gorgenmast

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Too busy googling hot pony porn.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

A quick barrier could be made by combining H2O2 and KI to create a wall of foam. Like so.


But along with a detergent, maybe some sort of bullet-resistant foam? Shoot it up through a trough so it hardens as a sort of wall. ... brb, contacting DARPA.

Regicide: A Civil War in Ancient Fantasy

pls respond

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

I might end up making that a double post. Should be particularly relevant to you, vilage.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Arratzu, Spain

Julio had lost all sense of time in this place. Solid walls of whitewashed cinderblock were devoid of any windows or clocks and a constant, unnatural glow from fluorescent fixtures behind cages of metal bars eliminated all sense of day and night here. Untold hours passed each time the captive senator fell asleep. Each time he woke up to this claustrophobic cell no bigger than a closet, he began to doubt more and more seriously that he had ever had a life beyond this wretched place - that his life before Arratzu had been but a figment of his imagination. Complete ennui caused the minutes to stretch into hours and it felt as if he had been here for months. With no idea how long each nap or 'night' of sleep lasted, what felt like weeks might have only been a day or less.

The meals - a gross exaggeration for metal plates of usually-stale bread - did not help Julio to decide how long he had been imprisoned here. Through a small drawer in the metal door of chipping blue paint, the plates came at irregular intervals. He could swear that he was only being fed once every three days, sometimes less. The morsels of rock-hard bread did nothing to sate his hunger, and his stomach protested constantly in the form of loud gurgles. He had not once had to use the 'latrine' - the polite term for the putrid-smelling metal pipe descending into the concrete floor at the far corner of his cell - on the account of his malnourishment.

Julio could hear faint cries and yelling from under the door on occasion. They served as a reminder that he was not suffering alone - Sotelo's domestic enemies were a varied and numerous lot to be sure. But Julio had not joined them in protesting against their captors. He understood by now that every prisoner was meant to die here, and there was nothing he or any of the other prisoners could do to change that. But the powers in command here had seen fit to feed him - however meagerly. Stale bread was hardly expensive to be sure, but a single bullet to the back of the head would be far cheaper. The authority here had some reason for keeping him alive.

Julio was roused from sleep on the floor of his cell by the creaking groan of the cell door being opened for the first time he could remember. Two masked guards stood in the doorframe - one with handcuffs in hand, the other with a cattleprod. He sat by in passive submission as the guards stepped inside; resistance would only make this process more painful than it had to be. One of the guards pressed his boot squarely into his shoulders and pushed Julio down onto the concrete. He gritted his teeth as the guard placed full weight against his back, but this was still far preferable to resisting and being hit with the cattleprod. Gloved hands seized his wrists and locked them into handcuffs before yanking him up to his feet and shoving him out the door into the corridor.

Save for the audible "huff" of their breaths through the mask respirators, the guards led Julio through the cell block in complete silence. The former senator could not recall being brought to his cells in the first place, and so this was his first glimpse of the scale on which this facility operated. The corridor stretched far into the distance, bearing hundreds of cells on each side. The scale on which Alfonso Sotelo was eliminating dissenters was staggering, even to Julio Zuraban. The guards at last reached the end of the corridor and passed through swinging double doors into another region of the building.The doors were spaced much farther apart and seemed far less secure than the steel bulkheads of the of the prisoner block. Simple handlebar doorknobs suggested that offices might be on the other end. At the far end of this hallway was a single open open door inside which Julio was led inside.

The interior of this room was a nightmare imagining of a dentist's office. A single chair dominated the space - an actual dentist's chair that had been reinforced and bolted to the floor. Manacles on the arm and footrests had also been affixed and a conspicuous opening in the headrest had been cut out. An interrogator - clad not in a mask or the impermeable fatigues of the guards but rather dressed in black slacks and a doctor's apron - stood behind the seat with a warm yet-insincere smile. The man walked around to the front of the seat as the guards removed Julio's cuffs and shoved him into the chair. He noticed an assistant in the back of the office assembling something on a desk in the back.

"Senator Zuraban." The interrogator greeted with mendacious warmth. "What a pleasure it is to have you here."

