jomurr scarcely recognized that the figure he had been pursuing had escaped - evaporated as if it had not even been there. He scarcely felt the pull of the King's grateful energy. Then, Jobanzaggah disappeared, an apparition himself, but the air hummed with his massive power. The youth staggered and blinked. The deck was awash in flames, the masts destroyed and sails burnt to cinders. The ship was slowly sinking. Only a handful of guards remained, but every single assassin was dead, save the leader. Jomurr reached out for energies and could feel him and the king moving even though invisible. The power! It was fantastic - mind numbing. It actually made his head hurt. Then, there was an explosion in the water. The youth darted over to the side railing as the robed figure was hurled mercilessly into the ocean. Jobanzaggah dove in after him, relentless, merciless, pummeling. 

Yet, the water boiled and ruptured, glowing orange and bursting open. The Lion of Belzagg was thrown backward, catching himself nimbly against the side of the ship and backflipping to land on its deck. 

The robed figure was a woman - she bolted in so quickly that Jomurr did not get much of a look at her. He felt his mind burning and recognized chemical magic. Desperate, he reversed his polarities and she backed away, staggered.

The Second Son slumped against the deck, blinking to clear his head, but the king took advantage of his counter and went on the offensive again. The Kinetic force was incredible. He plowed into her, knee first. Like a ragdoll, she smashed through three decks. Jobanzaggah rose into the sky, eyes burning gold and orange, opened his mouth, and belched pure flame. A heaven's lance of Eshiran-Zept, it caught her on the arm as she was shooting out of the way, propelled by a kinetic draw, and erased the limb from existence. She howled and stumbled, glaring at the king with bloodshot eyes, and Jomurr could feel a powerful chemical attack building.

"Not so fast, rabble!" he shouted, more to distract her than anything else, but she began glowing with chemical fury and the King groaned and grabbed his head, fighting off the internal attack. Jomurr scowled. Time to put you down, he snarled inwardly. Gathering up his energy, he unleashed it upon her: Wyvern's Breath. Consumed by fire, she thrashed and screamed, and the youth counseled himself not flinch away from the sight. "He's coming for you," she wailed, "You'll see! Your time is up. He's -"

Impassively, Jobanzaggah wrenched her head around, snapping her beck, and the attacker went silent. "We show mercy to the doomed," he said, bowing his head slightly, and Jomurr followed his lead. This woman had been strong - unnaturally so. It had taken both he and his king, working in concert, to defeat her, and both were among the strongest on the continent, at least in terms of raw RAS level. "It was an honour, my King." Jomurr bowed immediately and deeply. "We have won the day."

The great king's head reflected the light of the four moons and the fires flickering across his ship. With a great, freezing wind, he swept them out. "Good men and women have died, serving me. I would not call this a victory, young count. This was survival." His face was pinched, his tone pained, and Jomurr furrowed his brow, apologizing instantly, having learned that the mandate of a king was to care for and protect his people. "Come now, let us tend to the wounded."

The two of them made it no more than a handful of steps. At the bow of the ship, a small flame flickered to life, illuminating the tattered remains of a sail that fluttered behind it. Into relief it cast a shadow: a lone, tall lean figure. 

Jomurr felt a pressure begin in his head. The wind disappeared and the very air seemed to still. For as far as he could see, the sea flattened like glass. Flames flickered and the sky darkened. A cold, electric pulse traveled up and down the boy's spine and even the mighty king seemed to hesitate. The pressure built: burning cold, crushingly heavy, oppressing Jomurr and driving him to his knees. A man in a mask. He tilted his head to one side.

"To your feet, boy!" Jobanzaggah commanded.

"My king: I will fight with you."

But the monarch's face was haunted, as if he had peered into the eyes of Eshiran himself. "Don't be a fool. That is..." He regarded the figure perched almost mockingly on the bow. "A monster among monsters." 

The pressure built and Jomurr fell back to his knees. Such [i][b]power[/b][/i]: it was unimaginable. [i]This is what a 9-plus draw feels like,[/i] he realized, with pained clarity. The figure began walking towards them, his voice sepulchral, dripping with a deep, cold disdain. "A pity that did you did not rise. You will die as you lived your life, then: on your knees."

Who was this monster!? [i][b]What [/b][/i]was he!? Jomurr knew terror then like he had never known it before, but he knew defiance, too. The weight of this man's energy was crushing, but he forced himself to his feet, blood trickling from his nose and ears. "I will live!" he grated, "on my feet!" he roared, but that was the last he spoke.

The king's shove caught him off-guard, and he sailed from the dying ship and hit the surface of the water with a cold splash. He could feel himself moving - he knew not to where - then, darkness claimed him.
[hr][hr]