"The pleasure has been all mine." Julio snarked, wincing as the guards restrained him too tightly to the interrogation chair.

"I'm glad to hear it." The interrogator dismissed the guards with a tacit wave of the hand, who shut the door behind them. "You, Senator, are one of the more interesting characters I've had the pleasure of having a... discussion with. When I received word that you were coming... why, I could hardly believe it. We are quite interested to know what you know."

"So I've heard. But you're going to be fairly disappointed - fair warning. You'll not get anything out of me... nothing that matters to you people at least."

"I'll be the judge of that, Senator." The interrogator turned to his assistant, who procured for him a long syringe. Julio's eyes widened as the syringe came to the light.

The interrogator gently flicked the hypodermic needle with his middle finger, and then turned to notice the former senator staring nervously at the syringe. "Well. Not so cocksure now, are we?"

"I'll bite," Julio spoke up, doing his best to feign composure and calm. "What is that you're going to shoot into my arm?"

"This, Senator, is what is going to put me out of a job in a decade."

"I'm curious, has it crossed your mind, Julio, just how the Oficina came to know where to find you after so many years? How the Oficina is privy to seemingly everything that might happen in the world? Take my word, both you and I would be positively astounded - you moreso than I - to know the full extent of the intelligence collected by the Oficina de Inteligencia Militar." The interrogator extended his hand toward Julio's face and showed him the syringe vial. "This, right here, is responsible for a great deal of that collected knowledge."

"And it is fascinating stuff." The interrogator continued. "Now, I'm not permitted to know the exact composition of chemicals and components in this liquid nor do I particularly care to. Complicated and tedious chemical formulas, I'm sure. What I can say, however, is that it is a melange of precise proportions of powerful barbiturates, sodium amytal, pathway inhibitors, et cetera. What that means, for us layfolk, is a truth serum."

"More like a placebo." Replied a dubious Julio.

"I expect you'll change your mind soon enough." The interrogator inspected the syringe as the assistant wheeled in an old cardiograph on a cart from the back of the room and wrapped pulse bracelets snugly around his left wrist. As the device was flipped on, the device gave a muted beep for every one of Julio's heartbeats. The beeps immediately came through at a quick pace - maybe one and a half to two beeps per second. Julio's anxiety was apparent for all to hear.

"What the Hell is this thing for?" Julio complained.

"That, senator, is to ensure we don't kill you prematurely." The interrogator, satisfied with the syringe, handed it back over to his accomplice, who stepped around the back of the chair. Julio's eyes followed him nervously every step of the way.

"You wanted to know what we were going to put into your arm, correct? This compound is not applied to the bloodstream. To maximize its efficacy, it must be administered directly to the Central Nervous System. Into the brain stem preferably."

Julio's heart monitor spiked immediately, and he began wrestling against the manacles.

"And, from what I understand, the application is extremely painful. Mind where you place your tongue; it wouldn't be the first time I've had someone bite their tongue off."

The heart monitor beeped wildly as the assistant drew a padded headstrap across Julio's thrashing forehead. His head had been secured, and the interrogator gave his assistant a nod of approval.

A deep sting pricked his neck as frozen steel slid between his vertebrae and skull. Julio cried out as the needle embedded itself into the spinal cord. He knew immediately when the syringe was emptied. Liquid fire squirted out and erupted into his very brain. He screamed as the chemicals spread forth from the needle and soaked his brain and spinal cord. It felt as if his brain had been drenched in gasoline and lit.

"One more thing, senator." The interrogator added through the screaming and the beeping. "Prolonged exposure will result in permanent brain damage. The sooner you tell us what you you know, the sooner we can administer the inhibitor."

"So go ahead, Julio... tell me everything."

Port Fuad, Egypt

For the second time in a little under two months, massive waves slammed against the retaining walls as a convoy of warships steamed through the mouth of the Suez Canal. All along the concrete embankments, and on rooftops and balconies near the waterfront, the people came out by the thousands to witness history sail past their city once again. When the Ottoman fleet sailed through the canal, it brought with it uncertainty. Ottoman rule of the Levant and beyond was crumbling, and Egypt's fate under the imploding sultanate was dim. The arrival of the Armada, however, promised a future of chaos and devastation; perhaps only for Eastern Africa, maybe for the entire planet.

They were Spanish warships - something altogether distinct from the rusting Great War relics the Ottomans drove down the Red Sea before them. Spain's fleet of angular warships, with fresh coats of clean graphite grey paint and bristling guns, was one of modernity. And they came in numbers much greater than that of the Ottoman flotilla. A vast column of more than fifty warships entered the channel one by one. A seemingly-endless train of military might passing through the heart of the city. All activity halted as the citizenry of Port Fuad gathered alongside the canal. And the Spanish upon the decks and bridges of their ships stared back to them. Among them was Admiral Santin, who admired the twin minarets of the Por'fuad Mosque passing him by on the bridge of La Ira de Dios - the larger of the Republic's two aircraft carriers.

A gigantic swell of water rose up along the bow the aircraft carrier and left tremendous waves rippling through the channel. The swells washed up over the concrete embankments and rolled over the heels of gawkers - sending them backing away hurriedly from the waterfront. Small cutters and patrol boats of the Canal Authority bobbed wildly about helplessly in the floating behemoth's wake with all the helplessness of bathtub toys. The Egyptians - defenseless against the might of the greatest blue water navy in the West - could do nothing but stay out of the way as the Armada stormed through the canal without warning.

Santin watched proudly through a monocular spyglass as the city took in the spectacle the Armada's passing had generated. Directly ahead of the Ira, her escort destroyer - Cimarrón - flew the yellow and red of the Second Republic with pride, as did every other vessel in the column. There would be no doubt as to the identity of this fleet - nor its intent.

"Alférez Navarro," Santin spoke up as he scanned the skyline of the city through his telescope.

"Aye, Almirante?" The bridge's naval officer acknowledged.

"Get into contact with Madrid. We'll need to inform Rubiroso and the Prime Minister that we've reached the Canal and that we shall stay the course to Djibouti unless I am to receive orders to the contrary. We'll allow Sotelo to decide what we are to do... now that the world knows we come for Ethiopia."

Regicide: A Civil War in Ancient Fantasy

A rusty thundercloud rolled over the salt flats, directed onward by a score of warhorses. Iron-shod hooves tore through the crusty earth and scattered clods of salt through the air. Sweat-soaked horses of pure muscle charged at full gallop before the roiling pink cloud; riders upon their backs held bronze-tipped spears aloft, each decorated with silk banners that glowed in the sunlight.

Several hundred yards before them, a gaggle of figures rendered featureless silhouettes by the glow of the white salt plain stood defiantly before the thundering cavalry. Though they outnumbered the horsemen some three to one, their death was assured. Nothing - certainly not some undisciplined smattering of barbarians - could hope to halt this wall of muscle and bronze.

A young boy with handsome locks of curly black hair led the horsemen on. He gathered the cape of purple silk fluttering violently on his back as he turned in the saddle to rally his companions. The horsemen dug their heels into the haunches of their steeds and they sprinted across the empty white expanse. Gleaming yellow spearpoints lowered down to the ground, each lance bobbing with the stride of the horse beneath it.

The pathetic wicker shieldwall of the tribesmen buckled as their courage vanished in the face of the rumbling death approaching them. Their line collapsed as the cowards among their numbers broke rank and fled to the spindly mountains for dear life. With their victory assured, their leader in the purple cape thrust his spear arm up to the sky - rallying his fellow riders onward once more. He let loose a throaty warcry as his steed closed the gap between the routing desert fighters.

But his cry was cut short. A crude arrow loosed from somewhere on the plain sailed from the sky plunged deep down between his clavicle - just above the lip of his gilded cuirass. A wad of fresh pink blood burst from his mouth as his eyes rolled back into his head.

_________________________

With a violent scream, Queen Lyca woke herself. Drenched in sweat, she bolted upright off the cushions of the lounge and found herself upon the deck of the galley Didela. Uncertain as to where she had woken, she took pause for several moments spent determining where she was and whether what she had just witnessed really happened, or if it was merely a nightmare. One by one, the events of the past week came to mind. Syros and Galos both were no more - and she was not dreaming. She gagged as the awful realization came to her once again. On weak legs, she stumbled off of the chair and staggered to the side railing of the galley and leaned over the edge to vomit. Her empty stomach wrung itself, but ultimately failed to produce anything. Lyca could not recall the last time she had anything to eat. For man eats to live after all, and Lyca no longer had the desire to do either.

A whole moon - the Pearl of Dys - glowed a spectral white as it hung low over the midnight sea. Legend had it that on these nights, Dys herself lured the forlorn and hopeless toward the moon off of cliffs, mountaintops, ramparts, and windows like flies to a candlelight. Queen Lyca needed little persuasion from the Sister of Death; she saw no reason to continue on. Her beloved husband and unbowed king, and her cherished son through whom her blood would rule the world for joyous centuries, had both been stolen from her. Across this sea, on a cold desert of uninhabitable saltland, avaricious generals who pretended undying loyalty to her husband sharpened their swords and prepared to tear asunder all that her Syros had spent his entire life building. The coming months and years promised a cataclysm the likes of which had never been seen in the Mortal Era. A future of destruction, hardship, and sorrow is all that awaited; a future that Lyca had no interest in seeing.

She could end her part in the living nightmare that had become of this world. She could fall beyond the railing into these dark waters, beneath the moonlit waves and down to the very bottom - deeper than the siren lairs and haunts of drowned titans - through to the waters beneath the world where she would fall into the Great Void. There, in the blackness, her drowned body would tumble for a thousand years until one day, she might come across the spirits of her husband and son. At last, they could be rejoined, together in the blackness, far beyond the world its atrocities.

Queen Lyca threw one leg over the side and straddled the rail as one did a saddle. She twisted about, with one foot planted on the deck and the other dangling over the foam churning along the hull of the ship.

"Milady!!"

Septilios' voice rang out from somewhere behind her. The Queen was startled, and in her hesitation gave Septilios time enough to reach her. A rapid clopping of his peg leg against the deck of the ship signified that he had seen her over the rails. Before she could think to shove herself off and escape him, rough and calloused hands scooped up around her waist and yanked her over the rails onto the deck.

"By the Creator, what happened?!" Septilios demanded as he deposited the Queen back onto the cushions of the chaise lounge. "I heard a terrible scream. Tell me, what happened?"

"I-I had a horrible nightmare, Septilios." Lyca confessed. "So enrapt in the nightmare I was, that I must have screamed and walked about the ship, and did any number of other things. I don't recall anything until I heard you cry out."

"Thank the Sisters I saw you when I did."

"Indeed. I am indebted to you, dear Septilios." She said with feigned gratitude.

"Think not of it." Said Septilios dismissively. He took the Queen by the arm and pulled her gently onto her feet. "I may not have been there to protect Syros or your son... but I shall not lose you, my Queen."

"Now come with me, I will find you a vacant bunk inside the cabin. It will hardly be fit for a Queen, but you shall rest comfortably upon it all the same without fear of falling overboard. We must be well rested, for we arrive in Copsis tomorrow." And so the Queen followed reluctantly behind her guard down to the galley's cabin, looking longingly over her shoulder at the Pearl of Dys as she went.

Regicide: A Civil War in Ancient Fantasy

Pepperm1nts said
Oooh, things gettin' heated up. And Cassian called a coward - a murderer? OH HELL NO. You dun crossed the line motherfucker. You do not fuck with The Cassian.Unless the guy that writes what he does is busy. Not sure when I'mma get a post up, though I have a bit of an idea for it. I won't be home tomorrow cause I've been pulling a Hesiod's-brother and been hiding from everyone in my family for so long they demanded to see me, so I'mma have to show myself at some party or something. Please don't set the salt-flats ablaze before I have a chance to respond to Vilage's post.EDIT: Actually, it's not tomorrow. I might have time.

gugr - 3
hugz - 1

git gud skrubb

Regicide: A Civil War in Ancient Fantasy

Seagulls dived and swirled about the masts and rigging of the galley Didela. The sails reflected the sunlight in a warm, creamy glow as the updrafts caught in the billowing slack. A foamy wake trailed behind the ship as she cruised across the open sea on her own power now, leaving a crew of swarthy, musclebound rowers free to move about the deck of the galley. They could be found in a congregation at the bow of the ship along with all but two of the passengers.

"Tell me, shipmaster." A voice from behind the gathered crowd called out, accompanied by a rhythmic tapping of wood against wood. The congregation parted as the grizzled Septilios hobbled across the deck to the bow, where the captain stood. "What in the name of the Creator is going on here?"

"It has been a full day of sail since we departed Comadua, Captain Septilios." The shipmaster reminded. "We have passed beyond the coastal waters into the open sea. These waters do not belong to us..."

"Surely you jest." Septilios snorted, expressing equal quantities of amusement and annoyance.

"I do not." The shipmaster reported solemnly. "The sirens are not to be trifled with, Captain. The sea is their domain. We will give them their tribute, and they shall leave us in peace."

Septilios rolled his eyes. "Superstitious nonsense; sirens were but an invention by the Elephese merchants to scare competitors off the seas."

"Perhaps you are right, Captain." The shipmaster admitted. "But I am charged with the safety of this ship, and all those aboard it - including our Queen. I will not put any of us at risk on the account of your peevishness."

"Do as you wish" Septilios sighed, throwing his hand dismissively into the air. "Drop some jewels into the sea and be done with it already. Get these men back to the oars, we have plenty of sea to cover yet."

The shipmaster nodded and gestured for a pair of rowers to come forward. Both carried a small chest by the handles on either side and deposited the box at his feet before opening it and retiring into the gathered onlookers. The ship captain drew a small brick of silver from within the lockbox and held it high above his head. Septilios' stomach turned upon seeing the offering - what a waste of such fine silver.

"Denizens of the sea and the deep places! I am Gorgios Veleto of the House Magesanitus, shipmaster of this ship Didela! I offer up this token unto thee that you might forgive our intrusion into your realm." The only response was the sound of waves being crushed into bubbles and froth against the snub-nosed bow of the galley. With a loud plunk, the ingot splashed into the waves and sank down to the bottom of the sea. By then, Septilios had already taken his leave and left for more pressing matters.

Septilios found Queen Lyca sitting upon a pillowed lounge on the upper decks beneath a canopy of purple silk - exactly where he had left her. Lyca had scarcely moved since boarding the Didela and had spent nearly all of her time aboard the ship staring torpidly beyond the bow of the ship into the empty horizon. At the foot of the lounge, carafes of wine and plates of neatly-arranged pastries had been left exactly as the servant had placed them - save for a few pastries that brave seagulls had absconded with.

"Milady." Addressed the Captain of the Guard as he approached the Queen. Gulls waiting on the side rail to steal pastries from the undefended plates gave startled caws and took off as the veteran bodyguard hobbled over. "Have you eaten anything today?"

Lyca stared off into the line dividing the sky and the deep sea, failing to acknowledge Septilios in any regard. Even when directly addressed, her eyes did not so much as flicker toward her guard.Trails of tear-washed eyeshadow ran down her face from the eyes to her cheek and chin. In spite of the dark smears across her cheeks and frazzled auburn hair, Lyca was quite a handsome woman - especially considering her advanced age. Age had come gracefully to the Queen; her face was devoid of the crisscrossing lines that marred the faces of most women her age. Though a lifetime of fearing for the safety of her husband and son had resulted in pointed cheekbones and small bags underneath her eyes, they did not detract from the pointed beauty of her visage. Syros had chosen well for his wife.

"My Queen, you must eat something. This past week has exhausted you. and you will need your strength when we reach the Copsid Dominion - we will all need your strength then."

"I am your Queen? Is that so?" Lyca said - the first words to leave her mouth in days. Even so, she failed to return eye contact and continued staring beyond the sea.

"Of course you are, my Queen." Septilios affirmed. "I do not understand, though, why you would ask such a question."

"At times you make me doubt that, Septilios. You tell me what I must do quite often for a subject of mine."

"Only because I have your well-being in mind, milady."

"And that is why you lead me to an uninhabitable wasteland on the frontier to meet with a dozen traitor generals?"

"Milady, my intent is no-..."

"Leave me, Septilios." The Queen asked demurely.

"I am only trying to help you keep the Empire that your husband - my King - worked so hard to build!" Septilios declared exasperately. "I do not wish to see what your husband accomplished fall into-..."

"I told you to leave me, Septilios." Lyca reminded. "As your Queen, I dismiss you. Now go." A grimace of frustration wrinkled the guard captain's face. Even so, he bowed before Lyca and hobbled off down to the lower decks.

"As you wish, my Queen."

Regicide: A Civil War in Ancient Fantasy

I am loving that helmet design. I need to get my art on too.

Regicide: A Civil War in Ancient Fantasy

Every eye in Heliocarsus directed itself up to the Acropolis mount as the sun retreated down beyond the mountains. Stacks of fire wood had been accumulating upon the summit throughout the afternoon and could be seen through most of the city, heralding a funeral pyre the likes of which had never been seen before in Calydon's history.

Septilios ascended the coiled switchbacks of the Sisters' Way for the second time today, this time on horseback as an escort to the royal funeral procession. The royal contingent was, of course, pitifully small; comprised of a single carriage occupied solely by Queen Lyca. Septilios guided the horse alongside the wagon regularly to ensure that she was well - or as well as she could be for given the circumstances. The guard captain found the widowed queen curled into the back of the wagon amongst the cushions, sobbing dolorously into velvet pillows. Lyca was beyond any consolation; Septilios veered from the wagon without bothering her. It had already been a torturous day for the queen - no need for futile attempts to comfort her. Nothing anyone could say could ever hope to console one in such grief, for there are no words in Calosae, Qarese, Copsi, or the magical clicking tongues of the Ebon Folk that could ever hope to calm a woman whose only child and husband had perished.

The guard captain's peg dangled in the stirrup as he took his place in front of the carriage, bouncing annoyingly against the belly of his horse with each step it took. Indeed, the peg of strapped upon the withered stump of his right thigh had always been a source of irritation. Had it not been lost - had the healers not failed him - Septilios was certain he would still be at the mighty side of Syros the Inexorable, putting to the sword any savage that dared to raise his filthy hand against the greatest king Calydon would ever see. If he had still been capable of serving as the personal guard to Syros and his son as they marched ever forward, Septilios was certain that Galos would not have taken that cursed arrow to the neck - such a thing could have never happened under his protection. The calamity that had befallen Syros' great empire would never have been allowed to transpire if Septilios had not been so grievously wounded in battle.

The Djom had stolen that brighter future. The war-wizards of Ctaqar conjured their dark magics in the defense of the Sjarran heartland during the Calydonian conquest. Septilios himself fought his last battle in the Siege of Ctaqar. A powerful Djom sorcerer had killed scores of valiant Calydonian warriors and rendered Septilios' leg a bleeding mass of shattered bone and ribboned sinew - Septilios repaid the wizard by cleaving his head from his shoulders. Though the wizards were butchered to the last man, their dark magic lingered on in the wounds they left behind. The healers could do nothing for Septilios and could only ease his pain with poppy sap as the whole of his leg withered and died. He could no longer march alongside Syros, and so was relegated to more sedentary duty - protecting the beloved wife Lyca.

A cohort of purple-clad horsemen led Septilios and the carriage through the torchlit Pilgrim's Passage out onto the Acropolis plaza beyond. A teeming throng of mourners split before Lyca's escorts as the wagon clattered past the smaller shrines and gardens to the Temple of the Eight. Honor guards formed a wide arc around the cobbled walkway before the steps of the temple, within which a massive funeral pyre ringed with large cobblestones was being assembled. In dancing torchlight, workers donning plain tunics stacked heaps of firewood in somber silence. Sweet spiciness wafted through the air as the pyrebuilders unwrapped leather faggots of yellow-orange twigs and inserted them throughout the pyre. The handful of bundles of aromatic camphorwood branches - imported from deep in the Ebon Lands - cost far more to procure than any other component of the funeral ceremony; no expense had been spared. Atop a towering bed of punky logs lay two lifeless masses under blankets doused in oil. A chilling scream rang through the night as Lyca saw her husband and child.

"Do not burn them!" The queen wailed, her voice hoarse from a day of weeping. "They are not dead! They cannot be dead!!"

Half a dozen guards subdued Queen Lyca as she threw herself from her carriage and made for the pyre, drawing a nervous glance from Septilios. Upon seeing the queen was under some semblance of control, he swung his peg leg over the side of the horse and dropped down onto his remaining foot, gathering the purple cape that had spilled out from over his shoulders around him. As the guard captain hobbled over toward Queen Lyca, a rider draped in a hooded crimson cloak intercepted Septilios and immediately dismounted.

"Captain Septilios?" The rider asked as he approached.

"Indeed." Septilios affirmed, tapping his peg against the cobble. "Who else might I be?"

A humored smile stretched across the rider's face, but immediately collapsed and his face returned to its stoic stoniness.

"Forgive me, Captain. These times are too dark to take delight in anything."

"These dark times shall pass, brother. Let us not forget to find such delight when peace returns to us... You are the messenger of the House Mithrid?"

"Aye."

Septilios nodded tacitly and extended his left arm, reaching for the rider's left wrist. The rider was stunned briefly, and then hesitated to reciprocate the gesture. With hands locked on the other's left wrist, they each gave a deft shake of the arm.

"You know of the greeting?"

Septilios nodded and lifted his left palm to the rider's face. There, amongst a dozen small nicks and a missing tip on his pinky finger, was a deep, jagged scar across his palm.

"I, too, tend the flame."

Septilios led the envoy away from the pyre and retreated into the very edge of the crowd of mourners, at the dim boundary of the torchlight where they could be assured they would not be overheard.

"The eagles bring ominous words from the North. Onesimus of the House Milatid is slain."

"The Rhumids were fortunate with Galos." Septilios growled. "They would not have have had such fortune again. This was treachery."

"Indeed." The messenger affirmed. "They say it was dagger to the back - such weapons are foreign to the Rhumids. A Calydonian did such a thing."

"The situation has deteriorated faster than I would have ever thought. Did they name suspects? Official or otherwise?"

"Scylla has appeared many times among the accused. But the generals and patriarchs all blame one another; it is only a matter of time before they make good on their accusations. Twelve armies stand now in the Rhumid desert waiting for their commanders to destroy one another. The armies will be annihilated and the satrapys will revolt if something is not done."

Septilios nodded thoughtfully for a moment before speaking.

"The House Solonid is not yet gone." The guard captain reminded in a low voice. "The family of Syros has not been destroyed entirely."

"There is another?!" The messenger asked excitedly. "Another son?"

"No." Septilios shook his head, and turned toward the wailing widow fighting against the guards restraining her near the pyre.

"Lyca? No queen can rule Calydon! You know this!"

"Queen Lyca is the blood of Prince Galos - heir to the throne. The legitimacy of this thing does not concern me - the generals and the satrapys need a leader. That is all that matters. It would be most just for Lyca to lead the Calydonians. Syros, after all, did chose her to give her a son... I can think of no greater endorsement."

"The families will not agree." The messenger contested. "They will not heel to Queen Lyca."

"Perhaps not." Septilios agreed, watching as the Queen fought against the guards as the torchbearers approached the funeral pyre - her anguished wails echoing across the Acropolis and likely throughout all of Heliocarsus. "Though some will. And perhaps the generals will as well. If enough of the generals and the families back our queen, the opportunists will have no choice but to back down. We can avert this disaster yet. Only through Lyca can we keep this empire together."

The messenger watched as the torchbearers cast the flames onto the pyre. The queen tore through the guards at last and screamed as the tongues of fire erupted throughout the towering pyre. She dropped to her knees in despair as the oil-soaked blankets draped over the king and son ignited.

"Will she be in any condition to rule?" The messenger asked incredulously. "I am unsure myself if I trust that she will be of one mind after such tragedy."

"She must." Septilios answered. "If not, all is lost."

"Ride back to Mithreum. Tell your brothers and send eagles to the North. Inform the generals that their Queen is coming."